by Janette Oke
“No lard,” he stated.
“Oh, my,” I said in English. “What am I going to do now?”
“What you say?” he asked in the Indian dialect.
I looked at him apologetically and tried to explain that I had been speaking to myself.
“When in here,” he informed me coldly in our mutual language, “best you speak to me—not you.”
I had the feeling that I wasn’t going to care too much for this surly man with his unkempt appearance and piercing eyes.
“You need coffee?” he asked me.
“No,” I said, “no coffee. I have coffee now, thank you.”
“You need flour?”
“No. No, I have flour.”
“Sugar? Beans? Salt?”
I shook my head at each of the items as he listed them.
“Then why you come here?” he threw at me.
“I came for eggs and lard,” I reminded him, just a bit annoyed.
“Don’t got. Here we get eggs from bird nest, lard from animal. Not need eggs and lard in store.”
I nodded again and headed for the door without even wishing him a good morning. Not surprising, he did not wish me a good morning either.
I was glad to again be in the fresh air. I breathed deeply of the scent of pine. Even the lazy smoke from the cabin fires could not disguise it.
I didn’t wish to go back to my small, confined cabin. Nothing there needed my further attention. My small house had been put in order, the pair of white curtains hung in the one small window, the rug spread upon the floor, the rest of the homey things packed away and stored on the wagon, and it would be hours before the bread dough would be ready for the oven. I was looking for companionship.
All around me people were busy with work and play. In front of the cabins women were weaving or sewing. Children played in the dirt or carried armloads of wood from the forest to the fires. Old men sat together in silent comradery. Young women chattered gayly as they spread pounded meat out to dry in the sun. But as soon as I approached, all fell silent. Eyes turned to the ground, tongues became hushed. My smile and my words in their language were totally ignored. They were not going to even give me a chance to get to know them.
In frustration and despair, I finally turned my steps toward our small cabin. If only I had Nimmie. If only there were an Anna or a Mrs. Sam to drop in for tea. I sighed deeply. I already could feel the loneliness of a long, silent winter closing in about me.
Kip met me at the door. His coat had now been restored to its usual fluffiness after the tangled mess it had become on the days spent on the trail. With washtub and brush I again had him looking like the house dog he had come to be. In comparison with the dogs of the village, he looked like he came from a different species entirely. I gave his head a pat, glad for his eager eyes and his waving tail.
At least here was a friendly face. I slipped on his leash and led him down the path that wove out of the village and along the stream to the quiet little lake. It might be that Kip would be the only companion I would have for the next few weeks—until I had somehow managed to break through the reserve of these villagers.
FIVE
Lonely Days
Our excursions to the small lake became almost a daily ritual for Kip and me. It was a beautiful walk and a lovely spot. No one seemed to resent us using the trail and sitting on the lakeshore or strolling through the pines, but no one seemed to pay much attention to us anyway. I still was unable to get the women to even acknowledge my presence. It was a very difficult time for me.
Wynn and I discussed it often at our supper table.
“Though these Indians are from the same tribe as our Beaver River Indians, they have not been exposed to the white man in the same way,” he reminded me. “In coming to this remote village, it is as though we stepped back in time. We live with a very primitive people, Elizabeth.”
Wynn sympathized with my need for friendship, but cautioned me to be patient and let the people have time to come to know and accept me. I secretly wondered just how long my patience would need to endure. I seemed to be getting nowhere.
Fall came with dry winds rustling the party-dressed leaves on the poplar trees and the birds twittering and instructing one another concerning their coming flight south. I loved the fall, but the thought of the coming winter, with no friends to help me see it through, concerned me. I needed to take action but I didn’t know what to do.
Then one day I had an idea. I was passing down the path to again walk to the lake when I noticed two women enter the village with baskets of berries. So there were berries around! I did want some for the winter ahead. I also saw it as an opportunity to “build a bridge.” Hadn’t it been berries that had brought me my first friends at Beaver River? I hurried home to find some kind of container.
I left Kip behind in the cabin. I didn’t want him to interfere in any way with my attempt to make friends. With a light step and heart, I went to find some village women.
I did not need to go far. Just down the trail from our cabin, two Indian women sat in the afternoon sun sewing buckskin moccasins. I approached them with my cooking pot extended and a smile on my lips.
As usual they stopped their chatter and lowered their eyes, but I was not to be discouraged so easily.
I greeted them with the proper Indian greeting. They did not return it as was the custom. I waited for a moment and when there was no response I raised the question.
“I want to pick berries,” I informed them with my limited vocabulary.
Still no response. They continued their work, seeming nervous at my presence, but they did not look up nor acknowledge me.
“Where can I find berries?” I tried to keep my voice friendly in spite of how I was beginning to feel, but it wavered some.
One of the women grunted, and they both picked up their work and went into the cabin.
I could have cried. How was I ever going to make friends in this strange new village? I was about to turn around and go home again when I spotted two younger women, their babies on their backs, stirring a blackened pot over an open fire. Perhaps the younger ones would be less hostile, I decided, and headed for them.
They too dropped their eyes and ceased speaking when I came near, though their eyes did lift occasionally to steal little glances at me.
I greeted them, but did not wait for their response. I hastened right on. “I want to pick berries and I not know where they are. Can you tell me, please?”
For a moment there was silence and then they exchanged brief looks. One of them shrugged slightly, but the other pointed to the west and said simply, “There.” It wasn’t much, and it certainly didn’t locate a patch for me, but it was the first word that had been spoken to me since I had entered their village. I smiled my thanks and started west.
I tramped around through the woods for the rest of the afternoon and still did not find a berry patch.
That night at our evening meal I told Wynn about my adventure of the day. He looked concerned, feeling my hurt at being rejected by this village, but we both acknowledged that it was a start—a small start.
“I’ve seen a patch or two as I’ve made my rounds,” Wynn informed me. “Let’s see if I can remember just where it was. Guess I didn’t pay enough attention because I knew all your canning jars were packed away—even if we did get them out and fill them, we’d have no place to store them. If we put them back on the wagon, they’d just freeze with our first cold spell.”
“Even if I just get a few for now, so that we can have some fresh and a pie or two,” I said, realizing that Wynn was right about preserving, “it would be nice for a change.”
Wynn nodded and took pencil and paper to draw me a crude little map.
The next morning I took Kip and my cooking pot, a sandwich for my lunch, and with Wynn’s map in hand I set out to find a berry patch.
It took a bit of looking but I finally found a patch big enough to fill my pot, and I settled down to the picking, humming to myse
lf as the pot slowly filled.
I let Kip run while I picked. He took little ventures into the woods, chasing rabbits and worrying the squirrels, but he returned often to keep check on me.
Midday I stopped for my sandwich. I wished I had a cup of tea to go with it. I was not far from the stream, so I left my pot and strolled to the stream for a drink. The water was cool and refreshing. I splashed a little on my face and washed the blue stain from my hands.
Kip lapped at the water, wading out in it just far enough to reach it with his tongue without bending too much. The flowing water licked at his legs and swirled around his nose as he thrust it into the stream.
I picked up a short stick and played a game of chase-the-stick with Kip for a few minutes. By the time our game was over, Kip was dripping wet from chasing the stick out into the middle of the stream. I forgot to keep my distance, and when Kip left the stream he shook water all over my skirt. I laughed at myself and ran back toward the berry patch and my nearly full pot.
Kip ran on ahead of me, still shaking wetness as he ran. He seemed to know exactly where we were going and led me directly toward my cooking pot with its berries. He reached it first—or would have reached it had he not suddenly stopped dead still, his hackles bristling and his throat rumbling.
His eyes were fastened on the spot where I had left my berries, and my eyes lifted from Kip to search out the pot as well.
There, feasting undeservedly from my hard-earned berries, was a skunk. I held my breath, not daring to stir.
The skunk seemed undisturbed. I wanted him to stay that way. I had no desire at all to tangle with him. I put a hand down to restrain Kip, but I wasn’t fast enough.
Kip knew the berries were mine. He also knew that the skunk was an imposter. With his throat sending out warnings, he sprang forward to chase the skunk from the berry container.
It all happened so quickly I hardly had time to think. There was a flash as Kip left my side, the instant flag of the skunk’s tail, a brief skirmish, and then Kip was screaming in rage and pain and rolling his head around in the debris on the forest floor as a sickening and powerful smell rolled over us.
I looked up from Kip just in time to see the last of the skunk disappearing through the underbrush.
I hurried Kip back to the stream. I didn’t even need to throw in the stick for him to seek out the water. He plunged his whole head into its depths, burying himself in the coolness. His eyes stinging and his nose smarting, again and again he thrust his head into the stream.
It did nothing for the odor. It seemed to just grow worse and worse. I looked down at my skirt, then sniffed of my hands. Though I had not been sprayed directly by the skunk, I seemed to smell almost as bad as Kip. What in the world would I ever do now?
After Kip had received all the help he could get from the flowing stream, we went back to the berry patch to reclaim our pot.
I was tempted to leave it just where it sat. I knew from the concentration of the smell in the area that just to walk through the bushes and over the ground would cover my shoes and skirts with more of the offensive odor. Yet I couldn’t afford to leave the cooking pot behind. I had only one other with which to cook.
I found a long stick and stretched as far as I could to hook the pot and lift it to me. It slipped from the pole mid-air and clattered to the ground. Try as I might I could not get the handle hooked again. I finally gave up and, hoisting my skirt the best I could, waded through the short bushes and reclaimed my pot. As I had anticipated, it reeked!
I emptied out the rest of the berries, nearly crying as I watched them fall into a small pile on the ground, and headed once again for the stream. I used sand to scrub and scour my pot, but even so some of the smell seemed to cling to it. Whatever would I do? I needed that cooking pot.
At last we started for home.
“Kip, you stink!” I informed him as I slipped his leash back on, and then smiled in spite of myself—the pot calling the kettle black. I was sure I was just as offensive as the dog. And my cooking pot wasn’t much better.
I wondered just how in the world I would be able to get back into the village without causing chaos.
“Well, at least they won’t be able to ignore me,” I said to Kip with a grin. But I really wasn’t that amused by it all. We were in a terrible fix, and well I knew it. How in the world, and when in the world, would we ever be free of the odor?
SIX
Blueberry Pie
The odor preceded us into the village. I heard children shouting the Indian word for skunk and then saw them run toward their cabins even before I came into the settlement. The women, too, left what they were doing and went indoors.
With a red face and a hurried step, I hastened toward my own cabin with the smelly Kip tightly in tow.
When we reached the cabin I tethered Kip outside and put my pot beside the door. Then I leaned down and removed my shoes, stepped just inside the door and removed my heavy skirt, reaching around the door to toss it back out onto the path. After that I removed the rest of my clothes and scrubbed with soap and water until I had my skin red and chafed. Still I smelled like a skunk!
I was forced to put clean garments on a still odorous body; then with a tub of hot sudsy water I attacked my clothes. I washed them as best as I could and hung them on my outside line. I could still smell them. I next took Kip and scrubbed him in the water. His wet fur seemed to smell worse, not better.
I saw many curious looks directed my way. Little clusters of Indian children stared without reservation, and the women gathered in whispery little groups, trying not to be as obvious as the children, but not succeeding very well.
I clamped my jaw and scrubbed harder on Kip. He whined and tried to pull away from me, but I scolded him mildly and scrubbed on. After all, he was the one who had gotten us into the mess!
In spite of all my efforts, when Wynn returned that night he was greeted by the strong smell of skunk.
“What do I do about it?” I moaned.
“Not much that you can do,” Wynn answered.
“You mean nothing will help it?”
“Only time, as far as I know,” responded Wynn.
I moaned again. “Time” always seemed so slow when you needed it to pass quickly.
“You could try filling the pot with dirt and burying your clothes,” Wynn said. “Some seem to think that the earth takes some of the odor away.”
“Kip is the worst,” I insisted.
“Bury him, too, if you like,” said Wynn, but he smiled to let me know he was teasing.
I did bury my clothes. I also buried the pot. The Indians watched me, hiding their eyes and their comments behind work-stained hands.
I did not leave my clothes buried for long. I could not take the chance of the moist ground causing rot. The clothing I had was scarce enough at best and to lose an outfit simply would not do, even if I did reek each time I wore it. I dug it up carefully and washed it with soap and water again and hung it on the line.
The soil did seem to help my cooking pot. I scoured it thoroughly again and set it out in the sun.
Kip didn’t seemed to mind being left outside—except at night. Then he would whine to come in. His whining wasn’t as objectionable as his barking. He seemed to bark at every night sound. Wynn and I had supposed that we were used to the sound of barking dogs, but we found that Kip kept awakening us night after night with his fussing.
Undaunted, I was still determined to have a blueberry pie, so the next week I took Kip and again headed for the west and some berry patches. This time I did not remove Kip’s leash when we got to the patch. Instead, I tied him to a small sapling and went about picking the berries to fill my pot.
Kip fussed and whined the whole time. To make it up to him, when I had picked my container full, I took him to the stream and let him loose so he could play in the water. We had a lively game of chase-the-stick. When I felt that he had had enough exercise, I slipped on his leash again, picked up my full pot of berries and he
aded for home.
The Indian people watched me enter the village again. I smiled and spoke to those who were near the path, but they turned their backs and pretended not to notice me. I tried not to let it bother me, but it did.
“Well, anyway,” I said to Kip, who seemed to be the only one willing to listen to me, “I have my berries for pie.”
When Wynn arrived home that night he was welcomed by a new aroma. The smell was nearly gone from Kip, my garments, and the cooking pot. Instead, the wonderful smell of fresh blueberry pie wafted throughout the cabin. I was pleased with myself. I had found the patch, I had persevered, I had baked my pie.
“Great!” said Wynn with an appreciative pat on my arm as he pushed back from the table after a second helping. His short, emphatic comment was enough to make it all worthwhile.
SEVEN
Winter
More determined than even my pursuit of berries was my search for new friends. Daily I took Kip for his walks, and each time I met or passed the Indian ladies I smiled and called out a greeting to them. They still chose to ignore me but even that did not stop me.
I made up my mind then to concentrate on the children. I was sure the children would be more responsive—after all, the children at Beaver River had learned to love both Kip and me.
I chose the paths where I heard children playing and smiled warmly and greeted them in their own tongue whenever I was near enough to be heard.
They lifted their heads and stared at me, but they refused to answer any of my questions. They did not even respond to the wild tail-wagging of Kip. They looked at us until their curiosity was satisfied, and then they either turned back to their play or else ran off, leaving us standing looking after them.
I even tried a little friendly “blackmail.” I took some of my most colorful and fascinating books and held them out to them, showing them the pretty pictures as I let the pages flip slowly by. They stared at the strange new thing, but they did not draw closer or reach for it. In disappointment, I took my books and went back to my lonely cabin.
