The Beaded Moccasins by Lynda Durrant

never come.
    But spring always returns, no matter how raw and long the winter remains. I can't give up hope.
    "Believe in the bluebird's promise, Mary," I say out loud. "Believe in yourself. I will see my family again someday."
    A thin ribbon of hope glows within me, just as the Cuyahoga shines like molten iron as it reflects the setting sun.
    ***
    The next morning White Eyes comes back to the cave with a doe he's killed. While I collect firewood, Hepte makes a savory stew of venison, dried squash, and powdered mushrooms.
    After she sets up our fill of the meat for smoking, Hepte divides the rest among the other families. Now every family fire has a stewpot bubbling with venison and vegetables. The cave is steamy with the comforting fragrance of hot food.
    This is not unusual. Other hunting parties have come
back to the cave with game. The hunters' wives cook enough for their families, then share the rest.

    The next day Grandfather explains that Hepte wants my help to tan the deerskins. "You will not have to gather wood today, Granddaughter. And soon you'll have a new pair of leggings. You're growing so fast; Hepte has noticed yours are too small."
    "
Heh-heh,
" I say to Hepte, and she smiles at me.
    With a great flourish of prayers and face paint, the men and boys leave for another hunting expedition. Sometimes I think hunting is just an excuse for the men to escape the cave. Most of the time they come back empty-handed. You'd think they'd look more chagrined and disappointed.
    I stand on the cliff trail and watch them longingly as they march out into the fresh, cold air. A bright curtain of sunbeams breaks through the clouds, filling the gorge with pearly light. Just like home, I think with a sigh. The men and boys leave, the women and girls stay behind and do the work.
    "Tonn," Hepte says, pointing to the place next to her. Just as I sit down, she flings the deerskin out onto the cave floor.
    The deerskin is already stiff, the skin side scraped but still bloody with spiderwebby sinew clinging in places.
    She reaches for a covered bowl and places it between us. When she takes the cover off, I feel as though someone has punched me in the stomach.
    The bowl is filled with lumpy gray matter crisscrossed with blood vessels like dark lace. The doe's brains.
    I gasp. For once even Chickadee is silent, staring wide-eyed.

    Hepte pulls down her leggings and straddles the bowl.
    After living in a cave all winter with two hundred Delaware, I think I've smelled and seen and heard just about everything people do.
    But I've never seen anyone empty her bladder in the cave. We always go outside.
    Hepte stands and pulls up her leggings. "Tonn," she says, pointing to the bowl.
    "
Keko windji?
" I whisper. What can she be thinking?
    She says something, and Chickadee pulls down her leggings and straddles the bowl. Chickadee smiles up at me as a little bit trickles out. She stands up, points to the bowl, and chatters at me about a mile a minute.
    Gray lumps of brain float and bob in a pool of yellow urine. It looks like sour milk long gone to curd. Hepte and Chickadee look at me expectantly.
    "
Ku,
" I say, shaking my head. "
Ku,
Hepte."
    Hepte shrugs her shoulders, then sets to work. She dips her hands into the steaming mess and mixes it into a paste. She begins to rub the paste into the bloody side of the deerskin. Chickadee helps, the gray mass curling out between her chubby fingers.
    I can't bring myself to look for more than a moment or two. It occurs to me, as I'm looking down at my tunic, that my butter-soft leather clothes and beaded moccasins were tanned by Hepte, and surely in the same way. And that's the same bowl we've used for our
family dinners. The same pot we eat from. How could she—

    "Tonn," Hepte says angrily. "Tonn.
Mary?
    When I turn around she's unrolling a much smaller skin. She gives the bowl a bit of a push in my direction and points to the little pelt. There's still a bit of the brains-and-urine paste sloshing