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  and starts talking fast—not sure what they’re saying, but it looks

  like Anikwa would push Isaac back in the river if Kwaahkwa didn’t

  stop him. Anikwa takes off his moccasins, squeezes out the water, and

  puts them back on, glaring at Isaac the whole time. He walks away with

  Kwaahkwa, glancing at the river where the dead frog floats downstream.

  Isaac shakes himself like a dog trying to get dry. See? he says to me.

  That boy just attacked me for no reason! I told you they’re not on our side.

  SALT’S LONG, SLOW JOURNEY

  The earth lifts and tilts.

  Water flows

  from high ground

  to low, around

  and under rock.

  Salt carried by water

  moves through sand.

  Salt and sand

  through time,

  pressed into stone.

  ANIKWA

  Seven raccoon,

  one fox, four otter, sixteen beaver,

  two deer. Their meat has fed us; now Father

  counts the pelts he’ll trade. Grandma has

  a basket of maple sugar. Toontwa

  has a rabbit skin and I have

  two skunk pelts.

  Mink made three extra

  pairs of moccasins to trade. Now

  we’re ready. We start down the trail, talking

  about what we need: a pair of socks, a ball of twine,

  a new blade for the ax. A copper cooking pot. Needles, thread.

  Cotton cloth. Red, blue, and yellow ribbons. Salt? asks Mink.

  Father scowls and says, When I was a boy, we walked

  to the salt licks, or our Shawnee friends brought

  salt when they came to visit. I don’t like

  to buy it from the traders.

  Mink is quiet.

  We have to have salt—

  without it, we get sick when we work

  in the hot sun. But she understands. We’ll get salt

  next time, she says. A blackbird flies past.

  Aya, niihka, I say. Hello, friend.

  JAMES

  Anikwa comes up the trail with his family. I haven’t seen him since Isaac

  killed the bullfrog—is he mad? At me? Hello, I say. He answers, Aya … niihka.

  He names the pelts he’s carrying. Paapankamwa (fox). Amehkwa (beaver).

  And others—too many words to remember. I carry a basket for his grandma,

  and she smiles and calls me myaamiinse—that means “Miami child.” This basket

  is full of maple sugar, and she always has a little extra. While they’re trading,

  Anikwa plays a tune on a willow whistle. Could I make one? I point to the whistle

  and take out my knife. We go find a willow tree, and Anikwa shows me how

  to cut a stick at an angle, make a notch through the bark, and tap the stick all over

  so the bark comes loose and slips right off. After I slice off a piece of wood

  to make a mouthpiece, he helps me cut another notch and slide the bark back on.

  I put the whistle to my mouth and blow—it works! The sound it makes is lower

  than Anikwa’s. He plays fast, and I play slow; soft, loud, then soft again.

  We sound so good, two yellow birds stop to listen and sing along with us.

  ANIKWA

  When we

  walk into the trading post

  playing our whistles, they’ve finished

  with their trading. Grandma saved

  some maple sugar, and gives

  us each a big piece

  (a tiny piece

  for baby Molly). James’s father

  gives us each a stick of licorice candy—

  it tastes like flowers and honey mixed together,

  and I suck on mine as we start home. So does Toontwa.

  But Rain Bird puts hers in her pocket without even tasting it!

  She’s never done that before. What’s wrong with her?

  Mink glances a quick question at Grandma,

  who raises her eyebrows for a second

  as they both look at my sister.

  A quiet smile crosses

  Rain Bird’s face,

  like a bird

  landing on a branch,

  then flying off again. I notice something

  for the first time—some people might think Rain Bird

  has a pretty face. This smile makes her

  look older.

  JAMES

  Ma gives Molly a hard crust to chew—she has two new teeth, ready

  to pop through. Play with her, will you, James? She’s so fussy, you’re

  the only one who can make her smile. I let her pull my hair—she likes that,

  but the trouble is, she’s getting stronger and it hurts! I wiggle my toes

  in the new moccasins Ma got for me today—she knits wool socks to trade

  for moccasins Mink makes. They’ve done that all my life. Ma says to Pa,

  The trading seemed fair today. He doesn’t answer right away. Yes, he finally

  says. Then: The President and Governor have asked me to try to sell more goods

  to the Miami than they can afford, to deliberately get them into debt. Ma says,

  We don’t go into debt ourselves. It would be wrong to encourage others to do so.

  Pa explains, We’d get paid next time they sign a treaty. If they sell some

  of their land, the government will pay off their debt as part of the agreement.

  At first it sounds fair, but then I think about it more. If they sell their land,

  where will they hunt and pick berries and plant corn? Where will they live?

  ANIKWA

  I figured out why

  Rain Bird hid her licorice candy.

  We’re all playing tossball when I notice

  Kwaahkwa’s mouth is stained black,

  different from makiinkweemina

  stains. Rain Bird gave

  her licorice

  to Kwaahkwa! Why would

  she do that? I try to act like I don’t

  notice, but Toontwa sees it too, and he can’t

  swallow his laughter. I toss the ball to him to make him stop

  laughing long enough to hold it up and decide where to toss it next.

  Miililo, Kwaahkwa shouts. Give it to me! Toontwa forgets about

  the licorice and throws the ball to Kwaahkwa—happy

  because Kwaahkwa noticed him. Kwaahkwa’s

  happy too, because Rain Bird is watching

  when he makes a goal—she

  has that same smile

  on her face.

  When the game is over,

  we gather round the fire to eat:

  roasted raccoon, hot corn, beaver soup.

  Fireflies light up the edge

  of the dark forest.

  JAMES

  Wish Molly would hurry up and get big so she could help

  find moss to plug the cracks between the logs. Gotta do it,

  or the wind will blow right through our walls. Ma never stops

  fretting about winter, even now when we’re all sweating

  in the summer sun. We’ve never yet frozen to death—I doubt

  it will happen this year. But Ma handed me a sack and said,

  See if you can fill it, so here I am, lifting moss from rocks, shaking

  off the sticks and spiders. When I look up, a mother deer with two

  fawns is watching me—one of them has a white patch on its leg.

  Now here come two bucks. They all stand there together, trying

  to make me lonesome. When they turn and walk away, I could follow

  to see where they go. I could tell Pa where they are so he could go out

  and get one. He’d be happy; the meat would taste good. But those little

  ones … naw. My moss sack is full. I go home and help Ma stuff the cracks.

 
; ANIKWA

  We’re down by the river,

  cutting cattails to make walls for the longhouse.

  Toontwa calls us over: Look, he says, fresh tracks in the mud.

  One set of big tracks, two sets of small ones—

  a mother black bear and her cubs

  came here to drink, early

  this morning,

  and we don’t want

  to surprise them or disturb them.

  Grandma speaks quietly, in case they’re nearby:

  We’ll go home on the other trail, and come back later. We’ve

  been here all afternoon, and now we spread the cattails in the sun.

  We should have enough to sew together into three more mats,

  to cover the frame we’re working on. We’ve cut saplings,

  dug holes to set them in the ground. Next, we’ll tie

  the frame together. We’ll finish this longhouse

  before the geese fly south. When it’s cold,

  the cattail walls will keep out

  wind and snow.

  Our fire will keep us warm

  inside while we tell winter stories. Today,

  these cattails spread out on the ground make me think

  of winter. In winter, the longhouse will

  remind me of this summer day.

  JAMES

  Isaac comes to the door. Let’s go do something. Not sure I want to—

  doing things with Isaac usually leads to trouble. But we head out,

  walking by the river. He finds some cattails and whacks them on a tree

  to make the brown parts burst. All the fluff goes flying—looks like fun.

  Let me try that, I say. Where’d you get those? Then I see: cattail reeds are

  laid out on the ground beside the long green leaves, drying in the sun.

  Isaac grabs as many reeds as he can hold. Leave them alone, I say. People

  put these here—they’ll be back to get them. But Isaac never listens to me.

  He keeps busting up the cattails’ fluffy parts and walking on the reeds,

  leaving muddy boot prints all over them. Then he stomps across all the

  animal tracks so I can’t see what animals have been here. Hey, look! he says,

  pointing. A hornet nest! Before I can stop him, he whacks it with a stick—

  the hornets come raging out, and we run off. I get stung six times! Isaac:

  not once. I’m hollering in pain. He’s laughing his head off—just like usual.

  ANIKWA

  Four men

  went out looking for

  the black bears—they followed

  the tracks around a bend

  in the river, then

  farther, until,

  two hours

  from Kekionga, they saw

  where the tracks crossed a shallow place

  to the other side. Even though they didn’t find the bears,

  now we know it’s safe to go back for our cattails. They should be

  lighter, easier to carry home, after drying out here in the sun all day.

  The weather’s good: warm, but not too hot, no rain, not many

  flies or mosquitoes. Black and orange butterflies

  all around us, like flying flowers,

  and others, deep purple-

  blue, the color

  of the

  sky

  on a half-moon night.

  Here’s where we left the cattails.

  What? Who did this? Why are all these hornets

  flying everywhere, so lost

  and angry?

  JAMES

  What happened to your face? Ma asks. Don’t want her to know about the cattails.

  Hornet nest, I say—maybe that’ll be enough. But she keeps asking questions

  until she figures out what happened. Like I expect, she says, You’ll have to

  go back and cut new cattails. Then: I’ll go with you. As we walk, Molly laughs

  at the butterflies fluttering around her, the wind blowing through her hair.

  Could’ve been a good time. No hornets—no Isaac. But when we get to where

  the cattails are, Anikwa is already there with his family, studying the tracks

  around the broken reeds. My moccasins and Isaac’s boots—the same size.

  They look at my feet. Do they notice that it’s Isaac’s muddy tracks, not mine,

  that ruined all their cattails? Anikwa’s grandma looks at me like she can

  see my thoughts. She searches around, picks some plants, takes my face

  in her hands, and presses leaves on all the hornet stings—cool on my hot skin.

  I don’t look at her. (Sometimes I’m glad she can’t talk English.) I watch

  to see what Anikwa does—then take out my knife and start cutting cattails.

  SALT CRYSTALS SHINE

  Sunlight travels

  through the sky

  as water flows

  within the earth

  dissolving salt,

  carrying it on.

  When salty water

  surfaces to light,

  salt crystals shine,

  a jeweled ring

  around this shallow

  pool of brine.

  ANIKWA

  The longhouse

  is finished. Now we’re helping

  Kwaahkwa’s family put the roof on their log

  house, and stuff the cracks with moss.

  Soon it will be time to bring in

  our corn and dry it

  for the winter.

  If we dry enough corn

  and fish and meat; if snow doesn’t

  come too soon, or last too long; if no one

  gets sick this year—maybe we will all survive until

  next summer. Today lots of friends and relatives from

  other villages are coming. We’ll have games—

  lacrosse and tossball—food and music,

  stories, dancing. Come on, Toontwa,

  let’s get plenty of firewood,

  so the fire will last

  all night long.

  This time,

  he comes running,

  glad to help, because he knows

  the longer we keep the fire burning, the more

  time we’ll have with our friends

  and cousins.

  JAMES

  I have my snares in my pocket, and I know exactly where to set them.

  I’m heading out the door, when Ma says, Wait a minute, James. What?

  She’s always glad to see me snare some rabbits. She likes rabbit meat,

  and she needs a few more skins to make a coat and hat for Molly.

  She hesitates. Maybe you should stay inside the stockade today, she says.

  But, Ma, I argue, there’s no rabbits inside the stockade! She frowns.

  Well, something’s been eating my cabbages. See what you catch in my garden.

  I tried that already. Everyone knows, rabbits like to stay on their trails.

  Yesterday, one hopped down the river trail and looked right at me,

  like a challenge. I won’t go far, I say. I promise! She’s thinking about it.

  I’ll pick some blackberries, I add. All right, she finally says. But don’t go

  farther than the berry patch. And … let me know if you see anything unusual.

  I’m out the door, through the stockade gate, and halfway to the trail

  before I stop to wonder what Ma means by “anything unusual.”

  ANIKWA

  Kwaahkwa is our

  best lacrosse player, but he sure

  likes to tease the little kids. Toontwa, he says,

  you call that a stick? That little twig

  with an acorn on the end?

  Toontwa is proud

  of his stick.

  He worked hard

  on it, and I helped him.

  What do you expect? I say. He’s only

  six years old. Toontwa stand
s beside me, trying

  to make himself look bigger, and Kwaahkwa smiles.

  Let me have a look, he says, reaching for the stick.

  He tightens a few knots, and gives it back,

  then tosses the ball to Toontwa, who

  scoops it up and throws it back to

  Kwaahkwa. Toontwa won’t

  play in the men’s

  game tonight,

  but we’re all having fun

  before the big game starts. Miililo! I call,

  holding up my stick. I get the ball and throw it toward

  Toontwa. He runs for it and looks up to catch

  Kwaahkwa’s smile.

  JAMES

  Before I set my snares, I look for pawpaws. Should be almost ripe.

  Yes—here’s the tree I found last year. Even more fruit this year.

  I go check the bluebird nest. Good—all four babies, still alive in there.

  Five or six more days, they’ll leave the nest—hope I get to see that.

  I come to the oak tree that fell in the river, half in, half out of the water.

  Ducks and geese swim past. A pair of herons lifts out of a treetop.

  I sit on the dry end of the log, staying still so I don’t scare the turtles

  when they climb out on the log’s other end: two … four … five … seven.

  A family of raccoons was here this morning, Anikwa’s tracks mixed in

  with theirs. His tracks are like mine because Mink makes the same

  kind of moccasins for him as she makes to trade with Ma. I follow his

  tracks—going toward that hole we saw. Don’t want to get too close,

  so I climb a tree to look down into it. Empty. From up here, I can see

  the berry bush. Anikwa’s there, with Toontwa—do they see me up here?

  ANIKWA

  Aya, James calls out

  as he climbs down from the tree.

  He saw me before I had a chance to trick him

  into thinking I’m a crow, but I make

  a crow call on my whistle

  anyway, and then I

  show him

  how to do it.

  Looks like he’s come out

  to try to snare some rabbits. I point

  to a pile of rabbit droppings in the middle of the trail.