Free The Hollow Tree by Janet Lunn Page A

even though it, too, was deerskin. It was more like the blouses and shifts she was used to wearing, but warmer. And it was beautiful, with its intricate bead trimming around the neck opening, and its fringe on the shoulders and along the sleeves and the hem. She did not mind seeing her gown on Katsi’tsiénhawe, although it was a little like seeing herself in a looking-glass that was skewed. She and Katsi’tsiénhawe both smiled self-consciously when they looked at each other in their unaccustomed clothes. She minded, though, when the other girl stroked the tartan cloak admiringly — but saw too her small, sad frown when she herself fingered the supple skin of the tunic. She turned, relieved, when Peter’s mother spoke to her. Shakoti’nisténha was holding out a bit of ground, parched white corn in a little birchbark wallet.
    “If you find yourself by a stream where the fish will not come to you and the trees will not yield you their nuts, you have only to mix this with water to keep you from starving,” said Peter.
    “No.” Phoebe shook her head vehemently. “No. You will need it yourselves.”
    “When we are feeling the pangs of hunger,Little Bird, we will know that you are feeling them, too, but not one moment before us. And, soon, I fear, you will not be such a round little bird.” He grinned ruefully.
    There was a lump in Phoebe’s throat as she accepted the corn from Peter’s mother. It was easier, sometimes, she thought, to hold back tears of grief than those that came of unexpected kindness. She bowed to Peter’s mother and sister. She bowed to Peter. Then she threw her arms around him and hugged him. He hugged her back.
    With the wallet of dried corn stowed in her pocket together with the message for the General at Fort Ticonderoga, her map held tightly in her hand, Phoebe set off towards the west, along the old Indian path beside the White River. She liked the river. It wasn’t as wide as the Connecticut, but it flowed as swiftly and splashed as exuberantly over the rocks in its path as did Trout Brook. There wasn’t much wind, the day was bright and cold, the sky was blue, and the sun made ever-changing patterns of light and shadow on the moving water. It was the kind of day to raise the darkest spirits. She walked easily in Katsi’tsiénhawe’s unconfining leggings.
    She did not travel alone. She hadn’t passed the first bend in the river when she heard a familiar meow at her heels, and there was George, weaving himself around her ankles, sniffing atthe unfamiliar scent of Katsi’tsiénhawe’s leggings. They were tramping along companionably, with George coming and going but never straying far, when Phoebe heard the sound of an animal snuffling somewhere near. She stopped walking and looked around her. A young black bear was scratching its back against a pine tree about two yards from where she stood. “Dear Father in heaven,” she breathed, “another bear.”
    The bear looked up and saw her. It stopped scratching and ambled towards her. She backed away. Not George. George ran right up to the bear and rubbed himself against its legs.
    “No, George! Oh no!” Phoebe cried. She closed her eyes. She couldn’t rescue him, she couldn’t run. She waited for his agonized scream. It didn’t come. Slowly she opened her eyes. The bear was standing still, and George was rolling around at its feet, ecstatically. Realization hit. “You’re not another bear,” she said. “I know you. We spent all that time in the tree together.” It occurred to her, then, that because this was the same bear and because it was young was no reason to ignore the fact that it was a bear, a bear that could be dangerous. Cautiously she began to back away again.
    “Come on, George,” she whispered, “Come on,” but she didn’t wait for him. She turned around and began walking, very slowly at first, then faster and faster until she was almostrunning. She heard grunting close behind her. She knew it was the bear.