BLACK KETTLE, RUNNING Part 1

By Bill Sheehan 11/17/2924

                                              PROLOGUE

The infamous year, 1777, was a year with frequent attacks by the British and their Iroquois allies. In that year massacres of colonial settlers occurred in outlying wilderness areas. Men, women, and children were killed because the British commanders could not control the Iroquois war riors who had their own ways of warring on their enemies, including frenzied and savage viciousness where the warriors killed everyone in the settlements to serve as a massive warning to stop the flow of settlers moving westward. When the westward movement of settlers continued, the result was that the Iroquois Indian conducted further, more intense attacks and massacres in the settlements in the wilderness areas of New York, Pennsylvania, Virginia, New Jersey, North Carolina, and South Carolina.

It was the year after the America’s Declaration of Independence from British rule; a year often referred to as The Bloody Year of the Three Sevens (1777). Fear, panic, great hardship, and frequent tragedy caused by the British, with the help of their Iroquois allies, made raids all year long to prevent further western colonization. These raids also aided the British in the American Revolutionary War by striking fear into the colonists who were wondering if separation from Britain was a mistake.

The Iroquois Indian Nation, who were allies of the British, and who called themselves the ‘Haudenosaunee People’ (hoo-dee-noh-SHAW-nee), ‘People of the Longhouse,’ were asked by the British commanders to stage large and frequent raids on the wilderness settlers who were on traditional Iroquois land.

          The Iroquois raids were conducted in a much more brutal fashion than the British commanders had expected. When the Iroquois fought on the same side with the British, or against any enemy, they gave no mercy. They disobeyed the British commanders and fought using their traditional style of fighting, which were far different from the tactics that were used by the British. When the Iroquois conducted their own raids, they burned homes, outbuilding, destroyed crops, killed all the animals, and massacred whole families. The Iroquois stomped on the English concept of mercy which was foreign and unacceptable to them and their traditions.

 Day after day, the Iroquois peoples witnessed the westward moving settlers taking the land where their homes, villages and hunting grounds had been for hundreds of years. In desperation, the raids became more frequent and more deadly in those new settlements, especially, but not only, in the Cherry Valley, New York and at Harrodsburg, Pennsylvania where men, women and children were slaughtered. The Iroquois had the experience of hundreds of years of making war and conducting gorilla style tactics, and it wasn’t anything like the British ways of formally conducting a war. It was as if the growing desperation to stop the flow of settlers westward created a maniacal viciousness and a hateful rage to wipe out the invasive settlers. The Iroquois leaders wanted everyone in the isolated, wilderness settlements and those thinking of coming westward to know what would happen to them, to know that everyone on their traditional land would be killed. They were giving a massive warning to stop the flow of settlers moving westward. The message was blunt and to the point, ‘stop taking our land, or die.’ That message was proven by increased attacks and bloody massacres.

 It was a year full of great suffering and terror for those colonists. No longer were Indian raids few and great distances apart. Now the brutal raids occurred much more frequently in six of the thirteen colonies, while the other seven colonies saw a steady increase in raids, where, in the recent past, raids were rare.

The steady stream of constantly advancing settlers created a violent and unharnessed rage in the Indians. To make matters worse the Indians heard the rumors of white people who were now championing the land-grabbing doctrine of ‘Manifest Destiny’ as they flooded farther westward into Native American lands, disregarding any treaties that forbade them to pursue their westward expansion.

Treaties forbidding westward expansion could not be enforced by George Washington’s army who were fighting in the Revolutionary War, leaving settlers and settlements unable to protect themselves against the constant Iroquois raids.

These settlers, especially the poor, were driven by their wishes to own their own land and farm it, while remaining free from colonial influences, prejudices, and the laws. Not wanting a city life style, they were desperate for free land and the freedoms that moving westward gave them. Many already heard of the idea that expansion would eventually grow from the Atlantic to the Pacific, making one huge, and independent, country.

 Fear and desperation grew as the raids became increasingly frequent, bloodier, and unmerciful, including torture, when entire families were butchered. News of the war trickled to the survivors about the newly formed Army, yet they knew that they would never see a single soldier come to their aid. They knew that they were on their own, alone against the shocking cruelty and savagery of the Indian raids. To make matters far worse for them, the Indians were being supplied with modern firearms, supplies, and with increasing encouragement by British officers to kill settlers as their duty for the cause of British Rule. Britain had guaranteed that if they won the war, no more would there be westward expansion into their lands.

The French and Indian War was still fresh in the settlers minds even after ten years, as the Ohio valley rivers were running red from the mixture of both colonist’s and Indian’s blood splashing into them. In addition, the Great Lakes regions were also ablaze with Indian raids, with war parties traveling as far south as southern New York and northern Pennsylvania, especially by the adventurous Seneca Indians, the most populated of the Iroquois tribes.

The Indians became so feverishly agitated with the white man’s greed for land that they sometimes turned against their own allies, the British, as they did during the siege of the British Fort Pitt (Pittsburg, Pennsylvania) as well as attacks on the British Fort Venango. There were additional attacks on Fort Niagara, New York; Fort St. Joseph, Michigan; and Fort Wayne, Indiana.

While the eastern colonies were occupied with their War of Independence against British rule, these newly formed western settlements were being attacked with impunity and often.

CHAPTER 1

In the summer of 1834, at the age of seventy, and as a retired frontiersman, I sat in a rocking chair of my own making and located on a log cabin porch. I was now a proud grandfather who was whittling an object from basswood. My pocket-knife was slicing shaved curls of wood onto my lap, shirt, and often those shaved wooden curls would fly like bugs onto the porch floor.

          Stubble from my usually unshaven face looked like sprouting, black grass on my aged-lined face, an unruly crop of thinning hair still adorned my head, unusual for a man my age. I often teased my friends about not using enough manure on their hair in their youth to keep a good crop of hair in later years. The response was that I had enough manure in my stories to keep my hair growing twenty years after I died.

I leisurely rocked as I carved into the wood. I imagined what creation was in the wood that wanted to come out. There was a vague figure of something inside that wooden block it was anxious to come out of its wooden prison. I thought I felt the tremor, like a horse kicking inside the wood. Therefore, I needed to carve a horse. Better make it a mare, I whispered to myself, not wanting the added extension of a male horse.

          I paused to look at the field where my grandchildren, Lily and Slone, my dearest daughter, Mara, and my son-in-law, Todd, were all hoeing the weeds (the children were on their knees pulling up weeds) near the sprouting corn plants.

          My wife, Sandy, known as ‘Nana,’ to the kids’ was in the cabin sweeping and cleaning. The door was open on this wonderful day, so dust came out in light gray puffs, as if each sweep of the broom towards the door created a new, but dirty cloud. I was used to this procedure and knew I had to move my chair away from the door. My wife often called me a lazy fool, but the kids called me ‘Da,’ an Irish name for ‘grandfather.’ I loved Sandy, but sometimes I pretended to be deaf when I did not agree with something she said and did not want to argue. That was when I would cup a hand behind one ear, look at her and say, “What?” In addition, if needed, I would repeat the procedure, then turn away before I giggled in playful, self-satisfaction.

          Earlier that morning, I had helped Todd feed the chickens and milk the two cows in the old, plank-walled shed. Straw and cow patties littering the ground; an invitation to newly stain the soles of our boots each morning and evening. That’s why the upper boots wore out before the soles, I thought; the manure toughened the leather soles as if the leather had a soul of its own. Sandy, of course, forbade me to make manure jokes which was a tremendous disappointment to me. When I smiled at her, she would mention that the word ‘manure’ began with ‘man.’

          I liked milking cows and feeding chickens. It was a lazy-old man’s job, plus it gave me time to carve and reminisce about memories that dominated my youth. My mind switched to the fun I now had with carvings. The fireplace mantel served as a home for several of them: a bear, pig, horse, rabbit, and squirrel. The way I set them up on the mantel made them look as if they were marching to a common destination but, hopefully, not the fireplace. “Nana, the name that the grandkids called my wife, had once joked about an animal march into the fireplace in order to shock of Lily and Slone. I grinned, knowing it was only a bit of sarcastic humor, but if not, then there was more wood that had images of animals inside them that I could see clearly.

Each grandchild had been given two of the mantle carvings, as well as Mara, Todd, and Nana getting one apiece. However, many of my better carvings were used to sell or barter for items that the family needed. I bartered for tools for Todd and, when my carvings sold, I gave the money to Mara and Nana to use, as they wanted, which was usually for food and household items, as well as cloth for sewing clothes, or to use as patches for worn clothes. At my age, I figured, I didn’t need much, and this was my way of helping the whole family. This thought made me think of my Fuller’s Penny Knife, made in Sheffield, England. I bartered for it, and then bartered again to have the blacksmith shorten the blade and fix it so it would lock when the blade was out. I figured that it was my most valuable possession and it was as sharp as Nana’s tongue could be.

          Another cloud of dust poured out of the doorway, in its midst a wraith-like figure with a dirty face appeared, hands on hips and pursed lips on the brink of giving an order, which turned out to be, “Bill, I need more firewood. Making chicken soup for dinner (Note: Back then the term ‘lunch’ was not used. Dinner was the noontime meal while the evening meal was called ‘supper.’)

“Yes Dear. And may I say that you look especially pretty this morning.” I commanded myself to keep a straight face. “Of course, my love. I’ll be back soon with an armful of wood for you.” She was an excellent cook, so I made sure that I made no joking comment about the quality or the taste of the chicken soup. I knew it would be tasty.

Sandy’s eyes squinted at me with suspicion. She mumbled something as she returned to the house, looking over her shoulder at me with suspicion. I grinned a hearty, self-contained chuckle.

Lily and Slone called me “Da,” an Irish word for grandfather. I returned my folding, Fuller Penny Knife, to my pocket, stepped off the porch and wiped the wood shavings off my shirt and pants. I smiled as I saw the children wave to me. I waved back cheerfully, and then walked around the corner of the house to the woodpile. I also liked chopping firewood, but in small quantities, so my arms didn’t get overly sore and would cause me to temporarily stop carving. I also got water from the well for drinking and kitchen use. I knew how much Todd appreciated not having to do these tedious, daily jobs. It freed him to do more important things. Soon I walked back the way I came, then up the three steps. I kicked gently at the bottom board on the door to have Nana or Mara open it for me.

          I dropped the firewood into the wood bin which was a large wooden box that sat next to the fireplace. After dropping the wood, I walked up behind Sandy and kissed her neck, lingering there. Nana’s head turned toward my lips but she raised her shoulder so that my neck kiss could no longer continue. It was an automatic reaction to the sensitivity of her neck, and it reminded me of the romantic early years of our marriage.

          “Stop that. You know it tickles,” Sandy whispered.

          “Of course, I do. That’s why I’ve done it all these years,” I responded.

          Sandy smiled while whispering, “Good thing the kids are in the field.”

“Why? You think they never saw adults kissing before?”

          “You never mind what they’ve seen and not seen. Now let me get this soup going for our dinner. Shoo! Go back outside, old man, and whittle.”

          “OK.” However, before I left, I patted her lightly on the butt, then moved away quickly knowing she would turn and pretend to be angry.

Instead, she unexpectedly threw a handful of water at me, which mostly missed and wet the floor. I noticed how quickly the dry wooden floor soaked it up.

          “Naughty man,” Sandy growled as she worked on the chicken soup.

“Yep,” was my response, with a smile and a hop in my step.

When I returned to the porch, I noticed that the kids had been sent to the barn on an errand. I followed them and overheard their secretive whispering about disliking the fieldwork and wanting to play.

          I hid by the door, but when the kids moved deeper into the barn, I went to Willy’s stall and hid there. I only felt mild guilt for secretly listening to them. I petted Willy to keep him quiet but stepped into some fresh horse poop that made a squishing sound. The strong smell of manure, grain and hay rose like a mist engulfing me. I squeezed my nose between two fingers so I wouldn’t sneeze. My nose twitched so I squeezed my nostrils harder preventing the hay dust sneeze. Then an idea occurred to me.

I began making ghost noises, spooky sounds. I kicked some straw, made scratching sounds on a stall board, and whispered, in a ghost-like tone, “Me hungry for child meat. Me smells children. Smell is soooo gooood (I dragged out that sound). Make good kids soup in black kettle. Need put child meat in soup. Must cut chunks.”

Lily and Slone giggled, knowing immediately that I was trying to scare them. The children thought of the well-worn and charred, black brass kettle. It was clean on the inside because every month or two their mom and Nana used lye to make soap in the kettle. That process cleaned the inside of the pot. To clean the pot for cooking, Mara would boil water for a few hours. But no matter what it was being used for, the outside surface was charred black, since it frequently sat over a fire for extended periods of time. The charred soot built-up on the outside surface making the kettle look as black as a raven.

                                      *******

          “We know it’s you, Da,” said 12-year-old Lily.

          Slone, a year, and a half younger, said, “You sound like you’re in Willy’s stall.” (The horse was mine, so it got the name Willy, but Nana said that it got called Willy because, from the rear, it looked just like me. “Bill, you’re a horse’s ask-me-no-questions, grandpa.” Every time Nana said that the children couldn’t stop laughing. The kids went to bed laughing and, for the next day, every time they looked at me, they laughed, especially when I made a horse sound.

“Be careful Willy doesn’t bite you,” Lily added.

“Or step on you,” said Slone.

“Ohoooo,” came the spooky sound. Then, “Child soup. Good meat. So tender. I want leg meat. Ohoooo,” I made that sound again. Then the sound of some unrecognized movement.

          “I guess it’s time to feed Willy a snack, right, Slone?” Lily teased as they approached Willy’s stall.

          I was quiet, except for some shuffling of my feet on the hardened dirt floor of the shed. Willy already had a nice pile of hay to eat, so Slone dumped oats into the feed bucket. Slone looked at Lily, saying, in a whisper, “Da’s not here.”

They looked at each other with puzzled expressions.

“I could have sworn those sounds came from Willy’s stall,” Lily whispered.

“No such thing as a ghost,” Slone said bravely, as if trying to convince himself more than his sister.

“He’s hiding. Where could he be hiding?” Lily mumbled quietly.

Slone pointed upward at the hayloft.

Lily twisted her head back and forth, sideways, saying, “Da’s spooky voice didn’t come from high up, but on the same level as we are.”

“Yeah, that makes sense, so when do you think Willy learned to talk?” Slone said with a hand covering his mouth in an attempt to hide his laugh.

“Just like you to make a joke of everything.”

“Just simple horse-sense.” Slone giggled.

Lily gave Slone a dirty look, saying, “That’s such a common joke, so let’s call it ‘common-sense, not horse sense’”

Slone’s smile expanded.

Then came the sound of snoring.

Slone looked at the pile of hay in the back of Willy’s stall and pointed to it for Lily to see.

Lily moved her head up and down, and then she grinned at Slone.

Just as they were silently opening the stall door, clumps of hay moved, as if the wind had blown them.

Lily put her index finger vertically on her lips, as if pointing to her nose; a gesture for Slone to be especially quiet.

Slone acknowledged her with a dip of his head.

When the stall door was closed, they stepped on each side of Willy, petting him until they reached the hay pile. They spread the top of the hay pile and there I was pretending comically to sleep peacefully despite my blustery snoring sounds as my lips flapped and vibrated as if I were exhaling vigorously and smiling in my sleep.

I pretended to wake up, opening one eye first to peek at the world, then sitting upright and stretching my arms while yawning. I turned, letting my back face them, then slowly scratched my butt. I turned to face them and looked at Lily and Slone with a comical smile and a laugh. I rubbed my face which made prickly, scratching sounds as my rough, callused hands passed over the stubble of my unshaven face.

          Now the kids were both laughing loudly as they bent at the waist.

          “Wow,” I said, as if I had really slept, “I just had a dream that a ghost captured you two and made the most delicious and tender child soup. I sure do wish it were true because I’m starving.” I looked at the kids and ran my tongue over my lips, making the kids laugh louder, then rubbing their sore stomach muscles.

I patted my stomach with an exaggerated smile, then raised my eyebrows as if I were really confused. I placed my hands each child’s shoulder. They looked up at me with joyful smiles and my eyes misted, my vision blurred as the sun brightly reflected off the unfallen tears as my mind rummaged through memories of when they were infants with Nana and I seeing them daily.

Slone and Lily hugged me. I tenderly patted their upper arms and shoulders saying, “Tender.”

The kids hugged me tighter and restrained their laughter to a giggle as the recognized a serious moment.

I kneeled to their level and hugged them tightly, while trying to avoid eye contact with my misty eyes. “I love the both of you very much.”

“I love you, too,” they both said in unison.

Lily asked, “Da, after dinner, would you tell us the story of your escape from the Indians when you were a little older than us?”

“Again? Aren’t you both tired of that old story? Now remember, Lily, I was a year or two older than you are now, plus I was a grown man and much more handsome and mature than you guys.”

“That’s bullsh . . .” Slone interrupted himself as I looked around to see who was listening, then whispered, “bullshit.”

“We like hearing it. Please, Da,” Lily begged, then lightly hit Slone on the shoulder, saying, “Watch your mouth or it will get washed out with soap if your Momma hears you.”

“Why were you both in the horse’s shed?”

The kids both looked surprised, then ran back and came out with another shovel and hoe.

“Bring them to your mom and poppa quickly.”

“The story?” Lily reminded me.

“Check with your mom and poppa about all your morning and afternoon chores. If you get them done to their satisfaction, then I’ll tell you the story. I’ll do it on the porch as I carve. There’s a horse trying to get out of that wood.”

They ran to the field smiling and waving their arms to get their mom’s and dad’s attention, hoping their own enthusiasm would work for a positive outcome.

          I watched them, amazed at how fast they were growing. To me

they were two special children whom I felt were both attached to my heart with silk ribbons of love. They often pulled at those ribbons to get what they needed from me, I thought, but my job, as a grandfather, is to spoil them. I grinned with happiness.

I looked at my precious daughter as she worked beside her husband, Todd. I felt special to be a part of this family group.

Seated on the porch, the smell of cooking chicken soup wafted out the open window to greet me. I inhaled deeply knowing that dinner would be delicious. Thoughts of Sandy and our long marriage inundated my mind with joy. She was a treasure to me, always the thinker and helper. I chuckled with joy, then rose from my chair, having decided to enter the cabin, and pester her into giving me a taste of her simmering delight. I might have to wait for an opportunity to steal a taste, in which case, if caught, she would chase me out of the cabin door with a swishing broom aimed at my backside. She never hit; just chased. We laughed.

                                                 CHAPTER 2

At dinner, the children gobbled their bowl of chicken soup and then sat impatiently waiting for me to finish mine so I could tell them my old ‘Escape from the Indians story.’ They were always fascinated by my youthful adventures living on the edge of the frontier, especially my escape from the Seneca Indians. Also, there was no doubt that they enjoyed getting out of the farm work.

I slurped the remainder of my soup. Then with a sly smile, I said, “Pretty good soup, Nana. I like the taste of that rattlesnake meat. It does taste a lot like chicken. I’m glad I brought it to you this morning when the kids were busy. I hope you remembered to remove the head because, even when dead, rattlesnake fangs still have poison in them.”

          I snuck a look at Todd who was used to me teasing his mother-in-law. Todd didn’t do very well hiding his grin, and I looked down at my soup, chin nearly on my chest to hide my smile and choke my laughter.

          Mara slowly shook her head side to side. She thought I joked too much, which would influence the kids’ attitudes and cause the kids to not take their farm duties seriously. Why she would think that I don’t know because when their farm duties were not completed, or not completed correctly, then there was no storytelling from me, unless there was an unusual situation, or I was given permission to tell a story anyway.

          Slone and Lily put their heads down, as if in prayer, hiding their smiles.

          “You crazy old man.” You know da… darn well that the meat is really chicken,” scolded Nana.

“Pardon me, my Dear. I misspoke. Excellent job,” I tried to calm her.

When there was quiet, a whisper floated across the table. “Horse’s ass.”

“Yes. Excellent job Nana. You are a wonderful cook,” said Todd.

“See! You old buzzard. Now there’s a man that appreciates my cooking,” blurted Nana

          “Me, too,” added Mara, with a smile.

          Lily and Slone stated their appreciation for the soup as well.

“Darn it. A man can’t make a mistake without getting pounded on all sides by the people he loves the most,” I stated, as I rose from the table, an expression of sadness pouring over my face. I was trying to bribe sympathy. Didn’t work. I said with sincerity, “Sandy, you know that I’ve always enjoyed your possum stew, too. You will remove the eyeballs next time, right? They look like round, immature potatoes with a rotten spot on them.” I turned quickly, headed for the porch to carve, trying to hold my laughter before it spirt out of my mouth. Slone and Lily were laughing, so I knew I did a decent job.

As I shut the door behind me, I heard something bang on the inside of it. I laughed loudly, knowing Sandy had probably thrown her wooden soup-dipper at me, thus making the children continue laughing. It was the wooden soup-dipper that I had carved for her. I giggled as I sat down, then patted my full stomach with satisfaction.

          After I left the table Slone must have squirmed impatiently on the bench next to Lily. Lily told me later that she saw him squeezing his buttocks together, making him rise an inch or two in his seat, then letting his muscles relax which made him fall back down. She said his head looked like a woodchuck bobbing its head in and out of its hole.

          I knew that Slone could not help his movements because of his desire to leave the table. I could visualize his hands tapping the underside of the table until Lily poked him in the ribs to make him stop. Then he usually placed his hands in his lap, sat unmoving for a few seconds, then his feet would shift around under the table banging against the table leg or scraping against the rough wooden floor.

“Ouch,” Slone said as Lily poked him again, harder while silently mouthing the words, “Be still.”

Their poppa looked up from his soup. “What’s goin’ on?” he asked Slone.

“Oh, nothin,’ Poppa. I just thought I felt a sliver in my butt,” Slone responded, then grimaced again as Lily kicked him under the table for mentioning his butt, as well as for lying.

“You’ll end up polishing the bench if you can’t sit still,” his mom said, “Plus, you shouldn’t talk like that, especially while we are eating.”

          “Sorry,” Slone added, dejectedly, as he looked at his lap; the mischief gone from his reddened face.

          I stood and snuck a peek at Slone through the porch window. I waved and caught his attention. I shook my head side to side warning him not to say anything bad, so that he wouldn’t be punished by not being able to come to the porch to hear more of my glory story.

          Lily got Slone’s attention after that and raised the corner of her upper lip into a hidden sneer at him, indicating her disapproval of his behavior. But it was like water off a duck.

Slone raised a hand to his eye as if scratching at the corner, but it was really a cover for his mouth as his tongue sprang out at Lily like a snake’s strike. He was disappointed by her calmness, then remembered that she liked snakes.

Finally, they were allowed to come to the porch. I was still whittling a horse’s ass to give to Sandy as a joke. Lily and Slone sat on the porch floor, facing me with their backs leaning against roof support posts.

A subtle transformation spread across my face as well as in my mind; an emotionless look, with a dreamy-eyed stare that searched long ago memories of youthful thoughts and actions that the children came to expect when I told them stories about my most memorable days of my youth. At times like this I felt like a teenager again, excited and energized. I could see the contagiousness of my appearance on the kids’ faces as they bent forward, toward me, highly focused with anticipation. Their eyes shined like the eyes of a child seeing Christmas presents under the Christmas tree. The children were used to my transformation before a story, and I was used to theirs.

I was about sixteen years old at that time. Franny was eight years old and spent much time talking to her doll as if it were her real baby. I remember the moist look in her eyes when I made the mistake of saying that I wanted to use her doll for target practice with my slingshot. It usually hung out of my back pocket. She was only upset briefly because I said I was just kidding and was sorry.

                                       *******

“Well, my special children,” I began, “this story started as an ordinary day of routine chores for everyone in the family. The women were cooking breakfast. Franny was helping to mix the pancake batter. The men, dad and I did our morning chores caring for the cow, horses, chickens, the cutting of firewood, then gathering water from our well for the thirsty animals and for kitchen usage, while waiting for breakfast.

“As we exited the doorway, I looked far off at our closest visible neighbor’s cabin. At this distance it looked like a toy house as wisps of smoke curled from the chimney. That neighbor lived about a half-hour away by wagon but half that time by a horse and rider. The other few neighbors’ cabins were hidden by the forest, though smoke from their chimneys could be seen above the trees.

“My family had moved from a safe Albany, New York area to the wilderness fifty miles southwest, which lay on the western fringe of the New York colony (note: present-day Oneonta). Dad wanted his own land, while mom had a secret desire to move because, at our Albany location, dad earned extra money on Saturdays by prizefighting. Dad was tall, over six feet, muscled, and knew how to use his fists as he had done in Ireland. He mostly fought tough travelers and ego-bloated ruffians but some Saturdays a local farmer would let-off-steam by fighting. Instead of fighting in the streets or in local businesses, the mayor would set up a Saturday date. The fights took in an old barn with a temporary boxing ring put together quickly. In a dozen fights he won all but one. Mom appreciated the extra money, but she asked him to quit because he’d come home cut, sore, and bruised hands no matter whether he won or lost the fight. I often heard mom’s and dad’s soft whispers about not fighting anymore and, especially, not teaching me how to fight, which was happening when there was time, usually on Sundays. I heard dad say that he would stop the prizefighting, but he wouldn’t stop teaching me how to protect myself. Mom accepted the compromise, walked away, shook her head, and exclaimed, “Men!”

“Dad taught me much, so I knew how to fistfight well after months of practice. I used burlap, seed bags to punch. I was growing tall and brawny like dad was, but I had never been in a fight. Some shoving but not a fistfight. Anyway, we did move along with many others, many of them with the idea of ‘Manifest Destiny’ in their minds which seemed silly at the time. However, it was the motivation for many future-thinking travelers and settlers, but mainly it was the opportunity to claim free land.

“When we departed Albany, we travelled slowly, our two horses pulling our heavily loaded, covered wagon which contained all our most needed belongings. Our slowness irritated my dad, who was impatient with traveling at a walking pace. The slow travel was due mostly to our overloaded wagon containing all the things my mom and dad ‘just had to have,’ plus the roads and trails were in rough condition. Breaking a wheel would have been extremely difficult to repair on roads that were seldom used. It took us longer than expected to get there, two of the reasons were that Willy was a riding horse and Rocky was a plow horse, as in a ‘rocky field.’ Rocky was the stronger of the two while Willy pulled weakly. I was tough to travel while veering right then left due to unbalanced pulling. 

The trail was rough; things got broken, especially kitchen items so mom was upset, grumpy and discouraged. I thought, but kept quiet, that dad was traveling too fast and caused the breakage. Dad’s tools were metal and hardwood. No breaking them.

There were only two or three other farms already established in the area we arrived at, so building out cabin and horses’ shed was a community effort. Three already established neighbors helped. Each neighbor helped the others build or do what one man alone could not do.

“Are there any questions?”

                                       *******

“Yeah. Explain, again, about that ‘man-fist-denee’ thing,” Slone inquired.

“Yeah. For me, too. I forgot what it means,” Lily questioned.

          “Manifest Destiny was the belief, at that time, that America should expand from the Atlantic to the Pacific Oceans and that this expansion was justified and would eventually happen because it was America’s ‘destiny’ which means that it was necessary. The word ‘manifest’ just meant that this destiny was obvious. Shall I continue?”

The kids looked at my bright-eyed smile, then moved their head up and down.

                                                *******

“I didn’t know until well after we got there that my dad and mom had taken a substantial risk by moving westward away from the much safer Albany area because, at the time, the Iroquois Indians were fighting on the British side of the Revolutionary War. These Indians were making raids into the western edge of the colonies creating havoc by burning buildings, killing settlers,’ and destroying their farm animals and crops.

My dad didn’t really know how far we’d be traveling, but once he saw the chimney smoke from three other cabins, he stopped to talk to those people. They showed him and area of land that they did not consider their property and helped him mark the borders of it to claim for our family.

With much demanding work from my father, mother, sister, me, and the help of neighbors, we built our log cabin while we lived in our covered wagon, which was not comfortable with the four of us sleeping so tightly together. Of course, my father did most of the work, with me assisting him, but, occasionally, a neighbor or two were needed for the heavy lifting of logs and beams.

When the cabin was finished and all was planned, settled, and arranged, it was a cozy, but small place to live, but much better than a canvas covered wagon. Attached to the center beam of the roof was a wooden ladder make from branches. A rope was attached to the rung nearest the floor. When it was time for bed, dad stepped onto a tree trunk chair so he could grab the rope and pull the ladder down to the cabin floor. Mom and Dad slept under the left wing of the roof, while Franny and I had separate beds under the right wing of the roof. During the summer it was often too hot because the summer’s stifling air rose to the roof and was trapped there. In wintertime, the trapped heat from a roaring fireplace was welcomed. As the fire died the winter coolness took its place.

The front door was at the center of one side of the cabin. To each side of the door was a centered window that was made too small for attacking Indians to crawl through. The window openings were covered with scraped, thin, greased animal skins to let in the light in. Dad built the window shutters on the inside of the cabin which the neighbors giggled about, until Dad told them that outside shutter could be easily ripped off and inside shutters would be much more difficult to rip off. Each window would be used as a shooting port, if needed. When you walked into the house, directly across the room was the fireplace made of flat stones carried in on our wagon from the river or stones that were plowed up by neighbors, went unused, and given to us. The fireplace mantle had nothing on it yet, except my dad’s flintlock rifle, plus lead balls and a powder horn. Dad always wore a knife and a small ax one on each hip. He would say to me, “You’ll always need one or both of them and it only takes a simple arm and wrist movement to quickly get to them.” I got into the habit of wearing a knife, but I didn’t like the heavier feel of a small ax on my hip.

I especially liked the cool, fall evenings in the cabin. Dad and I had made a small log table that would seat the four of us, with uncomfortable, ladder-back chairs for all of us. At first our chairs were cut from tree trunks. Much later dad and I made ladder-back chairs from dried branches. Those seats were uncomfortable but more convenient than using tree trunk seats.

The door was open to let the cool night air in. I stood in the doorway enjoying the cool breeze. I could hear the bare, finger-like tips of tree branches rubbing against each other, as if washing their hands. The gentle noise created a soothing rhythm, relaxing me. With everyone, but me, sitting at the table, I looked across the room. As the night grew darker, mom asked me to lock the door by placing the heavy wooden bar across it. Mom grabbed the candles and placed them on the table, one each end and one in the middle. Dad lit them with the flame from a twig that was placed on a red hot coal in the fireplace which was allowed to burn out.

Mom was sewing, Franny was learning from Mom and dad stopped shaving the wood. He picked up the pieces and threw them into the fire place where they burned quickly. was whittling, shaving off slices of wood while his serious, tired face. He was probably thinking about tomorrow’s chores. I knew he was thinking about the never ending work because he was just saving of slices off the wood; not carving anything. He did that when he was troubled about something. I learned to carve by watching him, though it was less and less frequent with the demanding work load each day. Then as I stared into the flames, my own thoughts of the next day sizzled in my head.

The cabin was shadowy in places, dimly lit in others and brightly lit at the table. That combination would have made a happy painting. The fireplace wood had burned down to the embers, but the glowing coals grabbed my attention. As the a few protesting wood chips burst into flames.

When it was bedtime, mom hand me a piece of white chalk. The candles were blown out, so the cabin was dark. It was my job to check where the moonlight showed through the spacing in the logs. I would mark the area, then, in the morning, using a bucket, I would mix mud and hay (clay, if I could find it) to a mortar-like consistency, then patch the needed areas where Franny, who was inside the cabin, would find the chalk marks, then push a piece of hay through the hole so I could see it, then I repaired the chinking from the outside.

Later, I decided to chink the whole inside of the cabin. My parents were surprised but happy. Franny teased me, thinking that I wanted a big favor.

                                      *******

“When we got there in the early spring of 1777, it was a bad year for most settlers. The Indian raids had increased and spread terror amongst the neighbors. They knew that their country was at war so they would not be getting any help from George Washington’s army. Many settlers were killed because of their isolation from other settlers. They could only depend on themselves, which usually meant they were defenseless to suddenly attacking group of Indian raiders.”

“So, didn’t you join the Army?” asked Lily.

“Well, dear Lily, I was only sixteen and we were too far away to

join. We had to stay together to survive in the wilderness. I was too young, and dad couldn’t leave our family. Without my dad, we couldn’t run the farm by ourselves. There were so many jobs to do that we were busy most of the day, and sometimes into the evening. Plus, none of us thought George Washington and the Continental Army had a chance against the overwhelming number of soldiers and the firepower of the highly trained British Army. My dad thought the war would end in months, not years. He and I concentrated on building the cabin, the horses’ shed and plowing the field to plant corn. My mom and Franny had a garden to keep us supplied with summer vegetables and mom was teaching Franny to milk the cow. We had the cabin in livable condition in a month. Without the help of friendly neighbors, it would have taken twice as long. I remember all of us feeling joyful for not having to live in and under our covered wagon. Many improvements needed to be made, but we had the four walls, windows, shutters, door, and roof completed. We still had to cook outdoors since our fireplace needed a lot more work but that had to wait. Meals were cooked outdoors.

“One morning my dad left the cabin after breakfast to hook up the horses. He had decided to pull tree stumps that remained after we cut down trees to get logs for the cabin and the animal shed. The trees had been cut down were used to build the cabin and the horses’ shed. Larger sapling poles were used to make fence posts and railings.

When I paused to get my facts straight, Slone got fidgety, polishing the porch floor with the seat of his pants. He got slivers in his butt before, but that didn’t stop him from continuing, even when our mom had to get them out and Lily peeked and laughed. She teased him for several days.

I saw that the children could hear their mom and their Nana washing dishes. Soon the whisking sound of the broom against the floor was heard.

“You see, back then I was only sixteen and full of piss and vinegar.”

“Bill,” Nana yelled, “Language?”

“Yes, Dear,” I replied, rolling my eyes, making comical facial distortions.

Lily was older than her brother by a year and a half. She had a puzzled look etched across her face, but then she looked satisfied that she had figured-out the answer. Slone looked confused so Lily whispered, “piss and vinegar,” in his ear.

Lily grinned at Slone, then they tried to hide their smiles.

“Well, as I was saying,” I snuck a wink at the kids, “I was full of piss and vinegar in those days; full of mischief and a little rebellious, thinking that I was nearly grown up, when really I had a lot of growing up to do.

“Let’s just say that I was full of thrilling ideas of adventure and full of youthful energy to find it, and none of it was farm work-oriented.” Quit giggles sprung from the lips of the kids. “When I was young, like you are now, I was always looking for an excuse to get out of work so I could explore the forest, climb trees, play in creeks, or simply watch the animals and birds, plus follow the streams, sometimes taking a fishing sting and hook with me.

When I said the words, “Climb the trees,” I looked directly at Slone who was the avid tree-climber in the family. I winked at Slone. He returned it. Slone immediately smiled, knowing that we had that in common.

“There’s something about climbing the highest tree, getting as close to the top of it as you safely can, and then looking out at the sky, the clouds, the sun, then shorter tops of the other trees alive with animal life. I enjoyed the sight of tall pine trees coming nearly to a point look as if they were Christmas trees, if you could cut them six feet from the top. It’s a different world from that far up those tall trees, as if you were animal looking down toward the ground when things looked especially small. Everything that most people would never see is all around you, especially in fall when the other trees have shed their leaves, and the ground becomes littered with the vivid colors scattering, floating, and hopping in a breeze as if they were brought to life, I could also see sparkling lights as the sun’s rays reflected off a distant river or creek water. The air was so clear and cool that I could sometimes hear the ripples and gurgles caused by rocky river and creek beds. That was because the sound was no longer filtered or blocked on the way through the trees and landscape but came unobstructed over the tops of them to where I was standing at the top of a tree. The slow flowing water sparkled off the wet rocks and the glistening vegetation. The sparkles were like seeing chunks of quartz that were winking at the sun. Floating vegetation, twigs and dead branches dipped down then up the waves, shining off and on like stars in the night sky.”

The kids were listening intently, focusing on the images that I hoped my words brought to their minds. Lily told me later that she was thinking about diamonds floating in the water, while Slone said he saw the river as being a water snake, offering him a ride on its back.

                                                *******

When I paused, Lily said, “You didn’t describe the view from the treetop, or the river like that the last time you told us the story?”

“That’s probably true. But I probably never tell the story the exact same way. Each time I tell it different memories come back to me. I remember things I hadn’t mentioned in the earlier story or stories, and I forget things from the last time I told them. The important parts and details are true. Maybe that’s why you like the retellings of the story so much. I tell it a little differently each time because each time I tell it I remember different things that left an impact on me,”

 “Yeah, Da, I like that,” Slone said excitedly. Then, without realizing it, he squeezed then unsqueezed his buttocks, making his body bounce up and down. Lily and I laughed without saying anything to him. It was as if he were sitting on a bubble that inflated, then collapsed over and over.

I looked at Lily. She seemed to know what I was thinking and said, “He farts a lot, too.”

Slone smiled proudly and on demand he squeezed one out.

Lily and I didn’t pay attention to him, but after a few seconds, Lily slid a couple of feet away from him. I leaned back into my chair.

Slone smiled at both of us, then said, “Mom can sew the rip or get the stain out of my pants.” He couldn’t help himself from bursting into laughter that sprayed spittle on the porch.

Lily shook her head and scowled at Slone’s bouncing on his buttocks. He saw her scowl at him and stopped bouncing. Then they both agreed that they liked the fact that I was not as stern, not as polite as I was expected to be and didn’t always obey the adult rules of proper behavior, like using curse words, body parts or unpleasant descriptions.

I said, “That’s just me. Some manners and rules of etiquette fit a certain environment, so when I’m out of that environment, they are not important to me. That’s mostly how I get in trouble with Nana and your mom. If I say ‘hell’ or ‘damn’ in Albany, people will stare at me and think, “How dare he be so rude. Where are his manners?” But here in the wilderness, I say many words that I would not say in Albany. Also, Nana doesn’t want you to copy some things that I say or do. So don’t pick your nose or scratch your ass just because I do it sometimes.”

Laughter erupted from curved lips and smiles stretched to their extreme, plus Slone began picking his nose, looking at the pale green results sticking to his fingertip. Then flicking of off towards Lily. to flick it at Lily. She grimaced, then punched him in the arm.

I addressed Slone and Lily, saying, “You can fart and giggle about it around me and I will pretend to be outraged while fanning the air near my nose, but you do not fart at the dinner table because most people don’t like eating their food while breathing in a fart, and knowing how the smell is made and where it comes from. I’ll never give it a second thought if you say “Damn” instead of “darn,” or “hell,” or “butt.” Silly sensitivity is useless. But you do need to use words wisely. There are word that children, if they are wise, would not say around adults, especially their parents, relatives, teachers, in church and other places. Where you are and who you are with will usually tell you what language and behaviors are needed, if you use common sense, and which ones are better not said or done. Think of the other person, not yourself. If you think they would be offended, don’t do it.”

I used to tell the kids that there was a time and place for certain words and knowing which words to choose. Knowing where, when and wo you are with before using certain words would save them grief and punishment. Then Slone reminded me that, at times, I violate my own advice. I stated that, “If you make that mistake you make a mistake like that, it’s best to apologize.

“That’s damn hard for a kid,” Slone exclaimed.

“Sure. Like I said, Proper word choices are full of traps, and you’ll step into plenty of them as you grow and express your thoughts, especially angry thoughts using words that you’re not choosing carefully. And, if you’re not sure about a word or words, then don’t say it, or them, just use different words. Even kids can do that, right?”

Slone rubbed his nose, pausing to think, then said, “I guess,” in an uncertain voice as he responded to my advice.

Lily looked at him. “What do you mean by ‘I guess’ Slone?” If you must poop, do you do it in the house? Is that the time and place to poop?”

Both Slone’s and my face erupted in surprise expressions, bringing about the raising of our eyebrows, and looking surprised at each other.

I smiled at Lily’s analogy. Slone sneered at her.

Mara and Nana peeked out the door after hearing the laughter, curious as to what was so funny, both thinking that there was nothing funny about my escape from the Indians. Then they went about their business of cleaning the cabin, mending worn clothes, and washing dirty clothes.

I heard the women working and shouted, “Ladies, I’m just telling the kids some funny stuff that happened in my youth.”

Nana went to the open door, and stated authoritatively, “Just don’t

tell them too much, and choose your words carefully, which you know damned well that you don’t do enough of. And, for God’s sake, don’t mention any days before we met. You know what I mean. Your hellion days of youth."

I didn’t think she heard that part of our conversation. I whispered, “Nana’s hearing is so good that she can hear a flea fart from a mile away.” Then I said, “Shhhh,” to keep their laughter quieter.

Now that Nana, Mara, and Todd were out of hearing range, if the kids didn’t laugh too loudly, I said, “Close call kids. Don’t want them to know we were talking about pooping in the house.”

They both held a hand over their mouth and laughed quietly as their eyes burst with reflected sparkles of joy.

Slone couldn’t control his curiosity. He leaned closer to me and whispered, “Isn’t ‘hell’ a bad word?”

“No,” but it’s a bad place,” Lily said with a giggle.

Slone couldn’t wait to get his words out. He blurted, “Is a hellion a lion from hell? Is that a story from the bible?”

We laughed again as I replied, “Very good, Slone, but no. A hellion is a mischievous, sometimes troublesome person. But it seems to me that most kids are hellions at some point in their lives and some are still hellions as adults.”

“Keep telling the story, Da,” Lily said, anxious for more.

“Yeah. Before we get told to get back to work,” added Slone in a hushed voice, his eyes darting toward the cabin door, then to his dad who was working with Rocky to remove a tree stump.

                                                 CHAPTER 3

“At that time, I didn’t know my mom was pregnant. On the farm, we usually had to work from sunrise to sunset. I was usually helping my dad with the animals, or plowing, planting, making repairs on the cabin or the animals shed. Mom did all the house work, the garden and some milking. The two horses were crowding our cow, Daisy, so we had to add a section to the shed to make room for her. In summertime we would be building a barn.

“Then endless repair work on the shed, the cabin, the pasture land needed fences, even the outhouse needed work. It was built too quickly and sometimes shifted its position, especially after a rain storm. My mother and sister protested loudly, so making the outhouse stable was done quickly.

“But every other day or so I was surprised when my dad would give me our blackened, brass kettle and send me into the forest to get blue berries, edible plants, roots, and nuts if I could find them. The kettle was much larger than needed, but it was clean, easy to grab and, for short distances, not heavy since it was brass. Mom especially liked blueberries and wild strawberries. I had the most fun, though, when mom got me time away from work to go fishing. The river had plentiful fish, so we were not desperate for meat, though it was also plentiful. Every other day it seemed I was sent to the forest for blueberries. I didn’t know it then, but my mom was pregnant but not showing it yet. She had cravings for blueberries, but any berries I could find would satisfy her cravings for berries. At the time I did not realize that all berries were good nutrition for a growing baby so my dad must have known that I had a sibling on the way.”

Slone interjected, “Da, you must have loved that. You could get out into the forest with the animals, the creeks and river and enjoy your free time, right? Did you climb any trees?”

“Not many berries in the trees, Slone,” Lily said, being mildly sarcastic and smiling about it.

“No kidding, Lily. I mean just doing it because it’s fun.”

I shushed the kids with an index finger to my lips, then, “No arguing, please. It distracts me from the story and attract attention.” I nodded at the cabin door.

“I couldn’t be gone for long, so no tree climbing while I was searching for berries. What did happen though was that I had to walk farther and farther to find the berry bushes that I hadn’t picked clean. I was gone for about an hour, sometimes two. It wasn’t long before I had to walk too far for the berries, so I had to stop. But while it lasted it was the best part of my day. The sights, sounds, smells, even the taste of the berries and nuts, the rippling sounds of the creek over stones; yes, it was wonderful. The forest called to me. I felt its pull.

“I would see animal tracks and trails and know what the animals were by the shape of their footprints. Deer and rabbits, mostly. Squirrels tended to stay up in the trees but usually not hunted due to offering so little meat. Turkey was a treat, but most foul was found in the open spaces hidden in tall grass.”

“Oh. Wow,” Slone trilled excitedly. “That’s exciting!”

Lily was quiet, but her excitement was evident by her focus on me with her happy smile.

Before I got started again, Lily asked, “Any other animals?”

“Sure. I just remembered that I had to learn what a raccoon track looked like. My dad showed me, plus I learned about turkey track shapes.

“I wasn’t always rough, rugged, and unafraid in my youth.” I smiled, “Sometimes there are scary situations.”

“You got scared?” Slone stated with surprise and a questioning gaze.

“Damn right. Oops. Darn, I mean. Darn right I was scared. If you’re smart, you’ll slowly back away, not run, or play dead if you’re attacked. especially if she has cubs. A momma bear with her cubs is deadly. My dad put his hand on my shoulder and said, back-up slowly. It’s time to go home. He was scared, too. Have you heard of a famous frontiersman named Hugh Glass who was attacked by a momma bear? Ask your school teacher. He may know about Hugh Glass.”

They made sounds of disappointment, said please a few times so I gave in and told them about Hugh Glass.

          “Hugh Glass was a member of a party of men who were hunting beaver and bringing their pelts back to towns for sale. One morning he and two friends were in the forest hunting for meat. Hugh came across a momma grizzly bear without knowing that he was near her cubs who were sitting silently behind bushes. Grizzlies out west, are twice as big, and much more fierce than black bears. He got off one shot that didn’t even slow the Grizzly. His partners shot the bear, too, but the bear never slowed down until it attack Hugh and ripped him apart. The injuries were so extensive that his friends thought he’d certainly die, so when hostile Black Feet Indians were spotted, the two men left Hugh to die alone. Hugh didn’t die. He recovered enough to crawl, stagger, hop with a crutch, eat meat that other animals had killed, especially the wolves. He was desperately, and painfully going to a frontier fort that was more than two hundred miles away where he healed and mostly recovered his physical abilities. He searched for those two men, found the youngest one and realized the kid was overwhelmed and went by the decisions of the older man. Hugh forgave him. The older man joined the Army and was sent to a fort hundreds of miles east. Hugh hated him with a fierceness unequaled by ferocious rage but decided not to go after that man. Now let me continue the story.”    

Hearing the story of that man amazed them into silence as they stared at each other in awe. I leaned forward, closer to the kids. With a whispering, deep growl that I hoped was scary, mysterious, and with terror-coated words spilling from my mouth, like bloody water gurgling over boulders in a river. I said, “One afternoon I saw some strange animal tracks. Huge footprints made by two legs, human-like. They were smaller than a bear’s prints, but dagger-like claws much longer than a bear (I stretched my hands out to shoulder width to show how long the claws were). The stride of that two-legged creature was enormous, as if it jumped forward instead of taking steps. I was scared but I could not resist following it. Along the trail was a half-eaten black bear, its chest and stomach ripped open, fresh blood all around the body, and no head. I looked all around, fearful of this forest monster. When I looked up into the trees, I saw it leaning down toward me, ready to grab me with its empty hand. Its claws almost touching me; its hands were so huge that it easily held the head of a black bear in its other hand, the bear’s mouth gaping as if it died in terror. I froze in fear, unable to move, my terror was so great I thought my heart would explode. It opened its mouth and showed its bloody, spiked teeth, and then its tongue shot out, blood both spraying and dripping steadily. Its eyes bulged and bored into me, as if to say, ‘I want to taste you and drink your blood.”

          “I got up, turned around and ran like a terrified rabbit. I tried to scream, but my jaw was locked tightly. I made grunting sounds, the words shattering against the ivory wall of my clenched teeth.

          “My legs weakened. The muscles twitched and trembled. My balance was affected, leaving me unsteady. The forest swirled around me. The ground rose to punch my face. It looked that way when I fell, face first, into the ground. I remember thinking that I’d never get up, my nose clogged with dirt and me teeth coated with dirty grit. I’d never become an adult, never be a father, and as I lay, face down I heard a loud rush of branches and leaves swishing, then a loud thump on the ground. I closed my eyes waiting for death. How much would it hurt, I wondered?”

I paused purposely to tease the kids.

“You didn’t tell us this part before, Da,” Lily said loudly.

“Geez, don’t stop now. Keep going, Da,” Slone demanded.

“OK. I could smell the beast. There was a strong, disgusting odor in the air, a smell that was burning my nose and moistening my eyes. I heard its movement, its growls, and grunting noises as I tried to bury my face into the earth, as if I could really hide that way. The sounds approached closer and closer and were now nearly upon me as fear and helplessness overcame any further action by me. Then the sounds suddenly stopped. There was no noise, except for that brute chasing me. It was so close now that its foul smell mingled with the smell of blood and rotting guts. I felt as if I would vomit, stomach acid already in my mouth. That sickening odor intensified. Reflexively I squeezed my nostril but gagged anyway. I got dizzy. Terror clutched me with its lengthy claws, then squeezed. I fainted I was now at the mercy of the creature.”

                                                *******

I paused as if to remember something, then stared crazily into the eyes of Lily and Slone whose expressions reflected impatient terror.

I shocked the kids with a sudden, noisy growl, made a monster face, and shot my hands out at them, my finger curved like long claws. I watched the kids as they screamed in terror and rapidly leaned backward, away from me, nearly falling off the porch. Their faces whitened; eyes bulged. I had scared them more than they had ever been frightened before.

I stared at them, waiting, not saying anything. I was waiting for their reaction to my fake story.

“What happened next!” the kids shouted simultaneously.

“It’s too darn scary to tell you,” I teased. “I don’t want you to have nightmares.”

“You can’t just stop there,” Slone blurted. “What happened?”

“Come on, Da,” Lily’s frustrated voice begged.

     *******

In the cabin, near the open door, Lily’s and Slone’s mom and Nana had pulled up a bench, I heard them dragging it, to sit on while quietly listening to my story.

“He’s got ’em hooked,” Nana whispered.

“Yeah. Gonna pull them in like they were fish on a hook,” Mara added with a smile.

                                       *******

“Well, kids, what happened next was that I woke up after having fainted. I got up and quickly looked around myself. At my feet was the bear’s head. It had rolled out of the tree, thumped on the ground, then rolled across the ground until it bumped into my feet.”

“You mean that what you saw in the tree was not a monster, but the bear’s bloody head?” questioned Lily.

“Yep. That it was.”

          Slone: “And it was not a monster jumping out of the tree? It was the bear’s head falling out of the tree. I don’t get it.”

Me: “That’s it. And what I thought was the sound of the monster approaching me was the bear head rolling across the ground, stopping when it hit my feet.”

Skeptically, Lily stated, “So how’d the bear’s head get up in that tree?”

Me: “Actually what really happened was that I startled the bear who was eating berries, it panicked and ‘lost its head’ then and it bounced up into the tree.”

Subdued giggles came from inside the house.

Lily and Slone slowly turned their head to face each other; a silent message being passed back and forth.

Slone pointed at Lily, as if the say, You say it.

          Lily: “Is any part of that story true?”

          Me: “Sure. The first part is all true.”

          Slone: “But the monster part of the story is all fake?”

          Me: “Of course. There are no monsters in the woods, and those strange footprints that I found on the path were from someone wearing moccasins. Terrific story, though, huh?’

Lily said, “Oh, Da. You’re so weird.”

“But when you tell the real story, you’ll tell the truth, won’t you, and not make things up?” Slone said, disappointedly.

“I agree, Slone. I’ll tell the true story as far as I can recall the details, but it won’t be as much fun, nor as funny as what I just did. I’m sorry that I wasted time. Now you have to finish your chores.”

More giggling came from the cabin.

Mara: “Dad is still an awful tease when he tells stories.”

Nana: “He has more fun with make-believe stories. You must remember all those stories he told you when you were growing up.’

Mara: “Not all, of course, but I remember so many times when he told wonderfully entertaining stories, especially the Irish Pooka, the seven feet tall rabbit stories full of adventure, and excitement where nobody gets seriously hurt mostly because the Pooka has magic powers.”

Nana: “I remember when he first told me about the Irish folklore character called Pooka. When he told me it was a mythical story about a mythical spirit in animal form, usually a very tall, mischievous rabbit that was rarely harmful, I laughed at him, thinking it was silly. But I changed my mind when I saw how much you liked to hear all his pretend by highly entertaining stories.”

Mara: “And now the grandkids can enjoy those stories.”

Nana: “True, but now we need to get started with dinner.”

                                                 CHAPTER 4

I said, “You know, kids, when I was your age, there was little free time for children. They had to help with the chores. That’s mainly why there were large families. The more children a family had, the more help there was to do all the work needed around a farm: the cornfield, vegetable garden, animal care, cabin maintenance and hunting for meat. Nana and I help your mom and dad doing chores now. When everyone helps, the work gets done sooner. The days are tiring but our evenings give us some time to relax.”

It was in the evenings that Nana and I told stories about our youth, with Nana closely monitoring my stories for appropriateness; a gentle or a not so gentle hand on my shoulder or back was my reminder when she thought the story was going astray, especially about sex, violence and swearing. I rarely disagreed with her, but there were times when I thought she was too strict.

Corn dominated much of the daylight hours. Plowing the field in spring, seeding it, nurturing it, and protecting the seedlings from birds, animals, and weeds. Those were tiring and constant jobs. At times I’d have blisters on top of blisters. Getting hay for the animals’ winter-feed was an enormous job. Cutting it all was my dad’s job because I couldn’t manage a scythe at an early age. I picked up batches of hay and brought them to the wagon. That’s when neighbors helped neighbors. Arms, shoulders, and backs trembled at the end of the day and were followed be sleepless or restless nights.

“The women had jobs just as tiring. Taking care of the house clean up and minor indoor repairs, food preparation, sewing, weaving, to mention just a few of their jobs. But mainly, having babies and the childcare that followed them was never ending.

“Feeding the animals and milking the cow were chores mostly completed by my mom and Franny. Eggs were an important meal source, so the chickens had to be cared for and protected. They ran free and fed themselves by eating what they found on or in the ground. At night they had to be enclosed so wild animals would not kill and eat them.

                                       ********

“Early one morning, after a few months of getting settled, my dad drove my mom and Franny in the wagon, for five miles, to our closest neighbor’s home. Mom had promised to help, once a month, with Mrs. Helen Grace’s quilting projects. Mrs. Grace also invited a woman that lived a shorter distance away than we did. It was a relaxing, social time for sharing news, ideas, and conversation with the few local neighbors. Dad went along so he could help Mr. Robert Grace, with jobs that needed the muscle of two people to make them easier.

“In those days, if you needed help, you had to give help. Therefore, when Mr. Grace needed help, Dad and Mom would go to the Grace’s home for the day. The same was true when dad needed help from Mr. Grace.

          “So, once a month I was left alone at the farm to care for the animals and do other jobs that mom and dad had assigned to me. That day dad reminded me to pick berries for mom, who was showing her pregnancy now.

“I knew that they would leave an hour before sunrise and arrive back home about an hour after sunset. I also knew that if I worked as fast as I could, that I could finish the chores early, then skip my noon dinnertime and have the afternoon exploring the woods, while I picked berries. It was the one time of month where I could spend a few hours in the forest. But to accomplish that, I had to act sad about all the jobs I had been assigned so that mom and dad did not know how quickly I could get them done.”

          I smiled at Slone and Lily knowing they were happy to know that I had to do jobs that they also had to do.

                                       *******

Lily asked, “Weren’t you scared to be left alone?”

          “No. The area had been free of Indian danger for a year so that was not a problem. In addition, I was close to being seventeen years old; in my mind I was all grown up. I thought of myself as mature, brave, strong, and courageous, not knowing that my survival would rely on those qualities.”

          The kids snickered at the description of myself in my youth.

Slone was about to make a joke. Lily could tell by his mischievous smile. She poked Slone, got his attention, and shushed him to keep him quiet.

Slone complied, but by viewing his annoyed expression, he obeyed

reluctantly and was tempted to use foul language. Luckily, he resisted and simply scowled at Lily who smiled back at him. I could tell he was irritated.

          I continued, not aware of the children’s’ thoughts and actions. My mind was focused on remembering hundreds of pieces of the puzzle that formed my story, then assembling them, even though I had told the children this story several times. It was strange, I remembered thinking, that each time I told the story, I remembered more and forgot to mention things that I had said previously — at least that is what Lily and Slone sometimes told me.

“Naturally, I finished my chores as quickly as possible, had changed my mind and had a quick and early dinner, then cleaned up and was excited about my free time in the forest. I grabbed mom’s larger black, brass kettle in case I saw wild apples and mushrooms, as well as berries. I ran into the woods, picking berries and edible mushrooms as fast as I could while looking around to figure out which way I’d go exploring.

“As if pulled by a magnet, I kept going deeper and deeper into the forest; places that I had never been able to explore before. The excitement of thrilling discoveries wore off quickly when I realized that I was lost. I was angry with myself, though I knew I had plenty of time to figure out how to get home.

          “I knew I could figure it out even though I had never been this deep into the forest. I turned slowly around in a circular arc to decide which way to go back home, to reverse my trail. I’d follow my own tracks if I could find them. I could climb the tallest trees, look around and know approximately where the cabin was, especially if I spotted smoke from a chimney. I’d pick more berries, too.

“I headed back the way I came, the shadows making the forest dark. I thought my vision was playing tricks on me, so I rubbed my eyes thinking I was getting dizzy. I blinked and looked again and saw the same thing. The trees and vegetation seemed to move. Suddenly the forest came alive. The trees and bushes moved toward me like wood spirits moving the scenery toward me.”

Lily and Slone were so intensely focused that their upper bodies leaned forward, their eyes wide open, their ears turned on pivots for better hearing, the way some animals do it, especially deer.

 “The forest all around me was moving. An illusion? Was I sick? No. The forest was alive with Indians who had been hidden behind trees and bushes. I was so scared that I felt as if I would pee in my pants.” I exclaimed while staring seriously into the eyes of Slone and Lily.

The children tittered but said nothing that would interrupt the story.

Todd, who had been listening for a while, walked to Mara and Nana, who were just finishing washing the dishes. Todd said, “He’s got the children in the palms of his hands. You’ll not be getting them to bed early tonight. They have worked hard today, so let them stay up longer and have some fun.”

Mara smiled broadly, and then hugged Todd. She had been thinking the same thing and was happy that Todd felt the same way.

          Todd was a tall man, so Mara’s head pressed against his chest. She looked up with a teasing glow in her eyes and said, “Yes Master. I’ll do exactly as you say.”

“Really? Why don’t you say that more often?” Todd asked.

“I can lie only so many times in a day,” Mara teased.

Todd, Mara, and Nana laughed quietly so they would not disturb my story telling, but I heard their short conversation.

                                       *******

“There looked to be between ten and fifteen grim-faced Indians, their faces painted to make them blend in to the forest surroundings. It worked. They all had a weapon in their hands: knives, arrows, or tomahawks, all aimed at me.

 I assumed that the Indian who stood closest to me was the leader. He was the biggest and scariest of the group. I would soon learn that he was also the meanest and cruelest. His hands were painted red. He stepped closer to me. He investigated the brass kettle and said something that made the other Indians laugh, probably because there were no weapons on me or in the kettle. I was now sweating and afraid to move. There had not been any Indian trouble in these parts for a long time. The anxious feeling of doom wrapped me in its coils. Why one this particular day,” I thought

“The Indian leader also had red paint smeared around his eyes making his eye sockets appear like pools of blood. From the nose down to his chin his face was smeared with black paint, making his mouth appear like the mouth to a black cave with a pink monster inside.

“I was in a lethal situation, but my only stupid thought was, This is not fair. I only get to live to be sixteen years old?

“He stared at my face, then I felt a burning sensation on my upper lip; the surprising taste of hot blood followed. Quicker than my eye could follow, he had slashed me with his knife, across my upper lip. From then on, I carried that scar as my badge of bravery, though, at the time, I didn’t think of it like that.”

“Let us see it again, Da,” exclaimed the children.

I leaned forward and stretched my upper lip downward so they could get a better look at it.”

When they sat down, I continued the story.

 “I stared at the leader, having only seen a blur. I reflexively held the pot with my left hand and placed my right hand to my lips. Blood coated my fingers, ran over my bottom lip and down to my chin, dripping like red rain, though I felt no pain. I was too shocked to feel any pain.

“Then the kettle was torn from me, and I found myself pinned to the ground, on my back. I had been hit from behind. Now, in a daze, I looked upward and saw the angry face of a warrior and my own knife descending slowly towards my face. Fear, and feeling helpless caused me to close my eyes, waiting for death. I must have fainted.

          “When I woke up everything was either red or tinted red: my vision was blurry. The warriors were all laughing and pointing, tauntingly, at me. It took me a couple of seconds to realize they had slit my left eyelid with such a subtle cut, like the cut on my lip, that my eye was unharmed, though the vision in that eye was tinted red.”

                                      *******

Slone, and especially Lily, grimaced as if they could feel that pain, and the red-tinted world that I had seen. Lily had her hand covering her gaping mouth, while Slone found the description repulsive, and his distorted face showed it.

When I noticed the kids’ negative reactions, I smiled, then said, “It’s OK. It didn’t hurt very much; it happened so fast, and I was still dazed when it happened, though it was hard to see. Only after a few minutes did I feel mild pain.”

Lily asked, “Is that why your eyelid droops, Da?”

           “That’s exactly why it droops, Sweetheart. You see, when I got to the evening campsite, Red Hawk realized that it was a mistake to cut my eye because, since I had trouble seeing, I also had trouble walking, staying on the overgrown path and occasionally tripping. That slowed down the entire war party. The leader spoke harshly to Red Hawk for doing it. Also, my hands were not tied behind my back for the same reasons.

          So, that night a much younger warrior was told to take care of my needs. That young warrior looked at the White Oak Tree that I stood next to, picked a piece of sap off its bark, warmed it by quickly rubbing it in my hands, creating hot friction, then told me to close my damaged eye. When I did that, he applied the warm, pliable sap to the wound and a smaller piece to the lower lid, where it meets the cheek. He told me that my eyelid needed to stay closed for a day for the wound to at least partially heal. The good thing about it was a visible reminder to the other warriors to be careful about knocking me around for fun. Then the young warrior tied my wrists around the back of the tree while I sat with my back against the rough, sharp-edged bark.

           Dusk had arrived. Three campfires were started. They ate and I wondered if I’d be fed. While I waited, I studied the trees closest to me and the ones as far away as I could see. My dad had, over the years taught me the names of trees and I remembered most of what he said. I saw plenty of regular pine trees. There were White Pines and White Spruce all around this area. I was tied to the White Oak tree. A few feet away was a Chestnut Oak. In the distance were White Oak, Sugar Maple, and Red Maple trees. I looked sideways and saw the beautiful copse of White Birch trees. There were others that I wasn’t as sure about their names, but simply remembering those names comforted me with memories of my dad.”

                                                *******

Lily was about to ask another question when Slone poked her in the ribs. When Lily gave him an angry stare, Slone smiled and stated, “Shhh,” then held his right index finger to his puckered lips. He smirked sarcastically at Lily, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “Fair is fair, right?” She understood that the story was more important than additional questions, but she didn’t like being poked, so she sneered back at her brother. Then they both looked at me, their eyes saying, ‘Please continue.’

          “OK, so let’s keep going,” I said. “I remember seeing the black kettle empty and on the ground. It was tipped on its side. I thought of all the berries I had picked, then noticed a few warriors smiling at me with blue fingers, lips, and teeth. The berries were gone, as well as a few mushrooms. It made me think of my mom and how my dad thought that the berries had some sort of health benefit. She simply enjoyed the taste, gut it could have been a pregnancy craving.

“We were up early the next day.

 “Kids, to make this part of the story shorter, I was their abducted captive, but my wrists were tied in front of me, not entirely because I had to carry the charred kettle and carry what was placed in it, but with my hands tied in front of me it gave me much better balance. Traveling fast was the leader’s main concern. Now the kettle held many balls of pemmican and other small supplies: trinkets like beads, combs, hair brushes, a hand mirror, and rings plus other jewelry, some small tools, too. They were for the warriors’ women. Luckily, they couldn’t take anything heavy that would slow them.”

 I paused the story there and drank some water.

                                       *******

I smiled at the kids, then asked, “Do you know what pemmican is?”

“I think I know, Da,” Slone shouted.

“Tell me.”

“I read that it’s chopped up, dried meat, berries and other stuff that’s mixed up into a ball of animal fat. It gives quick energy.”

“Very good, Slone. War parties and travelers use pemmican so they don’t have to hunt or gather food while they roam great distances to kill their enemies, to hunt far or travel far away from their village.

“One day I ate half a ball of pemmican and got a tomahawk scar on my head for doing it. The pemmican was in the kettle. I was hungry, so when we stopped for a rest and none of them were looking, I ate some of it. See. Look here.” I bent forward and parted my hair. Close to the border of my front hairline was a puffed up, gagged line of skin that didn’t heal well. The kids touched it. as usual, at this part of the story, their mouths turned into a giant letter ‘O’ which disappeared when their eyes took over by bulging to show their amazement at my narrow escape from death of brain injury. I let go of my hair and the scar was covered. “So, you see again why I act weird sometimes. Nana thinks I’m worse than weird. She thinks I’m crazy, though you and I know she’s teasing. Your mom just thinks I’m tall, handsome, and very smart, but only sometimes weird and a little funny crazy. What do you two think about that?”

They made silly, funny faces at me while they performed a miracle by not speaking. Smart kids, I thought.

I parted my hair again because they now wanted to feel scar.

“Must have really hurt, huh?” Lily inquired.

“Yeah, it hurt, but the worst part of it was all the blood. You know how head wounds bleed a lot? Well, I thought it would ever stop bleeding. Then the same young warrior who helped me before, pushed me down and straddled my chest. He was more angry than before. He took a bone needle and deer sinew to sew the cut shut, but he was being too clumsy and too fast to do a decent job. Then he gathered dirt from the ground. It looked like mud and moss. He peed on it to and made it a moist mud ball, then smacked it on the wound. I never did figure out if the pee part was a joke or he thought it was medicinal. It stung when he applied it. It stopped bleeding right away, but I worried about an infection. If I got sick and became a burden, they would kill me and leave.”

“Yellow water keep bugs away. Male better,” he said, then walked away grinning, but was it grinning with sarcasm or a satisfactory job.

I paused in thought, then said to the kids, “I didn’t know pee was good for cuts.” I made a disgusting expression as the kids pretended to choke and spit, then wipe their mouths on their sleeves.

Inside the house I could faintly hear Nana’s lowered voice saying, “Oh yeah. What little hair he has left doesn’t hide the scar any more. It’s like a dying flower garden. You wait. One day he will . . .”

I, being hard of hearing, was surprised to hear it, but the end of it I could not understand. Looking at the kids, I could tell the grin, puzzled them. Knowing your Nana, I think she’d say, “One day he will put manure on his head, as a joke, to grow more hair.”

          “Back to the story. I travelled hundreds of miles with those Indians. Over a year later I was told that they were Seneca Indians from the Iroquois Confederacy. I had no idea where we were, or even the vaguest idea of how to get home unless I could see the sun. Cloudy days were no help. Even if they set me free, I’d be hopelessly lost.”

The kids watched me as I yawned as if it were something new. I covered my mouth, my aged, yellowish teeth still able to chew my favorite venison stew.

I continued. “When I was old enough, I did most of the hunting for our family. I became a better shot than my dad and was proud to be the one to provide meat for the family. However, that was not the only reason I wanted to be the primary meat hunter. Doing it got me into the forest, a place with invisible and inviting hands always gently grasping for me, to pull me in. I liked that feeling.”

          Then I stretched my arms and yawned again, feeling tired.

          Lily and Slone were afraid that the story would be postponed until the morning, but they were delighted when I continued.

“Much later, after we arrived in the Indian’s village at the far western end of Lake Erie, and after being a slave for weeks, and being exhausted and hungry, I was unable to memorize our routes to the village. I was simply too great a distance and the immense forest was too dense and dark with few unique landmarks. I had to focus on the kettle I had been carrying for hundreds of miles. My balance grew faulty, and I was whipped with a small, flexible switch every time I fell.” The one doing the whipping was the young Indian who was assigned to help me a few times. He was called Swift Arrow. Apparently he hated helping a hated white man but found and enjoyed the whippings and other cruelties he could get away with. The back of my shirt was shredded into bloody, and ragged strips of filthy cloth.

                                                 CHAPTER 5

“With a small group of Indians, half of them walking in single file in front of me, and the other half of them walking in single file behind me, there was no hope of escape, especially in my weakened physical and mental condition. Any attempted escape with these circumstances would be dealt with harshly, with joyous and lethal intent.

“For some reason, the youngest looking Indian of the group, Swift Arrow, was at the end of the line of us travelers making a constant whisper of noise, as if he were rubbing against bushes tall weeds and branches that hung near or in the path they were following. It wasn’t a well-traveled trail so most of it was overgrown, but the keen Indians eyes and memories could see it.

“Later, I learned that walking in single file hid and confused enemy trackers. Single file traveling made it so rescuers didn’t know how many Indians they were following. I also learned why a couple of the Indians looked so young. They were warriors in training. They came along to learn, not to fight. Instead, they were like teenage apprentices who served the adult warriors. They started the camp fires, cooked, if needed, made repairs to weapons and clothes, searched for herbs, or whatever the senior warriors asked them to do. Swift Arrow, the arrogant, immature, insecure youngster who was assigned to assist me was even younger than the apprentices. He looked very much out of place in this group.

“Swift Arrow was now the last one in line supposedly doing his best to brush away any obvious tracks with immature, leafy branches tied together, somewhat like a forest broom. He was also supposed raise stepped on weeds, or any other tricks that may confuse followers. It helped greatly that they were all traveling in single file, leaving a narrow path for him to deal with.

“We also walked on barely visible animal trails, in shallow waters along the shores of rivers and lakes, sometimes we used drifting logs as rafts, or just swimming or floating with the current to lose any possible followers. I thought the kettle would be thrown away, but a small raft of three dead branches lashed together enabled the kettle to keep traveling, floating, with us when in the water. Walking in shallow water was a favorite trick. Each step taken got washed away. I liked it for the cool water that relieved my sore, stiff feet. In addition, the drinking water was refreshingly cool and seemed to restore my energy. Soon, more small rafts or floating logs were used to carry other supplies, especially plants used for food that were grabbed as we walked along the path.

“One day a larger raft was built, and I wondered why until a deer carcass was placed on it for a celebratory, nighttime feast. If hungry eyes could eat, the deer meat would be gone already with only a skeleton remaining on the raft. Traveling at a fast pace as we were made hunting nearly impossible. One of the warriors must have accidentally come upon the deer for an unusually quick kill.

“While traveling along the barely visible path, the kettle was always pressing and bouncing against my chest and stomach, making both areas a raw red color that became painful. The pain in my arms grew agonizing, then numbness set in, and I was grateful for it. Dropping the kettle or not being able to continue would be the death of me. My condition would have been much worse had it not been for my need to run on the trails, paths, and fields near my house and along the paths to neighboring cabins, purposely not riding on a horse. I got a personal thrill from running, as if the wind carried me, my lungs filling with forest scented air and my legs feeling strong as they danced over the ground. That made my legs and lungs stronger, but it didn’t make my arms, shoulders and back stronger.

“I sometimes found Indians sneaking peeks at me. They looked tired themselves. Perhaps they were wondering why I wasn’t having trouble keeping up with their rapid pace, especially when I carried the black brass kettle. If the kettle had been cast-iron, like Mr. and Mrs. Grace’s kettles, I wouldn’t have been able to carry it far at all. Still, I staggered and stumbled a few times because the kettle blocked my view of the area where my feet were stepping. I solved that by looking ahead and noticing the terrain that the Indians in front of me walked on and how it made them act. Also, the kettle kept me off balance. After a few times falling, bumping into trees, stumbling over raised roots, I learned to manage its weight and bulk. However, my good stamina must have been noticed, too. I saw smiles and approving nods from some heads aimed in my direction.

“I startled myself when I realized that showing improvement so quickly was not advantageous. That realization scared me. My thoughts told me that I should not show my good stamina. I should pretend to be more tired than I really was to hide my ability and thus hide this advantage. Shortly after that, I breathed heavily, pretended to stagger from tiredness, even to lean my back against trees to catch my breath if we momentarily paused. When I saw the frowns, the grunts, and the groans from those same Indians, I knew I had done the right thing just in time to keep their attention and suspicion off my stamina and the good physical shape I had been in.

“A few times I added to the deception by staggering and falling into bushes, then lifting myself and the kettle out of the bush to display cuts and abrasions, all adding to my false fatigue. This was aided by the fact that Swift Arrow would trip me if he got the chance. The Indians pointed at me, teased me, and laughed heartily. My deceptive activity had become entertainment for them. However, I knew that if I slowed them down I would be killed, so I stayed alert and aware of the anger and attitude of the leader, the brutish leader with the red hands and the appropriate name of ‘Bloody Hands.’

“At a rest area I used sign language so I could get a length of rope. It was given to me as curious eyes followed my actions. I tied the rope around the circumference of the kettle, and then made a loop to fit around my neck. Now I could, for short amounts of time, rest my arms while my neck, shoulders and back took the burden of the kettle temporarily. I saw some approving heads nodding.

 “After a brief noontime dinner, the afternoon was spent walking at a slower pace for what seemed endless miles until the sun set, then a campsite was set up on high ground where the surrounding forest and their path could be seen, though my captors acted in a confident manner suggesting that they were not being followed. Their relaxed mannerisms became even more evident when they no longer kept their voices quiet, nor their fires low after a lone warrior returned with the good news that no one was following them. That brought smiles to everyone, plus a plenty of shouts of victory.”

“With this good news, talk became louder, the campfire was built larger, while campfire smoke no longer seemed a worry. In a few minutes, the larger fire spread light and heat. They were more jovial with loud laughter as they sat cross legged around the campfire.

“Suddenly the kettle was taken from my possession. I was startled while I was leaning on a tree.”

“You sit,” demanded Bloody Hands, as he pointed to a tree.

“Shocked by the English words, I said, ‘You speak English,’ as my eyes squinted into a stare and my brow wrinkled with confusion.

          “Bloody Hands paused as a hostile expression took command of his dark eyes and sneering mouth. The black paint around his eyes and mouth made him look fierce, ruthless, more a killer for pleasure than a defending warrior. I obeyed immediately.

“You,” Bloody Hands stated, as he pointed an dagger-like finger at me, ‘Obey, you live. No like, you die.’”

With that statement, Bloody Hands swiftly pulled out his knife, kicked me onto my back, sat on my chest, and placed the edge of the blade under my chin, touching my neck, and making a slow, shallow cut. I could feel the stream of blood immediately. It was a warning, a sample of much worse to come if I didn’t obey his every command.

          “You obey?” he demanded in a grimacing, growling voice that shot spittle on my face.

So terrified was I that I could not speak. My mouth was open, but silent.

“Bloody Hands lifted his knife into the air preparing for a stabbing plunge into my chest.

“Yes,” came my trembling voice, as I finally managed to respond. “Yes. I obey,” I repeated while looking into the hateful expression on his face. I believe he would have killed me right there if I hadn’t answered him.

He lowered the knife just enough to lick my blood off the blade, his fury changing to a demonic smile and grunt. Then he lowered both hands and placed them around my neck.

I thought I was safe when I said I would obey, but now I was about to die by strangulation. I closed my eyes and waited for the end. He removed his hands, then I felt was my shirt being ripped open, but I ignored that thought as his hands returned to my neck.

 Bloody Hands only placed mild pressure around my neck, rubbing his hands into my dripping blood. When I opened my eyes to look up at Bloody Hands, I saw him showing his bloody palms and fingers to his friends who smiled at him. Bloody Hands made a guttural sound that pushed its way through a self-satisfied and proud grin. He placed both hands, one over each of my nipples, then pressed the hands into my flesh, leaving two bloody handprints.

“Bloody Nipples, you be,” Bloody Hands screamed gleefully, as he pointed at my chest, then laughing and jumping up and down as if he were insane.

“Your name is Bloody Hands?” I asked in a puzzled and terrified voice.

“Me Bloody Hands,” Bloody Hands shouted, closing his fists then extending his thumb and poking it into his upper chest forcefully enough to leave red marks. I couldn’t help but notice the solid bunching of his chest and stomach muscles. The stomach muscles looked like my mom’s corrugated washboard. When he made fists, his biceps bulged.

“Me Bloody Hands,” he blurted, again, angrily, as his thumb poked my chest again and, like a deep-throated bear who could talk, he growled proudly, “Bloody Hands kill many white men. I wash hands in white man’s blood many times,” he roared. A sadistic smile erupted like a huge, inflamed pimple that burst when he spit at me. It was as if the words ‘white men’ made a foul taste in mouth. He spit again, his eyes glaring at me with a hateful, deformed grimace, then his lips angled downward into a severe frown, his eyes boring into me.

“He spoke to the other Indians, then I was given a small ball of pemmican to eat and a few swallows of water. That kindness shocked me.

“I was hoping the food and water would refresh me, but it didn’t. After I ate, my hands were tied behind my back with a short length of rope that was then tied to the tree. This time my feet were also tied with the other end tied to the wrist of the young Indian, with only enough slack in the rope to move a little during sleep. More movement would cause the rope to pull at the wrist of the young Indian guard. But I was satisfied that he was not Swift Arrow.

“I did wonder if I could get enough sleep to keep up the fast pace. I knew that I would have to do as good as I could and that it was both mental strength and physical stamina that had to carry me beyond what I had thought were my limits; that or die.

“I curled up on the ground in a fetal position to conserve warmth. I dozed on and off all night not getting much sleep. Also preventing sleep was the cooler ground that sucked my body’s warmth away. Soon I was chilled and trembling.”

                                                 CHAPTER 6

AT sunrise I was startled awake by a nightmare. In the dream I was bleeding from multiple cuts over my upper body, yet I was smiling up at the trees whose branches lightly moved like fingers from a gentle breeze. I saw a raven’s piercing stare as its beak opened and closed as if in a conversation with an unseen animal in the distance. I checked myself and saw bloody hand shapes on my chest. A wolf howled in the distance. Then it would howl. When it stopped, the raven started croaking as if they were having a conversation.

Then wolf appeared stealthily. By the time I saw and heard it, we were only twenty feet apart. My startled, sudden movement made the wolf bare its teeth as its growl slid through its clenched teeth. It glared at me, looked up at the raven, and did not advance any farther. The raven perched on a branch that was closer to me, its thick beak pointed at meat me. It was an ominous sight with its black eyes blending into its body of blackness. I felt frighteningly curious about the raven and wolf connection, but mostly felt fearful.

 I glanced around my area. The leaves glistened from the sun shining on the early morning dew. The sun’s rays, like strong fingers, was pushing the horizon downward so it could rise above it. That early in the morning the sun’s rays could be seen a beams of light, like thousands of separate spears of light passing through the forest darkness touching the earth as if they were tiny spotlights searching the ground, warming it so life for animals, insects and vegetation could wake up.

          I rubbed my eyes, then grimaced at my sore back and butt as I slowly tried to stand. I grunted quietly at the pain.

When I heard movement, I turned to see Bloody Hands preparing to kick me. I rolled away from the kick and pushed my body closer to the tree trunk, relieved to see him walk away. I stood and felt relief from lying on the cold, hard, and irregular ground all night.

The Indian whom I had been tied to, untied the rope from his wrist, then from the tree. He looked at Bloody Hands who nodded. Then my hands and feet were untied. I was grateful he wasn’t Swift Arrow.

I rubbed my sore wrists where the tight leather rope had scraped red troughs in my skin. I rubbed my ankles to get the circulation going. My back still ached, I felt better after stretching my arms, shoulders, and back muscles. Walking would loosen the legs and butt muscles,” I hoped.

                                      *******

“Sore butt, Da?” teased Slone.

“Of course, Slone. It’s already got a crack in it, so don’t ass me again.”

There was a sound, as if something hit the door. It was Nana’s and Mara’s disapproval of my substituting ‘ass’ for ‘ask.’

“Did you just say the other word for your rear end?” Lily exclaimed.

“What are you talking about?” I winked at her.

Slone exclaimed, “We heard it, Da. You said that word. You said don’t blank me again.”

“Sure. I said, ‘Don’t ask me again about rear end stuff.’ I silently mouthed the word ‘ass,’ then put my index finger to my lips and whispered, “Sometimes it’s more accurate to say ‘ass.’ They laughed, looking at each other with surprise that I had admitted it.

I explained, “The word ‘ass’ can describe a mule, you know. If you didn’t know, a mule is a cross between a female horse, called a mare, and a male donkey, called a Jack or a jackass. So that’s where the word ‘jackass’ comes from. The name, over the years, has been shortened to ‘ass.’ I’ll continue now.”

                                      *******

 “I stared at Swift Arrow as he untied me. His look of hatred was obvious. He looked younger than the other apprentices who had to take orders from all the other senior warriors in the group, an exercise in discipline and obedience. Swift Arrow wasn’t asked to do much. I wondered why that was. He was arrogant, impatient, impulsive, lacked both discipline and obedience.

“He carried a knife and another weapon that looked like an oblong rock lashed tightly with a leather cord to a thick, partially split sapling about two feet long and an inch in diameter. Decorative designs scared the length of the handle. The designs also ruined the smoothness which was purposeful. The bark had been peeled off, then shallow slices were cut all along the handle making the war club easy to grip tightly, especially with sweaty or otherwise wet hands. Grasping a smooth handle would be too slippery.

Last night I observed a warrior repair this kind of weapon, a war club. He took the oblong rock from his damaged war club, then he threw the dirty, worn cords away. The broken handle was tossed into a campfire. He reached into a pool of water and pull out a new, long, thick leather cord, then stretched it to make it even longer. He used the wet cord to tightly wrap the stone to the new handle. The warmth from the campfire and the sun would shrink the leather and hold the rock tightly onto the top of the split handle.

“Out of curiosity I studied Swift Arrow’s war club. He saw me doing it and pulled out his war club and struck me on the shoulder, then pointed to the base of the tree to which I had been tied. He was pointing to the black kettle which Bloody Hands must have set near me as I was waking up.

“Though angered, I was ready to do what I was told until I saw that I was about to be struck, again. Another bruise?  Another cut? Another humiliation? I thought that I had gotten used to all that. I’d gotten used to the punishment from the adults, apprentices, but not by a boy that looked my age, perhaps a year younger.

Anger erupted to the surface, scratching at my anxiety, stress, and poor temperament. I stared at him as he attempted to hit me again. I acted out of instinctive self-defense, so as the club was coming downward from his right hand, I quickly side-stepped to his left, deflected his club arm with my left forearm, them with my right hand fist held near my right cheek I angrily slammed my fist into his nose. He staggered backward, stumbled, and fell onto his back, cupping his nose as the blood gushed through his fingers.

“I’ll get the crap beat out of me now,” I thought, expecting a few of the other Indians to gang up on me. However, to my shock, the other Indians just stared at me, some grim and some grinning.  Bloody Hands looked as if he was ready to use me to get his hands bloody again, but more seriously bloody.

“Swift Arrow rose and was about to come at me again when he was stopped by Bloody Hands who had walked up to him as he was lying on the ground.

“Bloody Hands stood close to the boy but turned to look fiercely at me. He shouted, “Son,” as he pointed to the boy I’d knocked to the ground. He helped the boy get up, then repeated, “Son. Me.” He touched the boy and then his own chest. I got the message even better when he glared at me, pulled out his tomahawk and feigned a strike to my head. I froze and cringed at his movement. There was no way I could block his strength nor fight him. He was simply distracting me so he could kick me in the ball. He did. Hard. I fell to the ground in a fetal position. The only sound I heard was Swift Arrow’s laughter. Bloody Hands and Swift Arrow stood over me until I was good enough to stand up.

“Bloody Hands said his son’s name in English, and then said, “He run swift like arrow. Name be Swift Arrow. No hit. Me kill you. Bring you to village a bad mistake. He emphasized the words ‘kill you’ by poking me hard in the chest with the end of the war club handle as he gripped the stone part. I staggered backwards and tripped, landing on my ‘mule’” (The kids understood the reference and laughed). I believe that Bloody Hands would have killed me then if it wouldn’t further delay him. He was in a hurry but there didn’t seem to be any need for it.

“Swift Arrow was younger than the other two teenage apprentices. Probably got this rare privilege, traveling with the adults in a war party, because of his father. He and I were the youngest members of the group.

“Swift Arrow glared at me and held tightly onto his war club, his fingers turning a bloodless pale color. I saw his forearms muscles tensed. Even the boy’s knuckles were white due to his tight grip. Intense anger painted his face, combining with his war paint he looked more sinister. His eyes flashed with hatred. I could expect much trouble from him from now on.

“Bloody Hands grunted approval when I pointed at his son and said his name. I told him that I was sorry for hitting his son. Then, for emphasis I made the motion of shooting an arrow, then pointed to his son. His eyes showed approval but his body leaned forward as his eyes transformed to hostility, his face serious, grim, and hateful, while his body leaned forward we were nose to nose. He grasped my hair and his knife making a slashing, horizontal motions above my forehead as he pulled my hair backward. I closed my eyes but felt nothing. He released my hair. I lowered my chin to see him combining a sneer and a smile, the sneer dominated. I don’t recall from then on, having seen him show a genuine, happy smile, not in all the months I had been with the tribe. Hatred, and violence had hardened his lips into a angry slash.

          “Another utterance from Bloody Hands resulted in Swift Arrow putting away his war club. Then Bloody Hands wiped my blood with his fingers, spreading the blood over more of his face and looking pleased. He enjoyed having bloody hands, his mark of pride and reputation. He looked at his palms, then at me, then licked the blood from both palms. He glared at me, then his son then grimaced, showing blood stained lips, teeth, and tongue. He pointed a finger at me saying, “You Black Kettle. You name.”

Laughter erupted from most of the gathering, especially from Swift Arrow who was the loudest. His laughter was more a scream than a laugh.

“My name is Billy,” I foolishly protested.

“Bloody Hands quickly stepped closer to me. I saw a shadow, then blackness. When I woke, I realized that I had been unconscious. He had so suddenly hit me a glancing blow with his war club that all I saw was the shadow of his arm in motion. When I stood, he stuck his forefinger so hard into my chest that I was forced to step backwards or have a hole punched through my chest. He shouted angrily, “You Black Kettle! No name Blee!” Spittle sprayed my face as Bloody Hands slapped me so hard, I found myself on the ground again, my ear ringing and my cheek and jaw on fire from pain. Laughter again filled the air as a boy named Black Kettle was newly born. My hearing cleared later on, but my face hurt the rest of the day and into the early morning. A fitful sleep dominated the night for me.

“I knew Bloody Hands would crush me, kill me, if I tried to repeat the actions I had performed against Swift Arrow or rejected the name, ‘Black Kettle.’ I promised myself not to be as foolish again. My life depended on it.

“Now I was silent, but trembling. My eyes moistened when I succumbed to Bloody Hands’ threat. I pointed at my chest and said, “Me Black Kettle.” My frightened face made my fear obvious. The consequence was more loud and exaggerated laughter while Swift Arrow kept pulling his war club out and swinging it at his side, intimidation. He said, “He next time kill.” Then he laughed shrilly as he stared at me. We stared at each other. I broke eye contact. He won the staring contest. I felt miserable, humiliated. I tried to fake a smile but was unsuccessful. It felt as if my lips where frozen in a frown.

“Now I thought, Swift Arrow will always be my enemy. The other Indians will always tease him about being knocked down by a foolish white boy. I had made a huge mistake,” I thought. Looking at Swift Arrow confirmed my thought as I saw the red embers of hatred flare-up in his eyes, embers which would inflame his need for vengeance.

“On and on we traveled through thick forests with few clearings for us to feel the sun’s rays. Then rivers and creeks made for easier travel and unobstructed views of the sky. The sun’s warmth bolster my feelings, though the shadow were mostly what I was in. At home, I could usually look up and see the sun. It was something expected, and appreciated for it importance to our crops, but was not as important then as it seemed to be, for me, now.

 My linsey-woolsey shirt was so shredded that my back was nearly bare. It was being torn by brushing against or snagging on tree bark, thorn bushes and by a sapling whip that was being used to cut into the skin of my back and buttocks if I slowed my pace. Sometimes, with stealth, Swift Arrow whipped me for the pleasure and power it gave him over me. Power, supremacy, and control amounted to, ‘Like father, like son’ demonstration.

“When the sun was high, we stopped in a small, rarely found clearing which was blanketed with sunlight. I staggered to a stop, my salty sweat burning in my bloody back wounds. I was sore, but not as exhausted as I pretended to be. I collapsed to the ground on my knees, placed my palms on the ground like an animal and breathed heavily, pushing the kettle to the side of me. The ground and vegetation were warm and comforting, but I pretended as if I were exhausted, sore, and in pain.

          “Swift Arrow’s whip slashed across the back of my shredded shirt. I fell flat to the ground and tried to roll away, but I accidentally tipped over the kettle, spilling its contents. I rose slowly, noticing that Bloody Hands had ripped the sapling from Swift Arrow’s hand and was yelling at him, saying, “Village we hurt white boy. You wait.”

I figured that common sense demanded that I not be treated too severely, or I would not be able to travel. I also wondered why they didn’t kill me since I was an inconvenience to them. Must be they were saving me for something in their village. A feeling of dread came over me.

“Swift Arrow pointed angrily at the spilled contents of the kettle, then at me as I was on my knees again and in the process of picking up the spilled items. When the materials were all picked up and replaced into the kettle, Bloody Hands said something to his warriors and as they filed past me, each took whatever they had placed into the kettle. Last in line was Swift Arrow who paused to grinded his teeth, puckered his lips and spit on me. The spittle dribbled down my cheek. I wiped it off, then wiped my hand on my shirt. Defending myself now would result in my immediate death and that’s what he wanted.

 “I thought, Nice to have the kettle empty, but why would Bloody Hands do that? It made my load much lighter. What was he thinking? It couldn’t be something intentionally good for me, so the reason must be something good for him. Yes. Faster travel with me not loaded down.

          “When we were in a clearing, the sun shone brightly. I smiled as I looked down at the empty kettle. I picked it up, enjoying its lightness, then got the answer to my questions about the lightness of the kettle, but it wasn’t what I thought. I was made to stand still in that sunlit clearing with the kettle over my head, my face inside the kettle and the rim resting on my shoulders. The banging on the kettle produced a loud ringing sound but worse was the increased pain of my headache. The apprentices were allowed to hit the kettle with their tomahawks or war clubs. I know that Swift Arrow would hit the kettle as hard as he could. I could tell which bang on the kittle was his. My headache worsened.  Making it worse was that the black kettle absorbed the sun’s rays, trapping the heat, as well as trapping my hot breath. Then the weight of the kettle felt heavier than before as the rim dug into my shoulders. Laughter broke out all around me. I felt as if I were inside a hot and ringing church bell.

          “After ten or fifteen hellish minutes (The kids and I looked at the cabin door. It did not open, nor was there any sound. Apparently, ‘hellish’ was an acceptable word, or they hadn’t heard me say it) had passed, we continued walking. Someone needed to guide my steps since I could not see and that slowed us down. But while I continued to wear the kettle over my head, the sun’s rays still peeked between the tree branches and their leaves keeping the kettle hot, burning my bare neck, and shoulders. The trapped heat and lack of fresh air was suffocating me.

“I staggered often, sometimes purposely. It caused wasted time, so the kettle was removed so as not to impede their progress. As I thought, fast travel was more important than teasing and torturing me. Swift Arrow knocked the kettle off my head and shoulders with an ear-splitting bang from his stone club. I had never seen a broader, more expressive anger than that which was on his flushed and hate-filled face. I wondered if he may have been tripping me when he had an undetected chance. Both my fists were squeezed so tightly that they were like stones. I wanted to lash out at him, bloody his nose again, blacken his eyes. I stopped myself from thinking like that. I needed to be in control of my actions because I knew Swift Arrow wanted me to strike him and that I would die if I did it.

“At the next rest stop, Swift Arrow took the kettle and walked into the forest with the other two older teenage apprentices. When they returned, Swift Arrow handed the kettle to me. I heard the water sloshing around in the kettle and was grateful for it. So grateful that I suspended my suspicion of the three boys’ actions.

“When I brought the kettle to my lips, I smelled something foul and before I could take the kettle away from my face, Swift Arrow tipped it over my head, soaking my head with the boys’ urine.

“The three boys did a rain-dance around me, chanting, making high pitched howling noises, while they danced, followed by more intense and humiliating laughter. Apparently Bloody Hands did not want me to be physically hurt, but humiliation and torment were acceptable.

“Gray Cloud — the interpreter, and white man adopted into the Indian life style at an early age by a chief and his wife, grabbed the kettle, poured water into it, sloshed it around, and emptied it. He handed me his water bag (a cleaned deer’s stomach) and told me to drink. I gulped the water quickly as I needed it badly. Some of it spilled onto my bare chest. It felt cool and refreshing. I got to drink my fill which surprised me. As I licked my dry lips I smiled at Gray Cloud. He handed the kettle to me. The smell of urine was gone.

“As I held the kettle, other Indians walked to me. One poured water into the kettle that half-filled it. He made hand signs which meant for me to make a fire and boil the water until it was laughing. He called it ‘laughing water,’ I’m not sure why. My guess was that the bubbling of boiling water somehow meant laughter to him. When the water came to a boil, more water was placed into the kettle. Then other warriors placed skinned, gutted, and chopped rabbit parts into the remaining water. Not being followed now, the warriors were free to hunt. Then different warriors threw unrecognized, chopped up meat into the pot. I was excited to be making soup. All the happy faces indicated that this soup was a celebration. Soup had to cook much longer than roasting something over an open flame. Wild plants, carrots, onions, other roots, and herbs were tossed into the pot. So far, they had cooked meat over the flames of a campfire. I had already figured that carrying the kettle made me valuable, so I saw it as a life saver. The women in their village must value greatly a metal kettle, so Bloody Hands would look good giving it as a community gift. I needed to carry the kettle to be seen as helpful. Without being needed, I would likely be dead by now.

“Then a scary thought occurred to me. If they were going to kill me, they’d have done it already. An apprentice could carry the kettle. It didn’t really have to be me carrying it. Bloody Hands must want me to be alive so he can entertain the villagers by torturing me. He’d let his son get his revenge.

“I, of course, was making myself useful to stay alive. My father had ingrained in me that, if captured, I should do what must be done to stay alive, including killing. He said, “Where there’s life, there’s hope.” He said it as if he was a preacher lecturing his congregation. That seemed obvious, but I said nothing and expressed appreciation for his concerned thoughts.

“Hope of escape or rescue is what my father must have meant or hope of being ‘saved’ in the religious sense. I would guess the former since he stayed home when mom forced me to attend church services with her. Dad reluctantly approved of that, though he needed me to help with the work. He once told mom that, “Work doesn’t go away because its Sunday. You don’t need a special house to go to so you can talk to God, do you? Just get on your knees and pray at home.” I had to go to church and disliked it.

 Dad taught me to recognize the foot prints of the forest animals, how to prepare animals for eating, how to build a fire in the wild and cook, as well as basic hunting, shelter, and edible plant skills. In my current situation I would use whatever skills I had to show my usefulness and stay alive.

“I made mental notes of where the sun was at various times of the day, and the layout of the land, landmarks, streams and their direction of flow, the types of predominant trees and any unusual sights in the forest environment. After a few days I knew that it was useless. I was lost and my memory of clues for my return had become useless. I was too far into the forest for any of it to be a major help if I escaped.

“I volunteered, to Gray Cloud, to do some of the work that the apprentices were doing, like gathering firewood; skinning, and preparing small animals before they were cooked over the campfire. I didn’t resist their authority. I hid physical clues that might indicate I was planning an escape, and hardest of all I smiled and acted friendly with my captors. My inner hatred was disguised as growing happiness, like the Devil showing a bright smile and friendly behavior. I was treated better by the group now, except for Swift Arrow who increased his hostility toward me, as if me being cooperative was the meanest thing I could do to him. He kept an eye on his father so Bloody Hands wouldn’t catch him harassing me. Some of the warriors saw what he was doing and gave him warning looks, but they were too afraid of what Bloody Hands might do if they informed on his undisciplined son. Gray Cloud was the only one who scolded Swift Arrow. It did no good.

“That evening we were all so exhausted by Bloody Hands’ insistence on traveling faster that he settled down for the night on damp ground where brackish water was being drunk. I refused to drink, trying to tell Bloody Hands and Gray Cloud about dirty water sickness.

“Both Bloody Hands and Gray Cloud roared with laughter as I tried to explain the nature of germs in the dirty, stagnant water that made people sick.

“I did, however, seem to get across my message about stomachaches, as shown by Bloody Hands distending his stomach muscles outward, making himself look pregnant. The laughter was contagious and loud, each Indian pushing out his own stomach muscles, then rubbing his stomach, making himself also appear pregnant. I almost laughed, too, but showed only a grin.

“Yeah. That’s alright, you jackasses. You ought to know better than to drink stagnant water unless it’s boiled for a brief time,” I mumbled, unheard over the steady and loud laughter. Being in a super damn hurry is not excuse.

“The warriors’ faces were still painted to look fierce. Combine that with the facial distortions that laughter causes, and they now looked terrifying. In addition, all warriors and apprentices shaved all hair off their bodies except for their head and groin. They preferred the Mohawk hair style of shaving off all hair except for a row of two or three inches wide and tall bristly hair growing down the middle of their head, from the center of their forehead to the back, center of the neck.”

“Trying not to act humiliated, I smiled and rubbed my stomach to make an expression of sickness and sadness on my face, then I turned away to gather more firewood.

“The animal parts from rabbits, squirrels, a racoon, and a possum would not be boiled. That was a job they gave me to keep me busy and out of the way. As I thought, they found it quicker and more tasty to simply skewer the meat on a thin, sharpened stick, then push the opposite ends into the ground at an angle that would roast the meat over the fire.

“I thought, I’d keep the boiled water until morning. If sickness came during the night, the germ-free water would be good to drink, after it cooled. I dragged the kettle to the edge of the fire so the water would stay warm. It created curious looks that said, “Crazy white boy.”

“Would I get anything to eat tonight?” I wondered, as alert eyes glanced at the kettle of water, then at me, then grinning.

“Gray Cloud handed me a pointed stick and a piece of meat which I attempted to cook in a comparable manner, trying not to notice the intense, and suspicious glances. I couldn’t pi., ah, pee without being watched, but taking a crap while being watched was embarrassing.

 “Were they waiting to see if I’d use the pointed stick as a weapon? Not today, boys, I thought with a friendly smile. I needed to use events of this kind to gain trust a little at a time each day. I’d try to build enough trust to gain acceptance, or partial acceptance, with less intense suspicion. Less suspicion would give me more freedom to move about, then I’d wait for an opportunity to escape.

“The ‘laughing water’ had already come to a boil and was now cooling while the meat was roasting. When the water cooled enough I set the kettle aside and told Gray Cloud the water was safe to drink now, that they should not drink any more of the foul water. Gray Cloud told me the warriors think I poisoned the kettle water. I told him that when it cooled, I would drink the water to show them it wasn’t poisoned. He grunted with satisfaction and approval.

When I finished eating my meat, I tested the water with a finger, then wiped it on my pants, cupped my hands into the warm water, and drank until my belly looked like Bloody Hands distended stomach. I smiled, then patted my stomach as it were a drum.

I was looked at with even more suspicion and distaste as if they thought I was an evil spirit not affected by the poison. They were full of superstitions that I didn’t understand. I was to learn that their spirit world was flooded with superstitions, odd beliefs, spirit magic, potions that I did not understand.

                                                 CHAPTER 7

“During the night there was more than the usual amount of restlessness and groaning amongst the Indians, plus an unusually frequent amount of trips to the forest, with the combined sounds of squirting poop and loud farting, some groaning in relief, too. There was so much of it that the campsite smelled so bad that there was some vomiting. I even gagged a couple times.

                                       *******

I figured I’d have to stop the story here. Nonstop laughter rolled off the kids as if it were echoes repeating themselves. Tears rolled down their cheeks like water off a cliff as they laughed hysterically. I had to wait for the funny questions. It took two or three minutes for the kids to be quiet and in that time, I heard gagging sounds coming from behind the cabin door. Although they said nothing now, I knew I would catch a glimpse of fiery hell when I made eye contact with either of the women who had been listening. But they could not use the ‘language rule’ against me. Soon, I thought, there would be a ‘gross rule’ established as my vocabulary guide.

“Was the poop running down their legs?” squealed Slone, whose eyes were flooded with tears of laughter.

“That’s so gross, Slone,” Lily managed to say while gagging.

“OK. Maybe it was planned that way. If they poop on the trail, the plants will be fertilized and grow quicker than normal. The fast growth would hide our tracks in a few days.”

“Aww, that’s a bunch of crap, You didn’t tell it that way last time,” Slone blurted without realizing his own joke.

“Yeah,” uttered Lily, “Tell it as close to the truth as you remember.”

“OK. I was teasing you. I’ll continue now, but the poop and fart part is true, mostly, and yes, Slone, that story was a bunch of crap.”

Then they got my joke and tried to smother their laughter.

                                      *******

“At dawn many of the Indians were sick, dehydrated, and experiencing continuous diarrhea. The sick Indians pointed at and spoke angrily about me. I had no idea what they were saying, not literally, but I knew they blamed me. Gray Cloud accused me, saying, “Bloody Hands say you evil spirit.” He pointed to Bloody Hands standing a few feet away. He looked uncomfortable. Was he trying to show that he wasn’t sick, too? Swift Arrow stood next to him, holding his stomach with both hands, bending forward, and grimacing with pain.

“Swamp water. Bad water make them sick,” I responded as I pointed to the swamp. I looked around at the entire group before saying, “Look at all your friends,” I said as I pointed to the sick warriors. Even the ones who do not have to run to the trees still look sick.

I said, “Why you not look sick?” I asked Gray Cloud. You didn’t drink that water, did you? You and I are the only ones who are not sick. I drank the boiled water that killed the tiny worms that made your friends sick.” I had decided to call the cause of the sickness by a name they would know. “Tiny worms that the boiling water killed.”

Gray Cloud quietly said, “Me no drink swamp water. Still have water in water bag. I drink bag water. Yes, Black Kettle. I understand you. You good.”

          “I knew that Bloody Hands would not understand me, but to my surprise Gray Cloud walked close to him, stood between him and me, then whispered to him. I saw him patting his water bag.

          “Bloody Hand’s expression changed. I thought it indicated understanding. I knew that Gray Cloud spoke broken English. He must have tried to explain what I was trying to tell him about the bad water.

“Bloody Hands looked at the source of their water from the night before and seemed to realize the truth of my statement, especially since he lowered one arm and rubbed his stomach. He was having stomach cramps, but not nearly as bad as many of the other warriors. Bloody Hands said something to Gray Cloud that I did not understand because he spoke in the Iroquoian language. Gray Cloud then turned, looking at me, saying, “Make good water,” he said to me in his rudimentary English.

 Later, I asked him about his basic knowledge of English. I was surprised when I learned that he was a young white captive who had stayed with the tribe willingly and was adopted by an influential chief and his wife. I stared at him. He returned my stare, then said, “Obey. It save life.”

“He showed me an ugly scar on the side of his neck, now painted over, making it difficult to see. He made a cutting sign near the scar. “Neck cut. I live. Adopted. Have home. Have family. Me no more white man. Seneca now.”

“A short distance away, Swift Arrow grunted but didn’t look at me. His hands were no longer caressing his stomach. I sensed that he was hiding his discomfort, but not doing it well. He would, of course be thinking that I was the one to have personally shamed him and made him sick.

“Gray Cloud talked to his friends. Told them I made clean water to drink. As they started for the kettle of water, Bloody Hands ordered me to drink the water first, to show it was safe. I did and they lined up to drink a small amount.

“I revived the fire and rebuilt it the way it was the night before. Using the kettle to gather more water, I boiled another large amount of it. When it cooled, they all ate pemmican, wild roots, and leftover meat. They drank the water cautiously from the kettle using the hollow stems from local reeds. When the water level was low, I boiled more water thinking I was doing a good deed to gain their trust. I did not anticipate having to carry the kettle of water, once it cooled, as we continued to travel. I had seen Swift Arrow whispering to his father a brief time before. They laughed together. So, it must have been Swift Arrow who wanted me to carry the water. But it only lasted a short distance when, due to the sloshing waves of water, I was constantly pulled off balance and slowing our travel. One of the young apprentices was given an order. He grabbed the kettle and emptied it by throwing the water at me, then throwing the kettle, which I caught. I was supposed to get angry, but I felt the relief of the warm water evaporating off my skin. To hide my smile, I looked down and into the kettle.

“Resting was not on Bloody Hand’s mind. The day of sickness had delayed his travel and it angered him. He ordered the group to continue traveling at a quicker pace. But by mid-morning we had to stop. Too much sickness, cramps, vomiting, and bowels emptying involuntarily. The diarrhea ran down some of their legs. The stench increased with each step and when warrior in the middle and back of the single line started stepping in the diarrhea from the warriors in the front of the line, gagging and vomiting started. Bloody Hands ordered that the warriors travel in a forward moving horizontal line so no one had to step in someone else’s runny poop.

I was glad to see Swift Arrow having a tough time. I remember thinking, “His sickness will keep him busy and away from me for a while. Of course, I, again, hid my smile, so the pleasure in his discomfort didn’t further anger him, or be seen by others. But my mind was vibrating with hysterical laughter as I clenched my jaw and lips to hide it. Swift Arrow was not so stupid that he didn’t know that I was laughing at him. But when he was well, what would he do?

“I took intense pleasure seeing them sick, weakened and struggling to keep walking. Crap your brains out,” I thought with gusto. There were few moments of happiness, but this one was my greatest, so far. I was also pleased to see Gray Cloud in temporary command to assist his mildly sick leader.

A campsite was set up before the sun rose to its highest point. This was unusual. The sick ones were staggering as they walked. The fury of having to stop so early in the day burst onto Bloody Hand’s face like a sudden storm, his voice like thunder. He was angry at everybody, so I was, again, fearing for my life. I was the one who was expendable, the one to exhaust his anger on.

“Instead, I was ordered to make a campfire. I gathered firewood quickly, made an ember using the bow drill, and got a fire going quickly. Then I searched, found a spring, and filled the kettle half full with water. I boiled the water but had nothing to cook until I looked up and found several warriors who handed me wild onions, wild carrots, pine needles, strawberries, blueberries, nuts, and plants that were unknown to me, plus various roots, and herbs to improve the taste. But when two warriors tossed in their handful of grubs into the soup I couldn’t hide my distaste. I knew the grubs were simply beetle larvae but gagged. They smiled at me and walked away pleased with themselves.

“One of the Indians that I took no notice of until now, Pale Moon, started carving a chunk of soft chunk of wood. The shavings and chips were flying off his blade. I asked about it. I thought he said the English name was ‘brass wood.’ Later I was told that it was ‘basswood.’ He was carving a bowl and he could see that I admired his work, so he smiled at me.

 The soup served a dual purpose: the water was boiled first, which made the water safe. Soup, to me, always seemed to be the right food when someone is sick. I wished that the meat hadn’t all been eaten so I could have added it to the soup for a richer broth. In an hour I and two of the apprentices, with Pale Moon’s bowl, were attending to the sick warriors by having each of them drink a few swallows from the bowl with hollow reed straws that had been gathered from the swamp, then dipped in boiling water to kill germs. Bloody Hands was always watching. I knew that dipping the reed straws in boiling water would make him understand that dipping them in safe water made them safe, too. Each warrior drank the broth and chewed a mouthful of vegetables. We would refill the bowl again and bring it to them until they all had about a half cup of it in their stomachs.

Swift Arrow sat next to his father, not having, nor being asked, to help with the work. I asked the two apprentices to bring soup to Bloody Hands and Swift Arrow while Gray Cloud was visiting the improving warriors to encourage them and improve their spirits.

“I drank a portion for myself, without asking, but no one was healthy enough to punish me for doing it. Swift Arrow saw me do in and whispered in his dad’s ear. Bloody Hands must have told him to sit and be quiet, he did. Much later, I placed another kettle of water on the fire. When the water cooled, we did the same thing we did with the soup. All had a chance to drink, except Swift Arrow who slapped the bowl out of an apprentice’s hand in an act of defiance that went wrong for him. His father slapped him, grabbed his shoulders, and shook him as he scolded him angrily. When the same apprentice came with another bowl of water, Bloody Hands ordered him away. No soup for Swift Arrow. I enjoyed seeing his rough treatment and concluded, “Certainly he would never make a disciplined and competent warrior.”

“By evening most of the Indians were feeling better and by morning everyone felt good enough to travel. I thought I saw a sliver of a smile cross the lips of Bloody Hands. It might have been an illusion or the right angle.

“I looked at the ankles and calves of the Indians who walked ahead of me. Many of them had legs spotted with light brown freckles which were not freckles. The spots were actually tiny droplets of dried diarrhea spray that had stuck onto their legs. I could not help but smile as tears of pleasure ran down my cheek, which I quickly wiped away, pretending that something was in my eye.

“Instead of making camp at noontime the next day, the whole group ate as they walked at a rapid pace to make up for the time lost. It was a struggle for everyone, so I pretended that it was a struggle for my too, but not as much as I was faking it. I had not been sick, so my strength and stamina wasn’t affected, but it was affected by being overly tired. On the farm, I ran short distances of a mile or two. But now I was quickly walking over a great distance all day. The word ‘distance’ stuck in my mind. I was about two hundred miles from my home, and I supposed that we weren’t close to the village yet.

“Loud laughing voices came from the front of the line. The senior Indians were teasing Swift Arrow who had brown stains on the back of his breechcloth and the brown, freckle-like dots on his calves indicating where he could not control his bowels until he entered the forest, the night before. I grinned slightly, but in my head I was laughing hysterically when I imagined him attempting to hurry into the forest as he was farting and squirting on himself.

Lately I was experiencing more joy. I made a mistake and smiled overtly at Swift Arrow. I hadn’t thought about how he would react to my stupidity. But immediately he couldn’t control himself and rage took control of him. He couldn’t intimidate any of the warriors, or course, so he ran towards me screaming, with his war club held high. He swung at my head, but I turned my body sideways and bent forward so Swift Arrow’s war club ricocheted off the kettle that I held in front of me as a defensive tool. The kettle rang, undamaged, but the war club’s stone cracked and came loose then flew a few feet away.

“With his club now useless to him, Swift Arrow pulled out his knife. Bloody Hand’s grabbed him by the neck and yanked him upward and away from me. Swift Arrow’s feet were off the ground as if he had been hanged. He was carried to the front of the line where he was lowered. He had to stay with his father to prevent his increasingly disturbing behaviors. When his son protested angrily, Bloody Hands turned him around and swiftly kick him in the ass, shoving him forward on staggering legs as if he were drunk. I couldn’t hide the fact that I was scared.

“There was an immediate silence among the group who feared their grinning or laughing might be detected by Bloody Hands or Gray Cloud. It might get them a punishment far worse than being yanked around by the nick and kicked Humiliation was feared as much as a battle wound. Brave appearances mattered.

“My thought was that Swift Arrow was so filled with an all-consuming hatred that he must be trembling in a killing fury that could only be aimed towards me. His walking was unsteady, his shoulders raised to hide his blushing, crying and humiliated red face. He stomped his feet and swung his arms and fists into the air, probably at a mental image of me. I needed to be extra cautious now. The thought scared me. I realized that laughing in the devil’s face was not a clever idea.

“Later, in private, Swift Arrow angrily whispered to me as he pointed to his chest, “Son of Bloody Hands. Not be laughed at. You shame me. I kill Black Kettle.” Having been caught off guard, he kneed me in the groin so hard that I bent over, fell to my knees in agony, vomited, then fell to the ground in a fetal position with both hand over my groin. He smiled at me and pridefully walked away.

“Looking at his face left no doubt that he was going to punish me as often and as much as possible. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but sometime soon and in the village. Working on a farm for long hours had given me superior strength, but strength couldn’t compete with his sneaky, cruel viciousness.”

(I paused the story to clear my throat, giving an opening for questions and conversation.)

                                      *******

“What were you worried about, Da?” asked Lily.

Slone’s eyes lit up. “Were you thinking about escaping then?”

“No. I was too lost, unprepared and my legs were tired, sore, and weakened, so it wouldn’t have been a wise idea to try to escape, not at that point. If I tried, chances were excellent that I would be chased down and immediately tortured and killed. That meant staying with them and cooperating with them was my only reasonable choice.

“I was continuously worried about Swift Arrow. I knew he wanted to kill me or, at least, hurt me badly. He was the younger than the teenage apprentices who looked to be nearly out of their teens. They might have been a low twenty-something in age.  Swift Arrow was not an apprentice. He seemed to be along for the ride without knowing that he was being watched, tested, evaluated. He was there because of his father’s permission. I was close to the date of my seventeenth birthday when I was taken. He and I were close to the same age, though he was shorter and stockier. When I looked toward him, he was nearly always glaring at me, but his fury had been hidden by his recently gained mask and smiling calmness. That must have been a struggle for him. He was using my tactics against me. He must be plotting how to get his revenge. Then he began doing something new to irritate me. When he had my attention he would show a fake smile, then slap his butt while making chewing movements with his teeth and jaw, followed by pretentious and muted laughter.”

                                      *******

“What did you do?” blurted Slone as he slid closer to me.

“While we were in single file, Swift Arrow in front, he was no bother to me, but when we paused to rest or make our night camp, he would collect nuts and berries to throw at me. I’d eat the berries, which frustrated him. There were also clumps of dirt, pebbles, and small sticks. After that, he’d find dried balls of rabbit poop to throw. He was cautious so his father didn’t see him throwing things at me. But it was harmless, so even if Bloody Hands saw him, I doubt he would have stopped Swift Arrow. With my right hand I’d picked up some of the dried rabbit turds, then pretended to place them in my left hand, but really keeping them in my right hand. I’d smile at him while pretending to push the left hand poop into my mouth. I’d turn my left side toward him, letting my right hand, now unseen, drop the poop. I’d slowly show him that I was chewing with delight, then I would make an exaggerated swallow while I was turning back to face him straight on, not sideways. When I finished the false swallow, I’d show both hands, rub them together as if to brush dirt off them, then rub my stomach while smiling with joyful satisfaction. I’d hold my hands out begging for more, but he got so frustrated that he threw the remainder of the rabbit poop to the ground.

“When he was allowed to return to the line, he chose to get behind me. He would trip me, shove me, and kick my legs. When he could get away with it, he would also spit on me, pulled my hair, and he even tried to deprive me of water. He picked up fresh and soft animal shhhh… ah, animal poop and would rub it on my back. Luckily, most of the time it dried quickly and fell off in clumps or in flakes, like dried mud. I tried my best to not let it bother me so much that I would lose my temper. Sometimes the poop was moist and would stick to my back. I couldn’t do anything until we made camp. I’d rub my back against tree bark or lie in the weeds on my back and let the weeds and my movement rub it off.

“Oh. Gross,” Lily responded, squirming, and making a disgusting expression while she shivered with creepiness.

“Lily, you think it’s disgusting, but look at your brother. He’s smiling.”

“Yeah. I thought it was grossly funny,” Slone said through smiling lips.

“Really? Well, you could say that I was having a shi …., ah, a difficult day. You know what I mean.”

Both kids laughed. Lily was more reserved with her laughter. Slone looked as if he would crack a rib. His laughter got so loud, his body shook.

                                      *******

“Swift Arrow got away with all of his little pranks, as far as his father being too focused to see them, but many of the others saw him at one time or another, usually reacting with frowns. Maybe they were wondering if he would ever have the character to be a reliable warrior without his father’s influential power.

                                      *******

“So why did they want you? You must have been an unwelcome white boy, right?” Slone wondered aloud.

“That’s what I thought, Slone. It seems trivial, but it was the black kettle. It was seen as highly valuable compared to easily breakable clay pots. Bloody Hands didn’t want to use a warrior or even an apprentice to carry it. Taking me served two purposes: a useless white boy could carry the kettle and a useless white boy would provide entertainment for the villagers by torturing me. At that time, he must have been certain that I couldn’t make it through the gauntlet. At that time, I was not aware that I’d have to run the gauntlet. The Indians in the lines looked as if they wanted to be entertained with pain and spilled blood.

“How far away was their village?” Lily wanted to know.

“The village was much farther than I had thought it would be. To me it felt like we had been walking forever. Day after day, walk, walk, walk. Later, when I was in their camp for a few days, I learned that the village was at the far western end of a great lake (Lake Erie). But at that time, it was all wilderness area, deep into the dense forest where no or few white men had ever been.”

“Didn’t you say anything about your bad treatment?” came another question from Lily.

“No. To complain would have been showing weakness. But it did end when Gray Cloud saw it. He pulled Swift Arrow out of the line and scolded him until his face poured sweat. His face turned scarlet and I thought the sweat might boil with his rage. Then he was sent to the back of the line to replace the teenage apprentice who had been there and whose job it was to watch their backtrail for pursuers. Swift Arrow was glad to go to the back of the line, not wanting his father to know what he had been doing and risk further punishment, though he knew that Gray Cloud would report his continued, undisciplined behaviors.

                                      *******

“When we did reach their village, I planned to act submissive and be willing to help where needed. I needed to act in ways that would gain their trust or, at least, lower their suspicion. Plus, I had a feeling that Bloody Hands secretly knew most of what Swift Arrow was doing and was using that constant harassment of me, with undisciplined behaviors as a test to see how well he handled himself. Could he be a good warrior or not was being determine without him realizing it. I knew for certain that Bloody Hands did not want physical fighting between his son and I because he had seen that I was a good fighter who could and did beat his son. I had heard of stories about child abductions, by Indians, where the children were adopted into the tribe. Maybe I was being tested, also.

“Bloody Hands grew cheerful when the trek moved at a quicker pace. He didn’t smile, but his lose, relaxed strides looked like those of a happy man. I wondered when he would turn back to the beast.

I kept pace with the others and endured the abuse of Swift Arrow. Gray Cloud, the second in command, informed me that Bloody Hands was disappointed in his son’s dependability and responsibility as a disciplined member of the war party. His son had shown weakness, unruliness, carelessness of both mind and body. He told me this when he knew he shouldn’t have, but he wanted me to have a chance to live and be adopted as he was.

Gray Cloud also told me that he had informed many of the others that he approved of my mind and physical toughness and that I was showing, even with Swift Arrow’s abuse, that I didn’t quit, didn’t beg, and performed especially well even when the other warriors were showing signs of weakness and soreness from the length distance and the rapid pace that they had to perform each day. Gray Cloud added, “If not for that, Bloody Hands would have killed you or had you killed already, especially since he had hinted to me that he had made a mistake letting me live and come to their village.”  Bloody Hands was impatient to return to the village and was determined not to have any more delays, especially if I or his son were the cause of them.

                                       *******

“We stopped earlier than usual that evening, which surprised me because Swift Arrow was sent away in the morning and didn’t return by nighttime. Something was happening that I didn’t understand, but it must be something good because the warriors, especially Bloody Hands, were in jovial moods.

          “Around the campfire I saw many of the warriors pulling scalp locks that had been hanging from their waists. So that was the putrid smell that wafted from the front to the back of the line. Rotting flesh triggered my gag reflex. The warriors proudly compared the hair length, color, and texture, plus how much flesh came with the scalp. They didn’t mind the smell, had grown used to it. I had noticed the truly awful smell for a long time and was too naïve to realize what it was.

The warriors in possession of larger scalps stretched them on flexible, young sapling hoops. When they were secure, the Indians scraped the fat and blood away from the inside of the flesh. Then they held the hoops over the fire as if they were cooking a piece of meat on a stick. When the scalps where partly dry, with the remaining fat bubbling, that remaining fat was scraped off, then the scalp was held higher over the fire to dry, with each warrior intent on not burning the flesh or hair. When the scalp was dry it was like a thin layer of leather. It was odd seeing the warriors finger-comb the hair, making it neat in appearance. That helped with their proud bragging stories and self-importance. When finished they proudly passed the finished product around for their friends to see and compare. Much praise was given to each scalp holder.”

                                      *******

At this point I paused the story, looked at the children and said, “Having to watch this process was disgusting. Tears filled my eyes, but I quickly put a stop to that emotion because it’s a sign of weakness to warriors. I remained outwardly stoic but inwardly my revulsion and anger flared up. I had to look strong or, at least, not be affected by their savagery. I could not, would not complain. I had to endure until I had a chance to escape. Being in their village would be the best time to plan my escape.”

The children were speechless, but their faces showed their horror and distaste, so much so that no questions were asked. Their silence was all that was needed for me to know what they were thinking. I continued the story.

                                      *******

“Swift Arrow was still gone the next morning. I wondered if any of the warriors found Swift Arrow to be as irritating as I did. I thought most of them did, but none of them would risk an outward sign, gesture, or action for fear of being shamed or receiving a humiliating beating from Bloody Hands. But Gray Cloud roamed about checking the warriors, double-checking their conduct. Maybe it was part of his duties, as second in command, to keep both warriors and apprentices disciplined. I didn’t look like he needed to do it. I saw no problems with the discipline of the warriors. The apprentices so dearly wanted to earn their way to being a warrior that they would rarely act undisciplined, though they all did when they urinated in the kettle, told me it was drinking water and I almost drank it.

          “Where had Swift Arrow gone, I wondered. Hunting? Looking for something? There must be a better reason than those, I thought. Then another thought struck me like lightning out of a dark sky. It flashed the message that, maybe we’re getting close to the village and this rigorous trip would end soon with needed rest, better food, bragging rights, and being with families for the warriors who had been gone for so long.

“There wasn’t much to eat for breakfast. I saw warriors and apprentices searching the area for edible plants, roots, and berries. I ate berries. I wasn’t familiar with which plants were edible, especially the roots of certain plants. Mushrooms were plentiful but which are poisonous, and which are edible? Luckily, Gray Cloud provided me with a handful of wild roots and nuts to eat with the berries. I still had hunger pains in my growling stomach when we started traveling again. It was only a few hours later when Swift Arrow returned. He quickly approached his father. They talked but I couldn’t hear them, but even if I did, the talking would not have been in English. But I saw the smiles and knew that Swift Arrow must have run to the village to announce our arrival by the end of the day.

“Bloody Hands proceeded to the top of a nearby hill. He called his warriors and apprentices to follow, and I also followed. Bloody Hands pointed into the distance where plumes of smoke rose above a hidden clearing. The village, I thought. That was the second time I saw Bloody Hands smile. I never witnessed it again in all the months I was to live in the village.

“I asked Gray Cloud if I could climb a tall tree to observe. I was given permission. From the top of the tree I chose to climb, in the distance, I could see many faint columns of smoke. From that distance, though, it was impossible for me to tell the size of the village by counting the columns of smoke. The tree wasn’t tall enough for me to see the tops of the longhouses. While the smoke was in the trees it mingled with other smoke as it drifted away. In some places it looked like a thick fog hugging the tree tops. I smiled, however, when I thought I saw a gigantic water snake rushing past the village. It was the snake-like winding of a river, later to be named the Cattaraugus River (Indian word for Bad Smelling Water) but first we crossed the Tonawanda Creek (Swift Waters). That was the explanation for the everyone’s cheerfulness. But the smile disappeared from Swift Arrow’s face transforming to a deadly serious expression about something. I felt a chill climbing my spine, as if it were a rat climbing a vine.

Swift Arrow had gone to the village the night before to announce our arrival, so that preparations could be made, and celebrations planned. Food would be prepared, wives and children would dress in their best clothing, shelters would be cleaned and organized in anticipation of the long awaited arrival of this group of men, husbands, fathers, and hardy warrior protectors.