No Time For Witches, page 9
It all seemed like a distant memory and how would it be in a year? Would she live that long? What would she do if someone attacked their village? What if whites attacked? She knew she would fight them, to save herself, her new family and Nuttah. But she didn’t know how to fight. She’d never done a violent thing in her life. Never had a violent thought. She was an artist and not a fighter or scraper. She avoided drama whenever she could. Yet, she was here with a people who were peaceful, to her. But she was pretty sure that the men could kill quickly and efficiently. It was an odd feeling to look at, talk with and laugh with both Mingan and Wematin and know they more than likely have killed people within this year alone. They more than likely killed whites.
It was hard to know what to feel. She was conflicted, because her own world was filled with whites, blacks, Asians, Hispanics and all those in between. There were native children going to her high school, not many, but some had been in her art class, while others in other classes. They were all far removed from the people she now lived with. She did know that the colonists would either see her as a native or a slave. No matter what she told them, they would either not believe her or they wouldn’t care. She would be treated less than human. She remembered an old book she’d found; it had been her mother’s book. And Still I Rise, by Maya Angelou. It was filled with beautiful and poignant poems. Her poems had touched Kim, knowing that her own mother had treasured them.
She was of these people now. She would live with them and she would die with them. She thought again what Nuna had said about her grandmother. She hoped with all her being, like Nuna, her grandmother had the dream that would ease her heart. She had to pull herself out of these dark thoughts, she had always been an optimistic person, thought she did have her moments of dark musings. That small kernel of rage for the senseless death of her parents kept her cold with thoughts of vengeance. A drunk driver, a man who had killed her parents and had walked away, uninjured. He’d been sent to jail for three years. Three years. Her abuela said not to worry, that one day, someday that man would pay the price with his own life.
The basket she carried was colorful and it was heavy with beans. They drew near to their home and she smiled at the thought, home. Mingan and Wematin had built her a small bench for her own things the next morning after her arrival. By that evening, Kim had her own area for personal belongings, once she got them. She had been given a bone comb from Nuttah and Nuna had showed her the willow tree that was used to pick twigs from. The twigs were for brushing their teeth. She had also been given a short knife, with a leather sheath. At night, she made sure it was put on her bench. Her moccasins sat beneath the bench. Nuttah had also brought her an extra skin for her bed, since the family had each donated one of their own. The bed was surprisingly comfortable. She had fallen into the rhythm of her new family and she was becoming more comfortable with them, their language and with her new life. It was a busy life and she rarely had time for idle thoughts.
Ψ
Mingan was with his friends, they were out in the woods. His mother wanted a fat squirrel for dinner and he had promised her one. His best friend, Hassun, which meant stone, was beside him. Hassun was to marry Nuttah next spring. He liked Nuttah, except she talked so much. She reminded him of a busy chipmunk that chatters. Hassun didn’t seem to mind it, though he himself rarely spoke unless you asked him a direct question. Hassun was built like his namesake, he was thick and square and looked like a rock when he sat still in thought. Mingan grinned at the thought. It was like Nuttah fluttered around him and Hassun simply existed. But he’d seen the rare smile that flitted across his friend’s face when Nuttah was giving him something good to eat or sitting next to him while she made a basket.
He thought about Kimi and his heart gave a little flutter. She was exotic and beautiful and so tiny, reminding him of the dark eyed junco. When she walked, he had to look down to see if her feet were touching the ground. She nearly floated above the ground. She spoke their language, but in such a strange way, it was difficult to understand her. She was now learning how to speak it correctly. How did she know their language, yet not understand it? He had heard his parents talking into the night about her.
“Why must we adopt her?” Wematin had asked, it was a simple curiosity since his father always did what his mother wanted. He had listened to her response, about the dream and his whole body had been covered with goose bumps. Mingan shivered at the thought. His mother said she had come from a far and distant place, yet she came from the large oak tree brought to them by lightning. He didn’t understand how that was possible and yet, here she was and her name meant secret. He shivered again.
“Are you alright, brother?” Hassun asked, looking over to him. Mingan shrugged and didn’t answer. He had an arrow nocked and ready to fly at a moment’s notice. Tonight, he would be guarding their village along with Chogan, meaning blackbird, who was ahead of him. Chogan was as reed thin as Hassun was thick, though Chogan ate like a glutton. He had a long neck that made Mingan think of a heron he’d seen in swampy areas. Chogan was always on the hunt for food, his mother kept him well fed. He had been on the lookout for a wife, but had yet to find one who could cook as well and as much as his mother.
Mingan thought about the white woman that had been with Kimi. She had run away, screaming in fear and all they had done was to walk up on her. They had all been surprised to see a lone woman in the middle of the dense woods. They’d seen no other signs of the wasi’chu. Then, as though a spirit from the earth, Kimi had stood up. Though she didn’t say, the men knew the two women were together. And, after hearing his mother’s dream, Mingan wondered if the other woman had been from the oak? He had seen the shifting emotions that had flitted across Kimi’s face as she had watched the woman disappear into the vastness. Had they been friends? He just didn’t know. Perhaps one day he would ask Kimi about the woman. Whoever she was, he hoped she would find her people.
He had only met a few of the wasi’chu, most of them had been French fur traders. But he’d also met a couple of the colonists. They had looked at him with hate and he had smelled them from a distance. Fear. He had never done anything to them, and he wondered if they thought he was a Mohawk. Many feared them and rightly so. They were always going on raids and war parties.
Mingan like to raid as much as anyone but he thought the Mohawk overly aggressive. There were a few men in their village who were just as intense and often went out on their own to raid and to fight, just for the sake of fighting. He stayed away from the wasi’chu, he didn’t care for them and their stink. The fur traders stunk as well, like a month dead bear that had eaten a rancid skunk. He was glad he did not have to trade with them. There were others in the village that did. They only came once a year and their village stayed on high alert until they were out of the area. They did bring many goods with them, so, it was worth it, he guessed. He knew his mother liked the metal cooking pots and knives. The traders had the weapons that the colonist had, the muskets. Those were rare, not many of the colonist had them either along with the black powder that was needed and the lead.
In a couple of months, they would arrive with their wares and then they would spend three days, outside the palisade, camped. The elders did not wish for them to sleep within the walls and Mingan was glad. He could not understand their words, but he’d watched their faces over the years. Somehow, they didn’t seem trustworthy to him. He trusted his instincts; they’d kept him alive in the past. He’d only been on three raids since he became a man. It had been with other tribes who were not their allies. He had never gone to war against the wasi’chu, though many of the men in the village had. It was only when there were clashes over territories, as the wasi’chu encroached on their hunting grounds. He had heard about numerous raids from the Deer clan, some far to the north.
He knew farther north, there were more hostilities and clashes between the Wabanaki and the wasi’chu were heavy around the coast. His father speculated that it would get worse in time. There were always skirmishes, that was life. But when he listened to his elders, they seemed worried with the encroachment of the wasi’chu and the Iroquois Nation. His mother said life was always in flux and that was what made it interesting. He smiled. Kimi was interesting and his heart trembled thinking about her. With his friends looking for wives, perhaps it was time for him to get a wife. He would speak with his parents.
FIVE
Martha was struggling with the level of filth she found in the period she now lived in. She was standing out back of the house. It was mid-morning and the heat of the day was oppressive in her heavy clothing. She had been in the hamlet a week and she was just now gaining back her strength. Two days in the village and she was hit with diarrhea and vomiting. She wasn’t sure if it was because of the shit strewn streets or the dirty hands that prepared the food. On her first day, she had asked to use the bathroom. Prudence hadn’t understood and she said that she had already bathed Martha’s hands and face.
“I need to pee,” Martha said, her face flaming. She had never in her life had to explain why she needed a bathroom. She wasn’t sure what or how she was supposed to phrase it.
“Ah. I see, here is the pot,” Prudence said and pulled out a wooden bucket that still had poop and pee inside it. Martha had nearly shrieked and had jerked back, looking at the woman as though she’d been asked to drink from the nasty thing.
“That’s nasty. I can’t use that!” Martha said, her eyes wide. Prudence had gone to the window and tossed out the contents and brought the bucket back. Martha had stared at her dumbfounded.
“Can I have privacy?” Martha had asked and Prudence had given her a look and headed for the door.
“Wait. What. What do I use when I’m finished?” she asked, her face a brilliant red and she could feel the heat of it.
“Use? What mean you? I do not understand,” Prudence said. It was clear she didn’t understand and Martha was shocked even more. Did these people not clean themselves once they finished?
“When I pee and I poop, what do I clean myself with?” She could not believe she was having this conversation. It was as though she were on another planet. She watched as Prudence went to the table to retrieve the rag that she’d washed her face and hands with. She squeezed it out and handed it over.
“Was this rag used before you cleaned my face and hands?” Martha asked in a rising tone, a suspicion making the hair raise on her body.
“Only to clean myself. No others have used it,” Prudence said. Martha was torn between screaming and crying. Her mouth trembled as she stared at Prudence. There was a long awkward silence and then Prudence left her alone. It was then that Martha remembered that Prudence had let her drink the water that the cloth had been dipped in and she ran to the door and vomited. Tears, vomit and snot ran down her face onto the ground. Several people stood gaping at her and she wiped her face with a trembling hand.
Going back into the house, she clumsily hiked up her heavy skirts and tried to squat over the pot. At any moment, someone could walk in on her, there was no separate room to do this. If someone simply opened the front door, bam, you’d be caught doing your business. When she finished, she gritted her teeth as she cleaned herself, crying the whole time. I drank filthy water, what is wrong with these people? she wondered in near hysterics. She didn’t think she was overreacting, the woman said she’d used the rag on herself. Did that mean, as in wiping herself or bathing herself? She didn’t want to know and felt her gorge rise once more, but swallowed. All the food she’d eaten earlier was now outside the front door. She held the used rag and didn’t know what to do with it.
She walked to the window that the woman had emptied the contents of the chamber pot and tossed the rag out the window. She went to the chair and sat down heavily. She wanted to wash her hands, but she didn’t see any soap. Prudence walked back in looked at her.
“Do you have soap so I can wash my hands?” she asked.
“Soap is for washing the clothing. We do not use it on our bodies. It would burn us. Where are you from that you do not know this?” Prudence asked suspiciously.
Martha felt a cold shaft of fear pierce through her. She was treading on dangerous ground. How could these people not have soap to bathe with? When was soap invented anyway? No wonder it stunk in the house and how could she answer this woman? She fell back to what she thought might save her in all instances.
“I told you, I don’t know. I only remember my name. I don’t know where I came from and all of this seems very strange to me. I don’t mean to cause offense, but I’m very confused.”
“Should you need to, down the road is a necessary.” Prudence said.
“What? What’s a necessary? I don’t understand,” she said.
“A privy.”
“I don’t know what that is,” Martha said, sweat now breaking out on her forehead. These words that were used were not used as she understood them. It was as though the woman was speaking in riddles.
“If you do not wish to use the pot, then you go down the road and there is a small building. There is a bench and below that is a hole in the ground. So, you may relieve yourself. Was your head injured by chance?” Prudence said, her voice a combination between exasperated and concern.
“How do I clean my hands when I’m finished?” Martha pressed. How was she going to survive? How would she function without soap? If they didn’t have soap, did they have shampoo?
“Use the bottom of your skirt or your apron,” Prudence said and she eyed Martha as though perhaps she was mentally diminished in some way.
“What about water? Can I use water?”
“Yes, I suppose, but I do not understand why you would wish to. I have already bathed you.”
“I think that when I relieve myself, I prefer to use water each time to cleanse my hands. Please forgive me. I don’t know why, but I think that is how I used to do it,” Martha said, still using the amnesia but adding something like a flash of memory to aid in her requests. Prudence had grunted and shook her head and led her to a barrel of water outside the house. She took a dipper and dipped into the barrel. Holding out her hands, Martha let Prudence pour water over her hands. She scrubbed her hands as fast as she could, hoping friction would help. She dried her hands on her filthy apron. She had nearly started crying again.
That night, she slept in the bed with Prudence. George had gone to the loft with Philip to sleep. It had been hot in the house and it was hot in the bed. Prudence had stripped out of her heavy garments but had kept the long shirt and slip on. Martha had slept in her clothing, not wanting to disrobe in front of the family. During the night, the diarrhea had started along with vomiting and she knew it was from either the food or the water. For two days she was in wretched misery. Prudence had cared for her and had watched her throughout. Martha wasn’t sure if the woman resented her presence, the fact that she was ill and couldn’t help it or that Martha only wanted boiled water to drink.
On her third day there, her bowels had settled into a kind of resentful truce. On that day, the family went to church. Martha wasn’t sure if they’d been waiting for her to get better or not. She had been in her clothing for nearly a week and she’d had no bath nor had she washed her hair. Prudence had helped brush her hair and had pinned it up for her. She had tsked the whole time, muttering under her breath.
“Tis a shame. What a dreadful color.”
Martha had felt heat fill her face; she had always loved the color of her hair. She felt it set her apart from the girls at school and she’d enjoyed their envious glances. She grimaced when she smelled her own scent, she reeked of body odor, but no worse than Prudence or the men. She had seen them wash in a basin, but there had been no soap. No soap. When she’d asked Prudence to show her the soap for the laundry, she’d been taken out to a shed that looked as though it would fall over. Inside, were various bundles, barrels and boxes. In a wooden bucket with a lid, she lifted and Martha leaned forward and looked inside. The smell hit her squarely in the face and knocked her back. It burned her eyes and she choked.
“You should not breath the noisome thing in, tis burns the eyes and nose. In three days hence, we shall set up a cauldron and attend the wash.”
“But I have no other clothing to wear. How can I wash these?” Martha said, looking at Prudence and felt shame, though she wasn’t sure why. It was as though whatever came out of her mouth was the wrong thing to say. Prudence looked at her as though she were a great burden and ensured that Martha knew it.
“At gathering, we shall make a plea for castoffs. Perhaps we can garner enough clothing to properly outfit you,” Prudence said.
“What’s wrong with my clothing?”
“Your clothing is too tight for a proper young woman of virtue.”
“It’s all I have? I thought I was dressed properly,” Martha said, but nearly added for this time period. Her fatigue and weakened state were playing havoc with her mind. If she weren’t careful, she might say something that she couldn’t take back. Each waking moment was like walking on a knife’s edge. Why was she having such a difficult time acclimating? She was smarter than these people, she knew things that they could not even imagine now? Then she was stuck by a thought.
“Forgive my ignorance. My mind is so jumbled. I do not even know the day of the week, or the month, or even the year. Please kind madam, can you tell me?” Martha said, trying to phrase the question in ‘pilgrim speak’. Prudence had stared at her open mouthed. Shook her head.
“Tis Thursday, this being the fifteenth day of August, this year of our Lord Savior, 1689,” Prudence said cautiously.
“Ah, I thought perhaps that was so. I truly wish I could remember. I don’t know if I was injured on my head, I just don’t remember. I keep praying that it will come back to me,” Martha said, the last part for Prudence’s benefit. These people were always praying at the drop of a hat. She was going to have to pay attention. She was beginning to realize her life was in jeopardy every time Prudence looked at her oddly. She was sticking out too much. But how could she help it? This whole place stunk like raw sewage. The woman threw their poop outside the window for God’s sake. And oh, if she even said the word God in the wrong contexts, it was blasphemous.
