I Am Regina by Sally M. Keehn

deerskin. For a moment, I touch her hand, grateful for this unexpected gentleness.
    â€œNo hurt you,” she repeats, squeezing my arm gently. The old woman standing on the stream bank speaks harshly to the round-faced one who washes me. Muttering angrily, the old one wades into the water. The round-faced woman backs away as the old one scrubs my skin with sand and gravel she’s scooped up from the bottom of the stream. She scrubs my skin until it burns. I believe she wants to scrub it off me. I shiver, too weak now, too cold to fight.
    Once we have been scrubbed, the women lead Sarah and me back up the rocky bank. At the upturned canoes, the round-faced woman speaks to the old one, then veers off from our group. She does not look back.
    I don’t want her to leave. Hers is the only gentleness I’ve known since I was separated from Barbara.
    The remaining women shove Sarah and me through a torn deerskin flap into a poorly made, low-ceilinged, log hut. There are no windows to let in light, only a smoke hole in the roof. Cold drafts of air seep through cracks between the logs. Desperate for warmth, I hurry to the tiny fire burning in the center of the room. The heat it throws is sparse. Four platform beds made of saplings and covered with dark skins stand along the walls. The air is dank and smokey. This is not the home I envisioned in my dreams.
    The old woman bends down and pulls out a basket from under a bed. In it are old deerskin dresses and leggings. The other women dress me in these clothes. They dress Sarah, too. The ragged clothes feel stiff and they smell of mold.
    The round-faced woman stoops into the hut. Chattering happily to the others, she hands moccasins to Sarah and to me. Gratefully, I slip my bruised and frozen feet into the moccasins. They are soft and warm.
    Now the four young women giggle among themselves. I stand stiffly, and, as if outside myself, watch as they paint my face with bear grease that has been dyed red. Sarah cowers as the old woman paints two red circles on her cheeks. She paints Sarah’s eyelids red. Sarah looks strange. Like a white girl dressed up as an Indian. Time was when I would have laughed at her. But not now.
    The expressions on the women’s faces grow solemn as they lead us outside. A bonfire burns in the center of the clearing. Everyone is gathered around it. Everyone watches silently while the women bring Sarah and me before the tall, old man who wears the bear-claw necklace. A frayed, red blanket covers his shoulders. In a deep, proud voice, he begins to speak. Something important is about to happen, for beside me, Tiger Claw translates what the old man says into the white man’s tongue. The words Tiger Claw has forbidden me to speak sound foreign, frightening, coming from him.
    â€œChief Towigh says, ‘Today, your white blood has been washed away. Today, you have been adopted into a great family.’”
    The old man points to me. “He says you shall be called Tskinnak, ‘the blackbird,’ for your hair, black as ravens’ wings.” He looks down at Sarah who clutches my leg, looking small and frightened. “She shall be called Quetit, ‘little girl.’”
    The old man pauses, staring at us with somber eyes while he places his hands upon our shoulders.
    â€œChief Towigh says, ‘Tskinnak. Quetit. From this moment on, you will be flesh of our flesh and bone of our bone.’ ”
    I feel the dark stares of everyone upon me. Can’t they see? Beneath the paint, my skin is white. The palms of my hands, my legs, my feet are white.
    Chief Towigh lifts his gnarled hands into the air. Tiger Claw and the other Indians around us begin to chant. Several beat on drums and shake rattles made from turtle shells.
    Sarah whimpers and hides her face in my skirt as the Indians begin to dance around the bonfire. I watch the firelight flicker on their faces. Some faces are painted red and black. The Indians look like