Chapter 4:
ONLY STARS AND GRANITE LAST FOREVER
With no family but A wi-a, this is different than I have ever known.
Cherokee, have never left their children alone. We are either taken along with parents even to clan meetings or family members are with us
I am used to many Aunts, Uncles, Cousins and Grandparents.
I lost my Grandmother the autumn before this relocation began often we have gone with our parents to the large gatherings where much trading is done.
Down from Black Mountain to the edge of Tennessee even then we all traveled as a family I am used to being fondled, sang to and told stories. Our families are not like those of the settlers.
Always we are surrounded by family this is so hard to bear.
As children we have child like names given to us by family members as we age we are given the names of adults.
Soon when I become a woman having wisdom, vision and tolerance mine to will change.
When this march began I had the quilt that my Grandmother had made for me at birth. It was of the Star pattern the Star covered almost all of the quilt.
It was to be used in the ceremony when I become a woman, I was to be wrapped in it when I am buried.
It is now tattered and soiled, I also received her pipe on her death. this pipe has more meaning to me than the quilt.
This is not a pipe of peace we only use that ceremonial type with other tribes or clans.
We make contracts making our mark or sign with the written word Sequoya, gave to us.
This pipe was Grandmothers friend now it is mine. I only smoke it when I have red willow bark.
A wi –a, only rolls her eyes. I long for tabac.
My pipe to me is not unlike an open Bible while settlers need a building. Like Dixon Mission we left a few days ago.
I need not pictures on a wall or sermon. That is not vision to me I only need Grandmothers pipe to get into prayer mood, With earth to sit on and open sky, Spirit is everywhere, through an animal, bird or even some sacred trees.
Some Earth is Sacred.
Smoke from all pipes go skyward to the spirit world this pipe is carved of red pipestone the color of some elders.
Such as our wise teacher Sequoyah. It is not just some thing it is alive.
This forced march while all my family is not near I can touch my pipe and feel Grandmothers spirit.
I feel bad I had wanted to become a healer you do not go to school to learn this like the whites do.
Only the ancients can teach you these things.
How many of the ancients have we left?
A wi~a, says I am now thinking too much of visions, spirits and sacred things these days, For I am not a woman yet.
Sequoya, does not travel with us he is far behind. I know not of which trail he is on.
There are some that say our language and writings are those of people far north of where we came from. but ours is our own Sequoya, gave to us.
I gather moss off oaks to make herbal brew then dry it in the wagon, to burn with the few limbs and cones we find along the trail.
We now are turning north away from the river.
No more fish heads or turtle heads and legs thrown to us like dogs. From the Crow.
Sleet has fallen for days now many have feet turned black, they huddle on the wagons as much as they can.
A wi~a says news is spreading that Chief Ross has lost his wife Quanti, on the river near Little Rock Quanti, is mourned by all on the march she so kind and gentle natured.
A chant begins along our wagons. The soldiers nor Crow stop us, As long as we continue to move, A wi-a and Lark join in.
I return to my thinking will we ever have final Peace with the white man?
They say in treaty this Nation they grant us is to be ours as long as the sun shines and grass grows.
But they have said that with other treaties and have taken our land before the ink is dry.
I wonder?
We are still under heavy guard, but any fool can see we are not able to rise against anyone.
Larks father has kept a moon counting stick. A calendar of sorts every night he has carved a notch with his teeth, or rock until the moon died.
On the other side he notched each months passing we now are less than one Moon's dying from this Oklahoma territory.
While all sleep I hear gruff voices a struggle then scream. Lark wakens asking A wi-a where her father is A wi-a.says hush!
Soon the Crow come tearing all from our wagon and throwing it upon the ground.
They go through our few things like a pack of wild dogs.
They tell A wi-a, that we must be searched for weapons. A wi-a, asks only why?
She is struck many blows, they scream that the man from this wagon has been caught stealing from the grain wagon.
Also they have killed him. Lark begins to wail, we are forced to strip in this harsh night wind.
They do not search us, they touch us.
A solider rides up asking "What's this about"? We are then allowed to put our tattered clothing back on.
The elders go to bury Larks father. As she wails, they say a formal complaint will be filed when we reach the Federal court at Ft.Smith.
Later in the night his bloody boots and jacket are returned to us. They tell A wi-a, the details.
I put my hands over my ears I can hear no more of this.
Morning comes the birds sing it feels unreal, bushes are showing yellow buds I gather as many as I can on wagon stops.
A wi-a, will brew a tonic for us. We have also found ginseng root in these hills. It has great value.
It will soon be time to plant, we are growers as Mother earth turns green. We know we are near to where we will be.
Nothing can be said to lessen the pain
We chant our sad refrain..
Ladybirdã
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