Matamis

825 words

Introduction

She, whose name is Matamis, has been removed forcibly from the ancestral home of her people in the Great Smokey Mountains of Tennessee by United States soldiers and unjustly imprisoned in a land the soldiers call Oklahoma. These are her thoughts, on the night of her escape, having been translated from the Cherokee.

Matamis

I lie here among the bugs infesting this sty I exist in. I am so tired. I have been here for eleven years . . . I long to listen to the Great Smokey Mountain bluebirds as they sing. Once more, I pray to climb the tulip poplar tree and give her yellow flowers to my mother.

          Anguish has tied itself a knot in my heart, for the soldiers came in the night, killed my father, took myself and my mother from our home in the Great Smokey Mountains and imprisoned us in a land called Oklahoma. I remember, I was whistling with the melody of a whip-poor-will when the first bullet struck my father.

          They can seek to take my freedom, but my heart does not lie in Oklahoma.

***

My heart wanders back and forth beyond the walls of this prison they have gifted me with. Thank you, kind gentlemen.

         In my heart, I climb into the mist of the sweet air of the Great Smokey Mountains, smell the lavender flowers of Sweet William in low-lying meadows, look upon myself in secret, far beyond the eyes of the guards of this prison they have put me in, and then I cry . . .

          I once was the granddaughter of the mist; I miss her. The tears of the mist collect into little beads in my hair as I walk and cry out to me her words of love.

         "Little one, why have they taken you from this sacred land of Tennessee? Why have they killed your father? Why is my child dying in a far place called Oklahoma?"

          My heart echoes her words. Why-y-y-y-y-y -y-y?

         I have no answer for her; the true answer lies far beyond the reach of my wisdom. The ways of man are many . . . I remain silent while, once more, she speaks.

         "I long for the touch of your feet as I swirl around your ankles while you walk among the blooms of the rhododendrons." When the wild rose unfurls her petals, my heart is full with thoughts of you.

         "When the morning sun whisks away my breath, my last thought is of you, my granddaughter." Will I swirl around your feet, tomorrow?

          As grandmother dissipates, although the sound is almost lost, I can still hear the cracking of black walnuts as I hull them for my mother, and I see her smile as she hugs me. As I work, a pair of chickadees sing for me.

         I can see my father's eyes, which will never look upon me again, gazing at me. Sometimes, I hear the sweet twang of the string of his bow in my sleep . . .

          The tremble of mother's voice, in the Oklahoma badlands, as she tells me to save my corn and return to Tennessee after she is gone, remains within me.

The Saving of the Corn

I, whose name is Matamis, have been imprisoned here since 1849, when I was seven years old. Many of my tears have died in this soil of Oklahoma.

          Now, my mother lies in this same earth. I will save my corn; I will, once more, walk upon the Great Smokey Mountains. I will stand before the eyes of Grandmother and smile . . .

***

The young men of the reservation gather around me, telling me to choose, but none of them will be my choice.

         When the one of my heart's desire presents himself before my eyes, my heart will choose. To repel the guards, I have tied the wolfskin pouch containing my corn across my stomach underneath my clothes. I laugh silently as they congratulate each other with knowing smiles.

         For seven days, I have rubbed my moccasins on the backs of the hound dogs to dull the scent of my tracks when they hunt me after I leave tonight. The dogs will think they are trailing themselves . . .

         The wolfskin pouch is full of parched corn, and I have traded for a sharp, flint knife. Mother, I will carry your words with me as I leave this place. May the spirit of your heart walk beside me.

***

I am prepared . . . my knife is in my hand, and the pouch of parched corn rests across my shoulder. One of my possessions I will leave in this prison where I acquired it.

         No longer will my fear crawl into my heart each night and linger inside me each day, here my fear shall remain.

         I arise, slip into the darkness and begin making my way to the northwest, toward Colorado, to confuse the prison guards. I am not afraid.

         As I walk, I think I hear the far-off singing of Great Smokey Mountain bluebirds . . .