Tsali's Hatchet

By Midge Shusta

Here is the magnificent story of one family who, in the face of their own destruction, dared to be heroes. In the calmness of a summer’s day, life in Gherokee country comes to an end behind the wires of a hastily built stockade. Cruel Gerogia state Pony Soldiers become the lords of the day. Tsali rescues his beloved wife, Anwaggia, and a n

• Language: English
• Publisher: URLink Print & Media, LLC
• Release date: Apr 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9781643673349

Midge Shusta

"MIDGE SHUSTA believes the English language, though a problem for some, is a beautiful living thing. English, remaining true to its roots, still adopts words from other countries and manages with few difficulties to insert them into ordinary speech, creating a rich, vibrant language perfect for the written word, "Gesundheit!" Midge Shusta lives in Martinez, California with her husband Bob and Kiera, the cat. They have three grown children and nine totally amazing grandchildren who adore her. Writing for Midge is like breathing to others. Her Cherokee father and Irish/ German mother have provided substantial fodder for her novels and most of her work comes from her heritage."

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Tsali's Hatchet

MIDGE SHUSTA

Tsali’s Hatchet

Copyright © 2019 by Midge Shusta. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, descriptions, entities, and incidents included in the story are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, and entities is entirely coincidental.

The opinions expressed by the author are not necessarily those of URLink Print and Media.

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Published in the United States of America

ISBN 978-1-64367-335-6 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64367-334-9 (Digital)

Fiction

28.03.19

For

Daddy

CONTENTS

Summer, 1957—Sacramento, California

The Hermitage, Northeast of Nashville, Tennessee March, 1837

The banks of the Coosa River, Northern Georgia August, 1837

PART ONE

The Crimson Moon of ‘Ani-Yun’wiya’

PART TWO

Moon of the Green Mountain Mornings

PART THREE

The Moon of the Sterling Soldier

PART FOUR

The Moon of Iron Eyes

PART FIVE

The Moon When Echoes Wept

PART SIX

The Moon of Savage Faces

PART SEVEN

The Moon of the Little Flower Killers

In Closing

About the Author

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The writing of Tsali’s Hatchet could not have been completed without the generous help of several people. Everyone I spoke with on the Qualla Boundary in North Carolina was most helpful especially Tom Underwood, a wonderful writer and Cherokee historian, who encouraged me more than he ever knew.

A special thanks to Elaine Starkman of Walnut Creek, California who, after reading a short story I wrote about my ancestry stated simply: This is no short story, this is a book.

Many thanks and praises for their hours of listening and editing goes to my writer’s group: Mary Stephenson, Helen Van Blair, and past members, Esther Anderson and Dorothy Peers and those who now occupy their chairs.

And monumental thanks, also, to the five exceptional members of Club Shred – you know who you are . . .

I’m grateful to my husband who, though he growled at late or sometimes nonexistent suppers and a dusty house, never discouraged my writing. And I want to thank each of my extraordinary children: Jordana, our artist, singer of amazing quality, research specialist and smarter than I’ll ever be. Perry, who built, owns, and is president of Arrowhead towing and recovery service in Antioch, California; and, Hillari, our youngest, though she has walked through the valley of the shadow of death, remains one of the world’s brighter lights. Thank you all for loving me despite my shortcomings and for giving us a quiver full of grandchildren.

And, my deepest gratitude to all those who came before me.

SUMMER, 1957—SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

My fingers traced the tiny stitches of the old Cherokee quilt that covered Grandmother’s lap. It had been part of my life for as long as I could remember. I asked, who made it—where it came from?

She stroked the surface with long, gentle fingers. Would you truly like to know? she asked, her smooth coffee and cream face suddenly solemn. Oh, she was still beautiful, but there was a burning behind her dark eyes. At that moment, I felt an intensity from her that would never touch me so again.

I nodded dumbly. The quilt, she told me, had been made in Indian Territory by her great grandmother, Noonda-yea-li, sometime in the 1850’s.

This was her wedding quilt, she said, lifting one frayed edge. Then she laughed. Her mother carried her into Oklahoma in a bag. With that disclosure, the story changed. She began to tell me of Tsali and Anawaggia, Nundayeli’s parents.

Thanks to Andrew Jackson, I suppose it was my story too, for like them, I am Cherokee. I learned much that day, some of it comforting, most of it horrifying. Their twenty-year struggle to halt their removal from the Southeast was lost without a major battle being waged.

Years later, when I began research for this book, I found that Grandmother’s story was fact. Some of the things she told me I did not find in my search, but I would never discount them.

After my trip into the Great Smoky Mountains of North Carolina, I thought this would be an easy subject about which to write. I talked with many people who knew Tsali’s story. I gathered and sorted and stored the information. It seemed a simple matter of removal. That assumption quickly faded, however, as I learned how it’s simplicity was lost in brutal betrayals. To suit the whims of a powerful few who demanded an unreasonable settlement, justice and reason went mad.

This then is the account of Tsali and Anawaggia. It is written as they might have spoken it, as if translated from their own language. The story, though laced together with fiction, is true.

Had you sat in the place of Tsali’s old friend, would you have told the mighty General what you knew about the murder weapon? To save a people, would you have told them, it is TSALI’S HATCHET!

THE HERMITAGE, NORTHEAST OF NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE MARCH, 1837

Mr. Horace Greeley to see you, sir.

Andrew Jackson looked up from his goblet of brandy. Send him in, he said tersely, turning toward the servant who backed away to reveal a tow-headed, gangling youth of hardly more than twenty years. His round face was boyishly clean of hair and his eyes were an honest shade of blue.

Don’t just stand there, Mr. Greeley. Sit. He motioned to the wing-backed chair opposite himself. So, you’ve come to dispute my opinion of Chief Justice Marshall’s asinine decision on the Cherokee savages down south. God rest his ignorant soul, he muttered.

Well, sir, I . . .

Jackson leaned forward, one side of his unruly white hair turning a garish ocher in the light of the crackling fire. Simple economics, he stated flatly. The Cherokees may have had the land first but they don’t deserve to keep it. It’s cotton land. Cotton will make us king . . . economically. That’s why Marshall’s decision will fall by its own weight. Believe me, Greeley, those savages will be out of the southeast before next spring.

The young reporter withdrew a writing pad from his inside pocket. May I quote you, sir?

Damnation! Jackson growled. I said it, didn’t I? Why do you think you’re here?

I came to interview the great duelist and Indian fighter. Mainly to talk about the Red Stick War of 1814.

Jackson laughed harshly. I thought reporters wanted fresher bits of tripe. That is hardly news, Mr. Greeley. The only thing useful to come out of that war, besides the acres we accrued, was how to count enemy bodies by cutting off noses. He shuddered slightly then and, with a sigh, he placed his empty glass on the hearth. All we had to do was . . . count noses . . .

THE BANKS OF THE COOSA RIVER, NORTHERN GEORGIA AUGUST, 1837

Tsali leaned into the glittering waters of the Coosa. The fish trap was empty and in need of repair. He dragged it from the river; the water making his body shine like polished copper in the sun. Ridges!

Yes, my father, the boy said, rising from the river.

Take your brother with you and cut some cane. I need many strips to mend this. He held the trap high to show the damage. A bear has stolen our supper!

Ridges took his knife from its sheath, gripped it with his teeth. Lowney watched him and did the same before they swam to the other side of the Coosa and disappeared behind the dense foliage.

A bullfrog grumbled across the river. Mockingbirds sang in the magnolias and squirrels chirred tenaciously in the branches as Tsali examined the second trap. Three fish wriggled inside and he let them nip at his fingers. You are but half a supper, my silvery prisoners. We must hope that Wasidani finds many berries for his basket. Tsali turned from the water. Wasidani! he called. Do you hear me?

Yes, my father, came the small reply. I have found very good bushes with many berries.

Do not go far.

The five-year-old grinned and gently plucked the blackberries from the vine using forefinger and thumb, just as his mother had shown him. She would be proud when he came home with so many perfect berries. He waved away insects that drifted up from the cooler interior of the bush. Happily, the boy reached for the berries, avoiding, as best he could, the stickery vines. So engrossed was he that he did not hear the black bear on the other side hungrily picking berries for himself.

Rest here thirty minutes! Army Sergeant Noah Sterling held up his hand and the troop came to a halt. Get your horses some water. And stay alert.

Sterling walked down to the Coosa’s edge away from his men. He knelt on one knee, splashed his face and took long drinks of the cool water before refilling his canteen. Cane, as tall as a man, grew across the river and for a moment Noah thought he heard a hacking sound. He listened. Only the song of a mockingbird trailed on the breeze.

He wished he had more time to spend there in the shade of the fragrant pines. As he walked back to his men he checked his side arm, wiped dust from the long barrel. It was loaded and, he thought, clean enough as he slid it back into his holster. Just in case, he would have the men inspect their weapons also.

With no more warning than a single harrowing shriek, a child ran headlong into him, nearly climbed his long legs, clung to him in terror, pointed and screamed, ‘Yo-na’! ‘Yo-na’!

Noah hardly had time to snatch his gun from its holster and fire. The bear stopped, blood splotching its dark shoulder fur. For a moment it swayed then turned and lumbered off. Strange words of relief gushed from the youngster which Noah took as ‘thank-you’.

Wasidani! Tsali’s voice thundered.

I am here, Father! the boy called in Cherokee.

When Tsali appeared, Wasidani was in the arms of the tall soldier. Look at this man, my father, the boy rattled off in his native tongue. Is it not strange to have hair the color of corn silk and eyes like mother’s indigo? Tsali ignored his son’s ill manners and demanded to know what had happened as more soldiers gathered behind the one who held his son. Wasidani pushed out of Noah’s grasp. A bear, Father. It was eating berries from my bush and he chased me and the soldier shot him! Was that not a good thing?

Tsali pulled the little boy behind him. ‘Wadan’, he said, thanking the Sergeant. I am grateful. I owe you a life.

Noah smiled nervously. You owe me nothing. You would have done the same if the boy were mine. But, I would like to ask a favor of you.

Anything, Tsali said, his keen eyes on the soldiers with the muskets who were gathering behind Noah.

I need to know the fastest, easiest route to Athens, Tennessee. Noah handed a crude map to the Indian.

Tsali studied the markings. These will do you no good. From here you must travel north. He pointed. Only north.

Noah nodded even as the questioning eyes of the men bored into the back of his skull. The Cherokee has no reason to lie, he thought.

Tsali took Wasidani by the hand. The little boy turned, flashed a broad grin and waved as the verdant forest swallowed him and his father.

PART ONE

THE CRIMSON MOON OF ‘ANI-YUN’WIYA’

"THE CRIMSON MOON OF ‘ANI-YUN’WIYA

’"

It was the kind of Cherokee summer that left one limp. The aromas of climbing white roses and honeysuckle mingled in the heat, drifted on the breeze. Songs of mockingbirds and honeybees meshed together in choruses of unnoticed melody. The hot sun turned morning dew into glistening pearls that clustered heavily on the magnolia blossoms where they shrank and vanished as the radiant sky sipped them back into itself. The air was sweet, clean, shimmering with the perfume of summer.

Anawaggia eased from Tsali’s side, sat on the hard edge of the bed and searched the bear rug with her feet for their second son, Lowney. A rooster crowed. Mockingbirds squabbled in the gnarled magnolia behind the simple, two-room house. Without a conscious thought, her hand went to the cradle beside the bed to feel the slow, steady breathing of her infant daughter.

Lowney, she said to the youngster lying on the bearskin rug. Come, Lowney. She shook him. It is time.

The eleven-year-old sat up, rubbed his face. Is Father awake? he asked already knowing the answer. Must we take Wasidani with us today? He yawned, stretched.

Of course, you do, he is your brother.

But he makes noise and frightens the fish, he complained. She pulled him up, held him close to her for a moment. "You must teach him to be quiet. How will he learn to be a man if you will not teach him?

Come. Get your brothers. I will need two buckets of water today.

Yes, Mother.

Anawaggia pushed him gently out the narrow-curtained doorway and took off her nightwear.

As she stood by the bed Tsali’s warm hand moved up her thigh. You are beautiful, he said.

She laughed softly. Your eyes are yet shut.

It is my fingers that tell me of your beauty and my memory that reminds me of how well you fit against me.

She smiled. Today your fingers shall hold fish instead.

True, he sighed, his hand flopping back onto the quilt. And my memory?

She bent and kissed him. Your memory is fine. I fit well. He moaned as she pulled away to step into a long brown homespun skirt and ease a fresh indigo blouse over her head. She reached for her black finger-woven sash, tied it about her waist, and took a wide comb to run through her long black hair. With skillful fingers, she plaited it loosely, tied it with a ribbon and let it fall down her back.

Tsali, she said, Lowney was asleep on the bearskin again.

I heard, he yawned. Send Wasidani to me.

Anawaggia passed through the curtained doorway and found that her eldest son, Ridges, had already started the fire and one bucket of water was atop the table. Wasidani sat in his place, grinning in anticipation of the coming fishing trip.

Anawaggia tousled his uncombed hair. Go outside and wash, she said and began to mix a stiff dough of cornmeal and warm water. The hot ashes on the hearth were brushed back and a handful of oak leaves were placed on the heated stone. She dropped a lump of dough on each leaf and covered it with more leaves from the woven basket beside the fireplace. Hot ashes were piled on top and while the cakes baked she took ‘ka-nu-ga-li’, blackberries, from the pantry, added honey and mashed it together.

Steam rose from the small kettle that hung over the flame. She handed Ridges a bit of sassafras. Breakfast will be ready soon, she said as he placed the yellow strips into the boiling water. Feed the animals. Find all the eggs this time. Wasidani can help me now.

What can I do, Mother? asked the cleaned and combed five-year-old. Go in to your father. Our food is nearly ready. You do not want him to miss it do you?

The little boy giggled behind his cupped hand and crept through the curtained doorway.

Tsali lay dressed under the covers, waiting. As soon as Wasidani was close enough, Tsali gripped the small shoulders and lifted his son into the air in a whirl of laughter.

Oh, Father! You fooled me!

The baby cried.

Oh, oh. Wasidani covered his mouth with both hands.

Let us clean her before your mother sees her.

Together they tiptoed from the dark, stuffy room, past Anawaggia’s back, out into the warm, August sun.

Wasidani held his nose. She smells!

You are right, my son. Get the soap and grease.

Tsali filled a basin; bathed and dried the three-week-old infant while Wasidani observed and directed.

I will take her now, Father. She smells much better.

Be careful going up the steps.

After the morning meal, Anawaggia watched as Tsali tucked his hair beneath the neat folds of blue turban, his gold ear loop glinting in the light.

You will be alone if we go, Tsali told her on the porch.

I will not be alone, my husband, she said. Tiana brings Walani today for teaching. And with the herbs to prepare and gourds to cut I hope I have enough time to care for your only daughter.

Tsali wrapped her in his arms. He looked intently into her soft sloe, gold-flecked eyes.

She returned his gaze. You are concerned, my husband?

He had never been successful at hiding his thoughts from her. I think of Valley Town, he whispered to keep his worry from the children.

The raid on Valley Town was weeks ago. Word of the new law from Washington City has reached even the Georgia Pony Soldiers by this time. Go. Bring home our supper! Her smile was broad, encouraging.

His eyes betrayed him again.

Her smile was enticing. You would like to stay with me in the sleeping place and not take your sons fishing, I think. Her long fingers slid up his arms and met behind his head.

Tsali pulled her closer, the supple curves of her body pressed to his. You are a woman of wisdom as well as beauty.

Father! Wasidani called from where he stood between his brothers. It is time to go.

Tonight, she whispered.

He kissed her with his own promise. Tonight . . . he murmured and turned toward his children.

No more tales of blue coat soldiers or bears in the bushes this time. I want only fine, fat fish! She waved from the porch as her men walked up the path that led over the hill and down to the Coosa River, the fish traps and the old, yellow poplar, dugout canoe.

She heard Nundayeli whimper and felt her breasts pinch and begin to drip. Poor hungry baby, she said and, untying her sash lifted her blouse.

Anawaggia’s younger sister, Tiana, and her four-year-old daughter, Walani, arrived before the eighth hour. She met them at the opened door, her apron filled with unshelled peas. Come, she said, leading them through the house. It is still cool in back under the tree.

Summer mornings meant preparation for the long winter. There were vegetables and fruits to dry and store. Gourds had to be cut and dried, stacked or hung to use later as ladles, cups, bowls, storage containers. Indigo seeds needed gathering for next year’s planting and, since Anawaggia made the finest dye in all of Cherokee country, she took time to select only the most perfect seeds. The field corn was ripe again with heavy ears but the silk was pale. They agreed that in another week it would be ready and by then most everything else should be dried and in the proper bins.

In the early afternoon, Tiana watched Nundayeli while Anawaggia went on with Walani’s lessons. The little girl had fewer problems with the eighty-six-character Cherokee alphabet than the twenty-six letters of English. Walani liked tracing the Cherokee characters and matching the sounds with the pictures, putting them together to make words. She often said that English letters were harder to make words because, "they do not sing." Addition and subtraction were accomplished by using peas, beans and peaches but Walani was most delighted when it came time for the legends. She sang the songs and filled in the parts Anawaggia, purposely, left out. Her aunt and her mother were Bird Clan so she was Bird Clan. She knew who she was and where she belonged.

Auntie, Walani said. Tell me about Sky Rock.

Anawaggia smiled patiently. That is only for the Festival of New Fire. The ‘Adawehi’, Priest, must tell it.

"Yes, but it is something I should learn, is it not? Lowney talks of it.

He says that Wasidani must know." Walani cocked her head quizzically.

Anawaggia knew Walani would not be put off until the festival. I will tell you. But you must sit and listen. This is a story you may not interrupt. Walani sat cross-legged on the ground, her chin in her hands. I am ready, she said.

Anawaggia glanced at Tiana who shrugged and kept rocking Nundayeli. She cleared her throat. At one time, she began, all living things dwelt in the air on the Sky Rock. This was many years before the earth, as we see it now, came into being. During this time all creatures spoke the same language and it was easy to know why they acted as they did. But mankind was not wise. He misused his knowledge and was forbidden from that time forward to understand the speech of the animals and birds. The punishment of ‘Galun-Lati’, the God of all Creation, was severe. Man was allowed to recognize only his own kind, and sometimes that was difficult because he was also fooled by other languages that ‘Galun-Lati’ forced others, who were not ‘Ani-Yun’Wiya’, The Real People, to speak.

Walani nodded knowingly.

"As those on the Sky Rock increased, things became so crowded that the animal council met to decide what must be done. Now, the earth floated around the Sky Rock, as it always had, but sadly, the earth was made of water. It was water top to bottom and side to side; not at all livable by so many different creatures . . . except Water Beetle who was sent to see if he could find a place firm enough to support life from the Sky Rock. After a long while Water Beetle returned with a sad report.

"The animal council was very unhappy, for now some of the Sky Rock people must be pushed off.

Wait!, cried Grandfather Buzzard. ‘I will go down to the watery world to see if I can find a dwelling place.’

"So down he went, his broad wings soaring over the wet world. He flew a long time and finally he grew so weary that his great wings began to dip into the muddy waters. His wings left great holes and his breast formed mighty ridges. The wind from his great wings blew the waters apart leaving the holes moist and the mountains dry with thin veils of mist hovering in the air. The holes became our valleys and the ridges became the Great Smoking Mountains. Soon all the animals and birds, men and insects and all other creatures came down from the Sky Rock to live forever with plenty of room for everyone.

But ‘Ani-Yun’Wiya’, The Real People, were told to care for the land, for this is the gift of ‘Galun-Lati’, the God of all Creation, not for those who came first, but for all those who would come after.

Is that me? Walani asked.

Anawaggia nodded. And your children also.

My dolly too?

Tiana laughed. No, my little one. One day you will have a real little girl of your own. She smiled at her daughter then turned her attention to Anawaggia. Tomorrow we must clean our houses, I think.

Yes, Anawaggia sighed and wiped the moisture from her forehead. Mamma, Walani said, getting to her stocky legs, may I go now to find my doll? You said I could when it was going-home time.

Tiana’s thin face filled with love for her only child. I remember. But you must understand, your doll is old, her sun is nearly down.

Walani turned to Anawaggia. You can make her new, can’t you, Auntie?

We shall see. Anawaggia hugged her.

She looks much like her father, Tiana said around a trace of melancholy. It is nice to be reminded of him through the years of days.

Anawaggia smiled tenderly. Nundayeli and I will come early tomorrow and clean.

Tiana followed her daughter down the short path to the cornfield. I hope she remembers where she left her doll, she said with a look over her shoulder. I do not wish to be in the corn all night.

Auntie! Walani called from the edge of the field. Where is Sky Rock? She searched the bright heavens, turned about. I do not see it.

Anawaggia had never heard that question from anyone. Ask your mother! she said and retreated quickly into her house.

Sitting on the top step of her front porch, she shelled peas into her apron, her eyes fixed on the hill where Tsali and the boys would first appear. Nundayeli gurgled next to her on a blanket. A black capped chickadee flew from one side of the porch to the other, its song anxious. Of what do you warn me, little bird? She tossed a pea onto the ground but the bird ignored it.

She watched the hill. The chickadee chirped, hopped back and forth in front of her, drawing her eyes to the northeast.

A dark cloud rose above the other houses in her line of sight. A storm? She thought. It grew larger. Fire! She ran inside, dumped the peas into an empty iron kettle, wiped her hands, pulled off her apron. Her heart pounded. She looked around trying to decide what to take in case the fire burned her house. She couldn’t think and ran outside again to see how close it was. There was no smell of smoke. No flame. She lifted Nundayeli and wrapped the blanket around her. Her eyes went to the empty hill once more. Then she turned back, unable to look away from the brown stain that muddied the sky. Soon a thunder of hoofbeats told her that what she saw was not smoke but a column of dust.

The little chickadee that warned of danger had flown away.

Anawaggia, tall, lean, silent in her hate clutched her baby to her as a hundred Georgia State Militia Pony Soldiers charged through the streets of Coosawatie town. They fired weapons in the air and bellowed obscure orders.

In the screaming and gunfire, she couldn’t make herself move or think. There was no time, no place to hide and no way to stop them. Her thoughts tumbled around memories of the other towns that had suffered raids where The Real People had been forced into one of the several stockades that speckled the landscape. The great court in Washington City had said the removal raids were against the law, but it could do nothing to stop them. Laws, even the laws of their own making, seemed meaningless to the ‘unegas’, white people.

A Cherokee General Council had been held at Red Clay, Tennessee in July. As ‘Ghighau’, Blessed Woman, The Chosen One, Anawaggia wanted to attend but Tsali begged her to stay home because she was within days of having the baby. She had hoped to speak again in an effort to dissuade Chief John Ross’s sudden plea for a peaceful and immediate emigration. For years he had fought the order to leave the Sacred Mountains for a place where odd looking strangers lived in the dark land of a dead sun, but now—

The guns barked again. Tsali, she thought, stay away my love! Stay away! She reached inside the door and grabbed a large leather bag before she was forced from her porch into the dusty streets. Her eyes flashed on the soldier whose bayonet nicked her throat, tore her blouse, and came within inches of her baby. In the confusion, she was thrust against the rough boards of a wagon and ordered to climb in. The same soldier kicked her in the back with his polished boot.

I will remember you, she thought.

Don’t go worryin’ ‘bout them bucks, Billy, less’n they got a gun. They’ll follow the women an’ the brats! Move yer arse! Git them youngin’s yonder. They’ll fetch a perty dollar!

Jacob Featherstone, the white-haired missionary, pushed forward in a desperate attempt to reason with the soldiers. His deep voice rose to a strident pitch. Stop this! he shouted. "In the name of God, stop! The Supreme Court has ruled . . ."

Though no soldier touched him, they jeered him, turned their backs. Even when he got his horse and rode alongside the loaded wagons speaking encouragement to the captives, the soldiers made no move to stop him.

Anawaggia turned her eyes again toward the hill from where Tsali would come. For the moment, she shut out the Pony Soldiers, the gun fire, the weeping and terror, the splintered smells of burning food, smoke, sweat. Stay away! she prayed. Protect our sons!

Piercing and pathetic cries interrupted her again. Older children fought the soldiers who jerked them from their families and tied them to posts in the central corral.

You ain’t gotta die! the soldier in the polished boots shouted from the saddle of his whirling chestnut horse. Jes’ do as yer told. Move them first wagons out! Billy, get them brats! They’re in the corn!

Anawaggia shook with anger and frustration as she recalled the Council Meeting early in 1829 where a letter was read from President Jackson. In it he said: Your father has provided a Country large enough for all of you, and he advises you to remove to it. There your white brothers will not trouble you; they will have no claim to the land, and you can live upon it, you and all your children. As long as grass grows or the water runs, in peace and plenty. It will be yours forever.

The Creeks, Seminoles, Chickasaws and Choctaws received the same letter. Its message was rejected by all.

She choked back tears. They were on their way to ‘Tsusginai’, the land of the ghosts . . . A place the ‘unegas’, white people, called Indian Territory. It was the place where the sun died, a place of death.

We are ‘Ani-Yun-Wiya’, The Real People! Have we not given up enough? Our country no longer reaches the great sea water to the east, nor does it reach north to the River O-y-o. Since they have come our lands have shrunk to the Great Smoking Mountains, patches of northern Georgia, Tennessee and those few scattered villages in the western Carolinas.

No longer do we wear shells and river pearls on our clothing; they have them. No more is our language pure. It is drilled with the roll of Scottish tongues and Irish brogues and spiritless English. What difference does that make now? Jackson, the old Chicken-Snake, will have his way. He swore to take our Sacred Land and now these soldiers give life to his prophecy. She struggled to blot out the wailing, especially of the old ones. They were like trees ripped from the earth to bleed inside until they died.

Where do you take us?

Fort Buffington! came the cold reply.

But we have nothing. Let us gather our possessions!

Ain’t nothin’ belongs to you no more. Git your arse in the wagon! Please! Please . . .

The wagon jolted forward. Nundayeli whimpered and unmindfully her mother rocked her into silence. A tender passion seeped from Anawaggia as through the haze, she watched her home slip into the distance. Her only joy was that Tsali had not returned.

Then her heart sank. Fire was consuming the cornfield and many of the outbuildings belched black smoke. She squeezed her eyes shut, clenched her teeth, tried not to hear the wrenching squeals of confused family pets as they attempted to follow and died at the hands of callous butchers.

The hollow eyes of those around her revealed the disbelief of what was happening. Theirs had been a near perfect world. They lived peacefully with their neighbors. They taught their children, plowed their fields, hunted, sowed, reaped, sang and danced. But they had also fought to keep their world by learning to use ‘unega’ laws to defeat the removal. They won the right to stay but ‘unegas’ disregarded their laws when it suited them. It did no good to weep. For the most part, those with pale skin had proven an unbalanced people.

They have misplaced their centers, Tsali had often said. That is why they act as they do. Their hearts are disconnected from their minds.

From the wagons, they watched ‘unega’ settlers rush to fill the houses from which they had just been evicted. Some moved in even before The People rounded the bend that would take them to Fort Buffington. A whip cracked again and again. Someone screamed. The soldier with the shiny boots sent his whip around the neck of an adolescent boy and dragged him toward a soldier who waited to tie him with the others in the corral. His mother pleaded. The whip popped sharply, ripped her dress, and a boot, still gleaming in spite of the dust, kicked her to the ground.

I will remember you, Anawaggia thought again, and silently prayed that Tsali kept Ridges well hidden.

The wagon rounded the bend and, to her astonishment, the soldiers sang:

All I ask in this creation is a pretty little wife and a big plantation Way up yonder in the Cherokee Nation . . .

The words stung her ears. She forced her nausea down, closed her eyes, and bowed her head. Soon those in the wagon would look to her for answers. Once she had been sure of herself . . . even this morning, but no more. They learned long ago that killing was not a solution. One dead ‘unega’ brought three to take his place. But the loss of one Cherokee was like losing ten.

We suffer, ‘Galun-Lati’, God of all creation. Do You not see Your people?

At the crest of the hill, less than a quarter mile away, Tsali and his sons lay on their stomachs watching the frenzy in the streets. The catch of trout lay gleaming and forgotten in the grass.

Tsali’s mind reeled. His eyes darted from Anawaggia to their friends, their house, the field of corn as flames engulfed it.

His heart pounded. What he had feared this morning filled his eyes and ears this afternoon. It was their turn. There were few Cherokee towns left untouched, especially in Georgia. Now Coosawatie town had fallen and Anawaggia was caught in the midst of it. A soldier pushed her off the porch, jabbed at her with his bayonet, then forced her into a wagon with a score of others.

Tsali tightened his arms around his sons as they lay on either side of him, their young bodies quivering. Ridges slid his blade from its sheath.

Put your knife away, my son, Tsali ordered.

But, Father, do we not fight for our Mother? the young warrior asked.

Later. Now we watch. Tsali’s mind was a maelstrom of questions: What to do with the children when he followed Anawaggia, where to go after he recovered her, how to free her from so many soldiers.

Tsali did not consider himself a bold man, though there were those who called him, the hawk. He was just a man, and not so young anymore. But he was ‘Ani-Yun’Wiya’, one of The Real People. The street in front of his house churned with dust as children and parents sought each other, dodging the grasping hands of the soldiers, the stomping hooves of horses. He recognized two of Ridges’ friends tied to corral posts. He pointed.

Why are they not taking them, Father? Ridges asked.

Tsali shook his head, his brows knitted in confusion. So this was the beginning. What then, and where the end?

He looked at his children then back to the dusty street. The wagon with his wife and daughter moved toward the bend. Soon they would be out of sight, but he dared not leave his sons unprotected.

Willow-ste, he murmured. William Thomas!

Tsali inched backward and the boys followed. They retraced the path to the river and the canoe.

Wasidani stopped midway. Father, why do we leave without Mother and baby sister? he asked loudly, tugging at his father’s hand.

Tsali looked sternly at the boy and put his finger to his mouth. Wasidani repeated the question in a hoarse whisper. Tsali lifted the child and clamped a big hand over his mouth. Ridges and Lowney pressed their lips tightly and followed them. They hid by the river until twilight.

The low sun shimmered hotly in the purple sky, its fading light glistening on the ripples of the Coosa. It was time. Tsali and thirteen-year-old Ridges dipped their paddles expertly into the water and maneuvered the canoe up stream against the gentle current.

Confused, Wasidani sat quietly, his chin on his knees. Lowney sat behind him, his own muddled feelings hidden behind large, solemn eyes. Ridges rowed stroke for stroke with his father. He was wholly secure in Tsali’s judgment. Never had he questioned his father and would not do so now.

The moon rose swiftly in the August sky. It seemed to catch on the trees and shed little light. Crickets chirped along the bank. A mouse peeped in the talons of an owl. Whippoorwills came to life; their metered, mournful songs filled the hollows, echoed off the granite cliffs. The river was no longer smooth. Water rushed around the stroking paddles that moved the canoe toward the safety of Ellijay.

The forest appeared taller, denser in the darkness but the river glittered like a twisting ribbon of light. Tsali was glad that he knew the river for its docile image was deceptive.

Wasidani turned to face Lowney, his eyes wet from worry. Lowney reached for his little brother and held him in the curve of his arm. Instinctively, the little boy leaned against his brother’s shoulder and stared through the blackness as wavelets slapped at the canoe.

They will be safe with William, Tsali thought. He will protect them. He is my friend and we are a friendless people now. Tsali’s paddle worked both sides of the canoe as he felt young Ridges tire.

I remember William when he first received his books on the law, Tsali thought, amused by the memory. ‘Unega’ laws are strange, he decided. Why do they need books to tell them they must not kill people or steal things? They are a queer, disconnected people.

Though Tsali’s heart ached for Anawaggia, thoughts of ‘Willow-ste’ calmed him and his pace diminished as his mind wandered. William was not the same after he received the ‘unega’ talking leaves. He called them pages. Now we call them pages. Now we read our own newspaper—or used to—and we speak two languages. The ‘unegas’ have changed our lives and now they must have it all! Things were very different when Willow-ste and I were children. He remembered the day that old Drowning Bear and his wife adopted the young orphaned ‘unega’ boy, calling him ‘Willow-ste’, Little Will. What a time that was! The celebration lasted two days. And when they were older, lying under the stars, they dreamt of the futures they would build. And the time not long after he received the books when he decided that he would become a rich Cherokee by owning a trading post where ‘Ani-Yun’Wiya’, The Real People, and ‘unegas’ could trade. Now you are a trader with many posts and you are a lawyer too, but more than that, you are my friend . . . my brother.

I must not think, he whispered. I must go faster for the sake of my sons, for the sake of my wife and daughter. Faster . . . Faster . . . Tsali’s muscles strained and tightened with each stroke. The current fought him. The night and the silence fought him. And fear of the unknown struggled for supremacy against reason.

The hour was late when they reached Ellijay, high on the Coosa. The trail that led to the trading post was narrow and curving. It would be easy to lose the way even knowing the path. Tsali carried Wasidani and told the others to stay close. Splotches of moonlight filtered through the trees but it was no help as he felt his way.

The boys did little but gasp for breath and try to keep up with their father. At last, moonlight angled across the roof of the trading post.

William Thomas was in his nightshirt when he answered the frantic pounding at his door. The look on his face told Tsali that he already knew the removal had reached Coosawatie.

Tsali, my good friend! William spoke in the ancient language and greeted him in the old way with both hands on the other’s forearms. I am glad you are here. How did you escape?

The river, Tsali said, his face shining with perspiration. In the dark?

Tsali nodded. ‘Willow-ste’, Pony Soldiers have taken Anawaggia and Nundayeli. I saw one strike her with the knife at the end of his musket. At first I thought he had struck the baby.

William put Wasidani in a chair. The older boys dropped to the floor, exhausted.

Let me get you something to eat, William said, already moving about the trading post.

‘Willow-ste’. Tsali took his friend by the arm, looked gravely into his eyes. You must keep my sons until I can come for them. I do not know when I shall return. I have much to do and many miles to travel.

William stopped him. Tsali, you know that I will care for them as if they were my own. They will be ready to leave whenever you want them. Do not worry, old friend. As William spoke, the weight of the promise filled him with apprehension and he shuddered inwardly. How would he explain three Cherokee children if someone of authority were to inquire? But he looked at his friend and smiled reassuringly.

Tsali gripped William’s shoulders. You have always been a good friend. Now, I must hurry while the darkness can hide me.

He turned to his sons. They crowded into his open arms. You must be brave, he cautioned them, and obey William always.

Yes, Father, Ridges replied.

He looked at the five-year-old. And do not ask questions. Wasidani nodded and gripped Lowney’s hand.

Tsali then took each one separately and soaked up the look of him, locking their sameness’s and differences into his heart. Only ‘Galun-Lati’ knew when he would see them again.

The boys stood on the low, covered porch and watched their father disappear into the blackness of the summer night, too tired to cry.

The Coosa was more agreeable going down stream, but still Tsali paddled, fearing the light of day. As he came closer to home the air grew heavy with the acrid smell of charred fields and smoldering buildings. He reached the top of the hill above Coosawatie as the sun crested the mountains. The fish they had caught were gone. Someone or something had taken them.

From where he had lain before, he looked at the shaded, near-empty street below. There was some activity as the new day began, including smoke from his own chimney, but, in the hazy dawn, he saw no one he recognized. His gaze moved from one house to the next. Strangers occupied each one. Only Jacob Featherstone’s house was dark. Tsali wondered if the Pony Soldiers had taken the missionary also. No. He remembered seeing the minister riding along the length of the wagons. Being ‘unega’ they could not force him to go, besides, he would not leave without the new printing press and there had been no time to ready that.

In the distance the remains of three, no, four small Cherokee farms and the entire cornfield lay smoldering. He clenched his teeth. The smoothness of his jaw quaked in a slight madness. He rubbed his eyes. They stung from fumes and exhaustion. He could do nothing in the sunlight.

He crawled backward and crept into the great forest as the children called the small stand of hickory, loblolly pine and white flower dogwood. Even he had begun to call it, the great forest, though he had never appreciated the few scrub oaks that grew there—until now. They were short, twisted, bushy and enough to hide a man.

He would sleep now and wait for Jacob Featherstone’s return. If anyone knew where Anawaggia had been taken, it would be the missionary. Tsali unwound his turban and made it a pillow, lay down and slept. Hunger woke him in the late afternoon. The smell of stewing meat wafting up from the valley made his mouth water and his stomach growled. He stretched, crawled back to his place on the hilltop. Featherstone’s house was dark, his chimney silent. His son Adam’s horse grazed in the fenced side yard. For a long time Tsali watched, then hunger drove him back to the river and the berry vines.

The ride in the wagon was long, slow, grueling. The rutted road jolted the body, rattled the brain. Sleep was impossible, except for Nundayeli who cooed softly in her blanket. Her mother’s eyes were closed, but not in sleep. She was remembering good things from not so long ago: gathering sticks for her mother—making shell necklaces—playing with corn husk dolls— stealing flowers from the missionary’s front yard—sitting quietly on the edge of the Council— listening to men and women make long speeches for and against the treaties with Washington City. She could not remember a time when treaties with the ‘unega’ government weren’t a Council priority.

Her thoughts moved on to more pleasant times. Meeting Tsali. Loving Tsali. With a friend, he had come from the high Oconoluftee region for the Festival of New Fire. She took little notice of him at first but when, at last, she saw his eyes, she could ignore him no longer. She saw herself in their sleepy, blue-black depths and from somewhere deep in her center, she knew she belonged with him. And now . . . what would she do without him?

Anawaggia was ‘Ani-Tsi-Skwa’, the Bird Clan, and she prayed for wings as she shed her fears into the oncoming night.

They moved northeast at a steady pace, stopping only to water and feed the animals, but no one rested and only the soldiers had food. Loaded wagons from other towns pulled into line ahead and behind them. More people. More misery. Reverend Featherstone slept in his saddle. His horse trailed after the last wagon.

Don’t waste yer time on them bucks, Billy! Sergeant McDonal called. Like I tol’ ya, they’ll follow the squaws. Keep yer eyes on the females that ain’t in the wagons!

Yes, sir! The soldier called Billy grinned as he nudged his black horse between two young women. They slapped at him, causing the black to rear, nearly throwing Billy in the dust. Other soldiers laughed openly.

A Union trooper galloped past Anawaggia’s wagon. She watched as he handed an envelope to the Pony Soldier with the polished boots.

I ain’t got time to read this, he bawled. What’s in it?

New orders, the soldier said. Fort Buffington is full. Take these on to the Bushnell Stockade. It’s new. Close to the Carolina border.

Where the Sam Hill is it?

The Union soldier reined his horse out of line. Keep going northeast! She had no idea where Bushnell Stockade was except that a soldier mentioned a day and a half by wagon.

When they finally arrived, the hot afternoon sun was on its journey into the west where it would die and they would await the new sun of morning.

Anawaggia was the last one off her wagon. Nundayeli rested in her left arm over the large leather bag that hung from a flat strap across her chest. The nick on her throat still stung though it had stopped bleeding miles ago. Old Abram helped her by taking the baby.

Abram was the name the Reverend Mr. Worcester had given him in 1812.

Abram was ‘Ani-Gilahi’, the Long-haired people. He kept his grey hair wound beneath the customary Cherokee turban. Only the large gold ear loops he wore identified him as a valiant, battle-tried warrior.

Before the battle of Horseshoe Bend in 1814 against the Creek Red Sticks, he had stood nearly six feet tall. Now, stooped from a musket ball in his lower back, he was not as tall as some of the older children he loved and taught.

The children brought him gold collected from mountain streams and gave him flowers that he tucked into the folds of his red turban. They made necklaces of hickory nuts and small spruce cones then settled at his feet to hear the stories of the Gospels according to Old Abram. It was the children who helped him accept his maladies and by the time frost tipped the pines, he was beside a fire in the home of one of his many friends. Only cold weather gave him pain.

The indentation in his skull went almost unnoticed under his turban where a long keloid scar wandered from the top of his left ear to his Adam’s apple. A heavily sagging left eyelid gave him a look that frightened strangers but everyone else treated him royally and in turn he offered them the gift that God had given him, the ability to be content whatever his circumstances.

Thank you, Abram, Anawaggia said as she stepped to the ground. I can take her now.

Bushnell Stockade was mostly wire. One water pump stood in the center with no shelter anywhere. About fifteen yards into the front end of the square fenced area was a trench, three feet wide, three to four feet deep. It extended the length of the wire where it was butted with uneven wooden planks embedded in the earth.

What is that for? Anawaggia asked.

Abram shrugged. Refuse?

Most of the grass had been destroyed by what they thought might have been previous occupants and only chunks of turf were left.

Hundreds of bleeding, silent people from numerous Cherokee towns, were forced through an opening that was barely wide enough for a wagon. Shoulders, hips and ankles became the victims of blunt wires protruding into the gateway of the wooden portal. The heavy, rough-hewn gate creaked closed and the bolt slammed shut.

Anawaggia stood, numb, exhausted as she watched her once proud people driven past her like swine into a holding pen, waiting to have their throats slit. Nundayeli chewed hungrily on her breast, oblivious to the terror in her mother’s heart. They will not destroy you, my daughter, she promised. Hatred for the militia seared her mind; branded her heart with a rage she had never felt before.

Anawaggia!

She turned at the voice. Jacob Featherstone stood outside the fence. Why did you come, Jacob? she asked. You can do nothing for us. Go home. Find Tsali. Tell him to stay away and protect our sons from this.

Have you had anything to eat?

No more than you, she replied, her fingers whitening as she gripped the closely strung wires.

Jacob read her feelings. I am sorry, Anawaggia. It is my fault you are here. I should have seen it coming. He shook his head in defeat, looked into her dreary eyes. Somehow I thought it would pass. Now it’s too late.

And we must go to ‘Tsusginai’, the land of the ghosts, she said weakly.

That is only superstition! You know that ghosts don’t exist. You know the sun doesn’t die anywhere. You know . . .

"I know only that I do not know where my husband and sons are. I know that I do not know where my sister is. I know that these people are hungry. That is all I know, Jacob. That is all!"

I’ll see what I can do. He glanced at the leaning shack that stood beneath a tall, old loblolly pine. I will talk to them . . . if that’s possible. If nothing else, I will return home and bring what food I can from there. It’s getting dark so stay here where I can find you when I come back.

The moon rose high in the starry northwest Georgia night. Morning dawned without sleep. As she searched for Walani and Tiana—hoping and dreading to find them—she began to organize.

Abram! she called. Old Abram! He shuffled toward her.

Look around, my friend, see what you can find for bedding, clothing, anything The People are willing to share.

Abram nodded and began. Others saw and offered to help. Anawaggia propped Nundayeli in the arms of a kind ‘agawela’, old woman, while she worked.

Dark clouds clotted the southern sky. Summer rains without shelter meant sickness but privacy and firewood were only for the soldiers.

How many hundreds of us are here? she thought. Is this your wish, President Chicken-Snake Jackson? To pack us in this place to die? If it is, you are indeed a wicked man!

In her quest, she found little food, less comfort, no protection and no sign of her family. Perhaps they had run away or were missed altogether . . . or maybe Tsali watched her from the stand of hickory and pines far behind the compound. Yet the nagging thought that she would never see him or any of them again, persisted.

Two Pony Soldiers rode in a continuous circle around the wire stockade in opposite directions, weapons at the ready, resting across their thighs.

The day dragged on and dissolved into night. Still they received no food and no further communication came from Jacob Featherstone. Children cried. Mothers rocked them. Fathers pled with the soldiers for food and were cursed and spat upon. The night was a hole that had swallowed them, bones and all. Anawaggia listened to the scattered prayers of the old men and the muffled anger of the young men. And the Pony Soldiers circled.

Morning frowned in hostile brightness. The sun that was their friend became their enemy. She took her turn at the water pump to soak a strip of brown cloth torn from the hem of her skirt. She drank a handful of water and splashed her face and neck. Water ran between her breasts, dampened her indigo blouse. She dried her hands on the long black sash that belted her waist and turned to take Nundayeli from the woman behind her, then went back to the fence to wash the baby and wrap her against the sun.

Pretty child, a woman remarked as she sank to the ground, her old bones grating.

Anawaggia forced a smile, washed Nundayeli’s hair and face. We must get food or you will soon have no milk. What do you call her?

Nundayeli.

Is she your only child?

I have three sons.

It is a good thing that you have at least one daughter, then. Two is better of course.

Anawaggia sighed patiently. I know. I have a sister. Is she here?

Anawaggia shook her head.

Gone already . . .

I do not know.

The old woman closed her eyes and lay back on the ground. I will not go to ‘Tsusginai’, the land of the ghosts, she said apathetically. I will die here. I am ‘Tsa-la-gi’, Cherokee, as you are. But I am old, my sun is nearly down . . . there is not enough left of me to live anywhere else.

Anawaggia turned from the fence and asked for a shield. Some women and children surrounded her while she nursed Nundayeli. Human shields were commonplace now to keep the women and girls from soldier’s eyes.

The day wound down in the same monotonous way. Soldiers circled the compound with predictable regularity. Even the happiest of the children cried. The old ones moaned and rocked, clinging to each other and their meager possessions. Some of The People paced, some planned, some wept but everyone waited.

Where did our pride and anger go? she wondered. Did we not feel this coming? When did we give up? When the law came from Washington City? When?

The Creeks, Chickasaws, Choctaws are gone, but they did not use ‘unega’ courts. They do not write their own language or have a newspaper. She looked skyward. ‘Galun-Lati’, is our fight for the Sacred Land over after only twenty years of trying? She glanced at those around her; few were between the ages of thirteen and twenty. Where were they? Yes, tied in the corral . . .

When Anawaggia finally closed her eyes Tsali appeared. He beckoned and she followed. His pleasing smile surrounded fine, white teeth. His sad eyes haunted her. In the shadows of her dream she was enveloped by his strength and felt again the molding of their bodies. She stroked his hair and smooth face beneath the thick, bearskin robe. He breathed into her mouth and she was alive and safe once more soaring with Tsali. Then he was gone. She saw him again in the great forest that overlooked their home. Smiling, he called and she ran to him through dazzling wild azaleas and pink mountain laurel that nodded in the scented breeze. He captured her in his hands like a fragile wild bird . . . and then he vanished leaving her suddenly alone in the smoke-darkened land of the dead.

Tsali watched Coosawatie from the hilltop, his eyes darting into every shadow. They shall not keep you, Agiya, my beloved, he murmured. This I vow.

It was not until the next evening that he saw a light in the window. Circling noiselessly behind buildings he was used to walking in front of, Tsali came to the Featherstone back door. He tapped. No one answered.

He turned the handle and slipped inside the darkness