Soft Rain (3 page)

“Because you bring me happiness with the lovely flowers, I have made something for you,” she said, handing Soft Rain a small doll decorated with beads and quills.

“Oh! Look, Mother! Isn’t it the prettiest doll you’ve ever seen?” Soft Rain embraced the little doll.

“Grandmother, I’ll love it forever,” she said. “I’ll show it to Green Fern at the dance this night and in the morning I promise to tell
you
all about the Green Corn—”

Crash! Bang!
The door flew open. Soft Rain dropped the flowers onto Grandmother’s lap and ran behind her chair, shaking all over.

She heard words from a white man whose voice was deep and loud. “Come with me now. You and you. Not the old blind one,” he growled.

Shuddering, Soft Rain peered from behind Grandmother. She saw a tall soldier wearing big boots. He stomped toward her and pulled on her arm, trying to drag her away from Grandmother. The doll fell on the floor. Another soldier, with a gun, kicked the doll under the bed. When Soft Rain tried to get it, Big Boots twisted her arm. “Aieee!” she yelped.

Mother gasped and reached out to Soft Rain, but the soldier with the gun stopped her. “They talk too fast,” Mother cried. “I can’t understand what they say, Soft Rain.”

“Oh, Mother. They say to come with them, but not … Grandmother. What’s happening?” Soft Rain clutched Grandmother’s hand in hers.

Mother’s voice became a whisper. “We can’t go with them. Father, Hawk Boy, they will not know—”

“Tell her our orders are to take you now. No waiting,” yelled the soldier with the gun. “We’ll
find the others and they will come later. Take what you can tote. Nothing more!”

He understands our language
, Soft Rain thought. She began to cry. Stammering, she repeated the soldier’s words to her mother.

“It is over,” Mother said hoarsely. She quickly pulled blankets from the bed and raked everything off the table into the blankets: bread, a whole side of bacon, spoons, pans, dishes, a knife, and three cups. One was Grandmother’s cup.

“I can carry a heavy bundle,” she muttered, glaring at the soldiers in disgust.

Soft Rain held Grandmother’s hand until Big Boots pulled her away. Through her tears she saw Grandmother sitting stiffly in her chair, holding Pet. Was she crying? A colored blur lay on the floor. It was Grandmother’s flowers.

O
utside beyond the garden patch there were more soldiers, pointing guns at other Tsalagi. Soft Rain recognized Old Roving Man, who lived deep in the woods. He often came to visit Grandmother and exchange stories from long ago. Why were the soldiers taking him? Big Boots had said, “Not the old one.” Wasn’t Old Roving Man nearly as old as Grandmother?

Three strange white men in battered hats stood by the fence. Soft Rain watched them until the one holding the skinny horse began shouting and laughing. “Now we can live on
our
land. Good riddance!”

Soft Rain turned away from the sound of the ugly voice. Deep in her mind, a different voice told
her:
This is Tsalagi land. It was given to us by the Great Spirit. This land has always been ours. And our corn is planted on it
.

“Move along, girl,” Big Boots barked, shoving Soft Rain between the horses. “Walk in front of the soldiers toward the river.”

Old Roving Man looked at her, puzzled. His eyes were asking, “Where are we going?”

Soft Rain wanted to ask her mother that same question, but no words came when she tried to talk. Mother seized Soft Rain’s hand and led the way. Old Roving Man and the other Tsalagi followed closely. No one spoke. Soft Rain squeezed Mother’s hand until her fingers hurt.

When they came to where the river narrowed, she looked for Green Fern. It was their old meeting spot. Deep inside she wanted her cousin to be there, but she was glad she wasn’t. Others were though. One family with two small children had a wagon. There were more soldiers, too. A tall soldier stood next to a Tsalagi family with a crying baby. They were all drinking from the river.

“Best get yourselves a drink; never can tell when you’ll get another,” the tall soldier advised Soft Rain.

Mother didn’t need to ask her daughter to translate. She immediately put down her blanket pack
and found a cup. As they drank from the cool water Soft Rain looked across the river. She felt she could almost see Green Fern approaching.

“What did the white man say?” Old Roving Man asked her.

“He said we should drink some water,” she answered.

Mother offered Grandmother’s cup to Old Roving Man, but he shook his head. “If the white man wants me to drink, I refuse,” he said angrily.

He thinks like Little John’s father and Uncle Swimming Bear
, Soft Rain thought.

“I want you to drink,” Mother pleaded.

Only then did Old Roving Man take the cup, dip it into the river, and drink it empty before handing it back to Mother. “It was good and—”

“Time to move along,” the tall soldier interrupted.

“Wh-Where … are you taking us?” Mother asked the soldier. It was the first time Soft Rain had heard anyone speak to the soldiers. And her mother knew so few words of the white man. She was proud of Mother’s bravery.

“To the stockade, then west,” the soldier answered quickly.

Stockade
was a word Soft Rain did not know. But west! Her father had said they would not move
west. If they planted their selu, they would not have to move. Didn’t the soldiers know that? Where was Father? He should tell the soldiers. Soft Rain began to cry.

Big Boots pushed her. “Hurry along. No dawdling,” he yelled before mounting his horse.

Others were also crying. The baby hadn’t stopped. Trying to comfort him, his mother sang until she had no breath left. She gasped and sobbed.

Horses snorted. Mother took Soft Rain’s hand and heaved her bundle over her shoulder. They followed the creaking wagon. The baby cried on.

In front of them, more people and more wagons joined the group. The dust thickened. Soft Rain sneezed. Then she saw Old Roving Man stumble and fall. His turban fell off his head.

A soldier kicked him. “Hurry along,” the soldier commanded.

Mother dropped her bundle and helped Old Roving Man up. Soft Rain picked up his turban.

“Where are they t-taking us?” he stammered.

“West. To the West,” Mother answered.

Closing his eyes and bowing his head, Old Roving Man mumbled, “Not this old Tsalagi.”

Where will he go if he does not go west?
Soft Rain wondered.
Is he afraid?
It seemed to her that all her people must be afraid of the West. Old Roving
Man, Green Fern … especially Green Fern. And her mother? She hadn’t spoken to Soft Rain since they had drunk the river water. Whenever Soft Rain tried to talk, Mother cried.

They walked on down the mountain road to the town, past the store and the teacher’s house. The teacher’s door was open. Soft Rain could see an overturned chair inside. Some white people who lived in town stood staring and pointing as they passed by. No one laughed, though, the way the man with the skinny horse had. The smell of cooking meat filled the air. Soft Rain was hungry and tired. She remembered the bacon her mother was carrying. Would the soldiers let them stop and eat?

The town was far behind before she heard the command “Stop here.” The baby had finally fallen asleep. Old Roving Man and Mother sat on the ground, their backs to a tree. Snuggling into her mother’s outstretched arms and feeling the warmth of her body, Soft Rain could almost forget her aching stomach. No one spoke until the family with the two children climbed out of their wagon. They offered their bread. Mother broke off pieces for Soft Rain and Old Roving Man, who fell asleep chewing. The bread eased the ache in Soft Rain’s stomach.

Though her legs were still not rested, they were
soon walking again. The dust from the wagons, horses, and people grew thick and bothersome. Mother sneezed, shifting her pack to the other shoulder. Soft Rain’s head hurt; her eyes stung. She was thirsty. The tall soldier had been right. They had not had any water since they’d been told to drink at the river.

When they finally stopped at nightfall, the Tsalagi gathered in small groups, whispering to each other. “There will be food for all if we are careful,” the baby’s father said. “Do not take anything from the soldiers. Water is nearby; our men will bring it.”

Mother unpacked food from her load, setting out bread and nuts in a pan on a blanket. She divided the bread into little pieces—pieces the size she had given Hawk Boy when he was a baby, Soft Rain thought. Where were Hawk Boy and Father? Were they thinking about her?

The family in the wagon put their bread on the blanket, and someone added dried apple slices. After the men brought buckets filled with water, everyone sat around the blanket eating slowly—except Old Roving Man. When Soft Rain handed him a piece of bread, he shook his head.

“I don’t need to eat,” he said.

“We all need to eat,” Mother told him.

Soft Rain watched the food disappear quickly.
She was still hungry, but not hungry enough to eat any of the food the white soldiers cooked—even if they had offered it. Their meat smelled as old as the half-eaten porcupine she had once found in the woods.

Pet’s rope and Soft Rain’s pouch fell to the ground when Mother spread out a blanket for their bed. Soft Rain didn’t ask how her things had gotten into Mother’s pack. She quickly picked them up, holding them tightly until she fell asleep.

Before the sun rose, Soft Rain awoke, still holding the rope. She fastened it around her waist, helped her mother tie the pack, then put her pouch across her shoulders. They walked again; on and on. More of their people joined the long line. The fortunate ones had wagons pulled by oxen or horses. Soft Rain didn’t see Old Roving Man. Maybe someone had helped him into a wagon. The baby cried. So did the little children in the wagon near her. Soft Rain was too tired to cry.

Late in the day they came to a clearing and a large pen with high sides. As they neared the pen soldiers opened the gate. Soft Rain could hear low, mournful cries from inside.

“Out of the wagons. Everyone into the stockade!” Big Boots shouted.

Soft Rain mumbled,
“This
is the stockade? It’s a pen of logs that holds people.
My people!”

Over the din of the terrified crowd, no one heard Soft Rain scream when she was pushed into the pen, clinging to Mother with one hand and grasping Pet’s rope with the other. No one heard her say, “Pet! Hawk Boy! Father! Where are you? Where are we?”

“
O
ver there,” Mother said, pointing. She led the way to a small open place between two groups of strangers. She bent low, talking with each of them.

When she straightened up, Soft Rain whispered, “Who are they?”

“Strangers who will soon be our friends,” Mother answered, pushing aside several stones with her foot before putting her pack down on the hard ground.

Soft Rain looked around her. Not since the previous year’s Green Corn Dance had she seen so many people crowded together. But such a difference! She remembered the smell of roasting meat, the clapping, laughter, beaded dresses, friendly
faces.
We missed the dance this year
, she thought sadly.
Did Green Fern go?
Was
there a dance?

She jumped, startled away from her thoughts, when a soldier bellowed, “Close the gates. They’re all inside.”

Was Old Roving Man there somewhere? Soft Rain hadn’t seen him ail day. Nor had she thought about Grandmother. She closed her eyes, shutting out the sad faces but not the moans and cries of the people around her. In her head she saw Grand-mother sitting by the hearth, stirring the soup that would have been dinner if the soldiers hadn’t come. Had Grandmother eaten the soup? Soft Rain’s mouth watered.

“Here is flour, and salt pork to go with it,” a man was saying. “Make bread for your supper.”

Soft Rain opened her eyes. Soldiers she had never seen were handing Mother a bag and a piece of fatty meat.

Mother dipped water from a nearby bucket into her pan. She poured in the white powder from the bag, trying to make dough. The sticky mixture clung to her pan, her fingers, and her spoon. She put the pan over a fire the people next to them had made. But before the bread had fully baked, it blackened on the outside.

Soft Rain wouldn’t eat it. She took small bites of the fatty, salty meat until her stomach refused any more. Suddenly she vomited all that she had eaten onto herself and her dress.

She heard a soldier laughing. When she looked at him, he held out a piece of foul meat to her. “Want more?” he asked. Then he crammed the meat into his mouth.

Mother did her best to clean Soft Rain’s dress. “Drink some water now. Tomorrow, when our hunger is greater, we will eat from our own meat.”

When darkness came, they huddled together under their blankets. “Be strong, Soft Rain,” Mother whispered over and over until Soft Rain fell asleep.

Flies were crawling on her face when she awakened. The sun felt warm, too warm. Under her blanket she was sweating. “I smell sour. When can we bathe?” Soft Rain asked Mother.

“I hope that later the soldiers will let us,” Mother answered. She was busy, once more trying to mix the white man’s flour into dough for bread.

Soft Rain wanted to ask why they didn’t have corn flour. Perhaps the white soldiers didn’t know how to make it. She wrinkled her nose. The heat, smoke, grease, and cooking odors made her stomach feel weak again.

“This dough looks better; maybe it will cook properly,” Mother said, placing her pan over the fire.

Soft Rain watched, wondering how her mother could stand being so near the hot coals. “Shall I look for Old Roving Man?” she asked. “Maybe he will eat with us.”

Mother nodded, never looking up from the bread.

The pen was not large, but larger than the one at home that protected their animals.
Are the soldiers protecting the Real People?
Soft Rain wondered. From
what?
She walked twice around the pen and saw several people with white hair, but she didn’t find Old Roving Man.