by Robin Moore
"No, you. Tell where you've been this winter," Maggie said.
"Wal, all right. Don't mind if I do." Jake rambled on for a good hour, telling about his solitary meanderings around the mountains. He said that he had spent the worst part of the winter in a cave up along the west branch of the Susquehanna River.
"Jest set and look at the fire, you know. Hunt a little, let the time slide by. Spend the winter drowsy and quiet like a bear, that my idee," he had said.
When Maggie brought the bread steaming from the oven, they sat and had a simple meal.
"Durned if it ain't good to set and talk with you, Maggie. Man lives alone so much he fergits he has a voice, you know. Huntin's a quiet life, as a rule. Woods is that way, quiet most of the time—less there's somethin' unusual happenin'.
"But a man needs to use his voice every now and again. The same way he might feel for the handle of his knife in the dark, just to make sure it's still there. You know what I'm sayin', girl?"
Maggie nodded. Then she told Jake about her winter. When she finished the old man nodded.
"Even allowin' all the hardship and the downright weariness of it—ain't you still glad to be here?" he asked.
Maggie nodded. "Yes, I am," she said truthfully.
"Wal, you know, you're not a real mountain person 'til you've spent a winter up here. Most anybody kin pass a summer in these parts. But it's the ones that lives here in the winter, those are the ones who come to know the land. And I'll tell you something else, Maggie, something the people in the valley might not understand. Once you live up in these mountains and once the feel and the roll and the rills of these hills gets in your blood, you'll never be the same again. You kin travel and wander, as I have, but you'll never feel at home less'n you're near these hills. Know what I mean, Maggie?" Maggie said she did.
"I thought so," the old man said. Then he reached into his shoulder bag and brought out a roll of thick leather. "Brought you a present," he said. "Elk hide."
He spread the hide out on the floor by the hearth. "Take off them stiff boots and come over here. Put yer stockin' foot down on this leather." Maggie did as he asked and watched as he took a charred stick of wood from the fireplace and used it to trace the outline of Maggie's foot on the leather.
"I figure you been freezin' your toes long enough in them civilized shoes. Now that yer a real mountain girl, you deserve a pair of real moccasins."
Jake cut out a one-piece pattern and sat down by the fire with a deer-antler awl and a length of thread made from the twisted strands of sinew from a deer's leg.
"This is heavily smoked elk hide," Jake said. "If you keep it greased, it'll keep the water out. You stuff the insides with a couple handfuls of deer hair and your feet'll be jist as toasty as kin be, no matter what the weather is."
Jake felt like talking.
"Used to know an old Susquehannock Indian woman, her name in English would be Small Stitches, or somethin' like that. She was given that name because, even in old age, she was skillful with an awl or needle. Why, she could sew up anything. Made me a set of buckskins once when I was a young man.
"Small Stitches said one time that you can tell an awful lot about people by just lookin' at what they wears on their feet. She pointed out that most white folks wear them heavy shoes with thick soles and high heels on 'em. Can't even feel the ground under their feet—fergit they're walkin' on the earth.
"She said that was why the white folks were so funny about land. Always wantin' to buy and sell it and trade it back and forth. Almost like they weren't part of it—like it wasn't a part of 'em in some way, you know what I'm sayin', girl?"
Maggie nodded.
"Well, that's the good thing about moccasins, you feel connected to the ground when you wear these— like a tree has roots, you see what I mean?"
Maggie smiled.
Jake slipped the finished moccasins on her feet. Maggie admired them in the firelight. They were made from one piece of leather, with a puckered toe and a seam down the center and long cuffs that could be folded up and tied around the ankle to keep the snow out.
"Thank you for this present, Jake. I thank you and my feet thank you." Then Maggie stopped short.
"But how am I going to explain where these came from when I get down to the mill tonight?"
Jake smiled. "You could tell the truth."
Maggie shook her head. "But that would place you in danger. If McGrew knew you visited me here, he might try to set a trap for you."
Jake nodded. "That's true, girl. That's true. Well, you could always tell them you took them offen a dead Indian. That would gladden their dark hearts."
Maggie frowned. "Their hearts aren't that dark."
"They're killin' off the wild things, Maggie. I don't know anything darker than that. They're chasin' the game out of the valley, fishin' out the streams, cloudin' up the skies with their chimbly smoke."
"I think you're making too much of it," she said. "After all, there are only seventeen families in this valley. There's plenty of room for everyone."
"Seventeen too many if you ask me. That's the beginning of civilization, girl. Ya know what that means to me? That means a man could get arrested and throwed in chains for doin' what comes natural. Can't think of anything that comes darker than that."
The old man smiled. "But yer doin' right girl. Keep bakin' that bread."
Maggie sighed. "The McGrews aren't bad people. It's mostly Mrs. McGrew who rubs me wrong. She's so stern and sorrowful all the time. A woman likethat can drag a body down. I don't really feel like I own my own life. I'm still bound out to her."
Maggie glanced around the cabin. "Ya know, when spring comes, I think I'll give this place a real good cleaning. Maybe get some tables and chairs in here so we have something besides the ground to sit on."
The old man smiled, knowing what she was thinking. "You'll have to get the roof fixed for the spring rains," he said. "And then o'course you'll have to put in a good-sized garden."
Maggie looked at the old man. "Jake, I sometimes get the feeling that this is my real home up here, up in this cabin. Know what I mean?"
The old man nodded. "Girl, I have a feelin' that as long as you keep bakin' that bread, you'll never want for anything in this valley. You're a real mountain girl now, Maggie, free to do as you will. No need to be bound out anymore."
That afternoon, when the old man left, Maggie sent him away with two loaves of bread, one in his stomach and one in his shoulder bag.
Maggie walked back down to the mill that night, delighting in the warmth of her new moccasins. It felt good to feel the earth under her feet. By the time she reached the house, she had made her decision.
When Maggie came into the house, Mrs. McGrew's eyes instantly went to Maggie's feet. But
the older woman said nothing.
It was Joseph McGrew who mentioned them when he sat down to dinner with the family that night.
"Maggie," he said, "what are those on your feet?" Maggie took a deep breath. "Indian moccasins." "Where did you get them?" "I traded for them."
"Maggie, you haven't been dealing with the Indians, have you?"
Maggie said nothing.
"I will not have anyone in this house who conspires with the heathens. Do you hear?"
"Just as well," Maggie said, "because I don't plan to be a member of this household for much longer." She was surprised at how strong and firm her voice sounded. "I have decided that when the spring comes, I'm going to move up to Franny's cabin."
"Why, Maura, do you hear this? Our bound-out girl is talking of leaving us. No, child. That cannot be. After all, we have an agreement."
"That's right," Maggie said. "The agreement was that I would work for my keep here until I could return to Philadelphia. I don't see anyone anxious to have me go. And I don't have a home in Philadelphia anyway. I could make a home for myself up there on the mountainside."
McGrew laughed. "But Maggie, this is preposterous. How will you get your living?"
<
br /> "I'll bake bread and trade for what I need, just as Franny did. This valley needs a proper Bread Sister again."
"But, Maggie, you're just a child."
Maggie's eyes blazed with anger. "A child couldn't work as I have in this household! Haven't I chopped and hauled and cooked and washed? Haven't I done a woman's work in this house?
"Maura," McGrew said, "speak to her, bring her to reason."
Mrs. McGrew looked across the room at Lyons' cradle. Then her eyes met Maggie's.
"Let her go," Mrs. McGrew said.
McGrew looked confused. "But Maura, don't you think this is ill-advised? We can't afford to lose her labor here and surely you don't believe this is in her best interest."
"I said, let her go. She won't starve up there, I'll wager that. And there's nothing to be gained by holdin' her."
McGrew brought his fist down on the table. "I am the head of this family!" he shouted.
"And I am the head of this household," Mrs. McGrew returned. "I said, let her go."
McGrew knew he was defeated, and his anger suddenly vanished.
"I mean you no harm, Maggie," he said amiably.
"It's not just our own self-interest I care about; I fear for your safety. We have come to grow quite fond of you here. It would grieve us deeply if you came to some harm at the hands of the savages. I beseech you. Avoid the Indians at all costs. They are not human as we are and know nothing of goodness or mercy."
McGrew suddenly became very interested in the food on his plate. "I'll be glad when the spring comes and we don't have to eat this parched corn anymore," he said.
The spring did come. And just as she had willed, Maggie moved her few possessions up to Franny's cabin and began to make herself a home.
Her first evening alone in the cabin she made herself a simple supper and ate it sitting in the open air on her doorstep.
An early moon rose up yellow and full above the mountains. It was a warm April night. Maggie decided to enjoy her new freedom by taking a moonlit walk. She walked to the edge of the clearing and found a deer path, leading her up the mountainside. She walked quietly, feeling the ground under her moccasins. There were still patches of snow in sheltered places in the woods but the wind blew warm, carrying the promise of spring. She followed the path to the top of the mountain. This was the first of the seven mountain ranges and was called First Mountain.
She gazed down at the valley below. It seemed very quiet and serene. Here and there she could see plumes of chimney smoke rising from points on the moonlit landscape.
Then she turned her face west, toward the mountains. The wind blew, kicking her red hair out in the breeze. She could feel its force pushing against her body. She looked westward, out over the seven mountain ranges and saw those ridges rolling across the horizon like dark, humpbacked snakes. She knew that somewhere out there, toward the Ohio Valley, Franny was still alive, plowing and planting and baking bread. And that thought was a tremendous comfort to her.
Chapter Eight
Maggie’s first summer in the wilderness passed like all summers in the mountains: gloriously. And quickly. The summer ended long before Maggie was ready. When the first cool days of the fall came on, it was almost as though there really hadn't been any summer at all. The whole season seemed little more than a half-remembered dream.
It was an important summer for Maggie. Settled in Franny's cabin, she didn't feel bound out anymore. She felt like she was becoming her own woman. She was the Bread Sister of Sinking Creek, just like Franny before her.
And just as they had done with her aunt, the settlement women traded for the bread and came to Maggie's door whenever they needed a warm welcome ear. There were troubles aplenty on the frontier and Maggie got to hear all of them. In that way she became a friend to women many years older than her. She gained a special trust, the kind a Bread Sister should have. Maggie began to see that there was a great deal more to being the Bread Sister than simply baking bread. It had to do with a way of giving that Maggie was only beginning to understand.
One day Mrs. McWilliams came walking up the trail with her daughters, Clara and Mary, who were a little younger than Maggie. Maggie saw them coming and hurried out into the yard to meet them.
"What's this you're carrying?" Maggie asked, taking a large bundle from Mrs. McWilliams' arms.
"Have her open it out here!" Clara shouted. "I want to see it in the daylight."
Mary laughed. "Mama finished it last night by lantern light."
Mrs. McWilliams nodded. "It's for you, Maggie, for all the bread and happiness you've brought us. Your bread has warmed us on many a cold night. I hope you'll accept this gift from us—it'll keep you warm this winter."
Maggie tugged at the cords holding the bundle and, a moment later, unfolded a large bed quilt.
Maggie's eyes widened. "This is wonderful. I don't know what to say."
"Don't say a thing," Mrs. McWilliams said. "The girls and I stuffed this with downy turkey feathers, so it'll keep you nice and warm. All you need now is a husband to go with it."
The girls laughed. Maggie shook her head. "A little early in my life for that," she said.
"Not at all, Maggie. I was married when I was your age. If I were you, I would start to look around. In case you haven't noticed, McGrew's nephew John has been looking your way."
Clara and Mary laughed hysterically. Maggie felt herself blushing.
"That's foolish talk," Maggie said quickly, trying to cover her embarrassment. "I don't need a husband. I have everything I need right here. There's fresh water from that stream over there and firewood aplenty. The cabin roof is still good and the chimney works when the wind's blowing right.
"I've got the bread and neighbors who come and trade me for what I need. With that and the garden out back, I don't want for anything."
Mrs. McWilliams smiled sadly. She placed a hand on Maggie's shoulder. "You're at a special place in life, Maggie. Hold on to it as long as you can."
Then she and her girls packed up their bread loaves and were off down the mountainside.
Maggie stood there, in the sunlit grass by the cabin door, holding the turkey feather quilt, thinking about Mrs. McWilliams' words.
"Foolish talk," she muttered to herself, then turned and went inside.
It was going to be a cold winter that year. Everybody said so. Jake even mentioned it when he visited Maggie's cabin that fall.
"The signs is clear, girl," he said. "Hairs are long on the caterpillar and squirrels are diggin' deep. Means we're in for a real mean winter, mark my words."
They talked until late. Then Jake rolled up in his woolen blanket by the fire, and Maggie retired to her rope mattress bed, wrapped warm in her turkey feather quilt. The next morning at breakfast, she said, "Jake, I had a dream about you last night."
The old man scratched his head. "Always interested in dreams, girl. Tell me about it."
Maggie wrinkled her brow, straining to remember all the details.
"I saw you walking through the woods, in a terrible deep snow, so deep you sunk in right up to your thighs. You were looking for me. I was lost but somehow I couldn't call out to you. I think I was in a deep, dark sleep.
"Then you saw a herd of deer, you raised your rifle to fire, thinking to collect us some meat, but before you could pull the trigger, something strange happened. The deer started to point with their noses, all of'em, pointing as though they were trying to tell you something. As though they were trying to say 'She's this-away, she's this-away.'" Maggie paused.
"Well," said Jake impatiently, "what happened then?"
Maggie shook her head. "I don't know. The dream ended."
Jake scratched his head again.
"Well, now that's a puzzle," he said. "Ya know, the Indians set great store by their dreams. Now you take a fella like Old Hammerstone—he's an old Lenape holy man—why, he'd sit up all night with a dream like that. He'd smoke and ponder on it. And come morning, he would rea
d that dream for ya, revealin' its true meanin'."
Maggie handed Jake a steaming cup of spearmint tea.
"Do you believe in reading dreams?" she asked.
The old man nodded. "Well, sure. I s'pose. Up to a point, that is. But ya know them Indians, they carry it too far. They read meanin' inta everything: rocks, trees, animals, plants, wind, and water. I even seed those old-timers set up at night, readin' inta the stars. Now that's too many for me. Me, I'll stick to hairs on the caterpillar and squirrels diggin' deep. Those are signs a body can depend on."
The old man was right about the weather. The snow started falling the day after he left and kept right on falling, thick and steady, for five days. The mountains were covered with a fresh white mantle of snow. Leafless trees stood out stark and black against the whiteness of the mountainsides. The small streams froze solid. Sinking Creek became clogged with snow and ice. Then the winds came and began pushing the snow around, piling it into drifts that, in the hollows, were as tall as a person. The wind howled for days after the snow stopped falling.
Sometimes at night, during the snowstorms, Maggie felt as though she was riding in the cabin of a sailing ship, plunging through a raging storm at sea.
But she was safe and snug. She had plenty of firewood piled by the door. She snapped off the icicles that froze to the eaves and melted them down for water. She had stored provisions—dried herbs and kegs of flour and pots of honey and strings of dried apples. She had a sense of great wealth and security.
On these snowbound days, as a special gift to the people in the valley, Maggie baked up fifty loaves of holiday breads. The dough was formed into twirls and topped with dried apples and cherries. Some loaves came out of the oven looking lopsided and funny. But others were masterpieces.
The day before Christmas, the weather grew calm and cleared. Maggie decided to bundle up the bread
in a blanket and take it down to the mill to give out to the neighbors when they came by on their regular rounds. She planned to stay Christmas Eve with the McGrews, then return late on Christmas Day.
