Forsaken
Screaming in anguish at the harsh blizzard sky, ahh gatono tsawonesuga aniyvwiya, gatono tsawonesuga aniyvwiya, why have you forgotten your people?
He always believed in the ways handed down from his father and the fathers before him. Life was a journey and as natural as the change in seasons. Existence upon this land came in cycles. He knew nothing of the of the rotation of the planet. But knew when nvda would rise early and move high across the sky, radiating its heat and nourishment, marking the time to plant. Followed by a cooler time when it was lower in the sky. Signaling the time to harvest and hunt, collecting and storing the goods to sustain them in the cold and frozen times. Followed by the miracle time when the land would awaken from its slumber, fresh and renewed when the green would return and the waters and animals would run freely again.
As reliable as the stages of nature, so were the cycles that guided the times of man’s life upon the land. He knew they were not alone. It was instilled that everything around him had a spirit. The grass, the flowers, the water, the hills and mountains and sky. And it was the responsibility of the people to live in harmony with all of the spirits and if done so with honor and respect, their existence would be rewarded.
It was near white-out conditions. The hard winter of 1839 forced them all to wait out the storm on the icy ground. Looking up, he could no longer tell where the ground ended and the sky began. As done many times before on this journey, he built an impromptu shelter out of any random materials collected to protect his family from the cruel elements. Through the blinding snow and whistling winds, the uneven terrain a few feet in front of them was barely visible. Harsh flurries felt like hundreds of tiny needles penetrating their faces and unclothed parts of their bodies. The blood dripping from his open wounds and cracked dry skin only a few weeks earlier were now laying on him like frozen clumps. He beckoned them inside for cover, screaming his demands in order to be heard over the raging storm.
A shallow river laid frozen before them preventing any further progress on the eight-hundred-mile journey, all on foot. Looking down, the rippling water could still be seen unrestricted, moving freely entombed under the frozen layer. At least you still walk, my friend.
It had been a long time since they were gathered and forcibly evicted from their ancestral homelands. All tolled there were sixty-thousand of them from various tribes living in the Southeastern region of the United States. Herded to an unfamiliar land none of them had ever heard of, let alone seen before. His people were the proud Cherokee. Inhabiting for generations on their beloved land of their ancestors that was called Georgia by the whites. Soldiers forcibly took them from their shacks and lodges, driven like animals. Some at bayonet point with just the garments on their backs. During these callous roundups, they weren’t given time to pack any precious belongings and family members, including children, that sometimes got left behind.