Read an Excerpt

Salt

A Story of Friendship in a Time of War

Macmillan

    SALT IN THE SEA, SALT ON THE EARTH


    A shallow sea
    moves over the earth,
    salty, sun-warmed.
    Water rises
    as mist,
    fog, clouds,
    leaving a thin coat
    of salt on the ground.


    JAMES

    Dang mosquito bit me right where I can't reach it.
    I rub my back against a hickory tree — up and down,

    side to side. There — almost got it. Might look silly,
    but nobody's watching. Except a squirrel — I hear it

    up there in the branches, and I get out my slingshot.
    Ma will be happy when I bring home something

    for the soup pot. Where is that old squirrel, anyhow?
    Sounds like a whole family of 'em, laughing at me,

    and I can't see even one. What? Not again! It's
    Anikwa, laughing as he jumps down from the tree

    and lands beside me. How long has he been watching?
    I swear he can sound like anything! Squirrel, bumblebee,

    bluebird, or bullfrog. Once, I heard my baby sister crying,
    but when I turned to look — it wasn't Molly, it was him!


ANIKWA

James looks
up in the tree like he thinks
there's a real squirrel hiding somewhere
in its branches. I suck in my cheeks
to make myself stop laughing —
he shakes his head,
puts away
his stone and slingshot,
gives me a smile that means I got him
this time, but next time he'll be watching if I
try that trick again. Come on, he motions as he heads
to the berry bushes. I've seen him out here picking berries
every afternoon since they started to get ripe.
Makiinkweeminiiki, I say, pretending to
put berries in my mouth and
pointing down the trail
toward the bushes.
He nods his head.
Yes, he says,
blackberries. As we walk
to the berry patch, he tries my word —
makiinkweeminiiki, and I try his — blackberries.
I roll both words around like berries
in my mouth.


    JAMES

    Wonder if my mouth is purple-black, like Anikwa's. I start to head back
    up the trail toward home. But wait — what's he saying? Kiihkoneehsa —

    that means "fish"! He points to the river trail, meaning, Follow me, so I do.
    When we get to the river, he pulls a string of seven fish out of the water

    and gives me a nice-size trout. Wish I knew how he catches all these fish.
    Thanks! I say, and then I repeat it in his language: Neewe. We walk along

    together; I'm happy because he gave me this fish, so I start whistling.
    He figures out the tune and whistles along with me. Yesterday, I found

    a bee tree full of honey. Wonder if he's seen it. C'mon, I motion, this way.
    It's off the trail a little, past the muddy place. We climb over the big log,

    not far from where the trail splits, his trail going to Kekionga, and mine
    going back to my house and the fort. Huh? What's that deep hole?

    Looks like a person dug it. We step up for a closer look and jump back —
    a man we've never seen before is standing in the hole, watching us!


ANIKWA

When I get home,
Grandma's cutting deer meat
into strips she's hanging on the drying rack.
I show her the fish I caught. She smiles.
Some for now, and some to salt
and save for winter.
We'll need more
salt before too long, she says.
Grandma, I say, I saw a man. She looks up.
Standing in a hole, I tell her, near where the trail divides.
He's not from here. Do you know who he is? She thinks about it.
I saw an Ojibwe man walking on that trail
yesterday, she says. Maybe
he wants to see what's happening here. She doesn't seem scared.
She needs more hickory wood — her fire's almost out —
so I say, Toontwa, let's get firewood for Grandma.
Toontwa likes to eat — a lot — but he doesn't
like to carry firewood. I saw foxes
playing behind the big rock,
I tell him. We could
look for their den. That gets him
interested. How many? he asks. Five, I say.
I pick up my wood-carrying basket and walk off.
He follows with his basket like I
hoped he would.


    JAMES

    Ma asks, What did you see today? I tell her about a dead turtle in the creek,
    and a tree that fell across the trail, but I don't mention the man, or the hole

    he must've dug. Ma might get worried and say I can't go out by myself.
    She's cutting up the fish when Pa comes in and sits down at the table.

    Look what James brought home! she says. Nice-looking trout, says Pa. Where
    did you catch it, Son? I could pretend I caught it. But I know better than to

    lie to Pa. That's one thing he won't abide. Anikwa caught it, I admit.
    Ma says, Next time his aunt and uncle come to trade, give them a little extra.

    Ma calls Mink and Old Raccoon Anikwa's aunt and uncle, but Anikwa
    calls Old Raccoon his father. From what I can tell, Miami children

    have a lot of parents. That's good if your ma and pa die, like his did.
    His mother died of smallpox when he was two years old, and then

    a year later, his father got killed. In a skirmish, Pa said. That's like a war,
    but smaller. Makes me wonder: Who'd take care of me if Pa and Ma died?


ANIKWA

This lacrosse stick
is too big for me, but I like to use it
because it was my father's. Grandma tells me,
He was the best lacrosse player I ever saw.
He was so good, he could
make it seem like his
younger brother
was as good as he was.
I wish I remembered him better.
They say his voice was like strong music.
Everyone loved to listen to him speak. When people
started arguing, he said what he thought, and then stayed quiet
while other people spoke. People listened to him, and thought
carefully about anything he said. His words, Father says,
rose to the top, when we had to make hard decisions
about war or treaties — what to do
when all the changes came
across our land.
At first,
new kinds of sickness, then
a different kind of people — starting with men,
who soon brought families. Then soldiers, and the fort.
Like the bees that flew in from the east
and settled on our flowers.


    JAMES

    I'm going out fishing, alone, when here comes Isaac: Where you going? Dang.
    I was hoping to catch a lot of fish and give one to Anikwa. I never see him

    when Isaac's with me. Don't want to be mean, so I tell Isaac where I'm headed.
    He walks along beside me, talking, talking, talking. There's gonna be a war here.

    Not sure I'm supposed to tell you. Your pa and ma might not want you to know.
    Like he's old enough to know about it, and I'm not — I'm older than he is!

    Course I heard about it, I say, even though I haven't. I keep quiet, hoping
    he'll say more, and he does: My pa says the Indians are on the British side.

    That can't be true. You don't know what you're talking about, I blurt out.
    They've been our friends since Ma was a girl. Her grandpa traded with them!

    He shakes his head. I know what I'm talking about, but you don't, he says.
    I bet you don't even know about the siege. I shrug, like I know but I don't care.

    The Indians might block the fort, he says, so we can't get out until the British
      come.
    Then they'll all join up and attack us. Trying to act like he knows everything.


ANIKWA

Kwaahkwa
and I came to this quiet
place to fish. We listen to the river
whisper in that soft, low voice
it has sometimes. There's
a pair of bluebirds
singing
on a low branch of the oak.
Two fish arc out of the water near
the eddy, showing us exactly where they are.
Then, over by that sycamore that fell last year, a big
bullfrog starts up talking like a drum. I answer, and he
answers back. And then we hear something else —
James's quiet voice, Isaac's scratchy loud one.
It sounds like they're arguing. Everything
except the river and the frog stops
talking. The bluebirds fly
away, the ducks dive
underwater.
We move into the shadows,
crouch down behind a rock, and watch.
Not exactly hiding, just staying quiet, listening
and keeping our eyes
open.


    JAMES

    Isaac keeps trying to show off how much he knows. Don't worry, James,
    he says (he thinks I'm scared), the Americans might get here first. Pa told me

    our army is bigger than the British army. But if the Indians join the British,
    we're done for. He slices his hand across his throat. I know how to scare him:

    lead him past the hole I saw when I was with Anikwa. If that man's still
    standing in it, Isaac will jump out of his skin. Better not, though. He'd tell

    his ma, and she'd tell mine, and they'd make us stay inside the stockade
    where they could keep an eye on us. I'd hate that. We're walking by the river,

    near where Anikwa gave me the fish, when Isaac comes to a sudden stop.
    Look! He points. Over there by that tree! He picks up a rock and throws it

    as hard as he can. I think I hit it! He runs over, leans down, and holds up
    a dead bullfrog, so proud of himself. Isaac, I ask, what'd you do that for?

    That frog didn't hurt you. He stares at me. For fun, he says. How come you
    never like to have fun? I look around — I sure hope Anikwa isn't watching.


ANIKWA

Splash!
The frog stops talking.
Did it jump out of the way in time?
Did it sink down in the mud?
Or — did that rock hit it?
I lean back so I can
see: Isaac
lifts the bullfrog
from the water at the river's edge.
The frog's legs (strong enough to cross a creek
in two jumps) dangle from his hands. Isaac smiles like
he's in a war against the frogs and he just won a battle. I grab
a rock to throw at him, but Kwaahkwa says, You know
frogs taste good. That boy gets hungry, just like us.
Then Isaac swings the bullfrog by its legs,
around and around, over his head.
He's about to throw it
in the deep part
of the river.
No one will have that frog
for supper. I jump up and run to try
to stop him, or catch the frog, but it goes flying
through the air just before I
grab Isaac's arm.


    JAMES

    Isaac and Anikwa slip in the mud and end up in the river. I didn't see
    which one pushed first, but they could both get pulled downriver.

    Who should I help? I pick up a long branch and lie down on the bank
    to hold it out. Isaac reaches it first — he grabs it and pulls himself up.

    Anikwa is still in the water, sputtering from all the water in his nose
    (and because he's mad about that frog, I bet). I don't see Kwaahkwa

    coming until he reaches out to Anikwa, pulls him out of the water,
    and starts talking fast — not sure what they're saying, but it looks

    like Anikwa would push Isaac back in the river if Kwaahkwa didn't
    stop him. Anikwa takes off his moccasins, squeezes out the water, and

    puts them back on, glaring at Isaac the whole time. He walks away with
    Kwaahkwa, glancing at the river where the dead frog floats downstream.

    Isaac shakes himself like a dog trying to get dry. See? he says to me.
    That boy just attacked me for no reason! I told you they're not on our side.

    SALT'S LONG, SLOW JOURNEY


    The earth lifts and tilts.
    Water flows
    from high ground
    to low, around
    and under rock.
    Salt carried by water
    moves through sand.
    Salt and sand
    through time,
    pressed into stone.


ANIKWA

Seven raccoon,
one fox, four otter, sixteen beaver,
two deer. Their meat has fed us; now Father
counts the pelts he'll trade. Grandma has
a basket of maple sugar. Toontwa
has a rabbit skin and I have
two skunk pelts.
Mink made three extra
pairs of moccasins to trade. Now
we're ready. We start down the trail, talking
about what we need: a pair of socks, a ball of twine,
a new blade for the ax. A copper cooking pot. Needles, thread.
Cotton cloth. Red, blue, and yellow ribbons. Salt? asks Mink.
Father scowls and says, When I was a boy, we walked
to the salt licks,or our Shawnee friends brought
saltwhen they came to visit. I don't like
to buy it from the traders.
Mink is quiet.
We have to have salt —
without it, we get sick when we work
in the hot sun. But she understands.We'll get salt
next time, she says. A blackbird flies past.
Aya, niihka, I say. Hello, friend.


    JAMES

    Anikwa comes up the trail with his family. I haven't seen him since Isaac
    killed the bullfrog — is he mad? At me? Hello, I say. He answers, Aya ... niihka.

    He names the pelts he's carrying. Paapankamwa (fox). Amehkwa (beaver).
    And others — too many words to remember. I carry a basket for his grandma,

    and she smiles and calls me myaamiinse — that means "Miami child." This basket
    is full of maple sugar, and she always has a little extra. While they're trading,

    Anikwa plays a tune on a willow whistle. Could I make one? I point to the whistle
    and take out my knife. We go find a willow tree, and Anikwa shows me how

    to cut a stick at an angle, make a notch through the bark, and tap the stick all over
    so the bark comes loose and slips right off. After I slice off a piece of wood

    to make a mouthpiece, he helps me cut another notch and slide the bark back on.
    I put the whistle to my mouth and blow — it works! The sound it makes is lower

    than Anikwa's. He plays fast, and I play slow; soft, loud, then soft again.
    We sound so good, two yellow birds stop to listen and sing along with us.


ANIKWA

When we
walk into the trading post
playing our whistles, they've finished
with their trading. Grandma saved
some maple sugar, and gives
us each a big piece
(a tiny piece
for baby Molly). James's father
gives us each a stick of licorice candy —
it tastes like flowers and honey mixed together,
and I suck on mine as we start home. So does Toontwa.
But Rain Bird puts hers in her pocket without even tasting it!
She's never done that before. What's wrong with her?
Mink glances a quick question at Grandma,
who raises her eyebrows for a second
as they both look at my sister.
A quiet smile crosses
Rain Bird's face,
like a bird
landing on a branch,
then flying off again. I notice something
for the first time — some people might think Rain Bird
has a pretty face. This smile makes her
look older.


    JAMES

    Ma gives Molly a hard crust to chew — she has two new teeth, ready
    to pop through. Play with her, will you, James? She's so fussy, you're

    the only one who can make her smile. I let her pull my hair — she likes that,
    but the trouble is, she's getting stronger and it hurts! I wiggle my toes

    in the new moccasins Ma got for me today — she knits wool socks to trade
    for moccasins Mink makes. They've done that all my life. Ma says to Pa,

    The trading seemed fair today. He doesn't answer right away. Yes, he finally
    says. Then: The President and Governor have asked me to try to sell more goods

    to the Miami than they can afford, to deliberately get them into debt. Ma says,
    We don't go into debt ourselves. It would be wrong to encourage others to do so.

    Pa explains, We'd get paid next time they sign a treaty. If they sell some
    of their land, the government will pay off their debt as part of the agreement.

    At first it sounds fair, but then I think about it more. If they sell their land,
    where will they hunt and pick berries and plant corn? Where will they live?


ANIKWA

I figured out why
Rain Bird hid her licorice candy.
We're all playing tossball when I notice
Kwaahkwa's mouth is stained black,
different from makiinkweemina
stains. Rain Bird gave
her licorice
to Kwaahkwa! Why would
she do that? I try to act like I don't
notice, but Toontwa sees it too, and he can't
swallow his laughter. I toss the ball to him to make him stop
laughing long enough to hold it up and decide where to toss it next.
Miililo, Kwaahkwa shouts. Give it to me! Toontwa forgets about
the licorice and throws the ball to Kwaahkwa — happy
because Kwaahkwa noticed him. Kwaahkwa's
happy too, because Rain Bird is watching
when he makes a goal — she
has that same smile
on her face.
When the game is over,
we gather round the fire to eat:
roasted raccoon, hot corn, beaver soup.
Fireflies light up the edge
of the dark forest.

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Excerpted from Salt by Helen Frost. Copyright © 2013 Helen Frost. Excerpted by permission of Macmillan.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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