When I heard some new word, whether it was French, Seneca, Dutch, English, or Delaware or Shawnee, I would stop the speaker: “Stop. What? What did you say? Excuse me?”

“Excuse me? What is ‘citrouille’?”

AND THE word would go to her children. “I have a new word, in French, for you. Pronounce after me: ‘citrouille.’ ”

“Citrouille.”

“Again?”

“Citrouille.”

“Again.”

“CITROUILLE.”

“ ‘Citrouille’ is the same as our orange squash, and I think it means ‘pumpkin’ in English. Say it.”

“Pumpkin!”

“Again?”

“Pumpkin, pumpkin, pumpkin.” The children giggled.

Then John said, “ ‘Pumpkin’ makes me feel very hungry.”

“I’m hungry, too,” Jesse said. Her boys were always hungry. “I want some cooked orange squash and corn and beans. The Three Sisters.”

“I want the berries that are sky-colored,” Betsey said.

“I want the men’s RUM,” John said, and they all laughed.

In this way, she would interrupt someone and demand to know what a leatherapron was: “Stop. Excuse me? A what? Why are you calling a person a leatherapron?”

She learned “matchlock,” the nature of the “Dutch Continental Sunday,” and “waterwheel.” She lay down at night with “indentured,” “cusp,” and “spume.”

The Seneca had stories about a creature called the Skeleton, who, as long as his bones lay aboveground on a pallet-bunk in his isolated hut, had feasted at night on the bodies of wayfarers who stopped for shelter. Once the Skeleton was buried he lost his envious, ravenous tendencies.

She would not lie down aboveground, watch for wayfarers, envy them, and suck their blood. She would not lie about on the rotting pallet-bunk, unconscious and restless, indecisive and preying.

She would go deep into the earth from the beginning and do what she could and learn what she could and hand that back to others. Feed them, speak to them, instead of biting their necks.

I realized that I was thinking of staying on the Genesee. If I did so, I would have to accept what one Frenchman had called me at the time of my capture: l’autre. That one, that one over there, l’autre.

In like fashion, I would take seriously what I had heard a missionary say of me one day: “There’s a strange one.”

I would be somewhat strange.

PEACE lay on the Genesee, and after a year’s time a festal day occurred in which the Seneca people celebrated the achievements of the past. Hiokatoo was the summoner and spoke from a platform.

“This day is a memorial to strength. We will dance, we will dine well, but we will also engage in mock battle and in contests. We will show that our bodies have stayed strong and lithe. We can better discern who among us may be our future chiefs.” He raised his voice. “Keep perfecting your Seneca language. Preserve and hand on to your children the theory and practice of warfare. And in your sacrifices give homage to the Great-Good-and-Beautiful Spirit.”

Then Hiokatoo extended his arms over his head and leapt forward. The crowd was silent. “Let the games and rites begin.”