Soft Rain

by Cornelia Cornelissen

  Special thanks to Barry O’Connell and Diane Glancy

  —C.C.

  FOR MY GRANDPARENTS, MARY AND WATT SAM,

  THEIR CHILDREN, KATIE, JOHN, SALLIE, AND GEORGE,

  AND FOR LIZZIE, LUCY, AND NICK

  CONTENTS

  Map

  A Sad Letter

  The Little People

  Green Fern

  Planting Selu

  The Doll

  To the Stockade

  In the Pen

  The Coughing Disease

  Rain Comes

  The Young Chief

  Rattlesnake Springs

  Rivers, Valleys, and Mountains

  The Barn

  A New Leader

  The Mississippi River

  White Children

  The Last Apple

  About the Cherokee Nation

  Suggested Reading for Children

  Selected Bibliography

  A SAD LETTER

  “Hurry, Pet. Hurry!” Soft Rain called, running into the cabin with the puppy at her heels. “Grandmother, tell me a story before I go to school,” she whispered. Picking up the small, wiggly dog, she knelt beside Grandmother’s rocking chair.

  “There is no time for your story this morning,” Mother chided. “You know you stayed outside playing with Pet too long. You should have come at once when I called.” She handed Soft Rain her deerskin pouch. “Here is your food.”

  Holding the pouch close to her nose, Soft Rain sniffed. “Ummm. Fresh corn bread.”

  “Father and I will have our corn bread in the field,” Hawk Boy said, bragging. “I am helping today.”

  Soft Rain laughed. “If that is true, my little brother, you had better stop talking and get to work.”

  Hawk Boy jumped up, nearly knocking over the kerosene lamp. Though three years younger, he stood tall beside his nine-year-old sister. Soft Rain was surprised to see that the top of his head was even with her shoulder. “All that food you eat makes you grow,” she said, patting his plump stomach.

  Still chewing, Hawk Boy nodded, swallowed, gave Grandmother a hug, took the cloth-wrapped package from Mother, and scurried out the door.

  “Don’t eat on the way,” Soft Rain called after him. Hawk Boy waved as the sound of his laughter faded.

  “After the New Moon Festival, Hawk Boy will go to school with you,” Grandmother said. “I will miss his smiling face, just as I miss yours.”

  “You can’t see his face, Grandmother,” Soft Rain said, looking at the old woman’s clouded eyes.

  “I can hear his laughter and imagine the joy in him.”

  “I will like having my little brother walk the long way with me. I can tell him stories.” Soft Rain brushed a crumb off Grandmother’s face and kissed her.

  “But you must go before the New Moon Festival,” Mother warned, and everybody laughed.

  Soft Rain ran down the mountain road toward town and the teacher’s house that was the school for the Tsalagi boys and girls. Along the narrow path she looked for early spring flowers, but she saw none. A squirrel ran up an oak tree, fussing at her for disturbing him.

  The path grew wider as she neared the edge of town. When she walked past the schoolhouse of the white children, she heard singing. She was relieved to have missed seeing the white boys. The day before, they had taunted her, running in circles around her, making ugly faces, pulling on her braids, and yelling, “Cherokee, Cherokee,” their strange way of saying Tsalagi.

  Climbing the three steps to the porch of the teacher’s house, Soft Rain called, “Siyu. Hello.”

  “Come in, Soft Rain. You are almost late again,” the teacher said. “Were you listening to stories or looking for flowers?”

  Before answering, Soft Rain stared at the teacher’s beautiful beaded deerskin dress. Why was she wearing her festival dress to school?

  “I played too long with Pet. There weren’t any flowers,” Soft Rain said. She sat on the floor next to Little John, who was named for the principal chief of the Tsalagi.

  She liked Little John because he reminded her of Hawk Boy—always trying to be taller. “I was named for John Ross, the chief of the Real People, but I will be much bigger,” he always said, stretching himself as tall as possible.

  The teacher handed Soft Rain the pages from Sequoyah’s writing. Talking leaves, her father called them. “When I was your age,” he had often told her, “our language was only spoken. Then Sequoyah made the sounds into symbols that you can now read.”

  Together the boys and girls read Bible verses from Sequoyah’s pages. Then Little John and Soft Rain, who were the oldest, each read a verse alone.

  “Your reading is excellent, as … as usual,” the teacher stammered. She wiped at her eyes.

  The younger children looked at each other and began whispering, “The teacher is crying.”

  “We won’t read the white man’s book today because I have something I must tell you,” the teacher said, holding up a piece of paper. Her hand trembled.

  “You look sad. Will it make us cry?” Little John asked.

  “It is very sad. It is a letter from the white man who calls himself the Superintendent of Cherokee Removal. Friends, he calls us. He tells us that the treaty signed two years ago by some of our people will soon be enforced in Tennessee, Georgia, and Alabama, as well as here in North Carolina. He says that on the twenty-third of May of this year, 1838, ‘the Cherokees must … remove to the lands set apart for them in the West.’”

  The teacher sighed, then continued. “My family has decided to leave before we are forced from our home. If it isn’t too late, we will sell our house to a white family. Children, there will be no more school for you here. Maybe in the West.”

  Soft Rain saw tears fall onto the white man’s letter. She felt her anger growing. If she were holding the letter, she would rip it into little pieces. No more school! The Tsalagi must move west. Why?

  The teacher did not answer Soft Rain’s unspoken question. She merely whispered a good-bye to each child. She handed the white man’s word books to Soft Rain and Little John. “You must keep reading,” she said.

  As Soft Rain passed the white children’s school, she began to cry. “It isn’t fair that those mean boys can go to school and we can’t,” she said to Little John, sobbing. “Why is the teacher moving?”

  “I don’t know, but my father says only a few of our people signed that treaty. They are the ones who should move. We aren’t moving; Father is getting ready to plant our selu, our corn. I’m going to help him. He never wanted me to learn the white man’s ways or his words; now I’ll stop. I won’t need this old book.”

  “Aieee!” Soft Rain screamed as Little John threw the word book toward the schoolhouse and ran away. She started to go after the book, but when she saw a face at the window, she hesitated. Then she tore after Little John, only stopping when she had no more breath. She looked all around, but Little John was nowhere in sight.

  She was puzzled. The teacher, who knew the language of the white man, had said to keep reading. And she was going west because the letter said she must. But Little John’s father didn’t want him to learn of the white man’s ways. He was not moving west; he was planting. Would Soft Rain’s family have to move west? Then she thought about her father and Hawk Boy at work in their field. Relieved, she let out a deep breath. If Father was planting, they wouldn’t be moving west, either.

  “I will help Father and I will continue my reading,” she said to herself. Putting the word book into her pouch, she hurried home.

  THE LITTLE PEOPLE

  Before Soft Rain was through the gate, she called, “Mother! Grandmother! I’m home. Where are you? In the house or in the garden?”

  Her mother rushed out the door. “Hush, Soft Ra
in. Grandmother is having her afternoon rest.” She looked toward the sun, then back at Soft Rain. “We’ve only just eaten. Why are you home so early? Are you ill?” Mother touched Soft Rain’s forehead. “You aren’t warm.”

  “I’m not ill, just filled with sorrow,” Soft Rain answered. “I have to tell you why.”

  They sat together, leaning against the great oak tree. Soft Rain told her mother about the morning at school “Everyone cried except Little John. He was angry, and he threw his book away. He said his father never wanted him to learn the white man’s words.” Soft Rain fingered her deerskin pouch, which held the word book. She wanted to keep on learning the white man’s language. What would her father say? “The teacher is moving west. Will we have to move?” Tears streamed down her face.

  Her mother wiped them away, then answered. “For years we have heard that the government of Georgia wants the Real People out of their state. Maybe they can move here, to North Carolina, where it is safe.”

  “But the letter said Tsalagi in Tennessee, Georgia, Alabama, and North Carolina must move west. Where is the West?”

  “The West is far, far away. Some of the Real People have already moved there, and some have come back because they didn’t like it. There were no beautiful mountains, and the trees and plants were unfamiliar. We will stay in our nation, in our mountains. This is our home, where we are happy.”

  “I’m not happy,” Soft Rain said. “The teacher’s house will be sold to white people. There will be no more school. That is why I’m home early. That is why I’ll be staying home all the time.”

  “Your grandmother and brother will be glad. The whole family will be glad,” Mother said, wiping away more of Soft Rain’s tears.

  Then Soft Rain heard her grandmother’s voice. “With my granddaughter at home all day, the time will pass so much more pleasantly.”

  Soft Rain turned to see Grandmother standing in the doorway smiling. “Wait, let me be your eyes.” She hurried to Grandmother’s side, guiding her to the stump where she always sat to tell stories.

  “Do you want a story now?”

  Soft Rain never refused a story. “Oh, yes! Tell me about the Little People and how they take care of children.” She sat on the ground next to Grandmother.

  “No more tears?” Grandmother asked.

  Soft Rain didn’t know how Grandmother could “see” when she was crying, yet she always could. “No more tears,” she promised.

  “When I was a girl, this is what I was told about Nemehi, the Little People….”

  Soft Rain mouthed the words along with her. Grandmother always began her stories in the same way.

  “The Little People were such wee folks, as small as children,” Grandmother continued. “They were pleasing in appearance, with long hair—much longer than yours, Soft Rain—and they liked music, dancing, and children. The Little People were kind to lost ones, especially children.

  “Once a brother and sister wandered away from their parents while they were picking berries. It was after dark when the Little People found the children near their cave high on the mountainside. They brought the young ones inside the cave, warmed them, fed them shule, yellow acorn bread, dipped in bear oil, then took them back to their home in the village. For years afterward, whenever the children went berry picking, they could hear the drums of the Little People in the distance and they felt safe.”

  Soft Rain laid her head on Grandmother’s lap, where she felt safe. Do the Little People still help children! she asked herself. When I am alone in the woods, she thought, I will look and listen for signs of them.

  “I believe in the Little People,” Grandmother said, as if she understood Soft Rain’s thoughts.

  Mother said, “Hawk Boy also believes. I’m sorry he missed your story.”

  “I’ll try to remember it well and tell it to him tonight,” Soft Rain answered. “Where is Hawk Boy? Is he still with Father?”

  “Yes,” Mother said. “Your father is repairing the fallen fences and burning the dry cornstalks he has been hoeing. Hawk Boy begged to help him. What a disappointment for your brother that the teacher is moving! He wants so much to learn to read.” She laughed. “Soft Rain, sometimes when you are at school he makes marks in the sand, pretending to write words.”

  Soft Rain smiled. She had seen some of Hawk Boy’s scribbles. They reminded her suddenly of her cousin Green Fern, who would be waiting for Soft Rain where the river runs narrow.

  “I must go soon. Green Fern will be expecting me to tell her about school, as I always do.”

  Green Fern’s parents did not allow their daughter to go to school. Soft Rain’s mother had once explained this to her. “Aunt Kee and Uncle Swimming Bear, like many of our people, want nothing from the white man, not even his alphabet. Since your school teaches both the white man’s writing and Sequoyah’s, they have chosen that Green Fern learn neither.”

  Now Mother warned, “Soft Rain, you may tell Father and Hawk Boy about the letter, but don’t tell Green Fern. Aunt Kee would not want her to worry.”

  Soft Rain put her hand over her mouth. For a while she had forgotten the horrid letter and its command.

  “I won’t tell her about moving west,” she said. But she would tell her cousin other things.

  She and Green Fern had been keeping a secret from everyone, even Hawk Boy. Since school had begun, Soft Rain had been teaching Green Fern to read. Each day at the river’s edge she wrote a word in the damp earth; first the white man’s way, then Sequoyah’s. Aunt Kee and Uncle Swimming Bear would be angry with them if they knew.

  But I can teach Hawk Boy in the same way, Soft Rain suddenly realized. Jumping up from the ground, she shouted, “Mother, Grandmother, listen to my idea! I will be Hawk Boy’s teacher. In the sand I can write words from Grandmother’s stories, first the white man’s way, then Sequoyah’s. Hawk Boy can learn to read in my school and write real words in the sand. Do you think I can do it?”

  Facing toward Soft Rain, Grandmother said, “Of course you can teach your young brother. Just like the Little People, you are patient and kind.”

  The Little People. Soft Rain wanted to believe. All the way to the river she looked and listened, stopping often. The wind sang through the trees, but she heard no drums.

  Green Fern, with her back to Soft Rain, sat on the riverbank, peering down the path. Jumping at the sound of footsteps behind her, she turned toward Soft: Rain. “Why do you come from the direction of your home instead of town?” she asked.

  Soft Rain stopped in her tracks. How should she answer?

  GREEN FERN

  Green Fern and I have never had secrets from each other, Soft Rain thought. How can I not tell her about the letter? She took a deep breath and said, “Green Fern, we’re going to have more time together, more time to practice writing. There will be no more school. The teacher is moving away.”

  “Where is she moving?” Green Fern asked.

  “She is moving west.”

  “West! No one moves west.”

  “The teacher is.”

  Green Fern frowned. “Father says that’s the land of blackness. The souls of the dead go there and are always miserable because they can never return home. I would be afraid to move there.”

  Soft Rain sighed inside. She wouldn’t have to choose between lying and telling about the letter, because Green Fern hadn’t asked her why the teacher was moving.

  “I would be afraid, too,” she said. “But look at the book of words the teacher gave me. It is called a spelling book.” Slipping the pouch off her shoulder, she untied it, opened the book, and leafed through its pages. “We can both learn new words, because there are many I don’t know. And I’m going to teach words to …”

  Soft Rain stopped talking. Green Fern was not looking at the book. Her face was gloomy; her shoulders sagged.

  Gently Soft Rain asked, “Don’t you want to read and write more words? Or hear more stories? If I can keep telling Grandmother’s stories to you and Hawk Boy, one day I
will be as good a storyteller as she is.”

  Green Fern stopped staring at her moccasins; her dark eyes met Soft Rain’s. “Oh, yes, I like the words and stories! But there is work to do. Mother and Father insist that I help them plant the seeds. They say we are wasting time talking and telling stories.”

  Is Green Fern in trouble because of my stories? Soft Rain wondered. She hadn’t told her cousin any scary stories about the West and the souls of the dead; Uncle Swimming Bear had done that. For the second time that day, Soft Rain was puzzled. But she wanted to make Green Fern feel better.

  In a deep voice like Uncle Swimming Bear’s, she growled, “We must stop wasting time!”

  Although Green Fern laughed, her eyes were sad. “When will we meet again?” she asked.

  “I have decided to help Father in the field,” Soft Rain said. Even though Hawk Boy was there, she knew he wasn’t as much help as he thought he was. “There will be lots of time for words and stories after the seeds are in the ground,” she promised.

  Green Fern nodded, then turned away quickly without a word. Stepping lightly on the flat stones, she crossed the river and disappeared into the woods.

  Soft Rain followed the narrow path home under low overhanging branches, and soon she smelled Father’s fire. She heard him and Hawk Boy laughing before they saw her.

  “This is a surprise!” Father exclaimed. “Why are you home so early?”

  Soft Rain told them about the letter and about the teacher’s moving. Hesitating, she asked, “Will we have to move west?”

  “We’re busy cultivating our land. It’s the planting season. We don’t even have time to think of it,” Father answered.

  Then Soft Rain knew she had been right. If they planted their crops, they could not move west. She was joyful inside.

  When she told Hawk Boy about her school, his eyes danced. “Let’s start now,” he begged.

  “There will be time for learning after the New Moon Festival,” Father told them.

  They knew that he meant they must first help with the planting and weeding. They spent the rest of the afternoon carrying last year’s cornstalks to the fire Father tended. By the time they left, the fire had burned out; the field was cleared, ready for the plow.