Read CAN West 04 - When Hope Springs New for Free Online Page A

encouraged it. Perhaps he knew he was the only one I had to talk to. At any rate, I enjoyed hearing each detail and felt that at least in a secondhand way I was getting acquainted with some of the area residents through Wynn.
    Christmas came and went. I determined that I would not be lonely—well, lonely maybe, but not homesick. Homesickness was a miserable feeling and profited nothing.
    And so, by taking one day at a time, I was managing to get through the long winter days. With the spring would come new activities. I would find some way to have a small garden and Kip and I would continue our exploration of the countryside. Perhaps I would even be able to take a trip or two with Wynn. Until then I would be patient, keep myself as busy as possible, and endeavor to keep my spirits up. As I had it figured, there would be only three more such years—at the most.

EIGHT

    Neighbors

    Our Indian neighbors enjoyed much more social life than the people in Beaver River had. Though we were never asked to participate, we often heard the beating of the drums as one ceremony or another was conducted. Toward the east end of the settlement there was a long, low building known as the council house where most of the ceremonies took place. The rest of them were held in the village “open.”
    At first the strange drumbeats and the rising and falling chants wafting over the night stillness seemed eery. The sounds reminded me that we were the outsiders here. We were in the midst of a different culture from our own. To us, the chants and drumbeats were distracting noise, but to the Indians these symbolized their religion, their very being. They believed in the “magic” and supernatural power of the chants and dances.
    As far as we knew, the Indians in this remote yet rather large village had never seen a Christian missionary nor been introduced to his God. The old ways were never questioned and were held to with strict rigidity. The rain fell or the killing frost descended in accordance with the pleasure of the spirits, so it behooved the people to do all in their power to keep those gods happy with age-old ritual and age-old worship.
    The drum beating and the dancing were performed to welcome the spring rain, to strengthen the spring calves of the moose and deer, to make quick and strong the trap, to thicken the pelts, to send the schools of fish, to make healthy the newborn, to safeguard the hunter, to protect the women, to give an easy “departure” to the elderly, and on and on.
    It was no wonder, as the Indians felt obligated to perform all the rituals, that it seemed as if the drums were always beating, the rhythm of dancing feet always thrumming on the ground, the drone of chanting voices always rippling out over the frosty night air.
    A death was a very important event to the villagers. Day and night they beat their drums and chanted as mourners wailed before their gods, impressing them with the fact that the soul departed would be greatly missed here on earth and thus should be equally welcomed into the new land.
    The higher one was in the tribal caste system, the longer they would beat the drums. When the next-in-line as chieftain, the chief’s eldest son, died in a drowning accident, the drumbeat continued for a total of seven days. For the chief himself, it would be just seven days plus one.
    By the time the seven days had passed, my whole body was protesting. Kip and I took to the woods whenever we could, but even many miles from the village the drumming could still be heard in the cool, clear fall air.
    When the ceremony finally did cease, I felt I had suddenly gone deaf. The world seemed a little shaky without the vibration of the shuffling feet. It was two days before I felt normal again.
    The tribe had many superstitions and they held to them rigidly. It was not unusual to see a woman suddenly drop what she was carrying and run shrieking to her cabin to shut herself in behind closed doors because she had seen something