I Am Regina by Sally M. Keehn Page A

devils dancing in the firelight.
    I will never be flesh of their flesh, bone of their bone. Never..
    Now the round-faced woman pulls me into the line. Sarah cries. She holds onto my dress as the woman shows me how to do the steps. She teaches me to chant, “Danna witchee natchepung. Danna witchee natchepung.” I do not know what the words mean, but I sing them anyway. Wanting to please the only one who’s shown me any kindness. I sing the words over and over, dance with Indians and I feel as if a part of me were dying.
    Sarah curls up by a brush pile and falls asleep.
    My feet ache and my legs feel like heavy logs. My throat is dry by the time the dance is finally ended. The round-faced woman squeezes my hand, then leaves me standing by the fire. Sadly, I watch her walk away into the crowding darkness.
    The old woman leads Sarah and me back to her hut. Inside, the fire is dying. Tiger Claw comes through . the door flap. Red serpents are now painted on his blackened cheeks.
    Tiger Claw calls the old woman Mother. She calls him Son. She points to Sarah and me. “You are Indians now,” she says. “You are Woelfin’s daughters.”
    I am not the old woman’s daughter. I am Regina. I will always be Regina. I live with my family on a farm near Penn’s Creek.
    Woelfin hugs her shoulders. “It is cold in here.” She points to me. “You. Tskinnak. Gather firewood.”
    When I do not move, she pushes me through the door flap.
    Outside, the night has fallen. I finger the dried paint on my face and shiver at the strange, shadowed land stretching out before me. Like granite rocks, dark bodies huddle around a smoldering fire and ... there is no moon.

CHAPTER Eight
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    L ast night I had a dream. I was at home and my sister lay beside me in our bed. The dry scent of the straw that plumped our mattress mingled with the wet, fresh scent of the rain drumming against the roof. The muffled sound of Mother’s and Father’s voices came up through the worn floorboards of our loft: Father‘s, low and serious; Mother’s, pitched a little higher, in counterpoint to his. Their comforting voices, the sound of rain and Barbara’s breathing, lulled me. I snuggled beneath my quilt, feeling safe and happy.
    When I reached for Barbara, I awoke to find myself holding Sarah in a hard bed made of saplings. In disbelief, I closed my eyes, wanting to return to the comfort of my dream, but the dream escaped me. I searched the gloomy hut wanting to find something to give me hope—a brightly colored quilt, a wooden table set with pewter. The old woman, Woelfin, squatted by the fire. Rancid-smelling steam rose from the brew she was stirring in an earthen pot. Tiger Claw stood over her, sharpening his hunting knife with a piece of flint.
    I buried my face in my deerskin blanket and I wept. I felt so alone without my family, like a bare tree in a field of snow. Then Sarah touched my face. With her finger, Sarah traced my tears, her blue eyes asking the questions that she cannot speak. She burrowed her small body into mine and gratefully, I clung to her.
    Soon after we awoke, Tiger Claw left for his hunting shelter. Woelfin said with pride that he will hunt for deer and bear meat to fill our bellies. She said that he will bring back pelts to trade for guns. Tiger Claw already has a gun. I don’t know why he would need more.
    Before he departed, Tiger Claw hung Father’s scalp from a pole that supports this hut. I couldn’t help but stare at it. The firelight gleamed off the soft gray hair, turning it to silver. Tiger Claw grunted. I glanced at him, hate burning in my heart.
    Cold daylight now seeps through chinks in this log hut. I huddle by the fire and watch the flames flicker. They remind me of last night when the Indians dressed me in their clothes and painted my cheeks red. Last night I danced like an Indian. I glance upward at my father’s scalp, wondering if