Orenda - Chapter Three

CHAPTER 3

Jenny stared silently out the sparkling windows of her elementary school. She traced the movements of a large bird with her eyes. If only she could be like the bird, soaring free and high above the ground. She mentally placed herself in the bird`s position, and saw in her mind the patchwork of now barren fields. She saw farm houses, from the top, and even the school. She peered in through the multi-paned window and saw herself looking out and up. She smiled and waved.

"Jenny!" The teacher called, "You're daydreaming again! Pay attention!"

Jenny reluctantly left the bird, and returned to her multiplication tables. God how she hated this! What was the point in learning all these numbers when she couldn't even talk? Everybody could talk! Even the kids in kindergarten could talk! Everybody but Jenny.

She couldn't remember back to when she could talk. There was a wall there. A thick, black wall that wouldn't let her through. She knew that if she could just once get past the barrier, she would be able to talk like everybody else. Sometimes she tried to scale it, in her mind; but when she neared the top, an overwhelming panic would overtake her, and she would fall back down. Sometimes she really fell down, so intensely was she concentrating, and everyone would fuss over her, trying to figure what had caused the tumble.

Grandpa understood, though. He was the only one who remembered back to when she could speak. He never pushed her, and that's why she had told only him about the existence of the wall. He told her not to fret about it, that the wall would crumble someday, and she would be able to talk again.

Her mind darted to the coming Halloween party. Granpa had promised her a new costume for it. Did she want to be a clown or a giant rabbit? She couldn't decide! She liked clowns. They made people laugh. But she liked rabbits just as much. They were cuddly, and everybody liked them even if they couldn't talk. Rabbit was it! She would choose the rabbit. Who ever heard of a clown that couldn't talk?

"Jenny! I'm going to have to speak to your grandfather about your day dreaming," the teacher warned.

Jenny looked down at her desk top. She didn't want Mrs. Cooper to speak to her grandfather. She knew that he wouldn't punish her for not listening in class, but he would be disappointed, and that sad look would come into his eyes. Then, worst of all, he would pick her up and hug her. That always made her so ashamed!

"Jenny? Are you listening to me?" Mrs. Cooper asked.

Jenny looked up from the desk. She smiled and nodded her head in affirmation. Mrs. Cooper smiled, her lips brittle, and continued the lesson.

"Whew! That was close!" Jenny thought.

Oddly, Jenny was not the butt of jokes, nor the target of taunts by the other children. Even if she didn't, they knew why she couldn't talk. They had all heard of her encounter with a wild bear, and her father's terrible death.

On the playground, she communicated pretty well with the others; not as efficiently as with words, perhaps, but it sufficed. The other children went out of their way to make sure, through the use of gestures, what exactly that Jenny was trying to communicate. `Did she want in the kick ball game?' was rendered as a swinging kick and a shrug of the shoulders. She would answer with a nod or a shake of her head. In the three years she had attended the school, her and the other children had worked out an adequate language of gestures all their own. Quite often, even when Jenny was not present, the gesture language was used. Especially when the children did not want their parents or teachers to know what they were saying. Instead of her disability making her an outcast, Jenny's outgoing personality had made her a celebrity. Even old Mrs. Cooper seemed to like her. Sometimes.

Jenny looked up at the large, white-faced clock on the wall. Ten more minutes! This was the worst time, waiting for the stupid clock to go the last ten minutes! Her butt itched, and she squirmed on the hard wood seat. She quickly glanced at Mrs. Cooper to see if she had noticed.

The ancient yellow school bus wheezed into the parking lot. Seven minutes! She couldn't stop her toes from tapping on the floor. She leaned over to one side, taking the pressure off the itchy spot on her rear end.

". . .assignment for tomorrow. Be sure you have it done by class time tomorrow." Mrs. Cooper finished, turned and began erasing the blackboard.

Jenny looked guiltily at her. What was the assignment? She looked to the girl in the next seat, but she had already put her books in her bag and was waiting the last few seconds until the bell rang.

The buzzer sounded, and Jenny joyfully scraped her books into her tiny arms and headed for the door. She'd make up the assignment the next day, she decided. She skipped lightly towards the wheezing, popping bus. By the time she clambered through the bus door, her mind was completely devoid of anything remotely concerned with school. "The rabbit it is!" She chortled mentally.

Paul Neiderhaus slid the red Porsche deftly to a stop in front of the cafe that he had noticed on his way out of town the evening before. The red and blue neon sign that had caught his eye was dull now, and Paul noticed that many of the letters were broken.

The afternoon was crisp, hovering just above freezing now that the sun was well up. The many puddles dotting the hard-packed earth parking area were frozen over with a paper thin sheet of ice. Paul purposely stepped into them, enjoying the crunching sound the brittle ice made as it shattered under his weight. He high stepped out of the puddles to keep his shiny black shoes from getting soaked. He was dressed today in a pair of charcoal gray slacks, and a heavy white sweater. He left his windbreaker in the car.

The cafe's only occupant was the proprietor, a small man with a greasy apron tied around his neck. His shock of white hair, wrinkled countenance, and slightly stooped posture placed him well over the age of sixty. The old man did not say a word, but in one practiced motion, delivered a cup, saucer, and fresh pot of coffee to the station Paul had selected at the counter.

"Have any trouble findin' a place to park?" The old man asked, his blue eyes twinkling.

"Yeah, big crowd out there. . .thought I might have to walk a couple of blocks." Paul rejoined, laughingly.

"Not many customers this time o' year. Not many customers any time o' year, anymore." He said, a wistful look passing across his wrinkled face.

"Not much of a tourist season, huh?" Paul aked, sipping at the scalding coffee.

"Nah! Nobody wants to see a run down old town that never was much in the first place." He shook his head.

Paul noticed that the proprietor's eyes were clear and sharp, in contrast to the rest of his appearance. They followed Paul alertly.

"Why do you stay on?" Paul asked.

"`Cause the great state of Ohio pays me a little somethin' each month to sit out here and hand out lit'ature and collect donations from what few folks do come see the village."

"I see," Paul answered, helping himself to more coffee.

"What brings you to Zoar, anyhow? I seen that fancy red car of your`n leavin' out last night, `bout sundown." The question was asked openly and honestly, and Paul took no offense at the old man's prying.

"I'm here to do some historical research for my PhD," Paul told him, paused, then asked, "Where can I get a look at the town records and other historical documents?"

"Let's see," The old man scratched at his chin. "I got all the touristy stuff the state give me to hand out here, but the real records is all down in the basement o' the church." He indicated direction with a thrust of his chin.

Paul walked to the grimy window of the cafe and peered along the street in the direction the proprietor had indicated. He had to lean close to the glass and peer around several taped cracks in the large pane to see the simple red brick structure less than a block away. It was a spare building, boasting no ornate decorating features, and the bricks were badly in need of sandblasting. Paul sauntered back to the counter, and sat gingerly on the stool he had just vacated. He noted the torn upholstery, patched with a silver-gray strip of duct tape.

"How'd you come to pick Zoar?"

"Well, a number of reasons, really." Paul looked up at the old man who was busily wiping at the counter. "My people are originally from here, and I grew up hearing stories about the settling of this valley."

"You don't say!" The proprietor stopped wiping and leaned over the counter. "My great-great-granddaddy was the leader of the first `uns to settle here. Andrew Bimeler's my name." He extended his hand over the counter, pulled it quickly back and wiped it on the greasy apron, then extended it again. Paul shook it, and replied with his name.

"Neiderhaus? Lord, your ancestors came here with the first Bimeler! Fact is, they was one o' the original three families. Them's the ones that had money in it. Bimelers, Neiderhauses, and the Schoenbrunns! They was the leaders of the whole shebang. I'll be damned!" He looked at Paul as if he should have recognized him when he walked through the door.

"I don't suppose there's still any Neiderhauses living around here?" Paul asked.

"No. Ain't been none o' that clan left in these parts for seventy years or better."

"Anyway," Paul got back to the subject, "Being that I've heard about Zoar all my life, and never actually having visited it, I decided to find out why this commune flourished for three or more generation, and then abruptly, in about one generation, failed. I'm trying to figure out why it failed."

Bimeler snorted. "That's a easy one! It failed 'cause ever'body left! Wasn't nothin' here for the young 'uns, so when they went off to school, they didn't never come back. You got another one o' those?" Bimeler reached out for one of Paul's cigarettes.

"That's what I'm interested in confirming, but I need to go through the old records to verify it. Births, deaths, etc." Paul said, handing over the pack of cigarettes.

Bimeler turned and lit his cigarette from the gas grill on the wall behind the counter. He leaned down to the gas jet, and pulling his head straight back and squinting his eyes, advanced the tip of the cigarette into the blue flames. As soon as it glowed red, he turned back to Paul.

"If you want to understan' Zoar, they's a lot more to it than wat you'll find in them records. You got to understan' the injuns lived hereabouts, and you need to go down to Schoenbrunn Mission, down the road a piece." He pointed with his chin along the two lane which Paul had taken in from the interstate, but in the opposite direction. "Then, you need to go up to the old injun campsite, where Gen'rl Sullivan wiped 'em all out." He aimed his jutting chin again along the two lane, back towards the interstate.

"What does all that have to do with the failure of Zoar?" Paul asked, carefully keeping impatience out of his voice.

The old man looked around the cafe surreptitiously, and lowered his voice. "They's some who'd say that the injuns had ever`thin' to do with it. That the young 'uns didn't come back for another reason. . .there's a lot more to the story of Zoar and Schoenbrunn than folks likes to think about."

Paul frowned. He doubted the veracity of the old man's words, but the show of secrecy and intrigue had perked his interest. He furrowed his brow in imitation of Bimeler, and leaned low over the counter.

"Like what things don't they let on?" He asked, his voice reduced to a hoarse whisper; mocking the old man. Paul half expected the proprietor to rebuke his sarcastic attitude. Instead, the old man leaned even lower over the counter, and spoke in a whisper, as if there were other interested ears within hearing range.

"Many things! They's them that'll tell 'bout a curse put on the town. They'll say the young folks didn't come back 'cause they was scared to!"

"What were they afraid of?" Paul asked, moving his eyes left and right, exaggeratedly. He couldn't believe the old man was taking this serious.

"They was scared o' Oren. . ." The front door burst open, causing the three tarnished brass bells suspended over it to clang dully. Bimeler broke off in mid-word. Paul looked over his shoulder, and watched a petite, blond elf of a child, about nine years old, enter the cafe. She beamed at the old man, and held up a picture she had drawn.

"The rabbit, huh?" Bimeler said. "O.k., the rabbit it is. We'll go into town this weekend and get it." He walked around the counter and took the load of books from the girl's tiny arms, then led her to a booth in the corner.

"Hungry, baby?" He asked.

She nodded her head emphatically, then slid into the booth, her back to Paul. She carefully placed her school bag to the side of the table, positioning it so that it fit exactly inside a small rectangle of sunshine which reflected thinly off the worn table top.

Paul noticed how the child's silken blond hair contrasted sharply with the worn blue vinyl covering of the booth seat. He thought that if he ever had a daughter, he wanted her to look as precious as this little girl. He knew that the child's mother must be a real beauty.

"You sure are a pretty little girl," He called to her across the cafe. She turned around in her seat, and flashed Paul a brilliant smile. He noticed the pale blue of her eyes, and the shining, child-whiteness of her teeth. Dimples indented her cheeks.

"How old are you?" Paul asked.

She held up both hands, and spread the fingers out. She then closed the thumb of her left hand.

"Nine? Bet you're in the third grade, aren't you?"

She nodded.

"Do you get good marks?" Paul asked.

She shook her head negatively, and glanced guiltily at her grandfather, who was scurrying about preparing her lunch.

"What's the matter, cat got your tongue?" Paul teased, because so far the child had answered his questions only with gestures.

A look of utter frustration clouded the child's face. She looked at her grandfather.

Bimeler looked away from the sizzling hamburger patty he was frying, and glanced to Paul. "She can't talk. Happened 'bout five years back. She can hear good, though." He explained quietly.

Paul flushed with embarrassment, and looked quickly back to the child. "I. . .I'm sorry, honey." He said.

"Her name's Jenny." Bimeler added.

"I'm sorry, Jenny. I thought you were just shy. Please forgive me?"

The cloud passed from her face almost immediately. She shrugged her shoulders as if to say `can't be helped' and smiled broadly again at Paul. She then turned back away from him, and fidgeted at the table. Bimeler carried a plate laden with a hamburger and french fried potatoes to her booth, and deposited it in front of her. She immediately began to eat the sizzling potatoes. Bimeler walked along the front of the counter, and sat down on the stool next to Paul.

"Don't worry about it." He said.

Paul was still upset and embarrassed. "What happened to her?"

Bimeler looked steadily at the tall young man, noting the sandy brown hair and the green eyes flecked with tiny flakes of brown. He took in the muscular build, and the soft hands not used for physical work, and decided that the fellow was of the type that played tennis or jogged instead of doing any real work for exercise. Not that he considered that bad, necessarily; just to Bimeler, any work that one did should lead to a constructive and profitable outcome. He did not comprehend people who had enough time to waste running for no prticular reason. To him, time was precious, and should be spent in constructive activities, like gardening, or fixing the house. Bimeler knew from the car the young man drove that he could obviously afford the luxury of wasting his time. That, coupled with the attention Paul had been paying to his tale before they were interrupted by Jenny's coming in, lead him to believe that the man was sincere in asking about the cause of Jenny's muteness. He decided to tell him.

Bimeler lowered his voice. "She seen her daddy - my son - get kilt' by a wild animal down to the river. They was hikin', and out o' nowhere, I guess it musta been a bear. . .must'a been a mama with a cub close by's all we can figure, suddenly 'ttacked them. Tore my Johnny all to hell! Jenny," He nodded his head in her direction, "got clawed up pretty good, but somehow she 'scaped. Thank God!" He shook his head slowly from side to side, as an animal in pain will.

"My God!" Paul said.

"She ain't never said a word since. Drawed a picture, though."

"What about her mother, was she injured?"

"No, her mama was shoppin' over to New Philly when it happened." He paused. "Anyway, her mama ain't much! After the 'ttack, she didn't want much to do with the poor baby. That's why she stays out here, with me. I guess her mama just don't like havin' her around now that she can't talk and all."

Paul's heart went out to the hapless child. He felt shamed, somehow, as if he should have accepted some of the pain this tiny pixie had already felt in this life.

Jenny could not finish her lunch. She hated it when Granpa told the story. She couldn't remember any of what he was saying. Only the picture remained vivid in her mind. All the rest was somewhere behind the black wall. Oh how she wished she could see behind it! Sometimes she tried to visualize the story her granpa told, but simply could not make it mesh with reality in her mind. She couldn't even remember what her daddy looked like. How was Granpa so sure that what he told people was true? The picture in her mind was what was true! But nobody paid any attention to it. The picture and the strange words that nobody understood were the only things she had brought with her when she had come back from the other side of the wall. The greasy portion of hamburger, which just a few moments before had been so delicious, now moved ominously in her stomach. She pushed the rest away from her. Even the smell was too much now that Granpa had spoiled everything.

"Jenny?" Paul called softly.

At the sound of her name, the child turned her head around and peered at Paul. Her startling blue eyes lingered on him a moment, then looked away. She looked troubled. In just a few moments she had changed from a blithe spirited little girl to a troubled child, who held knowledge far beyond her years and ability to comprehend. She reached into her school bag and withdrew a pencil and paper. She leaned over and began drawing furiously.

Bimeler glanced towards her, and shook his head. He rose and walked slowly to the booth. He peered over her tiny, jerking shoulder. When he walked back towards Paul, there was a gathering moistness about his eyes.

Paul watched the scene with interest. The same atmosphere of gloom had hovered over the Neiderhaus household for many years whenever the subject of Paul's older brother, and the terrible way he had died, was brought up. He had not felt this sense of utter destitution for a long time, and it caused a cloud of depression to settle over him like a heavy cloak.

The old man returned to his place behind the counter. His back seemed more stooped than when Paul had entered the restaurant, and Paul wanted to say something to comfort the old man, to ease the obvious distress he was in. There were no words to lift this dismal spell, Paul knew from experience, so he concentrated on his coffee.

Bimeler mistook Paul's silence for consternation, and said, "She's a might strange, sometimes." His voice was quavering, apologetic.

Paul did not respond.

The tiny child slid out of the booth sideways, and walked, with quick, short steps, towards Paul. She clutched the sheet of yellow tablet paper on which she had been drawing in her hand. Standing on her tip-toes, she placed the sheet on the counter in front of Paul, then laboriously clambered up on the stool next to him.

Paul and her grandfather looked at the picture she had drawn. The old man's mouth pulled into a tight frown. "That damn picture again!" He muttered. What does it mean, Jenny? He thought. He hated that she kept this memory stored in her pretty little head. If there were any way he could scour this boogey-man from her mind, he would. He softly banged his fist onto the counter.

Paul stared at the drawing curiously. It was the outline of a human footprint, as seen from above. Beside the human print, was one of a bear. Running vertically from the side by side footprints, was a set of skinny legs. The right leg differed from the left because she had drawn many diagonal, short lines across it, indicating hair. On top of the legs perched a round ball, which took nearly half the sheet of paper, and obviously represented a torso. Upon the torso was a smaller circle indicating a head. The arms were out of proportion with one another, the left being nearly twice as long as the right, and ending in a formidable set of claws. It too, was covered with the hair indicating lines. The right arm ended in a rounded set of fingers rather than claws. Atop the head, long strands of hair fell down to the center of the torso. The figure was clad only in a rectangular breech cloth.

"Looks like you've drawn a picture of a bear-man, Jenny." Paul commented, reaching out and patting her on the head. He looked from the picture into her eyes.

Her eyes were hard, and glittered like twin opals set in white porcelain. She was not smiling, and it was obvious that she had not drawn this picture merely to gain praise from, or amuse, this stranger. Paul could see that she was searching his face for an inkling of understanding, of comprehension. She did not find it.

"What does it mean, baby?" Bimeler asked. It was obvious from his tone that he had asked her this question many times before.

Jenny shook her head in frustration, and ran back to her booth and retrieved her school bag. Scrambling up beside Paul again, she pulled the paper over in front of herself, and began to add to the drawing.

She drew in four smaller figures under the foot prints. Then, taking out a box of crayons, she gave each of the figures a shock of blond hair. The fourth figure received a blue hat with laboriously colored gold buttons. Without looking up from the drawing, Jenny put the crayons down and reverted to a pencil. Under the four figures she printed:

`ANA WARU SAGASU A MICHI A ZICON TOE HADASUTO TUSCAZOARAWA'

The old man looked from the picture to Paul. "You make anythin'of it?"

Paul shook his head negatively, frowning in concentration at the strange lettering. Her confident printing of the strange words gave the impression that she had written them many times before. She had not hesitated during the process, as if she were printing common words that everyone should recognize.

Jenny now was in the process of drawing a bear print over the middle of each of the four figures. When she completed the claws, she penciled in droplets hanging from them. She went back into her crayon box and colored the drops in with bright red. She then looked searchingly into the eyes of first Paul, then her grandfather.

"It's the same picture she drawed before. Right after Johnny was kilt'." Bimeler shook his head in frustration. "I wish't to hell I knowed what it means!" The old man's eyes were moist again.

"Maybe she's trying to tell us something?" Paul asked, placing his hand again on Jenny's tiny head. She quickly nodded agreement, bobbing his arm up and down with the movement.

"That picture she draws always 'minds me o' one o' the old stories the old folks used to tell. . .to sort'a keep the young'uns in line." He looked at Jenny. "I'll bet that's where she got this idea."

"What's the story?" Paul asked.

"Well, if I got it right! I ain't heard this one since I was a young'un myself - prob'ly as young or younger'n Jenny here." He reached out and patted her arm.

Jenny looked at her grandfather with rapt attention.

Bimeler scratched at his chin, reminiscing. "Well, it seems that the Tuscazoaran Injuns, which was part o' the Shawnee. . .actually a sub-tribe o' the Shawnee 'cause they spoke a diff'rent lang'age, which was part o' the Iroquois Nation, lived up the river a bit from here. Fact is, that's how Zoar got its name, from them injuns." Bimeler paused, and again scratched at his chin. "The Iroquois injuns decided to fight on the side o' the British durin' the Rev'lutionary War. Well, the Tuscazoarans was part o' the Iroqois League, or Nation, but they didn't want no part o' the white man's war. They wasn't afraid, or nothin' like that. They had made friends, see, with the settlers at Zoar, and most attended services at the Moravian church over to Schoenbrunn. I guess they took the religion serious enough, 'cause they refused to fight." Bimeler paused, and refilled his coffee cup.

"Anyways, there was a good deal of friendship between the injuns and the first settlers of Zoar."

Jenny stared silently at her grandfather. She was caught up in this story, and her attention was riveted on the old man. He wished that she could get this interested in her school work.

"Anyhow, like I said, the injuns trusted the white men around here. so the big chief, Orenda was his name, didn't think twice't 'bout acceptin' a invite from the villagers to a big do in the town square." The old man sipped at his coffee, thinking.

"Let me backtrack a bit. Seems that the injuns refusin' to fight got Gen'rl Washington pretty pisse. . .er, I mean, upset." He cast a sheepish look at Jenny. "About the Tuscazoaran's refusin' to help the colonists. So, after the war was won, he sent orders for Gen'rl Sullivan, who commanded the Army garrison here, to punish the injuns." Bimeler stood and paced slowly behind the counter.

"So, like I said before, old Orenda didn't think nothin' o' comin' to eat and get drunk with his white friends in Zoar. Did it all the time. Only this time, 'twas diff'rent. This time, it was all a set up to get him away from his people. Washington wanted to bring him to New York and hang him as an example to the other injuns. Anyhow, the leaders of Zoar, your ancestors and mine, plus the Schoenbrunns, was in on it. They got the chief so liquored up he passed out. Then they carried him to a 'tater pit. . .that's a stone lined hole in the ground to store 'taters in, case you don't know. And they chucked him into it, breaking his left arm in the process, and chained him by his right leg in the center of it." Bimeler returned to his seat behind the counter, and began wiping absently at the long accumulation of grease and grime.

"Them old stone pits was seven or eight feet deep, and they chained the old chief down in the middle of it, like they would a mad dog." He paused and looked steadily into Jenny's eyes. She did not look away, or blink; her wide eyes stayed glued to his.

"Well, they was 'bout as liquored up as Orenda, so's they left the poor basti'd out in the pit overnight. 'Twas in October, late, so you know he damn near froze to death out there!" He waved his arm in the general direction of the town square.

"Is this story historically documented anywhere?" Paul broke in. "Written down?" He added, noticing Bimeler's sidelong glance of incomprehension.

"Snatches of it, maybe. This old legend has been handed down through the generations. It mightn't be so acc'rate, but there's a germ of truth in it. . .always is in them old stories."

Paul thought that he was beginning to comprehend Jenny's mental problems now. The trauma she had suffered at her father's horrifying death, mixed with the plethora of ghost stories the old man filled her head with, more than likely had her confused. Possibly confused to such an extent that she misconstrued the silly stories, believing them true; believing that one of her grandfather's mythical beings had killed her father rather than a maddened bear. Paul felt like suggesting psychiatric care for the child, or at least that her grandfather quit telling her horror tales. It was obvious that Bimeler didn't understand much about child psychology. Paul held his tongue, however, because he didn't really know these paople well enough to make such a suggestion.

Jenny remained still, and with her eyes, bade her grandfather to continue. She was engrossed in the tale.

"The story goes that at sun-up the followin' mornin', John Sullivan rode into the Tuscazoaran village with a hundred soldiers, and massacred ever' livin' soul. Braves, squaws, even the children. Supposedly, they was two braves out huntin', and they's the onliest one's got away." He paused and looked at Jenny. She didn't move. It was as if her entire being waited for his next words.

"What became of the chief?" Paul asked.

"Like I said," He looked from Jenny to Paul. "They was a savin' him to take back to Gen'rl Washington. After they was done with the killin', they went to the 'tater pit to fish Orenda out. But he was gone! Disappeared!" Bimeler's eyes cast back and forth between his rapt audience. Jenny's eyes widened as she felt her grandfather's mounting excitement. Paul snorted in derision.

"How'd he manage that?"

"All'st they found was his right leg! He'd chawed his own leg off, right at the knee. . .like a wild animal caught in a trap sometimes will."

Paul's eyes rolled upward, showing his disbelief. Bimeler noticed the expression, and chuckled.

"Know it's hard to take, Paul, but that's the story as it's been told to ever' gen`ration ever was in Zoar. There's more if you want to hear it?"

"Welll. . ." Paul began. Jenny tugged insistently at his sleeve. She wanted to hear the rest of the tale. "Why not?" Paul finished, looking with amusement at the wide-eyed little girl.

"Well, it seems that it had rained some durin' that night, and when they went to get Orenda out o' the pit, all'st they found was his right leg, still chained in the manacle. Outside the pit, they found his tracks, or I guess you'd call it `track', 'cause he must have hopped away." Bimeler chuckled, and reached for another of Paul's cigarettes.

"They trailed him off to where the print disappeared in the river. But through the years, strange sets of prints would show up, half bear and half man, and the old folks said that it was Orenda seeking his revenge on the three families and John Sullivan for the killin' of his people." He drew deeply on the cigarette, and let the smoke swirl slowly from his nose.

"And that's where I figure Jenny got the idea for her picture from. . .someone must have told her that old legend." He looked slyly at the child, his left eyebrow cocked in question.

Paul thought to himself that this was the first thing the old fool had said in the last hour that made any sense. Probably he was the one who had planted the terrifying figment in the child's imagination. Paul felt repugnance towards the old man rising in him. He clenched his teeth tightly; it was not his place to dress him down. Especially in front of the little girl who obviously worshipped him.

Jenny shook her head decisively.

"You ain't never heard it before?" Bimeler asked, astonished. "Then where'd you get the picture from?"

With her tiny index finger, she jabbed excitedly at the drawing she had made. Her tiny body was wracked with shudders, as if she were crying violently, silently.

Paul pulled her onto his lap, and wrapped his arms around the doll-like waif. Her silent sobbing slowed, turning into a goose-bumped shivering. Finally, she fell asleep in Paul's strong arms, her wispy blond hair tickling his chin as she rested her head against his chest.

Paul looked into the old man's watery blue eyes. "Bimeler, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Those kinds of stories are terrifying to a child this age!" Paul said, anger strong in his voice.

Bimeler did not seem to notice Paul's angry words. He was lost in thought. After a few moments, he looked at Paul, and said. "Wonder where'n hell she got that picture?" He scratched at his chin, where white stubble was beginning to poke through his aging, nearly translucent skin.

"I suspect she got it from one of your silly ghost stories!" Paul said, coldly.

"Never told her that story before. Never told her any o' the old tales. . .'fraid of scarin' her." He shook his head sadly, looking fondly at the sleeping child. "Precious thing's been through so much."

Paul didn't believe him. Although, he thought to himself, the child had shown a strong interest in the story, as if she hadn't heard it before. Perhaps the old man was telling the truth, but someone certainly had this little girl confused.

"Sure wish't I knowed where them letters she printed came from. . .or what they mean." Bimeler said, distractedly.

Paul carefully folded the sheet of yellow tablet paper and placed it in his shirt pocket. He reached carefully under his sweater so as not to disturb the sleeping child.

"Maybe we can find out." He said, "I know a couple of great linguists at the university." Softly and gently, he rocked Jenny in his arms.