Soquili-A Short Story Part Two

I wrote this short story a few years ago and was honored to have it short listed by Writers Digest. This is Part One. Look for Part Two in my next post.

I hope you enjoy it. I'd love to know what you think in the comments.

On the seventh day cloudy skies foretold an approaching storm. Winds began to blow from the north and first snow of the season soon swept into the wagons where the weakest huddled under heavy bedrolls. Those walking alongside the wagons pulled heavy blankets tightly around their bodies to shield from harsh gusts. Children old enough to walk with adults found a bit of fun with the icy white flakes, gathering the snow in handfuls, making snowballs, and tossing them in the air. The soldiers watched them carefully, thinking that snowballs might have stones inside.

All day the storm grew worse, building to a blizzard early in the afternoon. As visibility decreased, Blaine realized that their path could easily be lost, so he reluctantly commanded an early halt for the day. The wagons were drawn up in a tight circle to protect both captives and soldiers from the biting gales. In a quickly dug pit in the center of the circle a fire soon blazed, fueled with grass, brush and dead branches gathered by the natives under close watch by armed guards. Its embers blew high into the air on each mighty gust, spooking the horses. Most of the Cherokee sought protection from the weather by crowding inside the wagons, but young men who did not want to be packed like sows in a sty bunked down under the wagons smoking their pipes and chanting. The slapping of canvas wagon tops sounded like gunshots. Soldiers huddled in their bedrolls beneath other wagons as close to the fire as was safely possible while they ate beans, dry bread and hardtack from yesterday’s supper, washed down with water from melted snow.

In the darkness of one Conestoga, elderly Chief White Path sat cross-legged with his many grandchildren sitting around him. Twenty years ago, he served as a member of a delegation sent to Washington to oppose any treaty which would take away their nation’s land. Schooled in English, he wrote an eloquent letter at that time responding to then President James Madison’s question of why the Cherokee would not leave their homeland.

“The lands we possess are the gift of our Creator. They are moreover recognized by the United States, and guaranteed to us forever. Our limits on all sides are permanently fixed and well known; and we have no doubt to the goodness of our title. And the pure air of our country, the wholesome springs and fertile soil are well suited to supply our wants and to promote our happiness.”

Now a weakened old man, he was relegated to riding inside a wagon instead of walking. One granddaughter, Nancy Kutayi, feared that White Path was dying because he had lost contact with his native land.

“Grandfather” she asked, offering water to White Path. “Please tell us your story about the difference between Cherokee and whites.” She hoped he might find solace in teaching the children.

The old man wiped dried spittle from his lips, drank from the army canteen and smiled on the children. As a famous storyteller, a shaman, he knew all the old tales by heart and had told them many times. His voice was a weak whisper when he began, so the children listened very carefully, not wanting to miss a word.

In the beginning God wished to make creatures who might live on the Earth which He had already made. With lumps of clay he formed shapes of beings which were then fired in an open oven. Starting with small mounds He shaped our animal brothers and sisters: wolves, birds, fish, even skunks.

Several of the littlest children laughed and held their noses. “UUUUUU, smelly skunks.” He laughed with them before continuing.

Then God threw much greater lumps of clay on the ground and formed these into our ponies, our sows, and cattle. These came out in many different colors, as they are still today. Not yet satisfied the Great Spirit then divided all the remaining clay into piles. He shaped First Man who was in His own likeness and set the model into the fire to harden. When He removed it from the heat, the figure would not stand straight. Its skin was a very pale white. Disappointed that He had not left his most important creation in the fire long enough to be finished, God made a second human and put it in the fire for a longer time. When this man was removed his skin was darker, his muscles stronger. He could walk straight and tall. He was our own Cherokee Grandfather.

As the tale was being told, wind began to calm and snow nearly ceased blowing into the wagon.

“But, Grandfather, why are we now held as prisoners of the weaker white men? Are not we still stronger?” asked Nancy.

The old man was very tired from the effort of storytelling. He grimaced at the need to answer such a question with another story.

In the beginning God created the Cherokee, the real and genuine man, and the white man. The Cherokee is the Elder and in his hand the Creator placed a book. In the hands of the other he placed a bow-and-arrow with a command that they must both make good use of what they had been given. The Cherokee was very slow to understand the book and appeared so indifferent about it that the white man was able to steal it from him when his attention was directed another way. The Cherokee was then compelled to take the bow-and-arrow or else he would have nothing. He then learned to gain his living using the bow-and-arrow in pursuing the chase. He had thus forfeited the Creator’s gift with which his white brother now controls him.

“Too late we have learned the power of the written word. Our only use of it is to translate the Great Book of the whites, the Bible, for what little good it does us. Now, we all must rest for the day ahead. I must sleep.”

All those in the wagon were respectfully silent. Some then slept as best they could, leaning against each other, while others climbed down to the ground and spread their blankets around the dying campfire. In the morning as the sun rose in a clear blue sky everyone prepared for another day of travel.

A rumor spread from those walking beside the Longhair wagons that two painted soquili had suddenly appeared on a hill just off the trail. Three times the soldiers who rode as rear guard tried to spook the ponies by shooting into the air but were unable to drive them away. When the ponies ran ahead of the soldiers and approached the forward wagon, a young man boldly jumped onto the back of one and rode it into the walking crowd. The other pony followed.

Bushyhead, an elder, shouted out a message in Cherokee about the ponies.

“These two come to us as a gift from God. These are our two dead Grandmothers returning to us to make the way easier for some who walk. It is good that we treated our Grandmothers with great respect. The ways of our ancestors will make our path easier.”

Canvas bags of food and clothes carried by an old man and old woman were taken from their shoulders and tied to the ponies. Despite the chilly breeze and icy drifts which made the way difficult, there was a small bit of joy felt among the Longhair.

White Path never learned about the two ponies. He slept through the entire day, while Nancy sat next to him wetting his dried lips and praying for her grandfather. When the party prepared for camp that evening, she climbed down from the wagon and told her mother that the old man was dead. Elders demanded that next morning’s departure be delayed so that proper respect might be shown to their shaman, but their resolve was now much weakened by many difficult days of travel. Blaine refused permission for any funeral ceremonies, instructing his men to seize the body quickly and dispose of it without further delay. As Longhairs looked on in anger and shouted curses against the soldiers, three whites dug a shallow pit in the snowy ground, dropped the body into it and covered the grave with a blanket. Sand and gravel were then thrown on top to keep animals away. After dark a group of Cherokee men, led by White Path’s son Go Ahead, stole into the forest and gathered many heavy stones to set on top of the shallow grave. Then they placed a flag of red fabric on the end of a pole stuck in the softened ground to honor the elder. Soldiers guarding the natives looked the other way.

As preparations were made to break camp in the morning a young brave, who was relieving himself behind a tree, shouted out.

“People, look! Here is another soquili. A pure white one. Praise be to the Great Spirit.”

As all watched, the pony stopped at the red flag, then moved slowly around White Path’s grave scratching a wide circle with its front hooves. Every Cherokee raised their hands to the sky and cried out the old chief’s name. The pony then joined the procession, the burden of another elder strapped to its back.