Tommie Lyn
Writes
In 1838, most of the Cherokee people were removed
from their ancestral lands in the Appalachian Mountains.
The paths of The Removal came to be known as
The Trail of Tears.
This fiction story is to remind us today of the suffering
endured by the Cherokee during that time, when, it is said,
over 4,000 Cherokee died on The Trail of Tears.
It is also said that when they buried their loved ones
who died along The Trail,
they sang the song, Amazing Grace.
He cradled her, tried to suffuse the warmth of his
body into hers as the rising sun made a feeble attempt to warm the frozen
morning. But a chill held her in its grasp, the same coldness that had claimed
their two small sons. The little warmth in Yonvglegi left him yet did nothing
to strengthen Awiusdi's waning life force. She slipped away on quiet, unseen
feet, and he couldn't stop her leaving.
When the last breath left her body, a numb,
unbelieving denial gripped him. He smoothed the raven's wing of her hair with a
rough hand, gently caressed her sunken cheek. She was gone, and he was alone.
"Move," the soldiers shouted as they strode among the
groups of Ani-Tsalagi. "Time to get going."
Yonvglegi's sister touched his shoulder. "You must lay
her in the wagon. We will bury her when they let us stop tonight."
"No."
"Please. They will--" Her words broke off when a
soldier shoved her. She rose and padded away.
The soldier tapped Yonvglegi's back with the butt of
his gun. "Get up. Put the body in the wagon and go."
Yonvglegi struggled to his feet with Awiusdi's body in
his arms. He couldn't let her go. He stumbled to join the people who were
arising, continuing their forced journey, their backs to their mountain homes
which lay in the distance behind them, their faces toward an unknown future.
And they walked.
By midday, his arms were leaden masses, shot through
with pain. But he couldn't lay her in the wagon. He struggled on, no tears
marking his impassive face, the agony of his soul hidden behind his half-closed
eyes. The tears slid instead down the cheeks of the white people who gathered
along the way to watch as Ani-Tsalagi passed.
When evening came and the day's trek ended, his
mother's clan gathered round him. The men dug Awiusdi's grave. At last,
Yonvglegi laid her in the ground as the people sang the song taught them by
missionaries, the song they'd sung at each hastily dug grave where they'd laid
their loved ones in their final rest.
* * *
Private Jones dug a candle from his bag and lit it. He
found his pencil stub, opened his diary and wrote:
"They buried three more today, so quiet, except for
the singing. At each burial, they sing 'Amazing Grace' in their own language.
They don't cry, but I do. My heart rages for them."
* * *
Yonvglegi, exhausted and sore, did not sleep. He lay on the icy ground beside Awiusdi's grave, his heart aching, wishing he could follow his love to the spirit world, but he remained tied to this one by some stubborn thread of survival.
And when the cold gray light of another morning crept over him, he arose with the others, left his heart behind him and walked on.
The End
Listen to Amazing Grace, sung in Cherokee by Walela.
I wrote this story in memory of my great-great-great-grandparents, who went to Oklahoma on The Trail of Tears.
