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Authors: Shelley Pearsall
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last time before the trial to talk to Amik. Maybe his eyes said that he hoped to see Laura again, too. It was hard telling. But before he disappeared down the path, he turned and waved at us. I remember how he stopped right in the middleof his ambling walk and turned around. Taking off his hat, he waved it once in the air. The sunlight caught his copper red hair, and I had to admit that maybe he was handsome in a skinny sort of way.
That would be the last glimpse we would have of him for nearly two weeks.
Red Hair says
he will be gone
many nights
,
until the end of the flowering moon
is near
,
preparing
for the trial.
before he leaves
he reaches
deep
inside his coat
to find
a duckbill of sweet maple sugar, and
two acorn cakes
from Rice Bird, and
a bag of tobacco
from Ajijaak, my father.
i take the gifts
and Red Hair says
—
your wife and children and the Old Ones
wish me to tell you
that their hearts
melt
and they pray to Kitche Manitou
for your return.
after the trial
,
i will go back? i ask.
eya’
,
yes, Red Hair says.
i will hunt in the woods
and fish in the rivers
and see the sun rise
and fall
in the sky again?
eya’, eya’, eya’
,
yes, yes, yes, he says.
after Red Hair has gone
,
i pour
the sandy grains
of maple sugar
into my mouth.
the taste of the trees
is sweet
on my tongue.
As Indian John's trial drew closer, a gnawing dread began to grow inside me.
It was the same feeling I had at certain other times of the year. I always dreaded the start of the bitter month of March, which had taken Ma away. And the approach of Independence Day on account of how Pa and the men got rolling drunk on whiskey and went wild with their guns. And hog-butchering time because Pa said I was too softhearted.
And now, as the end of May approached, an uneasy feeling had come over me about the trial and what was going to happen. Everywhere I went, it seemed I heard folks talking about Mr. Kelley and Indian John. And most of what they were saying was mean and ugly.
Our gossiping neighbor, Mrs. Evans, said that shehad seen Peter Kelley riding through the settlement. “Yesterday, I think I saw that Indian lawyer,” she told us one morning while she was visiting our house. “He was riding an old, swaybacked horse along Water Street. What a poor stick he is.” She rolled her eyes. “Looks as if he's never done an ounce of work in his life. They say he don't own no farmland at all, not even a cornfield, 'magine that.” She leaned forward and grinned with her poor-looking teeth. “He ain't gonna last one day out here on the frontier, not one day.”
I didn't dare to turn my eyes in Laura's direction. The whole time Mrs. Evans was talking, I just stared at the knotholes in our table.
A few days later, I was standing in Mr. Perry's dusty little store buying one stick cinnamon and some sugar when I overheard words that were even worse. Mr. Perry was talking to a stranger. Only thing I could see of the two of them was the tops of their heads over a stack of barrels—Mr. Perry's gray, uncombed hair and the stranger's brown work hat. Mr. Perry was telling the man that there was gonna be a big Indian trial in our settlement in a few days, and after the trial was held, they were gonna hang the savage first and drag the Indian lawyer out of the state on the back of his heels second.
My stomach curled up inside me, and I didn't breathe a word as they spoke to each other. No one knew that me and Laura had gotten to know Mr. Kelley and Indian John. Or that we'd come to feel a great deal of pity in our hearts for them.
“Nay, I wouldn't do that,” the stranger replied in a slow voice. “If it was me, I'd give that skinny lawyera hatchet in the skull, same as that savage done to that poor white trapper. Then I'd throw his bones in the ground and let him go and defend all the misrable savages he wants in hell.”
I feared I was going to vomit up everything inside me.
Leaving the stick cinnamon
That would be the last glimpse we would have of him for nearly two weeks.
Red Hair says
he will be gone
many nights
,
until the end of the flowering moon
is near
,
preparing
for the trial.
before he leaves
he reaches
deep
inside his coat
to find
a duckbill of sweet maple sugar, and
two acorn cakes
from Rice Bird, and
a bag of tobacco
from Ajijaak, my father.
i take the gifts
and Red Hair says
—
your wife and children and the Old Ones
wish me to tell you
that their hearts
melt
and they pray to Kitche Manitou
for your return.
after the trial
,
i will go back? i ask.
eya’
,
yes, Red Hair says.
i will hunt in the woods
and fish in the rivers
and see the sun rise
and fall
in the sky again?
eya’, eya’, eya’
,
yes, yes, yes, he says.
after Red Hair has gone
,
i pour
the sandy grains
of maple sugar
into my mouth.
the taste of the trees
is sweet
on my tongue.
As Indian John's trial drew closer, a gnawing dread began to grow inside me.
It was the same feeling I had at certain other times of the year. I always dreaded the start of the bitter month of March, which had taken Ma away. And the approach of Independence Day on account of how Pa and the men got rolling drunk on whiskey and went wild with their guns. And hog-butchering time because Pa said I was too softhearted.
And now, as the end of May approached, an uneasy feeling had come over me about the trial and what was going to happen. Everywhere I went, it seemed I heard folks talking about Mr. Kelley and Indian John. And most of what they were saying was mean and ugly.
Our gossiping neighbor, Mrs. Evans, said that shehad seen Peter Kelley riding through the settlement. “Yesterday, I think I saw that Indian lawyer,” she told us one morning while she was visiting our house. “He was riding an old, swaybacked horse along Water Street. What a poor stick he is.” She rolled her eyes. “Looks as if he's never done an ounce of work in his life. They say he don't own no farmland at all, not even a cornfield, 'magine that.” She leaned forward and grinned with her poor-looking teeth. “He ain't gonna last one day out here on the frontier, not one day.”
I didn't dare to turn my eyes in Laura's direction. The whole time Mrs. Evans was talking, I just stared at the knotholes in our table.
A few days later, I was standing in Mr. Perry's dusty little store buying one stick cinnamon and some sugar when I overheard words that were even worse. Mr. Perry was talking to a stranger. Only thing I could see of the two of them was the tops of their heads over a stack of barrels—Mr. Perry's gray, uncombed hair and the stranger's brown work hat. Mr. Perry was telling the man that there was gonna be a big Indian trial in our settlement in a few days, and after the trial was held, they were gonna hang the savage first and drag the Indian lawyer out of the state on the back of his heels second.
My stomach curled up inside me, and I didn't breathe a word as they spoke to each other. No one knew that me and Laura had gotten to know Mr. Kelley and Indian John. Or that we'd come to feel a great deal of pity in our hearts for them.
“Nay, I wouldn't do that,” the stranger replied in a slow voice. “If it was me, I'd give that skinny lawyera hatchet in the skull, same as that savage done to that poor white trapper. Then I'd throw his bones in the ground and let him go and defend all the misrable savages he wants in hell.”
I feared I was going to vomit up everything inside me.
Leaving the stick cinnamon
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