He walks ahead of us, the trail is wide, and his little feet covered with the furred boots that Bright Rainbow made for him in the fall are keeping him warm and sturdy.
My son. My little son, all of three years old, walks ahead of his mother and me, on this trail that will lead us to the Boone's cabin. My heart beats with pride and joy. Soon, he will tired and I am ready to lift him in my arm, while my wife trails a little behind. We carried little when we left the village, the pack is light on my back. She is pulling the sled, she said she was not tired yet.
I had build a nice shelter from the snow last night, he picked up small branches, she gathered thicker one; she build a fire and made us warm soup and we sleep tight together, with our son between us, sharing all of our heat, and the strength of our family.
Her oldest daughter is now a mother herself, and we married the youngest to a fine brave last summer. There is only the three of us now - the child she gave me soon after our own marriage.
Bright Rainbow is so pretty, she always was. She is the one who asked me to marry her, she loves me enough, with my white blood, with the balance of my two worlds to give me hope : hope for this family of mine now.
What can I teach my son of the two cultures he just inherited with me as his father?
When he was born, I went to Cincinnatus, to buy paper, precious expensive paper - which set us back for a bit. I had to be careful of Bright Rainbow, my wife, her need, and of his as well. I sat at one of the table, he lent me some ink. Cincinnatus is older now, the winter are hard on him, like on the elders of my tribe. He didn't charge me for the ink and didn't ask who I was writing too.
I wrote my father.
Never since I left England did I write him. I saw him a little when he was governor of Virginia, we broke bread, spoke of my mother , never becoming close, never become enemy either. He had accepted, at last, my choice, the choice of my life. He had left Virginia one day, having sent a messenger to ask me to come for a last visit. He said his door was open, to the man I was.
So I wrote my father, told him about my wife, this talented, pretty Cherokee woman, who gave me all I need, who shared the life of the Cherokee with her Cherokee husband, who shared our traditions and pray with me the Creator of all thing. I also told him of his grandson, this young precious buddle I had left in her care. I told him how we held him together, presented him to the tribe and granted him the name of his birth : Rustle in the Dawn Daniel Henry , son of Mingo and Bright Rainbow, of the Cherokee people. My wife agreed with the white man's names at his birth, men I have meet and have helped shaping me the man I am. As he grow, his name will grow, evolve and change with him; he has my dark eyes, my mother's eyes, her wavy dark hair and he is so smart.
Father answered me. I received his first letter when Rustle in the Dawn had been walking on his own for a full moon. I received his second letter two weeks ago. His health is failing, he might be dead already, this white man who loved my mother in his youth.
I am going to the Boone's cabin. Israel is gone, they are now alone, Daniel has trouble with his left knee, we do not hunt together anymore much. I trap with fellow Cherokees, I teach more and more Cherokee's children the white alphabet and the white ways. More white men are settling everywhere, taking Indian's land and turning our forest into their villages. I knew those days are going to be more and more - I have seen in my own youth the large number of white men on that other continent and it's inevitable, they will keep coming. I want for the Cherokees of tomorrow to survive in this quickly changing world. I want my son to be Cherokee, to be proud of being Cherokee, to accept the white blood in me, and to know that changes are coming. War is useless, white are better armed and more numerous.
My wife and I are walking to the Boone's cabin.
Rustle in the Dawn is anxious to meet the tall white man, the friend of his father.
I haven't seen my friend in many months, it's harder now.
But our friendship will endure. And it's the new year now, it's now the time that white men celebrate a new beginning, as year change and with years come change.
We will keep peace with them, as we will share meal with them. My son will play with Israel's old toy and will speak the English language I am teaching him. Daniel knows Cherokee very well, unless time made him forget.
It could be the time of a new name for my child : maybe Bright Rainbow will see something in him.
My son runs to me now, he is tired, he wants my arms. One more bend in the trail, we are almost there. I turned toward Bright Rainbow and I smiled at her. In the Cherokee's tongue, our tongue, I say "We're there, my wife."
She knows.
I hear the sound of an axe, there will be wood and warmth in plenty tonight.
I am happy. Might this new year in America bring some hope.