The Indian Boy's Story
by
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I woke up alone. I lay there for a minute. Everything was quiet. No birds, no chatter of elders, no gossip of the old women, only silence. I was sore from laying in a cramped position. The evening before, I had curled up under a pile of old hides that were on the floor, away from the fire-pit. It was chilly. I stretched then and listened for the sounds, familiar sounds. There were none. All was in silence. I crept out from under the pile of old hides, stretched again, then shivered-Brrr; it was cold! I looked for something to put on, found my jacket that Little Bear had made for me, and put it on. That helped. Then I proceeded to look around. The cook pot was gone along with the grinding stone and most of the other bare necessities of the Indian ways. I called Little Bear’s name. No one replied. I called again, then looked outside. All was still and quiet. An unusually early snow had fallen during the night. There was just enough to dust the ground lightly with a thin white powder to make he earth look clean and smooth. It would melt and be gone once the sun rose higher. There were no footprints in the snow. No one was there. I realized then, I was alone, left behind. I looked toward where the horses had been and they were gone, all gone! I wanted to scream, yell, run in all directions, but the Indian part of me kept my white blood under control. Well, I went back inside the hut, to gather my wits and pray to the Great Father, but my stomach told me to do otherwise. I got some tinder from the small pile of wood by the entry-way. After I poked around a bit, I managed to coax the remaining hot coal to life. Within a short time I had a small fire going. Almost enough to take the chill out of there, but not large enough that I could take my jacket off. I looked around at what was left, which was not a lot. I realized then how hungry I was. I found Little Bear had left the deerskin pouch of tidbits. It was the trimmings or scraps she would save and put together in a sack for whenever she wanted a snack. In it were dried fruits, berries, pieces of dried fish, and some small pieces of dried meats of assorted gender from the turkey, to the buffalo, to one lost cow. I took a small handful out and nibbled at it while I played with the fire a bit more and thought a lot. My left leg was slightly deformed. From when or where I don’t know. I was the child of a captive woman. She was young and died at my birth. The elders wanted to let me die, but Little Bear had been barren and pleaded for my custody. She said she was getting old, and slow, and could use some help in a few years. She convinced them by telling them she would be the real mother since I knew no other. Something pulled at their heartstrings, of maybe it was the practicality of the situation. Little Bear was getting on in years. A mask of gray winked out of her thick black braids. She would take no man, for she was of modern belief, that man had only one mate. Hers had been killed. He waited in the great sky for her. At night she could speak to his spirit. I watched her do this many times in the past. In a few years she could train me to be her helper, her strength, and aide. She was left alone to raise me as she saw fit. She did more for me than most, for she had gone to the Missions as a young girl, and learned the white mans ways. When she married her Indian husband, she left and went back to his tribe. Her native instincts never left her for she was true to The Earth Mother. Wherever she was, she carried a small pouch with her. It was made of the soft suede of the underbelly of a soft faun, and hung on a soft leather cord. She wore it about her neck, never taking it off, even when bathing in the creek. In it was a bit of earth from her homeland. She was born far, far to the north. She was from a place the white men call the Provinces, or Canada. Far from where we were. The tribe we were with was a nomadic tribe that traveled from the swamps of what is called the Louisiana Territory, down to Mexico, where there is good forest and food, and to the north to the buffalo country. But my mind wanders, and I am brought back to my current situation by a noise. I found my hunter’s knife. The knife the old trapper gave to me when he came through last year with his warning. He told us of the bad men with bang sticks who would kill the Indians on sight. He looked at me closely as he was talking. I was brown skinned, but my hair lightens in the summer to a golden brown. It does not stay dark like the others in my tribe. My nose is smaller and I have greenish brown eyes, the color of a hazelnut. The trapper told of the slayings far to the east of here and warned us to split up and separate into small bands that would not attract attention. As he was telling of the Indians, he was looking at me a lot. I could tell he had an interest, but he did not ask about me. After his tales and news, he finished what trading he could do with us. Some skins for dried deer and rabbit meat, some beans and yellow potatoes, and corn for his horse. He found me looking at his saddle and knew I was wondering why the white man puts a heavy saddle on the horse. I pondered whether it was to slow the horse down, carry more weight, or eliminate the soft seat of the horses back. How strange!
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About the Book
This exciting adventure of fantasy, excitement and imagination begins when the boy, 8 winters of age awakens one morning to find his whole band has left, abandoned, deserted him. He had been orphaned in birthing by his half-white mother. His life is spared by an old and respected woman of the tribe who offers to raise him and use him as her helper as she ages. Totally alone in an Indian encampment is a challenge to this young boy, who is not trained as a warrior, but only as an old woman’s helper. He has many trials and as the tale unfolds, he sometimes has help through dreams of his grandfather, but mostly the adventures and accomplishments are from his own wits. He is stalked by a huge black bear, as well as ‘watched’ by shiny green eyes of some unknown creature, and must overcome many hardships and tests of the early Indian’s life, survival, and yet with medicine man overtones as he commences his training as the book progresses. This is a tale that will keep you on the edge of your chair. The proofreader’s comments were: "I could hardly wait to turn the page"; "How exciting and yet educational"; "Had me on the edge of my chair"; "Entertaining yet with interesting educational overtones, how unique."
About the Author
Alice Paprocki began her writing with short informative news articles for the local Hairdressers Association in 1971-81. At the same time she also wrote a monthly column that was featured in a locally oriented magazine titled Flair. As editor of the Florida State Massage Therapy Association, Emerald Coast Chapter in 1981-2 she wrote, designed and published a monthly newsletter. She also published a personal newsletter for her own clients from 1982 through 1998. Then she wrote a textbook on Clinical Hypnotherapy for her school, The North Florida School of Hypnotherapy. Also at this time she wrote a script book for hypnotherapy students. Creative writing filled the odd times and has led to a collection of short stories for children from 8 to 80 years old. Fantasy, imagination, and the ability of drawing a picture in words are some of the talents that she has developed with great skill. This book, The Indian Boy’s Story, is as exciting as and comparable to Huckleberry Finn and Harry Potter, but is set in early America, before the white man came. She is currently working on a sequel to this book, as well as writing a book about prayer, and a book of poetry.