Lily's Story Read Online Free PDF

Chatham is bigger than ten Ojibwa
villages and the niggers prowls at night with eyes as white as a
cat’s.”
    “ Why does Papa go
there?”
    “ I like your Papa. He’s a
good White Mens. He gave me my name: Old Samuels. I tell him my
name is Uhessemau ,
he says ‘I can’t say that so I’ll just call you Old Samuels, all
right?’ I like the name Old Samuels, so I keep it. Redmen don’t
fuss about names; we have many names before we die. If I die with
Old Samuels, well that’s okay with me.” The old man puffed on his
pipe and thought about the many names he had lived
through.
     
     
     
    Lily was only half-surprised , then, when
Papa appeared that evening at dusk, his haversack full of
store-bought bacon and sausages, and said: “Start packin’, little
one, we’re goin’ up to Port Sarnia to watch the ceremonies.”
     
     
     
    2
     
    It was Indian summer. The leaves had turned
but not fallen. No wind disturbed their shining in a sun that
blazed with more hope than heat. Along the forest track, purged of
summer’s mosquitoes, autumnal shadows stretched and stilled,
preserved in light. Air in the lungs was claret, flensing. Lil
breathed and strode. Papa measured his own practiced stride to
hers; she floated in his grateful wake. She was holding his hand as
surely as if they were touching.
    They had left home while the sun was still a
promise in the east, and the path linking the four farms to the
north was sullen with shadow. Lil had never been north of Millar’s
farm; Lil had never seen the River. In the absence of birdsong this
day, her heart fluttered and drummed. The beaten path, so familiar
to their feet, disappeared. The sun had risen but not above the
tree-line; there was just enough light to see the blazes, newly
slashed, that marked the bush-trail ahead. They were going north,
through nowhere to somewhere. At last.
    Just as the sun bested the
tree-line far to their right, they were joined by Old Samuel’s
nephews – Metagomin or Acorn, and Pwau-na-shig or Sounder. They slipped behind Lil without a
word. Only when they stopped much later for a drink from a shallow
spring and a brief rest did she notice that they were not in their
hunting attire. Their red and blue sashes against the white calico
of their capots were dazzling, even amongst the maples and elms. Like Papa
they carried haversacks stuffed with supplies. Sounder, as usual,
grinned broadly at Lil, giving her a glimpse of the merriment that
must have once quickened the eyes of Old Samuel himself. Acorn,
according to his custom, nodded at Lil without changing the
impassive, set features of his face. Lil stared at the grimace of
the black squirrel peering out of the fur on Acorn’s
shoulder.
    To Papa they spoke in Pottawatomie, the
speech (according to Old Samuels) their parents had adopted when to
utter Attawandaron or Petun meant death. No one was alive now who
remembered those sweet/sharp sounds. Lil thought sadly of her
mother’s lullaby tongue. Sounder was chattering away to Papa like a
jay in the soprano range. Already Lil could pick out some words;
the pitch of rising excitement was plain. She detected “presents”
(several times), “white soldier”, “big river” and “village”. Papa
replied laconically, half listening as he did with Lil. But he was
happy. His large hands cradled the back of his head, his eyes
glowed with something remembered and anticipated. Lil found herself
beside him. She put her hand on his knee.
    Sounder had switched to English.
“Little-maiden-with-the-goldenrod-hair is a brave walker, no?”
    The ghost of a hand bent over hers…
    “ Big white general only
give presents to squaws with black hair. White generals plenty
fussy ’bout presents.”
    … brushed and
settled.
    “ Sounder like all squaws;
give presents to everybody.” His eyes danced at the thought. “Even
Acorn,” he laughed, and did a little jig around his unimpressed
cousin. The squirrel seemed curious.
    “ Ready to move?” Papa