Chesapeake by James A. Michener Read Free Book Online

that warrior tribe, and of how the Susquehannock women had made fun of him for being so small and skinny.
    ‘What is your tribe called?’ Pentaquod asked.
    ‘We are one small part of the Nanticokes. The great werowances live to the south. We have only a lesser werowance, as you’ve seen.’
    ‘Have you a name?’
    Scar-chin shrugged his shoulders, as if the mystery of names was reserved for shamans or those who cast medicine. He did, however, venture the information that frequently the powerful Nanticokes to the south invaded the village to steal whatever the local people had acquired.
    ‘Are they so much braver?’
    ‘No, more of them.’
    ‘Do you fight back? In battle?’
    Scar-chin laughed. ‘We’re not Susquehannocks. When the Nanticokes come, we run into the woods. We leave enough behind so they won’t want to pursue us, and when they’ve taken what they want, they leave, and then we come back.’
    Such behavior was so extraordinary that Pentaquod could think of no sensible comment. He sat tapping his fingers together, and as he did so he spied the pile of white shells. ‘Don’t you use them against the Nanticokes?’
    ‘Use what?’
    ‘Those … well, those shells?’
    ‘Those!’ Scar-chin stared at the shells, then broke into laughter. He summoned a group of tribesmen and shared the hilarious joke with them—‘He thinks we throw them at the Nanticokes!’ And all his listeners began to laugh, and some of the children started skimming the white shells into the river.
    Pentaquod, taking no offense asked, ‘What are they?’
    ‘You don’t know?’ Scar-chin asked in amazement. From one of the teasing children he took a shell, held it at chest level and imitated a man eating from it, whereupon one of the women ran to the shore, dived into the cold water, and within a few moments reappeared, holding in her hand a dripping object constructed of two of the shells bound together.
    Running to Pentaquod, her hair dripping about her shoulders, she extended her two hands, presenting him with the river-born object. He took it, was impressed by its roughness and heaviness. ‘What is it?’ he asked Scar-chin.
    ‘He doesn’t know what it is!’ the interpreter shouted, pleased with his new-found importance as the only one in the town who could speak with this Susquehannock.
    ‘He doesn’t know what it is!’ the children echoed gleefully, and everyone watched as the tall man from the north wrestled with the connected shells.
    Finally the young woman who had brought him the present took it back, reached for a sharp-pointed stick and deftly split open the shell. One half she threw away. The other she handed gravely to Pentaquod, indicating that he should eat.
    Trained on venison and rabbit and fish, he looked at the strange object in his hand. In no way could he relate it to food such as he had known: it was watery, and slippery, and had no bones, and there was no sensible way to attack it.
    The girl solved his problem. Taking the laden shell from his nervous hand, she lifted it to his lips, told him to open his mouth, and with a delicate twist of her fingers popped the food in. For an instant he was aware of a fine, salty taste and a pleasing sensation. Then the food, whatever it was, disappeared, leaving on his face a most bewildered look. With an easy throwing motion, the girl tossed the empty shell onto the mound.
    ‘We call them kawshek,’ Scar-chin explained. ‘More sleeping in the river than you could count. All winter we feed on kawshek.’
    Pentaquod contemplated this: in addition to the abundance of food he had discovered by himself, there was this additional supply hidden in the river. It was inconceivable, and as he sat perplexed, trying to unravel the mystery of oysters, he thought of his friend Fishing-long-legs, and he queried Scar-chin. ‘What is it he catches on the bottom, cuts in two and swallows with such difficulty?’
    ‘Fish.’
    ‘I know fish. This is no fish. Shaped like a