Soft Rain

by Cornelia Cornelissen

  “Here is flour, and salt pork to go with it,” a man was saying. “Make bread for your supper.”

  Soft Rain opened her eyes. Soldiers she had never seen were handing Mother a bag and a piece of fatty meat.

  Mother dipped water from a nearby bucket into her pan. She poured in the white powder from the bag, trying to make dough. The sticky mixture clung to her pan, her fingers, and her spoon. She put the pan over a fire the people next to them had made. But before the bread had fully baked, it blackened on the outside.

  Soft Rain wouldn’t eat it. She took small bites of the fatty, salty meat until her stomach refused any more. Suddenly she vomited all that she had eaten onto herself and her dress.

  She heard a soldier laughing. When she looked at him, he held out a piece of foul meat to her. “Want more?” he asked. Then he crammed the meat into his mouth.

  Mother did her best to clean Soft Rain’s dress. “Drink some water now. Tomorrow, when our hunger is greater, we will eat from our own meat.”

  When darkness came, they huddled together under their blankets. “Be strong, Soft Rain,” Mother whispered over and over until Soft Rain fell asleep.

  Flies were crawling on her face when she awakened. The sun felt warm, too warm. Under her blanket she was sweating. “I smell sour. When can we bathe?” Soft Rain asked Mother.

  “I hope that later the soldiers will let us,” Mother answered. She was busy, once more trying to mix the white man’s flour into dough for bread.

  Soft Rain wanted to ask why they didn’t have corn flour. Perhaps the white soldiers didn’t know how to make it. She wrinkled her nose. The heat, smoke, grease, and cooking odors made her stomach feel weak again.

  “This dough looks better; maybe it will cook properly,” Mother said, placing her pan over the fire.

  Soft Rain watched, wondering how her mother could stand being so near the hot coals. “Shall I look for Old Roving Man?” she asked. “Maybe he will eat with us.”

  Mother nodded, never looking up from the bread.

  The pen was not large, but larger than the one at home that protected their animals. Are the soldiers protecting the Real People? Soft Rain wondered. From what? She walked twice around the pen and saw several people with white hair, but she didn’t find Old Roving Man.

  Some of the people were coughing, and babies were crying. Everyone looked hot and unwashed. Soft Rain remembered passing a river just before they were herded inside. She peeked through the cracks between the logs and saw that the river was close. A soldier walked near, blocking her view. She could see his shiny belt buckle. Putting her mouth close to a crack, she said, “Soldier man, can you hear me? We need to go to the river to bathe and cool ourselves.”

  When he bent down, squinting at her through the crack, she could see his blue eyes. “Go back to your mother, little girl. No one gets to bathe.”

  Soft Rain turned away. Salty, gritty tears ran into her mouth.

  Mother was removing the hot pan from the coals. “Look, Soft Rain, the bread has not burned. Come and eat.” She bit into a piece.

  The bread hadn’t burned, but it still wasn’t like bread made from corn and beans. It was dry, crumbly, and tasteless. Soft Rain managed to eat a small piece; she could swallow none of the salty meat.

  “Here is water,” a soldier yelled, leaving a full bucket and taking away the empty one. People quickly crowded around, dipping into the bucket until the water was gone. Mother filled their cups, but Soft Rain was still thirsty when hers was empty. She looked at her cup—Grandmother’s cup. For a moment she saw herself at home, running to the creek and trudging back, bringing the family’s water supply. No one was ever thirsty at home. Would the soldiers let her bring water from the river? She knew they would not.

  Mother kept chewing the bread. “It’s best to eat slowly,” she said.

  An old man shuffled by, staring at the bread left in the pan. Soft Rain nodded when Mother looked at her. She gave the man the last of their bread.

  “I didn’t find Old Roving Man. Where can he be?” Soft Rain asked.

  “He would not want to be in a pen,” Mother answered. “I saw him walk away the night before we arrived here.”

  “Why didn’t you try to stop him?” Soft Rain asked.

  “It would have been useless.”

  “Where would he go?”

  “Maybe back home; maybe …” Mother did not finish her thought.

  Did her mother mean maybe he would not get home? Tears blurred Soft Rain’s eyes when she pictured Old Roving Man alone, struggling to return home. Then she remembered the Little People. If they found him, he would be safe. She wiped away her tears. Maybe he is with them, she thought, telling stories.

  When two soldiers pulled the gate open, people began rushing toward it. Their voices became hushed. Soft Rain watched as more Tsalagi were pushed inside. She looked at each new person, expecting to see Father and Hawk Boy. But only strangers appeared. They were soon crowded even closer together to make room for the new people.

  The moaning inside the pen resumed. And over those sounds, coming from outside the pen, Soft Rain heard a loud tapping noise and shouts of soldiers. “Not here, over there! Watch what you’re doing!”

  Soft Rain peered through a crack. She saw soldiers carrying logs. Are they building another pen? she wondered. How many more Real People are coming here?

  Late in the day another group of Tsalagi arrived. She stood watching them until the gate closed. She did not see a single familiar face.

  THE COUGHING DISEASE

  Soft Rain kept Pet’s rope tied tightly around her waist. She knew that Father and Hawk Boy would bring Pet with them. Would they also bring her doll? Every day she searched among the new arrivals for her father and young brother. She knew her mother was also looking for them. Mother still kept Father’s tobacco pouch inside her dress, moving it carefully into her pack each night to keep it safe and dry.

  Through the cracks Soft Rain watched the soldiers finish the second pen. After they put the gate in place, they shouted, “Hooray,” and slapped each other on the back. What a strange custom it is to show happiness by hitting someone, she thought.

  Then she saw Big Boots again—the first time since they had arrived. More Real People were with him. He motioned to the soldiers who were hitting each other to open the gate they had just closed. A wagon full of people pulled up to it. Soft Rain saw only women and children herded out of the wagon and into the new pen.

  When she turned around, Big Boots was standing near her. “Lone women with children, pack up your belongings. You’re being moved,” he shouted. When no one responded, he grabbed Soft Rain’s arm. “You understand me. Tell them they must move,” he snarled.

  Mother quickly ran to Soft Rain, pulling her away from Big Boots. “We will tell them our way,” she said slowly.

  “See that you do … and hurry.” His face was red.

  Soft Rain looked at the finger marks Big Boots had left on her arm. She tried to rub them away.

  She and Mother walked among the people, explaining to the women with no men what Big Boots had said. Soft Rain knew that some of them understood his language, just as Mother did, though they would never let him know.

  “Where are we moving?” they all asked.

  “I don’t know. It’s best not to ask too many questions,” Mother answered. “Everyone must do as the soldiers say.”

  When all the women stood in line with their belongings, Big Boots yelled, “Open the gate! Follow me, you women.”

  He started toward the new pen. On the way, Soft Rain stopped to gaze at the river. She saw the soldier with the silver buckle staring at her.

  “Move along,” Big Boots shouted, pushing her. She stumbled, falling against him. His smell—a more putrid stink than she had ever known—made her grunt. Why doesn’t he wash in the river? She turned away quickly.

  At the gate a soldier handed Mother a bucket. “You know what this is for. We don’t have outhouses here.” He looke
d down at Soft Rain. “And also to get sick in. Tell the others to use mess buckets when they’re sick. Keep this stockade cleaner than the other one.” To Big Boots, he added, “They ought to know that much.”

  “They’re only Cherokees!” Big Boots sneered.

  “There weren’t enough buckets and no place to empty them,” Mother said angrily in her language.

  Soft Rain sniffed when she passed the soldier at the gate. All the soldiers stink, she thought. Why don’t they bathe? They could, but they don’t.

  They found a place along the wall under a narrow roof. Mother arranged their few belongings and greeted the women on each side of them. Soft Rain went to look for another crack. She had to keep watching outside the pen while she waited inside.

  A few mornings after their move, Mother suggested that Soft Rain find some other children. “Talk with them. Start a game or tell a story,” she said.

  Soft Rain walked around the stockade, looking at the hot, sad faces of sick children, and she decided it wasn’t the time for games or storytelling. Would it ever be? Then she felt a stillness around her, and the gate opened.

  More people were coming. She squeezed through the crowd until she could see each new arrival. There were no men, but two people looked familiar. Her mouth dropped open when she was sure she recognized her aunt and Green Fern.

  Rushing toward them, she shouted, “Aunt Kee, Green Fern! Here I am!”

  At once Aunt Kee dropped her bundle and threw her arms around Soft Rain. “My heart is glad!” she exclaimed. She took a deep breath and asked, “Where is your mother?”

  “She’s over there,” Soft Rain told her excitedly. She led the way, dragging Aunt Kee’s pack.

  When the two sisters saw each other, they shrieked with joy, hugged each other, hugged the two girls, laughed, and then cried. Soft Rain cried, too; tears of happiness, though, not of sadness.

  Green Fern didn’t cry and barely smiled. Soft Rain touched her hand, thinking, She looks very skinny. She must be tired and hungry.

  Mother quickly unwrapped the huge piece of bacon she had carried from home. Soft Rain’s mouth watered as her mother sliced it. “Chew slowly,” Mother warned, handing each of them a thin slice.

  Soft Rain did, until her piece was gone. My stomach likes our food best, she thought. Inside she felt warm, calm, and almost full.

  Green Fern could not be persuaded to eat her share. Mother carefully packed it away with the rest of the bacon. She quickly hid the knife, for they had seen the soldiers take away even small knives. “No weapons,” they said.

  Soft Rain listened while Mother and Aunt Kee talked of being captured; of where Father, Hawk Boy, and Uncle Swimming Bear could be.

  When darkness came, she slept next to Green Fern. Once when she awakened, Green Fern was shivering and moaning. Soft Rain covered her cousin with part of her own blanket.

  The stirring of people and the heat of the day awakened her early. She lay motionless and content, thinking about having found Aunt Kee and Green Fern. But will we ever find Father? Is he still at home, picking our corn with Hawk Boy? She wished the soldiers would let her outside the stockade to bathe in the river. If only she could go back to their cabin and bathe. She missed playing in the cool creek water with Pet. She missed Father and Grandmother, and Hawk Boy’s laughter.

  As the sun grew in the sky, the stockade became busier and noisier with people and with flies. All day the flies buzzed and bit. All day Soft Rain complained of the heat and the sweat. “We smell like Big Boots,” she told Green Fern, who replied by holding her nose.

  There were other bad smells, too. Every day many people were sick and could not always get to a bucket in time. Mother tried to comfort some of the sick children whose mothers were also ill. Two small ones died in her arms.

  “What makes them ill?” Soft Rain asked, brushing away a fly from her forehead.

  “The white men’s diseases,” Aunt Kee muttered. “Unakas, the white men call themselves. Elder brothers. Ha! I will not call them Unakas. Good elder brothers do not bring heartache and disease.”

  One morning soon after her arrival, Green Fern awoke with an Unaka disease. Red spots covered her face and arms. Mother and Aunt Kee moved her blanket farther away, but Soft Rain could still hear her asking for water—to bathe in, to get cool.

  “I want to give water to Green Fern. And I can fan the flies off her, too,” Soft Rain said when Mother brought her a drink.

  “Shhh, she is very ill.” Mother spoke softly. “It is best to let her be alone. Aunt Kee will take care that she gets enough water. If they don’t have enough, they can take more of ours.”

  For many days Soft Rain watched and worried about Green Fern, until one morning she herself awoke shivering, completely drenched in sweat. Then she began coughing. Her breath came hard as the coughing continued.

  Her mother built a tent over her from a piece of cloth she had saved for a dress. “Try to sleep, daughter,” she repeated again and again.

  Soft Rain lay shaded but not cool. When she tried to sit, she vomited, not always in the bucket. The smell grew worse. She sniffed, rubbing her nose, but the stench would not go away.

  She slept, awoke, turned, coughed. It was dark, quiet. She slept, awoke; it was light. She didn’t know how many days passed in this way before her coughing became less. When she awakened to see Aunt Kee bending over her, someone else was coughing nearby. “Who is it?” she asked.

  “Shhh. Your mother now has the coughing disease.”

  Soft Rain sat up and saw her mother lying next to her in the shade of the tent. Crawling over to her, she gently touched her lips to Mother’s forehead.

  “Where is Green Fern?” Soft Rain whispered to Aunt Kee. “Is she well now?”

  Aunt Kee lowered her eyes. Tears came. “The disease of the white men killed my daughter, and the soldiers have taken my husband from me. My sister and you are my only family now.”

  Soft Rain climbed into Aunt Kee’s lap. “Green Fern was my best friend,” she sobbed.

  RAIN COMES

  Aunt Kee helped Soft Rain care for Mother. She shared her water ration with them, just as they had when Green Fern was ill. For many nights Soft Rain fell asleep crying, awakening with a start when Mother coughed or heaved, struggling to breathe. Afterward she’d fall back asleep in Aunt Kee’s arms.

  When Mother was a little better Aunt Kee said, “Walk around, Soft Rain. Talk with the children.”

  Soft Rain shook her head. “Not until Mother is all well.”

  Then it became too hot to move. For most of each day they sat under the shade of Mother’s tent. Aunt Kee and Mother talked about when they were little girls.

  “Why didn’t you go to school?” Soft Rain asked.

  “We didn’t have to,” Aunt Kee answered. “We learned stories and cooking and sewing from our mother, your grandmother.”

  “And from your grandmother?” Soft Rain asked.

  Mother smiled. “Yes, she was a good teacher and storyteller.”

  Soft Rain thought about her own grandmother. Would she see her again? Would she ever hear another of her stories? How would she remember the ones Grandmother had told her? While listening to Aunt Kee and Mother, she figured out a way. Every day, she thought, if I can recall a story, then tell it, I will remember. “Listen to me tell one of Grandmother’s stories,” she said.

  Mother and Aunt Kee nodded.

  “When I was a girl,” she began, “this is what I was told about the uktena, that huge snake that has shining scales and horns on its head.” She paused. Her mother smiled.

  “It lurks in deep river pools and dark mountain passes. Once two brothers went hunting in the mountains. While one was looking for a deer, he came upon the great uktena coiled around a man who was fighting for his life. Taking careful aim, the hunter sent an arrow through the snake. The man was so grateful for his life, he found a glittering scale from the snake, burned it to a coal, wrapped it in deerskin, and gave it to the hunter. ‘You can always
kill game as long as you keep this,’ he said. And from that day on, the hunter found game wherever he went.”

  Sharing stories helped Soft Rain forget her troubles and overcome some of her grief about Green Fern. She remembered how Grandmother and Old Roving Man had told stories to each other. She could still see Old Roving Man’s thin fingers tugging on the ends of his white hair as he began a story.

  When the smell of sickness in the camp worsened, the soldiers began opening the gate every evening. The Real People lined up and filed out to empty the overflowing mess buckets. Soft Rain watched the river become lower and lower—too low for anyone to bathe in.

  Her skin felt stiff with dried dirt and old sweat. She saw that all of her people were as dirty as the soldiers. Every day the soldiers brought them less water. She was always thirsty. She wished and wished for rain, but none came.

  Mother rationed the water carefully throughout the day. “Sip slowly and stay still,” she said each time they drank.

  She and Aunt Kee stopped telling stories about their childhood. Aunt Kee’s thoughts were far away; her eyes were often staring at something Soft Rain could not see. She never talked about Green Fern.

  Finally Soft Rain asked her why. “We do not talk about those who have gone on to the Night-land,” she answered.

  But we don’t talk of Father, Hawk Boy, and Uncle Swimming Bear, either, Soft Rain thought. They haven’t gone to the Nightland. She tried to remember a story of how the Sun’s daughter was turned into a red bird when she was brought back from the Nightland, but she had forgotten most of it. “Mother, do you remember the story of the Sun—”

  “Now is not a good time for a story, Soft Rain,” Mother said.

  In her head, though, Soft Rain still thought about Green Fern, and Grandmother and her stories. She knew they would like listening to her, if they were there.