Life seemed more pristine at Indian Lake, though in its own way, life on the reservation was as complex as any other place on earth. Demonstrations prone to violent confrontations had ended two years before, followed by this period of peaceful accommodation. The reason Austin agreed to Daniel’s week at camp, also their long-postponed visit with Gramps.
Jenny had come to see that throughout her marriage—surreptitiously—Austin had kept her and Daniel away from Indian Lake. He’d discouraged contact with the clan and reservation in order to avoid an open conflict with the Welbornes. And she’d accepted her confinement. An issue they hadn’t openly discussed. Indian Lake was the one place on earth she knew he wouldn’t come after her. She’d have time alone to work things out.
Bacon back, green beans and new potatoes from the garden outside the cabin door; cornbread from an iron skillet baked over hardwood coals; simple foods even more delicious after a brisk walk in the woods, or an invigorating swim in the waters of a spring-fed mountain lake. Daniel had almost finished his second helping.
At dinner they heard about the powwow. “Change in policy at BIA, and the activities of the Native American movement’s bringing the people back to the reservation,” Gramps explained. Joe Cary had risen from park ranger to second in command. He dealt with the Seneca Nation on a daily basis, and kept close contact with the Deer clan. “Indians and mixed-bloods,” he went on, “now days they want to validate their ties.”
Jenny took a moment to consider the implications. Seneca families had been encouraged, often forced, to leave the reservation, yet many had stayed in the face of hardship. Mixed-bloods could cut ties more easily. Ties meant acceptance into the clan of a Seneca or mixed-bloods maternal forbearers; clan membership the only way back to the sacred homelands of the Seneca/ Iroquois, or to full participation in the rites and rituals. “Where they have kin to speak for them, they can prove their lineage,” Jenny commented.
“Some can. Others have a broken matriarchal line.” Gramps took a break to finish his cornbread. “A good many have petitioned the elders to reinstate to old traditions of adoption.”
Jenny had been adopted into Gran’s clan according to the old traditions. Such adoptions were considered rare even in those days.
“The elder’s held a council here last month. You know how those things go.” Gramps raised an eyebrow, exchanged a knowing glance with Jenny.
There had always been, would always be, friction between those who want change—demand change—and those who would steadfastly keep the Old Way. “Was there consensus?”
“More or less.” Gramps pushed his empty plate aside. Long years with the Seneca had given him an understanding, if not always full acceptance of their ways. He turned to Daniel. “We’re goin’ fishin’ before sun up; we’d best dig some night crawlers after dark.”
Enthusiastically, Daniel nodded chewing his last mouthful.
Daniel and Gramps were fine companions, enjoying their time together to the fullest. Seeing them together put a mend on Jenny’s wounded heart. “Daniel, do you want a dish of Grandma Ivy’s canned pears for dessert? Can I get you a dish, Gramps?”
Simultaneously, both gave an affirmative nod.
Her thoughts focused on the sort of troubles new blood on the reservation was sure to bring, Jenny made up two dishes of pears. More recently, the Seneca had accepted change. All through the generations of her people in these lands there had been change, influenced by strong leaders, or forced upon the people by a hostile, outside world encircling them. Her people. Being among them these past few days, how naturally she made the connection. For more than a decade, she’d denied her people. No more. “There will be adoptions, then?” she questioned, taking up the discussion. She handed Gramps a dish of pears and set the second down in front of Daniel, who spooned sweet juice into his mouth.
Gramps did the same, savoring the flavor a moment before he answered. “The way I understand it, the Elders agreed to some adoptions with limited land rights, so the people who are here will hold on to what little they’ve got.”
Thoughtfully, Jenny spooned pears into a dish for herself, taking it to the table. Most reservation families were barely surviving, living off the land, and the wages of a laborer or a housemaid. Those who’d attended University moved into cities. “How will they choose?”
Gramps picked up his dish to sip the last of his pear juice. “The elders choose the candidates. Each clan has the final say in who will be accepted. There’s plans to take in the first group at powwow in October … the Harvest Celebration.”
Jenny’s eyes fell on her son. The blood of the Iroquois flowed in Daniel as surely as it flowed in her. Were he a member of her clan, he could take part more fully in the rituals. Clan membership would give him roots within the tribe and nation. “Daniel, would you like to be adopted by my clan?”
A look of concern came to her grandfather’s usually placid face.
Daniel shrugged his shoulders, went on downing his pears.
He didn’t understand her meaning. “You’d have another family, like Aunt Caroline and Uncle Charlie. Within the clan, Red Feather would be a brother.” Red Feather could then teach Daniel the sacred dances and ceremonies Seneca scouts performed at festival.
Adoption was unsettled when Austin’s eyes looked up at her from Daniel’s young face; his permanent teeth still too large for his father’s boyish grin. She pressed him for an answer “What do you think?”
“Cool!” Adoption was okay with him. “May I be excused?”
She laughed. “You may be excused.” Was that spurt of energy affirmation or apprehension? Or was her defiance the reason for this raw excitement? She’d set a plan in motion for her son that his father would not approve.
Daniel pushed his chair back from the table, stretched out on the rug inside the cabin door, took up the book he’d been reading.
While he sipped his coffee, Gramps had been observing their exchange. Now he studied Jenny as she sat across the table. “You’ll discuss this with Austin?”
“No.” she answered, too quickly and sharply. More restrained, she went on. “I’ll decide this ... or the elders will decide this for us.”
Gramps didn’t know about their troubles. Though she thought he suspected something had gone wrong, he wouldn’t probe. Gramps wasn’t the sort of man to pry. And he accepted her decision without comment.
“I’d say, Daniel has an excellent chance of being adopted. You’ll want him to be Deer clan?”
“Of course. I want my son to know our people and our ways.”
Gramps took his pipe from the pocket of his vest. “Let me make some inquiries. I think first, he’d meet with the council.”
The subject of adoption was dropped while Gramps passed on clan news he’d heard the week before: Aunt Winona’s husband, Ben Windstar, the Cherokee, had taken sick in Oklahoma. Ben’s illness “terminal,” it was said. The women of the clan invited Aunt Winona to return to Indian Lake after Ben passed. She was to be the clan’s new Mother.
Jenny remembered Ben Windstar as robust, a loving husband, and tribal leader. The last time she’d seen him was the day of her wedding reception. Her thoughts turned to Aunt Winona, soon to be widowed. The women of the clan were not happy with their men these days. Drunkenness and violence caused much family suffering. Not that women were immune. The clan could only benefit from Aunt Winona’s wisdom and tough mindedness.
“Clan Mother,” Jenny mused. A great honor. “The clan needs her; the people need her.”
“You know your Aunt Winona. Always been the one to take up a cause.” Gramps chuckled much as Austin did when bemused.
Long ago she’d come to see that she’d been attracted to Austin because in so many ways he reminded her of Gramps. She drew in a long breath, felt the sharp pain that came each time she inhaled deeply. Austin wasn’t Gramps; they liked and respected each other, but inside, they were two very different people; she loved them both in different ways.
After the night crawlers had been captured and secured, Daniel curled up on a cot beside the hearth and was soon fast asleep. Gramps yawned a weary goodnight, went off to the room he’d shared with Grandma Sarah. Jenny fell into a fitful sleep in the room where she was born and grew into girlhood as Jenny Dawn of the Deer clan; her sleep troubled by a haunting dream.
A man and woman, young and in love, walking hand in hand through a sunlit field of daisies. She experienced the rapture the couple felt being together, their lives stretched out before them, the days and nights they’d share; the sons and daughters they’d conceive and nurture.
She stirred, a dream turned nightmare when a black cloud covered the sun, plunging the lovers into a sudden, terrifying darkness. He cried out in pain. She cried out in fear and anguish. Jenny felt the depths of sadness as the woman walked the fields—alone.
Ghostly images swirling, she sat up straight in bed, her face in her hands, a hollow loneliness inspiring her own fear and anguish.
“Man and woman were not meant to live alone.” Whispers from the dark carried Grandma Sarah’s words. The story of the Quaker teachers who’d lived and died at Indian Lake. He died in her arms, the story went. She lived on, a bridge between the native Seneca and white settlers, her restless spirit rising from the depths of Indian Lake, wandering in the field of daisies where in death the lovers rest together.
Into the darkness, Jenny whispered. “Oh Gran, I don’t want to be alone.”
At breakfast with Daniel out of earshot, Gramps confronted Jenny. “I heard you cry out in the night. Bad thoughts or bad dream?”
She wondered what he’d heard. “Disturbing dream, Gramps.” Gramps had a healthy respect for the power of dreams.
“Can I help?”
She smiled at him. “Being here with you helps. There are times I just need to be here.”
Gramps didn’t press.
Later in the day while she was walking on the trail collecting kindling as she went, Gran’s words came back to her from the depths of the forest. Steeped in Seneca beliefs, Gran believed dreams are the soul’s guide. The meaning of a dream is not always what it seems. The dreamer must reflect upon a dream’s true meaning before the dreamer’s feet will set upon the right path.
At a crossroads in her marriage, and in her life, what path was she meant to follow? Since they’d left Welborne, she’d walked in Austin’s footprints, on the path he’d blazed for them. She’d neither questioned nor disputed his choices. She let him have his way.
Bundling dry branches in her arms, she strayed from the path a troubling event replaying in her disconnected thoughts. At the time they moved to Chicago, Daniel was in the fourth grade, when his new teacher suggested a conference with one or both of Daniel’s parents. As it happened, Austin was in town the day the conference was scheduled. He met Jenny at their son’s school, where he paced the corridor, like a lion in a cage. A full plate these days, a delay of any sort stretched his patience beyond limits.
“Math is the problem,” Austin asserted, speculating on the reason for the teacher’s request. “He’s missed the basics.”
“He’s several months younger than most of the kids in his grade.” Jenny suggested. “He has a hard time keeping up.”
“He’s a bright kid,” Austin snapped. “I’ll work with him on weekends; get him up to speed.”
Daniel’s teacher, Mrs. Mason, a plump, grandmotherly woman, came down the hall just then; they went behind closed doors. She began by saying how much she liked Daniel; how attentive he was, and how well he got on with his classmates. “Really, a special child,” she commented, focusing on Austin, who’d shown the most concern.
Austin nodded, relieved that his son had no major defects. “His mother thinks there could be a problem because he’s younger than the other kids.”
“That can be a problem, especially with boys, where maturity levels are somewhat slower than with girls,” Mrs. Mason agreed. She added that Daniel’s reading skills were well above grade level.
“If we can help him at home,” Jenny offered, “We’re willing to try.”
Mrs. Mason focused on Jenny. “Mrs. Burdette, I’ve never had a student in my class who has so much general and specific, knowledge about Indians. I should say: Native Americans. Daniel tells me—”
“Danny’s mother reads to him a great deal,” Austin interrupted, effectively changing the subject. “History is one of my wife’s interest, and Danny’s.”
Mrs. Mason’s focus shifted back to Austin.
“I’m concerned about my son’s math progress,” he said, directing the subject of the meeting where he wanted it to be.
“Daniel’s math skills,” Mrs. Mason continued.” And that’s why I’ve asked you to come.”
Austin did that sort of thing often: changing focus where he wanted it to be; avoiding subjects he didn’t want discussed. He’d taken control in ways she was only now beginning to see clearly. Her arms overflowing with kindling, she turned back towards the lodge.
Austin would have her and Daniel deny the blood of the Iroquois. She’d let him lead her down his path, where he wanted her to go. She had to find a path she chose. But how could she be with him, yet walk a path he wouldn’t walk? As the days passed, she came no closer to an answer. Awake or sleeping, the dream, the illusive path she sought, would haunt her.
Later in the week, water lapping at the rock strewn shoreline to pace their steps, Jenny and Daniel walked the hard, dirt trail beside the sacred lake—home of the Great Mud Turtle—until they came upon the Longhouse where a member of the Deer clan met them—a cousin several times removed whom she hadn’t seen for years. His Indian name was White-tailed Buck. In the White world called Buck Seamonds, nearly fifty years of age yet hard-muscled, a strip of rawhide holding course, black hair, his skin bronzed from a lifetime of manual labor.
They exchanged a customary reservation greeting—a cordial nod. Buck placed a weathered hand on Daniel’s shoulder; together, through the Men’s door, they entered the Longhouse where a council of elders had assembled.
Jenny moved along the outside of the split-log building to where the Women’s door was cut. Inside, she sat silent on a backless wooden bench in the last row of the section reserved for the women of the nation. To Jenny, the Longhouse appeared much as she remembered, though from an adult perspective, more rough-hewn and compact. A softened light filtered through the open doors and windows allowing birds and insects to come and go, their humming missions undisturbed by human interception. Horse flies were especially bothersome this time of year. Witch hazel soothed their stings.
The drummer’s bench, a fixture in the center of the promenade, had been removed in order to accommodate an aging council. Seated in a circle, some on benches, others cross-legged on the bare, plank floor, the elders were spaced randomly around a fire pit; Daniel beside Buck.
There would be no ceremonial fire, no sacred dances on this day, time-honored council decorum observed. The proceedings somber, yet from time to time, a speaker was allowed a humorous remark. There would be nods and ayes and rumbling laughter. Upon a signal from the leader, order would restore. Within the longhouse, there are times to speak and times to be silent. Taught through parental example, lessons learned early in the lives of Seneca children, and seldom violated by young ones. Spectators do not speak.
Within the circle of elders, each man in his turn made comments. Buck began, presenting Daniel, the son of Jenny Dawn of the Deer clan, as a candidate for adoption.
The next to speak affirmed her blood ties to the Great Chief Tall Tree through his daughter, Falling Star, known as Sarah Cary, and back through the generations to the woman, Willow, who had led a band of Seneca to this protected refuge at the time of the Burning Fields. Jenny knew the history, not from books, but from oral recitation—the true history of her people in these lands: The White Man’s Revolution, a scorched earth policy carried out by Boston Men against the Iroquois peoples would be known thereafter as the time of the Burning Fields. Daniel knew the history she’d related.
The next elder spoke of Daniel, Swims-like-Fish, son of Falling Star, grandson of the Great Chief Tall Tree. He told of Daniel Cary as a brave, young warrior who lost his life in battle in the time of the Great War. Her father was revered among her people. Hearing of his deeds, Jenny felt his presence in these lands, as she had felt his presence here when she lived among his people, their people.
The remaining elders, each in turn, retold the Seneca creation story, Sky woman and the Great Mud Turtle, Earth Woman and her twins. The long, long trek of the people from the great plains of the bison; Hayenwatha and the Great Peace; the intrusions of the White man, his sickness and his ways. The stories she had told her son from the time he was a small boy. In this setting, the history of her people through the ages took on a meaning fresh and new.
Though Daniel knew the stories, he listened with rapt interest. He didn’t speak a word, as she’d advised him not to speak, unless an elder asked a question. The Seneca seldom ask questions.
When all the men had had their say on a signal from the leader, the circle voted: A tonal groan of affirmation. Daniel had run his first gauntlet. He had won the day.
Jenny met Buck and her son at the Men’s door where they’d entered. Pleased and proud, she dare not show conceit. A high-spirited Daniel could have made a misstep, but he hadn’t.
After that day, they would not speak again of the council in the Longhouse. It could be a week, a month, a year, or they may never know the true outcome of Daniel’s request for adoption. Such are the ways of the Seneca.