New Moccasins

By Mary Joyce Capps

Despite almost superhuman effort, Lame Hawk had fallen behind with his second load of fish. He could not keep up with his friends and cousins. The braves were taking a mighty catch from vine nets they were casting in the river; and the young boys were carrying the fish to the women, who were waiting to prepare them for smoking on racks set over smoldering fires.

The youth was deeply humiliated and frustrated by his lameness. He sank down on a log to rest and stared at his moccasins with bitterness. He strained to stretch his legs out so they would be even. It was a futile effort. Lame Hawk had been born with one leg much shorter than the other. When he walked he reeled from side to side like a crippled bear! I’ll never be able to run, trail, or hunt as well as other braves, he thought angrily.

Lame Hawk started as Nimbock suddenly stepped out of the forest and sat down beside him. The youth’s keen ears had not heard Nimbock’s approach. Lame Hawk felt ill at ease. Nimbock, too, was different, or so everyone said, and many people avoided him if possible.

The big man was a harmless dreamer who lived apart from the tribe. The people said that, although he was at least forty years old, he was neither brave nor child, but trapped somewhere in between.

Nimbock could not speak, but he seemed able to read thoughts. It was disconcerting to be the target of his unblinking stare. Lame Hawk flushed with resentment and drew up his feet to hide his crippled leg. Nimbock arose, a look of disappointment on his face, and faded back into the trees.

Lame Hawk started to shout a warning about the high wind that had forced his people to detour around the forest today because of the danger of falling limbs and dead trees. But for Nimbock there was no other way; his home was deep in the forest, and to get there he had to risk the danger that he was certainly aware of.

The Indian youth was sorry he had not spoken to Nimbock or given him some fish. Nimbock, of all people, knew the agony and loneliness of being “different.” I should have been friendlier. Did other youths taunt Nimbock when he was young? Is that why he lives alone now? Lame Hawk wondered. He knew that feeling too. Even one’s friends could be cruel when they were angry. And the hurt remained long after the irritation was over.

But Nimbock had other talents. He could carve wood into almost anything. He made beautifully detailed animals and birds. When his carvings were painted and mounted in lifelike poses, one almost expected them to run or soar away. And his painted clay pots were works of art. The women traded Nimbock clothing and woven rugs for such treasures.

Lame Hawk arose and braced himself against the wind just as the ground trembled, and a mighty tree toppled and came crashing down. As he bent to pick up his fish, the youth was puzzled by a rhythmic drumming sound. It was different from that made by a male grouse. Twice more he heard it, although fainter now, as he limped along fighting the wind.

Nimbock! The tree must have fallen and struck him! The silent one cannot cry out for help, but he could use one piece of wood to drum on another, Lame Hawk thought hopefully.

Forgetting about his own safety, Lame Hawk dropped the fish and hurried into the forest where the tree had thudded down. He caught his breath with horror when he reached the spot. Only Nimbock’s head, shoulders, and arms were free; the rest of his body was trapped under the tree trunk. One hand still clutched the short limb he had used to signal for help, but Nimbock had fainted.

The youth circled the tree and tried to pull Nimbock free from the other side, but it was hopeless. Panic overwhelmed him as he considered the size of the tree. Even if he were able to run to the river, it would not help. A hundred braves could not move such a giant tree without chopping it into sections, and the blows of many axes would add to its crushing weight!

Sadly, Lame Hawk had to admit that without a miracle there was no need to hurry to the river. He would sit near the trail and wait for the men, then bring them here to remove Nimbock’s dead body. He knelt near Nimbock’s head, and was surprised he could still hear the silent one’s ragged breathing. Nimbock has always lived alone, but it doesn’t seem right that he should have to die alone, Lame Hawk decided. He sat cross-legged and waited.

Being slow of limb Lame Hawk had had to use his mind to solve problems. If his body could not do something others could do, he found another way around the obstacle. The youth tried to forget about Nimbock and consider nothing but the tree. Suddenly his face brightened with hope. Not he nor a hundred others could raise it, but he could remove the soil and let Nimbock settle into a ditch, away from the crushing force!

Using his bare hands and sharpened sticks, Lame Hawk began to tunnel under Nimbock’s limp body. He worked tirelessly, ignoring his blistered and bleeding hands and watching with satisfaction as the ditch deepened. Fortunately a loose layer of leaves and soil had cushioned the crushing force, and Lame Hawk felt more optimistic about Nimbock’s survival now.

The weary youth stopped to wipe trickles of perspiration from his grimy face. He was surprised to see Nimbock awake now and watching him, a slight smile on his face.

“You’re almost free,” Lame Hawk panted. “I’ve dropped you down clear of the tree. Now I have to scoop a trench away from the trunk and slide you out, like pulling a knife from its sheath.”

With incredible effort Lame Hawk pulled the man from the box-like depression and out into the trench. But he couldn’t have done it if Nimbock had not braced his hands against the trunk and pushed with his feet. When Nimbock was free, Lame Hawk’s throbbing leg collapsed and he fainted from exhaustion.

It was Nimbock’s drumming that drew the returning braves to them at dusk, and the two of them were carried to the village on stretchers made from the fishing nets. The women took turns nursing Nimbock back to health, and his strong body responded.

A bond of friendship was welded between Nimbock and his rescuer, but Lame Hawk was puzzled by Nimbock’s curious interest in his crippled leg. He sent for the youth several times a day and motioned for him to walk back and forth in front of him. Then he would closely examine both of the boy’s feet. He also sent for old Seque, the finest moccasin maker in the tribe, and made dirt drawings with a stick. He always hid the wood he was whittling when the youth came to see him. And only Lame Hawk seemed to notice that Seque was making a pair of brightly beaded and quilled but mismatched moccasins—one at least four inches taller than the other! It was all very mysterious.

There was feasting and a dance after the fish were smoked and stored away for winter eating. Nimbock was almost fully recovered and would probably return to his home after the festivities. He and Lame Hawk sat together, watching the firelight play over the dancers and enjoying the chants and throbbing drums.

Lame Hawk was surprised when his friend pressed something into his hands. He drew back dismayed when he saw that the gift was the ridiculous-looking mismatched moccasins! Everyone was watching them now and smiling as broadly as Nimbock, who was urging that Lame Hawk try them on. The youth felt betrayed. How could Nimbock focus everyone’s attention on his lameness!

Nimbock sensed with disappointment that Lame Hawk had misunderstood his gift. He took back the tall moccasin, and with signs he showed how he had carved a platform to fit inside. The bewildered youth still didn’t understand its purpose, but he tried them on to please Nimbock.

A look of wonder crossed Lame Hawk’s face when he stood up and walked a few hesitant steps without lurching to his crippled side! For the first time in his life, his legs seemed the same length!

With practice, he thought exultantly, I’ll soon be walking with scarcely a limp. Lame Hawk stood straight, happy to find that he was as tall as his friends who rushed to surround him, pushing and shoving with joy.

“Tall Hawk! Tall Hawk!” they shouted, giving him a new name.

Illustrated by Jim Christensen