Mares eat oats,
And does eat oats,
And little lambs eat ivy,
What was the rest? I crawled to the mouth of my den and rolled to my back when the throbbing in my head eased. The sunlight filtered lazily through the high forest canopy and dappled soft patterns on a remarkably ensnared rock overhead. It was then that I saw him.
It surprises me that I felt excitement at being the first to spot the Mountain Man instead of feeling anything else. Neither of us moved for a time. He shifted from one foot to the other.
"You got food?" His voice was soft and deep.
"I don't need it." I said in a rush of 7-year old independence. He smiled. Then he laughed, grasping his knees. It almost embarrassed me to see him do this, as though I were witnessing something too intimate for my young eyes. He swung his big bag down easily and sat on a nearby rock. I could smell the deerskin. He removed a bag of homemade jerky and popped a few shreds into his mouth.
"Take." He held the bag out. I had to rise in order to walk to him. I took the bag and sat on the ground near his feet. I, too, put a few pieces in my mouth and sucked their saltiness. We sat that way until the sun began its descent to the unseen horizon, the prick of cold reminding us that winter had not yet released its hold. Finally, he rose. He motioned me to keep the bag of meat. I tried to refuse. He insisted.
"Strong spirit."
It was only after he walked away that I realized he had used the translation of my Tlingit name.
*******
Darkness had fallen when I heard my mother's footsteps softly picking her way through the forest. She lit her way with an old silver Mag-Lite flashlight. I was still sitting where the Mountain Man had left me. I don't know how she knew where I was because I always made sure I left no trails for Charlie to follow in his spiteful moods. Mom knelt in front of me and turned off the flashlight with a click. When our eyes had adjusted to the dark I saw with a shock that a meal had appeared between us.
"Dessert first," my mom said. We ate big slices of yellow cake with our hands, the tangy cranberry syrup filling dripping off our fingers. The frosting was crisp on top and buttery smooth beneath. We didn't bother wiping our hands afterwards, just grasped warm patties of fry bread. Next we had blanched curls of Fiddlehead Fern-- which I later learned tastes much like asparagus. Mom passed me a flask of homemade herb tea sweetened with honey.
Mom was never without a mug of steaming tea. She collected berries and dried them when they were ripe, Labrador tealeaves when they turned in the fall, and put them all together to form a soothing drink. She claimed it could cure anything.
"Happy birthday," she said to me. She began to cry. It scared me to see her like this, but she wouldn't let me speak. She shuffled on her knees until she was close enough to touch me. Using the warm tea and her apron, mom wiped my hands and up to my elbows. She wiped my neck, and then my mouth. For a moment she hesitated, then dabbed my face. To my surprise, I flinched in pain.
I thought Charlie had only caught me in the face with one of his famous cuffs, but my face had actually hit one of the nearby rafters on my way to the floor.Her hands smelled of fry bread and cranberry filling as she cleaned me by moonlight. She sang her rhyme softly,
Mares eat oats,
And does eat oats,
And little lambs eat ivy.
A kid'll eat ivy, too,
Wouldn't you?
We slept that night in the safety of my earthy cave. Mom sniffled in her sleep, and I lay awake for a long time watching the stars careen across the sky. When I finally drifted off, it was to the tantalizing smell of warm fry bread and with the taste of frosting in my mouth.
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