Sauk
“P eter? Peter Sauk?” Phoebe stared at the young man in disbelief. “Peter, oh, Peter, praise God. I think I am lost again. For the first while, you see, it was clear enough that I had but to follow the brook, but then the brook came to an end, and it was because I was stupid about what Gideon said. I thought I was lost but I remembered what he said about the moss and the woodpeckers and I walked that way but then there were those wolves and there was the bear and George and … and …” She stared blankly at Peter, her thoughts a hopeless tangle.
Peter Sauk shook his head. “Little Bird,” he said in the slow, deep voice Phoebe remembered from so many evenings back home in Hanover. “I don’t believe I have ever heard you say so many words at once in all the years I have known you. Nor do any of them make sense. Come. It is late. My mother and my youngsister are camped only a short distance from here. You will have to tell me these things later.” He put his hand on her back and turned her in the direction the wolves had taken.
Phoebe did not hesitate. Peter Sauk was a person she trusted. Among the students who had spent their evenings with her father, he was one who had always greeted her with a smile and who, most often, had had a story or a joke for her, and it was he who had given her her moccasins. And here he was. Unbelievably, here he was. She didn’t even stop to wonder why.
And there will be something to eat, she thought. A wonderful warmth spread through her as she followed Peter through the evening shadows. For once, George was right behind her. The bear had disappeared.
Peter was right. It took no more than a few minutes for them to cross the meadow, where Phoebe turned her face from the remains of the bear, and to find their way through the woods to a small birch glade by the edge of a river. There Peter’s mother and sister had made camp. By the light of their fire, Phoebe saw the two women, dressed in deerskin leggings and tunics, busying themselves over an iron cooking pot suspended from a tripod of sticks. Whatever was in the pot smelled so good that Phoebe wanted nothing more than to sit right down with the pot in front of her and eat.
The women got to their feet as she approached. “My mother, Shakoti’nisténha.” Peter bowed towards the older of the two. “My sister, Katsi’tsiénhawe.” He turned to the younger, and Phoebe saw that she was a girl about her own age.
“Greetings,” said Shakoti’nisténha. Katsi’tsiénhawe stood back. She lowered her head in acknowledgement but said nothing. Peter said a few words to them in Mohawk. His mother smiled. His sister nodded shyly.
“I have told them that you are the daughter of my teacher at Dr. Wheelock’s school in Hanover, the girl for whom we have been searching, also that you speak only English. Unfortunately, my sister, Katsi’tsiénhawe, speaks only Mohawk. My mother speaks only a little English. But” — he smiled — “she cooks very well. Come.”
Gratefully Phoebe took her place by the fire and accepted the noggin of water, the bannock, and the birchbark bowl full of stew from Shakoti’nisténha. Peter told her it was porcupine stew. The meat was as sweet as pork and as tender as the kernels of corn that added their own flavour to the rich gravy. Phoebe had an almost overwhelming urge to put her face down into the bowl and eat like the cat. But, as the others did, she dipped her fingers into the bowl for the pieces of meat and mopped up the gravy with the bannock. She gave the last of it to George,who had sat by her as she ate, stretching out his paw and crying angrily. The other three laughed.
It was only after she had mopped up the last of the gravy from her second portion of stew that Peter asked her why she was out in the woods alone. He sat with his back against a large birch tree, his legs stretched out in front of him. Moonlight gleamed on the white bark of the tree and on his black braided
“P eter? Peter Sauk?” Phoebe stared at the young man in disbelief. “Peter, oh, Peter, praise God. I think I am lost again. For the first while, you see, it was clear enough that I had but to follow the brook, but then the brook came to an end, and it was because I was stupid about what Gideon said. I thought I was lost but I remembered what he said about the moss and the woodpeckers and I walked that way but then there were those wolves and there was the bear and George and … and …” She stared blankly at Peter, her thoughts a hopeless tangle.
Peter Sauk shook his head. “Little Bird,” he said in the slow, deep voice Phoebe remembered from so many evenings back home in Hanover. “I don’t believe I have ever heard you say so many words at once in all the years I have known you. Nor do any of them make sense. Come. It is late. My mother and my youngsister are camped only a short distance from here. You will have to tell me these things later.” He put his hand on her back and turned her in the direction the wolves had taken.
Phoebe did not hesitate. Peter Sauk was a person she trusted. Among the students who had spent their evenings with her father, he was one who had always greeted her with a smile and who, most often, had had a story or a joke for her, and it was he who had given her her moccasins. And here he was. Unbelievably, here he was. She didn’t even stop to wonder why.
And there will be something to eat, she thought. A wonderful warmth spread through her as she followed Peter through the evening shadows. For once, George was right behind her. The bear had disappeared.
Peter was right. It took no more than a few minutes for them to cross the meadow, where Phoebe turned her face from the remains of the bear, and to find their way through the woods to a small birch glade by the edge of a river. There Peter’s mother and sister had made camp. By the light of their fire, Phoebe saw the two women, dressed in deerskin leggings and tunics, busying themselves over an iron cooking pot suspended from a tripod of sticks. Whatever was in the pot smelled so good that Phoebe wanted nothing more than to sit right down with the pot in front of her and eat.
The women got to their feet as she approached. “My mother, Shakoti’nisténha.” Peter bowed towards the older of the two. “My sister, Katsi’tsiénhawe.” He turned to the younger, and Phoebe saw that she was a girl about her own age.
“Greetings,” said Shakoti’nisténha. Katsi’tsiénhawe stood back. She lowered her head in acknowledgement but said nothing. Peter said a few words to them in Mohawk. His mother smiled. His sister nodded shyly.
“I have told them that you are the daughter of my teacher at Dr. Wheelock’s school in Hanover, the girl for whom we have been searching, also that you speak only English. Unfortunately, my sister, Katsi’tsiénhawe, speaks only Mohawk. My mother speaks only a little English. But” — he smiled — “she cooks very well. Come.”
Gratefully Phoebe took her place by the fire and accepted the noggin of water, the bannock, and the birchbark bowl full of stew from Shakoti’nisténha. Peter told her it was porcupine stew. The meat was as sweet as pork and as tender as the kernels of corn that added their own flavour to the rich gravy. Phoebe had an almost overwhelming urge to put her face down into the bowl and eat like the cat. But, as the others did, she dipped her fingers into the bowl for the pieces of meat and mopped up the gravy with the bannock. She gave the last of it to George,who had sat by her as she ate, stretching out his paw and crying angrily. The other three laughed.
It was only after she had mopped up the last of the gravy from her second portion of stew that Peter asked her why she was out in the woods alone. He sat with his back against a large birch tree, his legs stretched out in front of him. Moonlight gleamed on the white bark of the tree and on his black braided
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