Mother and Child Frozen

The white settlers in this village were wealthy from the sale of the crops that grew in the rich soil left behind when the ponds washed away in summer. Even now, when winter had overtaken the land, she saw the remains of the vast corn fields that fed the villagers. She would have to cross those huge fields, but she hoped that when she reached the other side, the settlers would take pity on her and give her shelter for the night. For surely they would never turn away a lonely woman with a baby.

She adjusted the cradleboard on her back, wrapping the threadbare shawl tighter around her baby, and pushed on toward the lights of the village. The wet sea air bit her face as she walked, but she kept her face toward it to shield the child.

As soon as she entered the village, her heart sank. Many people were out of their homes, happily talking and shopping in the market. As she neared, their white faces changed from smiles to scowls. Their faces turned as cold as the weather. She knew she would find no kindness in this village for her skin was too dark.

She could not be proud. She had no choice but to hope for kindness, to beg for it even. The first house she came to was the home of a very rich man. The home was large and square. Many trees had died to build such a tall square home, she thought. She knocked on the door.

The man answered the door with a smile, but it quickly dropped from his large face. He slammed the door before she could utter a word. At the second home, the door opened to reveal a woman. At first, the young mother thought that a woman might be nicer, but she was wrong.

“Please help me,” she said softly in the tongue of her people.

But the woman only scoffed and gestured violently. She could not understand the woman’s loud words, but the motion of her hands and the scowl on her face were clear. “Get off my doorstep. You are not welcome here,” they said.

At the third home, the young mother took down the cradleboard from her back so she could hold her child in front of her. She thought that maybe they would take pity on a baby, even if they would spurn a grown person. Resting the board against her legs, she held the baby in front of her and knocked on the next door. But the response was the same. Cruel, hard faces and loud, harsh words of dismissal were all she found.

At house after house, she was turned cruelly away. She needed only a corner of their large homes. That was all she asked. Just a corner to shelter her child from this harsh night. She knocked on every house she came to, but no one would help her.

Finally, as she approached the edge of the village, she came to the last house on the road. Beyond this house, the darkness grew thick and daunting.

She squared her shoulders, held her child in front of her, and knocked on the last door. When it opened, she saw the person standing there was just a child. He was maybe four years old and wrapped in a thick wool blanket. Hope sparked in her for the first time since she’d entered the village. His face was kind.

“Please help me and my baby,” she said. “We are very cold and only ask for shelter for the night.”

The child lifted a hand and gestured for her to come in. The young mother let out of great sigh of relief and hurried inside. But she had not made it more than a few steps inside when the child’s mother and father came from deeper in the house. They rushed forward as if there was great danger.

The white woman swept the child up in her arms and began scolding the poor boy harshly. The white man, who was yelling indiscernible words, ran at the young Indian mother who scrambled backwards over the threshold. She lost her footing and fell to the ground, clutching her baby to her chest. The door slammed. Her last flicker of hope died as the warmth that crept out of the open door faded to nothing.

Crushed and scared, she left the warm glow of the village and headed into the dark night. She would have to try to keep going. She would have to try to make it to another village. On she walked.

The last bit of strength left her legs when she saw the water. It was just a stream, but in this dark, moonless night she knew not how deep it ran. The ice on the surface was thin. Too thin. She could not cross. She knew not how far up stream she would have to travel to find a crossing. And she did not have the strength to try. She sank to the ground. The cold stung her skin and the wind gushed through her thin clothes and carried away her hope.

When morning came the white folk found her frozen, lifeless body hunched over her child. Tears were frozen on both their faces. The white folks buried them both there by the stream. But they would soon come to regret their lack of kindness. For the land near their village heard the cries of the young mother. The land soaked up her tears and no corn would grow near that village ever again. They tried, season after season, but just as the young mother’s perseverance came to nothing, so did their attempts to grow food on that hate-stained land.