Remember the Morning

by Thomas Fleming

  Nothing-But-Flowers’s father, Hanging Belt, was in the lead canoe. “Good, good!” he called.

  The warriors stopped paddling and drifted toward us, contented smiles on their faces. “Look at these two juicy fish,” shouted one of the young men.

  “I know where I’d like to hook them,” another young warrior called.

  Hanging Belt became uneasy. “Does your grandmother know you are behaving this way?” he said. The last thing he wanted was Nothing-But-Flowers’s grandmother angry at him. Even a great chief, with twenty-three scalps on his war belt, could not afford to lose the favor of the matron of his clan. She could “knock off his horns” any time she chose. “Grandmother saw nothing wrong with it,” Nothing-But-Flowers said. Her grandmother seldom found fault with anything she did but Hanging Belt was still uneasy.

  “Why do you have paint on your face?” another young man asked Nothing-But-Flowers.

  She told him about her dream and he immediately became serious. A half dozen young men became serious. All of them had been secretly hoping to win Nothing-But-Flowers’s heart and they realized they could no longer hesitate.

  As always, I heard the spoken and the unspoken part of what was said. Nothing-But-Flowers was telling the warriors if any of them hoped to win her heart, a friend would have to consider marrying She-Is-Alert. It was the perfect time to suggest such an idea. There would be a great feast and everyone’s heart would be light. A young warrior might decide it would be worth marrying the Moon Woman if it earned him the favor of the Bear Clan’s favorite daughter.

  We swam back to shore and watched the canoes resume their journey to the village. Nothing-But-Flowers looked knowingly at me and we burst out laughing. The swamp had disappeared from my head. I felt free and happy. I loved the way the lake’s water gleamed on Nothing-But-Flowers’s brown skin. I looked forward to the feast and the games we would soon be playing. Perhaps I would win another set of moccasins at double ball. Perhaps I would have a husband before the next dawn.

  Back in the village the excitement continued. People lugged carcasses of deer to the longhouses to be skinned. Older women were building fires. Dogs barked furiously. Little children ran in all directions. The warriors sat in front of the longhouses telling the boys and young women how they had made their kills.

  Just as the first odor of roasting meat began to drift through the village, there was a cry of recognition from the south. Into the center of the village strode Black Eagle, the sachem of the Bear Clan, escorted by two Mohawk warriors. A tall commanding old man, Black Eagle had been chosen to represent the Senecas at the Great Council in the Mohawks’ country.

  “Brothers and Sisters!” Black Eagle said. “I bring news from the Great Council. The hatchet has been buried forever between the French and the English and between the Iroquois and the Seven Nations of Canada. A treaty has been signed and many presents have been received. Our English father has commanded us to make no more war on the French. We have agreed to let the Seven Nations hunt in peace. Our brothers, the Mohawks, have promised in our name that the people of this village, under pain of the severest punishment, would never again make war on the English. I have consented to this agreement as well, in the name of all our warriors. To prove our good faith, I have promised to return the children we have adopted to their English relatives.”

  A terrible wail burst from the longhouse of the Turtle Clan. From the house hurtled my mother and grandmother, tears streaming down their faces. Another wail burst from the longhouse of the Bear Clan. Nothing-But-Flowers’s mother and grandmother rushed into the circle of men and women around the sachem.

  “How can you kill us this way?” my mother cried. “She is my only living child. I depended on her to care for me in my old age.”

  “Yes,” cried Nothing-But-Flowers’s grandmother. “How can you kill us this way? How can you take away the most beautiful daughter of our clan? How can you take away the bride of a young man who is certain to become a great chief?”

  “What have the English done for us, here in our northern land?” my grandmother cried. “They give all their presents to the Mohawks. The French give us more presents year in year out than the English.”

  The Mohawk warriors listened to this uproar with stern faces. They could not remain silent in the teeth of this challenge to the league of the Iroquois, which had held the six nations together in brotherhood and friendship for so many hundreds of moons.

  “Brothers and sisters!” one of the Mohawks said. “We come here to assure you that the Covenant Chain is still strong, the Pine Tree, the sign of our great league, still stands. Your sachem Black Eagle speaks the truth. We also speak the truth. The Mohawks receive no presents they do not share equally with the other nations of the league. This peace will be a good thing for all the nations of red men. All the tribes of Canada have also agreed to return their captives. We are returning many captives to the French. Let there be no more complaints. The thing must be done!”

  The swamp was back in my whirling head. Vorrrst hissed the snakes. Van Van Van croaked the crows. Fear crawled like a spider around my heart. The Evil Brother was dragging me back into the dark past. He was dragging Nothing-But-Flowers too, in spite of her orenda.

  Into the circle around the sachem sprang Bold Antelope. He had his hatchet in his hand. A war cry burst from his lips. “You will never return Nothing-But-Flowers to the English alive!” he said. “I was only a boy when Hanging Belt brought her here. I loved her beauty even then. I will not allow an Englishman to enjoy her!”

  “We have pledged our honor,” Black Eagle said. “If you violate it, you will become an outcast, roaming the woods in the winter, begging for a home with distant people who have never heard of the Iroquois.”

  “Hah!” Bold Antelope shouted defiantly and flung his hatchet into the soft earth. The edge sank deep into the ground. Nothing-But-Flowers began to weep. She was afraid Bold Antelope would kill her. The swamp heaved and sucked in my head. My thoughts sank deeper and deeper into it, while the snakes hissed Vorrrsst. Why was the Evil Brother pursuing us?

  TWO

  THAT NIGHT, IN THE LONGHOUSE of the Turtle Clan and the longhouse of the Bear Clan, although there was plenty to eat, there was no joy, no dancing. Instead everyone sang songs of the dead. Our mothers and grandmothers wrapped themselves in black shawls and wailed for their daughters. Flying Crow, the village shaman, wore the false face that frightened away the evil spirits who always sought to capture a dead person’s soul. He brandished his rattles, he howled defiance of the Evil Brother and his devils. Everyone mourned She-Is-Alert and Nothing-But-Flowers as if our souls had left our bodies. Was there any difference? They would never see us again. We would spend the rest of our lives with white people.

  The next morning the sachem Black Eagle chose four warriors to escort us to the great council. Bold Antelope insisted on joining them. “When I am with Nothing-But-Flowers my heart is like a hawk in the sky over the lake,” he said. “Without her I will live in the mud like the turtle. I want to be at her side as long as possible.”

  As he spoke, his hand grasped the handle of his hatchet. I saw the fear on Nothing-But-Flowers’s face and knew what she was thinking. Bold Antelope would kill her in sight of the English, to defy them. He hated white men. In the last war, the French had captured his father and given him to the Ottawas for torture. He lived three terrible days before he died.

  Black Eagle had been a friend of Bold Antelope’s father. He consented to let him join the escort and we began the journey along the shore of the lake to the mouth of a swift river with many rapids which took us south to the lake of the Oneidas.2 After crossing that body of water, the warriors lugged the canoes along a trail to the river of the Mohawks. We paddled east down that stream past a half dozen Mohawk castles, with their high wooden walls. At night we slept in grassy meadows beside the river.

  Throughout the journey Bold Antelope did not say a word to Nothing-But-Flowers or to me. But there was death in his eye
s. Why could not Black Eagle see it? Not for the first time, I concluded warriors and even sachems did not see very much. They were too preoccupied with their own glory. Only women saw things beneath the surface of words and gestures.

  Finally we reached the falls of the Mohawk at the village of Schenectady and journeyed east on foot at a rapid pace. The Mohawks told us we would soon see the great council. In a little while we came over a low hill and looked down on a broad meadow. It was a beautiful spring morning. The grass in the meadow seemed as green as midsummer. There was not a cloud in the blue sky. In the middle of the meadow were many Indian wigwams and cloth shelters Black Eagle said the white men called tents. Smoke was rising from many cooking fires. Between the tents a crowd of white warriors in red coats stood in a long line. Above them on a pole flew a red flag with a white cross in the middle. Black Eagle said it was the flag of the King of England.

  A swarm of spiders crawled around my heart, webbing it with fear. What was going to happen to me and Nothing-But-Flowers? How could we ever be happy among white people? We were Senecas. We had been named by our mothers and adopted into the tribe forever. How many times had my grandmother told me white people had no honor, they had no regard for the truth? They were cowardly warriors who hid under beds like children when Indians attacked their houses. Again and again my mother had told me even though my skin was white, my heart was red, my blood was red, I was a Seneca.

  Black Eagle led us into the Indian side of the camp and one of the Mohawks went in search of the white leaders. The other Mohawk went into a wigwam and came out with a jug of rum. He poured it into a cup and gave it to Black Eagle, Bold Antelope, and the other Senecas. They drank it greedily.

  “You see the Mohawks share the white man’s presents with their brothers the Senecas,” the Mohawk said.

  I was horrified. Nothing-But-Flowers’s grandmother had persuaded our village council to refuse all gifts of rum. Many moons ago, when my fruitful blood first ran from my body, an English trader had brought a barrel of rum to our village. The warriors had drunk it and sold him all the beaver skins they had trapped in the winter for a few pounds of gunpowder and lead and some paltry strips of cheap cloth. They let the Englishman rob them. Then the warriors started quarreling. Before the spree was over, four of them were dead and many others badly wounded.

  I watched Bold Antelope demand another drink from the jug. His eyes acquired a ghostly shine, like moonlight behind a cloud. Soon he would be ready to violate the honor of the Senecas.

  Nothing-But-Flowers was paralyzed with dread. She was preparing to sing her death song. Before I could think of what to do, the other Mohawk returned and said the white men were ready to receive the captives. We were led into the field where the warriors with red coats stood in a row, with guns on their shoulders. A short stoop-shouldered white man with a mournful mouth and sad eyes stood beside a taller, thinner white man with hair growing out of his chin. I disliked both of them on sight. They looked as if their souls had shrunken to the size of pumpkin seeds. They were soon joined by another man, who walked with the strut of a turkey. He gazed at us with proud despising eyes. The other two men deferred to him. They called him “Judge.”

  Beside the older men stood two younger men. One had corn-yellow hair, the other black. The yellow-hair was a giant, with wide shoulders and long arms. He had the face of a well-fed bear. The black-haired man had the face of a hungry fox. He wore clothes far more beautiful than the giant’s—gleaming green breeches and white stockings, a waistcoat of bright yellow and a coat of brilliant blue. Although I did not especially like his crafty expression, I was pleased by the way he gazed at me with desire in his eyes. His clothes, which must have cost the skins of a thousand beavers, meant he was a man of power and wealth.

  Black Eagle made a speech, declaring that he was delivering these two captives to prove his village would honor the pledge the Senecas had made to remain faithful to their father, the King of England. The thin man with the hair on his chin stared at me. He asked a question and Black Eagle told him my Seneca name. The man asked him another question. Black Eagle asked me if I remembered my white name.

  Cat Cat Cat went the woodpecker in the swamp. Van Van Van croaked the crow. I shook my head. I did not remember having a white name. “Tell him we wish to remain with our brothers and sisters of the Seneca,” I said.

  Black Eagle told the white men what I said. The stoop-shouldered man looked at me with friendship in his sad eyes. I saw something else in the thin white man’s eyes. An angry shine that made me wonder if I had offended him. The stoop-shouldered man said something to the thin man. He still hesitated. Then he leaned toward me and said. “Cat-a-lyntie?”

  The earth shook beneath my feet. The young giant’s yellow hair seemed to be filling the whole sky with evil light. “Cat-a-lyntie?” the thin man said again.

  “Van … Vorst?” said the man they called Judge.

  The swamp in my head was spewing up a red mist. Invisible fingers seemed to grip my throat, choking me. I could not breathe. “I am She-Is-Alert,” I gasped. “I wish to go home to my village.”

  They turned to Nothing-But-Flowers and asked her name. The thin man paused and read from a paper in his hand. “Clar-a?” he said.

  Nothing-But-Flowers stood very still for a long time. Then she nodded her head. She remembered her old name! All these years, she had never revealed this to me.

  The thin man pointed to me and said again: “Cat-a-lyntie?”

  Nothing-But-Flowers nodded again. She remembered my name too. It was astonishing. Was it because of her powerful orenda? She was able to live in the past without fear of the Evil Brother?

  The three older white men conferred. From a box at their feet they drew a long belt of white wampum.3 The judge gave it to the Mohawk, who handed it to Black Eagle with a speech, saying this was a payment for the two women to prove the King of England’s desire for peace and his approval of their decision to surrender such beautiful maidens. The king understood they were losing many fine warriors with the loss of these women. He hoped the wampum would enable them to buy wives from other tribes to replace them.

  It was over. We belonged to the white men now. Where was Bold Antelope? I found him in the crowd, the ghostly shine still in his eyes. Nothing-But-Flowers was far from safe. I desperately wanted to tell this to someone. But I did not speak a word of the white man’s language.

  We were handed over to the yellow-haired giant and his foxy-faced friend. Delegations from other villages were bringing more captives to be redeemed with wampum belts. The two young men tried to talk to us. They spoke very slowly but the words meant nothing. I kept looking for Bold Antelope. Glancing over my shoulder I saw him about ten paces behind us.

  He was going to sink his hatchet into Nothing-But-Flowers’s flesh as he had sunk it into the soft earth in our village street. Out of the swamp in my head came a face, a flash of yellow hair. I almost remembered but a false face leaped between me and the evil thing. Bold Antelope was drawing closer to us. He was only six paces away now. His hand was on the handle of his hatchet.

  We reached a tent and the yellow-haired giant gestured for us to go inside. It was empty, except for big boxes full of clothes. They gestured to the boxes and made signs to tell us to take off our Indian clothes and put on white clothes. The foxy-faced man said something to the giant about “watching.” The giant struck the fox on the arm and pulled him out of the tent.

  Outside the back of the tent, a shadow appeared. It was a man with a ridge of hair in the Indian fashion: Bold Antelope. His knife slit an opening in the canvas and he stepped inside. “Come with me,” he said to Nothing-But-Flowers. “We will go away together. We will find another home in a distant tribe.”

  “No!” I cried. “He’s going to kill you. When he gets you in the forest he’ll kill you.”

  “Shut up!” Bold Antelope snarled and struck me in the face with the back of his hand, knocking me to the muddy floor of the tent.

  “D
on’t hurt her,” Nothing-But-Flowers said. “I’ll go with you. I loved you above all the others. But I wasn’t sure you were worthy of the Bear Clan. There were many who spoke against you. They said you were rash and lacked true honor.”

  “Her?” Bold Antelope said, glaring at me. I could see he wanted to kill me to keep the secret of Nothing-But-Flowers’s fate.

  “No. She never spoke against you.”

  “Do not break that rule,” Bold Antelope said to me. “If you want to keep your breath in your body.”

  He seized Nothing-But-Flowers by the arm and dragged her through the opening he had cut in the back of the tent. I ran into the street, frantically searching for the yellow-haired giant. There were many rows of tents. I finally found him in the last row, joking with his foxy friend and a third man, who was short and ugly and had a hump on his back. He looked like Hah-doo-wee, the evil spirit who had been tamed by the Master of Life and agreed to help human beings.

  I ran up to them and made the sign language for hatchet. I placed my right elbow in the palm of my right hand and made a chopping stroke. I made the sign for knife by placing my left hand in front of my mouth and slicing between it with my right hand. I drew my finger across my throat.

  “Clar-a!” I said, pointing toward the tent.

  The hunchback said something to the giant and the three men ran back to the empty tent. The giant burst through the slit at the back. In the distance, Bold Antelope and Nothing-But-Flowers were on the edge of the forest. “Stop!” the giant shouted and ran after them as swiftly as I had ever seen a Seneca warrior run. His foxy-faced friend hung back. He had no desire to fight Bold Antelope. The hunchback ran after the giant but he could not keep his pace.

  “Stop!” shouted the giant again and Bold Antelope turned. For a moment I wondered if I had made a terrible mistake. Would it have been better to let Bold Antelope and Nothing-But-Flowers go? Maybe he had been telling the truth when he said he would take her to a distant tribe.