Red Dove, Listen to the Wind

by Sonia Antaki

  And suddenly, looking through another’s eyes, and seeing, standing before her, not the angry old nun, but a dark-haired, copper-skinned girl with startling gray eyes.

  I’m looking at myself—through her!

  She tore her hand from her throat, jerked her head away and the vision stopped. Back in her own body now, she stared at the nun and swayed.

  Sister Agatha put her hand to her forehead. “Strange,” she muttered. “The pain was gone for just a moment.” She straightened her spine and pursed her lips. “I’ll use that coneflower,” she said, “since you brought it. But you’ve missed your supper, Mary, and you’ll have to do all the washin’ up. I’ll give you the rest of your punishment in the mornin’.”

  ›› The Creature We Know Today ‹‹

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” asked Red Dove when at last she and Sister Mary Rose reached the safety of the kitchen.

  “Guess I wasn’t much help to ya, was I?” the young nun answered. “Maybe ya’ve noticed that Sister Agatha doesn’t like me much—”

  “She hates me.”

  “That she does.” Sister Mary Rose reached out to brush a stray hair from Red Dove’s cheek. “So maybe it’s best we both stay out of her way for now—but I’ll try to help ya as much as I can.” She pulled an apron over her habit, wrapped the string around herself and tied it in front. “But ya did seem to know just what to say to her. Could ya really tell what she was thinkin’?”

  “Yes,” Red Dove said slowly, wondering how much of the sudden knowledge was due to the pouch. “But something else happened. I saw myself.”

  Sister Mary Rose picked up a plate, shoved it in the soapy water and frowned. “What d’ya mean?”

  “As she did, through her eyes, like I was inside her, looking out—”

  “Holy Mother o’ God!” Sister Mary Rose crossed herself rapidly.

  “It’s true. I felt her rage towards me—and some pain she remembered—”

  “No surprise, there,” exclaimed Sister Mary Rose with a brittle laugh. “She’s got a lot to be tormented about, if what they say is true—”

  “What? Tell me.”

  “Och.” Sister Mary Rose shrugged. “Just stories, maybe, ’bout a man who betrayed her back in Ireland. An’ broke ’er heart.”

  “Sister Agatha has a heart?”

  “Hard to believe, isn’t it? That she could be in love?” Sister Mary Rose giggled. “She was pretty back then, they say.” Her eyes gleamed wickedly. “The man, an Irish soldier, promised to marry her—but he did not. He left Ireland to come here an’ make his fortune. Abandoned her. And then, well… .” Her cheeks flushed pink, she lowered her voice and put her hand in front of her mouth. “She learned she was carryin’ his child,” she whispered. “D’ya understand?”

  “I know what happens between men and women,” Red Dove said, remembering what her mother had told her—the things every girl should know.

  “Good, then I don’t need to explain. Havin’ a baby out o’ wedlock is a grievous sin, ya know, and Sister Agatha’s family disowned her when they found out. She went to the only place she could—a convent—”

  “And she became a nun?”

  “She did… after she had her baby—”

  “Was it a girl?”

  “How’d ya know?” said Sister Mary Rose, pursing her lips. “Och, go on with ya. Stop readin’ me mind, will ya!”

  “I’m not.” Red Dove’s hands were busy in the soapy water and she wasn’t touching the pouch. “I was just guessing—”

  “Well stop it, would ya? Yes, the baby was a girl, they tell me, but she died, poor thing.”

  “How awful for her—”

  “You feel pity for that woman?” Sister Mary Rose pulled her own soapy hands from the water and wiped them on her apron. “Wish I could. Maybe it did break her heart, but it hardened her as well and she became the creature we know today as—”

  “Sister Agatha!” they both said, laughing grimly.

  “Anyways, years later she came to this country, determined to find the child’s father. Maybe she still loved him. She heard he’d become a soldier, posted near here. And then she found out he’d married an Indian woman, an’ had a child by her—”

  “One of my people?”

  Sister Mary Rose shrugged. “Dunno. Happens all the time. But when Sister Agatha found out, it nearly did her in.” Her face darkened. “She hates Indians more’n anythin’.”

  “Maybe this is her way of getting even—”

  “Maybe.” Sister Mary Rose narrowed her eyes at Red Dove. “Ya feelin’ all right, child? Ya seem a little peaked.” She touched Red Dove’s forehead. “Hmmm,” she said, and walked over to the small wooden bench by the window, reached for the satchel and began pulling out bits of greenery. “Ya might need some of them herbs yourself. Here’s what I found. Sage for cookin’, an’ some others too: yarrow to soothe, rosemary to calm, and this… ’specially for you.” She pulled out a purple blossom and crushed it between her thumb and forefinger.

  “I know that plant. It’s windflower—”

  “Do ya now? I was readin’ about it. Said it’d do ya good.”

  “Yes it will, but only if it’s dried. It’ll make you sick if—”

  The nun didn’t hear. “It’ll make ya forget your homesickness, the book said.”

  Red Dove nodded. “Grandfather used to make tea from it. He drank some the day my grandmother died, I remember. To ease the pain of loss.” But she remembered something else he’d told her as well: that the flower was powerful medicine—but only when dried. “If you drink it when it’s fresh it will make you sick.”

  “Nonsense,” said Sister Mary Rose, picking up a wilted blossom. “It’s the same flower isn’t it, fresh or dried? Anyway, I’m sure this is dry enough. We picked it hours ago.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Sister Agatha vant you!” Sister Gertrude poked her head in the door. She pointed at Sister Mary Rose.

  “What now?” She turned back to Red Dove. “I guess I have to leave ya to it, then, but I’ll be back—and in the meantime, don’t forget to brew yourself some tea.”

  ›› Windflower Tea ‹‹

  Hours passed.

  I’ll be up all night, Red Dove thought as she stared at the mountain of pans still teetering in the sink. And where is Sister Mary Rose? She said she’d be back to help. She looked at the pile of herbs and flowers the nun had left. Maybe the tea will make me feel better… is it dry enough yet?

  She boiled some water, poured it in a clean mug, grabbed a handful of the wilted windflower blossoms, and dropped them in. Then she touched her lips to the rim.

  Hot!

  She walked over to the window, put the cup on the sill to cool and stared out through the wavy glass. Exhausted as she was, she let her thoughts wander to the events of the day.

  For a moment, I knew what it was like to be Sister Agatha… but I don’t want to. She’s mad at the world, and she’s taking her anger out on everyone, especially me.

  Sister Gertrude appeared in the open doorway again. “Sister Agatha vant a cup of tea. Coneflower. For her head. Now,” she barked.

  “All right.” Red Dove watched the nun stomp away and had a thought. Windflower eases the pain of loss and Sister Agatha might need that more than I do… so if she drinks it, maybe she won’t be so angry.

  Red Dove pulled a handful of coneflowers, and dropped them into the still steaming mug. Gathering her courage, she crossed the floor of the kitchen, walked down the long corridor to Sister Agatha’s room, and knocked.

  There was no response, so she tried again. Finally, she heard a growl from inside. “Come in,” it said.

  Red Dove opened the door and stepped in.

  “Close the door.”

  Red Dove did. She heard a dull clack, clack from the rosary beads swinging from a hook on the wall beside it. The shades were drawn and the light was dim. As her eyes adjusted, she could just make out a blurry shape by the window. “Well, wh
at do you want?” it said.

  “I … brought you some tea, Sister.”

  “Coneflower? Put it on the table.”

  “It’s coneflower, and other herbs… to make you feel better.”

  “Other herbs? Why?” Sister Agatha crossed the floor, dark robes swishing, blacker than the blackness.

  Suddenly, Red Dove saw her: her fleshy white head was exposed, naked—bald.

  “What other herbs?” the nun barked.

  “Herbs so you won’t be sad and angry,” Red Dove blurted. “Windflower.”

  “Are you mad? Windflower’s poison!” the nun shrieked. “Everyone knows that!”

  “Not if it’s dry… Sister Mary Rose thought—”

  The slap came down. The mug crashed to the floor. Burning liquid splashed Red Dove’s hand and spewed across the room. She lurched for the door, turned the handle and ran.

  “She tried to poison me! Stop her!”

  Red Dove burst into the kitchen, looked wildly around and scurried under the oilcloth that covered the table. She listened to the hubbub that followed, the startled nuns and shrieks from Sister Agatha.

  I can’t hide here forever, she thought, staring at the yellow plaster walls, watching a spider crawl slowly down its web towards a doomed, struggling fly. I trusted Sister Mary Rose, but she was wrong. What can I trust? She closed her fingers tight around the pouch, desperate for the comfort of its soothing drone. “Tell me,” she whispered, and as the waiting wore on, the flagstones felt even harder, colder. Finally, she let out a shuddering sigh and dropped her hand.

  It’s the pouch’s fault, she decided at last. It tells me things I don’t want to hear, makes me feel things I don’t want to feel, makes me know what it is to be Sister Agatha—when I don’t want to. Maybe… Grandfather was wrong. Maybe… the pouch is cursed.

  And if I keep using it, I will be too, she thought, pulling the little amulet from her neck and stuffing it inside her pocket.

  ›› We Do Not Hate ‹‹

  “Been here ze whole night, haf you?” Sister Gertrude’s great bug eyes peered at Red Dove from underneath the lifted oilcloth. “Get in line mit ze others und Sister Agatha vill deal mit you later,” she mumbled, heaving her heavy body up off the floor.

  Red Dove crept slowly out from under the table, straightened and walked down the hall. Moving quietly, she ambled up behind the other girls and joined the end of the line, heading for chapel. She didn’t want to attract attention, but no one seemed to notice. And no one spoke to her. Am I invisible? she wondered, and reached for the pouch for the answer. Then dropped her hand. No, I won’t use it anymore. It’s got me in enough trouble already.

  The day wore on and still no one paid any attention to her, until at last she dragged herself to the class she dreaded most, the one with Sister Agatha.

  “Sit there,” said the nun, pointing to a desk at the back of the room “so I don’t have to look at your ugly face.” She turned and wrote something on the board.

  Sister Gertrude poked her head through the doorway. “Somevun to see you, Sister,” she called. “Vaiting in your office.”

  “Whatever could it be now?” Sister Agatha put down the chalk. “Remain exactly as you are, children. Especially you, Mary. Don’t you dare move.”

  Dizzy from lack of sleep, Red Dove waited, struggling to stay upright in her seat behind the rest of the class. No one can see me, she thought, with their backs all turned. I’ll put my head down for a moment.

  The hard wood was cool against her cheek. She closed her eyes. The room, quiet at first, filled with small noises. Random whispers became a steady drone. She was tempted to reach for the pouch, now hidden deep within her pocket, but decided against it.

  I don’t want to know what they’re thinking, so I won’t try to use it, or even look at their faces, or listen. All I want to do is sleep.

  A tang of burning sage.

  A voice: “Gray Eyes.”

  Grandfather! I’m not using the pouch.

  “You should. It will help you understand others—”

  I don’t want to! I don’t care what people are thinking or feeling—not if they’re people I hate.

  “We do not hate, Gray Eyes—”

  Don’t make me use it, Grandfather. It’s nothing but trouble.

  “With it, you will find your power—”

  I don’t have any power.

  “You do. So watch. And listen.”

  The smell of burning sage growing stronger. Smoke filling the air. Grandfather’s kindly old face coming into view. “This is something that happened long ago.”

  But I don’t want to see it—

  “Do as I ask.”

  A rumble, a sound of galloping hooves from far away. An image forming and the outline of a man carrying a lance and painted for battle.

  “Crazy Horse. The leader of our people—”

  The one who defeated Custer?

  “Yes.”

  The man, surrounded by a band of warriors, approaching a white man’s fort.

  “He is there to ask for peace.”

  The sun crossing the courtyard as white soldiers march in. A warrior walking up to Crazy Horse, taking him by the hand and leading him past the lines of men and guns to one of the buildings.

  Why are there bars on the windows?

  “He’s taking him to jail—”

  Who would do that?

  “Little Big Man. Crazy Horse’s friend—”

  He can’t be his friend, if he’s taking him to jail!

  “Crazy Horse was warned that he would be invincible in battle, that bullets and guns would never touch him, but that his end would come at the hand of a friend.”

  Can’t we stop him?

  “This has already happened.”

  Gazing in horror as Little Big Man pushes Crazy Horse towards the prison. Crazy Horse drawing his knife, slashing Little Big Man’s arm to the bone and wrenching himself free.

  A soldier carrying a bayonet with a blade the length of an arm, stabbing Crazy Horse in the back, pushing his body deep onto the blade, and tearing his flesh.

  He’s killing him, Grandfather! Why won’t anyone stop him?

  “They hated him—”

  His people?

  “They were afraid, some of them and ashamed—because he was not.”

  And this is how they paid him for being brave? Were they sorry afterwards?

  “When it was too late. Some of his people joined Sitting Bull in Grandmother’s Land, a place they call Canada, where they were cold and hungrier still. They came back to the reservation when the Government promised them food and shelter—”

  And did they get it?

  “Promises were broken and the people starved—”

  Like the ones I saw begging for food, that day at the fort… but our family didn’t stay on the reservation. Why?

  “Because your white father bargained with the soldiers so we were not forced to go—”

  Then he did try to help—but he broke his promises too and left us hungry. I know I shouldn’t hate, Grandfather, but sometimes I can’t help it—

  “We do not hate, Gray Eyes… ,” repeated the voice, more softly now. “The past cannot be changed, but the future can—”

  Then tell me how! Red Dove wanted to yell as she felt the onslaught of tears.

  “The pouch,” was all it said.

  ›› Everything’s Backwards ‹‹

  “Wake up, Mary” First came the shout and then the slap.

  Red Dove pulled her hand to her stinging mouth. She looked up at the nun and the faces in the room. She saw the gleam in Miriam’s eye.

  Sister Agatha clicked her rosary beads. “You’re the laziest girl in the class, sleeping through the lesson. You can’t do anything right.”

  “Sister?” she heard.

  “What, Miriam?”

  “She can do things. She sang us a song about spirits, like the ones native people believe in.” Miriam paused and looked at Red Dove. “Like sain
ts and angels, Sister Mary Rose said—”

  “Sister Mary Rose? Is that what she’s teaching you?” Sister Agatha’s nostrils flared. “That heathen ideas are the same as the teachings of the Church?”

  The girls looked at each other frantically, but no one responded. They knew what was coming.

  “It’s because of you, isn’t it?” Sister Agatha said to Red Dove. “Songs about spirits, heathen teachings? Come up here, Mary. Let’s see what you learned… while you were asleep.”

  Miriam giggled.

  “What year in history were we talking about? Write it on the board.”

  Red Dove’s face burned, her throat ached and a dull pain moved from her chest to her throat as she walked to the front of the room.

  Sister Agatha handed her a piece of chalk and she dragged it across the dusty black surface. Scritch, scritch, scritch it went, but her hand shook so much that the numbers were nothing but a scrawl.

  “What’s that supposed to be?” the nun barked. “Tell me.”

  “Fourteen ninety-two,” Red Dove said weakly.

  Miriam giggled again.

  “‘Fourteen ninety-two,’” the nun mocked in a high girlish voice. “And why is that date important?”

  “Because that’s when Columbus… ,” Red Dove whispered.

  “Speak up. I can’t hear you,” said the nun as she paced across the front of the room.

  “It’s when Columbus came to America—”

  “It’s when Columbus discovered America—”

  “He didn’t—”

  “He didn’t?” Sister Agatha stopped abruptly.

  “Our people were here already—”

  Another slap hit Red Dove full in the face and the room began to spin.

  “Stupid girl. How dare you? Write it down, now, a hundred times all over the board. Fourteen ninety-two, the year Columbus discovered America.”

  Red Dove’s hands were shaking so much she could barely hold the chalk. She looked at the board, but the lines began to blur, and suddenly everything seemed wrong. “It’s all backwards—”