a carving himself. “I carve, too. Except I carve out of wood. Most say I’m very good with wood.”
The girl delicately fingered her pendant. John could tell that the carving somehow held great significance for her. He knew what it meant to value a possession. Sticking his hand in his pocket, he traced the outline of the circumference of his father’s gold watch. He remembered with pride when his father said to him just before he left England, “See this watch, son? It was my father’s once. But now you’re almost a man. It’s time you have this.” Then he placed the timepiece in John’s shaky hands. John recalled being a small boy watching his father faithfully wind the heirloom and care for it with great pride. Maybe this girl’s pendant was equal in value and sentiment to his treasured gift from his father.
John looked up at Mishbee. “I can tell you love that pendant probably the same way I love my watch.”
They stood in silence for a moment. Then the girl abruptly turned and began topping off her berry basket as if John were invisible.
He didn’t know what to do with himself. Should he leave or should he stay? He watched as the girl ignored him and picked her berries. “Could you grace me with your name?” he asked, trying to divert her attention from the berries.
Mishbee kept picking.
“Your name?” he repeated, this time louder.
The girl didn’t even bother to look in his direction. Realizing he wasn’t getting very far with his attempts to communicate, John walked up to the girl and gently tapped her shoulder with his forefinger. She glanced up at him questioningly. “I’m John,” he said, indicating himself. “John.” Then he pointed at her.
She smiled and nodded. “Mishbee.”
“Mishbee,” he repeated triumphantly.
She kept working at her task. John still felt strangely out of place, so he busied himself by picking a small bouquet of everlasting daisies in a small nearby clearing. When he was finished, he brought the flowers to Mishbee and held them out. “These are for you. Some people call them dead man’s flowers and others call them everlasting daisies. I’m not sure why they have two names. I guess two different people can look at the same thing and have very different ideas.”
Mishbee studied him quizzically, obviously not having a clue what he was doing or saying. Suddenly sensing his naivety, John felt embarrassed and silly. He pulled the flowers back to his side. “I guess you don’t have a vase or a front parlour to display these in, so I’ll take them home.”
The girl glanced at her basket, then turned to leave. John could see that the basket was full. “Where are you going?” he asked.
Mishbee didn’t answer. Instead, she left as quickly and quietly as she had come, disappearing into the brush. John knew better than to try to follow her. Danger might lie ahead. There was nothing left for him to do except head back to find Allen.
CHAPTER 3
“Where have you been?” Mishbee’s mother scolded, obviously not impressed by her daughter’s disappearance. Mishbee was no stranger to the woods, but her absence had been longer than usual.
“I had to finish picking the blueberries.”
“The sun will soon set, Mishbee, and there’s much work to do here. This isn’t the time to wander off. You’re needed. Please don’t disappoint me with your actions again.”
Mishbee hung her head in shame. “I’m sorry, Mother.” She was more repentant than her mother knew. The events of the day had caused her greater grief than she cared to think about.
Still, her mother was right. After a hunt, there was always a lot to do. First, Mishbee placed her berries on a flat rock where the other berries were already laid to dry for tomorrow’s sun. The air surrounding the rock was filled with a sweet berry aroma. Besides blueberries, the women and children picked partridgeberries, marsh berries, raspberries, and currants at various times in the summer. Their only way of preserving this precious fruit was to dry it in the sunlight or store it in oil. While Mishbee worked diligently, Dematith walked by.
“How are you, Little Bird?” he asked, smiling. “I see you found your pendant.” He seemed pleased at the sight of the shiny carving once again hanging around Mishbee’s neck.
“Yes” was all Mishbee said, keeping her head down to avoid his eyes.
“Why are you so sullen, Little Bird?” Dematith asked, his tone changing from cheeriness to genuine concern.
As much as Mishbee usually enjoyed talking playfully with Dematith, she wanted this conversation to end. She had a secret and didn’t want to reveal it. “I’m not sad, Dematith. I’m just grateful to be wearing your pendant again. I didn’t mean to disappoint you earlier.”
Dematith sat and wrapped an arm around Mishbee’s shoulders. “Don’t sound so dejected, Little Bird!”
Mishbee was happy to have Dematith for a friend, since she had never had a brother, only her one sister, Oobata.
“I was only teasing you earlier,” he told her. “I know you appreciate my work.”
There was never any question in Mishbee’s mind that Dematith’s carving was treasured. It had almost cost her life, but she couldn’t tell him that. “Yes, of course Dematith,” she said in her most convincing voice.
Dematith seemed satisfied with Mishbee’s response and walked away to help some of the others.
Mishbee went to attend to the fire with Oobata. With such a good hunt of great auks, it would be necessary to keep the birchbark pots filled with birds. Birchbark, or paushee, as her people called it was so important. The versatile material was used to make the skins of containers, summer wigwams, and canoes.
“Where were you today?” Oobata asked, not wasting any time with her questions. She was always a keen observer and very direct.
It seemed that Mishbee couldn’t escape questions today. “Picking berries,” she told her sister.
Oobata glanced around carefully. A couple of women were working at the next fire. She leaned closer to Mishbee and whispered, “Mishbee, Mother isn’t around. I know you better than anyone else and can see you’re not telling me everything. What secret are you keeping?”
“What makes you think I’ve got a secret?”
“I just know it. You can’t fool me.”
Not only was Oobata her older sister, she was Mishbee’s closest friend. She had been there from the day Mishbee was born and was like a second mother to her. Oobata could sense Mishbee’s joy and dismay before anyone else. Mishbee peered into the dark, solemn eyes of her older sister. Oobata had Mishbee’s complexion but was taller than Mishbee and very wise.
“Mishbee,” Oobata said, “you’re skilled in the woods. It would never take that long for you to fill that tiny basket with berries. And why didn’t you have your pendant when you first came back? I overheard Dematith ask you about it. And I heard you answer him. You said it was in our wigwam. That was a lie, Mishbee. When I went inside, I didn’t see the pendant anywhere. I notice these things, and it doesn’t make any sense to me. The only thing I can be sure of
