TWO LITTLE SAVAGES

AN was a lot like other twelve-year-old boys in his fascination with Native Americans and wildlife, but he stood out because he never lost that interest. In fact, as he got older, he found even greater joy in collecting the bits of woodcraft and Native American knowledge that had excited him as a boy.

His father was not well-off. He was an honorable man with refined tastes, but lazy—a failure in business, friendly with outsiders and strict with his family. He had never cared for his son's adventures in the woods; and when he suspected that they might get in the way of the boy's education, he banned them completely.

There was definitely no reason to accuse Yan of skipping school. He was the top student in his class, even though many classmates were older than him. He loved books in general, but those about Natural Science and Indian craftsmanship were especially close to his heart. It’s not like he had many—back then, there weren’t a lot available, and the Public Library didn’t have a great selection. "Lloyd's Scandinavian Sports," "Gray's Botany," and a couple of Fenimore Cooper novels were all he had, and Yan was dedicated to them. He was a shy, obedient boy in most things, but the silly demand to give up what was natural for him just made him rebellious—turned a good boy into a bad one. He was too afraid of his father to openly disobey, but he sneaked away whenever he could to the fields and woods, and with every new bird or plant he discovered, he felt a beautiful mix of joy and sadness—the sadness because he had no name for it or any way to understand it.

His intense interest in animals was his main passion, and because of this, his route to and from school was quite winding, involving many street crossings. This way, he could first pass by a bar with a window displaying a colorful ad for champagne that showed two Terriers chasing a Rat. Right across from that was a tobacco shop, featuring a stunning sculpture of an Elephant carrying tobacco. If he went a bit further out of his way, there was a game store where he could see some Ducks and was at least guaranteed to see a stuffed Deer's head; beyond that was a fur shop, showcasing an impressive stuffed Bear.

At one point, he could see a stable dog that was rumored to have killed a raccoon, and at another spot on Jervie Street, there was a cottage with a high porch, where he heard a chained bear had once been kept. He never saw the bear. It had been gone for years, but he enjoyed passing by the place. At the corner of Pemberton and Grand streets, according to local kids, a skunk had been killed years ago, and its smell could still be detected on damp nights. Whenever he passed by on a wet night, he always stopped to take a whiff and appreciated that skunk smell. The fact that it eventually turned out to be sewer gas leakage never took away the enjoyment he initially felt.

Yan had no good reason for these weaknesses, and he felt embarrassed when his older brother lectured him about his foolishness. He only knew that he found these things captivating.

But the highlight was a taxidermy shop run by a guy named Sander on Main Street. Yan spent weeks mesmerized, with his nose pressed up against the window. Inside, there were some fox and cat heads grinning fiercely, along with about fifty beautifully displayed birds. Nature could have picked up some great tips from that window on how to showcase plumage at its best. Each bird looked more amazing than the one before.

There were about fifty of them on display, and out of those, twelve had labels since they were part of an exhibit at the Annual County Fair. These 24 labels were important truths to him, and the birds:

were, with their names, deeply etched in his memory and added to his knowledge of nature, although not without some mistakes. The so-called Woodthrush was actually not a Woodthrush at all, but turned out to be a Hermit Thrush. The last bird on the list was a long-tailed, brownish bird with a white breast. The label was positioned so that Yan couldn’t read it from outside, and one of his daily routines was to check if the label had been turned so he could see it. But it never was, so he never found out the bird's name.

After waiting for a year or more, he came up with a desperate plan. It was nothing less than to go inside. It took him a few months to gather his courage since he was shy and timid, but oh! he was so eager for it. Most likely, if he had gone in openly and asked for permission, he would have been allowed to see everything; but he didn’t have the guts to do that. His upbringing had been quite restrictive. He focused on the most curious of the small birds in the window—a Saw-whet Owl—then gritted his teeth and walked in. How loudly the cowbell on the door clanged! Then there was an even more terrifying silence, and then 25 a step, and the great man himself appeared.

"How much is that Owl?"

"$2."

Yan’s courage crumbled at that moment. He ran away. Even if someone had offered him ten cents, it would have felt completely out of reach. He barely registered what the man said. He rushed out with a hazy sense that he had experienced something beautiful but wasn’t worthy enough to remain there. He noticed none of the amazing things around him.

Yan, although not physically strong, loved doing things that required strength. He would have preferred to be Samson over Moses—Hercules instead of Apollo. He was drawn to a wild lifestyle. Every year when spring arrived, he felt a deep urge to get up and leave. He was completely energized when the first crow, in early March, flew overhead cawing. But he felt an intense excitement in his blood when the wild geese, in long, double, arrow-shaped formations, headed north with their noisy calls. He yearned to join them. Whenever a new bird or animal showed up, he experienced a unique tingling sensation up his spine and back, as if he had a mane standing on end. This feeling intensified as his strength grew.

All of his classmates used to say that they "liked" spring, and some of the girls would even say that they "really loved" spring, but they couldn’t understand the madness that burned in Yan's eyes when spring finally arrived—the flushed cheeks—the quickening breath—the restless craving for action—the irritation with school rules—the overflow of nervous energy—the bloodthirst in his veins—the urge to run—to run north, when the signs of spring called out to all his senses.

Then the wind, sky, and ground were filled with excitement. There was noise all around, but not a single word. Everything was restless, inside and out. The yapping of the Wild Geese sparked some motivation, but it was just chaos, as he couldn’t figure out why he felt so stirred. There were voices he couldn’t hear—messages he couldn’t grasp; it was all a jumble of languages. He just wanted to escape.

"If only I could escape. If—if—Oh, God!" he stammered in a torment of frustration, then gasped and threw himself down on a nearby bank, biting the twigs that were within reach, trembling and questioning himself.

Only one thing stopped him from doing something crazy and self-destructive—like joining a wandering Indian tribe up north or a group of gypsies closer to home—and that was the firm control he had at home.

Yan had a lot of brothers, but only those closest in age mattered to him. Rad was two years older—a strong kid who took pride in his "common sense." Despite being older, he didn't do as well as Yan in school. He resented this and loved to show off his physical strength whenever he could. He had a religious side and was very proper in how he lived and spoke. He was never seen smoking a cigarette, lying, or saying "gosh" or "darn." He was brave and determined, but he was also cold and unyielding, lacking any warmth or compassion. Even as a kid, he bragged about having no passions, claiming to believe in common sense, that he called things as they were, and that he wouldn't use two words when one would do. His intelligence was above average, but he was so eager to be seen as exceptionally wise and unemotional that he'd do anything heartless if it fit his self-image. He wasn't particularly selfish, yet he acted like he was so that people would say with significance and admiration, "Isn't he sharp? Doesn't he know how to look out for himself?" The little warmth he had faded early, and he only managed to become more and more disliked as he got older.

His relationship with Yan can be seen in one incident.

Yan had been crawling around under the house in the low, wide, cobweb-filled space between the floor beams and the ground. The thrilling feeling of being on an adventure drew him further in (ultimately leading to a reprimand for getting his clothes dirty), until he found a hollow spot near one side where he could almost stand up straight. He immediately came up with one of his plans – to create a secret, or at least a private, workspace here. He knew that if he asked for permission, he would be denied, but if he and Rad went together, it might get a better response because of Rad's claimed reputation for common sense. Surprisingly, Rad was intrigued by the idea, but was certain that they "shouldn't go together to ask Father." He felt he "could handle that part better on his own," and he did.

Then they got to work. The first task was to dig the hole deeper, expanding it from three feet to six feet all around, and to push the dirt back under the floor of the house. This took many days of hard work, and Yan kept at it each day after getting home from school. There were always a bunch of reasons why Rad couldn't help out. Once the ten by fourteen-foot hole was ready, they needed boards to line and cover it. Lumber was really cheap—low-quality, second-hand stuff was easily available—and Yan found and carried enough boards to build the workspace. Rad was a skilled carpenter and took charge of the construction. They worked side by side every evening, with Yan excitedly discussing all sorts of plans about what they would do in their workshop once it was finished—how they might get a jigsaw eventually to make picture frames and earn some money. Rad would respond with grunts or occasionally quote Scripture—that was just his style. Each day, he would tell Yan what to focus on while he was away.

The walls were finally done; a window installed on one side; a door made and fitted with a lock and key. What joy! Yan beamed with pleasure and pride at the successful completion of his plan. He cleaned the floor for the finishing touch and sat down on the bench to revel in his achievement when Rad suddenly said:

"Heading out to lock up now." That felt satisfyingly significant. Yan stepped outside. Rad locked the door, put the key in his pocket, and then turning, he said with a cold, harsh emphasis:

"From now on, stay out of my workshop. You have nothing to do with it. It's mine. I got the permission to make it." He could prove all of this, and he did.

Alner, the youngest, was eighteen months younger than Yan and about the same size, but the resemblance ended there. His main goal in life was to be fashionable. He once surprised his mother by adding a completely sincere request to his childhood prayers: "Please, God, make me a total standout, for Jesus' sake." Vanity was his weakness, and laziness was his downfall.

He could be easily convinced to do anything that didn't require effort. He desperately wanted to be famous. He was consumed with the desire to be singled out for admiration as the great this, that, or the other thing—he didn't care what, as long as he could be noticed. But he had no intention of working for it. At school, he was a real slacker. He was three grades behind Yan and at the bottom of his class. They headed to school together each day because that was how their father wanted it, but they rarely arrived together. They had nothing in common. Yan was full of warmth, enthusiasm, seriousness, and energy, but he had a fiery and uncontrollable temper. He didn’t get angry easily, but when he did, it would blow over quickly, and then he'd feel the need to apologize and make up. Alner was laid-back and had a good sense of humor. His interests were completely focused on playing. He had no appreciation for Yan's fascination with Indians—"Indians in dirty, old clothes. Gross!" he would say dismissively.

These were his brother neighbors.

What a surprise that Yan was drifting further away from them every day.

But the biggest event of Yan's early life happened now. His school readers talked about Wilson and Audubon, the first and last American naturalists. Yan wondered why no other great figure had come forward. But one day the news announced that finally he had arrived. A book on the Birds of Canada, by ..., was finally out, priced at one dollar.

Money had never seemed so valuable, necessary, and important. "Oh! if I only had a dollar." He started working hard to save up. He won marbles in games, traded marbles for tops, and tops for jack-knives as the different games came around regularly. The jack-knives were then traded for rabbits, and the rabbits turned into cash in small bills. He did odd jobs for various people; he saved every bit of money he could, and after a few months, he managed to get up to ninety cents. But there was something ominous about that last dime. No one had any more odd jobs for him; his luck had run out. He was burning with desire for that book. None of his family cared enough to lend him the money, even at the exorbitant interest (two or three times higher than normal) he was willing to agree to. Six weeks went by before he finally got that last dime, and he never felt right about it afterward.

He and Alner had to chop the kitchen wood. Each had their daily amount to do, along with other chores. Yan always completed his tasks faithfully, but Alner found ways to avoid his work. He was a well-known little dandy. Their father's financial struggles didn't allow for his grooming to go beyond one paper collar a week, but he carried a piece of ink eraser in his pocket to keep the collar looking sharp. Yan didn't care much about appearances—he was actually quite messy. So, the oldest brother, wanting to take advantage of Alner's weakness, offered a prize of a twenty-five-cent necktie of the winner’s choice to whoever did their chores the best for a month. For the first week, Alner and Yan stayed even, but Alner eventually lost interest despite the tempting prize. The workload was too demanding. Yan continued his usual routine and earned the twenty-five cents for a necktie. But while in the store, a bright idea struck him. Spending more than fifteen cents on a necktie was excessive, for sure; he could use the extra ten cents to buy a book. And so, he added the last dime to his collection. Then, filled with joy and the pride of a capitalist, he went to the bookstore and asked for the longed-for volume.

He was anxious with a lot of bottled-up emotions. He thought the bookseller would tell him the price had increased to one thousand dollars and that they were all sold out. But that didn't happen. He turned quietly, pulled the book out of a stack, paused, and asked, "Green or red cover?"

"Green," Yan said, still not convinced. The book guy looked inside, then set it down, stating in a cold, businesslike tone, "Ninety cents."

"Ninety cents," Yan gasped. Oh! If only he had understood how booksellers operated or how cash discounts worked. For six weeks, he had been kept from this happy place—he had endured hunger; he had misused funds, he had compromised his conscience, all to come up with that ten cents—that pointless dime.

He read that book with great respect all the way home. It didn’t give him what he wanted, but that was probably his own fault. He studied it closely, loved it, and was convinced that he now had the key to all the wonders and mysteries of nature. It took him five years to realize that the text was the most worthless trash ever forced on an indifferent public. Still, the book contained some useful information; first, a list of bird names; second, about thirty terrible distortions of Audubon and Wilson's bird portraits.

These were the birds that were unfairly criticized:

But even though the pictures were poorly done, they still provided information and were stored in his memory as permanent additions to his understanding of the Wild Things.

Of course, he already knew a few birds whose names are familiar to every schoolboy: the Robin, Bluebird, Kingbird, Wild Canary, Woodpecker, Barn Swallow, Wren, Chickadee, Wild Pigeon, Hummingbird, and Pewee, so his list kept getting longer.

Oh, sympathy! The greatest gift from God to humanity. The strongest bond
there is between people.
The most powerful link in any friendship chain.
The only lasting connection in family ties.
The only enduring strand in marriage vows.
The bright flame that inspires brilliance.
The tenfold foundation of the highest love.
Deeper than love — stronger than hate — the most significant force
in the entire universe — the ultimate law.
If we have this greatest gift from God to humanity — this single link
connecting everything, then all else is useless or insignificant.

Each year, the old springtime excitement hit Yan harder. Each year, he felt less inclined to fight it, and one beautiful day in late April, during its twelfth occurrence, he wandered northward to a small woods a couple of miles from town. It was filled with unknown flowers, sounds, and mysteries. Every tree and thicket had a voice—a long ditch filled with water had many that called out to him. "Peep-peep-peep," they seemed to say, inviting him to come take a look. He crawled back to the ditch again and again, watching and waiting. The loud whistle would ring out only a short distance away, "Peep-peep-peep,” but stopped each time he got close—sometimes right in front of him, sometimes behind, 39 but never where he was. He explored a small pool with his hands, sifting through sticks and leaves, but found nothing else. A passing farmer told him it was just a "spring Peeper," whatever that was, "some kind of critter in the water."

Under a log not far away, Yan found a little lizard that quickly disappeared into a hole. It was the only living thing around, so he figured that the "Peeper" must be a "Whistling Lizard." But he was determined to see them when they were calling. How was it that the ponds all around were full of them calling to him and playing hide and seek while evading his most careful search? The sounds stopped as soon as he got close, only to start again in the ponds he had left. His presence scared them away. He spent a long time watching one pool, but none of the voices started up again in his line of sight. Eventually, after realizing they were avoiding him, he crawled quietly to a very noisy pond, getting closer and closer until he was just three feet away from a loud peeper hidden in the floating grass. He pinpointed the spot within a few inches, yet he couldn’t see anything. He was completely stumped, lying there trying to figure it out, when suddenly all the nearby Peepers fell silent. Yan got startled by a footstep and, looking around, saw a man just a few feet away, watching him.

Yan blushed—a stranger was always seen as a threat; he felt instinctively uneasy around them and stared uncomfortably as if he had been caught doing something wrong.

The man, an oddly interesting middle-aged guy, was in ragged clothes and had no collar. He had a tin box hanging from his hunched shoulders, and in his hands was a long-handled net. His face, covered by a scruffy beard, was very pronounced and rough. It showed signs of intelligence, with a hint of seriousness, but his gray-blue eyes had a warm, friendly look.

He was wearing a plain, unflattering, stiff felt hat, and when he lifted it to welcome the nice breeze, Yan noticed that the guy had hair similar to his own—a rough, prehistoric-looking mane, resting on his rugged forehead, like a bunch of seaweed stuck on some battered rock.

"What's going on, my boy?" he said in a tone that was gentle but still had a strong Scottish accent.

Still feeling a bit annoyed by the stranger's presence, Yan said:

"I'm not finding anything; I'm just trying to see what that Whistling Lizard is like."

The stranger's eyes sparkled. "Forty years ago, I was lying by a pool just like I saw you this morning, looking and trying hard to figure out the mystery of the spring Peeper. I lay there all day, and many other days too. In fact, it took me almost three years to figure it out. I'd be happy to save you from searching as long as I did, if that's what you want. I'll show you the Peeper."

Then he carefully sifted through the leaves near 41 the ditch and soon caught a tiny frog, less than an inch long.

"There's your Whistling Lizard: he's not a lizard at all, but a frog. Book people call him Hyla pickeringii, and he'd make a good Scot, because you can see the St. Andrew's cross on his little back. You can spot the whistling ones in the water; they only stick their beaks out and are hard to see. Then they sink to the bottom when you get close. But take this one home and treat him well, and you'll see him puff out his throat as big as himself and whistle like a steam engine."

Yan felt more relaxed now. He talked about the Lizard he had seen.

"That wasn't a Lizard; I've never seen them around here. It must have been a two-striped Spelerpes. A Spelerpes is closely related to a Frog—a type of dry-land tadpole, while a Lizard is just a Snake with legs."

This was light from heaven. All of Yan's distrust vanished. He started to warm up to the stranger. He bombarded him with questions; he talked about how he obtained the Bird Book. Oh, how the stranger scoffed at "that drivel." Yan shared his confusions. He received a full ear and thoughtful responses. The mystery of the black ground-bird with a brown mate was solved as the Common Towhee. The mysterious, beautiful voice in the spring morning, sending out its "cluck, cluck, cluck, clucker" from the distant woods, the large gray Woodpecker that pecked at some high stub and flew in a flash of gold, and the stunning spotted bird with a red head and yellow wings and tail in the taxidermist's window were all 42 identified as one and the same—the Flicker or Golden-winged Woodpecker. The Hang-nest and the Oriole were combined into one. The unknown, poisonous-looking blue Hornet that perched on the mud with its body twitching, and the strange, invisible creature that made mud-nests inside old buildings and stuffed them with crippled Spiders were both recognized as the Mud-wasp or Pelopæus.

A black butterfly flew by, and Yan discovered it was a Camberwell Beauty, or scientifically, a Vanessa antiopa. He realized that this one must have hibernated to appear so early in the spring, and even more, that this beautiful creature was the elevated spirit of the ordinary brown and black spiny caterpillar.

The wild pigeons were soaring high above them in large groups as they sat there, and Yan learned about their vast nesting spots in the southern region, and their amazing yet precise migrations focused solely on finding food; their northward journey to collect the winged nuts of the slippery elm in Canada; their August flight to the rice fields of Carolina; and their pilgrimage through the Mississippi Valley when the acorns and beech mast were ripe.

What a vibrant, fulfilling morning that was. Everything seemed to go their way. As they walked over a pine-covered hill, two large birds burst from the ground and fluttered through the trees.

"Ruffed Grouse or 'partridge', as the farmers call them. 43 There's a pair that lives nearby. They come to this hill for the Wintergreen berries."

And Yan quickly picked some and tasted them. He stuffed his pockets with the fragrant plant—berries and all—and chewed as he walked. As they strolled, they heard a distant drumbeat. "What's that?" he exclaimed, always alert. The stranger listened and replied:

"That's the bird you just saw; that's the male partridge drumming for his mate."

The Pewee of his early memories turned into the Phoebe from books. That day, his streamside singer became the Song Sparrow; the brown triller became the Veery Thrush. The Trilliums, both white and red, the Dogtooth Violet, the Spring Beauty, the Trailing Arbutus—all for the first time received names and became real friends, instead of being beautiful yet frustrating mysteries.

The stranger also felt warmed, and his rugged features lit up; he saw in Yan someone who was like him, struggling with the same thirst for knowledge that he had felt in his youth. Now, it was an invaluable opportunity to spare the boy some of the pain he had gone through. His gratitude towards Yan became intense, and Yan absorbed every word; nothing he heard slipped his mind. He was in a dream, for he had finally found the most precious thing on earth—sympathy—wide, insightful, and all-encompassing sympathy.

That spring morning was always like a new beginning in Yan's mind—not his memory, that was in the past—but in his mind, his living 44 present.

And the most powerful, genuine thing in it all was not the tough stranger with his friendly demeanor, not the unfamiliar birds and plants, but the scent of the Wintergreen.

The power of smell to trigger memories is better, stronger, and more vivid than any other sense. Indigenous people understand this; many discover, over time, the scent that brings back their happiest moments and keep it close in a medicine bag. It is very real and precious to them—whether it's a handful of pine needles, a package of rat musk, or a piece of spruce gum. It adds a special touch of joyful memory to their daydreams.

And yet this belief is one of the first targeted by foolish white men who claim to enlighten the Native Americans' ignorance. They, in their ignorance, call it ridiculous, while scientists understand its basic truth.

Yan didn’t realize he had discovered a secret of the Indian medicine bag. But from then on, that amazing day would come back to him, summoned by his "medicine," this simple, natural magic, the scent of Wintergreen.

He valued that morning more than he could express, yet he did something typically foolish that made him look bad and left him stuck that way in the stranger's perception.

It was past noon. They had been hanging around for a while; the Stranger talked about all the things he had at home; then finally said he had to leave. "Well, 45 goodbye, kid; I hope I'll see you again." He extended his hand. Yan shook it warmly, but he was confused from overthinking and feeling overwhelmed; his shyness and hesitation were intense; he never accepted the stranger's indirect invitation. He let him leave without even finding out his name or contact information.

When it was too late, Yan realized his mistake. He roamed through all those woods hoping to run into him again, but he never did.

Oh! What a song the Wild Geese sang that year! How their trumpet call thrilled in his heart, hitting new and hidden chords that stirred and responded. Was there ever a nobler bird than that great black-necked Swan, who doesn’t sing at his death, but in the fullness of life, a song of home and peace—of exciting deeds and hunting in distant lands—of cravings and food, and fierce thirsts seeking refreshing drink. A song of wind and marching, a song of blooming green and cracking ice—of Arctic mysteries and hidden paths. A song of a long black marsh, a low red sky, and a sun that never sets.

An Indian imprisoned for stealing endured the winter with courage, but when spring arrived with the sound of the Gander-clang in the dark night sky, he flinched, stumbled, and went to his final, eternal hunting ground.

Who can explain why Jericho fell at the sound of the trumpet?

Who can read or measure the power of the Honker song?

Oh, what a song the Wild Geese sang that year! And yet, was it a new song? No, the old, old song, but Yan heard it with new ears. He was learning 47 to read its message. He wandered on their trailless path as often as he could, northward, ever northward, up the river from the town, and up, seeking the loneliest ways and days. The river turned to the east, but a small stream flowed into it from the north: up that Yan went through thickening woods and walls that neared each other, on and up until the walls closed to a crack, then widened out into a little valley that was still full of untouched forest trees. Hemlock, Pine, Birch, and Elm of the largest size were plentiful and spread over the clear brook a continuous shade. Fox vines trailed in the open areas, the rarest wildflowers flourished, Red squirrels chattered from the trees. In the mud along the brookside were tracks of Raccoon and Mink and other strange four-legged creatures. And in the trees overhead, the Veery, the Hermit-thrush, or even a Woodthrush sang his sweetly solemn song, in that golden twilight of the midday forest. Yan did not know them all by name yet, but he felt their vague charm and mystery. It seemed such a distant and lonely place, so unspoiled by humans, that Yan convinced himself that surely he was the first person to stand there, that it was his by right of discovery, and so he claimed it and named it after its discoverer—Glenyan.

This place became the main focus of his life. He went there whenever he could but never had the courage to tell anyone about his discovery. Sometimes he wished he had someone to share it with, he wanted to meet the 48 stranger and take him there, but he still worried that the secret would get out. This was his small kingdom; the Wild Geese had brought him here, just like the Seagulls had guided Columbus to a new world—where he could briefly experience the nature-loving life he dreamed of. He was sensitive enough to cry over the loss of many beautiful Elm trees in town when their land was sold for development, and he felt a sort of hungry regret when old settlers talked about how abundant the Deer used to be. But now he found solace from these pains, for surely there was one place where the great trees should stand and grow just like in the bright past; where the Coon, the Mink, and the Partridge should live and thrive forever. No, definitely no one else should know about it, because if the secret got out, then countless visitors would come, and Glenyan would be ruined. No, it was better that the secret should "die with him," he thought. He didn’t really know what that meant, but he had read the phrase somewhere and liked how it sounded. Maybe he would reveal it on his deathbed.

Yes, that was the right thing to do, and he imagined a dramatic scene with grieving relatives all around him, where he was the main focus. They all stopped their crying and gasping in amazement as he revealed the great secret of his life—amazing! It was almost worth dying for.

So he kept the place to himself and loved it more and more. He would look out through the thick Hemlock tops, the spots of Basswood green, or the criss-cross Butternut leaves and say: "Mine, all mine." Or down by some pool in the clear stream 49 he would sit and watch the quick little Shiners and say: "You are all mine; you are mine. You will never be harmed or driven away."

A spring flowed from the hill next to a green lawn, and here Yan would eat his sandwiches along with nuts and berries that he didn't like, but he ate them anyway because he was a wildman. He would gaze fondly up the shaded stretches of the brook and down to the narrow entrance of the glen, and he would say, think, and feel. "This is mine, my own, my very own."

He had only the most basic tools, but he got to work building a makeshift shelter. He wasn’t very resourceful. His attempt to win the book was something out of the ordinary for him, since he didn’t have a knack for business. When the Home Government found out about it, he was reprimanded for engaging in “work unworthy of a gentleman’s son” and was warned under severe penalties to “never again resort to such degrading ways of making money.”

They didn’t give him any money, so he was broke. Most boys would have managed to get a decent axe and spade somehow. He had neither. An old plane blade nailed to a stick was all the axe and spade he had, but with it, he got to work and balanced its lack of quality as a tool with sheer determination. First, he picked the quietest spot near the spring—a bank hidden by thick foliage. He didn’t have any specific reason for hiding it, other than his love for secrecy. He had read in some of his books “how the clever scouts navigated a pathless jungle, pulled aside a branch and revealed a cozy dwelling that no one else could find without the secret,” so it felt very fitting to keep it a complete mystery—a kind of secret panel in the 51 enchanted castle—and imagine himself as the clever scout leading his amazed friends to the cabin, even though he hadn’t decided to share his secret with anyone. He often wished he could have the advantage of Rad’s strong arms and useful tools; but the workshop incident was just one of many that taught him to leave his brother out of all planning.

Mother Earth is the best keeper of a secret, and Yan, with his rough spade, started digging a hole in the bank. The tough blue clay made the work slow, but after two days off spent working steadily, he ended up with a hole seven feet wide and about four feet deep into the bank.

In this, he started building the shack. He needed logs that were seven or eight feet long—at least twenty-five or thirty would be required, and figuring out how to cut and manage them with his dull axe was a challenge. For some reason, he never looked for a better axe. The loosely formed idea that the Indians didn’t have better tools was enough motivation for him, and he persevered, using whatever materials he could find. Each piece he brought was placed right away. Some kids might have gathered all the logs first and built it in one go, but that wasn’t Yan’s style; he was too eager to see the walls go up. He had painstakingly and slowly gathered enough logs to raise the walls three levels when he realized he needed a door. This couldn't be cut through the logs in the usual way; that required better tools. So, he removed all the front logs except the bottom one, replacing them at the ends with stones and blocks to support the sides. This quickly gave him two more logs and helped the rest of the walls too. The shack was now about three feet high, and no two logs were the same: some were way too long, most were crooked, and some were partially rotting, simply because those were the only ones he could cut. He had exhausted the local logs and had to search further. Then he recalled seeing one that might work, half a mile away on the home trail (they were always “trails”; he never called them “roads” or “paths”). He went after this, and to his surprise and delight, found it was one of several old cedar posts that had been cut long ago and discarded as unusable. He could only carry one at a time, so each trip meant a mile, and the post became painfully heavy by the time he reached home. To get those twelve logs, he had to walk twelve miles. It took several Saturdays, but he stuck with it. Twelve good logs finished his shack, making it five feet high, with three logs left over for rafters. He laid those flat across, spacing them evenly. On top of them, he placed plenty of small sticks and branches until it was well covered. Then he went down to a thick, grassy meadow and, with his knife, cut hay for a couple of hours. He spread it thickly on the roof and covered it with strips of elm bark. Finally, on top of everything, he tossed in the clay he dug from the bank, piling it well back, stamping it down, and smoothing it at the edges. Lastly, he threw some debris and leaves over it so that it blended in with the surrounding mess.

Thus the roof was finished, but the entire front was still open. He dreaded searching for more logs, so he came up with a new plan. First, he found some sticks about six feet long and two or three inches wide. Without an axe to sharpen and drive them, he dug pairs of holes a foot deep, one at each end and another pair near the middle of the front ground log.

Into each of these he placed a pair of upright sticks, leading up to the eave log—one inside and one outside of it—then packed the earth around them in the holes. Next, he went to the brook and cut several long green willow sticks about half an inch thick at the base. He twisted these sticks around the top of each pair of stakes in a figure 8, positioning them to secure the stake tightly against the bottom and top logs at the front.

Down by the spring, he dug a hole and mixed water and clay into mortar. Then, using a trowel made from a shingle and mortar carried in an old bucket, he built a wall inside the stakes. He used sticks placed along the outside and stones set in mud until the front was closed off, leaving just a small opening for a window and a large opening for a door.

Now he focused on completing the interior. He collected moss from the woods and filled all the gaps in the 54 upper sections, while the areas near the ground were filled with stones and dirt. This completed the shanty; however, it still needed a door.

The opening was four feet high and two feet wide, so in the woodshed at home, he cut three boards, each eight inches wide and four feet high, leaving a long point at each end of one. Doing this at home gave him the advantage of having a saw. Then, with these and two shorter boards, each two feet long and six inches wide, he sneaked out to Glenyan, where, with some nails and a stone to use as a hammer, he attached them together to make a door. In the ground log, he pecked a hole big enough to fit one of the points and made a matching hole in the underside of the top log. Then, prying up the eave log, he placed the door in position, lowered the eave log back down, and the door was hung. A string attached to it provided an outside latch when twisted around a protruding snag in the wall, and a peg pushed into a hole inside served as an interior latch. Some logs, along with fir branches and dried grass, made a bunk inside. This left only the window, and lacking anything better for covering, he attached a piece of muslin he brought from home over it. However, finding its dull white too jarring, he collected a quart of butternuts and, watching his chance at home, boiled the cotton in water with the nuts, turning it into a satisfactory yellowish-brown.

His last job was to eliminate any sign of disturbance and completely conceal the shanty with brush and creeping vines. So, after weeks of work, his 55 woodland home was complete. It was only five feet high inside, six feet long, and six feet wide—dirty and uncomfortable—but what a joy it was to have it.

Here for the first time in his life, he started to understand the joy of achieving something on his own in pursuit of a big goal.

During this time, Yan had focused all his energy on the shanty that he barely noticed the birds and wildlife around him. That was just his nature—he fixated on one idea and dedicated all his strength to it.

His heart was increasingly drawn to his kingdom now; he yearned to come and live here. But he only dared to hope that someday he might be allowed to spend a night in the shanty. This was where he would live his ideal life—the life of an Indian with all the bad and cruel parts left out. Here, he would show people how to live without cutting down all the trees, ruining all the streams, and killing every living thing. He would learn how to fully enjoy the woods himself and then teach others to do the same. Although he found the birds and animals fascinating, he wouldn’t have hesitated to shoot one if he had the chance, but seeing a tree cut down always caused him deep distress. He probably understood that a bird could be quickly replaced, but a tree never could.

To put his plan into action, he needs to study hard in school because books have a lot of the information he needs. Maybe someday he’ll get the opportunity to check out Audubon’s drawings and solve all his bird-related concerns with just one book. 57

That summer, a new kid at school added to Yan's wild group. This kid wasn't good or smart; he was a total loser and had been kicked out of a boarding school for bad behavior, but he had a few schoolyard skills that gave him a hint of coolness. He could tie a bunch of interesting knots in string. He could make a great bird-like sound, and he spoke a language he called Tutnee. Yan was curious about all of it, especially the last one. He teased and bribed until he got let in on the secret. It involved spelling every word by keeping the five vowels the same, but doubling each consonant and adding a "u" in between. So "b" became "bub," "d" became "dud," "m" became "mum," and so on, except "c" was "suk," "h" was "hash," "x" was "zux," and "w" was "wak."

The phrase provided by the new kid, "sus-hash-u-tut u-pup yak-o-u-rur mum-o-u-tut-hash," was said to be a way of calling for silence.

This language was "super useful," the new kid said, to keep the other guys from understanding what you were saying, which it definitely did. Yan practiced hard at it and within a few weeks became skilled. He could manage the awkward sentences better than his teacher, and he was particularly good at adding accents and guttural tones that gave it a fascinating wild vibe. He loved chattering away to the new kid in front of others to soak up the confused looks on the 58 faces of those who didn't know the Tutnees language.

He made himself a bow and arrows. They were poorly made and he couldn't hit anything with them, but he felt so much like a Native American when he pulled the arrow back to its head that it was another source of joy.

He made several arrows with hoop-iron heads, which he could shape at home in the woodshed. The heads were jagged, barbed, and double-barbed. These arrows looked terrifying. They seemed downright devilish in their ferocity, and he found them extremely satisfying. He called these his "war arrows," and would shoot one into a tree and watch it shake, then grunt "Ugh, heap good," and take pleasure in the imagined enemy he had just hit.

He found a piece of sheepskin and made a really basic pair of moccasins. He sharpened an old putty knife into a scalping knife; the notch for breaking glass was a bit annoying until he remembered that some Native Americans decorate their weapons with a notch for each enemy they’ve killed, so it could serve as a kill-tally. He made a sheath for the knife using leftover scraps of leather from the moccasins. Some watercolors he got in a school swap and a small piece of broken mirror held in a split stick were essential parts of his Indian look.

His face during the makeup process was always a battleground between the ugliest Indian scowl and a big grin of delight at how well he managed to transform his face with the paints. Then, with his painted face and a feather in his hair, he would proudly roam the woods in his little kingdom and gather every bit of nature knowledge he could find, invent, or learn from his classmates.

He would bring back strange things he found in the woods to his cabin: twisted sticks, feathers, bones, skulls, mushrooms, shells, an old cow horn—things that caught his interest for reasons he couldn’t explain. He made Indian-style necklaces from the shells, alternating them with fish bones. He let his hair grow as long as possible, using various tricks, even the unpleasant method of combing it to avoid getting the monthly trim from his mom's scissors. He would lie for hours with the sun shining on his face to tan his skin, and the only hint of vanity he ever had was taking pleasure in hearing insults about how dark his complexion was. He tried to do everything like an Indian would do it, striking Indian poses, walking carefully with his toes turned in, breaking twigs to mark a path, estimating the time by the sun, and grunting "Ugh" or "Wagh" when something surprised him. Making fun of White people, using a fake Indian accent, was an important part of his fun. "Ugh, White men heap no good" and "Wagh, pale face—pale fool in woods," were some of his favorites.

He was really influenced by phrases that caught his attention. "The brown sinewy arm of the Indian," 62 was one of those phrases. It made him realize that his own arms were as white as milk. However, there was a simple fix for that. He rolled up his sleeves to his shoulders and bared them to the full glare of the sun. Later, under the spell of the familiar phrase, "The warrior was naked to the waist," he took it a step further—he decided to be brown to the waist—so he went shirtless for an entire holiday. He always went to extremes. He remembered that some Indians put their young warriors through an initiation called the Sun-dance, so he danced naked around the fire in the blazing sun and spent the entire day sitting around naked.

He noticed a general warmth before evening, but it was at night that he really felt the consequences of his mistake. He was suffering in intense heat. He barely slept all night. The next day, he felt worse, and his arm and shoulder were blistered. He handled it bravely, only worried that the Home Government might find out, in which case he would be in bigger trouble. He had read that the Indians use grease on their skin for sunburn, so he went to the bathroom and used goose grease because he didn't have Buffalo fat. This provided some relief, and in a few days he was feeling better and found satisfaction in peeling the dead skin off his shoulders and arms.

Yan created several containers from birch bark, sewing the edges with root fibers, placing a round wooden disc at the bottom, and sealing the joints with pine gum to make them watertight.

In the distant river, he caught some catfish and brought them home—to his shack, that is. There, he made a fire and grilled them—pretty poorly—but he ate them as a real treat. He saved the sharp bone from each of their side fins, drilled a hole through the thick end, smoothed it out, and used them as needles to stitch his birch bark. He stored them in a bark box with some lumps of resin, some bark fiber, an Indian flint arrowhead given to him by a classmate, and the claws of a large owl that he found in the trash behind the taxidermist's shop.

One day, while sitting on the ash heap in their yard in town, he spotted a new, unusual bird. He often saw new birds, but this one really caught his attention. He sketched it as it calmly fed nearby. It was a dull, ashy gray with bronzy yellow spots on its head and back, and white bars on its wings. His "Birds of Canada" didn’t help; he looked through all the books he could find but didn’t discover any clue about its name. It was years later before he learned that it was a young male Pine Grosbeak.

Another day, under the bushes not far from his shack, he found a small hawk lying dead. He grabbed it as an amazing find, spent an hour examining its toes, beak, wings, and every feather; then he started to make a drawing of it. It turned out to be a very bad drawing, even though it took days to complete, and the bird was covered in maggots 64 before he was done. But every feather and every spot was accurately copied and carefully noted on paper. One of his friends said it was a chicken hawk. That name stuck in Yan's mind. From then on, the chicken hawk and its markings became familiar to him. Even in later years, when he learned that this had to be a young "sharp-shin," the name "chicken hawk" was always easier for him to say.

But he soon encountered another Hawk, a different one. This one was alive, flitting around in the branches of a tree above him. It was very small—under a foot long. Its beak was short, but its legs, wings, and tail were long; its head was bluish, and its back was coppery red; there was a broad black crossbar on its tail. As the bird flew around and balanced on the branches, it pumped its tail. This indicated it was a Hawk, and the colors he remembered matched those of the male Sparrow-hawk, thanks to his bird book's crude version of "Wilson's" drawing of the bird. Additionally, he spotted two other birds nearby, recalling them partly from memory. The drawings resembled these, and from a calendar image, he learned that one was a Rail; from a drawing in the bird book, he found out the other was a Bobolink. These names stuck with him. Initially, he had doubts about sketching—it felt un-Indian—until he remembered that Indians painted pictures on their shields and teepees. It turned out to be the best way for him to make accurate observations. 65

The local bookseller had some new titles in his window around this time. One, an amazing book called "Poisonous Plants," Yan was really excited to see. It was displayed in the window for a while. Two of the big illustrations could be seen from the street; one was Henbane, and the other was Stramonium. Yan looked at them as often as he could. A week later, they were gone; but the names and images were permanently etched in his mind. If he had been brave enough to go inside and ask to see the book, he would have mastered most of it in an hour.

In the wet sand by the edge of the stream, he discovered some strange markings one day—clearly tracks. Yan studied them closely and then made a life-size drawing of one. He cleverly thought it might belong to a raccoon—nothing was too good, wild, or rare for his valley. As soon as he could, he showed the track to the stableman, whose dog was said to have killed a raccoon once, so he figured the man must be an expert on the topic.

"Is that a raccoon track?" asked Yan hesitantly.

"How should I know?" the man said gruffly, and continued with his work. But a stranger nearby, a curious guy in tattered clothes with a new silk hat perched on the back of his head, said, "Let me see it." Yan showed it to him.

"Is it the actual size?"

"Sure thing, sir."

"Yeah, that's definitely a raccoon track. Check out all the big trees around where you saw that; then when you find one with a hole in it, look at the bark and you’ll see some raccoon fur. That’s how you’ll know you’ve found a raccoon tree."

Yan took the first opportunity he had. He looked for and found a big Basswood tree with some gray hairs stuck in the bark. He brought them home, unsure of what kind they were. He looked for the stranger, but he was gone, and no one recognized him.

How to identify the hairs was a question; but he remembered a friend who had a raccoon-skin carriage robe. A few hairs from that were compared with those from the tree and left no doubt that the climber was a raccoon. So, Yan started to realize that the hairs of each animal, as well as its tracks, are different. He also learned how smart it is to draw everything he wanted to observe or describe. It was either an accident or instinct on his part, but he had stumbled upon a solid principle; there’s nothing like a sketch to gather and convey accurate information about form—there's no better way to develop true observation.

One day, he spotted a regular plant resembling an umbrella. He pulled it up by the roots and found a long white bulb at the bottom. He tried a bite of it. It tasted a lot like cucumber. He checked "Gray's School Botany," and in the index, he found the name Indian Cucumber. The description matched pretty well, as far as he could understand the technical terms, but like all descriptions without a drawing, it wasn't very satisfying. So, he added the Indian Cucumber to his knowledge of the forest.

On another occasion, he chewed the leaves of a strange plant because he had heard that was the first test used by the Indians. He quickly started to experience terrible stomach pains. He rushed home in agony. His mother gave him mustard and water until he vomited, then she smacked his ears. His father came in during this and effectively added to the punishment. Right then, he was ordered to stay away from the woods forever. Of course, he didn’t. He just became more careful about it all, and enjoyed his hideout with the added thrill of secret wrongdoing.

An Irish-Canadian maid from Sanger now joined their household. Her grandmother was a well-known herbalist. She had often been accused of being a witch, even though she was a respected Catholic. This girl had learned some herbal knowledge, and one day while the whole family was visiting the cemetery, she rushed into different thickets and brought back plants, naming them along with what her grandmother used them for.

"Sassafras, which makes tea for skin issues; Ginseng, great for selling; Bloodroot for blood in the spring; Goldthread, which heals sore mouths; Pipsissewa for chills and fevers; White-man's Foot, that grows wherever a White person walks; Indian cup, which grows where a Native person dies; Dandelion roots for coffee; Catnip tea for a cold; Lavender tea to drink during meals; Injun Tobacco to mix with store-bought tobacco; Hemlock bark to dye pink; Goldthread for yellow dye, and Butternut rinds for greenish dye."

All of these were passing trifles to the others, but to Yan they were the very breath of life, and he 72 treasured up all of these things in his memory. Biddy's information was not free from mistakes and superstition:

"Hold Daddy Longlegs by one leg and say, 'tell me where the cows are,' and he'll point right under another leg, and once he told me where to find my necklace when I lost it."

"Shooting the swallows makes the cows produce bloody milk. That's how old Sam White destroyed his milk business—by shooting swallows."

"Lightning never strikes a barn where swallows nest. Dad never felt at ease after the new barn was built until the swallows settled in it. He had it insured for a hundred dollars until the swallows got around to taking care of it."

"When a Measuring-worm crawls on you, you're going to get a new suit of clothes. My brother-in-law says they walk over him every summer, and sure enough, he gets a new suit. But they never do it in winter because he doesn't get new clothes then."

"Split a crow's tongue and it will talk like a girl. Grandma knew a guy who had a brother behind Mara who got a young crow and split its tongue, and he told Grandma it was just like a girl talking— and Grandma told me!"

"Soak a horsehair in rainwater and it will turn into a snake. Aren't there lots of snakes around ponds where horses drink? Well!"

"Kill a spider and it will rain tomorrow. Now, 73 that's important to know. I remember one year when the Orangemen's picnic was coming up on the 12th of July, my mom made us catch twenty spiders and we killed them all the day before, and wow, did it pour on the picnic! Maybe we didn’t stop laughing. Most of them had to go home by boat, that’s what our newspaper said. But the next year, they did the same thing to us for St. Patrick's Day, but spiders are rare on the 16th of March, and it didn't rain so much as it snowed, so it was pretty much a tie."

"Toads give you warts. Have you seen the McKenna twins? Their hands are a mess with warts. I saw those two boys playing with toads like they were marbles. So! And they should have known what was going to happen. Isn't every toad just covered with warts as much as possible?"

"That's Indian tobacco. The Indians always use it, and Granny does too, sometimes." (Yan made a mental note of this—he had to get some and smoke it, if it was Indian.)

"A Witch-hazel stick will bounce over a hidden spring and indicate where to dig. Denny Scully is really good at it. He charges a dollar to show where to drill for water, and if they don’t hit water, it’s because they didn’t dig where he advised, or messed up the process somehow, and have to try again."

"Now, that's Dandelion. Its roots make surprisingly good coffee. Grandma always uses it. She says it's healthier than store-bought coffee, but Mom says she prefers bought things, and the more expensive they are, the better she likes them."

74 "Now, that's Ginseng. It has an ugly but beautiful flower in spring. A lot of it gets sent to China. Grandma says the Chinese eat it to make them happy, but they don’t seem to eat enough.

"There's Slippery Elm. It's really good for easing a cold if you drink the juice that the bark has been boiled in. One spring, Grandma made a whole bucket of it. She put it outside to cool, and the pig drank it all up, and he must have had a cold because it really loosened him up, and he lost his back teeth. I saw them myself lying out there in the yard. Yes, I did."

"That's Wintergreen. A lot of guys I know chew that to get girls to like them. Many of them get a boyfriend or girlfriend that way, too. I've done it myself plenty of times."

"Now, that’s what some people call Injun Turnip, and the kids call it Jack-in-a-Pulpit, but Granny calls it 'Sorry-plant' because she says when anyone eats it, they end up regretting the last foolish thing they did. I’ll put some in your dad’s coffee next time he punishes you, and maybe that’ll make him stop. It just makes me sick to see you getting punished for every little thing you can’t help."

"A snake's tongue is its sting. You step on a snake and see how it tries to sting you. And its tail doesn’t stop moving until sunset. I've seen that myself once, and Grandma says so too, and what Grandma doesn't know isn't knowledge—it's just book learning."

These were her superstitions, many of which seemed pretty ridiculous to Yan; but she also knew some local folklore, and Yan picked up all 75 he could.

She had so much of what he wanted to know that he almost decided to tell her where he went every Saturday after he finished his work.

A week or two more and she would have revealed the big secret, but something happened that ended their friendship.

One day, as this girl walked with him through a small grove on the outskirts of the town, she paused at a certain tree and said:

"If that isn't Black-cherry!" "You mean Choke-cherry."

"No, Black-cherry. Choke-cherry isn't any good; but Black-cherry bark is really good for lung issues. Grandma always has some. I've been feeling a bit off myself" [she was actually as strong as an ox]. "I guess I'll grab some." So she and Yan planned a little adventure together. The idea of it frightened the boy. The girl took a hatchet from the toolbox—the sacred toolbox of his father.

Yan's mother saw her with it and asked why she had it. With confident boldness, she said it was to hammer in the hook that held the clothesline, and she went on to carry out the lie with a smile. That gave Yan a lesson, and it wasn't a good one. The hatchet was immediately put back in the box, to be stolen more carefully later on.

Biddy announced that she was heading to the grocery store. She ran into Yan around the corner and they headed to the lot. Completely ignoring property rights, she showed Yan how to peel off the bark of the 77 Black-cherry. "Don’t peel all the way around; that’s bad luck—just take it from the sunny side." She filled a basket with the pieces and they went back home.

Here she filled a jar with pieces of the inner layer, then poured water over it and let it sit for a week. The water turned into a dark brown liquid with a bitter taste and a sweet, fragrant smell.

"It's really good," she said. "Granny always keeps it nearby. It helps a lot of people. Now, take Bud Ellis—the doctors had pretty much given up on him. They said he didn’t have a single lung left, and he came to Granny. He used to tease her, but now he was completely scared. At first, Granny chased him away; then, when she saw that he was really sick, she felt sorry for him and showed him how to make Lung Balm. He was supposed to make two gallons each time and bring it to her. Then she would take it and adjust it so it was half as much and give it back to him. Well, in six months, he was completely fine."

Biddy now complained every night about "feelings" in her chest. The only way to manage these feelings was with a glass or two of Lung Balm. Her condition must have been serious, because one night, after taking several doses of Balm, her head seemed to be affected. She became rude to the lady of the house, and by the end of the month, a less interesting helper took her place.

There were many lessons, both good and bad, that Yan could have learned from this; but the only one he really took to heart was that Black-cherry bark is an amazing remedy. The family doctor confirmed it, and Yan kept this as a valuable and special piece of knowledge in his woodcraft skills.

Having identified the tree, he was surprised to see that it was quite common, and he was pleased to discover it thriving in his own Glenyan.

This made him write down all the trees he knew, and he was surprised to see how few they were and how unsure he was about them.

Maple—hard and soft.
Beach.
Elm—swamp and slippery.
Ironwood.
Birch—white and black.
Ash—white and black.
Pine.
Cedar.
Balsam.
Hemlock and Cherry.

He had heard that the Native Americans knew the names and characteristics of every tree and plant in the woods, and that was what he wanted to be able to say about himself.

One day by the riverbank, he noticed a pile of empty shells from fresh-water mussels or clams. The shells were pretty common, but why were they all together and marked the same way? Around the pile in the mud were strange tracks and marks. There were so many that it was hard to find one that was perfect, but when he did, remembering the raccoon track, he drew a picture of it. It was too small to be from his old friend. He didn’t find anyone to tell him what it was, but one day he saw a round, brown animal crouched on the bank eating a clam. It dove into the water when he got closer, but it popped up again further down. Then, when it dove again, Yan saw by its long, thin tail that it was a muskrat, like the stuffed one he had seen in the taxidermist's window.

He quickly realized that the more he examined those tracks, the more different types he discovered. Many were quite mysterious, so he could only sketch them and set them aside, hoping for answers someday. One of the strangest and most confusing turned out to be the trail of a Snapper, while another was just the track of a Common Crow that had come to the water's edge to drink.

The oddities he collected and kept in his shack multiplied in number and fascination. The place became an increasingly integral part of his identity. Its hidden nature improved as the greenery grew around it once more, and he reveled in its wild isolation and mystery, wandering through the woods with his bow and arrows, aiming playful, lethal shots at chattering red squirrels—though surely he would have felt as sorry as they did if he actually hit one.

Yan soon discovered that he wasn’t the only one living in the shanty. One day, as he sat inside wondering why he hadn’t built a fireplace so he could enjoy an indoor fire, he noticed a quiet little creature darting between two logs in the back wall. He stayed still. A beautiful little woodmouse, which it was, soon came into view and sat up to look at Yan and wash its face. Yan reached for his bow and arrow, but the mouse was gone in an instant. He fitted a blunt arrow to the string and waited, and when the mouse returned, he shot the arrow. It missed the mouse, hit the log, and bounced back into Yan’s face, giving him a sharp sting on the cheek. As Yan rolled around groaning and rubbing his cheek, he thought, “This is what I tried to do to the woodmouse.” From then on, Yan made no effort to harm the mouse; in fact, he was happy to share his meals with it. Over time, they became good friends, and Yan realized that it wasn’t just one mouse, but an entire family that was sharing the shanty with him in the woods.

Biddy's comment about the Indian tobacco paid off. Yan wasn’t a smoker, but now he felt he needed to learn. He collected a lot of this tobacco, dried it, and started making a pipe—a genuine Indian peace pipe. He didn’t have any red sandstone to use, but a soft red brick worked just fine. He first shaped it roughly with his knife and was trying to carve out the bowl with the same tool when he recalled that in one of the school readers there was a description of how Indians drilled into stone using a bow-drill and wet sand. One of his classmates, whose dad was a woodworker, had seen his father use a bow-drill. This knowledge made him more significant in Yan's eyes. With his help, they made a bow-drill, which was used a lot on various projects until they figured it out, and now it was effectively used for drilling the bowl and stem holes of the pipe.

He took a stem from an elderberry shoot and punched out the pith at home using a long knitting needle. Some small trimmed white pigeon wing feathers, each tipped with a bit of pitch, were strung on a sturdy thread and attached to the stem for a finishing touch. He would sit by his campfire, solemnly smoking—just a few puffs, since he didn't really like it—then say, "Ugh, very hungry," knock the ashes out, and continue with whatever work he had to do.

So he spent his bright Saturdays hiding his gear each day in his shack, washing the paint off his face in the stream, and putting on the itchy paper collar that his family's pride and poverty made a daily necessity, before heading home. He was a little dreamer, but oh! what happy dreams. Whatever childish troubles he faced at home, he knew he could always come out here, forget everything, and be as happy as a king—be a real king in a kingdom entirely to his liking, and all his very own.

At school, he was a model student, except for one thing—he would have odd, unpredictable moments of disrespect toward his teachers. One day, he entertained himself by filling the blackboard with ridiculous caricatures of the principal, who was undoubtedly his favorite. They were quite clever and extremely irritating. The principal devised a complex plan to figure out who had done it. He gathered the entire school and started interrogating one unfortunate student, suspecting him as the culprit. The boy denied it in a flustered and guilty manner; the principal was convinced of his guilt and reached for his rawhide, while the condemned began to wail. To everyone's surprise, Yan suddenly spoke up and, with a tone of tired annoyance, said:

"Oh, just leave him alone. I did it."

His demeanor and the situation were such that everyone laughed. The principal was furious. He lost his composure and grabbed Yan by the collar. Yan was seen as a timid boy; his face was pale, and his lips were tight. The principal hit him with the rawhide while the school shouted "Shame," but Yan didn’t make a sound.

That night, as he got ready for bed, his brother Rad 83 saw the long black marks all over him and knew an explanation was needed. He couldn't lie; his parents found out about his wrongdoing, and they imposed new, tougher punishments. The next day was Saturday. He cut his usual double share of wood for the house, and feeling bruised and sore, he headed to the one place that brought him joy. His spirits lifted as he got closer. He was already thinking about how to add a fireplace and chimney to his home. He followed the secret path he had created, eager to keep its mysteries. He crossed the open clearing and was almost at the cabin when he heard loud, rough voices—coming from his cabin. He crept closer. The door was open. Inside his beloved cabin were three drifters playing cards and drinking from a bottle. On the ground beside them were his broken shell necklaces used as poker chips. Outside, in a smoldering fire, lay the remains of his bow and arrows.

Poor Yan! His determination to endure like an Indian under torture had kept him going during the teacher's brutal beatings and the punishments at home, but this was too much. He ran to a distant, quiet corner, threw himself down, and sobbed in grief and anger—he would have killed them if he could. After an hour or two, he returned, trembling, to watch the tramps finish their game and their liquor; then they desecrated the shanty and left it in ruins.

84 The most important thing in his life was gone—a king without a crown, stripped of his power. Feeling every ache in his back and legs, he grumpily made his way home.

This was late summer. Autumn came next, bringing shorter days and cooler winds. Yan had no opportunity to visit his glen, even if he had really wanted to. He became more focused on his studies; books were his newfound enjoyment. He worked harder than ever, earning respect at school, but getting no attention at home, where piety was the priority.

The teachers and some of the boys commented that Yan was looking very thin and pale. He was never very strong, but now he resembled someone who's sick; however, at home, no one noticed the change. His mother was completely focused on his troublemaking younger brother. For two years, she rarely talked to Yan in a friendly way. Each morning, as he left the house unnoticed, there was an emptiness in his heart as he watched his carefree brother being showered with affection. At school, their roles were flipped. Yan was the principal's pride and joy. He hadn't drawn any more caricatures, and the teacher believed that the punishment was what had saved the pale-faced head boy.

He got thinner and hungrier until just before Christmas, when the collapse happened.

"He is very advanced in his illness," said the doctor. "He can't survive more than a month or two."

87 "He has to live," cried the guilt-ridden mother. "He has to live—oh God, he has to live."

All that suddenly brought out a mother’s love could do was done. The skilled doctor did his best, but it was the mother who saved him. She took care of him day and night; she focused on his needs and comfort in every way. She prayed by his side and often asked God to forgive her for her long neglect. It was Yan's first experience of a mother’s love. Why she had overlooked him for so long was a mystery. She was simply unpredictable, but now she recognized his brilliant talents, his steady, earnest life, already full of purpose.

As winter faded, Yan regained his strength. He was smart enough to take advantage of his newfound position to get books. The public librarian, a well-educated man who had faced his own challenges, became interested in him and helped him access many works that he otherwise would have missed.

"Wilson's Ornithology" and "Schoolcraft's Indians" were the most significant. They were like refreshing streams in a drought-stricken land.

In March, he was recovering quickly. He could now take long walks, and on one sunny day with snow, he set off with his brother's dog. His steps were aimed towards the hills. The air was fresh and invigorating; he walked with unexpected energy and headed toward Glenyan, not really planning to go there at first. But drawn by its old charm, he continued on. The hidden path didn't seem so hidden now that the leaves were gone, but the valley felt very familiar as he reached the broader area.

His gaze landed on a large, unusual track that was still fresh in the snow. It was five inches wide, large enough for a bear track, but there were no signs of claws or toe pads. The strides were short, and the tracks hadn't sunk like they would for an animal as 89 heavy as a bear.

As one end of each showed the signs of toes, he could see which way it went and followed up the Glen. The dog sniffed at it nervously but had no intention of moving forward. Yan trudged past the remains of his shanty, now painfully visible since the leaves had fallen, and his heart ached at the sight. The trail went up the valley and crossed the brook on a log, and Yan became convinced that he was on the trail of a large Lynx. Although Grip, the dog, was a great barker, he was known to be a coward, and now he hung back behind the boy, sniffing at the large track and absolutely refusing to move ahead.

Yan was intrigued by the long lines of footprints, and when he reached a spot where the creature had jumped ten or twelve feet without any clear reason, he felt confident he had discovered a Lynx. His sense of adventure pushed him to keep going, even though he didn’t have a stick or a knife with him. He found the best club he could—a dry branch about two feet long and two inches wide—and continued on. The dog was now reluctant to move at all; it lagged behind and had to be called every hundred yards.

They finally reached the thick Hemlock woods at the top of the valley when they heard a strange sound that was like the call of a deep-voiced cat.

Wow! Wow! Yow!

Yan stood still. The dog, though a big and strong retriever, whimpered, trembled, and crawled up close. 90

The noise got louder. The yowling meouw came in louder, closer, and then suddenly it was clear and near, as if the creature had turned a corner and entered a space. It was absolutely chilling now. The dog couldn’t take it anymore; he turned and ran as fast as he could back home, leaving Yan to face whatever was coming. There was no doubt now that it was a lynx. Yan had been feeling anxious before, and the dog’s panicked escape affected him. He realized how helpless he was, still weak from his illness, and he took off after the dog. At first, he walked. But once he gave in to his fears, they grew; and as the yowling continued, he finally sprinted as fast as he could. The sounds faded behind him, but Yan didn’t stop until he had left the Glen and reached the open valley of the river. There, he found the brave retriever shaking all over. Yan gave him a scornful kick, and like a boy, as soon as he found some stones, he used them until Grip was chased home.

Most guys have some natural athletic ability, and his older brother, even though he didn't share Yan's interests, was not opposed to going hunting when there was a chance for some fun.

Yan decided to tell Rad the secret of his glen. He had never been allowed to use a gun, but Rad had one, and Yan's exciting story about his adventure had the desired effect. His approach was 93 typical.

"Rad, would you go hunting if there was plenty to hunt?"

"Of course I would."

"Well, I know a place less than ten miles away where there are all sorts of wild animals—hundreds of them."

"Yeah, you do, I don’t think. Hmph!"

"Yes, I do; and I'll share it with you, but you have to promise never to tell anyone."

"Bah!"

"Well, I just had an adventure with a lynx up there, and if you come with your gun, we can catch it."

Then Yan shared everything that had happened, and it didn't lose anything in his recounting. His brother was so impressed that he decided to set out under Yan's guidance the following Saturday.

Yan didn't want to share all the highs and lows he experienced in the Glen with his mocking, practical-minded brother, but now that it seemed necessary, he found great enjoyment in playing the clever guide. With needless caution, he first led him in the wrong direction, then tried, but failed, to get another promise of secrecy. He turned at an angle, pointed to a distant tree, and said with as much significance as he could manage: "Ten paces beyond that tree is a path that will lead us into the secret valley." After several other similar antics, they were close to the entrance when a man walked through the 94 bushes. He was carrying something on his shoulders. As the man got closer, Yan felt a surge of disgust when he realized that the object was the Lynx—yes, it was definitely his Lynx.

They eagerly bombarded the man with questions. He told them that he had killed it the day before, for real. It had been lurking for the past week or so around Kernore's bushes; it was probably a stray from up north.

This was all incredibly interesting to Yan, but there was a disturbing aspect to it. Clearly, this man viewed the Glen—his Glen—as just an ordinary patch of woods, maybe even part of his property—not at all the deep mystery that Yan imagined it to be.

The Lynx was a big one. The stripes on its face and the wide open yellow eyes created a distinctly wild, tiger-like look that really pleased Yan's romantic nature.

It wasn’t exactly an adventure, but it could have been; however, it made a strong impression on the boy, and it also showed how well he could trust his instincts in recognizing creatures he had never seen before, only knowing them through vague descriptions from pretty disappointing books.

From that point until spring, Yan grew stronger every day, and he and his mother became closer. She tried to engage with his interests, which were essential to him. But she also worked hard to make him interested in her world. She was overly religious. Her conversations were filled with quotes from the Bible. She had a huge collection of them—actually, she knew them all; and she used them in every situation, both appropriate and inappropriate, with impressive effectiveness.

If she ever saw a group of young people dancing, having fun, playing games, or even laughing loudly, she would step in to say, "Kids, do you really think you can ask for God's blessing on all this? Do you think that beings with immortal souls to save should indulge in such silliness? I'm worried you're sinning, and trust me, your sins will catch up with you. Remember, for every idle word and action, we have to answer to the Great Judge of Heaven and Earth."

She was completely genuine in all of this, but she never stopped, except during her son's illness, when, following the doctor's advice, she avoided the difficult subject of eternal happiness and tried to feign interest in his activities. This was the precious 96 truce that brought them closer.

He found someone to confide in for the first time since he met the collarless stranger, and he used to share all his loves and fears with the creatures of the woods and beyond. He would talk about different birds and flowers, hoping to learn their names, until the mother would suddenly feel disturbed that anyone with an immortal soul to save could speak so earnestly about anything other than the Bible; then she would gently reprimand her son and herself with several verses.

He might respond with others, because he was well-prepared. But her unarguable reply would be: "There’s only one thing that really matters. What good is it for someone to gain the whole world and lose their own soul?"

These fencing matches became more frequent as Yan got stronger and the doctor's hesitation faded.

After an unusually warm day, Yan felt a chill as she realized that her interest in his pursuits had been fake. He stayed quiet for a long time, then said: "Mom! You love to talk about your Bible. It reveals the things you’re eager to know and enjoy learning about. You would feel unhappy if you went a day without reading a chapter or two. That’s just who you are; God made you that way."

"I’ve had to read the Bible my whole life. Every day I read a chapter, but I don’t love it. I read it because I have to. It doesn’t tell me anything I want to know. It doesn’t teach me to love God, which you say is the one thing 97 necessary. But when I go out into the woods, every bird and flower I see touches my heart in a way I can’t describe; I just know I love them. I love them with all my strength, and they make me feel like praying when your Bible doesn’t. They are my Bible. This is my nature. God made me this way."

The mother was quiet after this, but Yan could tell that she was praying for him like he was a lost soul.

A few days later, they were out walking on an early spring morning. A Shore-lark on a mound chirped joyfully as it enjoyed the warming sunshine.

Yan focused hard to take it all in. He sneaked closer to it. The bird flew away, and as it did, he threw a short stick he had with him. The stick spun through the air and hit the bird. It dropped down, flapping its wings. Yan ran after it frantically and caught it, ignoring his mother's calls to come back.

He came with the bird in his hand, but it didn’t stay alive for long. His mother was upset and repulsed. She said, "Is this how much you love wild creatures? The very first spring bird to sing, and you have to beat it to death. I don’t get your feelings at all. Aren’t two sparrows sold for a penny, and yet not a single one falls to the ground without your heavenly Father knowing?"

Yan was heartbroken. He held the dead bird in his hand and said, ironically, as tears filled his eyes, "I wish I hadn't done that; but oh, it was so 98 beautiful."

He couldn't explain because he didn't understand, yet he wasn't a hypocrite.

Weeks later, an affordable trip gave him the opportunity, for the first time in his life, to see Niagara. As he stood with his mother watching the rushing water in the gorge below the waterfall, he noticed straws, bubbles, and foam that appeared to be moving upstream. He said:

"Mom, look at the foam and how it looks like it's moving upstream."

"Wow!"

"Yet we know it's a small thing and means nothing. We know that just beneath the surface is the deep, wide, terrible, unstoppable, rushing current, flowing in the opposite direction."

"Yes, my child."

"Well, Mom, when I killed the Shore-lark, that was a mistake, I really loved that little bird. I understand now why I killed it. It was because it was moving away from me. If I could have seen it up close, touched it, or even heard it every day, I would never have wanted to hurt it. I didn't mean to kill it, just to catch it. You pick flowers because you want to keep them close, not because you want to ruin them. They die, and you feel bad. I only tried to catch the Shore-lark like you would a flower. It died, and I was really, really sorry."

99 "Still," the mother said, "a kind person shows compassion to their animals. The one who listens when the young ravens call definitely takes notice of it, and it’s recorded in His great Book of Remembrance as a reminder for you."

And from that point on, they definitely grew apart.

AN was now fourteen years old, tall, slim, and growing quickly. The doctor noted this combination and said, "Send him to a farm for a year."

Thus, an agreement was made for Yan to work for his meals at the farmhouse of William Raften in Sanger.

Sanger was a settlement that was just starting to come out of its early, rugged stage.

The acknowledged stages are, first, the wilderness or woods where there’s nothing but unspoiled forest and plenty of deer; next, the backwoods where small clearings start to show up; then a settlement where the forest and clearings are roughly equal and the deer have disappeared; finally, an agricultural area, with just a few scraps of forest left.

Thirty years earlier, Sanger had been "taken in" by a population mostly from Ireland, mainly a strong peasantry, who brought with them the long-standing feud that has divided Ireland—the intense conflict between Catholics or "Dogans" (no one knew why they were called that) and Protestants, more commonly referred to as "Prattisons." The colors of the Catholics were green and white; those of the Protestants were orange and blue; and thus another distinctive name for the 104 latter was "Orangemen."

These two groups divided the social structure in half vertically. Additionally, there were several horizontal divides that, like geological layers, ran across both sections.

In the early 1800s, the British Government helped certain people who wanted to emigrate from Ireland to Canada. This support came in the form of a free ocean passage. Many who couldn’t prove their worthiness to the Government but could afford it traveled as well, paying the regular steerage fare of $15. To outsiders, they seemed similar, but not to themselves. Those who paid their way were considered "passengers" and believed they ranked socially much higher than the assisted ones, who were referred to as "Emmy Grants." This distinction was always remembered by the residents of Sanger.

Yet there were two other social classes. Every man and boy in Sanger was skilled with an axe; they were incredibly talented. The common saying, "He's a good man," had two recognized meanings: When it was obviously said about a settler during the typical Saturday night Irish brawl in the small town of Downey's Dump, it meant he was good at fighting; but when referring to his life on the farm, it implied that he was exceptionally skilled with the axe. A man who didn’t measure up was looked down upon. Since the log houses were built by their owners, they showcased the axemen's craftsmanship. There 105 were two styles of log construction: the shanty with criss-crossed corners, known as hog-pen finish, and the other, the house with neatly finished corners, called dovetail finish. In Sanger, living in a hog-pen style house was considered a social disgrace. Residents of such homes were labeled "scrubs" or "riff-raff" by those whose superior axe skills allowed them to have the more refined dwellings. A further divide emerged among the "dovetailers" when a brickyard opened. The wealthier settlers built tidy little brick houses. To everyone’s surprise, Phil O'Leary, a poor yet prolific Dogan, jumped from a hog-pen log to a nice brick house, creating great confusion among the social elites, as his nine plump daughters now had claims to the best. Many, however, whose brick homes were only five years old, called the O'Learys upstarts and for a long time withheld any social acknowledgment. William Raften, the most successful man in the community, was the first to build in red bricks. His relentless rival, Char-less (two syllables) Boyle, encouraged by his wife, also decided to go for red brick, although he skipped hiring masons and laid the bricks himself, with help from his seventeen sons. These two men, both Orangemen, were fierce enemies, as their wives were social competitors. Raften was the more powerful and wealthier man, but Boyle, whose father had paid for his own journey, knew all about Raften's father, and would always end any argument by 106 throwing it back at Raften: "Don't talk to me, you upstart. Everybody knows you are nothing but an Emmy Grant." This was the one flaw in Raften's reputation. There was no denying it. His father had accepted a free passage, it's true, and Boyle had received a free homestead, but that didn't matter—that counted for nothing. Old Boyle had been a "PASSENGER," old Raften an "EMMY GRANT."

This was the new community that Yan had joined, and the names Dogan and Prattison, "green" and "orange and blue," started to become significant, along with the ideas and tensions they represented.

The Sangerite's accent was a mix. First, there was a strong Irish brogue filled with Irish words, mostly coming from the older folks. The Irish influence in the speech of men like Raften was clear, but not strong enough to match the typical Irish spelling in books, unless the speaker was really fired up. The younger generation hardly had any Irish accent at all, but they all ended up with a distinct nasal whine characteristic of backwoods Canadians.

Mr. and Mrs. Raften met Yan at the station. They had dinner together at the tavern and drove him to their home, where they showed him into the large dining-room—living room—kitchen. Behind the stove stood a tall, awkward boy with ginger hair and small, dark eyes set at an angle in the saddest of faces. Mrs. Raften said, "Come on, Sam, and shake hands with Yan." Sam came forward shyly, shook hands in a limp way, and said in a slow voice, "How-do," before retreating behind the stove to watch Yan with a somber seriousness whenever he could do so without being noticed. Mr. and Mrs. Raften were busy with various tasks elsewhere, leaving Yan alone and miserable. The idea of giving up college to work on a farm had been hard for him to accept, but he had grudgingly obeyed his father's order and eventually learned to look forward to getting away from Bonnerton and into the countryside. After all, it was just for a year, and it promised a lot of joy. No more Sunday school. Church kept to a minimum. All his time outdoors, among fields and woods—surely, this was the definition of happiness; but now that he was actually there, he felt the weight of despair hung over everything, and the evening was filled with unbearable misery. He had nothing to share, but a cloud of black despair seemed to settle permanently on the world. His mouth was pressed tight, and his eyes blinked to hold back tears when Mrs. Raften entered the room. She immediately saw what was wrong. "He's homesick," she told her husband. "He'll be fine tomorrow," and she took Yan by the hand and led him upstairs to bed.

Twenty minutes later, she came to check if he was comfortable. She tucked the blankets around him, then, bending down for a goodnight kiss, she found his face wet with tears. She hugged him for a moment, kissed him several times, 108 and said, "Don't worry, you'll feel better tomorrow," then wisely left him alone.

Whence came that load of misery and horror, or whither it went, Yan never knew. He saw it no more, and the next morning he began to take an interest in his new world.

William Raften owned several farms, all well-maintained and mortgage-free, and each year he expanded his property. He was disciplined, smart, even sly, and most of his neighbors disliked him because he was too clever and kept getting wealthier. He had a tough exterior towards the world, but a softer one for his family. However, he wasn't truly soft in any way. He had to fight his way through life on his own, starting from nothing, and the countless challenges he faced had made him tough. Still, the few who knew him well could attest to the warm Irish heart that remained unchanged inside him, even as it became harder to see over the years. His manners, even at home, were blunt and authoritative. There was no misunderstanding his commands, and there was no excuse for not following them. To his children when they were little, and only to his wife, he was always affectionate. Those who saw him as cold and greedy, outsmarting the schemers of the grain market, would hardly recognize the big, joyful father at home an hour later, playing horse with his baby daughter or awkwardly flirting with his smiling wife.

109 He had little education, could hardly read, and so he was really impressed with the value of "book learning." He was determined that his kids should get the "best that money could buy in that area," which probably meant they should read fluently. His own reading happened on Sunday mornings, when he slowly spelled out the important details in a weekly newspaper; "important" meant news about the produce market or boxing, since he had been known and respected as a boxer and loved hearing all the exciting details of the latest matches. He used to go to church with his wife once a month to make her happy, and thought it was really unfair that she showed no interest in his favorite hobby—the noble art of boxing.

Although he was tough and even ruthless in his interactions with people, he couldn't stand to see an animal mistreated. "The men can yell when they're in pain, but the poor dumb beast has no voice." He was the only farmer in the area who wouldn't sell or shoot a worn-out horse. "The poor creature has worked hard and has earned his keep for the rest of his days." So, Duncan, Jerry, and several others were "retired" and spent their later years in peace, in one case for over ten years.

Raften had beaten up more than one neighbor for mistreating a horse, and once, when he tried to intervene, he was beaten up himself because he happened to run into a professional fighter. But that didn’t impact him for long. He kept defending the helpless animal in his own rough way.

110 Among the neighbors, the boys got the calfskins as their perks. The cows' milk was necessary, and the calves were not worth much, so they were usually killed when they were too young to be used for food. The boys handled the killing, treating it like a game, and the skins, which were worth fifty cents each when fresh and twenty-five cents when dried at the tannery, were their rightful payment. Raften never let his son kill the calves. "I can’t kill a poor innocent calf myself and I won't have my boy doing it," he said. So, Sam missed out on this perk, and he didn’t forget that grievance.

Mrs. Raften was a wonderful woman, an excellent manager, who loved her home and her family. She was her husband's loyal and most capable supporter, even though she felt that William was sometimes a "little hard" on the boys. They had a big family, but most of the children had passed away. The ones left were Sam, who was fifteen, and Minnie, who was three.

Yan's responsibilities were immediately established. He was in charge of the poultry and half of the pigs and cows. He also needed to assist Sam with various other tasks.

There was a lot to do and clear rules about how to do it. But there was also time almost every day for activities that suited his interests; because even though he was tough on the boys during work hours, Raften made sure that when they did have fun, they enjoyed themselves. His toughness and intensity made Yan a bit fearful of him, and since Raften typically kept quiet until he was completely sure about something, only to then express it strongly, Yan was unsure whether he was meeting expectations.

Sam Raften turned out to be friendlier than he appeared. His slow, drawling way of speaking gave the wrong impression of being simple-minded, and after a formal showing of the house with Mr. Raften, the real tour was led by Sam. "This here’s the parlor," he said, unlocking a sort of dark cellar above ground and fumbling to open what turned out to be a dead, buried, and nearly forgotten window. In Sanger settlement, the farmhouse parlor isn't just a room; it's an institution. It's kept closed all week except when the minister visits, and the one at Raften's was the perfect example. Its furnishings included six painted chairs (fifty cents each), two rocking chairs ($1.49), one melodeon (thirty-two bushels of wheat—the agent asked forty), a sideboard made at home from the case the melodeon came in, one rag carpet woven at home and exchanged for wool, and one varnished center table (!), which cost $9.00 cash or $11.00 from the catalog. On the center table were a tintype album, a Bible, and some large books for guests. Although dusted once a week, they were never moved, and it was years later before they were discovered to have settled permanently into the varnish of the table. In 112 inexpensive frames on the wall were the coffin plates of the deceased family members. In Sanger, it was customary to honor the dead by bringing back the name plate from the funeral and framing it on a black background with some supposedly fitting scripture text.

The overall vibe of the room was dusty and sacred since it was only opened on Sundays or when the pastor visited, creating a kind of makeshift Sunday atmosphere. The two small windows were always shut and sealed off, covered with green paper blinds and cotton drapes. It felt separate from the rest of the house—a kind of family ghost room: a chamber of horrors, glimpsed only once a week.

But it had at least one interesting thing—something that instantly connected Sam and Yan. It was a collection of about twenty bird eggs. They were all mixed together in an old glass-topped cravat box, half-filled with bran. None of them were labeled or properly blown. A collector wouldn't have given it a second look, but it turned out to be significant. It was like two New Yorkers, one pretending to be Chinese and the other African American, had randomly met in Greenland and by chance one had made the sign of the secret brotherhood they both belonged to.

"Do you like these things?" Yan asked, with a sudden interest and warmth, despite the bleak 113 surroundings.

"You bet," said Sam. "And I would have had twice as many if Dad hadn't said it was doing no good and that birds were good for the farm."

"Well, do you know what their names are?"

"Well, I should say so. I know every bird that flies and all about it, or pretty close," Sam drawled, making an unusual stretch for him, as he wasn't one to brag.

"I wish I could. Can't I grab some eggs to take home?"

"No; Dad said if I stopped asking for more, he'd lend me his Indian Chief gun to shoot rabbits with."

"What? Are there rabbits here?"

"Well, I definitely should say that. I got three last winter."

"But I mean now," said Yan, clearly disappointed.

"They're not so easy to get to now, but we can try. One day when all the work is done, I'll ask Dad for his gun."

"When all the work's done," was a favorite saying of the Raftens for indefinitely putting a project on hold; it sounded so reasonable and was really so definitive.

Sam opened the lower door of the sideboard and pulled out some flint arrowheads he’d found while plowing, the teeth of a Beaver from the early days of the settlement, and a very poorly stuffed Owl. Seeing these treasures lit up Yan's face. "Oh!" was all he could manage to say. Sam was 114 pleased to see such a reaction from the family heirlooms and added, "Dad shot that off the barn and the hired man stuffed it."

The boys were getting along well now. They shared secrets all day as they worked on chores. Despite the long breaks, they were doing so well that Sam said after dinner, "Hey, Yan, I'm going to show you something, but you’ve got to promise never to tell—Swelpye!" Of course, Yan promised and added the completely binding and confusing word—"Swelpme."

"Let’s both go to the barn," Sam said.

When they were halfway, he said, "Now I'll pretend I went back for something. You go on ahead and I'll meet you under the 'rusty-coat' in the orchard." When they met under the big russet apple tree, Sam closed one of his sad eyes and said in a whisper, "Follow me." He led to the other end of the orchard where the old log house stood, which had been home before the brick one was built. It was now used as a tool shed. Sam climbed a ladder to the loft (this was all really exciting). There at the far end, next to the little gable window, he once again urged secrecy, then when Yan had settled himself again, he rummaged through a dirty old box and pulled out a bow, some arrows, a rusty steel trap, an old butcher knife, some fish hooks, a flint and steel, a box full of matches, and some dirty, greasy stuff that he claimed was 115 dried meat. "You see," he explained, "I always wanted to be a hunter, but Dad was determined I'd be a dentist. Dad said there was no money in hunting, but one day he had to go to the dentist, and it cost four dollars, and the guy wasn’t even half a day on the job, so he wanted me to be a dentist. But I wanted to be a hunter, and one day he hit me (Bud, that's my brother who died a year ago. If you hear Mom talk, you’d think he was an angel, but I always thought he was a crazy fool, and he was the worst kid in school by far). Well, Dad beat us badly for not feeding the hogs, so Bud decided to run away, and at first, I felt just like he did and said I’d go too, and we’d join the Indians. Anyway, I’d definitely go if I ever got hit again, and this was the gear we put together. Bud wanted to steal Dad's gun, but I wouldn't. I was furious that time, and Bud was even worse—but I calmed down and talked to Bud. I said, ‘Hey, Bud, it would take about a month to travel out West, and if the Indians only wanted our scalps, that wouldn’t be any fun, and Dad isn't really that bad, because we definitely did starve those pigs so one of them died.’ I guess we deserved everything we got—anyway, it was all silly nonsense about running away, though I’d really love to be a hunter. Well, Bud died that winter. You see the biggest coffin plate on the wall? That’s him. I saw Mom looking at it and crying the other day. Dad says he’ll send me to college if I’ll be a dentist or a lawyer—lawyers 116 make a lot of money: Dad had a lawsuit once—and if I don’t, he says I can go to—you know."

Here was Yan's unique way of thinking, and he opened up. He shared everything about his cabin in the woods and how he had worked on it and cherished it. He was filled with the same enthusiasm as before, overflowing with purpose and energy, and Sam, he recognized, had at least two qualities he lacked—skill with tools and level-headed judgment. It felt like having the best traits of his brother Rad embodied in a real person. And recalling the joy of his Glen, Yan said:

"Let's build a hut in the woods by the creek; your dad won't mind, right?"

"Not him, as long as the job gets done."

The very next day they had to start. As soon as they finished all their chores, they went to the woods to find a spot.

The brook, or "creek," as they called it, flowed through a meadow and then through a fence into the woods. At first, this area was open and grassy, but farther down the creek, it was joined by a dense cedar swamp. There wasn't a path through it, but Sam said there was a nice high spot beyond. The high ground seemed far away in the woods, even though it was only a hundred yards through the swamp, but it was the perfect place for a camp—high, dry, and surrounded by hardwoods, with the creek in front and the cedar swamp all around. Yan was thrilled. Sam shared some of that excitement and, having brought an axe, was ready to start on the cabin. But Yan had been thinking hard all morning, and now he said: "Sam, we don't want to be White hunters. They're no good; we want to be Indians."

"Now, that's just where you're fooling yourself," Sam said. "Dad says there’s nothing an Indian can do that a White man can't do better."

118 "Oh, what are you talking about?" Yan said warmly. "A white hunter can't track someone leaving moccasins on a hard granite rock. A white hunter can't head into the woods with just a knife and make everything he needs. A white hunter can't hunt with bows and arrows or catch game with traps, can he? And there hasn't been a white man yet who could make a birch canoe." Then, switching his tone, Yan continued: "Hey, Sam, we want to be the best hunters we can be, right, so we’re ready to head out West. Let's act like Native Americans and do everything like they do."

After all, this had the benefit of being romantic and visually appealing, so Sam agreed to "give it a shot for a bit, at least." Now came the crux of Yan's argument. "Indians don't live in shanties; they live in teepees. So why not make a teepee instead?"

"That sounds awesome," said Sam, who had seen enough pictures to not need a description, "but what are we supposed to do with it?"

"Well," replied Yan, quickly taking charge and enjoying the chance to speak with confidence, "the Plains Indians make their tipis out of animal skins, but the Woodland Indians usually use birch bark."

"Well, I bet you can't find enough skins or birch bark in these woods to make a teepee big enough for a chipmunk to chew nuts in."

"Let's use Elm bark."

119 "That's a lot easier," Sam replied, "if that works, because we cut a bunch of elm logs last winter, and the bark should be ready to peel now. But first, let's figure it out."

This was a smart move, something Yan would have missed. He probably would have gathered a lot of materials first and made the plan later, but Sam had learned to approach his work systematically.

So Yan drew on a smooth log his memory of an Indian teepee. "It looks to me like it was about this shape, with the poles sticking up like that, a hole for the smoke here, and another for the door there."

"Sounds like you’ve never seen one," Sam said, more pointedly than politely, "but we can give it a shot. So, how big are we talking?"

Eight feet high and eight feet wide was deemed just right. Four poles, each ten feet long, were cut in no time, with Yan transporting them to a flat area above the creek as quickly as Sam cut them.

"Now, what should we tie them with?" said Yan.

"You mean for the rope?"

"Yes, but we have to get everything from the woods; real rope isn't allowed."

"I can fix that," said Sam; "when Dad double-staked the orchard fence, he tied every pair of stakes at the top with willow branches."

"That's right—I totally forgot," said Yan. A few minutes later, they were busy trying to tie the four poles together with slippery, stiff willows, but it wasn't easy. They had to be tied really tight or they 120 would slip and fall apart every time they were lifted, and it looked like the boys might have to resort to using hay wire. Just then, they heard a low grunt and turned to see William Raften standing there with his hands behind his back, as if he had been watching them for hours.

The boys were pretty startled. Raften had a way of showing up whenever something was happening, taking in the situation completely, and then, if he didn't approve, expressing himself with a few words of biting mockery delivered in a thick Irish accent. The boys had no idea what he would think of their activity and waited with apprehension. If they had been slacking off when they should have been working, there’s no doubt they would have been sent away with scorn to do more useful tasks, but this was during their allowed playtime. After studying them with a keen look, Raften said slowly, "Boys!" (Sam felt relieved; his father would have said "Bhise" if he were really angry.) "What’s the point of wasting your time" (Yan's heart sank) "with willow twigs for a job like that? They can't be made to hold. Why don't you get some haywire or cord at the barn?"

The boys felt really relieved, but still, this friendly gesture could just be a trick to create an opening for a surprise attack. Sam didn’t say anything. Then Yan spoke up, saying, "We're only allowed to use what the Indians had or could find in the woods."

"And who doesn't let you?"

"The guidelines."

"Oh," said William, with a hint of amusement. "I see! Here."

He walked into the woods, glancing around, and soon stopped at a bunch of low shrubs.

"Do you know what this is, Yan?"

"No, thanks."

"Let's see if you're man enough to break it off."

Yan tried. The wood was fragile enough, but the bark, thin, smooth, and flexible, was as tough as leather, and even a narrow strip resisted his strength.

"That's Litherwood," Raften said. "That's what the Indians used; that's what we used back in the early days of this settlement."

The boys had expected a punishment, and instead, they got a helping hand. It all came down to the fact that this was "playtime." Raften left them with a final comment: "In an hour and a half, the pigs will be fed."

"You see, it's fine when the work isn't overlooked," said Sam, with a condescending attitude. "I wonder why I didn't think of that Leatherwood myself. I've often heard that it was used for tying bags back in the day when cord was hard to come by, and the Indians used it for tying up their prisoners, too. Isn't it the genuine article?"

Several strips were now used to tie four poles together at the top. Then, these four were stood upright and spread out at the bottom to form the frame of the teepee, or more accurately, wigwam, since 122 it was going to be made of bark.

After they talked it over, they got a long, flexible willow branch about an inch thick. Bending it like a hoop, they tied it with leather strips to each pole, about four feet off the ground. Then they cut four short poles to connect from the ground to the willow branch. These were secured at their top ends to the willow rod, and they were now ready for the bark slabs. The boys headed to the elm logs, and once again, Sam’s skill with the axe proved useful. He sliced the bark open along the top of one log, and using the edge of the axe along with some wooden wedges, they pried off a huge piece measuring eight feet long and four feet wide. It was a nice surprise to see how wide a piece of bark the small log provided.

Three logs produced three large slabs and other pieces in different sizes. The big ones were propped up against the frame to maximize their use. Naturally, they were way too big for the top and too narrow for the bottom; however, the smaller pieces could be used to patch things up if a way could be found to make them adhere.

Sam suggested attaching them to the posts with nails, and Yan was horrified at the thought of using nails. "No Indian has any nails."

"Well, what would they use?" said Sam.

"They used straps, and—uh—maybe wooden pegs. I don’t know, but it seems to me that would be okay."

123 "But those poles are really hard wood," argued the practical Sam. "You can drive oak pegs into pine, but you can't drive wooden pegs into hardwood without making some kind of hole first. Maybe I should bring a gimlet."

"Now, Sam, you might as well hire a carpenter—that wouldn't be Indian at all. Let's do this the right way. We'll figure something out. I think we can use Leatherwood to tie them up."

So Sam made a sharp oak pick with his axe, and Yan used it to poke holes in each piece of bark and then did a sort of rough sewing until the wigwam looked beautifully covered. But when they went inside to check, they were unpleasantly surprised by how many holes there were. It was impossible to close them all because the bark was cracking in so many spots, but the boys plugged the worst of them and then got ready for the big sacred ceremony—the lighting of the fire in the middle.

They collected a bunch of dry fuel, then Yan took out a match.

"That doesn't look very Indian to me," Sam said critically. "I don't think Indians have matches."

"Well, they don't," Yan admitted modestly. "But I don't have flint and steel, and I don't know how to use rubbing sticks, so we just have to use matches, if we want a fire."

"Of course we want a fire. I’m not complaining," said Sam. "Go ahead with your old leg-fire sulfur stick. A campsite without a fire would be like last year's bird's nest or a house with the roof 124 off."

Yan struck a match and lit it against the wood. It went out. He struck another—same result. One more went out.

Sam said:

"Pears to me you don't know much about starting a fire. Let me show you. Let the White hunter teach the Native something about the woods," he said with a smirk.

Sam grabbed the axe and chopped some pieces off a dry pine root. Then, using his knife, he sliced long, curly shavings, which he left sticking out in a bunch at the end of each stick.

"Oh, I’ve seen a photo of someone from India making them. They call them 'prayer sticks,'" said Yan.

"Well, prayer-sticks are really good for starting a fire," replied the other. He struck a match, and in a minute he had a blazing fire in the middle of the wigwam.

"Old Granny de Neuville, she's a witch—she knows everything about the woods, and cracked Jimmy turns everything she says into poetry. He says she says when you want to make a fire in the woods you take—

"First, a strip of Birch bark as dry as it can be,
Then some softwood twigs, dead, but still on the tree,
Finally, some Pine knots to make the kettle boil,
And there's a fire that makes you feel right at home."

"Who is Granny de Neuville?"

"Oh, she's the old witch who lives down by the bend of the creek."

"What? Does she have a granddaughter named Biddy?" said Yan, suddenly recalling that his old ally was from this part of Sanger.

"Oh my! Isn't she? Isn't Biddy a gem—drinks like a fish, talks everyone's ear off about the time she lived in Bonnerton. Gets a letter every mail begging her to come back and 'live' with them some more."

"Ain't this great," said Yan, as he sat on a pile of fir branches in the wigwam.

"Looks like the real thing," replied Sam from his seat on the other side. "But hey, Yan, don't make any more fire; it's kind of warm here, and there seems to be something wrong with that flue—it probably needs to be cleaned; it hasn't been cleaned since I can remember."

The fire flared up, and the smoke grew thicker. A little of it drifted out of the smoke hole at the top, but then it seemed to realize that was a bad idea and refused to use the vent again. Some smoke escaped through the gaps, and a big cloud poured out from the door, but most of it seemed happy to linger inside the wigwam, which made both boys scramble out in no time. Their eyes were watering from the smoke, and they were totally overwhelmed.

"'Seems to me," said Sam, "like we got those holes mixed up. The door should have been at the top, 126 since the smoke likes to use it, and then we'd have had a chance."

"The Indians make it work," said Yan; "a White hunter should know how."

"Now's the Indian's chance," said Sam. "Maybe it wants a door to close, then the smoke would have to go out."

They tried this, and of course some of the smoke was pushed out, but not until long after the boys had left.

"Looks like whatever comes out through the holes gets sucked back in by that double-action flue," said Sam.

It was really disappointing. The idea of sitting by the fire in their teepee sounded great to both boys, but the smoke made it unbearable. Their dream was shattered, and Sam suggested, "Maybe we should try a cabin."

"No," said Yan, with his usual determination. "I know it can be done because the Indians do it. We'll learn more in time."

But all their efforts were pointless. The wigwam didn’t work at all when it came to fire. It was very small and uncomfortable too; the wind whistled through a hundred cracks, which got bigger as the elm bark dried and split. They were caught in a heavy downpour once, and they were somewhat relieved to be forced into their dreary lodge, but the rain came pouring in through the smoke hole as well as through the walls, and they realized it offered very little protection.

129 "I think it's a bit wetter in here than it is outside," said Sam, as he rushed home.

That night a heavy storm rolled in, and the next day the boys found their flimsy shelter blown down—just a pile of rubble.

Some time later, Raften asked at the table in his usual stern tone, "Hey guys, what's happening down at your camp? Is your tent finished?"

"No good," said Sam. "All blown down."

"How's that working for you?"

"I don't know. It smelled like everything was burning. We couldn't stay in there."

"Couldn't have been made right," said Raften; then, with a sudden interest that showed how eagerly he would have jumped in on this forty years ago, he said, "Why don't you make a real tea pie?"

"Dunno how, and I don't have any supplies."

"Well, you’ve been doing a great job and haven’t slacked off at work, so you can have the old wagon cover. Cousin Bert could teach you how to make it if he were here. Maybe Caleb Clark knows," he added, with a knowing twinkle in his eye. "Better ask him." Then he turned to give orders to the hired men, who, of course, ate at the family table.

"Hey, do you mind if we go to Caleb's place?"

"I don't care what you do with him," was the reply.

Raften wasn't one to just chat idly, and Sam was aware of that. So, as soon as "the law was off," he and Yan pulled out the 130 old wagon cover. It felt like an entire acre of canvas when they spread it out. After claiming it, they put it back in the cow-house, their own space, and Sam said, "I've got a strong urge to go straight to Caleb; he definitely knows more about a teepee than anyone else around here, which isn't saying much."

"Who is Caleb?"

"Oh, he's the old Billy Goat that shot at Dad once, right after Dad beat him in a trade. He claims it was a mistake; it really was, too, as he found out, because Dad bought up some old debts of his, got them for cheap, and pressured him hard to pay them back. He's had bad luck ever since."

"He's a strange old guy, that Caleb. He knows a ton about the woods because he used to be a hunter and trapper. Man! He would really be upset with me if he knew who my dad was, but he doesn't need to know."

The Sanger Witch lived by the bend of the creek,
And couldn’t read or write;
But she understood in a day what most took a week,
For she had the gift of second sight.
"Read?" she said, "I’m more than literate;
You fools with your ink and pens
Count the eggs, not the twigs of the nest,
Focus on appearances, not the souls of men."

—Cracked Jimmy's Song of Sanger.

The boys headed to Caleb's place. It was up the creek from the campsite. As they got closer to the bend, they spotted a small log cabin, with some chickens and a pig at the entrance.

"That's where the witch lives," Sam said.

"Who—old Grandma de Neuville?"

"Yeah, and she just loves me. Oh, for sure; about as much as an old hen loves a chicken hawk. It seems to me she stays up all night just to love me."

"Why?"

"Oh, I think it started with the pigs. No, let me think: first it was about the trees. Dad cut down a bunch of Elm trees that looked really nice from her view. She's really particular about trees. She hates seeing them cut down, and that upset her just like she owned them."

132 Then there were the pigs. You see, one winter she was really struggling, and she had two pigs worth maybe $5 each—at least, that's what she said, and she should know, since they lived right in the shack with her—and she came to Dad (I guess she had tried everyone else first), and Dad haggled her down and got the two pigs for $7. He always does that. Then he comes home and tells Mom, 'Seems to me the old lady is in a tough spot. Next Saturday, you take two sacks of flour and some pork and potatoes over there and make sure she's taken care of.' Dad's always doing those things on the down-low, too. So Mom goes with about $15 worth of supplies. The old woman seemed a bit standoffish. She didn't say much. Mom was taking her time, unsure whether to give the stuff away right then or say it could be worked off next year, or some other year, when there were two moons, or sometime when all the work was done. Well, the old woman hardly spoke until all the stuff was put in the cellar, and then she grabbed a big stick and turned on Mom:

"'Now you get out of my house, you dirty, stuck-up thing. I’m not taking any charity from the likes of you. That guy you call your husband stole my pigs, and we aren’t even close to square now, so get out and don’t you dare set foot in my house again.'"

"Well, she was really upset with us when Dad bought her pigs, but she was five times worse after she got the groceries. 'Seems like they soured on her stomach."

133 "What a pity, that poor guy," said Yan, showing quick sympathy for the Raftens.

"No," Sam said, "she's just different. A lot of people support her. But she's really odd. She won't let anyone cut down a tree if she can avoid it, and when spring comes and the flowers bloom, she goes into the woods and sits next to them for hours, calling them 'My beauties—my little beauties,' and she just adores the birds. When the boys want to annoy her, they grab a slingshot and shoot the birds in her garden, and that drives her wild. She nearly starves herself every winter trying to feed all the birds that come around. She gets many of them to eat right out of her hand. Dad says they think she's an old pine root, but she has a special way of coaxing them that’s really sweet. There she stands in freezing weather, calling them 'My beauties.'

"You see that little windy spot over there?" he continued, as they approached the witch's hut. "Well, that's the loft, and it's packed with all sorts of plants and roots."

"Why?"

"Oh, for medicine. She's awesome with herbs."

"Oh, yes, I remember now, Biddy mentioned that her grandma was a herbalist."

"Doctor? She isn't much of a doctor, but I bet she knows every plant that grows in the woods, and they're definitely strong after they've been up there for a year, with the cat sleeping on them."

"I wish I could go see her."

134 "Yeah, I think we can," was the reply.

"Doesn't she know you yet?"

"Yeah, but just watch me help her," Sam said lazily. "There’s nothing she likes more than a sick person."

Sam stopped, rolled up his sleeves, and checked both arms, seemingly without finding anything, so he loosened his suspenders, dropped his pants, and started looking at his legs. Naturally, all boys have a bunch of cuts and bruises in different stages of healing. Sam picked his best one, just below the knee—a scratch from a nail on the fence. He had never thought about it before, but now he figured it would work. With a pencil he borrowed from Yan, he colored around it with a shade of embarrassment, and a green butternut rind added an unpleasant yellowish-brown that looked like human decay, creating a horrifying plague spot. By chewing some grass, he made a yellowish-green dye and spat it onto the handkerchief he tied around the scratch. Then he found a stick and began to limp painfully toward the witch's house. As they got closer, the partly open door slammed shut with a loud bang. Sam, unbothered, looked at Yan and winked, then knocked again. A small dog barked in response. He knocked again. He could hear someone moving inside but didn’t get a reply. After knocking a third time, a sharp voice shouted, "Get out of that! Get off my property, you dirty little riff-raff."

Sam smiled at Yan. Then, stretching his words a bit more than usual, he said:

135 "It's a poor kid, Grandma. The doctors can't do anything for him," which at least was completely true.

There was no response, so Sam bravely opened the door. There sat the old woman, glaring with angry red eyes across the stove, a cat in her lap, a pipe in her mouth, and a dog growling at the strangers.

"Aren't you Sam Raften?" she asked sharply.

"Yes, ma'am. I hurt my hand on a nail in the fence. They say you can get blood poisoning that way," said Sam, moaning a bit and trying to seem interesting. The command to "leave" faded on the witch's lips. Her good old Irish heart softened for the one in pain. After all, it was kind of nice to see the enemy so humbly asking for her help, so she mumbled:

"Let's see it."

Sam was trying, with a lot of groaning, to show the disgusting mess he had made around his knee when a sound was heard outside. The door opened, and Biddy walked in.

She and Yan recognized each other immediately. One had grown much taller, while the other had become much wider since their last meeting, but the greeting was that of two kind-hearted people happy to see each other again.

"How are your dad and mom, and how is the whole family? Do you remember the Cherry Lung-balm we used to make? We were so naive back then! Do you remember when I used to tell you about Granny? Well, here she is. Granny, this is Yan. We had a lot of fun together when I lived with his mom, didn’t we, Yan? Now, Granny's the one to tell you all about the plants."

A long groan from Sam now drew everyone's attention.

"Well, if it isn't Sam Raften," Biddy said coldly.

"Yeah, and he's really sick," Granny added. "Their own doctor gave up on him and said no one could save him, so he just had to come to me."

Another long groan was plenty of confirmation.

"Let me see. Give me my scissors, Biddy; I'll have to cut the pant leg off."

"No, no," Sam exclaimed suddenly, fearing what would happen at home. "I can roll it up."

"That will do. Now I say," said the witch. "Yes, there really is proud flesh. I might cut it out," she said, fumbling in her pocket (Sam thought she was looking for a knife and got ready to dash for the door), "but let’s see, no—that would be a stupid doctor trick. I can manage without it."

"Yeah, sure," said Sam, grabbing onto the idea, "that's exactly what a foolish doctor would do, but you can give me something to take that's way better."

"Well, of course I can," and Yan and Sam relaxed a bit. "Now drink this," and she offered him a tin cup of water into which she poured some dried leaf powder. Sam did so. "And you take this bundle and boil it in two gallons of water and drink a glassful every hour, and have a live chicken split with an axe and laid hot on the spot twice every day, until the proud flesh goes, and you'll be fine—a fresh chicken every time, remember."

"Wouldn't—turkeys—do—better?" groaned Sam, weakly. "I'm my mother's favorite, Granny, and cost isn’t a problem"—a snort that might have meant serious pain escaped him.

"Niver mind, now. I’m sure we won't talk about your father and mother; they've already faced enough punishment. Heaven forbid they lose the rest of you for their sins. It’s not me who would hold any ill-will."

A long groan interrupted what seemed like a young sermon.

"What's the plant, Grandma?" asked Yan, carefully avoiding Sam's look.

"Sure, it grows in the woods."

"Yeah, but I want to know what it’s like and what it’s called."

"Sure, it's unlike anything else. It's just like itself, and it's called Witch-hazel."

"'Witch-hazel blooms in the fall,
To cure the chills and fevers all,'"

"as cracked Jimmy says."

"I'll show you some of it someday," said Biddy.

"Can it be turned into Lung-balm?" asked Yan, playfully.

"I guess we should head out now," Sam said weakly. "I'm feeling a lot better. Where's my stick? 138 Here, Yan, you can carry my medicine, and be very careful with it."

Yan took the bundle, not daring to look Sam in the eye.

Granny told them both to come back again and followed them to the door with a warm goodbye. At the same time, she said:

"Hold on!" Then she went to the only bed in the room, which was also the house, turned down the covers, and in the middle revealed a bunch of rosy apples. She picked out two of the best and handed one to each of the boys.

"Sure, I have to hide them from the pig, because they're the finest ever grown."

"I know they are," Sam whispered as he limped out of earshot, "because her son Larry took them from our orchard last fall. They're the only kind that lasts. They're the best that grows, but they’re a bit too warm right now."

"Goodbye, and thank you very much," said Yan.

"I feel better already," Sam said lazily. "That tired feeling is gone, and since trying your remedy, I haven't taken anything else," but he added quietly, "I wish I could throw up the stuff before it poisons me," and then, with an eye for the dramatic, he wanted to toss his stick aside and jump into the woods.

It was all Yan could manage to get him to show some decency and walk with a bit of a limp until he was out of sight. As it was, the difference was quite noticeable, and the friendly old woman called out to Biddy to see for herself how quickly she had helped young Raften "after all the daughters in the country had given up on him."

"Now for Caleb Clark, Esq., Q.C.," said Sam.

"Q.C.?" asked his friend.

"Some think it means Queen's Counsel, and some say it stands for Queer Cuss. One or the other might be correct."

"You're doing great for a disabled kid the doctors have given up on," Yan said.

"Yeah; that's the proud flesh in my right leg that's doing the high stepping. The left one is just plain lame."

"Let's stash this somewhere until we return," Yan said, holding up the bundle of Witch-hazel.

"I'll hide that," Sam said, and he threw the bundle far into the creek.

"Oh, Sam, that’s harsh. Maybe she wants it for herself."

"Pooh, that's all that old brush is good for. I did more than my duty when I drank that stuff. I could almost taste the cat in it."

"What will you tell her next time?"

"Well, I'll tell her I placed the sticks correctly and where they were most helpful. I soaked them in water and took as much of the liquid as I needed."

"She'll see for herself that I really did make it, and she'll be a whole lot happier than if I drank her old nasty stuff and had to call a real 140 doctor."

Yan was quiet, but not happy about it. It felt rude to just toss the sticks aside—at least not yet; besides, he was curious to find out what they were and how they worked.

A mile further was Caleb Clark's shack, just a squatter's place now on a farm that used to belong to him. As the boys got closer, they saw a tall, round-shouldered man with a long white beard carrying in a bunch of firewood.

"Do you see the Billy Goat?" said Sam.

Yan sniffed as he understood why he was called that.

"I guess you should do the talking; Caleb is harder to deal with than the witch, and he's just as angry with Dad."

So Yan approached the open door of the shanty carefully and knocked. A deep-voiced dog started barking loudly, the long beard showed up, and its owner asked, "What?"

"Are you Mr. Clarke?"

"Yep." Then, "Lie down, Turk," to a black-and-tan hound that came growling out.

"I came—we—we wanted to ask a few questions—if that’s okay with you."

"What might your name be?"

"Yawn."

"Who is this?"

"He's my buddy, Sam."

"I'm Sam Horn," said Sam, with some truth, because he was Samuel Horn Raften, but with enough trickery to make Yan feel really uncomfortable.

"And where are you from?"

"Bonnerton," Yan said.

"Today?" was the reply, with a tone of uncertainty.

"Well, no," Yan started to say; but Sam, who had tried to stay under the radar to avoid being recognized, noticed that his straightforward friend was being quickly questioned and stepped in: "You see, Mr. Clark, we're camping in the woods and we want to build a teepee to live in. We have the materials and were told that you know all about how to make one."

"Who told you?"

"The old witch by the bend in the creek."

"Where are you living now?"

"Well," Sam said, quickly trying to cut off Yan, whose straightforwardness he worried about, "to be honest, we built a bark wigwam in the woods down there, but it didn't go well."

"Whose forest?"

"Oh, about a mile down the creek."

"Hmm! That has to be Raften's or Burns's woods."

"I guess it is," Sam said.

"You look just like Sam Raften. You foolish kid, coming here lying and trying to trick me. Get out of here now, or I’ll kick you out."

145 Yan blushed deeply. He remembered the saying, "Your sins will catch up with you," and took a step back. Sam smirked and followed him. But he was definitely his father's son. He turned and said:

"Listen, Mr. Clark, let’s be honest; we came here to ask a simple question about the woods. You’re the only person who has the information we need, or we wouldn’t have bothered you. I realized you were holding a grudge against my dad, so I tried to play it smart, but that backfired. I wish I had just been upfront and said, 'I’m Sam Raften; will you help me with something I want to know, or not?' I didn’t know you had anything against me or my friend who’s camping with me."

There is a strong bond of sympathy among all Woodcrafters. The simple fact that someone wants to follow their own path grabs a Woodcrafter's attention. Old Caleb, despite being jaded by hardships and quick to anger, had a good heart; he paused for a moment, resisting the urge to slam the door in their faces. Then, as he listened, he fell for the trap laid by the tempter, as it was laced with the subtlest flattery. He said to Yan:

"Is your name Raften?"

"No, thanks."

"Are you out of kin?"

"No way, sir."

146 "I don’t want anything to do with a Raften, but what do you want to know?"

"We constructed a wigwam out of bark, but it's not working well, and now we have a large canvas cover and want to figure out how to make a teepee."

"A teepee. H-m—" said the old man thoughtfully.

"They say you’ve lived in them," Yan said.

"Hm—about forty years; but it’s one thing to wear clothes and another thing to make them. It seems to me it was something like this," and he picked up a burnt stick and a piece of grocery paper. "No—wait. Yeah, I remember now; I saw a group of women make one once.

"First, they stitched the skins together. No, first there was a lot of praying; you can decide for yourselves about that—then they stitched the skins together and pegged it down flat on the prairie (B D H I, Cut No. 1)."

"Then put a peg in the middle of one side (A). With a burnt stick and a cord—yes, there must have been a cord—they drew a half circle—so (B C D). Then they cut that off, and from the pieces they made two flaps like this (H L M J and K N O I), and sewed them onto P E and G Q. Those are smoke flaps to help the smoke escape. There’s an upside-down pocket in the top corner of each smoke flap—for the top of each pole, and there are rows of holes down—so (M B and N D, Cut No. 2)—on each side for the lacing pins. Then at the top of that point (A, Cut 1) you fasten a short lash rope."

149 "Let’s see now. I guess there are about ten poles for a ten-foot lodge, with two more for the smoke flaps. When you set it up, you tie three poles together like this and stand them up first, then lean the other poles around, except one, and tie them together by wrapping the rope around a few times. Now tie the top of the cover to the top of the last pole with the short lash rope, lift the pole into place—that lifts the cover too, you see—and then swing it around with the smoke poles and fasten the two edges together with wooden pegs. The two long poles placed in the smoke flap pockets adjust the vent to match the wind."

In his conversation, Caleb had overlooked Sam and spoken to Yan, but the son of his father wasn't so easily put off. He anticipated several practical challenges and didn't hesitate to ask for clarification.

"What stops it from blowing down?" he asked.

"Wall," Caleb said, still talking to Yan, "the long rope that ties the poles goes down underneath and is securely fastened to a stake that acts as an anchor, plus the edge of the cover is pegged to the ground all the way around."

"How do you get the smoke to draw?" was his next question.

"You swing the flaps by changing the poles until they are positioned at a quartering angle to the wind. That works best."

"How do you shut the door?"

"Well, some jokes let the edges droop together, but the best teepees have a door made of the same material as the cover stretched tight over a young frame and hung from 150 a lacing pin."

This seemed to cover everything, so after carefully folding the dirty paper with the plan, Yan put it in his pocket, said "Thank you," and walked away. Caleb didn't respond to the boys' "Good day," but turned as they left and asked, "Where are you camping?"

"On the hill by the creek in Raften's swamp."

"Hmm, maybe I'll come and see you."

"Okay," Sam shouted; "follow the marked trail from the brush fence."

"Why, Sam," said Yan, as soon as they were out of earshot, "there isn't any marked trail; why did you say that?"

"Oh, I thought it sounded good," was the calm response, "and it's easy to have the fires going whenever we want, and a lot sooner than he's likely to use them."

Raften chuckled when he heard that the boys had actually gone to Caleb and got what they wanted. Nothing made him happier than seeing his son as a clever schemer.

"Old Caleb wasn't completely convinced about the teepee, at least from what I could tell," said Sam.

"I guess we have enough to move forward on," said Yan, "and it's not a big deal if we make a mistake."

The cover was spread out flat and smooth on the barn floor again, with stones and a few nails placed on the sides to hold it down.

The first thing that stood out to them was that it was a worn and frayed old cloth.

And Sam said, "I get why Dad told us we could have it. I guess we'll need to fix it up before we make the teepee."

"No," said Yan, taking charge, as he usually did when it came to forest matters; "we should lay out our plans first so we don't fix something that's going to be removed later."

"Great hair! But I’m afraid those patches won’t look very nice."

"They're fine," was the reply. "Indians' teepees are often patched where bullets and arrows have gone through."

"Well, I'm glad I wasn't living inside during those conflicts," and Sam revealed a dozen or more holes.

"Oh, get down from there and hand me that cord."

"Watch out," said Sam; "that's my infected knee. It's almost as bad today as it was when we visited the witch."

Yan was measuring. "Alright. We can cut off all those rags and still make a twelve-foot teepee. Twelve feet high—that will be twenty-four feet across the bottom of the fabric. Perfect! That’s exactly what we need. Now I’ll mark it off."

"Wait a minute," his friend protested; "you can't do that with chalk. Caleb said the Indians used a burnt stick. You have no right to use chalk. 'You might as well hire a carpenter.'"

"Oh, just go ahead. Look for a burnt stick, and if you can't find one, just bring me the shears instead."

Thus, after reviewing Caleb's draft multiple times, the cutting-out was completed—actually a pretty straightforward task. Next, the patching was to be addressed.

Pack thread, needles, and really long stitches were used, but the work progressed slowly. One entire day was dedicated to patching. Sam, of course, kept up a stream of typical comments about the piece he was working on. Yan sewed in focused silence. At first, Sam's patches looked better, but Yan quickly improved and eventually did much better sewing.

155 That night, the guys were displaying their work to the hired help. Si Lee, a middle-aged man with an impressive belly, after watching with barely hidden but friendly disdain, said:

"Why didn't you put the patches inside?"

"Didn’t think about it," was Yan's response.

"Cuz we're going to live inside and need the space," said Sam.

"Why did you make ten stitches going around that hole? You could have just as easily done it in four," Si said, sniffing as he pointed to the huge, clumsy stitches that were an inch long. "I consider that a waste of effort."

"Now listen," Sam shouted, "if you don't like our work, then show us how it's done. There's still a lot to get done."

"Where at?"

"Oh, ask Yan. He's running the job. Old Caleb wouldn't let me in. It just broke my heart. I cried all the way home, didn't I, Yan?"

"There's the smoke-flaps to sew on and hem, and the pocket at the top of the flaps—and—I—guess," Yan added, as a tentative suggestion, "it—would—be—better—if—hemmed—all—around."

"Now, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. If you guys go to the 'Corner' tonight and get my boots that the cobbler's fixing, I’ll sew on the smoke-flaps."

"I'll take that offer," Yan said. "And honestly, it doesn't really matter which side is the outside. You can flip the cover so the patches are on the inside."

The boys gathered the money to buy the boots, and after dinner, they walked to the "Corner," 156 two miles away.

"He's a strange guy," and Sam pointed his thumb back to indicate Si Lee; "sounds like a Chinese laundry. I guess that's the only thing he's not. He can do anything but manage to get ahead in life. He's been a soldier, an undertaker, and a cook. He plays a fiddle he made himself; it's really bad, but it's still better than his playing. He stuffs birds—that owl in the living room is his work; he sharpens razors, can treat a horse, or fix a watch, and he does it all the same way; bleeds a horse no matter what's wrong with it and removes another wheel from the watch every time he cleans it. He once took apart Larry de Neuville's old clock to clean it—said he knew all about it—and when he put it back together, he had enough wheels left over for a brand-new clock.

"He's too smart and not smart enough. There isn't anything on earth he can't do a little, and there isn't a single thing that he can do perfectly, but thank goodness sewing canvas is his strong suit. You see, he was a sailor for three years—the longest he ever held a job, which he really isn't to blame for, since it was a whaling ship on a three-year voyage."

It was a peaceful June evening, the time for the second wave of birds singing, the day winding down. There seemed to be an unusual number of singers as well. Almost every good spot had a little bird that looked ready to burst with joy while trying to hold back that overwhelming feeling.

As the boys walked down the road by the outer fence of their orchard, a hawk flew overhead, quieting the singing within its range. Many of the birds hid, but a meadowlark that had been whistling while perched on a stake in the open was now desperately looking for cover in the wide field. The hawk was speeding toward him. The lark dodged and put all its effort into reaching the orchard, but the hawk was closing in—any moment now it would have caught the terrified singer. Just then, a small black-and-white bird dashed out from the apple trees—the kingbird. With a loud, harsh twitter—his battle cry—repeated over and over, and his little gray head feathers raised to showcase the vivid red and yellow underbelly—his battle colors—he flew straight at the big predator.

158 "Clicker-a-clicker," he yelled, and rushed toward the enormous Hawk, which was ten times his size.

"Clicker-a-clicker!" he yelled, like a raider shouting the "slogan," and down like a black-and-white dart—to hit the Hawk right between the shoulders just as the Meadow Lark fell to the bare ground in despair and tucked its head away from the incoming blow of death.

"Clicker-a-clicker"—and the Hawk spun around in sudden alarm. "Clicker-a-clicker"—and the fearless little fighter dropped between his wings, stabbing and clawing.

The Hawk kicked up like a wild horse, the Kingbird was tossed, but quickly flew back up with swift wings.

"Clicker-a-clicker," and he struck as before. Large brown feathers were drifting away on the breeze now. The Meadow Lark was forgotten. The Hawk thought only of getting away.

"Clicker-a-clicker," the slogan was still being heard. The Hawk was speeding away, but the Kingbird was catching up most of the time. Several brown feathers floated down, the Hawk faded into the distance like a Sparrow and the Kingbird like a fly dancing on his back. The Hawk made a final dive into some bushes, and the king returned home, letting out a shrill war cry once or twice, probably to inform the queen he was back since she flew up to a high branch of the Apple tree to welcome the returning hero. He came with an occasional "clicker-a-clicker"—then, when he was close to her, he shot fifty feet into the air and dove down, shouting his slogan without stopping, darting in a zigzag with impressive twists and turns—this way, that way, sideways and downward, delivering sharp blows right and left at an imaginary enemy, then soared and did it all over again two or three times, just to show how far he was from being tired, and how much better he could have done it if it had been necessary. Then with a final dive and a burst of "clickers," he rushed into the bushes to receive the congratulations of the one for whom it all was meant and the only audience whose opinion he cared about.

"Isn't that great?" said Sam, with clear sincerity and delight. His voice surprised Yan and snapped him back to reality. He had been completely absorbed in quietly admiring the fearless little Kingbird.

A Vesper Sparrow darted along the road in front of them, fluttering a few feet ahead each time they got close and revealing its white outer tail feathers as it took off.

"A little gray bird," remarked Sam.

"No, that's not a Graybird; that's a Vesper Sparrow," Yan exclaimed in surprise, knowing he was right.

"Well, I don’t know," said Sam, giving in.

"I thought you said you knew every bird that flies and everything about them," replied his companion, as the memory of that first day was still vivid for him.

Sam scoffed, "I didn't know you back then. I was just buttering you up so you’d think I was a great guy, and you totally did—for a while."

A Red-headed Woodpecker, holding a yellow butterfly, landed on a fence post in front of them and peeked around as they approached. The sunset shining on his vibrant feathers, the lilac post, and the yellow butterfly created a stunning burst of color that thrilled Yan. A Meadow Lark on a distant post, a Bluebird on another, and a Vesper Bird on a rock each contributed to the beauty for both sight and sound, until Sam exclaimed:

"Oh, isn't that just wonderful?" Yan was speechless with a mix of bittersweet happiness.

Birds dislike the wind, and this was one of those calm days that only happen when there's no breeze at all.

They passed a barn with two hundred pairs of swallows flying and chirping around, a steep bank along the road had a colony of 1,000 sand martins, a stream had its noisy kingfishers, and a marsh was the playground for countless red-winged blackbirds.

Yan was filled with the joy of a nature lover at seeing so many beautiful living things. Sam felt it too; he became very quiet, and the last half-mile to the "Corner" was walked without a word. They got the boots. Sam slung them around his neck, and the boys headed home. The sun had set, but the birds were still around, and the magic of the evening lingered. A Song Sparrow by the brook and a Robin high in the Elm were still singing their sweet notes in the twilight.

163 "I wish I could always be here," said Yan, but he flinched a bit when he remembered how reluctant he had been to come.

There was a long silence as they stayed on the darkening road. Each was deep in thought.

A loud, surprising yet gentle "Ohoo—O-hoo—O-hoooooo," like the call of a huge dove, suddenly echoed above them in a tree. They paused, and Sam whispered, "Owl; big Hoot Owl." Yan's heart raced with joy. He had read about owls his entire life and even seen them in cages, but this was the first time he had ever heard the famous hoot of a real wild owl, and it was an amazing experience.

The night was pretty dark now, but there were lots of sounds that showed life was all around. A Whippoorwill was calling in the woods, a hundred Toads and Frogs croaked and chirped, a weird rolling, laughing sound from a marshy pond confused them both, and then a Song Sparrow in the pitch-black night of a thick thicket sang its cheerful little sunshine song with all the energy and joy of its best daytime performance.

They listened closely for another round of the serenade, when a sharp but not loud "Wa—wa—wa—wa—wa—wa—wa—wa!" came to their ears from a thicket of dense trees.

"Hear that?" Sam exclaimed.

Again it came, a shaking gust, seemingly much closer. It was a pretty high-pitched noise, not at all like a bird, and Sam whispered:

164 "Coon—that's the call of a Coon. We should come down here sometime when the corn's being roasted and have a Coon hunt."

"Oh, Sam, wouldn't that be amazing!" said Yan. "How I wish it was happening now. I've never seen a raccoon hunt or any kind of hunting. Do we really have to wait until it's corn-on-the-cob season?"

"Oh, yes; it's easier to find them then. You say to your friends, 'My dogs and I will meet you tonight at the nearest corn patch,' and sure enough they'll keep the appointment."

"But they're here now because we just heard one, and there's another."

A long soft "Lil—lil—lil—lil—lil—li-looo!" now echoed from the trees. It was similar to the other, but much gentler and sweeter.

"That's where you deceive yourself," Sam replied, "and that's where a lot of hunters get tricked. That last sound is a Screech Owl. It's softer and has a whistling quality compared to the Coon's call."

They heard it repeatedly from the trees. It was a sweet, melodic sound, and Yan recalled how harsh the Coon call sounded in comparison, yet many hunters never learn the difference.

As they approached the tree where the Owl called out occasionally, a gray shape flew over their heads, blocking out a few stars for a moment as it moved by, but making no sound. "There he goes," Sam whispered. "That's the Screech Owl. Not much of a screech, was it?" Shortly after, Yan came across a line from Lowell that says, "The 165 song of the Screech Owl is the sweetest sound in nature," and found the name to be quite ridiculous.

"I want to go on a raccoon hunt," Yan continued, and the sentence carried a hint of the strong determination that was usually hidden behind his polite demeanor.

"That settles it," replied the other, as he was picking up on what that tone meant. "We'll definitely go when you talk like that, because, of course, it can be done. You see, I know more about animals than birds," he continued. "I'm just as likely to be a dentist as a hunter when it comes to serious stuff, but I would really love to be a hunter for a while, and I made Dad promise to go with me sometime. Maybe we can catch a deer by heading back ten miles to the Long Swamp. I just wish Dad and Old Caleb hadn't fought, because Caleb really knows the woods, and his old hound has treed more raccoons than you could count in a month of Sundays."

"Well, if that's the only Coon dog around, I'm going to get him. You'll see," was the reply.

"I think you will," replied Sam, with a tone of both admiration and humor.

It was ten o'clock when they got home, and everyone was in bed except Mr. Raften. The boys went to bed right away, but the next morning, when they went to the barn, they discovered that Si had not only sewn on and hemmed the smoke flaps, but had also resewn the worst of the patches and hemmed the entire bottom of the teepee cover with a small rope in the hem, so that they were 166 ready now for the pins and poles.

The cover was taken immediately to the campsite. Yan carried the axe. When they reached the brush fence over the creek at the edge of the swamp, he said:

"Sam, I want to pave that path for old Caleb. How do you do it?"

"Look for the trees with the axe every few yards."

"This way?" Yan asked as he cut a tree in three spots, creating three white marks or blazes.

"No; that's a trapper's mark for a trap or a 'special mark,' but a 'road mark' has one on the front of the tree and one on the back—this way, you can follow the trail in both directions, and you make them thicker if it needs to be followed at night."

"Ten sturdy poles and two long thin ones," said Yan, reading aloud. These were quickly cut and brought to the campsite.

"Tie them together at the same height as the teepee cover——"

"How should I tie them?"

"'Rawhide rope,' he said, but he also said 'Make the cover of skins.' I'm afraid we’ll have to use regular rope for now," and Yan looked a bit ashamed of admitting that.

"I figured as much," Sam said slowly, "so I put a coil of quarter-inch in the cover, but I didn't want to mention that back at the barn."

The tripod was securely tied with rope and set up. Nine poles were positioned around in a twelve-foot circle, as a twelve-foot high teepee typically has a twelve-foot base. A final tying of the ropes held these in place, and the last pole was then raised opposite the door, with the teepee cover attached to it at the point between the flaps. The ends of the two smoke poles secured the cover around. Then the lacing pins were needed. Yan attempted to make them from hickory shoots, but the large, soft pith was precisely where the point was needed. So Sam said, "You 168 can't beat white oak for pins." He cut a block of white oak, split it down the middle, then split half of it in the middle again, and continued until it was small enough to trim and finish with his knife. Meanwhile, Yan took the axe to split another, but found that it veered off to one side instead of going straight down the grain.

"No good," was Sam's comment. "You have to keep halving each time or it will run out toward the thin pieces. You need to split shingles all winter to learn that."

Ten pins were made eight inches long and a quarter of an inch thick. They were used just like dressmakers' stickpins, but the holes had to be made first, and, of course, they looked better because they were uniform. This is how the cover was laced on. Then, the absence of ground pegs became apparent.

"You need ten oak pegs that are a foot long and an inch thick, Sam. I have an idea for how to secure them." Then Yan cut ten pieces of rope, each two feet long, and made a hole about every three feet around the base of the cover above the rope in the outer seam. He threaded one end of each short rope through this and tied it to the other end. With that, he created ten peg-loops, securing the teepee and making it look like a great success.

Now came the big ceremony, the lighting of the first fire. The boys saw it as a powerful and almost sacred moment. It's interesting to note 169 that they felt just like savages do in the same situation—that setting up the new teepee and lighting its first fire carries a lot of meaning, and should be done with care for its future good luck.

"Better take it slow and be careful with that fire. It would be really unlucky to have it fizzle out the first time."

"That's true," Yan replied, feeling the same kind of superstitious fear. "Hey, Sam, if we could actually light it with rubbing sticks, wouldn't that be awesome?"

"Hello!"

The boys turned, and there was Caleb nearby. He walked over and nodded. "I see you got your teepee? Not bad, but why did you face it to the west?"

"Facing the creek," explained Yan.

"I forgot to tell you," said Caleb, "an Indian teepee always faces east; first, that lets the morning sun in; next, most of the wind comes from the west, so the smoke is guaranteed to blow away."

"And what if the wind is blowing straight east?" Sam asked, "which it definitely will be when it rains?"

"And when the wind's coming from the east," Caleb continued, talking to no one in particular and not in response to a question, "you overlap the flaps tight in front like this," and he crossed his arms over his chest. "That keeps the east side elevated and prevents the rain from coming in; if that doesn't work,



you lift the bottom of the cover just a bit under the door—that always helps. And when you 170 move it around, don't put it under those trees. Trees are risky; in a storm, they attract lightning, and branches can fall from them, plus after it rains, they keep dripping for an hour. You need all the sunlight you can get on a teepee.

"Have you ever seen Native Americans create fire from two sticks by rubbing them together, Mr. Clark?"

"Oh, yes. Most of the Native Americans now carry matches, but back in the day, I saw it done often enough."

"Does it take a long time? Is it difficult?"

"Not too long, and it's pretty straightforward once you know how."

"My! I'd rather start a fire with two sticks than have a ten-dollar bill," said Yan, with enthusiasm that meant a lot, because one dollar was his limit of wealth, and he had only reached that once in his life.

"Oh, I don't know; that depends," was Sam's more cautious response.

"Can you do it?" asked Yan.

"Well, yeah, if I can get the right materials. You see, not every kind of wood will work. It has to be just right. The Plains Indians use Cottonwood roots, and the Mountain Indians use Sagebrush roots. I've seen the Canadian Indians use Basswood, Cedar, and dry White Pine, but the Chippewas mostly use Balsam Fir. The easiest way is with a bow-drill. Do you have any buckskin?"

"Nope."

171 "Or a piece of soft leather?"

"I've got a leather shoelace," said Yan.

"Pretty thin; but we'll double it and make it work. A cord will do, but it wears out pretty quickly." Caleb grabbed the lace and the axe, then said, "Get me a stone about the size of an egg, with a little hole in it—like a socket hole—about a quarter inch deep."

The boys headed to the creek to look for a stone, while Caleb ventured into the woods.

They heard him chopping, and soon he returned with a flat piece of very dry Balsam Fir, a fifteen-inch pin of the same wood, a stick about three feet long that was slightly bent, some dry Pine punk, and some dry Cedar.

The pin was three-quarters of an inch thick and had about eight sides, "so the lace would grip." It was pointed at both ends. He attached the lace to the bent stick like a bowstring, but loosely, so that when it wrapped around the pin once, it was pretty tight. He trimmed the flat piece of Balsam down to about half an inch thick. On the edge of this, he cut a notch a quarter inch wide and half an inch deep, and then, on top of this fireboard or block, just past the notch, he made a small pit with the point of his knife.

He next scraped and shredded a bunch of dry cedar wood like lint. Then, making a half-inch deep hole in the ground, he placed a flat piece of pine punk in it, and set the fire board on top of that. The tip of the pin or drill was put into the hole in the fire board, which he held down with one foot; 172 the lace was wrapped once around the pin, and its top went into the hole of the stone the boys brought. Caleb held the stone firmly in his left hand.

"Sometimes," he said, "when you can't find a stone, a pine knot will work—just use a knife point to make the socket hole."

Now holding the bow in his right hand, he started to draw it back and forth with long, steady strokes, making the pin spin in the socket. Within a few seconds, a brown powder began to spill out of the notch in the fireboard onto the punk. The pit got bigger and darkened, the powder deepened in color, and a slight smoke started to rise from the pit. Caleb applied a bit more pressure with his left hand and sawed faster with his right. The smoke steadily thickened, and the black powder began to fill the notch. Smoke billowed in small clouds from under the pin, and it even seemed to come from the pile of powder. As soon as he noticed that, Caleb dropped the bow and gently fanned the powder pile. It still smoked. He took away the fireboard and, lifting the punk, revealed the inside of the powder to be one glowing ember. On this, he placed the cedar tinder and then a second piece of punk on top. Then raising it, he waved it in the air and blew gently for a while. It smoldered and then flared into a flame. The other materials were nearby, and in a very short time, they had a roaring fire in the middle of the new teepee.

174

175 All three showed pure joy. The old man's face lit up with pride. If he had failed in his experiment, he would have left despising those boys, but after achieving great success, he was prepared to love everyone involved, even though they had just been curious witnesses to his accomplishment.

"I don't think much of your artillery," Yan said one day while they were shooting in the orchard with Sam's "Western outfit." "It's pretty much the same as the first one I made when I was young."

"Well, grandpa, let’s see your latest creation?"

"It would be about five times stronger, for one thing."

"You couldn't do it."

"That's not how you hold the arrow! But last winter, I borrowed a book about archery from the library and learned something valuable. If you pinch the arrow like that, you can pull back six or eight pounds, maybe, but if you hook your fingers in the string—like this—you can pull back five times as much, and that’s the proper way to shoot."

"Feels really awkward," said Sam, giving it a try.

"Of course, it does initially, and you need to have a deep notch in the arrow, or you can't do it at all."

"You don't seem to do any better than I do."

"First time I ever got a chance to try since I read about it. But I want to make a top-notch bow and a lot of arrows. It’s not really useful to go with one."

177 "Alright, go ahead and make an outfit if you know how. What's the best type of wood? Did the book mention that?"

"The best wood is Spanish Yew."

"Don't know about it."

"Next is Oregon Yew."

"Nope."

"Then Lancewood and Osage Orange."

"Give it another shot."

"Well, Red Cedar, Apple tree, Hickory, and Elm seem to be the only ones that grow around here."

"Haven't seen any Red Cedar, but the rest is simple."

"It has to be properly seasoned wood cut in winter, and it should be cut to have heartwood on one side and sapwood on the other."

"How's that?" Sam asked, pointing to a bunch of half-round hickory sticks on the rafters of the log house. "They’ve been there a couple of years."

A good one that was five feet long was chosen and split and chopped with the axe until the boys had two bow staves, each five and a half feet long and two inches square, with the line of the heart and sapwood in the middle of each.

Guided by his memory of that treasured book and some English longbows he had seen in a shop in town, Yan oversaw the construction. Sam was skilled with tools, and eventually, they completed two bows, each five feet long and possibly drawing around twenty-five pounds. In the middle, they measured one and a half inches wide and an inch thick (see page 183). They maintained this size for nine inches on each side, creating an 178 eighteen-inch center section that didn’t bend, while their two limbs were shaved down and smoothed with glass until they bent evenly and were well within the boys' strength.

The string was the next challenge. All the regular string they could find around the house turned out to be too weak, lasting no more than two or three shots. Finally, Si Lee, noticing their struggle, sent them to the cobbler's for a spool of unbleached linen thread and some shoemaker's wax. With this thread, he rolled out enough to make a strong cord tight around two pegs seven feet apart. Then, cutting it loose at one end, he divided it into three equal parts and, after applying some wax, loosely braided them together. Following Yan's suggestion, he then spliced a loop at one end and used a fine waxed thread to bind six inches of the middle where the arrow attached, as well as the splice of the loop. This last adjustment allowed them to unstring the bow when it wasn't in use (see page 183). "There," he said, "you won't break that." The final touch was a thin coat of varnish found among the paint supplies, applied to the bows.

"Makes my old bow look pretty bad," Sam said, holding up the really nice new weapon next to the crummy little hoop that had represented his early ideas. "So, what do you know about arrows, mister?" he asked as he tried his old arrow with the new bow.

"I know that's not good," was the reply; "and I can tell you it's a lot harder to make an arrow 179 than a bow—that is, a good one."

"That's encouraging, given the difficulties we've faced so far."

"It’s not meant to be, but we should each have a dozen arrows."

"How do the Indians make them?"

"Mostly they use straight sticks from the arrowwood; but I haven't seen any arrowwood around here, and they're not perfectly straight. You see, an arrow has to be straight, or it will fly off course. 'Straight as an arrow' refers to the arrow itself. We can do better than the Indians because we have better tools. We can split them from solid wood."

"What kind of wood? Some crazy foreign type that no white person has ever seen or heard of before?"

"No way. There's nothing better than White Pine for target arrows and Ash or Hickory for hunting arrows. Which ones are we making?"

"I'm a hunter. Give me hunting arrows every time. What's next?"

"Seasoned ash that's twenty-five inches long, split to three-eighths of an inch thick, hot glue, and turkey wing feathers."

"I'll grab the feathers and you can handle the rest," Sam said, pulling out a bundle of turkey wings that he had set aside as dusters. Then, he contradicted himself by picking up a block of ash and splitting it into halves repeatedly until he had a stack of two dozen straight sticks about three-quarters of an inch thick.

180 Yan picked one up and started to carve it with his knife to get it just right, but Sam said, "I can do better than that," and took the whole pile to the workbench to use a smoothing plane. Yan looked concerned and finally said:

"Native Americans didn't have planes."

"Neither pocket knives," was the response.

That was true, but somehow Yan's ideal that he longed for was the pre-Columbian Indian, the one who had no help or tools from White people.

"It seems to me it would be more Native American to make these with just what we find in the woods. The Native Americans didn't have jackknives, but they had sharp flints back in the day."

"Yan, you go ahead with a sharp rock. You'll find plenty on the path if you take off your shoes and walk barefoot—really sharp; and I'll go ahead with the smoothing plane and see who wins."

Yan was not satisfied, but he told himself that one day he would make some arrows from Arrow-wood shoots, and for now, he'd at least finish one with his knife. He did that, but in the meantime, Sam made six much better ones using the smoothing plane.

"What about heads?" he asked.

"I've been thinking," was the reply. "Sure, the Indians used stone heads attached with sinew, but we don’t have the materials for that. Purchased iron heads with a ferrule for the end of the arrow are the best, but we can’t get them. Bone heads and horn heads will work. I once made some great ones by filing bones into shape, but they were really brittle; then I made some more using big nails that I cut off and attached with fine wire around the end to prevent the wood from splitting. Some Indian arrows don’t even have a point, just the stick sharpened after it’s been scorched to harden it."

"That sounds easy enough for me," Sam said. "Let's make some of them like that."

So the arrows were made, six with nail points sharpened and tied with broom wire. These were called "War arrows," and six with fire-hardened wood points for hunting arrows.

"Now for the feathering," Yan said, showing Sam how to split the midrib of a turkey feather and separate the vane.

"Let's see, you want two times twenty-four—that's forty-eight feathers."

"No," said Yan, "that's not good feathering, two on each. We need three on every arrow—seventy-two strips total, and remember, we want all three from one side of the bird for each arrow."

"I get it. I bet it's bad luck to mix things up; the arrows don't know which way to point."

At this moment, Si Lee walked in. "How are you doing with the bows?"

"Waiting for arrows now."

"How do you put on the feathers?"

"White men glue them on, and Native Americans tie them on," replied Yan, quoting from memory from "that 182 book."

"Which is the best?"

"Glued-on flies work better, but tied-on ones withstand the weather better."

"Why not both?"

"Have no strength."

"Let me show you a trick. Where's your glue and linen thread?"

These were brought, and Si added: "'Seems to me you should put the feathers on last. Better to cut the notch first."

"That's right; we almost forgot."

"You almost forgot, didn’t you? Don’t pull me into this mess," said Sam, with a serious expression. A small saw cut, made cleaner and wider with a penknife, turned out to be the best; a notch about a quarter inch deep was quickly cut into each arrow, and Si started both gluing and attaching the feathers, but using waxed thread instead of sinew.

Yan had marked the spot for each feather so that none would hit the bow as they passed by (see Cut page 183). He first glued them on, then made a tie for half an inch on the ends of the feather rib that were sticking out, and another behind it, bringing this second tie back to the start of the notch to prevent the wood from splitting. After he trimmed all the loose ends and rolled the waxed thread well on the bench with a flat stick, the threads seemed to vanish, leaving just a smooth black ring.

185 So the arrows were made and left to dry for the glue to set.

Next day, Yan painted Sam's red and blue and his own red and white to tell them apart and protect them from the damp. There was one more thing to take care of, and that was a quiver.

"Do the Indians have them?" asked Sam, with a sharp focus on tradition when it looked like it would save him some hard work.

"Yeah, I totally agree; I can't imagine living without them."

"Okay, hurry up. I'm eager to go hunting. What are they made of?"

"Oh, almost anything."

"Don't have it."

"You're too quick. But some people use birch bark, some use animal hides, and some use canvas now when other materials are hard to find."

"That's us. Do you mind the things left outside the teepee?"

"Do until we improve." So each person made a kind of canvas bag that was shorter than the arrows. Yan painted an Indigenous design on each, and they were ready.

"Now bring on your Bears," said the older boy, and feeling fully ready, they went out.

"See who can hit that tree." Both shot at the same time and missed, but Sam's arrow hit another tree and splintered.

"Guess we'd better get an easy target," he said. After some discussion, they grabbed a big old corn sack filled with hay, painted some rings around a bull's 186 eye (a Buffalo's eye, as Sam called it) and set it up twenty yards away.

They were really disappointed at first in their shooting. It seemed like such an easy target, so it was frustrating to see the arrows land a few feet to the left.

"Let's go in the barn and shoot at that," suggested Sam.

"We might be able to make it if we close the door tightly," was the hopeful response. Besides needing practice, the boys had to learn several little rules about archery. But Yan had some notes written in pencil from "that book" and some additional information stored in his mind that, with a lot of practice, gradually taught him: to stand with his heel centers aligned with the target; his right elbow in line with the arrow; his left hand steady until the arrow hit; his right thumb always resting in the same spot on his cheek when he shot, and to keep the bow straight.

They quickly realized that they needed guards for their left arm where the bowstrings hit, so they made some from the leg of an old boot (see Cut page 183) and used an old glove to protect the fingers of their right hand during practice. Once they learned to follow the rules without having to think about them, the boys improved rapidly and soon could shoot all their arrows into the hay sack from twenty yards away, eventually increasing the distance until they could shoot reasonably well from forty yards.

They were quite surprised to see how much individuality the arrows had, even though they were supposed to be 187 exactly alike.

Sam had one that kept bending until it was really curved, which led to some of the most unexpected paths in its flight. He called this one the "Boomerang." Another arrow, with a tiny feather, flew farther than any of the others. This was the "Far-killer." His best arrow, which he named "Sure-death," was a long-feathered turkey shaft with a light tip. It worked great on a calm day, but tended to veer off in the wind. Yet another arrow, with a small feather, was equally dependable on a windy day. This one was called "Wind-splitter."

The one Yan carved with the knife was called the "Whittler," and sometimes the "Joker." It was always a mystery; they never knew what it would do next. His favorite was one with a hollow at the tip, which made a whistling sound when it flew, and was sometimes called the "Whistler" and sometimes the "Jabberwock," "which whiffled through the tulgy wood and burbled as it came."

The diagram at the bottom shows the centers of the heels aligned with the target.

One hot day in early July, they were having fun in the shallow swimming hole of the creek when Sam noticed, "It's getting low. It dries up every summer."

This wasn't a good thing to expect, and Yan said, "Why can't we build a dam?"

"A little too much like work."

"Oh, come on! That would be fun, and we’d have a swimming spot all summer. Let's go right now."

"Never heard of Native Americans doing so much work."

"Alright, we'll play Beaver while we do this. Come on, here's the first step," and Yan grabbed a big stone to what looked to him like the narrowest spot. Then he brought more stones and worked enthusiastically until he had a line of them all the way across the creek bed.

Sam still sat naked on the riverbank, his knees tucked under his chin and his arms wrapped around them. The war paint was dripping down his chest in blue and red streaks.

"Come on, you lazy freak, get over here and work," yelled Yan, throwing a handful of mud to make his point clear.

189 "My infected knee flared up again," was the reply.

At last, Yan said, "I’m not going to do this all by myself," and straightened his back.

"Listen," was the reply. "I've been thinking. The cattle drink here. The creek dries up in the summer, so the cattle have to go to the barnyard and drink from the trough— which has to be pumped for, and they hang around for hours hoping someone will give them some oats, instead of heading back to the woods to gain weight. Now, two big logs across there would take care of more than half the work. I think we should ask Dad to lend us the team to put those logs across to create a drinking pond for the cattle. Those cattle are really on my mind. I couldn't sleep all night thinking about them. I just really hate to see them walking all the way to the barn in hot weather for a drink—it isn’t right." So Sam waited for the right moment to bring it up with his father. It didn't come that day, but at breakfast the next morning, Raften looked straight at Yan across the table, and clearly deep in thought, said:

"Yahn, this room is twenty feet by fifteen, how much oilcloth three feet wide will it need?"

"Thirty-three and a third yards," Yan said immediately.

Raften was shocked. Yan's behavior was convincing, but to accomplish all that in his mind was amazing. Different harsh tests were conducted, and the overall belief was that Yan was correct.

190 The farmer's face lit up with pride for the first time. "Look at that," he said to the table, "look at that kind of education. When will you be able to do something like that?" he asked Sam.

"Never," replied his son, slowly but surely. "Dentists don't have to worry about oilcloth."

"Hey, Yan," Sam said quietly, "you should probably talk to Da about the dam. He's kind of worked up about you this morning; your education has made him a bit more lenient, and I think it'll last until around noon. You should make your move while you have the chance."

After breakfast, Yan started:

"Mr. Raften, the creek's drying up. We want to create a pond for the cattle to drink from, but we can’t build a dam without two big logs across it. Can you let us use the team for a few minutes to put the logs in place?"

"It isn't for a swimming pond, is it, you mean?" said Raften, with a twinkle in his eye.

"It would work for that too," and Yan blushed.

"Sounds to me like Sam is talking through Yan's face," Raften said, cleverly assessing the situation. "I'll check for myself."

Arrived at the camp, he asked: "So, where's your dam going to be? There? That's not good. It's too narrow, and you'll be running around both ends before you have any water worth mentioning. There's a better spot, a bit wider, and it has a nice pond. Where are your logs? There? What—my seasoning timber? You can't have that. That's the sill for the new barn; and not that—it's seasoning for gate posts. There are two 191 you can have. I'll send the team, but don't let me catch you stealing any of my seasoning timber or there will be trouble."

With true Raften speed, the heavy team arrived, and the two massive logs were pulled across and positioned as Yan asked (four feet apart for the top of the dam).

The boys now drove a row of stakes against each log on the inner side to create a crib, and they were starting to fill the space with mud and stones. They were digging and leveling it off as they went. Clay was hard to come by, and the work was slow; the water, of course, rising as the wall went up, made things even harder. But soon Yan said:

"Wait. New plan. Let's dig a deep trench on one side so all the water will flow through, then leave a clay wall to the trench and dig a deep hole on the other side. That will give us a lot of material for the dam and help deepen the pond."

Thus they worked. In a week the crib was full of packed clay and stone. Then came the grand finish—the closing of this sluiceway through the dam. It wasn’t easy with the full flow of water running, but they worked tirelessly and finally got it stopped.

That night there was a heavy rain. The next day, as they got closer, they heard a deep rumble in the woods. They paused and listened, uncertain, then Yan shouted happily, "The dam! That's the 192 water flowing over the dam."

They both took off with a shout and ran as fast as they could. As soon as they got closer, they saw a large stretch of calm water where the rocky creek bottom used to be and a steady current flowing over the low spot that remained as an overflow in the middle of the dam.

What an exciting feeling of joy that was!

"Last in's a dirty loser."

"Watch out for my bad knee," was the reply.

The rest of the race was a blend of stripping and sprinting, and the boys jumped in together.

Five feet deep in the deep hole, a hundred yards long, and all their own doing.

"Wasn't that worth it?" asked Yan, who had struggled to keep Sam focused on a game that felt so much like work.

"How did that get here? I thought I left that in the teepee?" Sam said, pointing to a log he had used as a seat in the teepee, but now it was stuck in the overflow.

Yan was a great swimmer, and as they played and splashed around, Sam said, "Now I know who you are. You can't hide it from me anymore. I had a suspicion when you were working on the dam. You're that darned Native American they call 'Little Beaver.'"

"I've been watching you," Yan replied, "and it looks like I've come across that copper-colored troublemaker—'Young-Man-Afraid-of-a-Shovel.'"

"No, you don't," said Sam. "And I'm not 'Bald- Eagle-Settling-on-a-Rock-with-his-Tail-Hanging-Over-the 195 -Edge,' either. Actually, I don't want to be noticed right now. Isn't it nice to think the cattle don't have to make that walk anymore?"

Sam was clearly trying to change the subject, but Yan wasn't having it. "I heard Si call you 'Woodpecker' the other day."

"Yeah. I heard that at school. When I was a kid, I would hear my mom talk about my beautiful golden hair, but when I got old enough to go to school, I found out it was just red, and they called me the 'Red-headed Woodpecker.' I tried to fight back, but a lot of them could beat me up and made it worse. When I realized fighting didn’t work, I pretended to like it, but by then it was too late. Mostly, it’s just 'Woodpecker' for short. I don’t think it ever kept me up at night."

Half an hour later, as they sat by the fire that Yan had made with rubbing sticks, he said, "Hey, Woodpecker, I want to tell you a story." Sam made a face, leaned in, and exaggerated his preparations to listen.

"There was once an Indian woman who was captured by another tribe way up north. They marched her 500 miles away, but one night she managed to escape and headed out, not along the main trail, because she knew they would follow that route and kill her, but to one side. She didn't know the area and got lost. She had no weapons except for a knife, and no food apart from berries. Well, she traveled quickly for several days until a rainstorm hit, then she felt safer, knowing her enemies couldn’t track her anymore. But winter was 196 near, and she wouldn't make it home before it arrived. So she got to work right where she was."

"She built a wigwam out of birch bark and started a fire using rubbing sticks, making a bowstring from the lace of her moccasin. She created snares from the inner bark of willows and spruce roots, and set up deadfalls for rabbits too. At first, she was often starving, but she ate the buds and inner bark of birch trees until she discovered a spot filled with rabbits. Once she caught some, she used every part of them. She fashioned a fishing line from the sinews and made hooks from the bones and teeth, tied together with sinew and spruce gum."

"She made a cloak out of rabbit skins, stitched with rabbit bone needles and rabbit sinew thread, along with a bunch of dishes made from birch bark sewn with spruce roots."

"She spent the entire winter there alone, and when spring arrived, she was discovered by Samuel Hearne, the famous explorer. Her treasured knife was worn down, but she was healthy and happy, eager to return to her own people."

"Well, I think that's really interesting," said Sam—he had listened closely—"and I'd love nothing more than to try it myself if I had a gun and there was plenty of game."

"Pooh, who wouldn't want to?"

"Mighty few—and there are really only a handful who could."
"I could."

197 "What, you can make everything with just a knife? I'd like to see you build a teepee," then adding seriously, "Sam, we've been sort of pretending to be Indians; now let's do it for real. Let's make everything out of what we find in the woods."

"Looks like we need to visit the Sanger Witch again. She knows everything about plants."

"We'll be the Sanger Indians. We can both be Chiefs," Yan said, not wanting to suggest himself as Chief or accept Sam as his superior. "I'm Little Beaver. Now what about you?"

"Afternoon Thunderstorm."

"No, try again. Make it something you can draw, so you can create your totem, and keep it short."

"What's the smartest animal out there?"

"I guess the Wolverine."

"What! Smarter than a fox?"

"The books say that."

"Can he beat a Beaver?"

"Well, I guess that's true."

"Well, that’s me."

"No, you don't. I'm not going out with someone who disrespects me. It doesn't suit you as well as 'Woodpecker,' anyway. I always count on you when I want a nice tree messed up or full of holes," Yan shot back, generously overlooking the personal reason behind the name.

"Tain't as bad as beavering," answered Sam.

"Beavering" was a word with a history. Axes and timber were the most important things in the lives of the Sangerites. Mastery of the axe was the highest achievement. 198 The old settlers made everything in the house out of wood, using only the axe as a tool. It was even said that some of them would "edge it up a bit" and shave with it on Sundays. When a father set his son up in life, he simply gave him a good axe. The axe was the essential item for life and work and was thought to be a complete toolkit. Proficiency with the axe was common. Every man and boy was more or less skilled and often didn’t realize how experienced they were until a true "greenhorn" arrived among them. There’s a proper technique for cutting for each kind of grain, and a specific method for felling a tree to make it fall in the desired direction with the least effort. All these techniques are second nature to the Sangerite. A Beaver is known for gnawing around and around a tree until it falls over, and when a chopper strays even slightly from the correct technique, making the exact right cut in the perfect spot, he is said to be "beavering"; thus, while "working like a Beaver" is high praise, "beavering" a tree is a term of severe criticism, and Sam's final jab had a significance and force that only a Sangerite could truly understand.

The Sanger Witch despised the Shanty-man's axe
And wildfire, they say,
But the loathing she felt for the Sporting man
Was worse than her hatred of Hell!

—Cracked Jimmie's Song of Sanger.

Yan seized his first chance to go back to the Sanger Witch.

"Better leave me out," Sam advised when he heard about it. "She'd never look at you if I went. You look way too healthy."

So Yan went by himself, and he was happy about it. Even though he liked Sam, his talkative nature and quick humor made Yan feel overshadowed, making him seem serious and boring. What was even worse was that Sam kept changing the topic right when it was about to touch on something that really interested Yan.

As he was leaving, Sam called out, "Hey, Yan, if you want to stay for dinner, that’s fine—we’ll understand why you didn’t show up." Then he stuck his tongue in his cheek, closed one eye, and went to the barn with his usual look of mysterious sadness.

Yan carried his notebook—he used it more and more, along with his sketching supplies. On the way, he 200 picked a handful of flowers and herbs. This time, the old woman's reception was quite different.

"Come in, come in, God bless you, and how are you, and how are your mom and dad—come in and sit down, and how is that rascal, Sam Raften?"

"Sam's doing fine now," said Yan, blushing.

"All right! Of course he's fine. I knew I'd take care of him, and he knew it, and his mom knew it when she let him come. Did she say anything about it?"

"No, Grandma, not a word."

"The dirty hussy! She saved the boy's life despite robbing me, and she isn’t even human enough to say 'thank you'—the dirty hussy! May God forgive her as I do," said the old woman with clear and unyielding hostility.

"What do you have there? Thank goodness, they can't kill them all off. They can cut down the trees, but the flowers come back every year, my little beauties—my little beauties!" Yan spread them out. She picked up an Arum and continued. "Now, that's the Sorry plant, although some call it Indian Turnip, and I hear the kids call it Jack-in-the-Pulpit. Never put the root of that near your tongue. It’ll definitely burn you like fire. The first thing when they get hold of a green one, the kids try to make him bite it. He never does it twice. The Indians boil the poison out of the root and eat it; it’s definitely better than starving."

201 Golden Seal (Hydrastis canadensis), the plant she had used for Sam's knee, was acknowledged and celebrated, its remarkable golden root, "the best gold ever dug out of the ground," was depicted with the impression of the seal of the Wise King.

"Thim's Mandrakes, and they're really late, and you sure found them in the woods. Some call it May Apples, and others call it Kingroot. The Native Americans use it for their digestive issues, and I've seen it cure many horses of pole evil myself."

"An' Blue Cohosh, but I call it Spazzum-root. Thayer is nothing like it for spasms—took like tea; only for that the Indian women wouldn't live with all their troubles, but that's something that doesn't concern you. Look now, how the leaves are all spread out like one with spasms. Glory be to the Saints and the Blessed Virgin, everything is done for us on earth and clearly marked, if we'd only take the trouble to look."

"Now look at that," she said, rummaging through the bundle and pulling out a yellow Cypripedium. "That's called Moccasin plant by the Indians, but bless them for being blind, miserable heathens. They don’t know anything and don’t want to learn. This is Umbil, or Sterrick-root. It's really good for sterricks. Look at it! See the face of a woman suffering from sterricks, with her hair flying and her mouth dropping open. I remember the time Larry's little girl didn't want to go to her 'place' and had sterricks. They just sent for me, and I brought along a Sterrick-root. First, I said, 'Get me some boiling water,' and I made tea and gave it to her piping hot. As sure as I'm a living being, the very first spoonful helped her right away. Oh, but it's God's own gift, and by His blessing, we know how to use it. And it doesn’t do to just go and dig it up when you want it. It has to be harvested when the flower isn’t there. You see, the strength isn't in both places at once. It's either in the flower or in the root, so when the flower is there, the root is as useful as old straw. You have to hunt for it in spring or fall, just when the devil himself wouldn’t know where to find it."

"Well, what do you have there? Wow! If it isn't Skunk's Cabbage! You definitely came up by the Bend. That's the only place it grows."

"Yes," replied Yan; "that's exactly where I got it. But hang on, Granny, I want to draw all of those and write down their names and what you say about them."

"Sure, you'd have a big book when I was done," said the old woman proudly as she lit her pipe, striking the match on what would have been the leg of her pants if she had been a man.

"Yeah, you really don’t need to write down what they’re good for, because the good Lord took care of that long ago. Look here now. That’s Cohosh, for spasms, and it looks like it; that’s Moccasin, for high fevers, and it looks like it; well, there’s Skunk-root for both, and doesn’t it look like the two of them together?"

Yan weakly agreed, but found it hard to see what the plant shared with the others.

"Look here! There you have Lowbelier, which some people call Indian tobacco. You found this by the 203 creek, and it's a little early—ahead of time. That's the stuff that will make you throw up when you want to. Look, isn't that just the shape of a stomach?"

"Thayer's the Highbelier; it's a high herb, and it's really good for your digestion when you drink the dry root."

"Spicewood" [Spicebush, Lindera benzoin], "or Fayverbush, those twigs are great for tea—that cures chills and fevers. It sure shakes every time the wind blows."

"That's Clayvers," she said, picking up a Galium. "Now what do you think that's for?"

"I have no idea. What is it?"

"Look now, and see how it's written in it clear as day—yes, and a lot clearer, because I can read them and I can't read a word in a book. Now what is that like?" she said, holding up the double seed-pod.

"A brain and spinal column," Yan said.

"Oh, child, I have better eyes than you. Sure, those are two kidneys, and that's what clover tea will cure better than all the doctors in the world, and you have to know just how. You see, kidney trouble is a kind of fever; it's heating, so you make your clover tea in cold water; if you make it with warm water it just makes you worse and acts like deadly poison. There's sweat plant, or boneset [Eupatorium perfoliatum], that's the thing to make you sweat. Once I saw a fellow just dying of dry heat, was all bound up, and the doctors tried and tried and couldn't help one bit, until I gave his mother some boneset leaves to make tea, and he sweated buckets before he even smelled it, and the doctors thought they did it themselves!" and she cackled gleefully.

"Thayer's Goldthread cures canker sores, and Pipsissewa helps with fevers and rheumatism, too. It always grows where people get these diseases. Look at the flower, it's just spotted red and white like fever spots—and there's Spearmint, which can save you if you poison yourself with Spasm-root, and it grows right next to it in the woods!"

"Thayer's Wormseed for worms—check out the little worm on the leaves" [Chenopodium] "and that there is Pleurisy root, and look! that’s the finest herb that God ever made to grow—that's Cure-all. Some things cure one thing and some cure another, but when you’re not sure what to take, you make tea from that root and you can’t go wrong. An Indian taught me that. The poor miserable heathen had some knowledge, and the minute he showed me, I knew it was true, for every leaf was three in one and one in three, and had the sign of the blessed cross in the middle as clear as that kettle sitting on the stove."

Thus she chatted away, smoking her short pipe, spitting onto the top of the hot stove, but with true feminine delicacy she was careful each time to wipe her mouth on the back of her skinny arm.

"That's what's called Catnip; I remember well the day I first learned about it. It wasn't an Indian nor a doctor nor a man at all that taught me. It was that old black Cat, and may the saints be between me and his green eyes! Sometimes he scares me with his wise ways, but I have nothing against him except that he kills little birds. He kind of moped around one winter and lay by the stove. Whenever the door was open he'd go and look out, then come back and meow and whine and lie down—and he kept getting weaker and worse, until the snow was gone and the grass came up, and still he'd look toward the east, especially at night. Then a plant came up that I had never seen before, right there, and he'd look at it like he wanted it but didn’t dare to. There were some fine trees around in those days before the old beast cut them down, and one had a big limb, so—and another so—and when the moon came up full at just the right time, the shadows made the sign of the cross and lit up my door, and after it passed it didn’t make any cross. Well, finally the full moon came up and she made the sign of the shadow cross, and the old Cat went out and watched and watched like he wanted to but didn’t dare to, until that cross dropped fire onto the herbs, and then Tom jumped and ate and ate, and from that day he was a healthy Cat; and that's how I learned about Catnip, and it set my mind easy too, for no Cat that's possessed will ever eat under the shadow of the cross."

Yan was busy writing, but had stopped trying to make sketches or even notes beyond the 206 names of the plants.

"Sure, kid, put those papers with the names on the herbs and save them; that’s what Doctor Carmartin did when I was teaching him. There, now, that's it," she added, as Yan took the hint and started putting a paper label with the name on each stalk.

"That’s an interesting broom," said Yan, as he noticed the symbol of order and cleanliness, casting odd reflections on itself.

"Yeah, for sure, that's a Baitche broom. Larry makes those."

"Larry?"

"Yeah, my boy." [Larry was almost sixty.] "He makes them from Blue Baitche."

"How?" Yan asked, picking it up and examining it with great interest.

"Sure, by whittling. Larry's a total whiz at it, and he gets a Blue Baitche sapling about three inches thick and starts whittling long shavings, but leaves them on the stick at one end until they're all around like that."

"What, like a lighter?"

"Yes, yes, that's it, just bigger, and Blue Baitche is really tough. Then when he has the thickness down to about an inch, he ties all the slivers the wrong way with a strand of Litherwood, trims down the handle to fit, and evens up the end of the broom with the axe, then lets it dry out, and there you have it, 207. A better broom was never made, and there was never any other in the family until he married that Kitty Connor, the lowest of the low, and I was completely against her, with her pride and her stuck-up ways; nothing but bought things were good enough for her, she who never had a decent man until she snagged my Larry. Yes, low as it may be said, but 'snagged' is the word," said the old woman, raising her voice to emphasize that told a scandalous story.

At that moment, the door opened and Biddy walked in, and since she was the daughter of the difficult Kitty, the conversation changed.

"Sure, I'm so glad to see you! When are you coming to stay at our place?" was her greeting to Yan, and while they chatted, Granny took the opportunity to take a long sip from a bottle that looked and smelled like Lung-balm.

"Hi, Biddy, you're early," said Granny.

"Sure, it was late when I left home, and the schoolmaster says it's always like that walking from east to west."

"Sure, I'm glad to say you'll stay and eat with us. It’s not a fancy meal, but thank God we have enough and a warm welcome for everyone. You say Biddy makes me dinner every fine day, and I get a meal and a drink for myself at other times. I sleep alone with my Dog and Cat, and there are only a handful of apples left, but what we have is yours. Help yourself, kid, and eat well," and she pulled back the 208 gray-looking bedcovers to reveal the last half-dozen rosy apples.

"Aren't you scared to sleep here alone at night, Grandma?"

"Sure what do I have to fear? There were never any robbers except for that one time, and I got their last cent off them. They came one night and broke in, and sitting up, I said, 'Now what are you looking for?'"

"'Money,' they said, because there was talk all around that I had sold my cow for $25.

"'Sure, fine, I'll get up and help you,' I said, for I haven't been able to set my eyes on since the apple harvest.'"

'"We want $25, or we'll kill you."'

"'Faith, and if it was twenty-five cents I couldn't help it,' I said, 'and I'm ready to die,' I said, 'because I was confessed last week and I'm saying my prayers this minute.'"

" Says the smallest one, and he wasn't that small, nearly as broad as that door, 'Haven't you sold your cow?'"

"'You'll find her in the barn,' I said, 'though I hate to have you disturb her sleeping. It makes her dream and that's bad for the milk.'"

"Then the next thing, those two robbers were laughing at each other like fools. Then the little one says:

"'Now, Granny, we'll leave you in peace, if you'll never say a word about this'—but the other one seemed kind of sulky.

209 "'Don't worry,' I said, 'and we'll be good friends yet,' and they were heading for the door to leave when I said:

"'Hold on! My friends can't leave my house without eating or drinking anything; turn your backs, please, until I get my skirt on.' And when I was up and decent and told them they could look, I said, 'You'll taste the finest lung balm in the land.' Then the littlest guy starts coughing, oh, a terrible cough—it really scared me, like a bad case of croup—and the other one seemed just mad, and the little one made fun of him. I noticed that the mean one was left-handed or pretended to be, but when he reached for the bottle, he only had three fingers on his right hand, and both of them had the biggest, blackest, ugliest beards—I’d recognize those two beards anywhere—and the littlest one had a rag around his head, claiming he had a toothache, but sure, your teeth don’t hurt in the roots of your hair. Then when they were leaving, the littlest one put a dollar in my hand and said, 'It’s all we have between us, Granny.' 'God bless you,' I said, 'and I appreciate it. It’s the first I’ve seen since the apple harvest, and you have a friend in me when you need one,'” and the old woman chuckled over her victory.

"Granny, do you know what the Native Americans use for dyeing colors?" asked Yan, returning to his main point.

"Sure, Yahn, they just go to the store and buy dyes in packages like we do."

210 "But before there were store-bought dyes, didn't they use things from the woods?"

"That they did, for sure. Everything man ever needed, the good Lord made grow for him in the woods."

"Yes, but which plants?"

"Facts, and they vary for different reasons."

"Yes, but what are they?" Then realizing that broad questions didn't work, he approached it in detail.

"What did they use for yellow dye on the porcupine quills— I mean before they started using store-bought dyes?"

"Well, sure, that's a pretty yellow flower that blooms in the fall out in the field and along the fences. I call it the Yellow Weed, but some call it Goldenrod. They boil the stems in water with the flower. Look! There's some wool dyed that way."

"What's the red for?" Yan asked, quickly jotting it down.

"Fake, and they didn't have any really good red. They made some kind of red out of boiled berry juice, and once I saw a really nice red that an old woman made by boiling the quills first in yellow for a while and then in red."

"What berries make the best red, Grandma?"

"Well, it’s not the red ones, as you might think. You can make it from raspberries or sumac or huckleberries and lots more, but black currants are redder than red currants, and squaw berries are the best of them all."

"What are they like now?"

"Sure, I'll show you that same herb," and they walked around outside the cabin searching in vain. "It's too early," said Granny, "but it's 211 around here in piles in August and is the prettiest red ever grown. And pokeweed, too, it isn't really blooming yet, but in the fall it has berries that are so red they're almost black, and it dyes the prettiest shade of purple."

"What creates blue?"

"There's no real blue in the woods. There might be some, but I haven't found it and I've never seen it. You can make a kind of grain from the young shoots of Elder, but it doesn't look nice like that," and she pointed to a bright green ribbon that Biddy was wearing, "and a brown from Butternut bark, and a black from White Oak chips and bark. You can create a type of grain with two dips, one yellow and one black. You can dye black with Hickory bark, and orange (which isn't great) with the inner bark of Birch, and yellow with the roots of Hoop Ash, and a nice scarlet from the bark of the small root of Dogwood, but there’s no real blue in the woods, and that's what I tell those orange-and-blue Prattisons on the 12th of July, because what the Lord didn't create, the devil did."

"You can make a kind of blue from the indigo plant, but it’s not like this," pointing to some bright cobalt, "and if it’s not found in the woods, the good Lord never meant for us to have it. Yes! I tell you it’s the devil’s own color; that blue-orange and blue are definitely the devil's colors, because brimstone is yellow; and it’s blue when it’s burning, that I heard from his reverence himself—bless him!"

Biddy had waddled around the room, slapping the floor with her big bare feet as she got their dinner ready. She was clearly trying to show off a bit, since she turned out her toes a lot. She mentioned a few times about "the time when she lived with your mom," then finally asked, "Where's the tablecloth, Granny?"

"Now, would you listen to that, and she knowing that we don’t have a stitch in the world, and glad enough to have food on the table, let alone a piece of clothing," said Granny, unaware of the damage she was causing to Biddy's pride.

"Do you want tea or coffee, Yahn?" asked Biddy.

"Tea," was Yan's pick.

"Well, I'm glad you mentioned tea because I haven't had any coffee since Christmas, and the tea I can find in the woods isn't great. But I have something for you that doesn't grow in the woods," the old woman said as she limped over to a corner shelf. She took down an old cigar box and from among the matches, tobacco, feathers, tacks, pins, thread, and dust, she pulled out six lumps of sugar, which used to be white.

"Thayer, sure, and I was keeping this for when his reverence comes; once a year he's here, God bless 213 him! But that's four weeks ahead, and God knows what might happen before then. Here, and a hearty welcome," she said, dropping three of the lumps into Yan's tea. "We'll save the rest for your second cup. Want some cream?" and she pushed over a sticky-handled shaving mug full of excellent cream. "Biddy, give Yan some bread."

The loaf, clearly the only one, was sliced up and two or three pieces were pushed onto Yan's plate.

"Might be the butter is a little high," the hostess remarked, noticing that Yan was using it sparingly. "Hold on." She went back to the corner shelf and took down an old glass jar with a scalloped edge and a flat tin lid. It clearly contained jam. She lifted the lid and exclaimed:

"Well, I never!" Then she walked to the door, fished out a dead mouse with her fingers, and tossed it outside, calmly saying, "I've been wondering where the little devil was. I haven't seen him in two weeks, and I thought Tom ate him. May I be forgiven for that injustice. Those flies! That cover never did fit." And again, she used her finger, this time to scrape off a layer of unfortunate flies that had died, like Clarence, in their favorite drink.

"Thayer, Yan, now ate heartily, all of it, and welcomed. It makes me happy to see you eating—there’s plenty more where that came from," though it was obvious that she had put everything she had on the table.

214 Poor Yan was in trouble. He instinctively sensed that the kind old lady was using up her week's resources on such extravagant hospitality, but he also knew she would be really hurt if he didn’t seem to enjoy everything. The only possibly safe option was the bread. He focused on that; it was of very low quality; finding one or two hairs in his teeth was off-putting, but when he bit into a piece of cloth with a button on it, he was quite upset. He managed to hide the rag, but couldn’t conceal his sudden loss of appetite.

"Heave some more of this and this," and despite his reluctance, his plate was stacked with all sorts of food, including a bunch of perfectly boiled potatoes. Unfortunately, the hostess brought them from the pot on the stove in a corner of her old and dark apron, and served him with her bony hand.

Yan's appetite was completely gone now, to the dismay of his kind host, "Sure she’d make him something to help him feel better," and Yan had a tough time convincing her otherwise.

"Would you like an egg?" Biddy asked.

"Absolutely! Oh, yes, please," exclaimed Yan, with almost too much excitement. He thought, "Well, hens are pure-hearted animals, after all. An egg is definitely going to be clean."

Biddy waddled off to the 'barrun' and quickly came back with three eggs.

"Boiled or fried?"

"Boiled," Yan said, trying to play it safe.

215 Biddy scanned the area for a pot.

"Sure, that's boiling now," said Granny, pointing to the large pile of her undergarments bubbling in the boiler, and so the eggs were dropped in there.

Yan fervently prayed that they wouldn’t break. As it turned out, two did crack open, but he got the other one, and that was basically his dinner.

A Purple Blackbird hopped in through the door.

"Will, now, there's Jack. Where have you been? I thought you were gone for good. I sure saved him from a murdering gunman," she explained. "(Bad luck to the beast! I believe he was an Orangeman.) But he's all right now and comes and goes like he owned the place. Now, Jack, you get out of that water bucket," as the beautiful bird jumped into the half-filled drinking bucket and started to bathe.

"Now look at that," she shouted, "you little rascal, come out of that oven," because now the Blackbird had taken advantage of the open door to scramble into the dark, warm oven.

"Thayer goes to warm his feet. Oh, you little rascal! Next thing you know, someone will slam the door, not knowing a thing, and fire up, and you'll be roasting alive. Sure, I'm tempted to wring your pretty neck to save your life," and she pushed him out with the harshest words and the gentlest hands.

Then Yan, carrying a bunch of labeled plants, headed home.

216 "Good boy, child, come back again and see me soon. Bring some more herbs. Good boy, and God bless you. I hope it’s not a sin to say this, because I know you’re a Prattison and all of you are headed to hell, but you’re a nice boy. I’m really sorry you’re a Prattison."

When Yan returned to the Raftens', he found the dinner table set for one, even though it was now three in the afternoon.

"Come and get your dinner," Mrs. Raften said in her gently nurturing way. "I’ll start the steak. It'll be ready in five minutes."

"But I've had dinner with Granny de Neuville."

"Yeah, I get it!"

"Did she stir your tea with one front paw and put jam on your bread with the other?" asked Raften, rather rudely.

"Did she boil her pet blackbird for your soup?" said Sam.

Yan turned bright red. Clearly, everyone had a good idea of what he had gone through, but it bothered him to hear their mocking of the kind old soul.

He replied warmly, "She was as kind and nice as she could be."

"You should probably have a steak now," said Mrs. Raften, with a concerned tone.

How tempting was the thought of that juicy brown steak! How his empty stomach craved it! But the ongoing teasing had riled him up. He would stand up for the kind old woman who had generously given him everything she had to make a warm welcome for a stranger. 217 They should never know how eagerly he would have eaten now, and out of loyalty to his recent hostess, he told the first lie of his life:

"No, thank you very much, but honestly, I'm not hungry at all. I had a great dinner at Granny de Neuville's."

Then, pushing aside the feelings of emptiness, he went about his evening tasks.

"Wonder where Caleb got that big piece of birch bark," said Yan; "I'd like some for dishes."

"Yeah, I know. He was at Burns's place. We don't have any here. We can get some."

"Are you going to ask him?"

"Nah, who cares about an old Birch tree? We'll just borrow it when he’s not watching."

Yan was hesitant.

Sam grabbed the axe. "We'll consider this a war party heading into enemy territory. There's definitely a fight waiting for us in that direction. He's one of Dad's 'friends.'"

Yan followed, still unsure about the complete honesty of the situation.

Over the line, they quickly spotted a decent-sized canoe, Birch, and were hard at work trying to get free from a long roll when a tall man and a small boy, drawn in by the noise, appeared and headed in their direction. Sam muttered under his breath, "It's old Burns. Let's get out of here."

There was no time to save anything but themselves and the axe. They ran for the boundary fence, while Burns shouted out threats and accusations. Not that he cared at all for the Birch tree—wood wasn't worth much in that area—but 219 unfortunately Raften had fallen out with all his close neighbors, so Burns tried hard to turn the minor theft into a serious crime.

His brave son, slightly smaller than either Yan or Sam, got close enough to the boundary to throw out insults.

"Red-head—red-head! You red-haired thief! Hold on till my dad gets a hold of you—Raften, the Baften, the rick-strick Straften," and others just as annoying and even more cleverly put.

"War party escaped and saved their scalps," and Sam calmly put the axe back where it normally goes.

"Nothing lost but honor," added Yan. "Who's the kid?"

"Oh, that's Guy Burns. I know him. He's a nasty little jerk, always lurking and spying. Lies constantly. He won the prize—a big scrubbing brush—for being the dirtiest kid in school. We all voted, and the teacher handed it to him."

Next day, the boys planned another trip for Birch bark, but had barely started when there was a commotion nearby, and a voice, clearly from a little boy, trying to sound tough, shouted: "Hey, you're the —— ——. Get off my —— —— land —— ——"

"Let’s catch that little rascal, Yan."

"Let's burn him at the stake and torture him horribly," was the response.

They headed towards him, but once again the sight of Burns turned their attack into a quick retreat.

(More criticism.)

In the days that followed, the boys often stayed near the boundary, but Burns happened to be working nearby, and Guy had the sharpest eyes and ears. The little rat always seemed ready and aware. He quickly revealed through his distant comments that he knew all about the boys' activities—he had probably checked out the camp while they were away. Several times, they caught him watching them with great interest while they practiced with their bows and arrows, but he always withdrew to a safe distance when noticed and then had a blast pretending to unleash fire and chaos.

One day, the boys arrived at the camp at an odd hour. As Yan walked into a nearby thicket, he spotted a bare foot under some leaves. "Hey, what's this?" He bent down and discovered a leg connected to it, and at the end of that leg was Guy Burns.

Up Guy jumped, shouting "Dad—Dad—DAD!" He ran for his life, the Indians screaming terrifying things behind him. But Yan was a runner, and Guy's chubby legs, even fueled by fear, didn't stand a chance. He was caught and pulled back to the camp while howling.

"You leave me alone, you Sam Raften—now just leave me alone!" However, there was a noticeable absence of anger in his words now. (Such sensitivity is praiseworthy in young people.)

"First, we need to secure the prisoner, Yan."

Sam made a cord.

"Pooh," Yan said. "You have no style. Bring me some Leatherwood."

This was happening, and despite the howls and struggles, Guy was seriously tied to a tree—a green one—because, as Yan pointed out, that would hold up better against the fire.

The two Warriors now sat cross-legged by the fire. The older one lit a peace pipe, and they began to discuss the fate of the unfortunate captive.

"Brother," Yan said with grand gestures, "it's really nice to hear the cries of this pathetic white guy." (It was honestly becoming more than they could take.)

"Ugh—so good," said the Woodpecker.

"You better leave me alone. My dad will take care of you for this, you dirty cowards," the prisoner wailed, quickly losing control of his words.

"Ugh! Take his scalp first, burn him after," and Little Beaver made some expressive gestures.

"Wah—bully—me heap wicked," replied the Woodpecker, spitting on a stone and starting to sharpen his jackknife.

The sharp and unsettling "weet, weet, weet" of the knife against the stone hit Guy's ears and nerves with a terrifying impact.

"Brother Woodpecker, the spirit of our tribe is calling out for the victim's blood—all of it."

"Great Chief Woodpecker, you mean," said Sam, aside. "If you don't call me Chief, I won't call you 222 Chief, that's all."

The Great Woodpecker and Little Beaver now entered the teepee, painted each other's faces, adjusted their headdresses, and stepped out for the execution.

The Woodpecker sharpened his knife again. It didn't really need it, but he enjoyed the sound.

Little Beaver now carried a bunch of light firewood and set it down in front of the prisoner, but Guy's legs were free, and he kicked it, sending it all flying. The two War-chiefs jumped aside. "Ugh! So bold," said the fierce Woodpecker. "Tie his legs, oh, Brother Great Chief Little Beaver!"

A new strip of bark tied his legs tightly to the tree. Then Chief Woodpecker came over with his knife and said:

"Great Brother Chief Little Beaver, if we scalp him, there’s only one scalp, and you will have nothing to show for it, unless you’re happy with the wishbone."

Here was a challenge, both artificial and real, but Yan suggested:

"Great Brother Chief Red-headed-Woodpecker-Settin'-on-a-Stump-with-his-Tail-Waggling-over-the Edge, don’t take his scalp; peel back his whole head skin, then each of us take half of the skin."

"Wah! Very good, oh Brother Big Chief Great Little Beaver Who Takes Down Trees."

Then the Woodpecker grabbed a piece of charcoal and seriously started to draw on the rough hair of the prisoner what he thought was a fair 225 division. Little Beaver argued that he deserved an ear and half of the crown, which is the important part of the scalp. The Woodpecker pointed out that luckily the prisoner had a cowlick that was basically a second crown. This should work perfectly for the younger Chief's share. They brushed off the charcoal lines to start over. Both Chiefs took charcoal now, and a new sketch plan was created on Guy's rough top and adjusted until it was agreed upon by both.

The victim had really never lost hope until now. His stream of threats and insults had been non-stop and pretty boring. He had threatened to tell his "dad" and "the teacher," and everyone else, but finally he said he would tell Mr. Raften. This was the closest to a personal attack yet, and feeling a bit uneasy, the Woodpecker turned to Little Beaver and said:

"Brother Chief, do you understand the language of the clueless White man? What is he saying?"

"Ugh, I don’t know," was the reply. "Maybe he’s singing a death song in his own language now."

Guy wasn’t lacking in courage. He had kept his spirits up, thinking the boys were just "messing around," but when he felt the terrible charcoal line drawn to clearly split his scalp between those two cruel, painted creatures, and when with a final "weet, weet, weet" of the knife on the stone the unyielding Woodpecker came closer and grabbed his locks in one hand, he finally broke down and cried hard.

226 "Oh, please don't—Oh, Dad! Oh, Mom! Let me go this time and I'll never do it again." What he was refusing to do wasn't mentioned, but it was clear he had given up.

"Wait, Great Brother Chief," said Little Beaver. "It's customary for the tribes to release or even adopt prisoners who have shown remarkable bravery."

"Showed enough strength for six if it’s the same thing as yelling," said the Woodpecker, slipping back into his own way of speaking.

"Let's cut his bonds so he can escape to his own people."

"Maybe it would be more dramatic if we left him there overnight and found out the next morning that he managed to escape on his own," said the older Chief. The victim realized his situation was getting better and now, through sobs, promised to bring them all the Birch bark they wanted—to do anything, if they would just let him go. He would even steal the best fruits from his father's orchard for them.

Little Beaver took out his knife and cut one bond after another.

Woodpecker grabbed his bow and arrow, saying, "Ugh, it's so much fun to shoot while he's running."

The last strip of bark was cut. Guy didn't need any encouragement. He ran to the boundary fence quietly until he made it over; then, feeling safe and unchased, he filled the air with threats and curses. None of what he said is suitable for printing here.

After such a scary experience, most boys would have stayed away from that swamp, but Guy knew Sam at 227 school as an easygoing guy. He started to think he had been overly frightened. He was driven by several reasons, with intense curiosity being perhaps the biggest. So one day when the boys arrived at camp, they noticed Guy sneaking off. It was fun to catch him and pull him back. He was pretty moody and not as loud as before, clearly less afraid. The Chiefs talked about fire and torture and about dunking him in the pond, but he didn’t seem to care much. Then they started to question the prisoner. He didn’t answer. Why did he come to the camp? What was he doing—stealing? etc. He just looked grumpy.

"Let's blindfold him and drive a Gyascutus down his back," said Yan in a flat voice.

"Good idea," Sam agreed, not knowing any more than the prisoner what a Gyascutus was. Then he added, "might as well be merciful. It'll take him out of pain."

It’s the unknown that scares us the most. The prisoner’s soul was stirred once more. His mouth was quivering at the corners. He was starting to crack when Yan pressed on: “So why don’t you tell us what you’re doing here?”

He cried out, "I want to play Native American, too."

The boys fell apart in a different way. They hadn't had time to paint their faces, so their expressions were really clear this time.

Then Little Beaver stood up and spoke to the Council.

228 "Great Leaders of the Sanger Nation: The last time we tortured and burned this prisoner, he really stood out. Never before has one of our prisoners displayed so many different talents. I suggest we welcome him into the Tribe."

The Woodpecker then got up and said:

"O wisest Chief, there’s only one in this Tribe, and that’s fine. But you know that no warrior can join us without first proving that he’s the real deal, tough, and a cut above the rest. It’s never been any other way. Now he has to defeat a Warrior of the Tribe. Can you do that?"

"Nope."

"Or outrun him or outshoot him or something—or give us all a gift. What can you do?"

"I can steal watermelons, and I can see farther than any boy in school, and I can sneak better than anyone. I’ve watched you guys a lot from those bushes. I saw you building that dam. I swam in it before you did, and I used to sit and smoke in your teepee when you weren’t there, and I heard you talking when you were planning to steal our birch bark."

"Doesn't seem to me like any of this shows much strength. Do you have any gifts for the oldest leader of the tribe?"

"I'll get you all the birch bark you want. I can't get what you cut because my dad and I burned that so you couldn't get it, but I'll get you plenty more, and maybe—I’ll steal you a chicken now and then."

"His intentions are clearly good. Let's take him in for now," said Yan.

229 "Okay," said the chief, "he can come in, but that doesn't affect my right to the left half of his scalp down to that patch of yellow moss on the back of his neck where the collar has worn off the dirt. I can ask for it anytime, and the ear goes with it."

Guy wanted to treat this as a joke, but Sam's sparkling eyes and unreadable expression were focused intensely on that "yaller tuft" in a way that gave him the "creeps" again.

"Hey, Yan—I mean Great Little Beaver—you know all about this. What kind of tricks did they have to pull to get into a Native American tribe, anyway?"

"Different tribes have their own practices, but the Sun Dance and the Fire Test are the most respected and both incredibly challenging."

"Well, what did you do?" asked the Great Woodpecker.

"Both," Yan said with a grin, recalling his sunburned arms and shoulders.

"Are you really sure?" said the older Chief with a tone of uncertainty.

"Yeah, I handled it so well that everyone there said I was the best in the Tribe," said Little Beaver, leaving out the part that he was the only one in it. "They all agreed to call me 'Howling Sunrise.'"

"Well, I want to be 'Howling Sunrise,'" shouted Guy in his high-pitched voice.

"You? You have no idea if you can even pass, you Yaller Mossback."

230 "Come on, Mossy, what are you going to do?"

Guy chose to get sunburned up to his waist. He was already burnt and freckled up to his shoulders, on both his arms and neck, and his miserable cotton shirt barely blocked the sun's rays, leaving his skin a deep yellow shade with a few scattered freckles. So, he spent an entire day at camp wearing only his pants, and since he was so used to the sun, he didn't get burned.

As the sun dipped low, the Chiefs gathered for a meeting.

The chief looked at the new warrior, shook his head seriously, and said firmly: "Too inexperienced to thrive. Your name is Sapwood."

Protest was pointless. "Sappy" was his name, and he had to stick with it until he earned a better one. The peace pipe was passed around, and he was officially named the third War Chief of the Sanger Indians (the word War added upon request).

He was definitely the most harmless member of the group and took unusual joy in pretending to be someone with an ongoing thirst for human blood. War paint was his passion, and he was surprisingly good at turning his round, smiling face into a savage look of disturbing ferocity with it. Painting was both his hobby and his pride, but sadly, it often happens that one’s deepest sadness is right in the middle of one’s greatest happiness—the deepest lake is found in the old crater at the top of the highest mountain. Sappy's eyes were not the sinister black beads of the sly Native American, but a washed-out blue. He could hide his messy, tow-colored 231 hair under wisps of horsehair, and the paint itself helped mask his freckled skin, but there was no hiding his white eyelashes and pale, piggy, blue eyes. He kept his sadness to himself, however, because he knew that if the others caught wind of how he felt, they would have quickly renamed him "Dolly" or "Birdy," or some other equally terrible and un-Indian name.

"Hey, Yan, I saw a Blood-Robin this morning."

"That's a new one," Yan said, sounding doubtful.

"Well, it's the prettiest bird in the country."

"What? A hummingbird?"

"Aw, no. They're not pretty, just small."

"Well, that shows how little you understand," Yan shot back, "'because these amazing winged jewels are both the smallest and the most vividly colored of all the feathered species.'" He had read that phrase somewhere, and his keen memory had picked up on it.

"Pssh!" said Sam. "Sounds like a story, but I bet I've seen hundreds of hummingbirds around the trumpet vine and bee balm in the garden, and they weren't even close to being as pretty as this one. I mean, it's as red as blood, shines like fire, and has black wings. The old witch says the Indians call it a war bird because whenever it flew along the trail, there was definitely going to be a war, which makes sense since they were always at it."

"Oh, I know," said Yan. "A Scarlet Tanager. Where did you spot it?"

"Well, it came from the trees and then landed on the highest pole of the teepee."

233 "Hope there isn't going to be any war there, Sam. I wish I had one to fill."

"Tried to get him for you, kid, despite the rules. Could've done it too, with a gun. I took a shot at him with an arrow and I haven't been the same since. That was my best arrow, too—old Sure-Death."

"Will you give me the arrow if I can find it?" said Guy.

"Of course, I won't. What would that do for me?"

"Can you give me your chewing gum?"

"Nope."

"Can you lend it to me?"

"Yes."

"Well, there's your old arrow," Guy said, pulling it from between the logs where it had landed. "I saw it go there and figured I'd just stay hidden and see how things unfolded, as Yan says," and Guy whinnied.

Early in the morning, the Native Americans in war paint set off on a hunt. They had their bows and arrows with them and were completely alert, checking the trail periodically and listening for any "signs of the enemy."

Their moccasined feet were silent, and their sharp eyes noticed every leaf that moved as their muscular bodies moved between the massive trunks of the ancient trees—at least, that's what Yan's notebook claimed. They definitely made very little noise, but they startled a small hawk that flew away from a Balsam-fir—a "Fire tree" as they now called it since they discovered the amazing properties of the 234 wood.

Three arrows were fired at it, and no damage was done. Yan then looked up into the tree and shouted:

"A nest."

"Looks to me like a fluff ball," said Guy.

"Guess not," Yan replied. "Didn't we chase the Hawk away?"

He was a great climber, definitely the best of the three, and dropping his headgear, coat, leggings, and weapon, she quickly climbed up the Balsam trunk, completely indifferent to the gum that hung in crystalline drops or the easily burst bark blisters on every part.

He had barely disappeared into the lower branches when Satan slipped into Guy's heart and urged him like this:

"Let's pull a prank on him and get out of here."

Sam's sense of humor captivated him. They filled Yan's coat and pants with leaves and trash, put them all together with the headpiece, then drove one of his own arrows through the chest of the coat into the ground and took off.

Meanwhile, Yan reached the top of the tree and found that the nest was just one of those fuzz balls that are so common on fir trees. He called out to his friends but got no response, so he climbed down. At first, the silly dummy seemed funny, but then he realized that his coat had been damaged and the arrow was broken. He called for his companions again, but still no answer; again and again, without any reply. He went to the place they had all planned to go, but if they were there, they were hiding from him. Feeling abandoned, he returned to camp in a pretty bad mood. They weren’t there. He sat by the fire for a while, then, giving in to his habit of being productive, he took off his coat and started working on the dam.

He got so wrapped up in his work that he didn't notice the runaways coming back until he heard a voice say, "What's this?"

On turning, he saw Sam focused on his private notebook and then starting to read aloud:

"Kingbird, fearless crested Kingbird You are——"

But Yan grabbed it from his hands.

"I bet the rest was something about 'Singbird,'" said Sam.

Yan's face was flushed with shame and anger. He had a flair for the poetic and was extremely sensitive about anyone seeing his work. The Kingbird incident during their long evening walk was just one of many like it. He had come to enjoy watching the brave little bird attack the Hawks and Crows, and he amplified those moments into grand heroics, feeling compelled to capture them in rhyme. It was very important to him, and the idea of his feelings becoming a joke to others was more than he could handle. Of course, Guy stepped in and grinned, following Sam's lead. Then he announced in a flat tone, as if sharing ordinary news, "They say a fearless-crested Indian was shot in the woods today."

236 The morning's emptiness put Yan in a bad mood. He correctly blamed Guy for the rudeness. Turning angrily toward him, he said, with intention:

"Alright, cut out the attitude, you sneaky little troublemaker."

"I'm not talking to you," Guy laughed, and followed Sam into the teepee. There were quiet voices inside for a while. Yan went over to the dam and started plugging mud into some potential holes. Soon, there was more laughter coming from the teepee, and then Guy emerged alone, struck a dramatic pose, and began to recite to a tree above Yan's head:

"Kingbird, fearless crested Kingbird,
You are just a beautiful songbird—"

But the mud was really useful, and Yan threw a clump that splattered Guy all over, sending him laughing into the teepee.

"Them's the bouquets," Sam was heard to say. "Go out and get some more; you definitely deserve them. Let me know when the calls for 'author' start?" Then there was more giggling. Yan was rapidly losing all control of himself. He grabbed a big stick and walked into the teepee, but Sam lifted the cover on the far side and slipped out. Guy tried to do the same, but Yan caught him.

"Here, I'm not doing anything."

The answer was a loud smack that made him squirm.

237 "Leave me alone, you big coward. I'm not going to hurt you. You should just back off. Sam! S–A–M! S–A–A–A–M!!!" as the stick came down again and again.

"Don't bother me," shouted Sam outside. "I'm writing poetry—it's a really tough job, poetry. He’s just trying to be nice, anyway."

Guy was screaming and crying a lot now.

"You’ll get more if you keep talking back to me," said Yan, stepping out to confront Sam with the notebook again, seemingly scribbling away. As soon as he spotted Yan, he stood up, cleared his throat, and began:

"Kingbird, bold crested—"

But he didn't finish it. Yan landed a brutal hit on his mouth. Sam jumped back a few steps. Yan grabbed a big rock.

"Don’t you throw that at me," Sam said with a serious tone. Yan launched it with all his strength and precision. Sam dodged and, in self-defense, charged at Yan, and they wrestled and fought, while Guy, driven by a desire for revenge, rushed in to assist Sam and landed a few minor punches.

Sam was heavier and stronger than Yan, but Yan had really improved since coming to Sanger. He was thin, but strong, and at school he had learned the classic hip-throw that goes back to the times of Cain and Abel. It was all he knew about wrestling, but it was enough. He was fueled by anger, too—and almost as soon as they started grappling, he found his opportunity. Sam's heels shot up, and he fell flat in the dust. One solid punch to the nose sent Guy crying out, and seeing Sam back on his feet, Yan charged at him again like a wild animal. Moments later, the big boy tumbled over the bank and landed in the pond.

"You wait and see if I don't get you kicked out of here," Sam shouted, now completely furious. "I'll tell Dad you're messing up the work." His eyes were filled with tears, and Guy's were shining with stars and tears. Neither of them noticed the fourth person nearby; but Yan did. There, not twenty yards away, stood William Raften, watching the entire scene unfold—his expression filled not with anger but with deep sadness and disappointment—not because they had fought—no—he understood boys well enough not to worry about that—but because his son, older and stronger than the other and backed by another boy, should lose in a fair fight to a thin, half-sick kid.

It was the hardest thing he had ever had to accept. He turned away without saying a word and vanished, never mentioning it again.

That night, the two of them stayed away from each other. Yan barely ate anything, and when Mrs. Raften kindly asked about his well-being, he told her he wasn't feeling great.

After dinner, they were sitting around the table, the men quietly dozing off, with Yan and Sam in a gloomy mood. Yan had it all figured out now. Sam would give a one-sided account of what happened; Guy would back him up. Raften himself had seen Yan's aggression.

The fun days at Sanger were over. He felt doomed, like a guilty prisoner waiting for their sentence to be carried out. There was only one lively person in the group: little Minnie. She was only three but was a big chatterbox. Like all kids, she loved a "secret," and one of her favorite tricks was to call someone over, pressing her pinky to her lips, and then when they leaned in, she'd whisper in their ear, "Don't tell." That was it. It was her idea of a "secret."

She was playing at her brother's knee. He picked her up and they whispered to each other, then she scrambled down and went to Yan. He lifted her with a tenderness that came from the thought that she alone loved him now. She signaled for him to lean down, wrapped her chubby arms around his neck and whispered, "Don't tell," then slid down, holding her dear innocent little finger warningly before her mouth.

What did it mean? Had Sam actually told her to do that, or was it just her old trick again? It didn't matter; it filled Yan's heart with warmth. He brought the little cherub back and whispered, "No, Minnie, I won’t tell." He started to realize how foolish he had been. Sam was a really great guy, he cared for him a lot, and he wanted to make amends; but no—with Sam threatening to kick him out, he couldn’t ask for forgiveness. No, he would just wait and see.

He ran into Mr. Raften multiple times that evening and never spoke a word. He hardly slept that night and woke up early. He tried to meet Mr. Raften alone—he really wanted to get it over with. He was the kind of person not mentioned in the Litany who craved "sudden death." But Raften was just the same as ever. At breakfast, Sam was his usual self, except when it came to Yan, and even then, he wasn’t much different. He had a swollen lip that he claimed he got from "tusslin' with the boys somehow or another."

After breakfast, Raften said:

"Yahn, I want you to come with me to the school."

"It's finally here," thought Yan, since the schoolhouse was on the way to the train station. But 243 why didn’t Raften just say "the station"? He wasn't someone to sugarcoat things. There was no mention of his handbag either, and there was no space for it in the buggy anyway.

Raften drove quietly. That was nothing out of the ordinary. Finally, he said:

"Yahn, what is your father going to think of you?"

"An artist," Yan said, curious about what this had to do with his firing.

"Does an artist have to be highly educated?"

"They're all better off because of it."

"Of course, of course, that's what I tell Sam. It's education that matters. Do artists make much money?"

"Yeah, some of them do. The successful ones can sometimes make millions."

"Millions? I don't think so. Aren't you stretching it just a bit?"

"No, sir. Turner made a million. Titian lived in a mansion, and so did Raphael."

"Hm. I don't know them, but maybe—just maybe. It's amazing what education can do—that's what I tell Sam."

They were getting close to the schoolhouse. It was holiday time, but the door was open, and on the steps were two older men with gray beards. They nodded at Raften. These men were the school trustees. One of them was Charles Boyle; the other was old Moore, who was poor as a church mouse but a friendly guy, and he was really added to the Board as a mediator between Boyle and Raften. 244 Boyle was definitely the more popular one. But Raften was always made a trustee because the people knew he would take excellent care of the funds, the school, and the students.

This was a special meeting called to plan for a new school building. Raften pulled out a lot of documents, including letters from the Department of Education. The School District had to cover half the cost; the Department would provide the other half if all conditions were met. The main requirement was that the schoolhouse had to have a certain amount of cubic feet of air for each student. This was crucial, but how could they confirm in advance if they had the minimum and weren’t going way over? They couldn’t ask the Department about it. They couldn’t consult the teacher either, since he was away and would probably give them more air than necessary. It was Raften who cleverly tackled this complex math problem and found a brave supporter in the thin, bright-eyed child.

"Yahn," he said, handing him a two-foot ruler, "can you tell me how many feet of air are in this room for each student when the seats are filled?"

"Are you talking about cubic feet?"

"Let's see," Raften and Moore said as they poked at the plans with their big fingers and clumsily handled the well-worn documents. They both said, "Yes, it says cubic feet." Yan quickly measured the length of the room and took the height with the map-lifter. The three old men 245 watched with awe and admiration as they saw how confident he seemed. He then counted the seats and asked, "Do you count the teacher?" The men debated this point before deciding, "Maybe you'd better; he takes up more breath than any of them. Ha, ha!"

Yan sketched out some numbers on paper and then said, "Twenty feet, give or take."

“Look at that,” said Raften in a bullying and triumphant voice; “just like the Government Inspector said it would. I told you he could. Now let’s put the new building to the test.”

More papers were reviewed.

"Yahn, how about this—twice the number of kids, one teacher, and the building is this way and that."

Yan thought for a moment and said, "Twenty-five feet each."

"See, didn’t I tell you," shouted Raften; "didn’t I say that dirty swindler of an architect was leading us right into the contractor’s trap—thought we were fools—a complete setup, the whole damn thing. Look at it! They’re just a bunch of thieves."