Red Dove, Listen to the Wind

by Sonia Antaki

  “Oh wouldn’t they?” Walks Alone sneered. “Then go find out for yourself.”

  “Maybe I will,” said Red Dove, shocked at the words coming out of her mouth.

  “You wouldn’t,” her brother glared.

  She glared back. “I would.”

  He rose, gave a dismissive wave, and stalked away.

  He’s wrong, Red Dove thought. It can’t be like that. He was sick when he was there, so what does he know? I’m healthy… it’ll be different for me.

  But do I really want to?

  And suddenly she did. Now the thought of going to the white man’s school seemed like an adventure, a chance to prove herself to her family, to show that she could help—and make up for what she did .

  She looked overhead at the patch of autumn blue sky framed by cottonwoods. And I’m half white. So maybe that woman was right. Maybe it is where I belong.

  ›› You Must ‹‹

  “Wake up, daughter.” Falling Bird tugged on Red Dove’s shoulder. “I’ve been up all night thinking,” she murmured. “You and Walks Alone must go to the school. Today.”

  Squatting close to her, her mother whispered, “It’s for the best… the best.” Her arms were wrapped across her chest and her head was bowed.

  Red Dove was fully awake now. “You said you didn’t want me to. Does Grandfather think I should?”

  “We’ll talk as you get ready,” Falling Bird pulled a deer bone comb through Red Dove’s long black hair, plaiting it into two neat braids that fell behind her ears.

  Alarm coursed through Red Dove. “Wait… ,” she managed in a croaky whisper.

  “You said that apple was delicious. And everyone knows how much you love to eat.” Her mother tried to laugh. “The only way you’ll get enough is if you go to the school.”

  “I don’t want to,” Red Dove blurted, and at that moment, she didn’t. The plans she’d made the previous day seemed all wrong.

  Falling Bird took her daughter’s face in her hands. “There’s no food for us here. You know that,” she said as her voice started to break.

  “But what about Walks Alone? Will he go too?”

  “Han.”

  “He won’t. He hated it when he went to school before.”

  “He will have to—”

  “And if he goes, who will do the hunting for you?”

  “There isn’t much game now and there won’t be any once the snow sets in—”

  “We always get by.”

  “We don’t. And it will be even harder this winter. There aren’t enough chokecherries and timpsila turnips to get us through.”

  “We can trade—”

  “White people no longer want our beadwork.” Her mother stared at the ground. “If you go, they will give us food.”

  “White people lie, you told me. Walks Alone says it too. Maybe they’re lying this time.”

  “Maybe they are, but we have no choice.” Falling Bird turned her face away. “I don’t want to see you starve, Little One.”

  Little One—that’s what she used to call me, thought Red Dove with a pang of sorrow so intense she wanted to cry out.

  The choice wasn’t hers to make. She had to go.

  “You don’t want me to leave, do you, Mother?”

  “Leave?” Falling Bird choked. “I want you to stay, but you can’t. Grandfather had a dream last night about what could happen.”

  “I had a dream, too,” Red Dove said, but her mother didn’t hear her.

  “He saw soldiers on a hill,” Falling Bird went on, “with guns so big they had to be carried on wagons. They were firing on a village—”

  “Our village?”

  “He didn’t know. He thinks it was a warning. The whites take more and more and we can’t stop them. They have weapons we don’t—”

  “Guns?”

  “Yes, guns. And more. They have words and writing that have power as well.” Falling Bird fixed her eyes on Red Dove. “He thinks only you can help us. He thinks you are special.”

  Special? Red Dove looked away, not sure if what her mother said pleased or saddened her.

  “You are young—young enough to learn their language and their writing. You can use their words against them and protect us from their tricks. Because you’re clever.” Falling Bird pulled something from out of her parfleche. “He wanted me to give you this.”

  Red Dove reached for the object. “A doll? He knows I’m too old—”

  “He says it’s for you to give to someone else,” her mother said, “when the time is right. It will help you remember us and our ways, even as you learn the ways of the whites.”

  Red Dove stared at the blank, empty face of the doll, the beaded, red calico dress. She struggled against her tears as she saw the hopeful look on her mother’s face. She forced a smile. “Thank you,” she said, patting the soft calico. “It’s beautiful. But don’t tell me I have to go.”

  “You must, daughter. Today.” Falling Bird rose slowly. “So we will get ready now. We will show the Wasichu how to behave. Come.”

  “But my coming of age—will I even have that?”

  “I don’t know, daughter. Now go say goodbye to your aunts and your cousins—”

  Suddenly it was all too much. “No. And Walks Alone will never go!”

  “He has no choice,” said Falling Bird, her voice catching.

  “And my cousins—”

  “Will go when they are older.”

  Red Dove felt her heart tear in two. She wanted to scream; she wanted to run far, far away. She wanted to take that ugly old white woman, grab her by the shoulders and throttle her until—.

  The night before, she had wanted to go—but now everything she had ever wished for was right here.

  Her mother handed her a leather-wrapped bundle. “Wasna for the journey. I made it from the last of the venison and chokecherries.”

  “But they have food where I’m going, remember?”

  “Take it anyway.”

  Red Dove reached for the little dried patty and with shaking fingers laid it in her parfleche bag. She tried, for one last time, to find a way to change her mother’s mind. “Please don’t make me leave,” she begged.

  “I’m sorry, daughter, but you must.”

  ›› Special ‹‹

  “Come in, Granddaughter,” called Gray Eagle as Red Dove walked slowly towards his lodge.

  “You told Mother I had to go.” She tried to keep her voice from breaking.

  “This will be hard for you, and even harder for Falling Bird.” Gray Eagle’s face was creased with wrinkles and his tired old eyes were filled with worry. “The hurt is here; I know.” He tapped his chest with gnarled old fingers.

  “She said you had a dream. Well, I had one too,” Red Dove blurted.

  Gray Eagle nodded, as if he already knew. “Tell me.”

  “It’s hard to explain.”

  “Try.” He closed his eyes to listen.

  “I was standing in the middle of a Wasichu town filled with people. They were skeletons, dressed like whites, moving around. Horrible. And as I watched, flesh grew on their bones and eyes filled the sockets in their heads—”

  “They came back to life?”

  “Han… as white people. I looked down and there, on the ground, was the plum pit—from the fruit I wasn’t supposed to eat.” She ducked her head to hide her embarrassment.

  “Hau.” The old man didn’t open his eyes.

  “And then I heard a voice. It told me to pick it up, but when I did, I woke.”

  Gray Eagle opened his eyes and gazed at the smoke hole above his head. He glanced down again. “The skeletons came back to life—but as white people? You’re sure?”

  Red Dove nodded. “Do you know what any of it means, Grandfather?”

  “Maybe they are more powerful than I thought.” He turned his gaze on her. “Have you ever heard of a man named Wovoka?”

  Red Dove shook her head.

  “He is a man from the west, a Paiute, and he
had a dream like yours, but in his dream it was our people who came back from the dead.” Gray Eagle stopped suddenly. “You are hungry to know things, Granddaughter.” The lines in his face deepened with concern. “But you must wait for answers to come.” He paused, took a deep breath and stirred the ashes of the cold fire. “So tell me now—what is it that you really want?”

  “What I want?” For a moment, Red Dove didn’t know. And then she did. “I want people to hear me when I speak, Grandfather. I want them to listen… to what I say.”

  “And do they not?”

  “No. They ignore me, as if I’m not important. As if I’m not even here.”

  Grandfather turned the ashes slowly with a stick and drew a circle in the dust. “You want the power to be heard. But why should they listen? Do you know so much more than they? What is it you would tell them, if you could?”

  “Well,” said Red Dove, suddenly unsure. “I… don’t know.”

  “And what would you do with that power?” he asked.

  “If I had that power, then I’m sure I would know what to do with it, Grandfather, because I would be wise—”

  “Would you?” he asked, smiling broadly. “Power is given to many who are not—”

  “But I would be, Grandfather,” said Red Dove. “Wise. Like you.” She held her breath, afraid she had said too much. And let it out when she saw the twinkle in his eyes.

  “I see. Then you must learn to understand others first. You must hear what they hear, see what they see—and feel what they feel. You must know what is in their hearts. Here.” He tapped his chest again. “You ask questions, Granddaughter, but do not hear the answers when they come. That is your flaw—”

  “My flaw?”

  “Hau. You know that the Great Spirit, Wakan Tanka, gave everyone a flaw, and that is the one he gave you—”

  “Is that so terrible?”

  “No.” He smiled again. “Everyone has a flaw. It’s what makes them special.” He extended his hand. “Show me the doll your mother made.”

  Red Dove reached in her parfleche and gave it to him.

  He held it up. “Wakan Tanka made each of us perfect, see? Like this little creature.”

  “She isn’t perfect. She has no eyes, no nose, no mouth.”

  “That is so she won’t think she’s prettier, or better, than others. Now watch.” He took his thumb, dipped it into the cold ash and pressed a smudge against the doll’s blank face.

  “Don’t!” Red Dove cried.

  “What do you think of her now?” he asked, handing it back.

  “I think she’s ugly. You’ve ruined her!”

  “I haven’t. Now she has a mark, a flaw, a place for spirit to enter, so she can understand the flaws—and the pain—of others.”

  Red Dove was on the verge of tears. “I don’t understand,” she moaned.

  “You will, Granddaughter, when Wakan Tanka thinks the time is right—”

  “But why can’t I now?” A sudden thought occurred. “That’s why I’m so different, isn’t it, Grandfather? Because I’m not patient and I ask too many questions. That’s why you’re sending me away.”

  “That isn’t it at all.” The old man turned his head and she could no longer see the pain in his eyes. “You do belong here,” he whispered. He stared up at the smoke that curled through the hole in the top of the lodge. “More than anyone, you belong here.” He turned back again. “But you belong wherever you are. You are restless, a truth-seeker, a traveler between worlds. That is what makes you different, Granddaughter, and special—as are we all. You are like the bird I named you after—”

  “A red dove?”

  “The one I saw when I sat by myself at dawn, thinking about you and your brother and what your lives would be—”

  “You called him Walks Alone.”

  “Because I knew he would choose to be by himself—”

  “And then you saw the dove on a branch above your head. She was special, you said. Is it because of her color?” asked Red Dove, eager to hear more.

  “The rose light of morning was on her wings—”

  “So… she wasn’t really red?”

  “In the glow of dawn, she was—”

  “Then she wasn’t special at all. She was ordinary,” said Red Dove, trying not to frown.

  Gray Eagle ignored her disappointment. “She was ordinary and special. As ordinary as any creature—and as special. She sang to me but I knew her message was for you. She told me that you would live a life of great sadness and joy, that those feelings would give you your power, that you would share them with others, and that one day you would become—”

  “Iyeska, you said. And travel between worlds.”

  ›› The Pouch ‹‹

  The old man pulled out a small round object of dull gray leather. “Here,” he said.

  “An opahte?” Red Dove wrinkled her nose at the strange, musty smell.

  “To make up for the one you lost—I know about that as well.”

  You know everything, Red Dove thought, so you probably know this is nothing like the amulet my mother gave me. That one was carefully worked, shaped like a turtle, and beaded in blue and yellow. This one is plain.

  “Pilamaya,” she said, bowing her head to hide her disappointment.

  “Don’t look so sad,” Gray Eagle said. “Your old opahte contained the medicine that connected you to your mother and the earth. This one connects you to your power, so carry it always—but hidden, especially when you are with the Wasichu. And never, ever open it—”

  “Why? What’s inside?”

  The old man shook his head. “That is not for you to know. It will connect you to your thoughts and feelings and to the thoughts and feelings of others. So never, ever use it in anger—or let it be used that way. Do you understand?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Red Dove.

  “Hear me now, because there isn’t much time. The power of the pouch will grow. It will open your ears and free your tongue, so you will speak the language of others—”

  “I already do. I learned English listening to Walks Alone talking to Mother when he first came back from the school.”

  “You learned a few words. Now you must learn more. This will help you to do that, to listen and learn and communicate—”

  “I’ll understand white people?”

  “And they will understand you. If you open your eyes and ears and watch their faces carefully, the thoughts behind their words will come clear—”

  “I’ll know what they’re thinking?”

  The old man nodded. “If you study them, you will know what they truly mean. And if you open your heart, you will feel what they feel.”

  Red Dove fingered the little bundle. “But it doesn’t look like much, does it?”

  “It is what you make it. Because its power comes from you. It will open you to dreams and visions, and give you answers you seek—and some you do not.”

  “Like the dream I told you about?”

  “Like that, and like this.” The old man pointed to the cold ashes. “See how it is?”

  Red Dove wrinkled her brow and watched as the old man stirred the gray dust until the fire, dead until that moment, sprang to life.

  “How did you do—”

  “Look inside and see a story of your people.”

  Red Dove stared deep into the flames, and saw, dimly at first, a vision that began to form:

  Gold seekers, white men shabby in denim and homespun, swarming into the sacred Black Hills, hungry for the yellow metal; others hunched over documents, quill pens in their hands, greedy for the precious land. Their angry voices warn her people’s leaders that their families will starve unless they sign.

  “We will not.”

  “Then we will find others who will, who can’t read, who don’t know what they’re signing.”

  Grass-covered slopes and a pounding of hooves on earth. A yellow-haired soldier riding high into the hills… .

  “The one is called Custer, comi
ng for the gold—”

  “Can’t someone stop him, Grandfather?”

  “Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse gathered warriors to do that, thousands of them, in the battle the Wasichu call Little Big Horn, the one we call the Greasy Grass—”

  “We won, didn’t we?”

  “We did.”

  The yellow-haired general shakes his head, refusing to believe that thousands of Indians could mass against him and the blue-coated soldiers of the Seventh Cavalry. Gaily painted flags, a bugle call as the Yellow Hair waves his arm—

  And then his terror, swift and sudden, as wave after wave of warriors, crying “Hoka Hey,” storm the hill.

  Peering through smoke and haze at the gaudy flags, lying crumpled in the dust, the bodies and the blood.

  The vision shifts to blue-coated military men, swords at their sides and gold buttons flashing, mounting the steps of a white-columned building. They cross the hard marble floors and gather in a high-ceilinged room, as a man mounts a platform.

  “It was a massacre,” he cries.“Custer was outnumbered, so it wasn’t fair—”

  “But it was, wasn’t it, Grandfather?”

  “As fair as any battle. We had superior numbers so we won. That was what Sitting Bull tried to tell them, but the whites wouldn’t listen. ‘We did not go out of our own country to kill them,’ he said. ‘They came to kill us and got killed themselves. God so ordered it—’”

  “So why didn’t the Wasichu believe that?”

  “They didn’t want to. They made the Yellow Hair a martyr instead. ‘We will avenge his death. We will avenge Custer’s massacre at Little Big Horn.’ And the plotting began.”

  “Plotting for what?”

  There was a clatter from outside the tepee.

  “Time is growing short, so take this and tie it around your neck. Quickly,” Grandfather handed her the pouch.

  Red Dove did, and as her fingers connected with the soft leather, her ears filled with a far-off buzzing, like a swarm of a thousand bees.

  She dropped her fingers and the buzzing stopped. “Is that what the pouch can do?”

  “The hiss of the rattle and the swarm of the hive,” Grandfather whispered in her ear. “With it will come the words and thoughts of others, along with visions and dreams, as you have seen.” He reached for a stick of sage, touched it to the glowing embers of the fire, and wafted a curl of smoke over Red Dove.