• who is swedenborg?
• our history
• write to us

Johnny's Trail

Download Johnny's Trail PDF (7MB)

EXCERPT

AUTHOR'S NOTE

This story is almost true. Johnny really lived in Ohio in 1812, and his legend says he did most of the things mentioned in this book. The other people in the story are fictional characters, but they are very like the folk Johnny really knew. Because their talk is somewhat different from ours, there is a glossary of words and phrases at the back of this book. Brief biographies of Johnny (John Chapman) and his inspiration, Emanuel Swedenborg, can also be found at the back of this book.

Chapter 1.

MY NAME IS PERSIS. I am fourteen. I crouch among huge sycamore roots, hugging my knees. My skirt is torn and dirty: My ankle is tied tightly with a rawhide thong. The other end of the thong attaches to a sapling. I can't untie the knot on my ankle. I could untie the sapling end, but the Painted Men would notice. I doubt what would happen then.

The Painted Men wear breech clouts and moccasins, feathers, and black and red paint. New scalps dangle from their belts. They bristle with weapons, bows and guns and knives. They jabber softly to each other in wild, strange words. Yellow sunlight falls on them through high, shifting leaves. Yellow leaves drop in my lap. I shiver. The air is cool, and I feel sick.

One Painted Man owns me. He keeps a sharp eye on me and on the rawhide thong. Just now he gave me a handful of parched corn, but I couldn't eat it. I've got it in my fist.

Owner looks over at me now, and past me. His black eyes widen a trace. He points with his chin. The other Painted Men look where he points. Eagle Feather, in charge, heists his rifle. I look round. Yonder is a thicket of little shaky alders. A twig snaps. A man comes sidling out ofthe alders, hands high, smiling. Lo, a white man.

He is small and thin, with straight dark hair and a sparse black beard. He wears-fact!-a coffee sack with arm and neck holes, and a tin mush pot on his head. Also a leather bag and a belt with dangling pouches. He carries no gun, only a hunting knife and a walking stick. His feet are bare.

The Painted Men murmur. Owner touches his head, the others nod. I agree. White man is crazy. He keeps coming, slowly, hands up. Eagle Feather lowers his gun. Crazy White Man walks right up to him, says "Hey!" They hunker down, nose to nose. The Painted Men close in around them. I can't see much from here.

Now I might try to untie the knot from the sapling and slink off in the woods. But where to? I don't know where I am.

About the Author

Related Links

Related Books