Night of the Full Moon (2 page)

The agent shrugged. “Topnebi has agreed to having his people sent west. Proper treaties have been signed by him giving Potawatomi land over to the government. After all, the Indians get paid for their land.”

Papa said nothing, but I could see he was holding his tongue with difficulty. Once a year the Indians came to Saginaw from all over Michigan, hundreds and hundreds of them. They came to get their yearly payment. The government paid them because the Indians had sold land to the government.
Papa would shake his head and say, “It is hard to see a people who once could ride for days and still be on their land now having to line up to get a few dollars from the government.”

The agent caught the look on Papa’s face. He said, “I must tell you the government means to enforce the treaties.” When Papa didn’t say anything, the agent stood up. “Well, we thank you for your hospitality. We were just passing through, but we may be back this way again.”

I knew Papa was troubled, for as soon as the agents left he said, “I’m going to the Indian camp and warn them.”

“Papa, let me come with you,” I pleaded.

“Why not,” Papa said. “You won’t see a better day for a walk in the woods.” He was trying to keep me from seeing how troubled he was, but I saw him exchange a worried look with Mama.

You learn more walking in the woods with Papa than you do in a dozen book lessons. We followed the trail the Indians made walking back and forth from their village to
ours. The path led through a stand of pines so tall you had to tilt your head to see to the top of them. No sun could find its way through their thick branches. “Maybe we’ll see some deer,” I said. Early in the morning and at twilight the deer came and drank at our pond.

“Not here,” Papa told me. “There is so little light, no shrubs or grasses can grow for the deer to browse. The only animals we’ll see here are squirrels after pine cones.” He looked up at the trees. “Some of these pines have been here for hundreds of years with no enemy but a bolt of lightning. Now I hear talk these woods are going to be bought up by a lumber company. Every tree will find its way to the Williams’s sawmill. They won’t leave a one. Those who come after us will never know what this land was once like.”

We had moved the thousand miles from Virginia to Michigan because Papa loved the trees. “If the trees around us are all cut down, will we have to move again?” I held my breath, for I didn’t want to leave our
cabin and our pond. And I would miss Fawn.

“I don’t think your mama would like moving, Libby. Especially with a new baby coming. She’ll want to settle down for a while.” Papa’s words were comforting, but the dreamy sound of his voice when he said them wasn’t. That was the way he sounded just before he decided to leave Virginia.

I felt something scrape at my ankle and claw at my dress. “Papa, look at all the wild blackberry bushes. We can get enough berries to make jam and have some left over for pies.”

Papa had made a discovery as well. “See this tree, Libby? Do you notice anything?”

The bark had a big chip. “An Indian has marked this tree as a bee tree,” he said. “By August it will be filled with honey, and the Indian will come back to claim it.”

“What if another Indian gets here first?” I asked.

“No Indian would rob another man’s bee tree,” said Papa.

In the distance we could see the Indian
camp. It was a small settlement with no more than five or six families. The families lived in wigwams. Fawn told me once that these are made from sheets of birch bark or mats of woven reeds laid over bent saplings. When the Indians moved to their northern hunting grounds, they just rolled up their reed mats and took them along. If we lived in a wigwam, I thought, Papa would be moving every week.

The Indians didn’t pay us much attention, but all the village dogs ran out to sniff at us. They were skinny, which was just as well. Fat dogs got eaten. We found Fawn and her mother, Menisikwe. She welcomed us into their wigwam with the few words of English she had. A small fire burned inside. “To keep the mosquitoes away,” Fawn said.

Their new baby was strapped to a board on Menisikwe’s back. “You baby, too,” Menisikwe said to Papa and me.

Fawn explained, “I told my mother about your baby. She is weaving a basket for the cradle.”

“I hope our baby looks just like yours,” I
said. Their baby had a perfect round face. His hair was glossy black like the wing of a crow. His eyes were like the black pebbles you see shining in a streambed.

While we admired the baby, Fawn ran to find Sanatuwa. Her father came to greet us dressed in a calico shirt and long buckskin leggings. A bright length of calico was wrapped around his head like a turban. In his belt were a knife and a small axe. Like Fawn, Sanatuwa spoke English well. He and his family had lived near Detroit, where Sanatuwa had traded with white people. Fawn had gone to a missionary school there.

There were no chairs in the wigwam, only woven rush mats on the floor and on the wooden platforms that were used for beds. We all sat cross-legged on the floor while Papa told about the government agents.

Sanatuwa shook his head. “Some years ago the People south of here were rounded up. They were forced to leave their lands. They had to journey for many days to a place where nothing grew from the earth but stones. There was sickness. Many died on that trip. Now the white man has tangled one of our own chiefs in his web. That chief has signed away what little land we had left. All for money. Once we wanted only what we could make ourselves. Now we have learned to want things we must buy. But how can we leave our cornfields? How can we leave the holy places where our dead are buried?”

“I can’t believe they will force you to go,” Papa said. “But I thought it well to warn you.”

“We thank you for telling us,” Sanatuwa said. “But we must stay to harvest our corn. It may be when we go to our hunting ground this winter we will not come back.”

My sadness must have shown on my face, for Sanatuwa said, “Let us hope it will not be so. Now we will talk of a happy thing. On the day of the next full moon we will have the naming ceremony for our new son. Our clan would like you and your wife and daughter to be our guests.”

Papa said, “That would be a great honor.”

Fawn and I exchanged excited looks.

On our way home Papa told me white men were seldom invited to such a ceremony. He smiled down at me. “With your skin so dark from the sun you could pass for an Indian yourself, Libby.”

I began to daydream about how much fun it would be if I were Fawn’s sister and could live with the Indians in their camp.

E
VERY NIGHT
from that night on I looked at the moon to try to guess how long before it would be full. It filled out so slowly I grew impatient. Then for three nights there were rain and clouds and I couldn’t see the moon at all. At last Papa told me the next day would be the naming ceremony. Mama said Papa and I must go without her. “I’m as big as a barrel and the heat bothers me. It can’t be many more days before the baby comes.”

It wasn’t. The next morning, just at bird-song, Papa shook me awake. “The baby is
coming, Libby,” he said. “I’m going to saddle up Ned and ride over to fetch Mrs. LaBelle. You must make your mother as comfortable as you can. Do just what she tells you.” Before I could put my feet on the floor Papa was gone.

I was so scared I wanted to run after him. I made myself hurry to Mama. She was sitting up in bed, her hair still unbraided. Her lips were folded in tight, as if she was keeping something back. After a minute she gave me a skimpy smile. “Bring the baby’s cradle, Libby, and the chest with all the things we’ve made.” The cradle was the basket Menisikwe had made for us. Around the top she had sewn a braid of sweet grass so that the cradle was fragrant to smell. The baby would remember that pleasant scent all its life.

My hands were shaking as I took out the linen sheets I had helped hem and the shirts Mama had made that were so small she had let me try them on my doll. Mama told me what to do, but every couple of minutes she
would have to stop and hold her breath and her lips would get tight again. I kept stealing glances out the window to see if Papa was coming.

Mama said, “Leave the things be, Libby. Tell me what you remember of our home in Virginia. I would give anything to be there today with our family and friends.”

I sat on her bed and she held my hand. “Our house was painted white,” I began. “There were four rooms, and my room had paper on the wall with leaves and little flowers.”

“Ivy,” Mama said, “and violets. How dainty they were.” She looked at the plain, rugged log walls of our cabin.

“Your easel was in the sitting room, where you used to paint your pictures.”

“Do you recall the garden?” Mama asked. Together we named the flowers: lilacs and bluebells and the Maiden’s Blush roses. Every few minutes Mama would squeeze my hand so tightly it hurt.

Papa must have ridden hard, because it wasn’t long before I heard the LaBelles’ wagon coming up our trail. The LaBelles were the first family we had met when we came to Saginaw. When we put up our cabin, Mr. LaBelle had helped us.

Mrs. LaBelle, as tall and scrawny as a heron, marched in. She was all business, but you could see her gentleness in the way she
put her hand on Mama’s forehead. “Vinnie, don’t you worry about a thing. I’ve seen to more births than I can remember. Rob, spread a blanket in front of the fire to warm. Libby, you’re a good girl to have taken care of your mother. Now you must keep from getting underfoot. You can play outside until we call you.”

“Papa,” I said, “tonight will be the full moon. Today is the naming day for Fawn’s little brother. Can’t we go?”

“I couldn’t leave your mother, Libby. You must see that.”

I hung at the doorway. If I just looked disappointed enough I was sure Papa would change his mind.

Instead he became angry. “For shame, Libby! How can you think of your own selfish pleasure at a time like this?”

Papa was right. I was cold-hearted. I should have been thinking of poor Mama. Only it seemed very hard to me to have to miss something I had looked forward to so much. Mama says I get my stubbornness
from Papa. I was determined to go to the naming day. Fawn had told me there would be games and a feast. I said, “The wild blackberries on the other side of the pond are ripe.” I added in what I hoped was a saintly voice, “I’ll take the bucket and pick some for Mama.”

“That’s a good, thoughtful girl,” Papa said. But I could tell that his mind was on following Mrs. LaBelle’s commands.

As soon as I was outside I ran in the opposite direction of the pond. I headed for the pine woods and the trail that led to the Indian camp. Even though I had never gone to the camp by myself, Fawn had often come from there to visit me, and I didn’t see why I shouldn’t do the same. The path was a cushion of pine needles. Even my running made no noise. Soon I was out of the cool woods and in the meadow. Trees were scarce and the sun hot. When I came to a patch of wild blackberries, I hid the pail in a hollow tree. I would stop to pick some on my way back.

A
T THE
Indian camp there were all kinds of wonderful things to see. The Indians were gathered in the clearing in front of their wigwams. Some of the children were watching the Indian men dancing to the beat of a drum, while others were playing ball or wrestling. Everyone was dressed up. The men had painted their faces in stripes and patches of yellow and red and wrapped their heads in bright cloths. They looked like magical birds. The women wore necklaces and earbobs of silver and beads. Even the
children’s moccasins were embroidered with beaded flowers and leaves.

Fawn was looking for me. “Where are your mother and father?” she asked.

“Mama is having the baby,” I said. Luckily Fawn did not question me more.

I hung back. Although everyone was friendly, suddenly I felt out of place. I tried to explain to Fawn. “Everybody looks so dressed up. I don’t fit in.”

Fawn smiled. “Come to our wigwam.” She ran ahead of me. By the time I caught up with her, she had tumbled all the clothes from a large basket.