Read Online The Day of Small Things by Vicki Lane - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Vicki Lane
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Goingsnake to hisself, ‘if me and the babe was took by the river, why, then we’d be with Nancy. Could be that’s the best thing for us.’
“On his back, the baby stirred and made a little sound like she was a-feared, a little whining sound, and John Goingsnake stood there thinking on the meaning of that sound. A cloud passed over the moon and a hoot owl called and he studied on the meaning of them things too.”
Granny looked over at me, real solemn. “That’s how Injuns do; they look fer meaning in everything they see or smell, everwhat they touch or taste or hear. And being as John Goingsnake was a Cherokee wise man, he was uncommon good at knowing what the world around him was saying. But just then, standing there in the middle of the river on that long-ago night, John Goingsnake was plumb bumfuzzled.
“And then the moon come out and he looked down at that stretch of water at his feet and he was dumbstruck—for right there in front of him, where a minute before hadn’t been nothing but fast-moving water, there was a great almost flat rock with the water curling around it. Without stopping to think, John Goingsnake stepped onto the rock. And then a quare thing happened—the rock begun to move.
“John Goingsnake stood there, bending his knees and leaning this-a-way and that to keep his balance atop that swimming rock. His baby was safe on his back and John Goingsnake looked down to see the moonlight and the water rippling round the soles of his boots. It seemed to him like a long, long time in happening but at last the swimming rock brought him close enough to the other side that he could jump for it. And that’s what he done—took a deep breath and leapt onto a big ledge where he fell to his knees.
“When he got to his feet, he turned round just in time to see the rock what he had rode on sink out of sight and then and there he made a special song to thank the Creator for sending the swimming rock—”
Just like I always do, I say, “Granny Beck, a rock can’t swim! I bet it was one of them great big turtles I seen near the river.”
And Granny reaches over and smoothes my hair down and she says, like always, “Whatever it was, honey, it was Cherokee Magic—at least that’s the way I heard it. You reckon you could make a turtle carry you across the water?”
She doesn’t wait for me to answer but goes on with filling in the black and I go back to punching in the red for the poppies. This is the scary part of the story, and even though I know how it comes out, I have chill bumps all up my arms as Granny Beck goes on.
“Now, John Goingsnake didn’t stop to look back to see the campfires on the other side; he lit out up the riverbank and into the woods. There was a trail running along the river and turning up along a big creek but he knowed not to follow it for fear of meeting up with one of the white farmers that he knew must live up that way. Though it was nighttime, the moon was so bright that hunters and such might be traveling round.”
I think of Mama walking up the road soon and hope that I can get the milking done before she gets back. But I will hear the end of this story first, even if it means a whupping.
“So John Goingsnake set off, climbing up and up into the deep woods. He reckoned maybe he could lose hisself up there for a time, till the soldiers down at the river had moved on. Then maybe, he thought, he could make his way back to his home mountains, where he knowed there was others in hiding. He figgered he could travel along the ridgetops and be back in his own country before too long.
“On and on he went, climbing through woods so steep that he was on hands and knees most of the time. It seemed to him that he’d been climbing for an hour or more when he came to a holler setting like a big bowl betwixt two ridges. A branch run down the middle and big old laurel bushes was thick and dark all above it. Just then the baby on his back stirred and begun to whimper and John
“On his back, the baby stirred and made a little sound like she was a-feared, a little whining sound, and John Goingsnake stood there thinking on the meaning of that sound. A cloud passed over the moon and a hoot owl called and he studied on the meaning of them things too.”
Granny looked over at me, real solemn. “That’s how Injuns do; they look fer meaning in everything they see or smell, everwhat they touch or taste or hear. And being as John Goingsnake was a Cherokee wise man, he was uncommon good at knowing what the world around him was saying. But just then, standing there in the middle of the river on that long-ago night, John Goingsnake was plumb bumfuzzled.
“And then the moon come out and he looked down at that stretch of water at his feet and he was dumbstruck—for right there in front of him, where a minute before hadn’t been nothing but fast-moving water, there was a great almost flat rock with the water curling around it. Without stopping to think, John Goingsnake stepped onto the rock. And then a quare thing happened—the rock begun to move.
“John Goingsnake stood there, bending his knees and leaning this-a-way and that to keep his balance atop that swimming rock. His baby was safe on his back and John Goingsnake looked down to see the moonlight and the water rippling round the soles of his boots. It seemed to him like a long, long time in happening but at last the swimming rock brought him close enough to the other side that he could jump for it. And that’s what he done—took a deep breath and leapt onto a big ledge where he fell to his knees.
“When he got to his feet, he turned round just in time to see the rock what he had rode on sink out of sight and then and there he made a special song to thank the Creator for sending the swimming rock—”
Just like I always do, I say, “Granny Beck, a rock can’t swim! I bet it was one of them great big turtles I seen near the river.”
And Granny reaches over and smoothes my hair down and she says, like always, “Whatever it was, honey, it was Cherokee Magic—at least that’s the way I heard it. You reckon you could make a turtle carry you across the water?”
She doesn’t wait for me to answer but goes on with filling in the black and I go back to punching in the red for the poppies. This is the scary part of the story, and even though I know how it comes out, I have chill bumps all up my arms as Granny Beck goes on.
“Now, John Goingsnake didn’t stop to look back to see the campfires on the other side; he lit out up the riverbank and into the woods. There was a trail running along the river and turning up along a big creek but he knowed not to follow it for fear of meeting up with one of the white farmers that he knew must live up that way. Though it was nighttime, the moon was so bright that hunters and such might be traveling round.”
I think of Mama walking up the road soon and hope that I can get the milking done before she gets back. But I will hear the end of this story first, even if it means a whupping.
“So John Goingsnake set off, climbing up and up into the deep woods. He reckoned maybe he could lose hisself up there for a time, till the soldiers down at the river had moved on. Then maybe, he thought, he could make his way back to his home mountains, where he knowed there was others in hiding. He figgered he could travel along the ridgetops and be back in his own country before too long.
“On and on he went, climbing through woods so steep that he was on hands and knees most of the time. It seemed to him that he’d been climbing for an hour or more when he came to a holler setting like a big bowl betwixt two ridges. A branch run down the middle and big old laurel bushes was thick and dark all above it. Just then the baby on his back stirred and begun to whimper and John
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