He had hoped that these powerful birds would land on his waters, but they flew past, arguing loudly, and then more came, and more, and more; they were so numerous he had no system of numbers to count them. But finally one especially noisy group of about seventy wheeled in the air, flew low over his head and landed with riotous splashing in his marsh or with grinding feet upon his land. Close at hand they seemed too big to be called birds; they were more like flying bear cubs loaded with edible meat.
The arrival of this bountiful food was so mysterious that he became afraid. As a boy he had watched when ducks stopped by the Susquehannock; they stayed only for a few days before flying on, and he assumed that these huge creatures would do the same. Each morning he expected them to leave, and each night they remained, foraging in the fields and marshes along the river, always crying, “Onk-or!” Every eight or nine days he trapped one and gorged himself on the tasty meat, afraid that this might be his last feast, but always the great birds stayed.
They were with him through the autumn; on some days when they flew off at dawn to feed on new fields, their wings would darken the sky, their honking cries would deafen. Once at the edge of the marsh Pentaquod tried to estimate how thick the cloud was as the birds flew overhead, and he supposed that at each spot as many as three hundred were flying—one above the other until the sun could not be seen.
And in the afternoon when the birds returned they would congregate on the north bank of the river, so that the sun, moving through the southern sky, could warm them, and the muddy banks would be black with birds from the shoreline to where the trees started. Again Pentaquod tried to count how many rows of birds lined the shore at a given spot: starting at the water’s edge there would be more than fifty, one after the other, reaching back to the first trees.
It was a richness he could not comprehend. These great noisy birds were infinite. At first he thought that he should kill several, smoke their meat and feed off them through the winter. But what if the birds stayed on, standing there on the shore in endless rows, waiting to be taken? There would be no need to conserve. One would simply catch them, one after another, as need commanded.
And the birds did stay, as rich a food resource as the great bay provided, for along with the larger birds came a bewildering variety of smaller ducks of the kind that Pentaquod had seen once or twice in sparing numbers along his native river. Here they came in waves, shy small creatures unbelievably tasty when caught and cooked.
Once, when many big and little birds settled along the edges of his marsh, Pentaquod sat with his hands over his face in prayer. The birds, preparing for sleep, were making a violent chatter, and he listened to the noise as if it had been sweet music: Great Power, thank You for sending them to feed us through the winter ...
And as soon as he had uttered the word us he realized how lonely he was, how bereft. And next morning he determined to quit this haven among the marshes and find the people who had to be living somewhere along this fortunate river.
He had paddled only a short distance to the east when he spied a small bay opening into the northern shore. It looked as if it might hide a village, though how one could have existed so close at hand without his noticing was confusing; when he probed into the bay he saw that it opened into several smaller arms, and at the head of one he found what he had been seeking: the remnants of a village.
Pilings had been driven into the shore and to them canoes had once been attached; there were also platforms on which oval wigwams of some size had once stood. The foreshore had been cleared as well as two fields in back, and as he explored the area gingerly, without getting out of his canoe, he found that all along the edges of the bay were other signs of occupation. Returning to the larger site, he beached his canoe, tied it to one of the pilings and walked ashore.
He stayed for many days, gratified to see that the large noisy geese came to the bay at night, and in this time he was able to explore enough of the countryside east of the abandoned town to know that he had come at last upon the occupied portion of the river. Where the people were now he could not say, but all signs indicated that they must have been there recently and moved away of their own volition. There was no indication of battle, and with the food available, there could have been no cause for starvation. Indeed, as he stood on the remnants of the village, he could not know that even though he had already discovered the deer and the abundant fish and now the large birds, he had failed to find the two sources of food supply for which this region would be famous.
The apparent abandonment was the more perplexing in that when Pentaquod inspected the site closely he became convinced of its suitability. It had fresh water, protection, a convenient relationship with the river, many tall trees and a hinterland suitable for either hunting or the cultivation of corn. There was, however, one ominous feature he could not explain, and in the end he reasoned that this might represent the sinister force which had caused the evacuation.
But what was it? A pile, large at the base and almost as high as a man’s head, of a kind of shell he had not seen before: somewhat smaller than a hand and much thinner, composed of a hard gray substance on the outside, a shimmering white on the inside. It had no smell, a solidity that mystified him, and one sharp edge. This led him to believe that perhaps the pile had been assembled for use in war; the individual shells might be thrown at the enemy, but when he tried hurling them at a tree, the edges were so sharp he cut his forefinger and concluded that the pile was merely one more mystery of the new river.
And then one afternoon as he sat idly in the deserted village he heard a subdued but persistent noise coming from the east, and at first he thought it must be some animal, but it was so varied and purposeful that he knew it had to be associated with people: A war party victorious and inattentive.
But then the noise grew much louder, with sounds that could be made only by children, and incredulously he muttered, “It can’t be a whole village ... making such noise as it approaches a dangerous spot.” A band of Susquehannocks moving through the forest would have made so little sound that even the most attentive enemy scouts would not hear. Noisy behavior like this was unbelievable.
He was so bewildered that he moved out to intercept the strangers, darting carefully from one tree to the next as he had been taught. When he was safely located so that he could watch both the forest and the river, he waited while the approaching noises increased.
And then he saw a sight which was even stranger than the sound. Down the trail, ignoring possible danger, came the happy, carefree population of the empty village. Women straggled along; children shouted raucously; and all were led by a white-haired old man wearing upon his chest a disk of polished copper signifying that he was the werowance. Never before had Pentaquod seen a tribe so poorly led, so pathetically disciplined. Nor had he ever seen people so small.
“They’re all children!” he whispered. “They can’t be grown people!” But they were, and this discovery determined what he would do, but even as he reached this decision he was alarmed at its daring: when the frolicking tribe was almost upon him he leaped boldly onto the path, holding up his right hand. The old werowance stopped as commanded; those behind kept coming on; some children screamed; and the warriors knew not what to do. In the confusion Pentaquod cried in a loud voice, “I am Pentaquod, the Susquehannock!”
The werowance did not hear well, and the little that did come through he did not comprehend. Turning to those behind, he asked what the frightening stranger had said, but they had not understood either. “Where’s Scar-chin?” the trembling werowance pleaded, and when that emaciated warrior was located, his chin cleft years before by the tomahawk of a Susquehannock, he was pushed forward to ask in the tongue Pentaquod had used, “Are you a Susquehannock?”
Pentaquod nodded, and the interpreter reported this intelligence to the werowance, who said, “Ask if he means war.”
“Do you come seeking war?”
“No.” An audible sigh of relief came from the entire b
and, but then the werowance frowned and said, “Tell him we have nothing to trade,” and when this was interpreted, Pentaquod said, “I, too, have nothing.” Again there came the sigh of relief, after which the werowance asked in some perplexity, “Then why is he here?” and when this was spoken in Susquehannock, Pentaquod replied simply, “I am a fugitive. I come seeking refuge.”
When this startling information was circulated, the little people uttered whispers of compassion and said that perhaps he might wish to stay with them, for they needed men, and he was greater than any they had known. They jabbered that once or twice in each generation gangs of Susquehannocks, tall like him, had strayed onto this river, always to plunder or take slaves. Scar-chin had been captured on such a raid and had lived among the warlike northerners for seven years, an adventure of which he never ceased talking, and now he was assigned to walk with the newcomer as the tribe returned to their riverside home for the winter.
“Yes, it’s ours,” he said. “We call it Patamoke. I’m sure the name has a meaning, but I forget what it is. Yes, we leave it every summer to live in the woods close to the great water.”
“The great water is over there,” Pentaquod corrected, pointing toward the bay.
“There is a greater over there,” Scar-chin explained, pointing east. Such information Pentaquod did not believe, but he thought it best not to argue with this excitable little man.
Pentaquod led them to the rude wigwam he had constructed, and the children in the party ran to it, using it as part of a game, laughing at the inept way the sides fitted against the roof. Some of the women gathered about the sleeping place, too, ridiculing its unfamiliar patterns, unaware of rudeness in such behavior, and when Pentaquod moved to protect his few belongings from the children, the women sided with him and called to the boys and girls to leave the stranger’s things alone. Then they smiled up at the tall man, their eyes sparkling.
The returning villagers had lingered only briefly, for the werowance now spoke to them in soft tones, whereupon the character of the motley crowd changed abruptly and they scurried back to their home. The warriors went into the woods and began cutting trees, while the women and children attended to the smoothing out of the stone platforms on which the winter’s lodgings would be built. When these things were done, the entire tribe moved to the shore and began picking the grasses from which the sides of the wigwams would be woven. Pentaquod was impressed with the orderly way in which the tribe worked; they appeared to be much better builders than the Susquehannocks.
When the preliminary tasks were finished, and the materials laid in strategic spots so that building could progress on the morrow, they rested, and Pentaquod had a chance to talk in more detail with Scar-chin, who told him of his long captivity among the Susquehannocks, and of how much he admired that warrior tribe, and of how the Susquehannock women had made fun of him for being so small and skinny.
“What is your tribe called?” Pentaquod asked.
“We are one small part of the Nanticokes. The great werowances live to the south. We have only a lesser werowance, as you’ve seen.”
“Have you a name?”
Scar-chin shrugged his shoulders, as if the mystery of names was reserved for shamans or those who cast medicine. He did, however, venture the information that frequently the powerful Nanticokes to the south invaded the village to steal whatever the local people had acquired.
“Are they so much braver?”
“No, more of them.”
“Do you fight back? In battle?”
Scar-chin laughed. “We’re not Susquehannocks. When the Nanticokes come, we run into the woods. We leave enough behind so they won’t want to pursue us, and when they’ve taken what they want, they leave, and then we come back.”
Such behavior was so extraordinary that Pentaquod could think of no sensible comment. He sat tapping his fingers together, and as he did so he spied the pile of white shells. “Don’t you use them against the Nanticokes?”
“Use what?”
“Those ... well, those shells?”
“Those!” Scar-chin stared at the shells, then broke into laughter. He summoned a group of tribesmen and shared the hilarious joke with them—“He thinks we throw them at the Nanticokes!” And all his listeners began to laugh, and some of the children started skimming the white shells into the river.
Pentaquod, taking no offense, asked, “What are they?”
“You don’t know?” Scar-chin asked in amazement. From one of the teasing children he took a shell, held it at chest level and imitated a man eating from it, whereupon one of the women ran to the shore, dived into the cold water, and within a few moments reappeared, holding in her hand a dripping object constructed of two of the shells bound together.
Running to Pentaquod, her hair dripping about her shoulders, she extended her two hands, presenting him with the river-born object. He took it, was impressed by its roughness and heaviness. “What is it?” he asked Scar-chin.
“He doesn’t know what it is!” the interpreter shouted, pleased with his new-found importance as the only one in the town who could speak with this Susquehannock.
“He doesn’t know what it is!” the children echoed gleefully, and everyone watched as the tall man from the north wrestled with the connected shells.
Finally the young woman who had brought him the present took it back, reached for a sharp-pointed stick and deftly split open the shell. One half she threw away. The other she handed gravely to Pentaquod, indicating that he should eat.
Trained on venison and rabbit and fish, he looked at the strange object in his hand. In no way could he relate it to food such as he had known: it was watery, and slippery, and had no bones, and there was no sensible way to attack it.
The girl solved his problem. Taking the laden shell from his nervous hand, she lifted it to his lips, told him to open his mouth, and with a delicate twist of her fingers popped the food in. For an instant he was aware of a fine, salty taste and a pleasing sensation. Then the food, whatever it was, disappeared, leaving on his face a most bewildered look. With an easy throwing motion, the girl tossed the empty shell onto the mound.
“We call them kawshek,” Scar-chin explained. “More sleeping in the river than you could count. All winter we feed on kawshek.”
Pentaquod contemplated this: in addition to the abundance of food he had discovered by himself, there was this additional supply hidden in the river. It was inconceivable, and as he sat perplexed, trying to unravel the mystery of oysters, he thought of his friend Fishing-long-legs, and he queried Scar-chin. “What is it he catches on the bottom, cuts in two and swallows with such difficulty?”
“Fish.”
“I know fish. This is no fish. Shaped like a hand, with many legs.”
As soon as Pentaquod uttered these words a benign smile spread over the scarred face of his interpreter, who said nothing. Obviously he was recalling moments of past happiness, after which he summoned the girl who had caught the oyster. “He doesn’t know crabs, either,” he whispered.
The girl smiled and with her right hand gave an imitation of a crab wriggling its many feet. Then a look of compassion filled her eyes; to be ignorant of the oyster was amusing, but to be unacquainted with the crab was pathetic.
“What is crab?” Pentaquod asked, and Scar-chin replied, “When Manitou, the Great Power, finished populating the river with everything our village required—pine trees for canoes, deer to feed us in summer, geese and oysters for winter—He saw that we were grateful and well disposed. So in His grace He created one thing more, to stand as a token of His eternal concern. He made the crab and hid him in our salty waters.”
Women in the crowd asked what he had said so far, then prompted him to add details that interested them: “A crab provides little food, so he is not easy to eat. But the little he does offer is the best food under the sky. To eat crab you must work, which makes you appreciate him more. He is the blessing, the remembrance. And no man or woman ever ate enough.”
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Pentaquod listened with growing respect as Scar-chin reported on this delicacy, and when the oration ended he asked tentatively, “Could I taste some?”
“They come only in summer.”
“Didn’t you dry any?”
This question, when interpreted, brought laughter, which ended when the girl moved forward to indicate that the meat of the crab was so delicate it had to be eaten immediately; her fine fingers danced as she portrayed this.
Again Pentaquod fell to rumination, confused by this barrage of strange information. “But if the crab has the hard shell that I found on the island ...” He hesitated as the girl nodded, then knocked her knuckles together to prove how hard the shell was.
“Aha!” Pentaquod demanded, grabbing her by the wrist. “If the shell is so hard, how is that Fishing-long-legs can cut it in half with his beak?”
When Scar-chin explained that the Susquehannock used that name for the great blue heron, and that he was referring to the manner in which the heron caught crabs, tossed them in the air and cut them in half, the girl’s expression became even more compassionate.
“It’s the soft crab,” she explained.
“The what?”
“In the summer we catch crabs that have no shell ...”
This was totally incomprehensible, and Pentaquod shook his head, but the girl continued, “They have no shell, and we roast them over the fire and they are the best.”
Pentaquod could make absolutely nothing of this, and he was about to drop the whole discussion when a boy of about nine summers moved beside the girl and by a series of swift gestures of hand-to-mouth indicated that he himself could eat four or five of the no-shell crabs. This seemed preposterous and Pentaquod turned away, but the daring boy tugged on his arm and repeated the pantomime: he could indeed eat five no-shells.
When the crowd dispersed to arrange ramshackle sleeping quarters for the night, Pentaquod retreated from the shore to his own wigwam, but before he fell asleep he found Scar-chin standing in the rude doorway. “Stay with us,” the little man said. Pentaquod made no reply. “The werowance is old now, and sad.” No comment. “The girl who caught the oyster for you, she is his granddaughter, and whenever he sees her it causes pain.” This was impenetrable, but the little man continued, “Her father, the werowance’s son who should be in command now, died of the fever and the girl reminds him of this loss.”
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