York Factory, Rupert’s Land. May 1750.
Little Bird stood just outside her teepee flap. The overnight spring rain had left the ground a muddy mess and the thick cloud overhead threatened more rain. She had on her oldest pair of moccasins, not wanting to dirty her new ones. She leaned back into the teepee.
“Come on, Grandmother. Let us go to the river.” For as long as she could remember, her grandmother had taken her to watch the flooding river in the spring.
“No. I must finish these moccasins. Maybe tomorrow.”
Little Bird sighed. Moccasins. All her mother and grandmother did over the winter was make moccasins and leggings to trade at the post for flour, dried peas, and beans, or sometimes cheese, if it was not too old. The white men with native wives had their moccasins made for them, but the single men had to rely on the ones brought in from the village. And since the moccasins were worn constantly, they wore out quickly and had to be replaced often.
“Do you want to come, Spotted Fawn?”
“No,” Spotted Fawn answered.
“Why not?” Little Bird asked, although she knew the answer. For Spotted Fawn, the opening of the river meant White Paddler would soon be leaving her.
“I just do not. You go on your own.”
“Go with her, Spotted Fawn,” Moon Face said. “It is no good for you to sit moping all day.”
“Oh, all right.”
Little Bird and Spotted Fawn kept to the drier areas as they headed through the village. Since the snow disappeared, activity had increased in the village. White Paddler had men making new canoes from the birch bark he had brought back from inland last fall. Other men were busy repairing some older canoes. Little Bird noticed that Spotted Fawn kept her eyes averted from the work as if denying it was taking place. She suddenly felt sorry for her sister.
They reached the shore and stood for a moment staring at the swirling waters. In the spring, meltwater from the river and its tributaries upstream swelled the river. It gathered speed and strength as it roared past the village to its mouth at the bay. Its normally clear water was the color and consistency of mud. Uprooted trees, chunks of ice, animal carcasses, and other debris, churned along in the deluge.
One family stood in a circle on a bank above the rushing river. They cried and chanted the mourning song. Today was the anniversary of the death of three of their children who drowned when the ground they were standing on was swept away by the river. The whole village had spent days searching the banks downstream and along the bay but the little bodies had never been found. Little Bird and Spotted Fawn avoided them, leaving them to their mourning.
Little Bird and Spotted Fawn carefully followed the shoreline past other villagers watching the rushing torrent. It held a fearful fascination for them, a sign of Mother Earth’s strength.
“Listen,” Little Bird said.
They stopped and cocked their heads. Above the noise they could hear the dull clunking of the boulders being pushed along the bottom of the river by the force of the waters.
They looked at each other and grinned. This was their favorite sign of spring. It, along with the buzzing of flies, the yellow heads of the dandelions, and the flocks of ducks and geese heading north, was a sign that the long winter was over.
Spotted Fawn found a dry rock to sit on. Little Bird joined her.
“Do you think I should go west with White Paddler?” Spotted Fawn asked.
Little Bird looked down at the fast-flowing, muddied river. She did not know how to answer that. She wanted Spotted Fawn to stay, would miss her terribly if she went, but in their culture a woman’s place was with her husband.
“He could use a woman to cook his meals and keep him warm at night.”
“I know.”
“He wants you to.”
“I know, but he said he would not force me.”
“Will you miss him?”
“Yes.”
“But if you do go you will not see Grandfather this summer.”
“I know that, too.”
Little Bird was silent. She could think of nothing more to say.
Spotted Fawn sighed. “When he came back last fall and asked me to marry him, I thought I only had to worry about him returning to his home across the ocean, like Grandfather. I did not know I would have to worry about him leaving me to go inland, too.”
“At least your time together is longer than Grandmother and Grandfather’s.”
“That is small consolation.”
Little Bird picked up a tree branch and threw it into the turbulent waters. They both watched as it jerked and twisted then finally disappeared from sight.
“White Paddler is being so nice to me,” Spotted Fawn continued. “When we gathered wood together, he picked me a bouquet of the dandelions. He even took me on a picnic, although it was hard to find some dry ground to sit on.”
She threw herself back on the damp ground. “Oh, if only Grandfather would decide to live with us, then I could go with White Paddler. Or if only White Paddler would stay and work at the post like the other men, then I would be here to see Grandfather.”
“Life is not that easy,” Little Bird said, turning to look down at her.
Spotted Fawn sat up again. “What would you do if he was your husband?”
Little Bird shrugged. She thought of her grandmother staying here while her husband left.
“Have you asked Grandmother?”
“Yes. She told me I had to do what I thought was right.”
“And what is that?”
“I do not know.” Spotted Fawn’s voice was filled with anguish.
“I cannot tell you what to do, either,” Little Bird said.
* * *
After the noon meal White Paddler prepared to go to the Company store at the fort.
“Do you want to come with me?” he asked Spotted Fawn.
“Yes.”
“May I come, too?” Little Bird asked. It was seldom that she went to the store, or even the fort. The store clerk did not like the natives to come unless they had something to trade, and the Company did not encourage visits to the post except during the trading season. She would be let into the post if she stated she wanted to see one of the native wives, but since she did not know any of them very well, she never went.
White Paddler nodded and stepped outside.
“Will you take these moccasins to the Company store and trade them for flour, dried peas, and some beads?” Patient Woman asked Little Bird. “And some tobacco. I have run out of what your grandfather brought me last summer.”
“Sure, Grandmother.” Little Bird took the sack of moccasins.
The assistant store clerk looked up from his ledger when they entered. He smiled at White Paddler but frowned when he saw Spotted Fawn and Little Bird.
“Keep your hands away from the merchandise,” he said to them, closing the ledger.
“This is my wife, Wemple,” White Paddler said, a hint of anger in his voice.
“I know who she is,” Wemple said. “But Clerk Bailey wants me to warn all the Indians. Every time they leave the store, supplies are moved about and I have to spend hours sorting and putting them back where they belong.”
Little Bird concealed a smile. She had heard stories about how the men of the village went in groups to the store, each with one skin to trade. They knew the clerk and his assistant watched them carefully so while one was doing business the others wandered the aisles picking up a hammer and putting it with the axes or filling a pail from the flour bin and leaving it in a corner.
Little Bird held up the sack. “My Grandmother, Patient Woman, sent these over to trade for flour, beads, peas, and tobacco.”
Wemple took the sack and opened it. He removed each moccasin and studied it before setting it on the counter. When he had the eight pair lined up in front of him he nodded with satisfaction.
“You can have two pounds of peas, three pounds of flour, one-quarter pound of beads, and one-half role of tobacco. I will get them for you shortly.”
Little Bird nodded and moved away with Spotted Fawn. They looked at the merchandise while listening to the conversation between White Paddler and the assistant clerk.
“What do you need today?” Wemple asked.
White Paddler handed him a piece of paper. “I am going inland again this spring to trade with the Indians, Mr. Wemple. This is a list of supplies for the trip and the goods I need for trading.”
Wemple looked at the list. “That is a lot of powder and shot.”
“The Indians will trade many fine skins for powder and shot for their muskets.”
“You also want muskets.”
“Yes, it is a symbol of prestige for them to own more than one.”
Wemple continued down the list mumbling some of the items under his breath. “What about brandy?”
White Paddler shook his head. “I do not believe in getting the Indians drunk so their judgement is clouded before the trading. That is the way of most of the French traders.”
“How many canoes are going this year?” Wemple asked.
“So far, we have enough Indians for eight.”
“That is more than last year.”
“Yes. The French are getting most of the furs and we have to take more goods with us. They can only carry smaller items because of the great distance they have to travel from Montreal. We can outdo them with our variety.”
“Are you leading again?”
“Yes.”
“This will take at least a week to organize and bundle,” Mr. Wemple said, holding up the list.
“That will be good.”
“Is there anything else?”
“I would like to look around and see if there is anything I might have missed.”
“While you do that I will get the flour, peas, beads, and tobacco ready.”
Little Bird walked over to stand by the scale. She watched to make sure she was given exactly the amount he had quoted. She just wanted to let him know she trusted him as much as he trusted her.
Back at the teepee Little Bird handed her grandmother the tobacco. Patient Woman took her clay pipe from its pouch and filled it. She picked up a long slender stick, held it to the fire until it ignited and lit her pipe. She puffed contently.