Chapter 7- Being Caught and Homecoming

A/N: I'm going to start putting some history of the Seneca in here which comes from a book I have by the author Lois Lenski named "Indian Captive." It's a story based off a real Seneca captive named Mary "Molly" Jemison. Of course the woman who wrote it got a lot of sources too from other authors. Such as Indian myths and ways of life.

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Reader's point of view:

Bruce thought it was good that the city was quiet tonight. Most people had learned by now not to commit crimes in his city. True, there were the criminals like the Joker who kept coming back after Bruce would put them in jail, but by now, even the petty robbers stayed off the streets.

For right now though, Bruce, even though he was relieved that all was quiet, he'd take a purse snatching to get his mind off his problems with his daughter. Bruce had been told that Roberta would be a teenager and Alfred had even commented this morning that raising a teenager would be the hardest thing he had ever done as Bruce Wayne or Batman.

Roberta was, in many ways, like him; stubborn and quiet. Watching her cry over not being able to go to the reservation unnerved him. Bruce was willing to let her go if she had even asked him, but Roberta wouldn't.

Bruce looked over at the bus depot. A lot of people were going out of town tonight. There were two buses. One going to Colorado and the other to Upstate New York Bruce watched the crowds as they swarmed towards the buses. One kid in a baseball cap, faded blue jeans, and a white sweatshirt made his way towards the Upstate New York bus. Halfway there his hat fell off, revealing a girl instead of a boy.

Bruce started as he looked at the kid. He should have recognized the clothes sooner! Roberta was getting on a bus, looking around apprehensively. She relaxed as she stepped up into the bus and it took off in the direction of New York State.

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Rachel/Roberta's POV:

I couldn't believe I made it! I almost thought I'd get caught by the police or, even Batman. But I hadn't seen either. I didn't know until much later, when Mr. Wayne confronted me about it, that Batman had seen me leave. I was calm in the fact that I could leave as quietly as I entered. That it would seem as if I had never even come to Gotham in the first place.

I snuggled down in my seat, ready to fall asleep. Now sleep on a bus is bad, but I'm like a cat. I can sleep on a stone slab with no problems if the situation arose. I guess it's from all those times I visited my grandparents and I slept on braided leather. I fell asleep, feeling like my brain was getting foggy.

I woke up around midnight, rubbing my eyes and sitting up. The reservation was two or three miles from here. I could barely see the Susquehanna River and hear the waterfalls that were on the edge of the reservation itself. I figured I'd better start walking. At this time of night and year the air was freezing. But with it being so close to Canada the first snowfall could be soon. That's why we had to get the corn in for the fall harvest. No one wanted to be surprised by snow.

I started hiking. I used to walk these trails with my cousins when I visited, but it was harder to see at midnight. I carefully walked, following the banks of the Susquehanna River and made it to the reservation at two in the morning. I stopped at the meeting-house.

To a Seneca, or any other type of Indian, the meeting-house was where all business relating to the Iroquois Nation was determined. The tribal chiefs-one of them being my uncle-listened to all matters concerning the general population of Indians in this region. The Senecas are known as the keepers of the Western Door and are swift runners. We always delievered messages and came to the aide of the other branches of the Iroquois nation when they needed us.

The sacred fire, which is lit every morning in the council-house was still felt at this time. It wasn't completely out and the glowing embers were still laying there. I got down on the floor, the embers glowing on me.

I fell asleep, feeling better here than I did in that tomb that Mr. and Mrs. Wayne called my bedroom.

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I woke up to Indian voices jabbering close to my ear. Forcing my eyelids open I saw my uncle and the other 9 tribal chiefs looking at me. "Rachel, what are you doing here?" My uncle asked as I stood up, trying to straighten my dark, tangled hair.

"Like I told Jane, I never miss a corn harvest," I said, taking care to speak in the Seneca language. Most of us knew English since we all have to deal with the White man's world, but here all of us try to speak the language that has lasted for centuries. Even though I'm a White girl with green eyes a lot of the people say that I speak the old Indian language better than a lot of Senecas. For all of you reading this I wasn't really calling my cousin Jane and my uncle didn't just call me Rachel.

Among the Seneca we each have an Indian name that describes something about us. But to all of you I'll use our White names.

"Rachel, we were told that you weren't coming," Uncle Peter said, sighing deeply and placing his hands on my shoulders.

"Who told you that? My mother or Jane?" I asked.

"My brother did. He and your mother arrived last night and told us what happened," Uncle Peter said.

"I see, but I'm here now, Uncle. I'd like to stay for the harvest," I said as my uncle led me to my grandfather's house. I have always loved my grandfather's house. He had built it with the help of other members of my grandmother's clan when they had married and it had stood for nearly 30 years.

My grandfather stood in front of his house, smoking his pipe. He was one of five White men who had married Indian women in our tribe. He had startling blue eyes and his hair was once brown, but looked steel-gray. Of course neither my father or uncle looked like him.

"Grandpa!" I exclaimed, jumping into his arms.

"Rachel," Grandpa said, stroking my dark hair gently as he hugged me. He pulled me back to look into my eyes.

"I've missed you, Grandpa," I said, burying my face into my grandfather's chest. I felt like I was three years old again. My memories of the Waynes' were fragmented, but I do remember meeting my grandfather years ago. My most poignant memory was tripping on a shoelace and him picking me up in his strong arms and wiping away my tears.

"What are you doing here, Rachel?" Grandpa asked

"I didn't want to miss the harvest, Grandpa," I said meekly. Grandpa was pretty easygoing as they come, but when he became stern honesty was the best policy.

"Well, I guess Patrick will have something to say about that," Grandpa said, a crease marring his normally placid forehead as he led me into the house.

A jubilant scream filled my ears as my grandmother ran towards me and hugged me tightly. My grandmother was tiny and the top of her head stopped at my shoulder. Her face was starting to show its age with laugh lines and wrinkles and her hair was still black with silver streaks in it.

Grandmother held me at arms length and looked into my eyes. "You look tired and hungry, Rachel. Didn't they feed you there?" Grandmother said as she led me to the scarred oak table my grandfather had made.

"Not very well. I can't eat cow meat," I admitted as she set a plate full of corn pone and venison in front of me. I started to eat as though half-starved. I'll even admit to foregoing my manners and eating like a pig. I just shoveled it in with my fingers I was so hungry.

I looked up as my mother came out of the room she and my father slept in whenever we visited the reservation. Now my mom is one of those people who, even though her hair's a mess and wears no makeup in the morning, still looks gorgeous. Now was no exception. I honestly don't know how she does it. Most people wake up looking like any monster from the old monster flicks my dad likes. For my mom tangled hair is IN.

"Rachel?" Mom gasped as her face turned pale. That's another thing my mother is known for. Her skin turns marble-white at the drop of a hat. With her neck-length, pale-blonde hair is makes her look positively ghostly. My dad came out of the room then, his dark eyes a mixture of two expressions. One was happiness and the other was either anger or annoyance. I could never be sure which when my father got upset.

"Rachel, what are you doing here?" Dad demanded, sitting down next to me as I took a long drink of mint tea that my grandmother set in front of me.

"I don't miss a harvest," I said. My dad was like my grandfather. I couldn't look him in the eye and lie. He always knew when I was lying to him anyways.

"Does Mr. Wayne know you're here?" My father persisted. At this point I wished my dad was happy to see me, but I guess he was asking valid questions that needed answers.

"No. I left without telling him. I don't want to live with him and his wife. I want to live with you and Mom," I said, feeling tears burn my eyes. Dad looked at me hard before answering.

"Rachel, I wish you could too. But we have to be fair. You can't always have what you want," Dad said, cupping my face gently.

"But, Dad, I can't live with them. They insulted the clothes Uncle Peter gave me and they're putting me in private school and Mr. Wayne gets upset when I call you "Dad." I said, feeling like if anyone understood me it would be Dad.

"If I was Bruce Wayne I would too. He was your father first, Rachel. Now, after you have rested for a day or two I'm going to call him. I hope he's forgiving," Dad said, ending the subject with finality. I knew with that the subject was closed. But maybe Mr. Wayne would understand that I still needed my mom and dad.