Next Spring an Oriole Page 2

  Papa said, “They will find me less an enemy than they think. I left our home in Virginia because men were too eager to turn every good thing God created to their own use.”

  Soon we were all in our corners, wrapped in the LaBelles’ quilts. I was so tired from the long journey, I slept soundly in spite of Mr. LaBelle’s great snores and the mouselike scurryings and rustlings of the children as they shifted about among themselves on their straw mattress.

  When I awoke it was morning, and Mama was sitting straight up, whispering to Papa. She was trying to hide some worry that had come upon her in the night. In a minute she had her shoes laced and was making apologies to the LaBelles. “You have been so generous. We can’t impose further on your hospitality. Mr. Mitchell is anxious to see our land, and if you will excuse us, we will be on our way.” Mama said all that very nicely, but I could tell she was upset.

  Voltaire growled and pulled at his chain. Mr. and Mrs. LaBelle stood at their doorway and waved. The children scrambled onto our wagon and had to be dragged away. “As soon as we have a cabin you must come to visit us,” called Mama.

  “We will do better than that,” answered Mr. LaBelle. “We will help you to build the cabin.”

  At this, the children cheered up and loosened their hold on the wagon, and the horses started up.

  Once we were out of sight of the house and into the woods, Mama began to sob. Papa stopped the horses and tried to comfort her. “They’ll go away,” he said.

  “What will go away?” I asked, looking around.

  Mama turned to me. “Do you feel nothing on your head? I pray to the Lord you have escaped, Libby.”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Only little pinpricks.” Now that I thought about it, there was a funny feeling all through my hair, as if something were running about in it on tiny tiptoes.

  “You, too!” Mama said, and cried louder than ever. “I should have thought of lice when I saw those children with their hair all cut off.”

  “Oh, Mama! I won’t have to cut my hair like that! I don’t want it to stick up all over my head.”

  Mama was a little calmer. “No, but we shall have to cut it or we will never get rid of the lice.”

  “Not your hair, Mama. You won’t cut your hair!”

  “Yes,” she said. “I will.” She went into the back, searching for the scissors. When she found them, she climbed down. “Now, then,” she said. She sounded very brave, but her face was streaked with tears. She unpinned her long hair that had taken years and years to grow and with a few snips cut it as short as Papa’s, so that it just covered her ears. Then she did a funny thing. She took her lovely long silky hair that had been cut off and went scattering it under the trees and hanging it on the branches.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “It will make a nice lining for the nests of the mice and birds. I don’t want it wasted.”

  “Can I do that too?” Mama promised I could, so I let her cut mine off as short as hers. While she was busy cutting my hair, I saw Papa sneak a lock of Mama’s hair from one of the branches and carefully put it into his pocket. All he said, though, when Mama had finished with me, was that we both looked younger and prettier than before and that our new short hair would set a fashion.

  “I’m afraid we have left such things as fashion far behind us, Rob,” Mama said. “I only hope we shall not end up with a bear chained to our doorstep and the stumps of trees to sit upon.”

  “They were good people, Vinnie.”

  “I don’t say they weren’t, Rob. They were kindness itself, but I am afraid we have come too far and left too much behind us.”

  IV

  On the way to our land we passed five or six cabins. Some of the families hurried to greet us, asking where we had come from and where we were headed. They were friendly and eager to give advice and offer help. There were also cabins where men watched us pass with no word of greeting. Around those cabins there was no clearing for the planting of crops. We took those men for trappers.

  Papa was so eager to find our land, it was all he could do to make his manners to those along the way. Papa urged Ned and Dan along until the wagon was bouncing so hard Mama said, “Rob, if you don’t slow down every bone in my body will be shaken loose.”

  I was glad to hear her complain because she had been so quiet, which wasn’t like Mama. Papa slowed down, but only a little. The trail narrowed and there was just enough space between the trees for the wagon. Suddenly Papa shouted, “There’s the pond!” He jumped down and began to stride back and forth until at last he called, “Here’s the survey stake! This is our land, Vinnie! We have the whole east shore of the pond.” Papa had said nothing about the pond, wanting to surprise Mama and me. The three of us stood by the blue circle of water. After all the miles of hot, dusty trail, it was like a gift someone gives you when there is no reason for it.

  Papa named everything for us as if he had just made up the names brand new—oak, popple, elm, maple, birch, hemlock, and, everywhere you looked, pine trees that nearly covered the sky. Papa was so pleased with the trees I thought he would surely put his arms around them and hug each one.

  I ran down to the pond’s edge. With little slapping noises green frogs hopped into the water. A string of ducklings swam behind their mother. Down the shore a way a huge bird, nearly as tall as I was, spread its wings and slowly followed the circle of the pond to the opposite shore. “A heron,” Papa said. “I’ll teach you to fish, Libby, just like he’s doing, and you can keep our skillet filled.”

  “Look over there,” Mama whispered. Near where the heron had settled, a deer stood for just a moment before it moved back into the woods. “You were right, Rob,” Mama said. “It’s going to be a wonderful place.”

  But the next day and for three days more it rained. Papa was up each morning at sunrise cutting trees for a cabin. We heard the sound of his axe all day long. In the wagon Mama made sketches of the pond and trees and of Papa swinging his axe. I did my lessons and sewed patches on my petticoats.

  When Mama and I couldn’t stand being in the wagon for another minute, we went out into the rain to help Papa clear away the great pile of branches he had trimmed from the logs. We were always hungry because you couldn’t keep a fire going in the rain. Our clothes were damp and our beds at night were as cold and clammy as the little green frogs.

  By the time the rain finally stopped, Papa had cut so many logs I could close my eyes and almost see what the cabin would look like. The sun shone bright and warm into the clearing made by the felled trees. Mama took the hoe and turned up the ground. I pulled up the clumps of sod. The dirt was dark and rich, and when we buried the seed potatoes in their little hills of earth, I felt they would be happy there.

  That evening Papa called to Mama and me and said we were ready to decide just where the cabin would stand. “Right on the shore of the pond,” I said. “Then we can see the heron feeding and deer come down to drink.”

  “If you put it at the edge of the pond,” Papa said, “there will be no trees to protect us, and in the winter, wind and snow will blow across the pond. It would be better to set the cabin among the trees. They will shelter us from the northwest winds.”

  “But it’s so dark in the trees,” Mama said.

  “I’ll put one window on the east side for the morning sun and one window on the west side for the afternoon sun. If I cut down a tree or two in front of the windows there will be light enough.”

  Papa took a sharp stick and drew a big square on the ground, about twice as big as our wagon.

  “Can we sleep in our cabin tonight?” I asked.

  Mama and Papa looked at me. “There is no cabin,” Papa said.

  I pointed to the outline Papa had made with his stick. It was July and the night was warm. “Why couldn’t we take our quilts outside and sleep right here? We could pretend the cabin was all built.”

  Mama and Papa exchanged looks. “Very well,” Papa said. “We will. On which side of the cabin are you going
to choose to sleep?” he asked me.

  “On the east side,” I said, “so the sun will wake me first thing in the morning.”

  V

  On the day of our house-raising bee when the neighbors were to help us build our cabin, we got up so early it was still dark out.

  “Rob, do you really believe they will come?” Mama asked.

  “Mr. LaBelle gave his word,” Papa said. “He’s a funny fellow, but an honest one, I believe.”

  It was hard to imagine that by nightfall all the logs that lay scattered about would be a house.

  The LaBelles were the first to arrive. The children jumped down out of the wagon and were everywhere at once. They ran down to see the pond, scrambled over the logs, climbed into our wagon to see what there might be to eat and tasted what they found.

  Soon other wagons arrived. One family came a distance of twenty miles. The Indian whose daughter we had cared for came to help. “You go to a lot of trouble to build your house,” he told Papa. “We make our houses from a few sticks and some birch bark. When it is time for us to move on, we are not sorry to leave. But you could not leave a house like this one without looking back many times.” I wondered if he thought us foolish.

  When the first logs had been laid, Mr. LaBelle, the most skillful man with an axe, was asked to be the corner man. He was the one to chop a notch at the ends of each log so they would fit one upon another. When the cabin grew to be as high as Papa’s chest it became too hard to lift the logs. The men set long poles at an angle from the top log to the ground, making a kind of slide. Then they shoved and shouldered the logs up the slide and into place.

  This was hard work and they were loud in encouraging one another, sometimes saying words Mama thought it best I not hear, for she called me away to help prepare lunch. After we had all eaten, Mama pointed in the direction of the trees and said, “I believe that is the little Indian girl who had the measles. She has been too shy to eat with us, and her father has not seen to her. Take some of these corn cakes over to her, Libby.”

  The girl was sitting so quietly I had not noticed her. Her long black hair was braided now, and shiny. She wore a calico dress sewn with bright-colored beads. Her dark eyes watched me as I walked toward her.

  I handed her the plate of corn cakes and maple syrup and made some signs of eating, believing she would not understand English.

  She took the cakes and said in very good English, “Corn cakes are good, but when we have a celebration we have better food—beaver tail and the hind feet of a bear.”

  “Where did you learn English?” I asked, very surprised.

  “When we lived a day’s journey from Detroit, I went to a school for Indians. The missionaries taught me English.”

  “Why did you leave there?”

  “Our chiefs sold our land. Now the government agents want to send us far away from our homes. If they catch us, they will make us leave.” She looked about her as though someone who meant her harm might be in the woods. After a moment she asked, “What is your name?”

  “Libby. What’s yours?”

  “Your name is not much. I am called Taw cum e go qua and I am of the clan of the eagle.” Fastened around her neck was a piece of rawhide holding a tiny silver eagle.

  “Where did you get that?” I asked.

  “The English gave it to my father for some skins,” she said. “They give better gifts than your countrymen.”

  The LaBelle children had seen us and were now sitting in a circle staring at Taw cum e go qua, who with her high cheekbones and black hair and eyes was very pretty. They touched the beaded embroidery on her dress and moccasins and, had I not stopped them, would have taken the moccasins right off her feet.

  When she finished the corn cakes, Taw cum e go qua put down the plate and stood up. Without another word she turned and began walking away from us. “Will you come back sometime?” I called. She didn’t answer or even turn around. In a few minutes she had disappeared among the trees.

  The work on the cabin went on until it was nearly dark, and another meal was eaten before the last of the wagons left. “Some of these families will not get home until early morning,” Mama said. “How kind they were to help us.”

  “Tomorrow I’ll begin fastening shakes onto the roof,” Papa said.

  “And Libby and I can begin to muddy the chinks,” Mama said.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  Mama told me, “There are spaces between the logs where the wind and rain might come in and in winter, the snow. We have to push moss into all the spaces and then cover the moss over with mud.”

  I was pleased to have some part in building our cabin and began to think of all the places in the woods where I had seen thick green moss growing. Thinking of the woods, I remembered Taw cum e go qua. When I had first heard it, I believed her name a strange one, but now I liked to say it to myself. It was like a small poem. Lying in bed that night, I thought I would like to be friends with the Indian girl, but I did not know where to find her. The Indians did not stay in one place. They would find a good trapping ground near a river or swamp, and when the animals had been caught, they would move on. Even the fields of corn they planted each spring were left on their own to grow. Papa said it took Indians only a few hours to build their houses. I supposed it would be nice to move about whenever you wanted, but I knew I would be glad to have the sturdy walls of the cabin around me when winter came. Although it was a warm summer night, I fell asleep wondering how Taw cum e go qua would stay warm when the snow began to fall.

  VI

  When summer went by and no one had asked him to take his compass and survey their land, Papa began to worry. We had little food left and no money to buy more. Mr. LaBelle said Papa might have to cut down our trees and be a farmer.

  Papa said he could never do that. Early in the morning and late in the afternoon Papa would walk among the trees. I believe he knew every one of them—how tall they were, how big around, and what birds and animals they sheltered. One tree had an owl’s nest. Papa knew because at the bottom of the tree there was fur and bits of bone left over from the owl’s supper. In another tree there was a family of flying squirrels. When Papa hit the tree with a wooden stick, the squirrels would come out and glide through the branches.

  One morning Papa had to ride to Saginaw, and Mama sent me out to watch over the garden and shoo the rabbits away from the cabbage and winter squash. The garden was close to the pond, and if I was quiet I could see the quick shadows of the little fish beneath the water and, on top of the water, water striders and whirligig bugs. Across the pond the family of ducks was swimming one in front of the other. The ducks were older now, and you could hardly tell the little ones from their mama. I was wondering what it would be like if people grew up that quickly—all in a few weeks—when Taw cum e go qua sat down next to me.

  “I didn’t hear you,” I said, startled. I was glad to see her.

  “Why are you sitting here?” she asked.

  “I’m watching the garden so the rabbits won’t eat our vegetables. We don’t have much food for the winter.”

  Taw cum e go qua always thought for a long time before she spoke, as though out of all the many things she might say, she must pick exactly the right one. “You should plant corn like we do and catch fish and smoke them. Then you would have food for the winter. We catch large fish, sturgeon from the big lake. In the autumn they swim up the river. They are tired then, and the men in our tribe can climb on their backs and ride them like horses. I know many ways to get food.”

  While I watched, she reached down into the pond and pulled a crayfish out of the water. The crayfish was all white and ugly like a dead hand. I could never have touched it. “There are clams in your pond, and you can find food where the muskrat lives,” Taw cum e go qua said.

  I had watched the muskrat swim back and forth cutting reeds for his house. “You mean we should eat the reeds?”

  “No. But beneath the pile of reeds the muskrat has stored the
roots of the pond lily and the cattail. They are good to eat.”

  “Is it fair to take his food?” I asked.

  “Many animals help us find food. In winter we watch for tracks in the snow. The tracks of the squirrels lead us to the acorns they have stored. If we follow the tracks of the deer mouse we find beechnuts.”

  Just as she always did, Taw cum e go qua left suddenly, without saying good-bye. Like a quick bird, one minute she was there, the next minute you saw only the empty woods.

  When Papa returned, I hurried to tell him how we could find food for the winter.

  “I’m afraid we will need more than a few beechnuts and acorns,” he said. “I heard today a railroad will be coming through near Saginaw next summer. There will be plenty of work for surveyors then. But we must first find enough food to get through the winter.”

  Mama had stopped listening to Papa. “Look, Rob,” she said. “There are some Indians.”

  “They must be passing by on their way to their winter camp,” Papa said.

  “There’s Taw cum e go qua’s papa,” I said. He led the other Indians to us and signaled them to wait while he spoke.

  “My daughter tells me you have need for food to carry you through the winter. The blackbirds have been kind this year and we have more corn than we need.” He motioned to the men. They put down several baskets filled with corn. There was a gourd of wild honey, and two of the men carried what looked like huge cowhides. “This is mon-e-meg, sturgeon, which we have smoked,” he said. “The little fish in your pond are not worth the catching. You must stay well this winter—as well as you made Taw cum e go qua when you cared for her.”