PLANTING SELU
“We will not move west! We didn’t sign the treaty.”
Soft Rain awoke with a start. Her father’s voice was louder than she had ever heard it.
“Let those who signed the treaty move west. We will not leave our beloved mountains or this home we built. It’s the time of the first new moon; the field is ready. Tomorrow I plow.”
Quiet followed Father’s outburst. Then Soft Rain heard her mother say, “After the plowing, we’ll all help plant the beans and selu. Sleep now before we disturb the children.”
Next to Soft Rain, Hawk Boy’s bed creaked as he stirred in his sleep. Soft Rain curled herself into a ball, pulling the blanket tightly over her head. Move west—there were those hated words again. Little John had thrown his book away after he heard them. Green Fern had called the West the land of blackness, where the souls of the dead go. The teacher had cried when she told the class about moving. Why would any Tsalagi go there?
Father had said they had no time to think about it, yet he was using his sleeping hours to discuss it. Did he mean they should not think about it during the day? Soft Rain fell into a restless sleep trying to untangle her confused thoughts.
In the morning Father was gone. Soft Rain smelled the freshly baked bread that Mother had prepared for the noon meal. “I can take Father his food today,” she volunteered.
“Wash yourself first,” Mother said.
Pet, the puppy, followed Soft Rain to the creek. The moss on the bank was cool, but not so cool as the water. Soft Rain waded in cautiously. Taking a deep breath, she bent over, splashing water on her face. Pet splashed too. “Aieee!” she screamed at the puppy. “I didn’t need any more water on me!” She jumped out of the creek, dried herself quickly, and ran home, chasing Pet.
When Hawk Boy passed her on his way to wash, Pet ran after him.
“She’ll splash you!” Soft Rain warned.
“Water can’t hurt me,” Hawk Boy shouted.
It did, though. From inside the house, Soft Rain and Mother laughed at his screeches, but Grandmother laughed loudest.
“Hawk Boy is not as brave as he thinks he is,” she said.
When her brother came inside the cabin, Soft Rain giggled. “You look cold. Did Pet splash you?”
“That Pet is trouble, but I splashed her, too. Is it time to learn words yet?”
“We haven’t heard a story this morning,” Soft Rain said.
After Grandmother’s story, the children and Pet took Father’s food to the field. Then Soft Rain wrote words in the newly plowed earth until Hawk Boy grew more interested in gathering worms. “For fishing,” he said.
Soft Rain shook her head. “No fishing until the planting is done,” she reminded him. “We could play a short game of chungke, though.” She picked up a rounded stone and tossed it nearly into the grass.
Hawk Boy found two sticks, which they threw at the stone, trying to be closest to it, or to hit the other stick. They could do neither. “How do the chungke players hit the rolling stone?” Hawk Boy asked.
Father joined them. “I’ll show you,” he answered. He tossed the stone so that it rolled along the ground, then quickly threw the stick after it, hitting the stone before it stopped moving. Astonished, Soft Rain and Hawk Boy laughed all the way home.
The next morning Soft Rain said, “Time for a story, Grandmother.”
But Father announced, “The plowing is done; the field is ready. Soft Rain, we must all help. Stories can come later.”
Without protesting once, Soft Rain picked up her pouch and began filling it with corn bread. Father didn’t know that she already felt she must help with the planting this year. She looked at Grandmother. Does she understand how important it is to plant our crops immediately? Soft Rain wondered.
“There will be time for stories tonight,” Grandmother said.
Of course she understands, thought Soft Rain. She hugged Grandmother. “Think of a good one for me,” she whispered.
“And me,” Hawk Boy added.
Father carried the baskets filled with corn. Soft Rain walked behind him, now and then picking up a kernel that spilled out. Hawk Boy walked beside Mother, leading Pet and talking all the way to the field.
“I’ll make the holes,” Father said, handing a basket to Soft Rain. “You and Hawk Boy place five kernels in each hole and Mother will cover them.”
He started singing, “Yoho-o! Yoho-o! Yoho-o!” Everyone joined in, and the work seemed easy.
Soft Rain stopped to stretch when her back grew tired. While she drank from the water bag, she watched Hawk Boy try to drop in the kernels without having to bend over. They only occasionally landed in the hole.
When Mother also paused to rest, Father said to Soft Rain, “Go to Grandmother, eat, and hear your story now. Hawk Boy?”
“I can plant a whole row while they are gone!” the boy exclaimed.
Father laughed. “I will help Hawk Boy.”
“When I come back, I’ll cover all the kernels you plant,” Soft Rain told them.
The rope holding Pet was wound tightly around a tree. She loosened it and they ran home together, far ahead of Mother.
THE DOLL
At the end of three days all the selu had been planted. Then Soft Rain watched and counted. In just five days the weeds appeared. Every morning while she helped Father weed, she wondered if Green Fern was helping Uncle Swimming Bear. Every day on her way home she picked colorful, dainty violets for Grandmother.
At last the day came when Soft Rain could not see over the tops of the corn plants. “The selu has grown taller than both of us, Hawk Boy,” she said. “Tonight is the celebration—the Green Corn Dance!”
“Yes, this is the last day to weed,” Father announced. “Tonight there will be singing and dancing, and you will see Green Fern and Aunt Kee.” He looked up at the sun, then back down at Soft Rain. “Hungry? Go home to Mother and Grandmother. Take Pet. Hawk Boy and I will finish soon.”
“I’m not hungry,” Hawk Boy bragged.
Pet must have been, though. She ran faster than Soft Rain. With her cabin in sight, Soft Rain tugged on the rope. “Wait, Pet! I want to pick some flowers for Grandmother. She won’t be able to attend the dance tonight. Flowers will comfort her.” She unfastened Pet, hanging the rope around her own neck. Pet ran home ahead of Soft Rain.
Grandmother was sitting by the hearth stirring the soup. She smiled when she smelled the flowers Soft: Rain moved back and forth under her nose.
“Because you bring me happiness with the lovely flowers, I have made something for you,” she said, handing Soft Rain a small doll decorated with beads and quills.
“Oh! Look, Mother! Isn’t it the prettiest doll you’ve ever seen?” Soft Rain embraced the little doll.
“Grandmother, I’ll love it forever,” she said. “I’ll show it to Green Fern at the dance this night and in the morning I promise to tell you all about the Green Corn—”
Crash! Bang! The door flew open. Soft Rain dropped the flowers onto Grandmother’s lap and ran behind her chair, shaking all over.
She heard words from a white man whose voice was deep and loud. “Come with me now. You and you. Not the old blind one,” he growled.
Shuddering, Soft Rain peered from behind Grandmother. She saw a tall soldier wearing big boots. He stomped toward her and pulled on her arm, trying to drag her away from Grandmother. The doll fell on the floor. Another soldier, with a gun, kicked the doll under the bed. When Soft Rain tried to get it, Big Boots twisted her arm. “Aieee!” she yelped.
Mother gasped and reached out to Soft Rain, but the soldier with the gun stopped her. “They talk too fast,” Mother cried. “I can’t understand what they say, Soft Rain.”
“Oh, Mother. They say to come with them, but not … Grandmother. What’s happening?” Soft Rain clutched Grandmother’s hand in hers.
Mother’s voice became a whisper. “We can’t go with them. Father, Hawk Boy, they will not know—”
“Te
ll her our orders are to take you now. No waiting,” yelled the soldier with the gun. “We’ll find the others and they will come later. Take what you can tote. Nothing more!”
He understands our language, Soft Rain thought. She began to cry. Stammering, she repeated the soldier’s words to her mother.
“It is over,” Mother said hoarsely. She quickly pulled blankets from the bed and raked everything off the table into the blankets: bread, a whole side of bacon, spoons, pans, dishes, a knife, and three cups. One was Grandmother’s cup.
“I can carry a heavy bundle,” she muttered, glaring at the soldiers in disgust.
Soft Rain held Grandmother’s hand until Big Boots pulled her away. Through her tears she saw Grandmother sitting stiffly in her chair, holding Pet. Was she crying? A colored blur lay on the floor. It was Grandmother’s flowers.
TO THE STOCKADE
Outside beyond the garden patch there were more soldiers, pointing guns at other Tsalagi. Soft Rain recognized Old Roving Man, who lived deep in the woods. He often came to visit Grandmother and exchange stories from long ago. Why were the soldiers taking him? Big Boots had said, “Not the old one.” Wasn’t Old Roving Man nearly as old as Grandmother?
Three strange white men in battered hats stood by the fence. Soft Rain watched them until the one holding the skinny horse began shouting and laughing. “Now we can live on our land. Good riddance!”
Soft Rain turned away from the sound of the ugly voice. Deep in her mind, a different voice told her: This is Tsalagi land. It was given to us by the Great Spirit. This land has always been ours. And our corn is planted on it.
“Move along, girl,” Big Boots barked, shoving Soft Rain between the horses. “Walk in front of the soldiers toward the river.”
Old Roving Man looked at her, puzzled. His eyes were asking, “Where are we going?”
Soft Rain wanted to ask her mother that same question, but no words came when she tried to talk. Mother seized Soft Rain’s hand and led the way. Old Roving Man and the other Tsalagi followed closely. No one spoke. Soft Rain squeezed Mother’s hand until her fingers hurt.
When they came to where the river narrowed, she looked for Green Fern. It was their old meeting spot. Deep inside she wanted her cousin to be there, but she was glad she wasn’t. Others were though. One family with two small children had a wagon. There were more soldiers, too. A tall soldier stood next to a Tsalagi family with a crying baby. They were all drinking from the river.
“Best get yourselves a drink; never can tell when you’ll get another,” the tall soldier advised Soft Rain.
Mother didn’t need to ask her daughter to translate. She immediately put down her blanket pack and found a cup. As they drank from the cool water Soft Rain looked across the river. She felt she could almost see Green Fern approaching.
“What did the white man say?” Old Roving Man asked her.
“He said we should drink some water,” she answered.
Mother offered Grandmother’s cup to Old Roving Man, but he shook his head. “If the white man wants me to drink, I refuse,” he said angrily.
He thinks like Little John’s father and Uncle Swimming Bear, Soft Rain thought.
“I want you to drink,” Mother pleaded.
Only then did Old Roving Man take the cup, dip it into the river, and drink it empty before handing it back to Mother. “It was good and—”
“Time to move along,” the tall soldier interrupted.
“Wh-Where … are you taking us?” Mother asked the soldier. It was the first time Soft Rain had heard anyone speak to the soldiers. And her mother knew so few words of the white man. She was proud of Mother’s bravery.
“To the stockade, then west,” the soldier answered quickly.
Stockade was a word Soft Rain did not know. But west! Her father had said they would not move west. If they planted their selu, they would not have to move. Didn’t the soldiers know that? Where was Father? He should tell the soldiers. Soft Rain began to cry.
Big Boots pushed her. “Hurry along. No dawdling,” he yelled before mounting his horse.
Others were also crying. The baby hadn’t stopped. Trying to comfort him, his mother sang until she had no breath left. She gasped and sobbed.
Horses snorted. Mother took Soft Rain’s hand and heaved her bundle over her shoulder. They followed the creaking wagon. The baby cried on.
In front of them, more people and more wagons joined the group. The dust thickened. Soft Rain sneezed. Then she saw Old Roving Man stumble and fall. His turban fell off his head.
A soldier kicked him. “Hurry along,” the soldier commanded.
Mother dropped her bundle and helped Old Roving Man up. Soft Rain picked up his turban.
“Where are they t-taking us?” he stammered.
“West. To the West,” Mother answered.
Closing his eyes and bowing his head, Old Roving Man mumbled, “Not this old Tsalagi.”
Where will he go if he does not go west? Soft Rain wondered. Is he afraid? It seemed to her that all her people must be afraid of the West. Old Roving Man, Green Fern … especially Green Fern. And her mother? She hadn’t spoken to Soft Rain since they had drunk the river water. Whenever Soft Rain tried to talk, Mother cried.
They walked on down the mountain road to the town, past the store and the teacher’s house. The teacher’s door was open. Soft Rain could see an overturned chair inside. Some white people who lived in town stood staring and pointing as they passed by. No one laughed, though, the way the man with the skinny horse had. The smell of cooking meat filled the air. Soft Rain was hungry and tired. She remembered the bacon her mother was carrying. Would the soldiers let them stop and eat?
The town was far behind before she heard the command “Stop here.” The baby had finally fallen asleep. Old Roving Man and Mother sat on the ground, their backs to a tree. Snuggling into her mother’s outstretched arms and feeling the warmth of her body, Soft Rain could almost forget her aching stomach. No one spoke until the family with the two children climbed out of their wagon. They offered their bread. Mother broke off pieces for Soft Rain and Old Roving Man, who fell asleep chewing. The bread eased the ache in Soft Rain’s stomach.
Though her legs were still not rested, they were soon walking again. The dust from the wagons, horses, and people grew thick and bothersome. Mother sneezed, shifting her pack to the other shoulder. Soft Rain’s head hurt; her eyes stung. She was thirsty. The tall soldier had been right. They had not had any water since they’d been told to drink at the river.
When they finally stopped at nightfall, the Tsalagi gathered in small groups, whispering to each other. “There will be food for all if we are careful,” the baby’s father said. “Do not take anything from the soldiers. Water is nearby; our men will bring it.”
Mother unpacked food from her load, setting out bread and nuts in a pan on a blanket. She divided the bread into little pieces—pieces the size she had given Hawk Boy when he was a baby, Soft Rain thought. Where were Hawk Boy and Father? Were they thinking about her?
The family in the wagon put their bread on the blanket, and someone added dried apple slices. After the men brought buckets filled with water, everyone sat around the blanket eating slowly—except Old Roving Man. When Soft Rain handed him a piece of bread, he shook his head.
“I don’t need to eat,” he said.
“We all need to eat,” Mother told him.
Soft Rain watched the food disappear quickly. She was still hungry, but not hungry enough to eat any of the food the white soldiers cooked—even if they had offered it. Their meat smelled as old as the half-eaten porcupine she had once found in the woods.
Pet’s rope and Soft Rain’s pouch fell to the ground when Mother spread out a blanket for their bed. Soft Rain didn’t ask how her things had gotten into Mother’s pack. She quickly picked them up, holding them tightly until she fell asleep.
Before the sun rose, Soft Rain awoke, still holding the rope. She fastened it around her waist, h
elped her mother tie the pack, then put her pouch across her shoulders. They walked again; on and on. More of their people joined the long line. The fortunate ones had wagons pulled by oxen or horses. Soft Rain didn’t see Old Roving Man. Maybe someone had helped him into a wagon. The baby cried. So did the little children in the wagon near her. Soft Rain was too tired to cry.
Late in the day they came to a clearing and a large pen with high sides. As they neared the pen soldiers opened the gate. Soft Rain could hear low, mournful cries from inside.
“Out of the wagons. Everyone into the stockade!” Big Boots shouted.
Soft Rain mumbled, “This is the stockade? It’s a pen of logs that holds people. My people!”
Over the din of the terrified crowd, no one heard Soft Rain scream when she was pushed into the pen, clinging to Mother with one hand and grasping Pet’s rope with the other. No one heard her say, “Pet! Hawk Boy! Father! Where are you? Where are we?”
IN THE PEN
“Over there,” Mother said, pointing. She led the way to a small open place between two groups of strangers. She bent low, talking with each of them.
When she straightened up, Soft Rain whispered, “Who are they?”
“Strangers who will soon be our friends,” Mother answered, pushing aside several stones with her foot before putting her pack down on the hard ground.
Soft Rain looked around her. Not since the previous year’s Green Corn Dance had she seen so many people crowded together. But such a difference! She remembered the smell of roasting meat, the clapping, laughter, beaded dresses, friendly faces. We missed the dance this year, she thought sadly. Did Green Fern go? Was there a dance?
She jumped, startled away from her thoughts, when a soldier bellowed, “Close the gates. They’re all inside.”
Was Old Roving Man there somewhere? Soft Rain hadn’t seen him ail day. Nor had she thought about Grandmother. She closed her eyes, shutting out the sad faces but not the moans and cries of the people around her. In her head she saw Grand-mother sitting by the hearth, stirring the soup that would have been dinner if the soldiers hadn’t come. Had Grandmother eaten the soup? Soft Rain’s mouth watered.
Soft Rain Page 2
