MIDNIGHT IN THE FOREST
Nautauquas, son of Powhatan, was returning at night through the forest
towards his lodge at Werowocomoco. Over his shoulder hung the deer he
had gone forth to slay. His mother had said to him:
"Thy leggings are old and worn, and thou knowest that good luck cometh
to the hunter wearing moccasins and leggings made from skins of his own
slaying. Go thou forth and kill a deer that I may soften its hide and
make a covering of it for thy feet."
So Nautauquas had taken his bow and a quiver of arrows, and while
Pocahontas and Cleopatra were sporting at the waterfall he had sought a
pond whose surface was all but covered with fragrant water lilies, and
he had hidden behind a sumac, bush, waiting patiently till a buck came
down alone to drink. Only one arrow did he spend, which found its place
between the wide branched antlers; then the hunter had waded into the
pond, pushing aside the lily pads, and with one cut of his knife he had
put an end to the struggling deer. Now he was bearing it home and he
thought with eagerness of the savory meat it would yield him on the
morrow. There was no doubt that he would have appetite ready for it, as
all day long he had eaten nothing. It had been easy enough for him to
have killed a squirrel and roasted it, but Nautauquas, knowing it was
part of a brave's training to accustom himself to hunger, often fasted a
long time voluntarily.
The night was a dark one, but now that the moon had risen, long vistas
of light shone down the forest avenues, generally at that time so free
from underbrush. Nautauquas, looking up through the branches at the
moon, thought how it was the squaw of the sun and remembered the queer
tales the old women were fond of relating about it.
Suddenly before him he saw a creature dancing down the moon-path,
whirling and springing about while a pair of rabbits, that were startled
in crossing the path, scurried off into a clump of sassafras bushes
nearby. Then, as if reassured, they sat there calmly, even when the
dancing figure came closer to them. And Nautauquas heard singing, though
the words of the song did not come to his ears. He slipped behind an oak
tree and watched the dancer advance. Now that it was nearer he
discovered that it was a young girl; her only garment, a skirt of white
buckskin, napped against her firm bare brown legs and a necklace of
white shells clicked as she spun about. In the branches above some
squirrels, awakened from their slumber, straightened their furry tails
and began to chatter and a screech-owl tuwitted and tuwhoed. There was
something familiar in the outlines, and Nautauquas was therefore not
completely astonished when, turning about, she showed the face of
Pocahontas.
"Matoaka," he cried, stepping from the shadow; "what dost thou here
alone at night?"
His sister did not scream nor jump at this sudden interruption. She
seized her brother's hand and pressed it gently.
"It was such a beautiful night, Nautauquas," she replied, "that I could
not lie sleeping in the lodge. I come often here."
"And hast thou no fear, little sister?" he asked affectionately; "no
fear of wild animals or of our enemies?"
"Wild animals will not hurt me. I patted a mother bear with cubs one
night, and she did not even growl."
Nautauquas did not doubt her word. He knew that there were certain human
beings whom beasts will not hurt.
"And enemies," she continued, "would not venture so near the village of
the mighty Powhatan."
"I heard thee singing, little White Feather; what was thy song?"
"I made it many moons ago," she answered, "and I sing it always when I
dance here at night. Listen then, thou shalt hear the song Matoaka,
daughter of Powhatan, made to sing in the woods by Werowocomoco."
And she danced slowly, imitating with head and hands, body and feet, the
words of her song.
I am the sister of the Morning Wind,
And he and I awake the lazy Sun.
We ruffle up the down of sleeping birds,
And blow our laughter in the rabbits' ears,
And bend the saplings till they kiss my feet,
And the long grass till it obeisance makes.
I am the sister of the wan Moonbeam
Who calls to me when I have fallen asleep:
Come, see how I have witched the world in white.--
So faint his voice no other ear can hear.
And I steal forth from out my father's lodge,
And of the world there only waketh I
And bears and wildcats and the sly raccoon
And deer from out whose eyes there look the souls
Of maidens who have died ere they knew love.
And then the world we shorten with our feet
That wake no echoes, but the hornèd owl
Sigheth to think that thus our wingless speed
All but outdoes that of the tree-dwellers.
When she had finished she threw herself down at his feet, asking:
"Dost thou like my song, my brother?"
"Yes, it is a new song, Matoaka, and some day thou must sing it for our
father. But it seemeth to me that thou art different from other maids.
They do not care to rise from their sleeping mats and go forth alone
into the forest."
"Perhaps they have not an arrow inside of them as have I."
Nautauquas had seated himself in the crotch of a dogwood-tree and looked
with interest at his sister below him.
"An arrow?" he queried; "what dost thou mean?"
"I think," she answered, speaking slowly, "that within me is an
arrow--not of wood and stone, but one of manitou--how shall I explain it
to thee? I must go forth to distances, to deeds. I am shot forward by
some bow and I may not hang idle in a quiver. I know," she continued,
fingering the quiver on his back, "how thine own arrow feels after thou
hast fashioned it carefully of strong wood and bound its head upon it
with thongs. It says to itself; 'I am happy here, hanging in my warm bed
on Nautauquas's back.' And then when thou takest it in thy hand and
fittest its notch to the bowstring, it crieth out: 'Now I shall speed
forth; now shall I cut the wind; now shall I journey where no arrow ever
journeyed before; now shall I achieve what I was fashioned for!'"
"Strange thoughts are these, little sister, for a maid to think," and
Nautauquas stroked the long braid against his knee.
"I am so happy, Nautauquas," she went on. "I love the warm lodge, the
fire embers in the centre, the smoke curling up towards the stars I can
see through the opening above me. I love to feel little Cleopatra's feet
touching my head as we lie there together. But then I feel the arrow
within me and I rise to my feet silently and creep out, and if the dogs
hear me I whisper to them and they lie down quietly again. I love
Werowocomoco, yet I long too to go beyond the village to where the sky
touches the earth. I love the tales of the beasts the old squaws tell,
but I want to hear the braves when they speak of war and ambushes.
Springtime and the sowing of the corn are full of delight, yet I look
forward eagerly to the earing of the corn and the fall of the leaf."
The maiden spoke passionately. So had she never spoken to anyone. She
ceased for a moment and there was no sound save the call of the owl.
Then she turned around and knelt, her elbows on her brother's knees, and
asked:
"Tell me, Nautauquas, tell me the truth, since thou canst speak naught
else; what manitou is in me that I am like to rushing water, to a stream
that hurries forward? What shall I become?"
"Something great, Matoaka," he answered; "I know not whether a
warrior--such there have been--a princess who shall hold many tribes in
her hand, or a prophetess; but I am certain that the arrow of thy
manitou shall bring down some fair game."
"Ah!" she breathed deeply. "I thank thee for thy words, Nautauquas, my
brother, and that thou hast not made sport of me."
"Why should anyone make sport of thee? It is not strange that the aspen
should quiver when the wind blows, nor that thou shouldst be swayed by
the spirit that is within thee, Matoaka. Some day--"
He was interrupted by a piercing scream from the depth of the forest. He
sprang to his feet; all the dreaminess of his attitude and mood had
vanished; he pulled an arrow from his quiver fitted it to the string in
readiness to shoot. Was it possible, he wondered, for any war party of
their enemies to have ventured so near Powhatan's stronghold without
having been halted at other villages belonging to his people? Pocahontas
too was on her feet, her head on one side, listening intently.
Again came the scream, then Nautauquas loosened his bow, saying:
"That is no human cry. It is a wildcat in agony. Let us go and see what
aileth it."
They ran swiftly towards the point from which the sound had come. Again
came the cry to guide them, and then there was silence as they ran
through the moonlight checkered by the shadows of the trees.
Nautauquas stood still suddenly, so suddenly that Pocahontas behind him
could not stop quickly enough and fell against him and almost down into
a ravine that lay beneath, but Nautauquas caught her on the very brink.
"It is down there," he pointed; "there must be a trap, I think. Let us
descend very carefully."
They clambered down through the darkness made by the overhanging bushes
and rocks. At the bottom the light was not obscured, and they beheld the
striped body of a large wildcat caught in a trap.
"Look," cried Pocahontas excitedly, "there is another beast just there
in those bushes. Our coming must have frightened it. He has been trying
to kill the one in the trap, that cannot defend himself."
"That is so," assented Nautauquas, making ready to shoot the beast that
was at liberty in case it should spring towards them. But the animal
evidently had no taste that night for an encounter with human beings,
and slouched off and up the side of the ravine. The imprisoned animal,
they could see, was bleeding from a large wound on its back, and in the
moonlight its eyes shone like fire.
"Poor beast!" exclaimed Nautauquas compassionately. "I would free him if
he would let me touch him. As it is he will have to starve to death
unless his enemy comes back to finish him."
"No," said Pocahontas, "that need not be. I will loose him and bind up
his wound if thou wilt cut a strip off thy leggings."
"Silly child," he laughed. "A wild beast needs no balsam nor cloths for
his wounds. If he were free to drag himself to safety he would lick his
hurt till it healed. But he would bite thy hand off shouldst thou
attempt to touch him."
"Nay, Nautauquas, he would not harm me. See how quiet he will grow."
She knelt down just beyond the reach of the wildcat and began to whisper
to it. Nautauquas could not make out what she said, but to his amazement
he beheld how the beast ceased to lash its tail and how its muscles
seemed to relax. Nevertheless the young brave caught Pocahontas by the
arm and tried to pull her away.
"There is no danger, my brother," she remonstrated. "Fear not. Hast thou
not seen old Father Noughmass when the bees swarm over his neck and
hands? They never sting him. He cannot tell thee why, nor do I know why
wild beasts will not harm me."
So Nautauquas, knife in hand and breathing deeply, looked on while
Pocahontas, speaking words in a low voice, moved nearer and nearer the
wildcat. Taking her knife from her girdle, she began to cut through the
thongs that held him. One paw was now loose and yet the beast did not
move to touch his rescuer. Then when the other thongs were loose and it
was free, it moved off slowly and painfully into the woods as if no
human beings were there.
Nautauquas breathed a sigh of relief.
"It is wonderful, Matoaka, yet I pray thee test thy strange power not
too far. I am glad though the poor beast got away. I like not to see
them suffer. I shoot and kill for food and for skins, but I kill at
once."
They now climbed up the ravine again and started off in the direction of
Werowocomoco.
The night was already far advanced and Pocahontas was growing drowsier
and drowsier. Nautauquas, seeing that she was almost asleep, took hold
of her arm and made her lean on him. As they approached the spot where
he had first come across her dancing, they noticed a human figure
crouched on the ground. Even in the moonlight, grown dimmer as dawn
approached, he could see that it was an old squaw. Pocahontas recognized
old Wansutis, a gatherer of herbs and roots.
"What dost thou here, Wansutis?" she questioned.
"He! the little princess," cried the old woman, scowling up at them,
"and the young brave Nautauquas. I seek roots and leaves by the light of
the Sun's squaw. So is it meet for me and so will the drinks be stronger
when brewed by old Wansutis. I have found many rare plants this night;
it hath been a lucky one, perchance because the young princess was also
abroad in the forest."
All the children of the tribe were afraid of the old woman. They told
each other tales of how she could turn those she disliked into dogs,
bats or turtles. And now even Nautauquas remembered how he had run from
her when he was a little fellow. Her expression was so ugly and so
malign that Pocahontas, though she did not fear her exactly, had no
desire to stay longer, and so started forward.
"And what doth Pocahontas in the woods at night?" asked Wansutis.
"Knoweth The Powhatan that she hath left his lodge?"
Pocahontas, though she often willingly allowed those about her to forget
her rank, could yet be very conscious of it when she desired. Now it did
not please her to be questioned in this manner by the old squaw and she
did not answer.
"Oh hey," cried Wansutis, "thou wilt not answer me. Thou art proud of
thy rank and thy youth. Yet one day thou wilt be an old squaw like me,
without teeth, with weak legs, and life a burden to thee. Then thou wilt
not be so proud."
Pocahontas stopped and turned around again.
"Nay, I will not grow old. I will not let the day come when life shall
be a burden. Thou canst not read the future, Wansutis. I shall always be
as fleet as now."
"Thinketh thou to ward off old age by some of my potions made from these
roots I carry here, a bundle too heavy for an ancient crone like me to
bear on her back? Thou shalt have none of them."
At these words Pocahontas's manner changed. Stooping, she picked up the
bundle and pressed it into the net that lay on the ground and swung it
on to her strong shoulders.
"Come, Wansutis," she cried. "Seek not to anger me with words and I will
bear thy bundle to thy wigwam. It is in truth too heavy for thy old
bones."
The old woman grunted ungraciously as she rose to her feet, then the
three, one following the other, moved forward. They were obliged to go
slowly, as Wansutis could only hobble along, and Nautauquas was sorry to
see that dawn was approaching. He feared now that Pocahontas would not
be able to steal unobserved back to her place beside Cleopatra and that
she would be scolded. They went with Wansutis to her wigwam and
Pocahontas let fall her bundle. Nautauquas took out his knife and cut
off a hind quarter of the deer and laid it on the squaw's hearth.
"She hath no son to hunt for her," he said in explanation as he and
Pocahontas went off unthanked.
Wansutis's wigwam was on the edge of the village. As they came nearer to
the lodges they heard yelling and shouting from every side, and they saw
small boys and young braves rush forth, glancing eagerly about them.
"Let us hasten," cried Pocahontas. "I wonder what hath befallen,
Nautauquas."
[Illustration: Decorative]