The Beaded Moccasins Read Online Free
Author: Lynda Durrant
across my father's pasture while the livestock trot clumsily out of his way.
"We walk," the first one says, urgently this time. He's older than the others, with iron-gray hair. I take a step backward and then another. I glance toward the forest.
All of them reach into their belts and take out their knives. They take them out slowly and with no malice, as though they just wanted to admire the bone handles or look at their reflections in the knife blades. As quick as smoke, two stand behind me.
"Mary, don't give them any trouble, please," Mrs. Stewart begs. "We'll be rescued. I know we will."
"My name is Mary Caroline Campbell. I live here. Th-this is our farm. I live here." If I could just explain, they might see their mistake. "My father claimed this land ... in Philadelphia. And I was named after our late queen, Queen Caroline.
"This is Mrs. Stewart and Sammy." Mrs. Stewart half drops into a curtsy, then freezes. She pulls herself upright and holds Sammy closer to her.
"We walk, Mary Caroline Campbell, named after your queen," says the older one. I notice he didn't say "our queen."
I look toward the pasture gate. The cattle are there, waiting. Our bull looks at me in mild surprise. The four cows crop grass again. Sheep run around in circles, bleating in slack-jawed sheep panic. Our chimney falls through the burning roof with a crash.
"We walk," the older one repeats.
For once, that fussy crybaby Sammy isn't crying. He's staring at them wide-eyed with his hands stuffed into his mouth. Only then do I notice that Mrs. Stewart's hands are bound together with grapevine rope. She's struggling to hold Sammy against her.
"We walk, Mary Caroline Campbell. Now."
I pick up my sunbonnet and tie the strings under my chin with trembling fingers. The old one pulls more grapevine rope from his waist pouch, and they tie my hands together too.
I start to cry. "No, please no."
The grapevine rope smells of tobacco and digs into my wrists.
One of them gives me a shove toward the forest and we walk. Just like that, we walk.
We quicken our pace in the woods. We walk past the tree into which my father chopped a tomahawk improvement to mark the end of Campbell Station. We
trot over a stream, then double back; we splash over another stream and double back again. We cross and crisscross valleys and hollows, we run up ridges and passes. Between sobs I remember every crisscross and gulley, I memorize every streambed. The older man peers deeply into my face every hour or so.
By nightfall we have been running every which way and I have no idea where we are. I feel hollow with hunger and thirst and jumpy with terror. I'm exhausted, too, and hot. I can't stop panting for breath. Nothing looks familiar. I don't even know which direction I'm facing.
The old one, the one who spoke English, holds my face by the chin and looks deeply into my eyes, as though trying to gaze into my thoughts.
He does the same thing to Mrs. Stewart. Finally, he nods and speaks to the others. They stop immediately and clear a space for a camp. They use flint and brown pine needles to start a fire.
"Sit down," he says gently. Mrs. Stewart and I fall to the ground just like the walls of Jericho.
"Please, sir," I start to sob. "Please, I want to go home." Little Sammy Stewart hears me crying and commences wailing too.
"I have been watching your face, your eyes," the old one says. "Once you were sure you could find your way back, and now you are not sure. And home is far away, to the west. I have never been there, but we have heard it's a good place. The British have ordered us to go west."
"West! No! It's ... But it's my birthday." As soon as I say it, I know how ridiculous that sounds.
"Food." The old one gives me a handful of samp-that is, cornmeal-and a drink of water from my grandmother's rose bowl. What happened to all the strawberries I picked?
One of them cuts away the rope binding our hands.
The old one says, "Food and sleep."
***
The next morning I
"We walk," the first one says, urgently this time. He's older than the others, with iron-gray hair. I take a step backward and then another. I glance toward the forest.
All of them reach into their belts and take out their knives. They take them out slowly and with no malice, as though they just wanted to admire the bone handles or look at their reflections in the knife blades. As quick as smoke, two stand behind me.
"Mary, don't give them any trouble, please," Mrs. Stewart begs. "We'll be rescued. I know we will."
"My name is Mary Caroline Campbell. I live here. Th-this is our farm. I live here." If I could just explain, they might see their mistake. "My father claimed this land ... in Philadelphia. And I was named after our late queen, Queen Caroline.
"This is Mrs. Stewart and Sammy." Mrs. Stewart half drops into a curtsy, then freezes. She pulls herself upright and holds Sammy closer to her.
"We walk, Mary Caroline Campbell, named after your queen," says the older one. I notice he didn't say "our queen."
I look toward the pasture gate. The cattle are there, waiting. Our bull looks at me in mild surprise. The four cows crop grass again. Sheep run around in circles, bleating in slack-jawed sheep panic. Our chimney falls through the burning roof with a crash.
"We walk," the older one repeats.
For once, that fussy crybaby Sammy isn't crying. He's staring at them wide-eyed with his hands stuffed into his mouth. Only then do I notice that Mrs. Stewart's hands are bound together with grapevine rope. She's struggling to hold Sammy against her.
"We walk, Mary Caroline Campbell. Now."
I pick up my sunbonnet and tie the strings under my chin with trembling fingers. The old one pulls more grapevine rope from his waist pouch, and they tie my hands together too.
I start to cry. "No, please no."
The grapevine rope smells of tobacco and digs into my wrists.
One of them gives me a shove toward the forest and we walk. Just like that, we walk.
We quicken our pace in the woods. We walk past the tree into which my father chopped a tomahawk improvement to mark the end of Campbell Station. We
trot over a stream, then double back; we splash over another stream and double back again. We cross and crisscross valleys and hollows, we run up ridges and passes. Between sobs I remember every crisscross and gulley, I memorize every streambed. The older man peers deeply into my face every hour or so.
By nightfall we have been running every which way and I have no idea where we are. I feel hollow with hunger and thirst and jumpy with terror. I'm exhausted, too, and hot. I can't stop panting for breath. Nothing looks familiar. I don't even know which direction I'm facing.
The old one, the one who spoke English, holds my face by the chin and looks deeply into my eyes, as though trying to gaze into my thoughts.
He does the same thing to Mrs. Stewart. Finally, he nods and speaks to the others. They stop immediately and clear a space for a camp. They use flint and brown pine needles to start a fire.
"Sit down," he says gently. Mrs. Stewart and I fall to the ground just like the walls of Jericho.
"Please, sir," I start to sob. "Please, I want to go home." Little Sammy Stewart hears me crying and commences wailing too.
"I have been watching your face, your eyes," the old one says. "Once you were sure you could find your way back, and now you are not sure. And home is far away, to the west. I have never been there, but we have heard it's a good place. The British have ordered us to go west."
"West! No! It's ... But it's my birthday." As soon as I say it, I know how ridiculous that sounds.
"Food." The old one gives me a handful of samp-that is, cornmeal-and a drink of water from my grandmother's rose bowl. What happened to all the strawberries I picked?
One of them cuts away the rope binding our hands.
The old one says, "Food and sleep."
***
The next morning I
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