I looked to the yonder sky, as Dragging Canoe had taught me when I was a child, and I saw visions of the Trail. This was revealed to me, my son: I saw that disease, not exertion, was the enemy to many. Dysentery and vomiting, head colds. There were very few white doctors on the march. The medicine men attended to children and babies who had intestinal cramps. I saw unclean campsites, bowls wiped with rags, sickness spreading rapidly. I saw people sick with tuberculosis and pneumonia. They grew weaker with each hour they walked until they had to ride in the wagons. The hot sun tortured them, especially those not in the wagons. I saw the soldiers make men dig a trench for the garbage so that rats and coyotes and other animals wouldn’t congregate near them overnight. Traveling on, they continued the brutal walk, moccasins were worn out and some people went barefoot. I saw mothers struggling to feed their babies when their breasts went dry.

After seeing these visions, in sadness and anger, I flew west along the trail with my people.

AND NOW, BELOVED SON, you emerge like a harsh wind in circular gusts, no longer a messenger but a spirit. You emerge with arms spread, rising into the sky, swooping like an eagle. Listen! This is the end:

As I made my way toward the stockades where our people were being held, I saw the soldiers loading the wagons. They were the ones who had killed us. The ones who had executed you, taken you from me. I was overcome with anger. I moved quietly as I approached them, but I knew they could hear me, knew my sound was threatening, or at least fearful, because one of the guards responded to me.

Listen to that, he said to another.

I don’t see anything.

But did you hear it?

The second guard never responded. He walked away from the wagon and left the first guard alone. I moved in closer. The guard took a drink from a jug and wiped his face with a rag. For a moment he glanced around to see whether anyone was watching him. Though I wanted to attack him, I knew it was not the right time; still, I moved in his direction out of the darkness until he turned and saw me.

I told him: “Adahnawa asgwali! There is a war going on!”

He seemed confused, then took a step to the side and gripped his rag.

“Your plan is to hurt us,” I said, moving forward.

The soldier shook his head, unsure of what was happening. I felt compelled to attack and tear into his body with my hands and kill him instantly. I felt a burst of rage at the sight of him looking back at me.

Beloved: I did nothing.

The soldier looked at me through narrow eyes, and I whispered, “Look around you, soldier!”

He stepped back and spoke the name of his god. When I moved in closer, he turned and ran.

The night filled with the smell of meat cooking, and I thought of the many times I had snared and skinned rabbits for stew, though I did not hunger, even with the strong smell. I remembered chopping wood near this place in the middle of winter. Thinking of my family only angered me more. I stomped the ground. I moved from one wagon to the next, looking for the man who had run from me. There were men’s voices, and next I heard a crowd of people, my people, walking up ahead. I saw wagons and soldiers with their guns. I saw women and men, the old and young, all walking. They kept their heads high, this was evident. The night was so dark I don’t know how they could see anything in front of them, but the moon glowed in the sky. I looked up to it, knowing my people were looking to it as well. The moon shone like a white flower. The moon, an offering of hope from the Great Spirit, because what else was there to see in such massive darkness?

The nights were freezing. They came to a stream that needed to be passed. The soldiers made one of the men enter to see how deep it was, and as he crossed, he yelled out from the cold as the water reached his chest. He rushed to the other side and fell, hugging himself. Men and women began entering the freezing water, carrying their children over their heads.

The breeze was cool as the night went on, and I followed in anger and sadness. Wagons were pulled by oxen or mules or horses. I walked with the people. I walked beside them until the children began to cry from fatigue. I walked beside them until an elder man fell. Then another fell, followed by many others. Many people were falling behind, trying to help others, but the soldiers yelled at them to keep walking. People were crawling, crying out. You do not want to hear the voices of the ones who were crying out. Their voices linger.

Soon the sun rose, and they were still walking. Aniyosgi ana’i. And I walked along with them, following the children, helping them as I could. It was as if each hour grew cooler than the last, and soon I was no longer aware of how long they had been walking. I looked to the hills and saw, in the morning daylight, that there were over six hundred wagons.

I heard the laughter of soldiers. Laughter! They were careless toward our people. How badly they treated them. I watched it day after day. I heard their laughter over the cries of pain and wondered how their souls could be so corrupt and without empathy. Where was their sense of humanity?

I thought of the triumphs and struggles our people had experienced in my lifetime, and in my ancestors’ lifetimes, all the pain we had endured throughout cold winters. My mind filled with angry thoughts once more, but I could not be consumed by this torment any longer. My rage would not affect them. I knew my people would continue to treat one another with dignity and kindness. These soldiers’ evil actions would haunt them for the rest of their lives.

Beloved child: My people would survive and prosper, and I would be there alongside them, through the temperamental winter, to help them walk when they felt they couldn’t.