Wood Spirit 2

September 15, 1754

The sun had risen two hours ago, and I have been slothful. I have not weeded my garden patch, I have not set the water to boiling for laundry, I have not gone in to the forest to harvest any of the late berries there, nor ground the corn that I left to dry from the garden. I have not even milked the one lone goat we own. I have not left the cabin for fear of what might be in the forest even though I can hear the nanny crying for me to release the pressure in her udders.

I sit now trembling as I write this, remembering how I was woken before the sun rose to the sound of the wood on the outside wall of the house being scratched – by what sounded like great claws. I imagined that whatever animal was out there had come to seek vengeance for the animals Father had killed – an imagining I am certain had to do with Oconowoc telling me through hand gestures and drawings with a stick in the dirt would be the result if we did not give proper respect to the spirits before we skinned them.

Still, I must find my courage and leave the house to inspect the damage and go about my chores if I am to have milk for my breakfast.

I found my courage soon after writing the last entry, and refused to examine the spot in the log wall outside where I had heard the terrible rending sound of the wood. I completed my chores and managed to even cast a net in to the river nearby for fish to my supper. It was at the river that I felt the hairs beneath my bonnet tingle as my skin had been doing all day when I went about my chores. It felt as if someone were watching me throughout the morning.

At the river, I had almost fallen in to the water in my haste to catch one of Oconowoc’s tribe spying on me from the trees surrounding me – but found no one.

I returned home to the modest one room cabin, half expecting to find Father had returned, the smoke from our chimney acting as his beacon, but instead found the nanny, placidly munching on grass near the door.

Having a few moments of time, I leave the cabin door open and sit on the long wooden bench outside of it to enjoy the cool air before the afternoon sun bears down through the trees again. I bring the pole beans with me, snapping off the ends and tossing them to the nanny as I prepare them for my supper. Once this task was completed, I broke off the fruit of the dried corn and ground them up as Kaukesha had taught me for my bread. It is arduous work, but the silent companionship of the nanny and the crackle of the fire in the hearth behind me provide me with a gentle solace which aids me in my work and helps my mind to wander free of the tasks.

I think to myself on the strange happenings that morning, the sound of the wood opposite my bed being scratched and wonder how the animal did not break through the oiled hide over the lone window.

Knowledge of what had been seeking entry to my cabin finally beckons me to the side of the house, where a startled gasp escapes me to find Oconowoc, Kaukesha and their younger brother excitedly examining the very spot I intended on studying. When they see me, they point at the spot on the cabin, where I spy my bonnet, hanging from the wood by a huge splinter of pine which dripped sap onto the strings. Beside it, there is a strange root, crucified onto the log with another thick splinter.

Confused by the Indians and their excited gestures and speech, I shrug to myself and slip the strings of my bonnet free of the wood, frowning at the dried sap on the crown of it as Kaukesha gestures to the root.

“Did you put it here?” I ask, knowing that they cannot understand me. “Did someone from your tribe find my bonnet and return it to me? Was it your father?”

Kaukesha gestures at the root again, her hand movements telling me to pull it free, that I am meant to eat it.

Pulling together my brows and bracing a foot against the lowest log of the cabin, I manage to wrest it free, giving her a shrug before I drop it in to my apron pocket.

The three of them are excited by the bonnet and root, they follow me back to the river, still talking excitedly in that musical language as I pull in my net to find no fish for my efforts.

Sighing, I put the net back in to the water, tying off the rope to a sturdy rock nearby and hope that I will have fish to my breakfast tomorrow morning.

Tired now, I have no patience for Kaukesha as she unties the strings of my bonnet, ushering me to sit on the bench Father constructed beside our door, but I manage to swallow my irrational anger in preference for human company, and allow her to comb my hair with her fingers again until the sun begins to set.

THE END OF CHAPTER TWO