The Beaded Moccasins Read Online Free Page A

know I've been dreaming about Fairfield, because I can almost smell it. The spicy-sweet scent of the bakeries makes my mouth water. The bready aroma of the alehouses fills my nose. I smell the molten iron from the blacksmiths' shops; a whiff of lye soap from Monday washdays almost makes me sneeze. I shut my eyes tightly, hoping I'll go back to sleep and dream more. But then I hear Mrs. Stewart moaning as she awakens. I see the five men kicking dirt into the fire to ruin evidence of our having been here. Fairfield disappears with the sunrise. It was safe there. The Indians were long gone.
    Sammy Stewart refuses to eat the wet cornmeal they have given us for breakfast. Mrs. Stewart holds the meal up to his face and he shouts, "No!" with a turn of his head. "No!
    "Wan' milk," he says.
    "There's no milk, my darling." She holds the meal out again.
    "No!"
    The men pull on their knapsacks. As we commence to march, Mrs. Stewart staggers under Sammy's weight. He tries to wriggle out of her grasp and cries and cries.

    Late in the morning I see a bluebird singing in a little oak tree. His bright-blue feathers are the same color as my dress and eyes. His silvery, liquid voice fills my ears with a promise: I will see my family again.
    At evening the old one says something, and the others stop immediately and start a fire.
    Mrs. Stewart drops Sammy to his feet. The two of them walk to a nearby creek, and she washes him and his pants.
    We gather around the fire as the forest fills with darkness and mosquitoes. We eat the same thing meal after meal: cornmeal mixed with water. It always seems as though a few handfuls of samp won't be enough, but when I drink more water, it swells up in my stomach.
    Even Sammy eats tonight.
    I'm surprised to be so grateful for little things: sitting down at last; cold water to drink; a full stomach; I will be sleeping (and dreaming) soon. As I lie down, the forest floor feels smooth under my back. Another thing to be grateful for. Last night tree roots poked into my back till morning.
    Now I can tell them apart. The old one who speaks English is their leader. The tall one always walks or sits next to him. He must speak English, too, because I know he understands what I say. The two younger ones must be brothers, they look so much alike. The fifth one has smallpox scars all over his face and body.
    I doze off to sleep to the buzzing of insects. "Escape," they whisper into my ears. "Escape, escape."

    I dream again but not of Fairfield. I'm at Campbell Station, sitting with my family around the hearthstones.
    "Escape," the fire hisses into my ears, "escape, escape."

3. The Warning
    S AMMY CRIES AND CRIES , and I spend half the night tossing and turning. The next morning he drinks so much water, I think he'll burst. Mrs. Stewart's eyes are as red as her dress, and there are dark circles above her wan cheeks. When she tries to give Sammy wet cornmeal, he smacks her hand away with another "No!" The Indians stare as the samp splatters into a poison ivy patch. They glare at Sammy. Mrs. Stewart groans as she picks him up.

    "Please God," she says softly, cradling Sammy's butter-bright blond head. "Please give me the strength I need today."
    I say, "I'll carry him, Mrs. Stewart."
    "No, Mary. You need your strength."
    The Indians stamp out the fire while Mrs. Stewart hoists Sammy onto her back. She grasps his ankles, Sammy puts his arms around her neck, and we commence to march again.
    Sammy whimpers a bit, then falls asleep. He must feel like dead weight on her back. His wrists must be choking her. Stooped over, Mrs. Stewart falls farther and farther behind.

    It's close to noon, I reckon, and steaming hot. We are scrabbling up a steep gorge. I see a flash of Mrs. Stewart's red dress far below us.
    The Indians start talking, but of course I have no idea what they're saying. The old one, the leader, says something to the big one with the smallpox scars. We stop and wait for Mrs. Stewart to catch up.
    Smallpox Scars