A sunny, spring day on the shore of Noepe (modern day Martha’s Vineyard), 1614. Four large wetus stand in a line on the hill overlooking the beach. The mats of their roofs are still green, and a few tribesmen work together to make final adjustments to the cedar sapling frames. A woman carries a basket of lobster and sets it down in front of the men. The lobsters are climbing over each other in the basket, their claws snapping over its rim.
“Where is the fire? I thought we were steaming these right away,” she asks the Clear Water man shouldering a large sapling.
“You can leave them right there,” he answers as he leans the sapling against a wall, “we’re putting one more wetu together without a roof so the fire can burn throughout the festival.
A young girl, her face painted with white and yellow stripes, runs by laughing.
“Come back here!” A young boy, his face painted with blue stripes chases her onto the beach.
“Children, watch my fishing lines,” the woman shouts. She turns to the men, shaking her head. “They’ve been like that since we got here last night. So excited, and they’ve never even seen a baggataway field. I’ll never get them to sleep tonight.”
“I’ll trade you this deerskin for three lobster and five cod,” a deep voice says behind them. They turn to see a tall Fresh Pond man holding up the fur, his face beaded in sweat.
“Well,” the Clear Water man answers, brushing wood chips off the last reed mat on the ground, “we have lobsters, but no cod yet.”
“What about those?” The Fresh Pond man sets the fur down and points to the water. They follow his gaze to see the boy brandishing a line of flopping cod at the girl. She screams and splashes him with water.
“What did I tell you about those lines?” The woman yells as she runs toward them across the sand.
The Clear Water man leans the reed mat against the sapling, laughing. “Doesn’t seem like we’re ready to trade with cod yet. Help me finish smoothing down the sand for the baggataway game and you can have ten lobsters from that basket.”
“My family will appreciate that,” he answers, “we’ve been here for three days and I don’t want to run through all our venison before we’ve had a chance to trade.”
“Why did you come so early?” The Clear Water man asks, carrying longs reeds to use as brushes as they make their way down the length of beach.
“We got word last moon from one of Yellow Feather’s messengers that the festival was moved to Noepe. We didn’t know how long it would take us to get here so we left early.”
“We had a rough crossing ourselves,” the Clear Water man says, “that channel is filled with competing currents. The waves kept crashing over the canoe, it’s a wonder we didn’t sink right in the middle. Still, he’s our sachem, I’m sure he had his reasons for wanting us to be here.”
“I heard it had something to do with the People of the Small Point,” The Fresh Pond man says.
“Well, here come the teams, let’s get that playing field finished.”
They watch as two lines of men approach from further down the beach. The men on the left had white stripes painted across their faces, the other line wore matching wooden necklaces. Two men at the front of each line carried the goal posts, already adorned with trophies of pelts and strings of wampum.
All the men work together to ready the playing field. They finish their work by raising up the goalposts on either end of the smoothed area. It is almost time to play.
The axe blade flashes in the sun, then thunks as it hits the wood, catching everyone’s attention.
“Black Soil’s here!”
Dozens of voices cry out, “He’s not allowed to play, we’ve already drawn up the teams.”
More protests, “What? But it’s Black Soil! You’re just afraid he’ll end up on the Dawn Land team and you’ll have to play against him.”
“Why is he late?
A few Dawn Land teammates call out, “What good is that, Black Soil? We’ll never get that out of our goalpost – we’ll have to add that axe to our victory prize.”
Black Soil strides confidently to the wooden post, meeting the rival teams’ stares with a grin. A blue woven belt cinches the breechcloth at his thin waist. He shrugs his broad shoulders up and down to loosen them, while tensing the rippling muscles along his arms and then relaxing them. He stands underneath the axe handle, looking up almost twice his height to where it quivers. He is still a moment, calculating the distance and the angle, then turns his back to the post, head down, and walks a distance onto the part of the beach that has been smoothed for the playing field. The Dawn Land team lines up on the ocean side, the Great Falls on the woods side, all eyes on the imposing figure of Black Soil. He turns again, body facing the goal post, chin tucked, and raises his arms. Still. Suddenly he rears his head back, draws in a sharp breath, and rushes the post, body in full motion, legs pumping, sand kicked into the air as his heels thump the ground. He approaches, and just as it seems he will run headlong into the goal, he launches into the air, body twisting, arms raised, and his hand grips round the handle, sunk too deep into the wood to pull free. He pulls himself up, shimmies to the top of the goal post, straddles it and holds his position in easy reach of the flat shelf of the top of the post.
He lifts something from the bag at his waist, holds it aloft turning his torso so that all the spectators might get a glimpse of it, then places it on top of the goal post.
“That can’t be real – just an old skin wrapped around a stone?”
“I’ve never seen a red baggataway ball.”
“Wait, it looks like …. that’s an apple!”
“It’s too early in the season, where did that come from?” The crowd of players continue to lob questions and comments, pushing in to get a closer look.
“A perfect prize: firm and ripe, from a tree I found near Split Rock,” he says, his eyes meeting Eternal Blossom’s eyes as she stands next to Yellow Feather on the Great Falls side. She meets his gaze while shaking her head in disbelief, lips clenched together to suppress a smile. The beads of her bracelet click together as Yellow Feather slips his hand into hers.
Black Soil jumps down easily, kicking up a small mound of sand. He takes the time to brush the sand off his muscular legs, then walks over to the line of elders without looking back. The players cheer and clap, and the spectators look at him with admiration, the excitement in their voices audible as they murmur to each other.
Now Two Eagle, brother of Yellow Feather, his face painted, strides to the starting line, raises the beater in the air and lets out a low whoop that silences all the players. He holds the long wooden stick in the air until all are still, players and spectators alike. The players hold their breath, some crouch, ready to launch, others tall, shoulder-to-shoulder, ready to defend the goal. Silence. With one sudden, high-pitched cry, he swings the beater down and strikes the drum: the boom and reverberation rattle their ribs, and the players answer in kind, whooping into motion, the sand kicked up in the air under the pummeling feet. The small ball, dyed bright blue, whirls from one Great Fall’s stick net to another. Weeping Willow, the wide white stripe of the Dawn Land team painted across his back, swoops in, trying to grab the ball and throw it to his side. Swooping Bird, elbowing a young Great Falls player, jostles his way into the melee before being repelled back by an older defense player. Setting Sun comes to his aid, knocking the wind out of the older defense as he angles his stick in to intercept the ball. The ball hangs in the air a moment, and then rolls in toward the Dawn Land’s stick, but at the last moment, a powerful shoulder checks him to the ground, and Horned Owl’s net grabs the ball out of the air. Great Falls spectators clap and stamp their feet in approval.
“The way the Dawn Land side keeps dropping the ball, you’ll be wearing that wampum headdress before the sun sets,” Black Soil says with a laugh to Eternal Blossom as they walk away from the game toward the archery stands.
“Oh that’s not for me, you know that,” she says, pushing him lightly on the arm, “that wampum is for Yellow Feather, only the sachem wears it.”
“It matches your eyes better,” he says, looking down at her face.
She stops and puts her hand on her hips. “Well, better than an axe – the Dawn Land team already have a nice victory post without you giving away gifts you received as a Man of Great Honor.” Her eyes flash as she looks up at him.
“I protect my people with my skills, the fighting instincts the spirits have given me, I don’t need the axe,” he shrugs, facing her with a grin.
She shakes her head in exasperation, dropping her arms as she turns away. She stares straight ahead as she walks off toward the archery boards, passing a group of bettors in silence.
“Your moccasins if Great Falls win by more than five,” says Snow Fox, an elder of the Clear Water tribe, crouching easily in the shade of the large beech tree, the game in progress on the beach in front of the small gathering.
“Ha, you forget that there are Dawn Land playing with Fresh Pond today, their side will take this game easily, and you’ll owe me that hunting belt,” replies Racing River, the Fresh Pond warrior, stooping slightly and leaning on his staff. A stick net whirls in the air over the players’ heads, and lands on the far side of the playing field, the player who lost it scurries across the melee, weaving in and out of shoulders and elbows to retrieve it.
“I’ll put five leather straps on the Great Falls side,” says Turtle Egg, a young Fresh Pond man, displaying the straps in his hand, his back against the beech.
“Betting against your own?” Racing River shakes his head.
“I bet that Black Soil’s brothers can win many goals for the Great Falls,” Turtle Egg responds, “He’s a Man of Great Honor, and his brothers are even bigger than he is.
One day I’ll be A Man of Great Honor too, so I have to start thinking like he does: the real game is bigger than this one competition. If we lose this game, but win all the bets and trade for the best shellfish, we win the festival.”
Racing River sighs, shifting the staff to his left hand, flexing his right to relieve a cramp from holding the stick too tight. “Black Soil’s wrong. It’s not about the game, or even the festival, the competition is with the Great Spirits, the elements, the seasons, the rising sun, the new moon in the heart of winter. All we have is each other, the Fresh Pond tribe we were born into to carry us through.”
“I think that is what Black Soil meant,” Turtle Egg replies as he places the straps on the pile of booty under contention, “I’m just not saying it right. He was speaking of bigger games, longer odds, strategies to win a place for all of our tribes over the People of the Small Point.”
“Stick with your own kind, I say, and take what the spirits give.”
The two Fresh Pond tribesmen shuffle off together towards the targets, the archers already gathering for the marksmanship event. Snow Fox nods to them, “I’ll keep your bets, send anyone else who wants to play the odds – betting is open until sunup tomorrow.”
“Alright,” Turtle Egg says, turning back to him, “Wandering Bear will run up after the archery and bring you some fresh steamers.”
The whine of wind in the ear as the arrow slides past, then the resounding twang of the board as it strikes home: bullseye. Black Soil lowers his bow, nods to the next contestant as he steps aside. A young Little Falls warrior strides confidently up, takes his mark, pulls the string back, and lets the arrow go. It nips an edge of the board as it speeds past, landing in the tree trunk behind the mark. The elders groan sympathetically, one clapping him on the shoulder as he lowers the bow in disappointment. Yellow Feather steps up, looks Black Soil in the eye, pulls the string and lets the arrow soar. It lands, and there is a moment, an intake of breath, before the spectators hoot and cheer: the arrow has become the brother of Black Soil’s – aligned, shoulder to shoulder in the bullseye. Another Little Falls competitor approaches, but Black Soil motions for him to step aside. He takes his place, smiling at Yellow Feather and the elders, raises his bow, breathes deeply until a silence of anticipation falls, then lowers the bow. With a sharp intake of breath, he brings the bow up, pulls the string back, and releases it all in one motion. The arrow is a blur, only the sound of splintering wood tells the spectators that it has landed. The elder running the competition steps up, and lets out a low hum of admiration. The arrow has split the two earlier ones in the bullseye, spreading them out, pushing them aside as it takes its place in the center.
The sun has passed its peak, the shadows lengthen and a light breeze washes salt air over the gathering, blowing the billows of smoke and steam from the fish curing pits away towards the woods.
“Usually no one weaves faster than Moon Cloud,” little Snowbird says to the girl on her right. They huddle close to the fire, staring at Moon Cloud’s fingers, trembling slightly as she assembles the base of a storage basket.
“I couldn’t weave a basket with all these people watching,” Shelled Corn answers, not taking her eyes off of Moon Cloud’s hands.
Two other women sit beside her, each with a pile of basket making materials in front of them, the three of them intent on winning the weaving competition. A cloud of anxiety hangs over their heads, competition nerves cause Moon Cloud to fumble a slat and leave it on the ground at her feet. The spectators form a circle around the three, gently pushing in as the twilight deepens so as not to miss the magic of the baskets forming in front of them.
“Stand back, Snowbird,” Black Soil says, gently ushering the girl back from the fire as he steps up closer to the competition, “or we’ll have your smoked feet to trade with the Fresh Pond.” He smiles down at her and her friend. They giggle and stand back, making way for him. He walks boldly up to the competition platform, pulling a low stool up beside the women and takes his place among them. They all stop what they are doing, startled to see the warrior joining them.
“Ah,” he smiles, “I see your fear, I feel it with the senses given to me by the Great Spirit, I hear your hearts beating as fast as a pack of hunted deer. Make way, squaws, and behold the cunning of the warrior Man of Great Honor!” He bends over the pile of materials in front of the young woman on his left, grabbing a handful of slats. Some fall to the side as he hurries to catch up to the women.
“Oh strong warrior, show us your superior technique,” Moon Cloud deadpans, letting out a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding. Turning her attention back to the work in front of her, she scoops the drop slat up effortlessly.
“We don’t let our men make baskets,” Budding Flower says beside her, reaching for some blue slats. The crowd titters.
“Fresh Pond men don’t have the grace of the Great Falls warriors,” Black Soil answers, fumbling a few slats and treading them underfoot as he leans forward to grab more, “Men of Great Honor learn by watching, and perform best when being watched,” He catches Moon Cloud’s eye, she exaggerates a sigh of relief and smiles a thank you.
“Hmmm, I think it’s more likely that the Fresh Pond women know how to control their men,” Snowy Meadow says, giving a sidelong glance to the mess forming in front of Black Soil’s seat. “You’ll find that out if you ever settle down.”
“I could never give myself to one woman,” Black Soil answers, and the crowd roars, women protesting, men laughing, drowning out the rest of his response. “Now, now,” he says when they quiet down enough for him to continue, “That’s not what I meant!” He shakes his head at the spectators, ” A true Man of Great Honor belongs to his people, it is my duty to protect all of you, I give my life to serve you, keep you safe, even if…” The drum is struck, the spectators cheer, drowning Black Soil’s diatribe in the excitement of seeing Moon Cloud hold up her completed basket.
The sky darkens into night. Stars glow over the gathering. The baggataway game quiets as players line their stick nets up on their team’s sides, then stumble off, arm-in-arm, to share a meal of freshly steamed cod.
Dawn. The ship appeared sometime in the night in the harbor behind the game, and now an Englishman stands in front of them on the beach, swaying slightly as though he were still on board the ship.
“Ask him where Captain John Smith and the other ship are, why is he alone?” Yellow Feather says to Standing Pine.
“Our fishing nets have gotten tangled somehow around our anchor, and we can’t undo them without tearing them up and losing our anchor too. A few more hands will allow us to save the nets, our captain can repay you in beaver pelts. Please, help us.”
Standing Pine leans toward Yellow Feather, translating the sailor’s words. “Fools,” Yellow Feather mutters, “No wonder Smith left them behind. They can’t get out of their own way. If we don’t step in, they’ll still be floundering around come winter…”
“Hey, the players want to finish the game,” interrupts Black Soil, “I’ll form two dozen Men of Great Honor-in-training and run them out to that ship – we’ll have it cleared up in no time and be back to end this before sundown today, and then…”
Yellow Feather silences him with one sharp glance. “Tell the sailor we’ll help,” Yellow Feather says to Standing Pine, then gestures for Black Soil to meet him under the beech tree.
“You don’t know who I am? What do you need to know? My heart belongs to my people…” Black Soil waves his arms as he speaks, flustered and angry, staring down at Yellow Feather.
“What do I need to know? I am the leader of my people. I need to know how to protect them, where we can safely shelter, who our friends are, and where our enemies gather. Why were you late? And where did you get that apple? Did it come from the south?” Yellow Feather stands as still as a post, arms folded across his chest.
“Are you accusing me of conspiring with the People of the Small Point? This is the closet I’ve been to their land in a year. You talk of protecting your people what are we even doing here? I will gladly lay my life down to protect my family, but give me a fair fight – this is foolishness.”
“I am not here for this festival. This festival is for my people to celebrate the season, but my mind is on the next season and the one after that, and all the ones our children will have. We cannot be seen as weak by Fire and his cowardly People of the Small Point. Land thieves. They take and take, but they’re never satisfied. I will do what I must. We are here now to play games, to trade, but I do not let this opportunity pass to sit with my brothers from the west, from the north. Standing Pine and the Dawn Land tribe will stand with me when I need him, and the Fresh Pond tribe too will come … you keep putting on your show, Black Soil, the young men need a strong role model. Take them to the ship, show them how you protect us, but don’t forget, there’s a bigger game, and that is the one I play.” Yellow Feather stares at the ship in the harbor as he speaks.
“I think you’re just jealous, Eternal Blossom is like a sister to me…”
“Eternal Blossom knows who she is, and I know who I am, Black Soil. Go. Go and come back when you know who you are.” He stares Black Soil in the eye, then turns and walks off toward the fire pits.
Black Soil stands in front of two dozen Men of Honor-in-training. He is more serious than usual, the fight with Yellow Feather clouds his brow still.
“Think of this as a training session of baggataway for the next festival. Real war begins like this too, though. We show our opponents our bravery, our strength. We do this by acting together. Line up by the two canoes, at my signal, we leave as one.”
Black Soil gestures for the other canoe to paddle closer. They both maneuver lengthwise along the submerged ropes. The end rowers in each ship rock the oars to keep the canoes as steady as possible. Black Soil meets Turtle Egg’s eyes, and they both reach for the rope together, each bracing himself on the edges of their respective canoes, the other warriors at the ready to grab more of the ropes as they break surface and spread the net out between the two canoes. Black Soil’s hand goes under the water, and he lifts the rope up effortlessly. To their great surprise, the end has been cut – there is no net, just a length of rope that trails off into a tatter. Black Soil looks up at the English ship in confusion. A wave breaks over the edge of the canoe, throwing his balance as he leans back to find the captain’s eyes on the deck. In that moment, the sky, so clearly blue above the foreign ship turns black as though a murder of crows has taken wing. The blackness spreads above the canoes, and too late Black Soil realizes that it is not wings of crows, but a fishing net, falling. The weight of it knocks some of the young warriors into the water, others fall back into the canoe. Black Soil flails his arms wildly over his head, standing to his full height in the canoe. He spreads his arms out, holding the net around him, which creates just enough space underneath him for some of the warriors still on the canoe to move and regain their balance.
“Give me your knife,” he says to Turtle Egg, treading water beneath him. He grabs it and begins to cut through the rope, muttering to himself, “What kind of fools throw a net without even looking? He pulls Turtle Egg up and into the canoe as he frees himself further. “Swim under and come up outside its cast,” he directs the rest of those knocked into the water, “I’ll hand you the canoes when we can pass them through this hole I’m cutting.” In a few short minutes, he has cut enough space to pass the second canoe through. Working with the warriors still on his canoe, they maneuver the now empty canoe, and begin to pass it through the hole. A second net descends, heavier and wider than the first, and then a third. Black Soil is knocked senseless, falling to the bottom of the canoe. The other warriors pinned to the canoe by the weight of the rope, with those in the water being pushed below the surface. They force their heads up, and swallow more water than they can breathe air, they are drowning.
“What are you doing?” Turtle Egg yells up to the crew above them on the deck of the ship, We’re trying to help you.” His words are lost in a wave that crashes over the canoe. The extra water and the weight of the ropes make it sink faster now. They will all soon be under, unable to swim away or even tread water enough to keep them alive.
Black Soil comes to his senses with a start. He is aware that he has been gasping for breath, his throat raw with the struggle, a long gash across his forehead from the rope of a fishing net. His head is damp, resting in a puddle of blood. He lurches and spins upright, catching a glimpse of the shore through a chink in the planks up by the ceiling. Fresh Pond and Great Falls tribesmen roam back and forth in confusion, Yellow Feather gesturing orders behind them. A figure, thin like Eternal Blossom, holds something up to Yellow Feather, and the full rays of sunlight strike its side. The wampum glows as if on fire. Black Soil collapses, darkness falling over him like waves.