Soft Rain (5 page)

Sharing stories helped Soft Rain forget her troubles and overcome some of her grief about Green Fern. She remembered how Grandmother and Old Roving Man had told stories to each other. She could still see Old Roving Man’s thin fingers tugging on the ends of his white hair as he began a story.

When the smell of sickness in the camp worsened, the soldiers began opening the gate every evening. The Real People lined up and filed out to empty the overflowing mess buckets. Soft Rain watched the river become lower and lower—too low for anyone to bathe in.

Her skin felt stiff with dried dirt and old sweat. She saw that all of her people were as dirty as the soldiers. Every day the soldiers brought them less water. She was always thirsty. She wished and wished for rain, but none came.

Mother rationed the water carefully throughout the day. “Sip slowly and stay still,” she said each time they drank.

She and Aunt Kee stopped telling stories about
their childhood. Aunt Kee’s thoughts were far away; her eyes were often staring at something Soft Rain could not see. She never talked about Green Fern.

Finally Soft Rain asked her why. “We do not talk about those who have gone on to the Night-land,” she answered.

But we don’t talk of Father, Hawk Boy, and Uncle Swimming Bear, either
, Soft Rain thought.
They haven’t gone to the Nightland
. She tried to remember a story of how the Sun’s daughter was turned into a red bird when she was brought back from the Nightland, but she had forgotten most of it. “Mother, do you remember the story of the Sun—”

“Now is not a good time for a story, Soft Rain,” Mother said.

In her head, though, Soft Rain still thought about Green Fern, and Grandmother and her stories. She knew they would like listening to her, if they were there.

As summer passed, the sun climbed lower in the sky. Noises in the camp lessened. People kept dying, and no new ones arrived.

One morning Aunt Kee was talking excitedly to Mother. “What has happened?” Soft Rain asked.

“I smell rain. Today there will be rain.” Aunt Kee’s eyes were bright with enthusiasm.

Aunt Kee had often correctly predicted the weather. If only she could be right that day! Before the sun had traveled far in the sky, it was hidden by a cloud. They sat waiting, hoping, watching the darkening clouds gather into great shapes that formed and re-formed. When the first raindrops hit them, they whooped and jumped around, then stopped to stare upward, letting the cool water run down their faces, letting the drops fall into their mouths.

Soft Rain watched Mother and Aunt Kee singing and dancing together, stepping first on one foot, then on the other. Once they almost fell, and they bent double with laughter. The welcome rain stayed all day, washing them, quenching their thirst, lessening the heat.

Soon after the rain came, they heard loud noises outside the pen: shouts, wagons, and neighing horses. Soft Rain peered through a crack. She saw soldiers and Tsalagi men loading the wagons with blankets, boxes, and cooking pots.

No one came near to tell her what was happening until she saw the soldier with the shiny belt buckle. She slipped her fingers through the crack to get his attention. Once more she talked with him. “Soldier man, why are the wagons being loaded?”

Once more she saw his blue eyes peering at her. “There are supplies in them for you Cherokees. You’re going away,” he answered.

Soft Rain caught her breath and swallowed before asking, “Are we going home?”

“First to Rattlesnake Springs. All the Cherokees will be there. Then to Indian Territory: to a new home in the West, across rivers, valleys, and mountains.”

Soft Rain gasped. Without thinking, she blurted out Green Fern’s fears. “The spirits of the dead go west, and they can never be happy because they’re far away from home.” She stopped talking when she realized he wouldn’t understand.

He walked away shrugging.

In no time, the gate opened and Big Boots came in shouting, “Two days! Be ready to leave here in two days.” He looked straight at Soft Rain. “You tell them and be sure they understand.”

She stammered, “I … I will,” before running to Mother. “We’re going to Rattlesnake Springs in two days. Will Father be there to meet us? Ail the Tsalagi will be there. How will he be able to find us in such a crowd?”

With tears streaming down her face, Mother shifted Father’s tobacco pouch from one hand to the other. Soft Rain had never seen her look so
desperate. Finally Mother sniffed, swallowed, and wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. “By now he must be in a camp like this one, ready to be moved west. I’ve heard the soldiers say that all our people are in camps. If he knows we’re coming to Rattlesnake Springs, he will find us. Perhaps he won’t be there, though. Many of our people have already been taken west, some by land, some by water.”

“By water?” Soft Rain asked. “But what of the
uktena
hiding in the river? Seeing it may mean death. Will we travel by water?”

Aunt Kee put one arm around Soft Rain and the other around Mother. “Hmpf!” she snorted. “Maybe the stories of the
uktena
are only stories.”

While Mother and Aunt Kee told the news to the women in the pen, Soft Rain told the children. Some of them, hollow-eyed and pale, only stared at her in silence. Others screamed in fear. Later, while Mother and Aunt Kee talked together, Soft Rain tried her best to close her ears to the sobs, moans, and wails—the sounds of frightened women and children.

She was frightened, too. More frightened than she had ever been. Suddenly she cried out, “Father would not leave without finding us. We can’t leave without him!”

D
uring the next two days Soft Rain watched in disbelief while everyone prepared to leave. Aunt Kee carefully wrapped Green Fern’s soiled dress around her daughter’s moccasins. Aunt Kee’s own moccasins were worn thin. She would not be able to walk across many mountains and valleys in them.

On the last morning Mother packed their cups and pans in their blankets, making a tight bundle, smaller than the one she’d carried before. The smoked meat they’d brought was gone, and the soldiers had taken Mother’s knife. Soft Rain didn’t see Father’s tobacco pouch.

Biting her lip to keep from crying, she retied
Pet’s rope around her waist. The soldiers were shouting, “Get in line. Hurry! Move along.”

When they opened the gate, the people rushed toward the wagons, clambering to get on. A soldier standing in each wagon pushed most of them away. “Only old ones and little children,” they bellowed, grabbing the arms of the babies and grandmothers. “I want my baby back!” a mother wailed, clinging to the side of a moving wagon.

Mother, Aunt Kee, and Soft Rain were shoved to one side, where they watched each noisy, crowded wagon pull away. Soft Rain covered her ears with her hands. Three old women stood near the last wagon, weeping and waving to their loved ones as the wagon rattled by.

“Why can’t they ride in the wagon?” Soft Rain whispered.

“Perhaps they are the fortunate ones, for they are too frail to go,” Aunt Kee answered, picking up her bundle.

What will happen to them?
Soft Rain wondered as the old ones came near. She thought it was fortunate that Grandmother had not been allowed to leave home. She would not have liked riding in a noisy wagon. Soft Rain reached out, touching the arms of the old ones. One of them grasped her hand before walking away in silence.

A line of Tsalagi men passed by, blankets over their shoulders. A few rode horses, but most were on foot. Two chiefs wore brightly colored turbans on their bowed heads. No one spoke.

The sun was as high as the heavens before Mother, Aunt Kee, and Soft Rain joined the other women behind the men, horses, and wagons. Some of the women had no moccasins. How far would they be able to walk? How far was it to their home in the West? Soft Rain did not ask.

At first she felt free and cool, walking beside the river with great trees shading her from the sun’s strong rays. But soon they left the trees behind. The rain they had welcomed hadn’t been enough to keep down the dust created by the crowd of oxen, horses, wagons, and people. Soft Rain stopped to cough and rub her watering eyes. As she hurried to catch up she saw Mother stumble over a rock, but Aunt Kee kept her from falling.

“Put the bundle on my back,” Soft Rain said.

“I can carry it,” Mother mumbled.

“I want to carry it now,” Soft Rain insisted, tugging at the pack. When Mother didn’t object again, Soft Rain realized that the coughing sickness had left her weak. How far would Mother be able to walk?

Though not large, the bundle grew heavy. It no
longer felt good to walk. Soft Rain wanted to stop long before she heard someone say, “The sun is dead. Let us rest.”

Finally the wagons halted. The animals snorted and a horse neighed nearby. Soft Rain could hear children whining. She was surprised to see a young chief ride quickly past them. Before they had unpacked their belongings, he came back.

“Where are the soldiers?” Aunt Kee asked him. “When will we eat?”

“Some soldiers will lead us, but the Real People are in charge now. We have ground corn, and you can get water from the stream ahead. Make your dinner,” he said, handing down a sack of meal and a small package of meat.

Soft Rain already felt better. The soldiers always shouted at them, pushed them. The chief did not shout.

Aunt Kee baked corn cakes in a shallow pan over a small campfire. After eating, she wiped the pan clean. A woman came asking to borrow it.

“I saw pans in the wagons the soldiers loaded,” Soft Rain told her.

“I will never cook in them,” the woman said.

That night, lying on the hard ground under a blanket, Soft Rain pondered why Tsalagi and white people did not get along. She understood that her
people hated the soldiers for taking their homes, but she didn’t understand why the soldiers seemed to hate
them
. And why didn’t
she
hate the soldiers? Aunt Kee did. She smiled, remembering that Aunt Kee had talked with the young chief that day. She had never talked with a soldier.

Soft Rain looked up at the half-moon. She counted stars until she dreamed.

T
he days stayed warm. The steep roads seemed never-ending—tramping up a mountain and down to the next valley, wading across a stream, trudging up again. Soft Rain’s feet grew sore from stepping on stones she couldn’t avoid. Aunt Kee’s toes soon showed through the holes in her moccasins. Each evening they gathered wood and made a blazing campfire, for the nights grew cool. On the third day Mother was allowed to ride in a wagon while Aunt Kee and Soft Rain walked alongside it.

The next day Mother refused to ride. “I want to stay with my family,” she said. Soft Rain could tell the ride had been good for her, because her step was brisker and she looked stronger.

Late that day they heard a murmur coming from the Tsalagi ahead of them. As it grew louder Soft Rain asked, “What is happening?” But everyone was too excited to answer.

Aunt Kee saw the wide valley first. “The Hiwassee River,” she said, “and Rattlesnake Springs, alive with Tsalagi.”

Soft Rain drew a deep breath when she viewed the valley below. There were stockades, but they seemed to be empty. Smoke from hundreds of campfires rose to the sky. And
thousands
of Real People with their animals milled around the fires. From so far away, everything looked small and orderly. But as they approached, Soft Rain held tightly to Mother and Aunt Kee. The crowd of people, animals, and wagons was overwhelming.

They walked about, arm in arm, looking for a familiar face. But no one greeted them or even looked their way. Around some fires, old ones sat quietly with heads bowed.

Many Tsalagi men walked or rode quickly past them. Then the young chief they knew saw them and stopped. “Make camp here,” he said, pointing to a fire no one was tending.

“Where are the men going?” Soft Rain asked.

“Hush, Soft Rain. You ask too many questions,” Mother cautioned.

“It’s all right. How else will she know? Soon everyone will be told. A final council is meeting—to decide on laws for our new home,” he explained. “We have divided into groups. Tsalagi men and chiefs, such as myself, have already been appointed as officers to conduct everyone safely. In a few days the first group will start westward. We will all leave soon.”

“Could my father be one of the men at the council meeting?” Soft Rain asked. “I want to go look for him.”

The chief shook his head. “It’s too crowded. What is your name, child? While I’m there, I will look for your father.”

“I am Soft Rain.”

“I’ll remember,” the chief said before he rode away.

The air grew thick with the smoke from the many fires. Soft Rain welcomed the warmth of their own, and she ate the corn bread and meat portion she was given, though her mouth watered for fresh fruit and vegetables. Despite the summer drought, wouldn’t Father have had a good crop? He always did.

Without thinking, she walked slowly in the direction the chief had gone. “Keep our fire in sight or you may get lost,” Mother called to her.

When Soft Rain returned to the fire, she knelt and smoothed the earth with her hand. Picking up a twig, she began writing words, the white man’s way, in the dirt.

“What does it mean, Soft Rain?” a familiar voice asked. Her new friend, the young chief, stood watching over her shoulder.

“Father, Grandmother, Hawk Boy, Green Fern,” she said, pointing to each name as she read it. “They are my family, the ones who are not here.” She stretched to look behind the chief. “Did you find my father at the meeting?”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I asked many men if they had a daughter named Soft Rain. No one did.”

Soft Rain’s heart skipped a beat. “But you didn’t ask everyone?”

“There wasn’t time. If your father is here, he will find you. He will know that you are looking for him. Many families are looking for a missing loved one.”

Soft Rain stared at the names she had written and drew a circle around Father’s.
How will he find us?
she wondered.