Wow, that was fast!
If you were thinking that, I respond with, "Nope! This is just an omake, sorry!"
I apologize for the length of time it took to get that last chapter up, and as a reward for waiting so long and continuing to give such wonderful positive feedback and suggestions in all your reviews, I give you a second update in 24 hours!
And thus, I now present the Thanksgiving Omake for your reading pleasure. Please note that it has nothing to do with the plot of the real story, and takes place much, much earlier.
Enjoy!
I disclaim, and own nothing.
The light filtering through the forest trees had changed, and the Mother of all the native tribes was getting worried. She shifted on her bare feet, looking towards the edge of the Wampanoag village for some sign of a little yellow-haired head amongst the bustling people.
"Nitka?"
The woman turned as her son exited a nearby oval house, one of many in the small clearing.
"What is bothering you?" he asked. "Today is our festival day with the Englishmen. You should not be so troubled."
"Mukki hasn't come back."
Her elder son, the Wampanoag tribe in the flesh, scrunched his brow, having met her youngest child only once the previous day. "The small yellow-haired one?" he asked, looking puzzled. "Where would he go?"
"To play," she replied, waving an arm at the surrounding woods. "I told him to return when the sun reached below the treetops." She sighed. "It would not be the first time he hasn't listened."
Turning back to her son, she smiled, deciding not to worry. In these lands, her children were always safe. "Now tell me, what are the circumstances of these white men you spoke of?"
_V~-~-~V_
Not terribly far away, there was an equally bustling village, though that was just about the only similarity between the two. Here, people weren't barefoot and dark-skinned, but sunburnt beneath their hats and wearing far too many layers of clothing for the sunny weather. While the shade of tall fir trees cooled the Wampanoag village, these people had clear-cut the nearby trees, forming a large, dusty spot where they chose to live. And on this particular day, delicious smells wafted up from the pots cooking outside just about every one of the tiny wooden houses that made up the small settlement known as Plymouth.
Charity was one of the many women entrusted with the task of making all of the food, tremendous amount that it was, for the harvest feast the menfolk had decided to put on. It was a frazzling job by herself to bake bread, steam squash, and cook corn all at once, but she was glad she wasn't among those cooking seafood. She honestly had never figured out what to do with a mussel to make such a thing edible.
Most of the others had children to help out, but Charity's were long grown up, leaving her house so silent that she was always trying to fill it with sound, and empty void that refused to be quelled. It grew only worse after her husband had passed away during the terrible winter that only two thirds of their small population had survived.
She hadn't felt truly warm since.
But she was determined to make it through and ensure the success of their tiny, finally free, pilgrim settlement, and if that meant cooking food for their men in Plymouth Plantation, then cook she would.
But the heat in her small house was downright unbearable with a fire in the hearth at midday. Sometimes, she almost missed England, with its nigh-perpetual rainy season that cooled the earth to a livable temperature. She bustled out as fast as she could after checking on the bread, only to find her corn disappearing over the edge of the table she'd put in her front yard. Puzzled, she peered around it, only to find a tiny blond boy with an armload of vegetables.
He froze, looking up at her with wide blue eyes from a face covered in dust, and something made her pause. This boy, somehow, meant a lot, more than a lot. Leaving England behind, the last harsh winter, and the survival of their little colony; somehow, this one little boy seemed to encompass all of that, with his blue eyes as clear as the unclouded October sky above.
She blinked, and the feeling was gone, leaving just another lost boy in its wake. Swiftly, Charity reached over and picked him up by the collar of his shirt. She was about to reprimand him when she took in his entire appearance for the first time.
"Merciful heavens, child, you're absolutely filthy! And what are you wearing?"
The boy blinked uncomprehendingly, then began to squirm in her grasp, but it was an exercise in futility. Charity hadn't raised three children and not learned anything, after all.
One by one, she began to wrest the vegetables from his arms (something surprisingly difficult, because this boy was rather strong for his size) until he was clutching a single ear of corn to his chest. His stubborn expression was familiar, but his clothes certainly weren't: a tiny (what looked strangely like deerskin) tunic… or something, and a string with a wooden pendant around his neck were all he wore. Certainly nothing any sensible Puritan mother would let her son run about the village in.
"Playing Indian is amusing, I'm sure," Charity said skeptically, "but it certainly does not allow you to steal other peoples' vegetables!" The boy still didn't respond, but his expression turned vaguely sheepish at her chastising. "Who are your parents, child?"
Again, uncomprehending. Charity's brow furrowed; did he truly not understand, or was he just being difficult? Or perhaps too young?
Trying again, she asked, "What is your name?"
No response from the boy. Finally, tapping her chest with her free hand, she said, "I am Charity." She poked him. "You are?"
The boy, surprisingly, grinned. "Mukki!"
That was too odd to be a real name, so Charity decided to assume it was a pet name of sorts. "Mukki?" she asked. The boy nodded, grinning even wider.
"What an odd child," she muttered, more to herself than anyone, because the boy seemed to understand very little of what she said. Her musings were interrupted as a foul smell suddenly reached her nostrils.
"Mercy, the bread!" she cried, hauling Mukki behind her as she hurried into her house, quickly pulling the loaves from the oven. Studying them, she heaved a sigh of relief when they proved to not be too badly burnt.
"See what you have brought me?" she groused in the direction of the boy. The boy, though, was staring in absolute fascination at the walls of her cabin. "Have you never seen a house before?" Charity inquired, setting the boy down.
Immediately, he ran over to her bed, the one stuffed with straw, and bounced on it. He started giggling, touching everything from the pillow to the quilts she'd made herself to the wooden bedposts.
Abruptly, he leapt off, racing outside again, with Charity following at a more sedate pace. He poked his nose into the cooking pot, getting a face full of steam as he did so, then grabbed the wooden spoon and started rapping it against the pot's side.
Charity snatched up the spoon, and quickly stirred the vegetables. "We do not touch things which are not ours to touch, child," she said sternly, but as soon as she put the spoon down, the boy had it in his hands again. But this time, he seemed to be trying to mimic her motions, sending water sloshing over the edges of the pot as he did so.
Inspiration struck. "Oh, so you wish to help?"
The boy said nothing, but Charity took that as agreement. Grabbing a bucket, she scooped a bit of water out of the pot, and gestured at the boy. "Water? Can you fetch some more?" She pointed in the direction of the well and gave him the wooden bucket. After a moment of confusion, understanding seemed to dawn on the boy's face, and he was off and running.
Charity sighed as he watched his tiny back disappear into the bustling crowd. "I do hope he brings back the bucket."
_V~-~-~V_
Few seemed to notice or pay attention to the little oddly-clothed boy as he flitted through the crowds, tripping occasionally on his small feet, but he found the well with little problem. Peering inside, he realized that this must be where the water is kept, and with little effort on his part, he dropped his bucket in and hauled it back up using the rope nearby.
He didn't notice the gaze of one incredulous man as he ran off, carrying the water like it was nothing in a display of truly disproportionate strength.
Charity was honestly surprised to no end when the boy actually completed the task. Hands on her hips, she studied him as he set the bucket down, looking up at her for approval.
"Well I never," she muttered, then ruffled his blond hair, noting the odd cowlick that stuck straight up in the front. "Well done, Mukki."
The boy smiled again, and Charity sent him for more water.
She managed to keep him occupied with little tasks, only scolding him once when he tried to steal a neighbor's pumpkin, and every smile he gave her upon completion made her feel just a little lighter. The hour of the feast had almost arrived, and Charity decided that it was her duty to make sure that this little boy didn't make a shame of his parents, however irresponsible they might be for not finding him yet.
So she sent him off to find more water, until the wash basin was filled to the brim. Then she grabbed him and threw him in, clothes and all.
He let out a loud squawk, splashing water across Charity's apron. "Hush, child. This is called a bath, something you are desperately in need of." The boy continued to squirm as she scrubbed the dirt away, revealing fair skin bronzed by the sun, rather than reddened like most people she knew who spent too long out-of-doors. The filthy clothes were discarded, though the boy wouldn't let her take off his necklace, and Charity scrubbed until the water was a frothy brown.
"Stay here," she commanded, and the boy actually did as he was told. She made her way over to a trunk in the corner of her house, where she kept all of the old things she never used anymore. At the very bottom was where she found the object of her search: white children's undergarments, a plain white play-skirt, and a red ribbon for the neck.
From the tub, the boy studied it curiously. Charity pulled him from the water and dressed him with experienced efficiency, then ran a brush through his tangled blond hair. The end product was almost unrecognizable.
"You look almost presentable now, child," she said, nodding her approval.
Mukki looked rather confused, plucking at the edge of the skirt with a tentative hand, but in the end, he seemed to approve, smiling broadly at Charity again.
"I am glad we agree," she added, giving the little boy a smile of her own. "Now come, assist me in carrying our food to the feast."
She didn't think the boy could manage both baskets of squash at once, but he lifted them with ease despite not being able to see over the top. Charity shook her head in amazement, and grabbed the bread and corn, then marched off purposefully in the direction that more and more of her neighbors were heading, Mukki following behind.
_V~-~-~V_
They arrived at a large space, just within the boundary of Plymouth, beside the fields the Wampanoag had helped them cultivate. The food, representing the first bountiful harvest in this New World, was already being laid out. Glancing down, Charity could almost see her temporary charge drooling.
Once the village had gathered, the men sat down together at one table, all the important colonial leaders at one, and the rest spread out. The women and children stood off to the side, ready with food, and the feast began. Some of the men performed an arms demonstration, shooting off their muskets to the delight of the crowd.
Charity procured some food for herself and Mukki, but she found he already had snatched an armload and was devouring it at a rather incredible speed.
"Stop that at once!" she cried, snatching the bread he was about to put in his mouth. "I am positive that you will choke!"
The child pouted for a moment, then abruptly brightened at something behind her. "Nihshans!" he exclaimed, pointing.
Turning, Charity was surprised to see a large group of local Indian men, standing, rather confusedly, at the edge of their camp. But that didn't explain what the child had said. Looking back toward Mukki, she replied, "No, that is the chief." She gestured at the man leading the group. "I believe his name is Massasoit."
To her surprise, the boy nodded eagerly. "Massasoit!" he agreed, pointing at the Wampanoag chief. "Tisquantum!" he continued, pointing to another man. Then, pointing to the first man he'd indicated, he declared, "Nihshans!"
"That's correct," Charity replied, still amazed at this little boy. "But I do not know this Nihshans."
"Mahta," the boy said, looking upset now. "Nihshans."
Suddenly, several of the Wampanoag men turned and left, while the rest filed into the crowd of pilgrims and sat down to begin eating.
"It seems we have invited them to join us," Charity said quietly, and indeed that's what had happened. The men who had left returned shortly after with five deer and even more of their villagers, including just one woman.
Charity turned to see if Mukki knew who this woman was, but the little boy tore past her, leaving the rest of his food behind, with a cry of, "Nek!"
She was about to follow him, to bring him back, to tell him that this was where he belonged, with her and her neighbors, not the Indians, but stopped as the woman bent down to embrace the little boy, lifting him up in her arms.
"Goodness gracious," Charity whispered, as the little boy who wouldn't say two words to her began chatting animatedly with the Indian woman.
And all of a sudden, he was pointing towards her, and the woman was walking over, carrying him still. She stopped just in front of Charity, smiling broadly.
"Thank you," she said, her accent thick, "for helping my son."
Charity felt like she should be shocked, but somehow, she wasn't very surprised at all. "You are quite welcome," she replied. The woman said something to Mukki, and he jumped down from her arms. He stepped shyly forward, looking up at Charity with those clear blue eyes.
"Thank you," he said, uncertainty filling his voice, his accent just as thick, and Charity couldn't help but smile.
"You too are quite welcome," she replied, kneeling down to the child's eye level. And she'd never felt warmer than when that little boy reached forward and threw his arms around her neck, the sounds of what became known as the first Thanksgiving floating around her, fresh and bright as this new land.
V/~-~-~\V
So, for all of you lovely readers, I present The Eternal American's version of the First Thanksgiving.
Some history too (of Thanksgiving celebrations in general, not just American):
England, back in the days of the English Reformation during the reign of King Henry VIII, the number of church holidays was cut from 95 holidays and 52 Sundays (on which people didn't work and had to attend church) to just 27 holidays. But the Puritans (the radical reformers of 16th century England) wanted to get rid of all the church holidays, even Christmas and Easter, and replace them with specially called days called Days of Fasting or Days of Thanksgiving.
One of these Days of Thanksgiving was called after the failure of the Gunpowder Plot in 1605, and eventually morphed into Guy Fawkes Day.
(Now for the American part)
The settlers who made Plymouth Plantation were none other than various pilgrims (mostly Puritans) fleeing England's religious persecution and holidays in the New World. Plymouth Plantation is today a living history museum in Plymouth, Massachusetts.
Their first winter was terrible, because only about half of their houses were built, and no one had any food or previous knowledge of American weather patterns, so about a third of the (very small) population of Plymouth died.
The following year, they were approached by the local Wampanoag Indians whose territory they had settled in with offers of peace, because the Indians didn't see the pilgrims as a threat thanks to the presence of women and children. The most famous Wampanoag was Tisquantum (or Squanto), a former captured slave who spoke English and acted as an interpreter and instructor of the pilgrims, teaching them how to properly farm and fish.
The pilgrims had a bountiful harvest, and arranged one of their Days of Thanksgiving in response. Originally, the Wampanoag weren't invited, but the chief (Massasoit) and around 90 warriors showed up in response to the pilgrims' arms display, fearing an attack. The pilgrims then invited them to join the feast, but there wasn't enough food for all these new arrivals, so the Wampanoag brought five more deer to add to the food. The feast reportedly lasted around three days, and though harvest-festival feasts weren't commonplace in America until the 1660s, it's this first one that's honored in the modern American tradition of Thanksgiving.
Now for Native American words:
Nitka- the Wampanoag word for "mother." Wampanoag is actually an Algonquian language, so Alfred might actually be able to communicate to some degree.
Mahta- Algonquin word for "no." Note the difference between Algonquin and Algonquian- Algonquin refers to a specific tribe, Algonquian is the native language family spoken in the northeast United States and into Canada.
Nihshans- Algonquin word for "older brother," and more specifically, "my older brother." Hence, when Charity addresses Alfred's brother as Nihshans, he corrects her, because he's his older brother, not hers.
That's about it! Thanks for reading, and I hope all of you Americans had a wonderful Thanksgiving! (Now on to Christmas!)