The settlers' third winter on the edge of our land was harsh, the river starting to freeze, the ground too frozen for root digging. I reported to my father that the white settlers fared less well and time for a new treaty.
They'd arrived midsummer, wearied by the ocean from the "Old World". They sought friendship but difficulties arose since they now hunt our game.
They first set camp by the river, which runs to the sea, a bad place. My father told them it floods, is marshy, freezes all winter, then summer brings biting insects that spread fever. But they come from the sea and cling close to their moored ships. Our elders discussed this and we understood.
They're farmers and hunters like us, but come too late to harvest for winter. Their ship brought animals, flour and horrible salted meat but their small tribe fared badly that first winter and the two that followed, only 200 out of 1000 lived.
The ship sails to the Old World every spring, bringing more families but old and new find life hard and sit unhappily within their land. Instead of killing game quietly, they use noisy thunder sticks that frighten off game who never return to their old feeding grounds. They grow one main crop in each field instead of matching plants that live in harmony, so they attract blight and predators who spoil the harvest. Their old world seeds grow poorly, but they mistrust local plants.
I'm my father's youngest daughter, a widow without child. I was the first asked to live with the settlers, learn their language and ways and advise them. But the settlers treated me like a captive child who should not be heard.
The first winter my people gave them food, helped hunt, snare, sun-dry meat, what foods grow where and when but they think they know everything.
Their chiefs met ours again during the third winter, agreed a new treaty. They have iron axes in abundance which we lack, so an understanding reached. We don't value their swamp, so we leave them be.
