The Shawnee Farms Crossroad

C: Cherokee

Once, at the top of a meandering green-gold valley, lived a tiny, raven-haired woman in a small red house hidden by a grove of white ash. Beside the grove, a pond was tucked, a small thing of reeds and cattails guarded by the dragonfly. She, the last of six sisters, loved a little, blue-eyed boy with large hands.

Each day the tiny, raven-haired woman walked the woods to gather secret bits should pale women come up the valley road at midnight. She had walked the wider foothills from the rolling valley to the cliffs and cold gray places where the river’s water began. It was she, the baby left with Grandmother, too small to be alone, too nimble-quick to idle while the Mothers cooked. She recalled Grandmother’s stories of the people; how to leave a gift for a gift when taking was needful, and the great dance of all things.

The tiny, raven-haired woman waited near the grove, at dusk, for deer to come on tender feet. Then, she told each day goodnight from the edge of the grove, near the pond, beside the grave of her five sisters.

She woke to prepare the day for waiting and looking upon the growing, blue-eyed boy. He fed wrens from the porch and built forts of twigs in sun. For him, she drove the red fox away, told his older brother, I have marked this place. Lemony white butterflies danced at noon among her fields of summer corn. And when the spring rains flew, he curled up in her high bed of lace to hear their story.

My sisters came and here abide. The valley was empty, my people were much. They met in camp, upon the Eastern valley’s floor, for great hunts and the telling of balance. Until, a tall man with hair of flame and eyes of ice, came with the word belonging.

He circled the valley, traded for we raven-haired sisters of six. Built fences and a house of red until animals dumb collected in the corners and the cooking fires moved outside the valley. Later, I heard of the trail they cried upon.

The man with hair of flame lived, always, with a hand wrapped in sister’s black braid. Pulled, until he grew and prospered. The valley hushed. I, being tiny and quick, ran to the dark wood’s when First Sister was called to his bed. Third Sister boiled the things I brought. My sisters five drank and chewed each plant I could recall. We slept in a circle, eyes shut tight, dreaming, let there be no ice-eyed babies. Fourth Sister was frightened, but First Sister was mad, and so she went first to the shade from the grove, beside the pond.

We walked as only five, then, with aching necks. Black braids covered. To a place he named church. We sat but were not seen. Were not counted. So, when Fourth Sister bled and also went beside the pond, we moved closer. I walked the river’s edge as soon as dusk came, as Second Sister watched the flame-haired man eat and spit into the yard. Fifth Sister hid in shadows, but Third Sister cooked with sugar he brought, until she ate too much of the root she had tried to hide inside his cake. She, too, went beside the pond.

Second Sister was silent but the valley’s night heard ice-eyed grunts. When Fifth Sister burned the fadge bread, Second Sister did not wake the next morning. Then, pale wives of church would not look where my sisters had been. He, said, I will prosper.

Fifth Sister walked to the pond.

If the valley had to belong, I decided, then, it would be mine. I watched the pale wives of church. Made sassafrass tea for them. Told of the tiny fish that make dinner and oil for shiny hair. He thought to have prosperity. I did not hide. I did not scream. I knew the old songs. One blue-eyed son came, after I no longer drank any woods brew.

I sang the dark in.

The red-haired man became thin, his ice-eyes leaked tears in the day’s sun. When he took to his bed, and never rose again, the pale wives came and said to me what was to be done. In the front fields, men built a box, then took him to a fenced-in place outside the valley. The pale wives wept, and brought sugared things for my blue-eyed boy.

The pale wives showed me how to make lace. I gave them a leaf for their childrens’ fevers. The blue-eyed boy cleared brush from around the pond, and when the town men came with a shiny purse, he knew to take it but say he needed naught. I twined my raven hair into a lace cap. Walked to church with my blue-eyed boy. Saw him ride the fences, gather hay into the barn. We watched and planned until he built stronger and better than men. The muscles of his arms grew, as pale as the moon, but strong and quick. He chose a pale wife after building across the valley a place where, he said, had the best view of my little hill.

The little, blue-eyed boy with hair of gold, so loved by the raven-haired woman who lived in the small red house hidden by a grove of white ash, often slept after this story’s telling. But only after she repeated her instructions for him.

You are twelve of my blue-eyed boy’s children. Your older brothers grow more babies and corn and take many benches in church. But when your spirit is large, and there is building you can do, only you will know six sisters lie beside the pond. Remember, and someday say, the name of the last was Lora Ellen.