Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: FAITH (strong, confident belief in God) (02/26/15)
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TITLE: Narragansett Dawn | Previous Challenge Entry
By Virginia Lee Bliss
03/04/15 -
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Mike steered his 1930 Ford to the roadside, just as it sputtered and died.
Eight years old. Can’t afford a new car. He got out and propped open the hood, squinting in the late afternoon October sun.
A Jeep pulled up. A black-haired young man—must have been six-foot-two—exited the vehicle.
“Need help?” The stranger smiled, his black eyes glowing against coppery skin.
“Bad sparkplug wire.”
The man took a look, then fetched tools and parts from the Jeep. Soon the Ford was purring.
“You’re a mechanic, Mr.—?”
“Yes. Name’s George Weeden.”
“I’m Mike Patterson. What do I owe you?”
“Nothing.”
“How ‘bout coffee at the Wakefield Diner?”
At the restaurant, they talked of the havoc wreaked on Rhode Island by last month’s Great Hurricane.
“I was renting with three other engineering students at Sand Hill Cove. House swept away. ” Mike sipped his coffee. “So now we’re in an apartment near here.”
“You’re in the engineering department—at the college?”
Mike nodded.
“I work there—part-time mechanic.”
At the college, Mike and George chatted several times. George suggested fishing at the Great Swamp.
“Sure—but won’t we need an Indian guide?”
“I’m a Narragansett Indian, Mike.”
“Oh—” Mike was astonished. Yet—somehow—I knew it.
On Saturday, they met at the swamp’s edge near Worden Pond.
Their fishing successful, they then gathered edible plants.
“Usually women forage, but my wife had to watch our son—he’s two. Join us for supper and you’ll meet them. My cousin will be there too.”
Mike followed the Jeep down Ministerial Road to Charlestown and to a modest frame house standing amidst marine grasses.
The young woman stepping outside took his breath away. Her blue dress was in current fashion. But her willowy form, luxuriant flowing black hair and tinkling bracelets reminded Mike of paintings of Indian princesses.
“I’m Princess Redwing. The chief’s cousin.”
“Chief?”
“George. His Narragansett name is Tall Oak. And my English name is Mary Congdon.”
She introduced him to George’s wife, Patricia and their son. “Little George hasn’t been too mischievous today.” She smiled at the handsome dark-eyed child. “And you two have been busy. Bass, sunfish, mushrooms, spiceberries…”
Over supper of fish and johnnycakes, Mary described the Great Swamp massacre. “In 1675, English soldiers murdered many of our people. Women, children, old people. Even the English were horrified.”
“Mary is our tribal historian,” explained George. “She’s our storyteller, poet, and editor of our newspaper, Narragansett Dawn.”
It was getting late. “Will I see you again, Mary? Mike touched her hand.
“At my newspaper office in Wakefield perhaps?”
“Wednesday afternoon?”
“Perfect. You can help me proofread the upcoming edition.”
Over the next several weeks, Mike spent every spare moment reading newspaper galleys—and listening to Princess Redwing expound on Narragansett history.
“The Rhode Island government wanted to detribalize us.”
“Why?”
“After the Great Swamp massacre, we sheltered runaway slaves. So in the nineteenth century, the State claimed that since we’re multiracial, we weren’t truly a tribe. Even neighboring tribes like the Nipmucs criticized us. Said we didn’t act “Indian enough.” We suffered disease, lost most of our lands and we starved. The white man hunted our deer, caught our fish, and dug up our clams.
“And—always—the pressure to assimilate.”
“And during the Great War?”
“Many braves were conscripted—and killed. Many of us succumbed to the Great Flu.
“Most of us are very poor, and the Depression only made things worse. Our only comfort was that in 1934, the State recognized our tribal status. Then the Hurricane struck. And if there’s another war…”
She was quiet for a moment. Mike looked back at the galleys for Narragansett Dawn. His eye caught the headline “The Twenty-third Psalm.”
“The Great Father above is a Shepherd Chief; with Him I want not…”
She noticed. “Would you like to attend our church?”
“Okay.”
“It’s right near George’s house.”
On Sunday, when he entered the tiny stone church, Mary showed him the altar, adorned with a cross and a statue of Madonna and Child, an Indian cast to their features.
In the Narragansett language, the minister recited the Lord’s Prayer.
Mike thought of all that Mary’s people had endured over the centuries. Now they faced threat of conscription to fight another war for a country that refused to accept them as equals. The Narragansetts had every reason to reject the “white man’s God.”
Yet, they heard the message of Jesus Christ—and believed.
AUTHOR’S NOTES
The character of Mike Patterson is fictional. However, the setting and the members of the Narragansett tribe are real. A few details have been fictionalized.
When I was a student at the University of Rhode Island (“the college” in this story), I attended a talk given by George Weeden, Jr. who was by then the tribal chief. Now in his late seventies, he is retired and lives in Charlestown.
To read more about the Narragansetts and their history, follow this link:
http://www.narragansett-tribe.org/index.html#.VPc2jWR4pJE
The opinions expressed by authors may not necessarily reflect the opinion of FaithWriters.com.
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God bless~
The only red ink I saw is in the line -" Yet somehow - I knew it" I think you changed to first person.
Thanks for sharing. Blessings, LaVonne