11 
The only thing they saw all day was a large sailing ship, but it was so far away, it was hardly visible. They yelled and waved, but the chances that it might see them were next to impossible. Isabella hung one of her frilly petticoats over the face of the cliff and anchored it with rocks, hoping it would catch the eye of anyone who might be passing.
They did not allow the fire to go out. It had dried their clothes, cooked a second meal of fish, and given them all heart. There was also the possibility a passing ship might see the smoke from the fire.
He spent a large part of the day carefully trying to dry out the pages of his Bible.
“Good idea.” Moon Song nodded her approval. “Paper make good kindling if the fire go out.”
“No, Moon Song,” he said. “We’ll not use the pages of this Bible for starting a fire.”
“That will make your God angry?”
He thought about it. She had asked a very good question.
“I suppose it would depend on whether someone was doing it out of desperation or out of contempt for his Word.”
That was certainly true. The drier it got, the more misshapen it became. Where the edges of the pages had gotten wet, they were now ruffled. His Bible was starting to look downright fluffy.
He turned pages, separating them, reading here and there the familiar passages.
“Read to me?” Moon Song asked. “Please? Will make time go fast.”
Her request gave him pleasure. While he was recovering from his injury at the lumber camp, he had tried to talk to her about God by telling her Bible stories.
“Yes,” Isabella said. “Read something to us. It will make the time go faster.”
With two women as his audience, he thought it made sense to go with a story about a woman, and unless a ship appeared on the horizon soon, they definitely had some time to kill.
Moon Song had been so courageous; the story of a brave queen seemed appropriate. He spent the next hour alternately reading from and explaining the book of Esther to her while Isabella looked on with flashes of amusement as Moon Song struggled to understand the story.
“So the two tribes, they do not like each other?” Moon Song asked. “Why did Esther marry the chief if they at war? Why not marry a brave from own tribe?”
“I don’t think she had a choice,” Skypilot said. “And he wasn’t a chief, he was a king.”
“She is a slave?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then why no choice?”
“Because the king got everything he wanted. Esther was very beautiful, and he wanted her for his queen.”
“Moon Song hide plenty good if chief want to marry her and she not want to marry him back!”
“I’m sure you would. Back then it was considered a great honor to be chosen by the king.”
“Why she not just go in king’s house then? Why they make Esther wait twelve moons?”
“They had to get her ready for him. They prettied her up with special oils and perfume.”
“Twelve moons is lot of oil and perfume.” Moon Song shook her head at the waste. Then she brightened as though at a happy thought. “Maybe they teach her how to cook. Snare rabbits. Clean fish. So king can eat good?”
“Maybe.” Getting through this story was becoming more difficult by the minute.
“I heard once that those ancient queens spent a lot of time bathing in goat milk.” Isabella shot him a teasing glance.
“Goat milk?” Moon Song was astonished. “Why goat milk?”
“It was supposed to make their skin soft.”
“This passage does not say anything about goat milk,” Skypilot said. “Don’t make things any more complicated than they already are, Isabella.”
Eventually Skypilot worked his way to the crux of the story—Queen Esther’s courage in trying to save her people.
“She was very afraid of the king. Her uncle Mordecai, who knew how desperate the danger was, told her that she was her people’s only hope, and he thought she might have been made for that moment.”
“What did Esther say to that?” Moon Song’s eyes were bright with interest.
“She agreed to go to the king, and she said, ‘If I perish, I perish.’ Those are five of the bravest and most famous words in the Bible.”
“So, Esther died?”
“No, the king listened to her, believed her, and her courage saved her people.”
Moon Song sighed with pleasure. “She good chief’s wife.”
He gave up on correcting the word she had used. “She was a very good chief’s wife, indeed.”
“What do you think, Moon Song?” Skypilot asked. “Stay here and wait or try to walk to Marquette?”
Moon Song glanced at Isabella’s stylish high-topped shoes with their two-inch heels that were drying near the fire. She shook her head. “Bad shoes.”
“I know.” Skypilot inspected one of Isabella’s shoes. “How would you feel about taking these heels off, Isabella?”
“Are you considering mutilating the leather shoes that my husband had imported from Italy for me?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“If you can take those heels off without the shoes falling apart, I would appreciate it. Those things are miserable to walk in.”
Moon Song handed her knife to him, and he worked at sawing the heels off while Moon Song turned the new moss over that she had gathered. He was grateful that the baby would have dry, clean moss for tomorrow. It would certainly make their day more pleasant.
Isabella kept an eye on Ayasha while the infant crawled and toddled in the warm dust of the shelter. He was just beginning to learn how to walk, and Isabella was holding both of his hands right now, helping him stand up.
“You are a strong little fellow, aren’t you!” she exclaimed.
The baby gurgled and laughed.
“He’s such a fine child,” Isabella said. “My son, Archibald, is about the same age. I named him after my father.”
Skypilot took note of the fact that she was referring to her baby in the present tense. He’d heard other people do that during the early days of grief. He had no idea if having Ayasha here to play with and help care for would help lessen her grief or add to it.
“This baby is light-colored for an Indian,” Isabella commented.
“His father was white. Moon Song was married to a French-Canadian trapper.”
“Oh. That would explain it.”
With the moss evenly distributed around the fire, Moon Song got up to leave the shelter.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To find bowl.”
“A bowl? Where do you think you’re going to find a bowl?”
“You like tea?”
He threw another branch on the fire. “Of course, I like tea, but there are no bowls here.”
She smiled knowingly. “You see.”
What she came back with was nothing more than a rectangular piece of birch bark.
“That’s your bowl?”
“You see soon,” Moon Song said.
He didn’t say anything. Instead, he simply kept watch, even though what she was doing made no sense to him.
She warmed a corner of the bark, which seemed to soften it, and then she creased and folded it along all the corners. With a small, sharp twig, she punched holes in each of the corners and used tiny young grapevine stems to tie the holes together—creating a sort of rectangular bowl. The only thing he could see that the bowl would be good for was perhaps picking berries, had there been any berries this time of year.
As something to make tea in, it was useless. If it had been anyone else he knew, he would have made a joke, but with Moon Song, he decided it would be best to keep his mouth shut. Who knew what she might have up her sleeve?
She then took the container down to the lake and came back with about a quart of water in it. It surprised him that it did not appear to be leaking. She raked the main flames of the fire over a few inches, creating a small bed of coals covered with ash, and then she did something he would never have believed had he not seen it with his own eyes—she set the birch bark bowl flat upon the ash-covered coals.
“Won’t it catch fire?” he asked.
“Wait,” she said. “Watch.”
And so he watched. The side of the bowl closest to the body of the fire got darker from the heat but did not catch fire. Within about ten minutes, curls of steam rose from it. Within twenty minutes, steam was rising in earnest. At that point, Moon Song took a handful of something from her pocket, chopped it up, and then sprinkled it over the hot water.
“And what is that?”
“We call it ‘little sturgeon-fish plant.’ White people call it ‘mountain mint.’”
“Is it some sort of healing plant?”
“No.” She glanced at him, concerned. “You sick?”
“Not yet.”
She shrugged. “Taste good.”
While the herbs steeped in the steaming liquid, Moon Song’s hands were not still. She worked with three other pieces of birch bark, which she cut, warmed, and shaped into small cups.
He could soon smell a minty aroma arising from the thin wooden basket.
She took one of the smaller birch cups then dipped it into the steaming water. She handed it to Skypilot, who cradled it in his palm. This time he did not say “ladies first,” but he did wait politely to drink. Isabella took the woodland cup and examined it carefully. “This is beautiful, Moon Song, and I’ve always been partial to mint tea.”
Moon Song smiled and held up an invisible pretend container. “Sugar?”
Isabella played along. “Well, I don’t mind if I do. Three lumps, please. I’ve always preferred my tea extremely sweet.”
Moon Song, like a small child at a doll’s tea party, pretended to drop three lumps of sugar into the cup of tea. Then she looked at him questioningly.
“Two lumps, please.” He held out his cup for his imaginary lumps of sugar.
Moon Song giggled as she pretended to drop them into the water. To amuse her, he made exaggerated splashing sounds.
He was finding himself absolutely entranced with this daughter of the lake country with her combination of competency, courage, and innocence. No doubt Katie had served Moon Song tea in a real china cup with sugar and . . .
“Cream?” Moon Song tipped her head to one side and held up an imaginary pitcher.
“I would love some!” Isabella said, enjoying the game.
“Me too,” Skypilot agreed.
After pouring the imaginary cream, Moon Song, smiling, took Ayasha onto her lap, cuddling him as she sipped the minty hot water.
He was astonished at how heartening the civilized action of drinking hot tea could be, even if the sugar and cream were imaginary. With a fire, dry clothes, cooked fish in his stomach, and now a hot liquid to sip, life seemed manageable, even if they were far from civilization and rescue.
The two rabbit snares she’d set early that morning had taken much skill and time to perfect, but the time spent had been worth it. They would be having two juicy rabbits for supper tonight. She gave thanks for the blessing these little rabbits would be for them. She was also grateful that her grandmother taught her how to make an effective trap that did not rely on string or wire. She made them out of small, threadlike roots she knew how to find.
The braves of her tribe were experts in bringing down deer, bear, and moose. After a productive hunt, the men spent time sitting around, reliving the kill while the women butchered the animal and carried the meat into camp.
The women of the tribe were the experts in snaring small game, something with which the men seldom bothered. The squirrels and rabbits her grandmother had caught had filled in around the edges of their hunger between her grandfather’s bigger kills. The rabbit skins had many uses as well.
Unfortunately, many of their people had come to rely on white man’s string and wire and his metal cooking pots and guns for such a long time that the old ways of survival were being forgotten. Not every Chippewa woman had these skills anymore. Many no longer wanted them.
Instead, they waited for the yearly annuities that the government had promised them for their land. And they waited, and they waited. Too often the payments were late. Too often the people spent their money on the cheap, brightly colored goods set up by hawkers outside the government offices. More often than not, an entire year’s worth of annuity was wasted on the liquor that some of the more unscrupulous salespeople brought.
Her grandmother had quietly despised the whites for what they had done to her people, but she equally despised those of her own tribe who had allowed themselves to become more and more dependent on the government. It was not war that had wrested the land from the Menominee and Chippewa nations, but the desire for more European trade goods. Grandmother had taught her that too many animal skins had been traded for items their people thought they could not do without but had lived without since time began.
Fallen Arrow had fought back by keeping as much of their traditions and skills alive in her granddaughter as possible. Now those very skills were helping keep Moon Song’s baby and two white people alive.
All this she pondered as evening fell and as she watched over her basket of rabbit stew steaming on the soft coals. It was a larger basket than the one in which she had made tea, and not something in which to cook quickly, but if one had the time, it was possible to create a wonderful stew.
She had fashioned a cover for it to make it come to a boil sooner. Once the rabbit cooked for a while, she began cutting chunks of something that looked like a parsnip on top.
“What is that?” Isabella asked.
“Burdock root. My people eat much.”
She sprinkled on a chopped herb, and within the hour, the stew she had fashioned had begun to bubble and steam.
“That’s smelling really good,” Skypilot said.
“Where I see woods,” Isabella said, “Moon Song sees a larder.”
In the Chippewa culture, everything was sacred, and everything had a circle. Skypilot and the others had saved her and Ayasha’s life. Now she saved his. The rabbit would nourish all of them as it was meant to do.
Eventually, she took the makeshift lid off the birch bark pot and stirred the stew with a stick. The meat fell off the bones, and she knew it was done. She dragged the basket off the fire and was gratified to see there was still some gravy juice from the rabbit in it.
“It is ready,” she said after it had cooled enough to eat.
They ate from the same container, dredging up the meat and burdock with their fingers and drinking the liquid. When it was gone, they gnawed at the soft ends of the bones and sucked out the marrow.
With the good shelter, a clear view of the lake in case a ship might pass, and plenty of fish to catch and eat, they continued to allow their bodies to recover from their ordeal. They rested and took turns looking out over the lake, ready to start yelling and waving Isabella’s voluminous white petticoat if any sort of boat was sighted.
In the distance, they heard the howl of wolves.
“What is that!” Isabella asked.
“Don’t worry,” Skypilot said. “There were always wolves howling around the lumber camps, but none of us were afraid of them.”
“Of course not,” Isabella said. “With sturdy log cabins to sleep in at night and axes ready at hand during the day, I’m certain you felt very safe.”
“You have a good point, but I don’t think they’ll bother us. They sound very far away, and we have a good fire.”
As she sipped more tea, Moon Song gazed out at the moon shining off the lake as she listened to the music of the wolves.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
“Thinking we walk tomorrow.” She pointed west, along the lakeshore. “We walk close to lake. If ship come, we see. If not, we walk and walk.”
“Can I be part of this conversation?” Isabella asked.
“Of course,” Skypilot said.
“It seems to me that we should stay here until we’re rescued. We have fish. We have water. We have fire and shelter. It feels foolhardy to do anything else.”
“You like mosquitoes?” Moon Song asked.
“No. Why?”
“You like blackflies?”
Isabella shuddered. “Of course not.”
“Weather get warm. Much bite.”
“Oh.” Isabella absorbed this thought. “Then I guess we’ll start walking tomorrow.”
“We might be closer than we realize.” He handed Isabella her newly heelless shoes.
Isabella put the shoes on, stood up, and rocked back and forth on them. “Not bad. Not wonderful, but not bad. And just in time. I need to . . . go.”
Neither he nor Moon Song paid much attention to Isabella’s absence until several minutes later when they heard a shriek and Isabella ran into their rock shelter.
“Eyes!” She was panting. “So many eyes!”
She grasped one of the logs he’d brought inside before it got dark and dragged it onto the fire. “Make the fire bigger. Hurry!”