by Sonia Antaki
“Dang woman. Won’t listen to anyone or anythin’,” Old Tom mumbled as he flicked the reins against his knee and sighed. He shook his head, pulled his hat down low over his eyes, and slumped back on the wagon bench. “Dang woman,” he repeated, before he fell into a deep doze and began to snore.
Walks Alone put a finger to his lips.
“What are you doing?” Red Dove whispered.
Her brother pointed to the fringe of cottonwoods. “The Ghost Dance,” he said. “Wait here.”
Walks Alone slipped off the wagon and raced across the open field towards the trees.
Red Dove stared at his departing back. “Don’t leave me,” she whispered, and waited, watching the wind riffle the sea of grass between her and the line of trees.
I’m not waiting any more, she thought and climbed quietly down to follow her brother. The steady roar grew louder as she approached, until at last she saw the source of the sound: a vast encampment of hide-covered tepees arranged in an enormous circle. In the center were throngs of men, women and children, more than she had ever seen in her life, chanting and swirling in a dizzying dance.
She didn’t see Walks Alone, huddled behind a downed cottonwood, until she almost toppled over him. “Watch out!” he called.
She crouched low. “Who are they? What are they doing?” She struggled to be heard above the din.
“What does it look like? Dancing. It’s what Wovoka, the Paiute, said they should do—”
“Grandfather told me.”
Walks Alone sighed. “If he told you, why are you asking?”
“I want to know more. Tell me about the prophecy.”
Her brother rolled his eyes. “I will if you stop interrupting.” Speaking more loudly now, confident that they could not be heard by the dancers, he went on. “Wovoka dreamed that the whites would drown in a giant flood and that the buffalo would return, that flesh would cover the bones of the dead—”
“The Wasichu dead?” Red Dove asked, remembering her dream of blue-white skin covering bleached white bone.
“Our dead, sister.” Walks Alone smiled. “Wovoka dreamed that our people would regain the earth. But only if we danced and danced and never stopped.”
Red Dove caught sight of a warrior in a tunic painted the color of the sky and covered with stars and turtles and fantastic shapes. “What’s he wearing?”
“A medicine shirt to protect him from white man’s bullets,” Walks Alone said. “To keep him safe.”
“Safe from bullets? Then why don’t our people do that? Why don’t they dance and dance and wear the painted shirts?”
“Grandfather thinks it will scare the whites and just make things worse for us—”
“Do you believe that?”
“I don’t know,” her brother said. “Sometimes I think Grandfather’s wrong, that he’s just an old man—”
Just an old man? Grandfather? Red Dove stared at her brother, shocked that he could say such a thing.
Walks Alone caught her glance and tilted his head. “Things are changing, little sister. Grandfather doesn’t always know what our people need now.”
He does. He’s Grandfather! But Red Dove didn’t voice her thoughts. “What is it our people need, brother?” she asked instead.
“Guns,” said Walks Alone, turning away.
Red Dove watched a woman, far across the circle, about her mother’s age, tap the ground lightly with her feet and sway. But something was wrong. Her steps were slowing, as she lost time with the music and fell.
“Help her,” Red Dove said, but Walks Alone didn’t respond. His eyes were fixed on a group of male dancers pounding the earth in front of them and the drumming was so loud he didn’t hear. “Well if you won’t, I will,” she said, and hoisted herself over the log barrier between them and the dancers.
Walks Alone grabbed her hem and pulled her back. “Don’t!”
“But she’s fallen—”
“She’s doing what she’s supposed to do, dancing until she falls into a trance.” He gazed at Red Dove with his steady dark eyes. “Don’t you understand? It’s part of the prophecy.”
“It is?” Red Dove stared at the fallen woman, the people swirling around her, treading gently, careful not to disturb her trance, and dancing until they too fell to the ground.
“I should be with them,” she heard her brother say.
“No, you shouldn’t. Grandfather wouldn’t like it.”
“It doesn’t matter what he thinks—”
It doesn’t?
Red Dove looked up at her brother’s handsome profile, his sharp, even features, the lock of thick black hair that fell across his forehead. And then she asked the question that was burning inside, now that everything seemed to be changing. “You do still care about me, don’t you, brother? We’ll stay together, won’t we?”
“Of course—”
“There you are!” Jerusha screeched, grabbing Red Dove and pulling her up. “I’ve been looking all over. Come. Quickly!” She tugged on Red Dove’s sleeve and pulled her up and away.
Red Dove looked back at her brother, saw his anguished face as he gazed first at her and then back at the dancers. She watched him turn, shrug, and numbly follow across the field and up to the wagon.
Yes, little sister, he seemed to say, I do care about you. And this is how I show it.
Chanwape Kasna Wi
The Moon-of-Falling-Leaves
Mission Boarding School The Reservation—Early Fall, 1890
›› I’m Sister Agatha ‹‹
The sun sank low behind the hills, the air carried a chill, and the sky shimmered from gold to pink to purple-gray, as they covered the miles between them and the school. Red Dove shifted on the hard wagon bench, avoiding the rough splinters that threatened her robe while she watched her world disappear.
She looked at her brother dozing beside her, his head slumped on his chest.
He wanted to run away. Why? What’s he so afraid of? What does he know that I don’t? “Walks Alone?” she whispered, but he didn’t answer.
I have other ways to find out, she thought, touching her fingers lightly to the pouch, just as the wagon jerked to a stop.
“We’re here,” Jerusha announced. “The school.”
Red Dove felt her stomach lurch and craned her neck to see where they were. Against the dimming light, there before them loomed a building. High walls rose up from the earth, pierced by rows of tiny windows, right angles of black against blood-red brick. Beneath a thin white spire topped with a cross that perched above the roof, a massive oak door sat closed but waiting.
“You sure you want to do this, Sis? Somethin’ don’t smell right to me,” Old Tom mumbled.
“Doesn’t, Thomas. The word is doesn’t. How many times do I have to tell you?”
The door creaked open before Jerusha could finish her sentence and a tall, gaunt woman in a long, dark gown appeared. Her hair was covered by a thick black veil. Her pale, narrow face was framed by a band of white that wrapped her forehead, shrouded her chin and covered her chest. A string of thick brown beads dangled from her waist. She raised a wrinkled hand in greeting, then buried it again beneath the folds of blue fabric that hung like a banner to the ground. And waited, motionless.
“Is this the school?” Jerusha asked with a note of hesitation in her voice.
“Yes,” said the woman, through thin, chapped lips.
“We’ve brought them—the children.”
“Children?” said the woman with a frown.
Red Dove sensed Jerusha’s anxiety. “The ones I wrote about in my letter. Didn’t you get it?” Jerusha asked in a voice pitched slightly too high. “I explained that I was bringing them and that I was available to come and teach. The missionaries made all the arrangements.”
“I never got it.” The woman’s cold, pale eyes fell on them. A shiver ran through Red Dove.
“Maybe it got lost en route,” said Jerusha tentatively.
“No matter,” said the woman.
“We’ll find room.”
“But… the arrangements, my offer to teach. We need to discuss—”
“We’ll find room for them, I said.” The strange woman strode up to the wagon, robes swishing as she walked. She extended her thin, narrow hand. “I’m Sister Agatha.”
Jerusha hesitated. “Sister—”
“Agatha.”
“But… you’re Irish. Judging from your accent—” Jerusha said, looking nervously around.
“What was it you were expecting?” said the woman, lowering her hand and hiding it beneath her robe.
“They told me the nuns here were German—”
“Reverend Mother and most of the rest… but some of us aren’t. I hope that won’t be a problem,” Sister Agatha narrowed her eyes.
“Why no… of course not.” Jerusha, totally flustered now, dabbed at her neck with the wadded handkerchief. “I didn’t mean… It’s just that the Catholics I’m used to are German, more like us Protestants.” She smiled weakly.
Sister Agatha ignored her and crossed to the back of the wagon, pulling her long-sleeved arm from beneath her robe and motioning for Red Dove and Walks Alone to get down.
“It has been a long journey,” Red Dove heard Jerusha say, “and we’re all so bone-weary tired. So come along, children. Let’s go and see where you’ll be staying,” she said, trying to sound cheerful.
Red Dove heard the creak of wood and metal as Jerusha lowered herself off the wagon, but her eyes were still fixed on the terrifying woman. Finally, with one hand on the pouch and the other gripping her parfleche, Red Dove climbed down.
Sister Agatha put up a hand to stop her. “Let me get a good look at you first,” she said, pinching Red Dove’s thin arm with her bony fingers.
“Underfed,” the nun said, propelling Red Dove towards the door. “Thought as much. Go inside.”
“Maybe now you’ll get some food, children,” said Jerusha, hopefully. “Let’s go and see—”
“Not you,” said Sister Agatha.
“What?”
“They’re my business now,” the nun called over her shoulder.
“But—” Jerusha, still standing by the wagon, looked helplessly at Old Tom.
“Better this way.” Sister Agatha marched up to the door and threw it wide. “Come on!”
Red Dove looked from Jerusha to Old Tom to her brother, who was now climbing slowly off the wagon.
“I think it is better this way, children… isn’t it?” said Jerusha, too brightly.
She wants us to reassure her, Red Dove thought. She watched Walks Alone cross the gravel courtyard, shoulders slumped, eyes down, as he marked the steps towards his fate. Together they mounted the high threshold into the dark, narrow hall.
“That nun’s crazy,” she heard Old Tom say, before the door closed firmly behind them.
›› You Won’t Be Seeing Him Again ‹‹
The night was cool, but the air inside was colder still. The glass windows were draped, blocking any daylight that remained. Smooth, flat walls rose steeply from the floor and reflected the glare of foul-smelling lamps. Sister Agatha’s footsteps echoed on the hard, polished tile, so different from the soft, packed earth of Red Dove’s village.
“Hurry,” the nun said, barreling through yet another door and over an even higher threshold. It was darker by the moment now and harder to see as Sister Agatha’s heavy footfalls marked their progress, clomp, clomp, clomp, until finally they came to a narrow passage leading up. “Mind the stairs. They’re steep.”
Stairs, thought Red Dove as they climbed, feeling the evenness of boards beneath her feet.
They reached the top and faced yet another hallway, lit by a single glowing lamp. She could just make out a framed picture of light-skinned men and women in long, white robes, heads circled in gold.
Who are they? she wondered as they reached the end of the hall.
Sister Agatha creaked open yet another door. “In here,” she muttered. Her clawlike fingers dug into Walks Alone’s chest, pushing him back behind the threshold. “Just her. Come on.”
Walks Alone! Red Dove wanted to cry out.
He stood silent, watchful, nodding slightly. Go ahead, sister, he seemed to say as the door closed between them.
Moving slowly, Red Dove followed the nun into the room.
The nun walked up to a small table, picked up a stick and rubbed it against a piece of rough paper. Red Dove heard a scratch, a hiss and a blue and yellow flame burst from the end.
“Matches,” Sister Agatha muttered, answering her thoughts. “Some people call them Lucifers. Name of the Devil.” Holding the match upright, she touched it to a thin cord that dangled from a tall glass tube filled with murky yellow liquid, and the room burst into light.
Red Dove blinked and looked around. Her eyes stung from the brightness and the smoke. She wrinkled her nose.
“Kerosene. You’ll get used to it. Look over there. Your bed.”
Red Dove squinted past the rows and rows of metal frames covered with dull gray blankets to the far end of the room.
My bed?
She moved closer to get a better look. Something was hanging on the wall above it: a tiny, near-naked man, wearing only a breechcloth, hands and feet nailed to two crossed beams, eyes raised in agony. She jumped back.
“Stupid girl!” Sister Agatha barked. “Haven’t you never seen a crucifix before?
Sister Agatha nodded at a small chest next to the bed. “Clothes are in there. A dress, pinafore, everything you’ll need. May be too big, but they’ll have to do. So go ahead, get ready for supper… busy… things to do… didn’t know you were coming.”
The nun was barking out instructions so fast, Red Dove could hardly keep up. Then she said words Red Dove understood clearly:
“Leave your old things on the floor so we can throw ’em out in the morning. And I’ll be taking the lamp with me now,” said the nun. “Sure, you’ve enough light for your young eyes.”
Red Dove wheeled around, wanting to see her brother before the light was gone.
Sister Agatha opened the door. He wasn’t there.
“Where did he go?” Red Dove gasped.
“Your brother?” Surely you didn’t think we’d let you stay together now, did you?” she said, raising her pale brows and laughing. “He’s gone to the priests like all the other boys. So you won’t be seeing him again.”
The door closed behind her, darkness filled the room, and Red Dove, unable to bear any more, at last gave in to tears.
›› Pass the Bread ‹‹
Feeling her way through the gloom the nun left behind, Red Dove opened the rough wood chest and pulled out the first thing she touched. “Dress,” she whispered. Even in the dim light, she could tell the musty cloth was gray. She laid her deerskin robe carefully on the bed. Dragging the thin fabric over her head, she poked her neck up and through. Reaching back, she felt a row of openings opposite a line of tiny, pebble-like beads. They were meant to connect somehow, she knew, but even twisting and turning, she couldn’t fasten them all.
She opened the chest again. Lying inside, just visible against the darkness, was a piece of white ruffled cotton. “Pinafore,” the nun had said. She wrapped it around her front and tied the loose bow in back. Then she pulled on the scratchy wool socks, forced her still-sore ankle into one of the boots and looked at the tangle of laces. “I’ll tie them later,” she mumbled, as she stuffed her foot into the other boot.
Then she felt for the soft deerskin lying on the bed.
I won’t let them throw my clothes away!
She reached under and felt along a crack in the floor.
Something’s loose… . She tugged gently and the board gave with a creak. Pulling harder, her fingers searched the gap.
It’s big enough.
She pushed the deerskin inside and saw something else lying underneath the bed.
My pouch! It fell off while I was dressing!
She grabbed it and thrust it in her pocket. Sh
e then followed the sound of voices down the steep, narrow steps. She walked along the corridor towards the murmurs of young voices coming from an enormous, brightly lit room at the end. It was filled with rows of rough, wooden tables flanked by benches. On the benches sat dozens of girls—all staring back at her.
Like me… but different.
Their skin was brown, their eyes were dark, but their black, glossy hair was chopped to the line of the chin.
Their braids are gone… are they in mourning?
She watched their faces.
They don’t seem friendly… are they smiling… or laughing at me?
She listened to the whispered English that filled the room and, hand in her pocket, she felt for the pouch.
A rush of sound overwhelmed her, first a hissing drone, then a jumble of strange new words as she peered at face after face, hoping to understand—but the tangle of thoughts confused her. “What’s wrong with her eyes? They’re strange… gray… not like ours .”
She whirled around—and thudded straight into Sister Agatha.
“Watch it!”
Frightened gasps filled the room.
“Silence!” roared Sister Agatha.
Dozens of dark, frightened eyes turned towards the nun.
“Miriam,” Sister Agatha called. “Come here, child.”
A pretty, sharp-chinned girl rose with a smirk and sauntered up to Red Dove.
“This is Mary,” said Sister Agatha, pointing at Red Dove.
That’s not my name!
“Hello, Mary,” Miriam said in a voice of milky sweetness.
“She will need a lot of help, as you can see. Since you’re older’n she is, I’d like you to look after her.”
“Yes, Sister,” said Miriam.
“I knew I could rely on you.” Sister Agatha clapped her hands together. “And you, Mary, take your hand out of your pocket. That’s a nasty habit.”
Red Dove pulled out her hand as Miriam returned to her seat and the rest of the girls resumed their careful whispering.
Red Dove stood awkwardly, not knowing what to do. She strained her ears, longing for the comfort of her language. Surely someone here speaks it, she thought.