Red Dove, Listen to the Wind

by Sonia Antaki

  “Your hair’s magic? Well, keep some of it then, if ya like, but let me clean the rest up or I’ll be in for an encounter with Sister Agatha. And I don’t want to get in trouble again.” The nun went back to her sweeping.

  She didn’t see the pouch, Red Dove thought as the nun made circles around her.

  And then Red Dove realized something else.

  I understood every word she was saying, even words I never heard before, like “encounter”—but I knew what she meant… and I wasn’t touching the pouch!

  The nun stopped sweeping and looked at Red Dove. “Somethin’ wrong, child?”

  “No.”

  “Then let’s just have another go with them scissors, shall we? Ya look right funny with only one braid.”

  Red Dove pulled away.

  “Come now. I’m not gonna hurt ya. I just want to fix ya up a bit. We can’t leave your hair like that. Here. Look at yourself.” She pulled a gleaming silver disc from the pocket of her robe.

  Red Dove stared into the glass. “Is that… me?”

  “Haven’t ya ever seen a mirror before, silly?” The nun tilted the disc so that Red Dove could see her tear-stained eyes, butchered hair and all. “We’re not s’posed to have ’em—makes us vain, Sister Agatha says—so don’t ya go tellin’ on me now.” She shoved the mirror back in her pocket. “Come on. Let me even it out a bit. You’ll look ever so much prettier.”

  Red Dove bit her lip. She’s right. I can’t leave my hair like this.

  “Good then,” said the nun. She pulled something else out of her pocket and Red Dove gasped.

  “It’s just a brush, silly. I’m not gonna hurt ya.” She rubbed the bristles against her open palm and smiled. “See? It’s me own. Soft boar bristles.” She reached out and patted Red Dove’s hair with her gentle fingers. “There now. Nothin’ to worry about. My name is Sister Mary Rose,” she said, touching the brush gently to Red Dove’s hair, “an’ I’m a lot like you, ya know—”

  “You’re one of my people?”

  “Course not,” the young nun laughed. “I’m from the old country, Ireland. But I had to leave my home, like you, an’ learn strange new ways. An’ I’m still learnin’, so maybe we can do some of that together. Would ya like that?”

  Yes, thought Red Dove, nodding slowly.

  “We have magic too, you know, where I come from.”

  “What kind of magic?”

  “Oh, many kinds. And one day maybe I’ll show you. But now… hold still.” Sister Mary Rose reached into her pocket again. “They’re sewin’ shears, but they’ll have to do.”

  Slinch, slinch, slinch they went. Red Dove closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, but this time the sound was accompanied by the high light melody the nun was humming. It was oddly reassuring.

  And when the nun had finished, she pulled out the mirror and held it up so Red Dove could see.

  The cut was even now, in line with Red Dove’s chin. She tried to smile, but couldn’t.

  I am in mourning, she thought, for the life I used to live, for the people I loved.

  “They cut my hair too when I became a nun,” said Sister Mary Rose. “Shorter’n that. Practically shaved it all off. But I got used to it. You will too. Less bother. You might even come to like it one day.”

  Never! thought Red Dove, staring at the lonely little braid that lay with the sweepings on the floor.

  Heyunka Wi

  The Frost Moon

  Mission Boarding School The Reservation—Late Fall, 1890

  ›› Where’d Ya Learn that Tune? ‹‹

  Summer gave way to fall, and the sweet smell of bonfires mingled with mist that rose from the leaf-covered ground. Months had passed since Red Dove came to the school. She longed to be outside in the crisp fall air. Looking through the open window, she saw boys in the fields, chopping wood and hauling logs for the fire.

  Is Walks Alone with them? she wondered, as her thoughts were more and more with her family. Red Dove tried not to worry, but doing the tasks she was given—up to her elbows in a suds-filled sink, or standing at an ironing board for hours—left her too much time to think.

  We’re not learning anything here, she thought, as she watched the other girls in the steamy, crowded laundry. They say we’re learning “gainful employment,” but we’re just doing jobs white people won’t. She pulled another damp sheet from the never-empty basket at her feet and began to hum.

  “Where’d ya learn that tune, child?” said Sister Mary Rose, coming up behind her.

  “From you, Sister. Isn’t it what you were singing when you cut my hair?”

  “Why bless my soul, what a good ear ya have! But be careful singin’ it around here.” The nun’s eyes gleamed. “It’s about magic. Spirits ya know—”

  “Spirits?” Red Dove’s ears perked up.

  “’Tis. Banshees and lenanshees—the kind we have in Ireland… and a certain person don’t want us talkin’ about ’em—says it goes against the teachin’ of the Church.”

  “But you were singing it,” Red Dove said.

  “That I was.”

  “So you’re not afraid—”

  “Course not,” said Sister Mary Rose. Then she walked over and shut the door tight. “Just a precaution.” She marched up to the front of the crowded room. “Girls,” she said, arching an eyebrow, “I don’t know why we shouldn’t be able to enjoy a song now and then, do you?”

  Thirty pairs of eyes looked up from their tasks.

  “So go ahead, Mary.”

  “What?” Red Dove asked.

  “Give us a song.”

  “Here? Now?”

  Sister Mary Rose nodded. “Wasn’t that what you were doin’ a moment ago? Now you have an audience—”

  Red Dove looked around. The other girls were watching her, curious, waiting to see what would happen. She saw Miriam smirk. Red Dove raised her head and opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The sound stuck somewhere between her throat and belly.

  “Ya can do it. I know ya can.” The nun’s dark eyebrows rose high with encouragement.

  Someone snickered.

  Red Dove took a breath, opened her mouth and this time a squeak emerged.

  Miriam giggled.

  “That’s enough, Miriam,” warned Sister Mary Rose.

  Red Dove took another breath, deeper now, and the squeak became a steady thrum that filled her chest, surged up and flowed from her mouth. Full-throated, and sharing Sister’s strange, intoxicating tune, she rode the sound until the song came to its mournful, satisfying end.

  She stopped and looked around. Hannah’s round, dark eyes stared up in rapt attention. The others watched with strange expressions.

  What just happened?

  Sister Mary Rose clapped her hands and broke the spell. “Lovely,” she exclaimed.

  The rush of applause was abrupt, startling, and oddly welcome. And when it finished, Red Dove ducked her head, embarrassed, and yet somehow pleased.

  “Thank you, Mary. Now shall I tell ya what the song is about, since ya didn’t know the words.” Sister Mary Rose again squinted at the door to see that it was closed. “It’s one from me country, about spirits, like I said—but I don’t know if ya have ‘em here. I’m talkin’ about a mischievous fairy, who puts a spell on a poor, unsuspectin’ young girl, to make ’er fall in love with a cruel man—an’ get ’erself in trouble—” Sister Mary Rose went on. “The world is full of spirits, just waitin’ to put spells on people an’ break their hearts. But don’t let anyone know that we been talkin’ ‘bout magic—”

  “Why?” asked Hannah.

  “Because Sister Agatha doesn’t put much faith in fairies, or magic, an’ you could get me in real trouble if she found out,” said the nun, searching the faces around.

  “Oh, we would never tell, Sister,” said Miriam with a catlike grin. “Promise.”

  ›› We’ll Summon the Spirits ‹‹

  “Sister Agatha left ya here to finish up by yourself again, didn’t she? I don’t k
now why she works ya so hard.” Sister Mary Rose looked around the laundry, empty now but for the two of them. “She seems to have it in for ya.”

  “She does,” said Red Dove, as she dragged the last damp sheet from the basket and draped it over the ironing board, too tired to say more.

  “Well, tomorrow is her day to go to town for supplies, an’ she’ll be leavin’ Sister Gertrude in charge, so I can make good on my promise—”

  “What promise?”

  “To show ya some of me magic, like I said. ’Less of course ya don’t want that—”

  “I do,” said Red Dove, wondering what the nun had in store.

  “Good then. I’ll tell Sister Gertrude we’re goin’ to gather mushrooms—she loves mushrooms—so she’ll let us go. Would ya like that, child?”

  “Yes,” said Red Dove, as her thoughts strayed to the smell of crisp fall air, the feel of earth beneath her feet, and the longed-for sight of open sky.

  The next day dawned bright and clear, but by the time Sister Agatha left for town it was already afternoon. “Chust make sure she’s varmly dressed,” said Sister Gertrude. “Zere’s too much sickness here und no medicine. Ve don’t vant to lose anozzer vun. Sister Agatha has Kopfschmerz.” She pointed to her head. “So be back for vespers… or else.”

  The sun was high as they set off, but a moldy dampness still clung to the earth. Red Dove and Sister Mary Rose picked their way through piles of wet leaves and undergrowth.

  The nun moved on ahead, her hand on a bulging leather satchel slung across her shoulder.

  “What’s in that?” Red Dove asked.

  “Me magic, like I said.”

  Red Dove touched her fingers to the pouch and stared at the nun’s back, trying to see what she was thinking, but all she learned was how happy she was to be out on a bright fall day.

  As they emerged from the shelter of the trees, Red Dove saw a patch of earth, surrounded by a circle of sparse, yellow grass. Inside the circle, the earth was hard and bare.

  “An old Indian camp, most like,” said Sister. “See there—ashes from an ancient fire. A perfect place for magic… as promised.” Her eyes crinkled into a smile as she lowered herself onto a log and patted the space beside her. “Come. Sit.”

  The nun reached into the satchel and pulled out a round, flat object, painted green and covered with a tightly stretched animal skin. “D’ya know what this is?” she asked.

  “Of course. A drum,” said Red Dove.

  “Not just any drum, silly. It’s a bodhran, an Irish drum. And not just any bodhran. It was me grandmother’s. If you play it right, you’ll call up the spirits. An’ their magic.” She beamed.

  “I never saw it before—”

  “I keep it hidden. Sister Agatha hates singin’ an’ dancin’, an’ she’s always mad at me anyway… so she doesn’t have to know ’bout this now, does she?” Sister Mary Rose reached back into the satchel, pulled out a small wooden stick and began tapping a steady rhythm, a rollicking, repetitive tatatata.

  Red Dove felt her body begin to sway. She watched her feet rise and fall and rise and fall again, pounding a pattern on the earth.

  “Take ’em off,” said the nun.

  “What?” said Red Dove.

  “Your boots. They’re hurtin’ ya, I can tell.”

  Red Dove pulled at the stiff leather and tore the boots from her feet. She felt the cool, moist earth against her skin.

  “Better, no?” said Sister.

  “Yes,” murmured Red Dove, lost to the rhythm of the drum.

  “So we’ll summon the spirits, jus’ the two of us together, and there’ll be nary a soul to stop us,” Sister cried as she finished one song and started another.

  ›› Late ‹‹

  They danced and sang for what seemed just a moment, but when Red Dove looked up, the sun was on the horizon.

  “Oh no!” she cried. “Sister Gertrude said to be back by vespers, and now it’s that time at least.”

  Sister Mary Rose stopped drumming. “What?” She squinted through unfocused eyes.

  “It’s late—”

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Sister Agatha’ll have me hide for sure. Why didn’t ya stop me then?”

  “I thought you were paying attention—”

  “An’ I thought you were.” Sister Mary Rose shoved the drum inside the satchel. “We’re in for it,” she said with a wildness in her eye.

  “What will she do?”

  “Nothin’ good, I can tell ya.”

  “Can’t you use your magic?”

  “That was me magic,” said the nun with a shrug.

  “That?”

  “Why sure. The dancin’, the drummin’—”

  “All of it?”

  “’Twas. Didn’t it make ya feel better?”

  “Yes, but… I didn’t see any spirits. They didn’t come.”

  “How d’ya know?” The nun shrugged and hoisted the satchel onto her shoulder.

  Red Dove decided not to argue. “But what are we going to do about Sister Agatha?” she asked instead.

  “What would you like me to do, child—turn her into a nicer person?”

  “I just thought—”

  “Stop thinkin’ an’ start gatherin’ mushrooms. Fast as ya can, so we’ve somethin’ to show.” She started heading back towards the woods. Red Dove watched her scan the damp soil around the roots and close her fingers around a tiny yellow fungus.

  “Not that—it’s poison!” Red Dove shouted.

  Startled, the nun dropped the little mushroom.

  “Better let me,” said Red Dove. “My grandfather showed me how—”

  “Yes, yes,” muttered the nun, as distracted, her fingers closed around a bright purple flower. “You pick the mushrooms and I’ll gather herbs while I’m here. Sister Agatha won’t believe we’ve spent all this time just lookin’ for mushrooms. And she’s been in a terrible mood lately—”

  “With her headaches,” Red Dove said.

  “How’d you know she had headaches?” Sister Mary Rose said, stopping to look up.

  “I just knew… from looking at her face—”

  “What nonsense are ya talkin’? How can lookin’ at her face tell ya anythin’?”

  “I can read people’s thoughts,” blurted Red Dove.

  “Oh go on with ya.” Sister Mary Rose gave a dismissive wave.

  “It’s true. I can.”

  “You’re a mind-reader?” Sister Mary Rose laughed. She threw the grass and flowers she was holding into her satchel and straightened. “Why don’t ya read mine then? Go on. Tell me what I’m thinkin’.”

  Red Dove touched her fingers to the pouch. “You’re thinking… that you don’t believe me. About being able to read people’s thoughts—”

  “Course. Anyone could know that. But what else? What am I thinkin’ ’bout now… exactly.”

  “You’re thinking… about… Sister Agatha—”

  “But what am I thinkin’ about her?” Sister Mary Rose sighed.

  Red Dove watched the nun’s face and waited. And the words fell out of her mouth. “You’re wondering why she’s so cold. And mean. You’re wondering what she was like when she was young.”

  Sister Mary Rose tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “Go on.”

  “When she was Ma… Ma… ”

  “Holy Mother o’ God. How’d ya know her name was Maura?” The young nun’s eyes widened with shock.

  I guessed, thought Red Dove—or did I know, because of the pouch? And remembered her grandfather’s warning not to talk about it. “Was that what Sister Agatha was called before she became a nun… Maura?”

  “How could ya possibly know? Only a few people do.” Sister Mary Rose looked straight at Red Dove and tilted her head. “So ya must be tellin’ the truth—you really are a mind reader.” Sister Mary Rose put a finger to her cheek. “So maybe we can put it to good use.”

  “How?”

  “You tell me, if ya know what I’m thinkin’ that is—what shoul
d we do?”

  Red Dove, fingers to the pouch, watched the nun’s face. “You’re thinking that if I know what’s in Sister Agatha’s mind, then I can give her an excuse that she’ll believe—”

  “My thoughts exactly,” laughed the nun.

  ›› What Just Happened? ‹‹

  The door burst open as Red Dove and Sister Mary Rose raced up to the school. Sister Agatha stood glaring, lips compressed, eyes angry slits beneath her brow. “Where have you been, Sister?” she hissed.

  Red Dove looked at Sister Mary Rose, waiting for her to answer. She didn’t.

  “Well?”

  “Sister Gertrude sent us for mushrooms,” Red Dove blurted.

  “Mushrooms? Stupid woman,” Sister Agatha roared. “Mushrooms’re poison. She’ll eat herself into her grave. And why were you gone so long?”

  Red Dove touched her pouch and searched the nun’s face. “We wanted to find something… for your headaches.”

  “How did you know?” Sister Agatha put a hand to her forehead.

  “We’re sorry we took so long, but it was hard to find—”

  “What was?”

  “The plant you wanted,” Red Dove blurted as the image of a flower with a bulging center surrounded by petals of bright purple came into her mind. “We have some, don’t we?” she asked Sister Mary Rose and reached for the satchel. She pulled at the tangle of weeds and picked out the very one. “Is this it?” she said, holding it out.

  “It is, exactly. Coneflower. Echinacea,” said Sister Agatha, inspecting the plant, “but you’re still late, so you’ll do penance.”

  “Penance, penance, penance,” Red Dove heard, as the voices around her began to fade, blending into a steady hum that filled the room. Hand on the pouch, she heard a constant thump, thump, thump…

  A heartbeat—is it mine or hers?

  She felt dizzy, opened her mouth to take in air, and her head began to pound with a crushing pain.

  A rush, a crash. Being lifted, carried up, exploded through a long tunnel… and out the other side.

  What’s happening?

  She remembered what Sister Mary Rose had told her, all she knew about Sister Agatha… and understood: the heartbeat, the eyes she was seeing through, the thick black rage and ancient sorrow all belonged to someone else. They belonged to Sister Agatha. She was feeling what it was to be Sister Agatha… .