Soft Rain Read Online Free Page A

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?”

IN THE PEN
    “ 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, friendlyfaces.
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