Excerpt of The Game of Silence by Louise Erdrich
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ONE
The Raggedy Ones
When they were close enough to touch bottom with their paddles,
the people poured out of the nearly swamped canoes. The grown-ups held little
ones and the little ones held even smaller ones. There were so many people
jammed into each boat that it was a wonder they had made it across. The
grown-ups, the ones who wore clothes, bunched around the young. A murmur of pity
started among the people who had gathered on shore when they heard Omakayas's
shout, for the children had no clothing at all, they were naked. In a bony,
hungry, anxious group, the people from the boats waded ashore. They looked at
the ground, fearfully and in shame. They were like skinny herons with long poles
for legs and clothes like drooping feathers. Only their leader, a tall old man wearing a turban of worn cloth, walked with a proud step
and held his head up as a leader should. He stood calmly, waiting for his people
to assemble. When everyone was ashore and a crowd was gathered expectantly, he
raised his thin hand and commanded silence with his eyes.
Everyone's attention was directed to him as he spoke.
"Brothers and sisters, we are glad to see you! Daga, please open
your hearts to us! We have come from far away."
He hardly needed to urge kindness. Immediately, families greeted
cousins, old friends, lost relatives, those they hadn't seen in years. Fishtail,
a close friend of Omakayas's father, clasped the old chief in his arms. The
dignified chief's name was Miskobines, Red Thunder, and he was Fishtail's uncle.
Blankets were soon draping bare shoulders, and the pitiful naked children were
covered, too, with all of the extra clothing that the people could find. Food
was thrust into the hungry people's hands—strips of dried fish and bannock
bread, maple sugar and fresh boiled meat. The raggedy visitors tried to contain
their hunger, but most fell upon the food and ate wolfishly. One by one, family
by family, the poor ones were taken to people's homes. In no time, the jeemaanan
were pulled far up on the beach and the men were examining the frayed seams and
fragile, torn stitching of spruce that held the birchbark to the cedar frames.
Omakayas saw her grandmother, her sister, and her mother, each leading a child.
Her mother's eyes were wide-set and staring with anger, and she muttered
explosive words underneath her breath. That was only her way of showing how
deeply she was affected; still, Omakayas steered clear. Her brother, Pinch, was
followed by a tall skinny boy hastily wrapped in a blanket. He was the son of
the leader, Miskobines, and he was clearly struggling to look dignified. The boy
looked back in exhaustion, as if wishing for a place to sit and rest. But seeing
Omakayas, he flushed angrily and mustered strength to stagger on ahead. Omakayas
turned her attention to a woman who trailed them all. One child clutched her
ragged skirt. She carried another terribly thin child on a hip. In the other arm
she clutched a baby. The tiny bundle in her arms made no movement and seemed
limp, too weak to cry.
The memory of her poor baby brother, Neewo, shortened Omakayas's
breath. She jumped after the two, leaving the intrigue of the story of their
arrival for later, as well as the angry boy's troubling gaze. Eagerly, she
approached the woman and asked if she could carry the baby.
The woman handed over the little bundle with a tired sigh. She
was so poor that she did not have a cradle board for the baby, or a warm skin
bag lined with rabbit fur and moss, or even a trade blanket or piece of cloth
from the trader's store. For a covering, she had only a tiny piece of deerskin
wrapped into a rough bag. Even Omakayas's dolls had better clothing and better
care. Omakayas cuddled the small thing close. The baby inside the bag was bare
and smelled like he needed a change of the cattail fluff that served as his
diaper. Omakayas didn't mind. She carried the baby boy with a need and happiness
that the woman, so relieved to hand the baby over, could not have guessed at.
Having lost her own brother, Omakayas took comfort in this baby's tiny weight
and light breath. She would protect him, she promised as they walked. She would
keep him company and give him all the love she had stored up but could no longer
give to her little brother Neewo.
From The Game of Silence by Louise Erdrich. Copyright © 2005 by Louise Erdrich. All
Rights Reserved. Reproduced with the permission of Harper Collins.
