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do!” Nothing-But-Flowers’s grandmother said. “At this very moment there is a great council in the land of the Mohawks, trying to make peace between the French and the English and the Iroquois and the Seven Nations of Canada.”
    â€œThere will never be peace between the white men and us, no matter how many presents they give us,” Bold Antelope said.
    â€œThat is not for you to decide. That is for the sachems, who will weigh the matter carefully,” Nothing-But-Flowers’s grandmother said. “You are too young to remember other wars when the French and the Hurons attacked us and drove the Senecas from the shore of the lake. Our warriors had to flee like children to the protection of the Mohawks. The French are as strong as the English up here on the lakes. We must tread carefully between them.”
    I barely listened to this exchange, although I was usually fascinated by the stories the village’s grandmothers told about the old wars of the Iroquois against the French and the Indian nations of Canada. I could not take my eyes off the yellow scalp. It seemed to be turning the inside of my head into a swamp in which thoughts sank like footsteps and snakes rose to twine themselves around the unwary traveler.
    The sun whirled in the sky, its rim as red as the edges of the Frenchman’s scalp. Was it hunger returning? Surely I could live for a whole day on a delicious corn cake. My friend Nothing-But-Flowers’s hand seized my arm. “Let’s go for a walk along the lake. Maybe we’ll see the warriors returning. We can swim out to greet them.”
    â€œYou must swim with no one but me!” Bold Antelope said.
    â€œI’m not married to you yet,” Nothing-But-Flowers said. “I’ll swim with anyone I please.”
    I heard the spoken and the unspoken parts of this exchange. I knew my friend Nothing-But-Flowers wanted to get me away from the scalp. Perhaps she wanted to get away from it herself. When we were small, we were both afraid of scalps. We would cry and hide our faces when the warriors displayed them in the longhouses.
    I also knew Nothing-But-Flowers was not yet sure she loved Bold Antelope. He was still very young and lacked the dignity of Nothing-But-Flowers’s father, Hanging Belt, the village’s greatest war chief. There were many other young men courting Nothing-But-Flowers. She had no need to throw herself at Bold Antelope.
    We walked quickly away from the village, our arms around each other. I had told Nothing-But-Flowers about the swamp that appeared in my head at certain times. Nothing-But-Flowers had told me it belonged to
the Evil Brother of the Master of Life, the great God who brought spring and fruitfulness to the world. The Evil Brother was trying to suck me back into the unhappy winters of our girlhood, just as each year he tried to prevent the Master of Life from bringing us the spring. The Evil Brother lived in the cold dark past and he wanted others to join him there.
    I listened carefully to Nothing-But-Flowers, as always. I respected the strength of her orenda. But her words did not stop the swamp from filling my head. In the gloom ghostly white faces appeared, names drifted vaguely, hissing like snakes. Vorrrrst, whispered one. Vorrrst. On the branch of a dead tree, an evil crow croaked Van. Van. Van . A woodpecker went Cat Cat Cat. I knew it had something to do with how I came to the Senecas. But I could not remember any of it. There was only this swamp in my head and a terrible fear in my heart.
    I walked along the shore of the lake, my heart almost bursting with gratitude for Nothing-But-Flowers’s friendship. Everyone was sure that someday she would take her grandmother’s place as the matron of the Bear Clan. She would become the most powerful woman in the village. She would rule the clan’s longhouse and their corn and squash fields. Even if I never found a husband, as Nothing-But-Flowers’s