Footsteps in the Snow

by Carol Matas

  I have begun to read the Bible aloud at night, at least as a way to keep up our tradition. Kate’s father is a sullen man who barely speaks a word. He sits quietly as I read, but I do not think he is listening or paying any attention. Kate, surprisingly enough, seems to like to be read to, although she would never admit such a thing.

  Father says there might be trouble with provisions for the winter. The weather has turned bitter and I can see he is worried about how we will survive. Without Mother’s cheerful optimism and fearlessness it is harder for him not to doubt his decision to bring us all here.

  November 30

  A strange thing happened first thing this morning. When I took my long flannel nightdress off, tiny bright white lights shot off from it in every direction. I was startled and gasped. Kate, who shares an oilskin with me on the floor, noticed and laughed at my fear, but when I challenged her she could not explain the cause of such a strange phenomenon.

  “Perhaps they are little ghosts,” I said to her, almost positive it was not true, but unable to resist trying to frighten her. She turned quite pale at that idea, then caught herself out and said, “That is just silly. Ghosts are big and white.”

  “Maybe not in the New World,” I replied, my voice low and menacing.

  I have never seen Kate, or any young woman, dress herself so quickly and make for the outdoors — which I assume she felt was safe from the little ghosts. Still, I do wonder what could cause such a strange thing.

  December 1815

  December 10

  Father says we may have to leave Fort Daer and follow the Indians in order to survive the winter. The Indians are travelling farther south, tracking the buffalo. And they will share their hunt with us if we help the way we did the last time.

  This small hut we live in now is cold. The wind blows through the cracks in the logs that are filled in only with clay. But at least it is a shelter. If we go with the Indians where will we live? And even though we still have some of the meat the Indians shared from the hunt, it will not be enough to last us the winter.

  Father is disgusted by the Hudson’s Bay Company’s poor foresight. How did they think we were to survive? There are some mutterings amongst the men that the Company never meant to support us at all, and that they regret giving Lord Selkirk the land. Perhaps they hope to starve us out!

  Today I met with the Indian girl who promised to help me sew the moccasins. And finally this afternoon she sat with me and, in exchange for a real needle instead of the bone she normally uses, she taught me how to make moccasins. I used the skins I traded for, and now have moccasins for the entire family.

  She is called White Loon, which I think is a beautiful name.

  December 12

  White Loon has taught me a few Cree words and I have taught her a few English words. I think she is older than I believed her to be at first, perhaps twenty. Her face is so smooth and pretty that she seems no more than my age, but I now realize she is a developed woman. She has a calm and cheerful personality. I am surprised because, as a savage, I expected her to be coarse and barbaric in her manners.

  December 15

  Alice tells me that the Indians have been very kind to the settlers since they have been here. She has begun to spend time with me and White Loon, trying to learn a little of their language as well. Kate stays well away and makes endless comments when we are back in our hut, about fraternizing with savages. Secretly I wonder if she is not right. Perhaps it is not good company to keep. Perhaps one day White Loon will harm me in some way if I say or do something that insults her.

  December 17

  It will soon be New Year’s. We will be lucky to have any kind of meal. And what can I give my family as presents for Handsel Monday?

  December 18

  My entries into your pages have been shorter and shorter. That is because it is so horribly cold I can barely hold my pen. We shall be packing what we can soon — only our warmest clothes. And we shall be following the Indians. Dear diary, I do not know how much I will be able to write.

  It appears that all of the settlers who go will be working as some sort of serf or slave to the Indians in order to share in their hunt and to be fed. Father believes it is a humiliation we should not have to suffer, but he also believes it would be foolish to stand on pride and starve to death here in Pembina. Did I mention that Pembina is the name the Indians call the berries that they add to the pemmican to flavour it?

  I suspect the tents will be dark at night and during the day it will be difficult to write outdoors without my hand dropping off. With no gloves I believe skin could actually freeze.

  December 27

  Father has returned to his former state of grief, approaching his first New Year’s without Mother. I, too, feel bereft. James was gone all day, hunting. Robbie picked a fight with Peter. I think it was because he was angry but unable to think why. I cannot bear to contemplate all the wonderful holidays we had together and then to compare it with our situation now.

  I made mittens for Robbie from a rabbit James managed to shoot with his bow and arrow. James and I made the foot into a talisman and put it on a cord for Father. And for James I have mended every one of his shirts. I would have done it anyway, but I will give it to him as a gift, as I have nothing better I can give him.

  January 1816

  January 2, 1816

  Hogmanay turned out much better than I would have imagined. Father gave me ink he had bought at the Fort. James made me a beautiful little necklace that he whittled from wood and tied on a piece of sinew. And Robbie gave me a big kiss.

  The entire group of settlers celebrated together, first in prayer, then eating four deer the men had managed to hunt over the last few days. Jasper McKay played his pipes and everyone sang “Auld Lang Syne.”

  We will leave soon to follow the Indians farther south. The Indians will follow the buffalo and we will follow the Indians.

  January 8

  I can only write when the sun is shining and there is no wind at all. Then the flap of the tent can be pulled back and I can sit by the fire, so my hands are warm enough and the ink does not freeze!

  Our trip south was a repeat of our trek from The Forks to Pembina. We were not dressed for the weather. All I had was my tartan shawl wrapped around me, my warmest dress and my woollen stockings, but it was hardly sufficient against the bitter cold. There were times when I felt so cold I almost wept. Thank goodness Robbie was more protected than I.

  When we arrived at our first camping ground nearer the buffalo herds we set up a small tent that Father had bought before we left. White Loon’s family encouraged us to set up beside them. They have adopted us and are treating us rather like poor children who need help.

  White Loon’s family consists of a grandmother and grandfather, her mother and father, three brothers and a younger sister close to Robbie’s age. The roles of our family became clear the first day the women of White Loon’s family set up their large tipi. Father and James followed White Loon’s father and brothers out to the hunt. Since it is the open plain they do not hunt the buffalo the same way as they did in Pembina, but rather race their horses beside the great beasts and shoot them with guns. Otherwise they try to manoeuvre them into snowbanks where they can be slowed down and more easily shot with arrows. Father, James and the other settlers had to drag the dead buffalo back to the camp. This took them over two days of backbreaking work.

  In the meantime the women help with cooking, and Kate, Alice and I are sent out to dig up clods of grass and frozen buffalo turd, which is used in the fire. We are sent to the river for water and have to carry the heavy water skins back and forth. When the men returned with the buffalo they were put to work cutting and hauling wood.

  January 18

  I cannot believe how far from my dreams we have sunk. We were supposed to begin a life where I would be a lady. Instead I am nothing more than a servant to savages. I always try to bear myself with dignity, however, so as not to let them see that my pride is inju
red.

  January 21

  White Loon seems surprisingly sensitive to my state of mind, and right from the beginning has made an effort to soften the effects of her mother’s orders. She takes every opportunity to speak with me and to learn our language, and she encourages me to do the same.

  January 25

  I must tell you, dear diary, something changed today. I hope, Mother, that you will not disapprove too much, although I fear that you will. You always wanted me to behave like a lady, and you prized that above all else. And so did I. Now I am not sure. In fact, I am in general rather confused. I think back to that reckless act on the ice floe when I behaved in a very unladylike way, and I wonder if I did not start down this dubious path then. But to the point.

  The men had just finished a successful hunt, and the women had finished their work on the buffalo. The band seemed to decide it was time for some fun. The day had dawned bright and clear. There was a fresh fall of snow on the ground from the night before, which twinkled and sparkled in the sunlight. The sky was cloudless and blue. There was no wind, and although the temperature was very cold it seems that one can be outdoors as long as the bitter wind is absent. White Loon rushed into our tent, her eyes shining, her cheeks already red from being outdoors. She grabbed my hand and said, “You, come. Play.”

  I was so surprised that I did not protest and went with her. I noticed that Kate, Alice and the other girls were already among the large group of women who had gathered near one end of the encampment. The women were moving to the centre, chatting and laughing. White Loon ran to the group, picked up something and ran back to me. She was holding two balls made of deerskin. The balls were connected to each other by a strip of hide. She pulled me back to the group and picked up a stick, which was lying on the ground. The stick was around 3 feet long and curved at one end. She threw the balls onto the stick, then lifted the stick into the air to show how the balls balanced on each side. She then lifted the stick and threw the balls off the stick, forward. She pointed to her hands and said, “No.” Then she pointed to her feet and said, “No.” Then she motioned for me to come and join her group. I noticed that Kate was already with the other group.

  One of the women let out a small cry and the game began. It was obvious that we had to move the balls, but I had no idea where the goal was. Our team began with the balls on our sticks and the other team tried to pull them off our sticks with their own.

  Suddenly White Loon threw the balls and they landed on my stick. I was terribly nervous about what to do, but I had to do something and so I bolted ahead. I did not know exactly where I was going, but I was determined not to let the others grab the balls off my stick. Kate raced up and planted herself in front of me and attacked my stick with her own. She was also using her foot although that clearly was not allowed. Finally she was able to steal the balls from me and her team passed them back and forth between them until they reached the tipi at the far end of the clearing.

  It was our team’s turn again. The women began to pass the balls back and forth. They called to one another and taunted the other team. They began to pick up speed, running faster and throwing harder. White Loon ran with the stick and balls to a tipi at the other end of the clearing, and by her whooping and yipping I surmised that we had now scored a goal as well.

  Then Kate had the balls again. I looked at her and decided she would not have them for long. Just as she was raising her stick to throw the balls, I looped them off with my stick, turned and threw to White Loon’s mother, Leaf Bud, who ran with them to the tipi, scoring once again. I whooped and screamed with everyone else and then delved into the battle as fiercely as if it were a war. Time went so quickly that as the sky began to darken I realized we had spent the whole afternoon playing and that I could not remember a time when I had felt my blood pump through my heart and body with such a feeling of well-being.

  This was certainly not the behaviour of a lady. I should have sat quietly in the tipi sewing or mending.

  February 1816

  February 5

  I have not been writing because when the days are clear and there is no wind I have taken every opportunity to play. I am now known among the women as the fiercest, most dangerous player of all the settlers, including Kate, who tried to keep up with me but was unable to. Even Father and James and Robbie took note as they watched some of our games. Father seemed happy I was enjoying myself and did not seem to notice my unladylike behaviour. Robbie was very proud of me.

  February 9

  It turns out that both Robbie and James are very good at games themselves. The boys play a game similar to ours, except that their ball is not a double but a single one. James is very good at driving the ball with his stick, which is what the men do instead of throwing it, but he is not as fearless as I and often has the ball stolen from him. No one steals the balls from me.

  Robbie has become an expert at a sliding game. A strip of snow about 5 feet long is brushed off and iced down to make it slippery. At the end of the slope are small holes, around twelve of them. The tips of buffalo horns are rounded off to make little smooth stones and the young boys roll the stones down the slope, scoring points when they drop into the different holes. Robbie is patient and he concentrates fiercely. He and Peter often play together and have become quite a team. It seems our entire family has some kind of talent in the games.

  February 12

  I know that I should not be enjoying myself so much, and I fear that I am becoming a savage instead of helping the savages raise themselves up, but I cannot stop myself. I love the attention the other women give me and I love their praise. I simply try to put thoughts of Mother and her teachings aside. Sometimes it seems to be only harmless fun and nothing to be ashamed of, but at other times I know in my heart that it is wrong.

  Kate has taken to tormenting me. “Is that the behaviour of a lady?” she squeals. “Oh my, look at Little Miss Manners now!” Fortunately we are not living in the same tent as she is, but I see her constantly anyway, as she is always somehow nearby. She is not to be got rid of.

  February 19

  It has been too windy to write. I have a moment on our first sunny day in a while — but only a moment. I must get to my chores. Still I want to relate how we have been spending our evenings.

  Although the Indians don’t read from books as we do, they tell stories at night around the campfire, and now, after a month or so, I find that I am able to understand little bits and pieces. They often seem to be about animals. They believe that certain animals watch over them and guide them. It does not sound that different to me than our angels, except all the animals have such different personalities and are so vivid that it almost seems more exciting than an angel, who appears boring in comparison. But there you see again, dear diary, how I began to sink into their world and to forget the superiority of my own.

  February 22

  I had just fallen into a deep sleep last night when I was suddenly awakened by loud shouting outside. I could not imagine who would be out making such noise in the middle of the night. Robbie ran out of the tent after pulling on his moccasins, and then ran right back in again.

  “Come see, come see!” he shouted.

  We all followed him outside. He pointed up. To the sky. The sky was flooded with lights of all different shades and hues, just like a rainbow, but at night!

  “Ghost dancers,” White Loon said.

  “No, no,” Father corrected her. “It is aurora borealis.”

  It was beautiful and I was in awe at the sight. We stood there as long as we could until the cold drove us back to the warmth of our tents and blankets.

  March 1816

  March 3

  A fresh load of buffalo was dragged into camp by the men after another successful hunt a few weeks ago, and there has been no time to write since then. The women and girls work very hard when the buffalo first come into camp, and we settlers were put to work right along with the Indian women. I shall describe here what we do:

  Fi
rst we cut the meat into very thin spiral strips and hang it on racks. But last week the weather was too snowy and wet so it was hung inside the tipi. Four poles are supported by a platform that is set up over the fire. The smell is so strong that at first I had to choose between staying warm in the tipi, being alone in our own tent, or freezing yet being able to breathe outside. But the temperature has plummeted and my skin began to freeze after only minutes. Quickly it was no longer a choice — I simply had to get used to the smell.

  When the meat was finally dry we tied it up and stored it in rawhide sacks. After a few days passed we took it out and pounded it with stone hammers. The first time that I helped with this work my arms were so sore the next morning I could barely lift them. After the meat was pounded to a pulp we added berries and then poured buffalo fat over it all. This was allowed to set and then packed again in hides. When it was all done, I felt a great sense of accomplishment, knowing we had just made pemmican for weeks to come.

  But our work was not over. Next the hides needed to be tanned. Leaf Bud led the work, as White Loon’s grandmother was not well. First Leaf Bud simmered the brains, liver and fat of a buffalo calf in water. This she made into a soft paste. That is when we girls were put to work.

  We rubbed the paste all over the hide. It was dried by the fire for days, and again the smell was overwhelming. Then we soaked it in water and rolled it all into a bundle, only to unroll it again, stretch it out and rub it with our hands. For days we rubbed until my hands were so sore it hurt just to open and close my fingers. But on the final day Leaf Bud gave me a piece of the hide so I could make a skirt from it. The one I’d been wearing was in tatters and so it was a welcome gift — and yet was it? Could I wear it and not seem just like one of them? And is that a good or a bad thing?