Soft Rain

by Cornelia Cornelissen

  There was another mountain to walk down that day. On the winding road, Soft Rain could see the long line of Tsalagi they followed. She’d become used to hearing low cries and moans, but was startled by an eerie death wail coming from beside the trail. There she saw a young, barefoot woman kneeling by a small grave.

  “They were just babies!” she screamed. “My babies! Was it my fault I had no milk for the little one?”

  Mother and Aunt Kee hurried to her side. “How long have you been here?” Mother asked.

  “The older one died four days ago,” she sobbed, “right after the baby was gone. He coughed and couldn’t breathe.” Her hand smoothed the hard earth of the little grave. “They were buried together. When the others left, I … I couldn’t leave my babies by themselves.”

  Aunt Kee helped the woman stand, then whispered to her—words Soft Rain could not hear.

  Mother gave her a small piece of meat with bread. “You can do nothing more here. Come with us,” she said, putting her arm around the young woman.

  Soft Rain found a stick, which she stood upright between the stones on the grave. To mark the place, she thought. As they walked slowly away down the mountain, the mother kept turning back until the small grave was no longer in sight. Soft Rain took her trembling hand.

  For a part of each day Soft Rain held the woman’s hand as they walked, hoping to be a comfort to her. Late one afternoon, while crossing a small stream, she heard the woman groan as she bathed her bleeding feet.

  Pointing to a nearby wagon, Soft Rain said, “There are shoes in some of the boxes on the wagons.”

  “When they forced us from our home, the soldiers did not give us time to dress properly, or take any belongings with us,” the woman cried. “I will take nothing from the Unakas.”

  “That’s what Aunt Kee said, until her moccasins wore through. I could see her toes. Mother finally persuaded her to take shoes. At first they were so stiff that they blistered her feet, but now she walks well in them.”

  “Hmpf,” the woman grunted.

  Though black clouds darkened the sky early, they walked on. When the rain began, Soft Rain was still holding the woman’s hand. The blanket Mother threw over their shoulders kept them dry for a while.

  Evening came and the rain continued. That night the four of them crowded into a tent they were given. It kept the rain off, but the ground was cold and wet. When morning came, there was more rain, and mud—days of trudging through mud, until at last the line slowed to a stop. They heard groans, murmurings, voices saying, “River. Another river to cross.”

  THE BARN

  The mother of the dead children started wailing as soon as she saw the river. Soft Rain covered her ears, trying not to hear. Finally she touched the young mother’s arm. “If you close your eyes, you won’t see the uktena. I do it every time we cross a river,” she explained.

  “I’m not afraid of the uktena. I’m afraid because I have left my babies in a strange place. Where will their souls rest?”

  Soft Rain had no answer. She thought about Green Fern, who had been terrified of going west. Where would her soul rest?

  But Soft Rain did not close her eyes for this crossing. Instead she watched her feet as the group walked on a bridge over the river. Back on land, they soon passed by the largest town they had seen, and spent another night in a strange place.

  It was still raining in the morning. Soft Rain struggled to rise, to join the line of Tsalagi. As usual, some did not follow. Several had died during the night, and others were not able. Through the wetness, Soft Rain was sure she saw Old Roving Man sitting under a cedar tree. She cried out to him, “Old Roving Man!” But when the face of a stranger looked up at her, her mother said, “It isn’t your old friend, but another who cannot keep up.” Soft Rain, Mother, Aunt Kee, and the young mother walked on.

  All day the rain soaked into their blankets. When darkness came, they could find no dry wood for building a fire. There would be no warm food or drink—just another night of cold rain, endless rain.

  When Soft Rain saw a woman about to give birth under a wagon, she said, “We should give her our tent.”

  She helped Aunt Kee put it up.

  “I will try to help with the baby,” murmured the mother of the dead children as she crawled into the tent. “I hope she has milk for it.”

  Through the night Soft Rain shivered under a wagon, which only kept off the pelting rain. Once when she awoke, she heard a baby cry.

  In the morning, both people and animals had to be urged to start. While she was swallowing bits of soggy bread, Soft Rain was startled by yells from a driver. “Push! Everyone who is able, help push,” came the call. “My wagon is stuck in a rut.”

  Three men were able to push the wagon until the horses could gain a foothold. There were many more ruts that day and the next. At each call for help, the women and children hurried to empty supplies from the mired wagon while the sick and elderly who had been riding stood unsteadily with downcast eyes, waiting to ride again. Once the front wheels of a wagon collapsed. Soft Rain heard the driver curse as he was thrown into the mud. No one will ride in that wagon again, she thought.

  Her feet grew heavier with each step as she sank to her ankles in the muddy tracks. And when she pulled her foot up without her moccasin, she screamed.

  “Reach down in the mud and pull it out. Carry your moccasins,” her mother said.

  For the rest of the day, cold, slimy mud covered Soft Rain’s feet. She was shaking all over when they came to a stream where everyone was cleaning themselves and their clothing. As Soft Rain dipped her moccasins into the icy water, her teeth began to chatter. “I … I’m t-too cold and tired to keep walking,” she said.

  “We are all too tired,” Aunt Kee said. “But what else can we do? We must keep moving.”

  They plodded slowly on until Soft Rain said, “Listen.” A faint call echoed down the line of Tsalagi.

  “What are they saying?” Mother asked.

  Had Soft Rain heard correctly? “Shelter. They say there is shelter ahead,” she answered in disbelief.

  They hurried as fast as their heavy feet could carry them until they came to an old barn with no doors.

  A leader stood near the entrance. “We can sleep in here tonight. Please let children and the sick go first.”

  Soft Rain watched the mother of the dead children carry in the newborn baby. Finally Soft Rain, Mother, and Aunt Kee entered. They found a place just inside, away from the rain and wind.

  “It’s dry and warm!” Soft Rain sighed, pulling hay over her. She fell asleep right away.

  In the morning the rain still fell. A fire glowed in the middle of the barn. Soft Rain saw her mother walking away from it, holding something in her hand.

  “Warm bread.” Mother smiled and handed a small, flat loaf to Soft Rain.

  “Ummm,” Soft Rain murmured, holding the bread close to her nose, enjoying its warmth and smell. They hadn’t had warm bread since the rains had begun.

  She had just begun to eat when she heard the steady beating of a drum. “Shhh,” someone said. “The chief speaks.”

  The young chief stood near the fire. When the voices quieted, he began, “Many of you are ill and tired and need to rest. It has been decided that you may wait here to recover. Join the next group, which will arrive in two or three days. There is salt pork, flour, and corn for you. The rest of us must leave now.”

  Mother said, “We are staying. I am weary, and Soft Rain needs to eat warm food and sleep.”

  Aunt Kee nodded and began spreading the blankets out to dry.

  Soft Rain ate the delicious bread slowly. She waved to the chief and the mother of the dead babies as they left. I feel strange, she thought. I want to go and I want to stay. She was sad to lose her new friends, but her heart felt lighter and she was warm. Will we have friends in the next group? she wondered. Who will be our chief?

  The barn soon filled with the voices of the other women and children who had stayed behind. P
eople began gathering around the fire. Someone shouted and started a chant: “Yo-hoh-hee-yay.” High sounds, low sounds. Some women strapped terrapin shells around their legs. Stamp, stamp—they began to dance. Soon there was a long line of dancers stepping and stomping. Aunt Kee clapped her hands, then pulled Soft Rain into the snakelike line.

  Soft Rain was as happy as when she had danced in her dream. But this was different. Green Fern and Grandmother weren’t in the barn watching her.

  The blankets were still damp, but Soft Rain didn’t need them. She slept under her blanket of hay. By the next morning the rain had stopped. The sun shining through the open door awakened her. She crawled out from under the hay and stretched in the sun’s light.

  While her mother baked more bread, Soft Rain helped Aunt Kee carry the blankets outside to finish drying. All day people ate, told stories, and sang. As Soft Rain listened she thought, If Grandmother were here, she would be the best storyteller. Someday I’ll tell her how I danced in the barn and slept under the hay.

  Two days later they heard loud whooping—the Tsalagi warning that someone was approaching. Soon they heard snorting animals and rattling wagons. Soft Rain joined the other women and children outside. She wondered if this was the group the young chief had told them to join. She wasn’t ready to walk on the long trail again. She turned away from the new arrivals. “Siyu, siyu!” she heard Mother yell excitedly.

  It isn’t possible, she thought, but she quickly turned back to see her mother running toward the man on the lead horse. Soft Rain ran, too. Her father slid off his horse and Soft Rain jumped into his arms.

  She buried her head in his chest, sniffing his deerskin hunting shirt. He smells the same, she thought. She wanted to cry, laugh, shout. She wanted to tell him many things. “I knew you would find us” was all she could utter.

  A NEW LEADER

  A small distance away Aunt Kee stood watching and sobbing. Soft Rain whispered to her father, “Did you know Green Fern died?”

  “No!” he screamed, hurrying to Aunt Kee’s side. Holding tightly to each other, Mother and Soft Rain followed.

  At first no one spoke. Then Aunt Kee asked, “Did you see Swimming Bear?”

  Father sadly shook his head. Mother and Soft Rain each took a deep breath, looked at one another, and at the same time asked, “Where is Hawk Boy?”

  Before answering, Father wiped tears from his face. “Some days he rides with me, but today he’s in one of the last wagons. Come with me, Soft Rain. Let’s go together to get him. He’ll be so excited.”

  Father handed Mother a small bundle. “Fresh deer meat,” he said.

  Mother handed him his tobacco pouch. He smiled, then lifted Soft Rain onto the horse and mounted behind her. From so high, she could see wagons and people far away. As they rode, Father stopped often to instruct people and to answer their many questions.

  In astonishment Soft Rain asked, “Are you one of the leaders?”

  “Yes, I began helping somewhere along the trail, after two leaders died. It’s a great responsibility, finding food for hundreds, deciding where to camp, and helping repair the wagons.”

  Soft Rain thought about the wagons she had helped push and the broken ones she’d seen left beside the road. “One of our wagons broke down and couldn’t be repaired,” she said.

  “My group started with sixty wagons and enough animals to pull them,” Father told her. “There was space for all of the old, the sick, and the small children to ride. But several of the animals were stolen and eight wagons have broken down. Some of the old and sick already have to walk, and soon there will be more deaths—more people to bury.”

  Her father’s quavering voice reminded Soft Rain of how concerned the young chief had been for the people in his group. Father is also a good leader, she thought.

  Then she saw the back of a young boy standing up in a wagon. Could it be her young brother? No, this boy was too skinny. But when he turned around, their dark eyes met and Hawk Boy jumped up and down, shouting, “I knew we would find you! I knew we would find you!”

  When Father lifted Soft Rain off the horse into the wagon, Hawk Boy threw his arms around his sister’s neck until she yelped.

  “Where is Mother? Is … is she …?” Hawk Boy choked back tears.

  “She and Aunt Kee are both in the barn. We’ve been sleeping there.” Soft Rain, fearful of hearing bad news, had not yet asked about Grandmother. But she needed to know. “Did you see Grandmother? What has happened to her? Where is she?”

  “She is living in town with a white family—the store owners who were always kind to us,” Father answered, reaching inside his coat. “Hawk Boy found this under the bed. Grandmother wrapped it and said to be sure to give it to you.” He handed a package to Soft Rain.

  “You found my doll—Grandmother’s doll!” She squeezed Hawk Boy until he yelped. “And Pet? Where will Pet stay?” Soft Rain asked anxiously.

  “With Grandmother, of course,” Hawk Boy explained. “Now, can’t we go to Mother?”

  Father lifted Soft Rain back on the horse as Hawk Boy quickly mounted behind him.

  While they rode back Soft Rain leaned contentedly against Father and listened to Hawk Boy’s continuous chatter. He only stopped when he slid off the horse into Mother’s arms. They cried joyful tears.

  Soft Rain’s mouth watered when she smelled the soup Aunt Kee was stirring. “We haven’t tasted fresh meat since the rains fell—and very little before that,” Aunt Kee grumbled, tasting the soup.

  “Too many people traveling the same trail have made the hunting difficult,” Father told her.

  Later in the day, after their stomachs were full, Soft Rain stared at Hawk Boy. “You are wearing pants from the white man. You’re taller, and not so fat,” she said.

  “You are taller, too, and skinny, and you need a new dress,” he said, poking his finger through a hole in her skirt.

  Soft Rain frowned at her torn dress and the red mud stains that hadn’t washed off.

  Gently touching her bare arm, Father said, “In the last town we bought new clothes. And yesterday along the trail someone handed me a coat that’s about your size.”

  Soft Rain tried on the white man’s clothing. It felt stiff against her skin and smelled strange, but the flowered cloth dress was clean and the coat was warm. Handing Pet’s rope to Hawk Boy, she said, “To hold your pants up.” Carefully she put Grandmother’s doll in her pouch.

  “Feels better,” Hawk Boy said. “And you look better, Soft Rain. Now show me some words.” Her little brother hadn’t forgotten about learning to read.

  “Hawk Boy,” Soft Rain said as she wrote his name and then her own in the wet earth. Pointing to her name, she said, “Soft Rain.” But Hawk Boy was asleep. Father carried him inside and Mother covered him with a blanket.

  Early in the morning when they started back on the trail, the ground was white with frost. Hawk Boy and Soft Rain took turns walking beside Mother and riding with Father. When they crossed icy waters, they sat together on Father’s horse. The ground had frozen, and Soft Rain decided she liked riding better than walking. Sinking into the muddy tracks had been difficult, but so was walking over the frozen ruts.

  That evening Father rubbed her sore feet. “We have no small shoes or boots,” he told her.

  “Some people don’t even have moccasins,” Soft Rain said, recalling the young mother.

  Soft Rain was riding one day when she saw something she had never seen before: a piece of white cloth on a tall pole. “What does it mean, Father?” she asked.

  “An important chief has died,” he told her. “He has been buried here.”

  They passed the grave slowly. The white cloth flew strongly in the wind, and Soft Rain imagined that he must have been a good, strong chief. She wondered if he’d been old. It seemed that more old people were dying every day; babies and children, too. Every morning Father helped dig into the hard earth to bury the dead.

  Many days later they came to a wide river. White p
eople in decorated carriages were waiting to cross. Snow and sleet fell during the two days it took to ferry the Real People across. When Soft Rain saw Father give the boatman money, she asked, “Why do we have to pay?”

  “The man earns his living ferrying people across the river. This man did not overcharge us, as others have,” Father answered.

  Soft Rain wondered how many rivers they had crossed since their journey began. And mountains? She could not remember. The steep mountains were behind them, but the land was still hilly. Walking was rough, and she was cold. The ferocious wind whipped the snow around. On the coldest days Hawk Boy rode in a wagon, though he complained about the jarring, the noise, and the dying people.

  After the burials the next morning, Father and most of the men left the trail to hunt. “We’ll be back in a few days, after we find game,” Father said. “We all need fresh meat.”

  Three days later the men returned with only some rabbits and turkeys. “We saw deer, but the farmer drove us off his land, afraid we would steal his animals,” Father said.

  The meat didn’t last long. “I am counting the days of misery,” Aunt Kee said the morning the last morsel of meat was eaten.

  Soft Rain did not ask her how many days they had already walked. She couldn’t even remember how long they’d been traveling since Father’s arrival. She did know that the mornings were the most difficult.

  “There is so little wood for coffins. The old ones become more and more frail, and the wagons are filled with the sick and dying,” Father complained. “No one wants to spend another day walking the trail, but what are we to do? I must keep urging the people to continue.”

  Soft Rain had never seen her father so discouraged. She wished that she could ease his pain, but she had no words to help. She watched as he rode off to hunt; would it be another day of disappointment?

  That day Hawk Boy refused to ride in a wagon. “It’s horrible—smelly, noisy, and … and people die,” he cried.