Read Online The People of Twelve Thousand Winters by Trinka Hakes Noble - Free Book Online

W e are the Lenni Lenape, which means “we the people.” Through the snows of twelve thousand winters we have kept our fires burning. To me, twelve thousand winters is a long, long time. I, myself, am only ten winters. I am Walking Turtle.

    At my naming ceremony the wayhuhweehuhlahs , the giver of names, told my mother, Half Moon Dancer, “He shall carry his people on his back, as steady and sure as a hard-shelled turtle that walks over land toward water. He shall be Walking Turtle Boy.”
    Walking Turtle is a good name for me because I carry my cousin, Little Talk, on my back wherever we go. Little Talk was born with a crooked foot. His legs did not grow straight and strong like mine. He speaks little, but talks to me. “ Wanisi , thank you, Walking Turtle,” he says.
    I am the one who should say wanisi . Carrying Little Talk has made me strong.

    Last summer, in the time of the Green Corn, I had grown strong enough to carry Little Talk all the way down the Minisink Trail to the Great Salt Sea where Brother Sun rises to greet our people each morning. Otherwise, he would have stayed behind to scare the crows from the corn.
    But my feet are happiest walking the ancient forest pathways that have carried the footprints of my people for centuries. Giant oaks, sturdy chestnuts, and towering elms stand guard above me. Cawing crows announce my presence. On the forest floor, woodland ferns gently swish their shy greeting against my legs.
    From the hill above our village, I can see blue wood smoke drift up into the late summer dusk. Below, our Passaic River glistens in the silvery gray light. Grandmother waves from the door of our lodge. She keeps our fires burning.

    We are a three-fire lodge. Grandmother’s fire is at the end of the lodge, my family’s fire is in the middle, and Little Talk’s family fire is by the door. Three smoke holes are at the top and our door faces east to greet the rising sun. We sleep on platforms around the edge. Little Talk and I sleep on one side with the tops of our heads together. Heart Berry, my little sister, sleeps at my feet. Father and Mother sleep on the other side of our fire.

    Mother wakes early. She hurries into the forest to gather wild onions, sage, and berries in her big cooking pot. Heart Berry follows, filling her little pot with wild grapes, vine berries, and the last few wild strawberries, her namesake. And just like Heart Berry, they are sweet with no thorns.
    I carry wood so Grandmother can prepare our outdoor cooking fire. Tonight we will have a hot stew of dried venison, cornmeal, wild onions, and Heart Berry’s sweet fruits of the forest.

    In the Time of the Falling Leaves everyone is busy. This is our gathering time. Squash and pumpkin rings dry in the autumn sun. Rows of braided corn already hang in our lodge. Bark baskets of dried beans are stored under our sleeping platforms. It is as though our Mother the Earth has moved into our lodge.
    In the afternoon, all the women and children go into the forest to gather hickory nuts, black walnuts, chestnuts, and acorns. It is hard work, but the women sing and the children are given time to play. Heart Berry strings acorns to make little dolls. Little Talk and I play kokolesh , Cup and Pin, a game he is good at.

    But when I return to our village carrying Little Talk and our baskets, Father frowns. Later, he takes me to a lone lodge at the edge of our village down by the river.
    â€œWalking Turtle,” Father says sternly, “in just one more winter you will come here to warrior school.”
    I shiver as the trainer makes the boys plunge into the icy water to swim beyond the river’s bend and back. Next they hold their breath and run as far as they can to make them long-winded. My lungs burn as I try to hold my breath as long as they do. Near the fire, some boys are trying to catch corn pone on the end of a pointed stick. If they miss, they do not eat. I see the hunger in their