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gichi-mookomaan
,
    i whisper
,
    you could steal
    the wings
    from the soaring eagle
,
    but it would not make you
    strong
    or brave.

After the no-good trapper, a whole river of people started coming to our door to see Indian John. It was as if the trapper had opened the waterways of curiosity and folks arrived from far and wide to stare at a captive Indian.
    I didn't care for their visits at all.
    Amos had once told me about Learned Pig shows, where people paid a few cents to see an exhibition where real pigs spelled and counted. He said that some of the pigs had even been taught to spell the name of the president of the United States—Mr. Madison himself.
    I wasn't sure all that was true.
    But it seemed to me that the families who came to our house acted as if we had a Learned Pig show inside. The women arrived wearing their best going-to-meetinggowns, and the children always carried something to give us Carvers. Since it was the time of year when most folks didn't have much good food left, it was most often a pail of butter or a few brown eggs—as if we were foolish enough not to have cows or chickens of our own.
    After they stepped inside, the women would cast their eyes around our cabin and say in a jumpy voice, “That Indian ain't allowed free, is he? You've got him in chains now, I suppose?”
    If it was up to me, I would have told them the Indian was sitting by the fire sharpening his hatchet. See how fast that would make them throw on their bonnets, turn on their heels, and run. Let them leave Indian John and us alone.
    But Pa would certainly hear of it and give me a thrashing. He had given Laura an awful hard scolding when he got word of how she had treated that miserable trapper.
    So me and Laura didn't have any choice but to tell the visitors where to find Indian John chained in the loft. Then they would go up the narrow stairs, real slowly, still talking to us as they went up. Always the women in front and their children behind, clutching hold of their skirts.
    After a period of silent staring, when we could just hear the feet of the children shuffling back and forth on the floor, they would often holler down to us.
    “He's asleep. When's he wake up?”
    Truth to speak, I think Indian John just pretended to be asleep. When he heard footsteps, I think he would lean his head down as far as it would go onhis chest, so the only things visible in the shadows were the bottoms of his moccasins, his stretched-out legs, and the top of his head.
    “Can you git him to wake up?” they'd ask.
    Me and Laura would give each other a look, and then one of us would holler upstairs that we didn't care to do anything to make the Indian angry. That usually sent the curious eyes hurrying back down from the loft.
    Sometimes, though, they got to throwing things at Indian John, trying to wake him up. They threw little things mostly, like the kernels of dried corn that were scattered on the floor of the loft. Or something the children had carried in. Maybe a clay marble or a pebble. From below, we could hear things clattering and rolling across the floor. The children would holler, “Hit him right there on the shoulder, you see that, Ma?” and they would laugh and clap. It always brought a terrible sick feeling to my stomach.
    They were only throwing corn kernels and pebbles, but it seemed like I could feel the sting of every single piece that they threw as if it was my own skin instead of Indian John's. I could scarcely understand how people could think to do such things.
    Me and Laura tried to keep the loft swept as best we could. After the visitors left, I often went upstairs and swept again. If Laura wasn't minding me, I would leave something small near Indian John's feet to try and make up for what folks had done.
    Once I left him a brown butterfly wing I found near the springhouse. And another time, a scrap of green silk ribbon I had saved since Ma's death.Sometimes, before I went back downstairs, I would whisper that I was