She felt Greg and Paul would already be at the Spot. Two pair of boot marks preceded her in the snow. A short way into the woods she stopped and looked off to her right. A small clearing lay through the trees. She glared at the small clearing for a moment then continued along the path.
As expected Paul and Greg Kedderman were sitting on the fallen tree that the kids in town called "the Spot". It lay only a dozen feet off the edge of the Little Elkhart River. On the map it was called a river but here it was so small that the kids in town all knew it as a creek or "crick". Years ago a heavy storm had caused the small creek to become a raging torrent, toppling an old tree as the creek overran its banks. Rushing water, forced under the tree, dug out a trough in the ground and left a natural hide-a-way after the waters receded.
Paul and Greg sat atop the fallen tree trunk, systematically picking at the bark.
"Hey, Margaret." Paul said.
"Hi, Paul, Hi, Greg." Margaret replied, mounting the tree where it lay at the edge of the depression, then finding a spot next to Greg.
Paul and Greg Kedderman were brothers and lived in the white house a few doors away from Margaret. Paul was nine. Greg was eight. Both were towheads. Margaret had made friends with them some five years back when her family moved to Bristol.
"Hear about Mikey Peters?" Paul said.
"Yeah." Margaret said.
"I'm glad he's gone,” said Greg. "he talked to me like I was an idiot!"
"Maybe 'cause you kept teasing him", volunteered Paul. "He should' a kicked your butt!"
"He was weird!” Greg said, flipping a piece of bark at his bigger brother.
"That's 'cause he told us he saw an Indian out here." Paul answered. "Anybody knows that there's been no Indians in Bristol for a hunnert years."
"He's still weird." Greg said in his own defense.
"How 'bout your Dad?" Paul said to Margaret, suddenly looking away as if trying to not need an answer. He knew Margaret's Dad was sick but after asking wished he hadn't.
"I dunno," said Margaret, her eyes staring down. "Mom doesn't say much. I think maybe they don't want me to know."
"Well, I hope he gets better." said Paul, trying to make up for bringing up something that may have made Margaret feel bad.
Margaret's Dad was sick and Margaret knew that her Mom and Dad didn't want her to worry. They sometimes got quiet when she entered the room while they were talking. But her Dad's seemingly endless coughing told more of the truth about his health than any words could.
"We better get home." Paul said to his younger sibling. "Mom's gonna get mad if she has to hunt us down. And you know she doesn't like us coming across the crick."
Paul and Greg slid simultaneously off the trunk and landed in the depression below.
"Comin', Margaret?" Greg asked.
"Yeah", Margaret said, sliding off the tree and into the depression ala the brothers.
She climbed up from the depression and followed Paul and Greg on the path home.
When they came to a certain place each of them glanced off to one side to look at the small clearing that Margaret had viewed on her way to the Spot. She didn't say anything, especially to either Paul or Greg. She didn't want to be thought of as weird. She didn't want Paul or Greg to know that she saw an Indian in that clearing just a week ago.
Pulling open the screen door on the back door of the house, Margaret crossed the concrete floor of the back porch and twisted the oval knob on the door that led to the kitchen. Just inside the door a small triangular table held Fluffy the cat. Fluffy gave Margaret a questioning look as if to ask her where she'd been and what she'd been doing.
"No going outside, Fluffy." Margaret said to her pet. Fluffy had figured out that by leaping to the small table next to the back
door, she could use her paws to twist the oval doorknob. Once the latch
cleared, the natural weight of the door would cause it to swing open.
This was Fluffy's means of getting out without waiting for human help.
The only problem was that Fluffy had not yet learned how to close the
door behind her. With just one wood and coal-burning stove to heat a two
story house, a door left open in the dead of winter would cause Mom to
go after Fluffy with the broom."Margie?" her Mother's voice said, coming from the bathroom just to the right.
"Hi, Mom." Margaret said, entering the bathroom that doubled as a laundry room. Her parents had entered the modern age last year when Dad bought a used wringer washer. Mom was pulling Dad's work clothes from the washtub portion, feeding an end of the clothing between the two rubber rollers and turning the handle. Dad's workpants passed between the ringers, the rolling pin shaped rollers squeezed the excess water back into the tub. The rung pants came out the other side where Mom dropped them into a laundry basket.
"Your Dad will be home at six, Margie, and I need you to help me with dinner. Now pick out three nice potatoes and peel them for me, would you, Sweetheart?"
Margaret pulled off her worn winter coat and her fur-trimmed brown rubber boots. She grabbed the potatoes from a hanging basket, took a peeler from the drawer and peeled while her Mom hung the clothes on the large back porch. Her Mom came in while Margaret was already cutting the potatoes to put on the stove to boil.
"Mom," Margaret said somewhat cautiously, "Is Dad going to be alright?"
Margaret's Mom stopped at the back door and for a moment just looked at Margaret.
In a soft, low voice she said, "We can only hope Margie. You must know that we've been keeping things from you...not wanting you to worry."
"I know." Margaret replied, now too sheepish to look at her Mother.
"Listen, Margie," her Mother said, "supper's still a couple hours away. Why don't you go see what the Kedderman boys are up to? It will take your mind off such things."
Margaret didn't respond except to again put on her coat and boots then silently made for the back door. She didn't even think about Paul and Greg Kedderman. She took off for the one place where she could think things out. Perhaps where she could cry without being seen.
Margaret retraced the steps she had taken earlier. When she crossed the Little Elkhart and dropped down the slope to the path
she did not bother to look off to the clearing on the right as she had
before. But even so, as she reached the place where she could look to
the clearing, something off to side caught her vision.There, about a hundred feet away, what seemed to be an Indian sat cross-legged before a small fire. He appeared to be cloaked in an animal hide for warmth and was prodding the small fire with a wooden stick when he looked up and eyed Margaret.
For a moment Margaret was frozen in time. She had always been taught not to talk to strangers but there was something in the face of the Indian that showed a half smile and a look of welcome. Margaret remained motionless. Then the Indian, rubbing his hands over the flames, beckoned to her to come forward, pointing at the fire and resuming rubbing his hands.
With what Margaret felt in her heart that day about her Father, she seemed to throw caution away and slowly moved toward the seated Indian.
When she got within several feet she paused. She could tell he was old. Long, gray hair fell down to his shoulders and was held tightly around the top with a bright cloth band. His skin was brown, worn and leathery. He wore animal hide britches and jacket. A decorative, half moon carving hung on a beaded string from his neck. His feet were shod with moccasins. He sat on an animal skin and on the other side of the little fire a small animal skin lay on the ground as if waiting to be occupied.
"Come,” the Indian said, “sit and be warm."
Margaret moved closer while keeping the small fire between her and her new acquaintance.
"Warm fire." the Indian repeated staring into the flames.
Slowly Margaret lowered herself onto the unused skin opposite the Indian. Neither spoke for some little time as the flames warmed her. Margaret merely stared at the Indian as he poked at the fire, the small collection of tree branches giving off a small white wisp of smoke which lazily rose into the winter sky.
"You come this way before." the old Indian finally said. "See you on path."
For a minute Margaret did not respond, then said, "Yes", sometimes me and my friends come this way."
"Young friends," the Indian said, "Two young braves."
Margaret felt he must have been referring to Paul and Greg and that this old Indian must have been watching them earlier. This made Margaret a little nervous. Then Margaret said, "Do you live around here? I think I've seen you before."
"Live here many moons" replied the Indian. "See many people come through trees over time."
"What's your name?" Margaret decided to ask. In case the boys wouldn't believe she had seen the Indian just like Mikey Peters had, at least she'd have a name to back up her story.
"Wa-taka." replied her Indian host, stirring the small fire.
"I'm Margaret." Margaret stated, forgetting not to tell strangers who she was.
"You are young, my little friend." said the Indian. "Time for play and laughing but your face not look happy."
Margaret figured anybody could tell that her look carried concern but still was bothered that this old Indian had been able to know her mood.
"It's my Dad." Margaret said looking into the fire.
"Yes." said the old Indian. "Much to worry about at such a young
age."
Margaret wondered how he knew she had something weighing on her but
perhaps it showed too easily.
"You worry for Father?" the weathered Indian asked.
With a slight gasp, "Yes," Margaret replied. "he's sick and I don't know
if he's going to get better."
Without looking up the Indian said, "Much to worry about but you must
know when to not worry too much."
"Why do you say that? Margaret said defensively.
Using the stick in his hand the Indian pointed to a large Elm tree at
the edge of the clearing.
"Look at wise old tree." he said. "In spring tree bears many leaves.
Leaves grow big and strong in warm weather. But then, warm weather goes,
winds blow cold and brings snow. Leaves change color."
Margaret looked at the large Elm, now bare of leaves with small tufts of
snow gathered on its branches.
"Tree has leaves. Leaves change with weather and fall from tree."
Margaret stared into the dark brown eyes of the Indian, suddenly feeling
a warmth and comfort but still feeling cautious.
"You are like tree." the Indian said.
"Why am I like the tree?" Margaret said with a questioning look.
"You worry where leaves may land," her new friend said. "but tree has
learned not to worry because tree not know where leaves will land. Too
much worry about what you cannot know will take life from you. Too much
worry not good for you. Tree has learned not to worry so tree has power
to make new leaves when the snow melts. Tree is wise"
Margaret sat for while trying to understand the Indian’s words. After
some time she knew that suppertime would be coming at home and give her
an excuse to escape from what could be an uncertain situation.
"I've got to go now," she said, standing.
"I go soon, too." said the old Indian.
"Nice to meet you." Margaret said, remembering her manners.
"You good friend", the Indian responded. "You make wise tree".
Margaret turned away and trudged through the snow, stopping to look back
towards the clearing after nearing the path. Her
Indian friend was gone and just a small bit of smoke rising from where
the small fire had burned.
Once home Margaret’s Father welcomed her with a big bear hug. They ate
and made small talk with Dad asking Margaret about school and friends.
After supper she wondered if her imagination made the whole Indian thing
up. But her Father's frequent coughing that evening jogged her back to
reality.
"I saw the Indian!" Margaret whispered to Paul as they walked to school
the next morning.
Paul just rolled his eyes.
"Another one with the Indian story." Paul shot back. "I'll bet you see
flying saucers too".
Margaret knew then it was best not to press the story with Paul but
later, after school, she and Paul walked the trail to the Spot. As they
neared where Margaret had turned to meet her Indian friend Paul said,
"Okay, so show me where you saw your Indian."
With her heart racing a little Margaret led Paul off the path and walked
to the small clearing she had visited the day before.
"See, it was here." she said, feeling relieved that a small pile of
charred wood still remained. "See, it was right here where he sat by the
fire", Margaret claimed, pointing at the evidence.
"And you came over here and sat with him?" Paul asked.
"Yes, yes, I sat right here," she said, pointing to an impression in the
snow that was still there from where she sat.
"And where did your Indian sit?" Paul asked, wanting proof.
"Right there", Margaret replied, pointing to the spot where the Indian
sat.
"Oookay," said Paul in a mocking manner.
"Here's where you sat and your footprints. Now where are his footprints
and marks in the snow from where he sat?"
Suddenly Margaret grasped Paul's doubts. Sure enough, there in front of
her was the evidence that she had been there the day before. The
footprints; the impression where she had sat. But dumbfounded, she saw
not a single mark in the snow showing either the Indian's footprints or
any impression in the snow where he had sat.
"Come on, let's go". Paul said, turning away and leaving Margaret to
stand and stare at the mystery in front of her. She and Paul made it
home without further conversation about her Indian observation.
The next day at school Margaret's class was marched to the school
library. Her teacher, Mrs. Kline, was intent on her students using the
library and encouraging them to read.
After instructions on how to use the card catalog, Mrs. Kline turned the
students loose to roam the library shelves, looking for topics that
would spur them to read. It was in the history section that Margaret
stopped with surprise. On a small table stood a poster and some books.
The poster's title was, "History of Bristol". On the poster were half a
dozen old pictures taken many years ago when Bristol, Indiana was just a
small trading town, growing up on the Saint Joseph River. One picture in
particular caused Margaret to go motionless.
There,
in a faded picture from the late 1800’s, stood settlers and Indians
gathered in front of a small trading post. The caption under the picture
read, "Chief Wa-taka Helps Early Settlers".
Margaret was stunned. There in the old black and white photo was the
very Indian who had sat at the fire with her the day before. The brief
story under the photo told of an old Potawatomie Indian who had helped
early settlers in how to trap and trade beaver pelts.
After school Margaret didn't go home. Instead she hurried down the road
running north from town, crossed the bridge over the Little Elkhart and
eagerly followed the path down the slope. A fresh snow from the night
before had partially covered the tracks that she, Paul and Greg had made
the previous two days. Turning into the woods that led to the small
clearing Margaret's heart leaped as she spotted a small trail of smoke
between the trees.
Following her steps of the day before, Margaret reached the small
clearing then stopped just feet away from a small pile of wood branches
that obviously had just burned out. Some of the branches were charred
and just a sliver of smoke arose from the pile.
Just as the day before though, only Margaret’s new footfalls showed in
the snow. Where anyone may have walked or sat in the snow near the fire,
the snow lay pristine and undisturbed. Margaret then let her mind go
back to the picture in the library and Chief Wa-taka. She let her gaze
search the nearby woods, seeking the outline of anything human. There
was nothing.
All the way home Margaret wondered and asked a million questions in her
own mind.
When reaching the porch of her small green-shingled home, Margaret saw
the written note tacked to the door. It was from her Mother.
"Margaret, took Daddy to the Doctor. Stay with Keddermans until I get
home"
Mrs. Kedderman welcomed Margaret into her home. Along with Paul and Greg
she watched the first television anyone of her friends had. The novelty
of watching her first TV did not keep her from thinking of her Dad or of
her experience in the woods. Paul and Greg, seeming to know why she
worried, kept their talk with her to a minimum.
It was almost eight o'clock when a knock at the door brought Margaret's
mother home. She said her helloes to Paul and Greg, giving Margaret a
tight hug. Then her Mom spent a minute in the kitchen with the boy’s
Mother. The low voices told Margaret they must have been discussing Dad.
She and Margaret walked together to the front door of their home. Her
Mom filled her in on her Dad along the way. She probably figured that
since Margaret was old enough to ask about her Dad's health she was old
enough now to know the whole truth.
“Daddy’s in the hospital, Margie. He has a problem with his lungs. The
Doctor said if we don’t get Daddy to a dryer climate it could be very
bad for him.
Their boots crunched the cold, moonlit snow as they walked toward home.
The night was moon-bright with small tufted clouds showing in the sky.
It reminded Margaret of the encounter in the woods and she wondered
again if it all was real.
After a moment her Mom continued.
“We'll be going to Phoenix, Margie", her Mom explained, taking time
to search her daughter’s face for her reaction. "We're going to move in
with Aunt Bernice until we can get situated."
Margaret quietly took in all the new information. She knew this would
mean leaving her friends and wondered how this could be happening. But
all of a sudden the words of the old Indian struck her. They tramped
along the sidewalk, mounted the few steps of the front porch, then
stopping before unlocking the door at home, Margaret's Mom knelt and
faced Margaret.
"Margie, I know this comes all of a sudden but sometimes in life things
happen that you don't expect so I hope you understand. We’ve been very
happy here and you have your friends, but we just couldn’t predict that
this would happen"
"I do." Margaret said, seeing the mist of tears gathering in the corners
of her mother's eyes. “I understand, Mom. When a leaf falls from a tree,
no one knows where it will land."
Her Mom’s eyes widened as if wondering how such wisdom could come from
her little girl.
"You are so right, Margie" said her Mom, grasping Margaret with a tight
hug. Her Mom looked at her then in a way that somehow said she knew that
her daughter was aging and maturing.
Margaret's family moved to Phoenix, Arizona that spring. There was a
period of getting adjusted, starting at a new school and finding new
friends. Margaret met a local rancher there and got to know horses,
eventually learning how to work and train them. The change that had
happened in Margaret’s life just opened new paths for her to follow.
But the dryer climate was kinder to her Dad's health and he slowly got
better and the coughing eventually went away. Margaret’s Dad lived for
many more years. He lived long enough to see Margaret grow to be a fine
young woman and get married.
Margaret's children learned from their Mother to be honest, hardworking
and respectful. She taught them not to worry about what they could not
know, and most importantly, she told the story of an imaginary child,
who, one day in 1958, learned to be a "wise tree".
