Red Dove, Listen to the Wind

by Sonia Antaki

“It is.” Sister Agatha nodded towards the door. “So now I suggest you leave immediately. For your safety as well as ours.”

  “Don’t go,” Red Dove blurted.

  “I have to. There’s nothing else I can do, my dear.” Jerusha reached inside her sleeve, pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her nose. “And maybe it’s true your people wouldn’t hurt you and you will be safer here.”

  “I’ll be safer at home.”

  Jerusha touched Red Dove’s arm. “Thomas and I will do everything we can to find poor Walks Alone—”

  “You can’t leave me,” said Red Dove, shaking her head.

  “I have to, my dear. I have no choice.” said Jerusha.

  “Because of a piece of paper?”

  “It’s the law; don’t you see?” Jerusha reached out again, but Red Dove pulled away.

  Jerusha gave a sad little smile and tucked her handkerchief back inside her sleeve. “I have to go now. And when all this is over, I will be back… and there will be a reckoning,” she said, raising her chin and narrowing her eyes at Sister Agatha. Then she reached out to give Red Dove one last pat before turning on her heel and starting the long, slow walk down the hall, hard soles clacking against the floor.

  ›› Walks Alone ‹‹

  Red Dove’s first Christmas came and went. The ceremonies were elaborate, the decorations colorful, the smells exotic, but the days were cold and cheerless with the school still under siege, barricaded against attack. The smell of fear was in the air.

  “Back to work,” said Sister Agatha after the holidays were over. She clapped her hands to scatter the gaggle of nuns. “And you, there,” she said to Red Dove, pointing to the kitchen.

  Red Dove stumbled into the empty room. She stared at the piles of dishes waiting in the sink, the pots sitting on the soot-blackened stove, the remains of a joyless feast. Then she looked through the window at the fields beyond.

  Who’s left to lead us now that Sitting Bull is dead?

  “Grandfather?” she whispered, desperate for an answer. “Can you hear my words, can you hear my thoughts? Are you listening… ? Maybe not, since I’m no longer using this.” She felt for the pouch she had stuffed back in her pocket, brought it out, and sniffed the familiar earthy smell. On impulse, she reached up and tied it round her neck.

  “Grandfather?” she whispered and closed her eyes.

  A circle of lodges in a village like her own.

  Drumming, chanting, dancers all around, dressed in blue-painted shirts covered with symbols: stars and fish and birds. Swaying to the music, for minutes, or hours or days—impossible to tell—and darkness coming and going. Dancers falling, one by one, intoxicated by hunger and exhaustion and the power of the drum.

  Like the ghost dancers I saw that day.

  Soldiers on the hill above, dragging heavy cannon into place.

  Daylight. Cannon black against a morning sky. Soldiers sprawled on the ground in the center of the lodges, sleeping around a keg of whisky, snoring and muttering in a drunken doze, waking to a bugle call, cursing and muttering and shielding their eyes from the harsh winter light.

  An old warrior, head wrapped in a white scarf, walking out of his tepee, raising his pipe to the soldiers. “We come in peace.”

  “Give up your weapons then, Spotted Elk.”

  “We have.”

  “Gonna make one more search to be sure.”

  Soldiers moving from tepee to tepee, grabbing anything sharp or pointed or blunt and hard. A pile of rusted firearms, cooking knives and pots and pans growing in the camp.

  A soldier pointing to a bewildered old man. “That Indian over there. What’s he got under his blanket? Looks like a gun—”

  The old warrior pointing to his ear. “He cannot hear you.”

  “Deaf you say? Then we’ll make him understand.”

  A shot ringing out. Cannon firing from the ridge. Soldiers on horseback thundering into the camp. Smoke filling the air.

  A woman, a baby at her breast, racing for the trees, a bullet reaching her as she falls to the ground, clutching her child.

  Three little boys running towards a ditch. “Mihakup ooh!” the oldest crying. “Follow me.” His brothers hurling themselves in, crouched and waiting, gunshots finding them all.

  A young warrior in a painted blue shirt turning to face the cannon… .

  “Walks Alone!” Red Dove, screaming now, reaching towards him, her legs not moving.

  Panicking, frozen in a cloud of dust and grit. A horse thundering up, hooves drowning out the sounds around. Noise fading, blending into a steady hum, a constant thump, thump, thump.

  A heartbeat?

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

  And understanding: the heartbeat, the eyes she is seeing through, the rage and fear and courage she is feeling are those of someone else —her brother Walks Alone.

  I’m living through him.

  Something slamming against her chest.

  Falling, tasting dirt and blood, lying there helpless, staring at a winter sky… .

  Red Dove forced her eyes open, trying to escape the terrifying vision. A beam of light from a high window blinded her and she had to shut her eyes once again before she could drag herself to where her body really was—collapsed on the hard cold stone of a boarding school kitchen. She rose slowly and walked to the window. And there in the distance was a dusty gray cloud, hovering over the road, gathering size and moving swiftly towards to the school. Terror gripped her as she remembered the cannon on the hill, the bullets, the metal taste of blood.

  Soldiers! And they’re coming… after us!

  ›› It Should’a Been Easy ‹‹

  Red Dove ran blindly down the hall and made a desperate lunge for the huge front door, trying to get away—but it was locked, barricaded against attack.

  She heard a voice. “Look in the church.”

  She ran to the chapel, glanced past the empty pews to the carved nativity scene, still garlanded for Christmas.

  A mother, a father, a child… in a stable, Red Dove thought. They found safety, so I can too… but where? The door is locked, the windows are too high.

  She heard a noise from the courtyard and glanced at the side door. It was open.

  Heart beating wildly, she raced through and stepped outside as the first wagon, loaded with men in torn and bloodied uniforms, rolled in.

  She backed behind a pillar. Hidden in a pool of blue shadow, she watched as soldiers slid from weary horses to help the men staggering from the wagons.

  She jumped at a voice behind her. “Terrible ain’t it? Warn’t nothin’ but a massacre. A filthy, hellish massacre.”

  Red Dove turned to face a red-bearded man slumped against the wall. His uniform was torn and bloodied, his voice trembled and his red-rimmed eyes held hers for a moment before he lowered them and spat in the dirt.

  Should I run? She touched her pouch and watched his face, looking for the thoughts inside his head. And saw what he saw:

  Wagons, filled with young and old… people like her, covered with blood.

  “It should’a been easy,” he mumbled, looking at Red Dove before averting his eyes again. “We drank too much, ’cause we knew we was safe—that old chief couldn’t fight; he was our captive and he was sick. But the orders from the general was clear: ‘Disarm ’em’ he said. ‘Do everythin’ you can to make sure the Indians don’t escape. And if they fight, destroy ’em.’ So we did… just needed one more weapons check to make sure. But why was they so slow to hand ’em over? What was they thinking? And that deaf one—he wouldn’t give up his gun… . Didn’t he know we had rifles and cannon, that he had no chance? And who fired first? Us or them?”

  It’s what I saw in my dream, Red Dove realized, as she watched him sway slightly and steady himself against the post.

  “All that killin’” the soldier went on. “Women, children, even our own men caught in the crossfire. It shouldn’t ‘a been like
that.”

  It shouldn’t, Red Dove thought. And whose fault is that?

  Tears rolled down his beard as Red Dove listened to him tell what he remembered. She felt his disgust, knew that he would spend the rest of his life with the terrible memory.

  Good, she thought.

  “Are you hurt, soldier?” Sister Agatha called from across the courtyard.

  Red Dove jumped behind the pillar.

  “What?” The soldier wiped his face with his sleeve.

  “I asked if you were hurt.”

  “No, but some of my men may be. They’ve had a bad time of it. Need water.” He lurched towards the chapel, stumbled up over the threshold and disappeared inside.

  Sister Agatha eyed him suspiciously. “Sister Gertrude,” she ordered, clapping her hands. “See to these men. Now.” Then her eyes found Red Dove. “And take Mary with you,” she said with a slow smile. “Make sure she doesn’t get away.”

  ›› A Holy Place ‹‹

  Sister Gertrude marched up to Red Dove, grabbed her by the sleeve and pulled her back into the chapel. “Don’t chust stand zere. Be useful.”

  Inside, soldiers were everywhere. Some were wounded, some just dazed, lying on pews or on the cold stone floor in dusty, bloodied uniforms. One walked unsteadily towards them. “Goddam Indian.” He pointed at Red Dove.

  Sister Agatha’s voice rose above the din. “Who said that?”

  “She is an Indian, ain’t she?” growled the soldier.

  Red Dove saw Sister Agatha’s nose twitch—and knew what would come. “She is, but it’s what you said before that. I won’t have you cursing in a holy place. Leave immediately,” Sister Agatha said in an icy voice.

  “Ah, come on, I didn’t mean no harm—”

  “Leave. Now.”

  The man ripped his battered hat off his head and hugged it to his chest. “Didn’t mean no disrespect, ma’am—”

  “Sister.”

  “Sister. We need help is all, after what we been through.”

  What you’ve been through? thought Red Dove, remembering the images from her dream.

  The soldier raised his eyes to Sister Agatha for a moment, then slid them away when he saw the expression in hers. “Awright,” he said finally and stumbled out, slamming the door so hard it swung back on its hinges with a bang.

  “Did I make myself clear? There will be no disrespect,” said Sister Agatha.

  Men nodded and mumbled in agreement.

  “She tell zem,” said Sister Gertrude admiringly. Then she pointed to a skinny old soldier lying on the ground. “Take his feet.”

  Red Dove grabbed the old man’s ankles and, struggling, she and Sister Gertrude hoisted him up and onto the nearest pew. The man moaned, flicked his eyes open for a moment and smiled.

  “He doesn’t seem wounded,” whispered Red Dove.

  “Vounded?” snorted Sister Gertrude. “He is besoffen… drunk.” She held her nose with her fingertips. “Schrecklich. Terrible.” She brushed her hands on her apron and crossed herself. “Stay here. I get vater.”

  Red Dove turned to stare through the open doorway at the courtyard, now thronged with men and wagons and horses. Hitched to the rail was a brown and white Indian pony, a mare, bobbing her shaggy head and gazing at her.

  “Take me,” she seemed to say.

  ›› Her First Precious Moments of Freedom ‹‹

  Ignoring Sister Gertrude’s order and making sure she was unseen, Red Dove bounded up the long staircase and into the empty dormitory. She crouched under her bed, pulled up the loose floorboards and grabbed the bundle of clothes hidden underneath. Her deerskin robe was stiff from lack of use, but its musty smell brought comfort, so she tore off her cotton pinafore, thin gray dress and hard leather shoes and pulled the familiar garment over her head. She ripped off her shoes, shoved her feet in her moccasins and reached for her blanket and parfleche.

  My pouch… She reached up to make sure it was still tied around her neck. It was.

  She crept unseen down the stairs and into the empty kitchen. She grabbed an earthenware jug, filled it with water and plugged it with a stopper. Pulling open the cupboard, she found two loaves of bread and stuffed them in the bag.

  Something thudded to the floor: an apple, the first she had seen since she came to the school. She picked it up, dropped it in her parfleche and raced to the hall, just as Sister Agatha came around the corner. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Away from here, Red Dove wanted to scream.

  “I’m… getting water… for the soldiers,” she mumbled instead, holding up the jug.

  “Dressed like that?” The nun’s eyes glinted.

  “It’s… safer this way… if the warriors attack. If we’re dressed in our own clothes, they’ll see who we are, so they won’t hurt us… or you.”

  Sister Agatha squinted at Red Dove, her wispy brows crawling like caterpillars above her eyes. Then a slow grin lifted the corners of her mouth. “Clever, aren’t you? Come here.” She pointed to the stove.

  “Why?” Red Dove reached up to touch her pouch.

  “What is that you have under your collar? Some sort of heathen wickedness, no doubt. Let me see. We’ll get rid of it—”

  “No.” Red Dove closed her hand over the pouch.

  “Come here, I said!” Sister Agatha yanked Red Dove by the sleeve and pulled her towards the cast iron stove that still smoked from the midday meal. She grabbed the poker with one hand and jerked open the heavy door with the other. “Throw it in.”

  Red Dove saw the embers, smoldering from gold to red and fear coursed through her.

  Sister Agatha thrust the poker into the coals and the iron began to smoke. “Witchcraft, is it?” she said, narrowing her eyes. “It’ll soon be gone. This fire’s hot enough.” She pulled the poker from the embers and held it up. It glowed a dull red. “Open your collar. Throw whatever it is in. Now.”

  Red Dove heard the voices in her head. “No, no, no,” they said.

  “No,” she echoed.

  “Do as I say.” Sister Agatha grabbed Red Dove’s collar, tore it open and stepped back, a look of amazement on her face. “But… there’s nothing there. Nothing but a strip of leather tied around your neck. That’s all. What kind of fool do you take me for?” Her eyes blazed with fury as she ripped the leather tie from Red Dove’s neck and the little pouch Sister Agatha couldn’t see fell to the ground.

  Red Dove bolted, grabbed the pouch and raced down the hallway, past the startled nuns, and out through the courtyard. She untied the pony from the rail, threw herself on its shaggy back and burst through the gate.

  “Take me far away from here,” she cried as she tasted her first precious moments of freedom.

  ›› You’re Comin’ with Us ‹‹

  Daylight waned and the sky turned a sullen gray as Red Dove and the pony rode on, trying to find the road to her village.

  I left my village during the Moon-of-Ripe-Plums, she thought, and now it’s the Moon-of-Popping-Trees, when ice crackles on the tree branches. My family will have moved to find shelter in the Black Hills. And that’s where Walks Alone is too, probably, so that’s where I’ll look.

  Fat flakes fell and darkness closed in as a full moon began to rise. Still clinging to the shaggy back, Red Dove breathed in the horsey smell and scanned the colorless landscape. “I have a blanket and food and water. And I have you,” she said, bending close to the pony’s ear. “So it’s just you and me now, girl,” she whispered, slowing the animal to a trot. “Girl… you are a girl, aren’t you, like me? And a pretty one… so maybe that’s what I’ll call you. Pretty Girl… Wichinchala.”

  The pony tossed her head.

  “You like that name, don’t you—”

  She saw something up ahead, moving swiftly. She pulled Wichinchala to a stop and struggled to see through the frozen light.

  Wagons… Soldiers!

  She searched for a place to hide, but there was none, and the convoy was moving fast. Before Red Do
ve could turn and run, it closed around her.

  Rigid with fear, she waited as the riders passed her by, ignoring a lone young girl on a small brown and white pony.

  “Leave ’er be,” one of the men called. “She ain’t no harm to us.”

  As the last wagon drew near, she saw who was in it: a boy slumped on the seat in front, and a one-eyed man holding the reins beside him.

  The ones from the fort… the boy who threw the rock and the man who kicked his dog… please, please don’t let them notice me. Red Dove pulled her blanket up to hide her face.

  “Hey, get outta the road,” shouted the man, jerking the wagon to a halt beside her.

  Red Dove froze. She didn’t answer.

  “Where ya headed?” he said, pulling out his gun and aiming it at her.

  “To… my family,” she stammered.

  “Not any more, y’aint.”

  Red Dove stared at the gun. And heard a click.

  “Don’t, Jake!”

  “Shut up, Rick,” growled the man, jabbing the boy with his elbow. “A hostage’ll come in handy.” He eyed her appraisingly. “So you’re comin’ with us.” With his free hand, he grabbed Wichinchala’s reins and handed them to Rick. “Hang on to ’em so she don’t go nowhere.”

  “Sure, Jake,” said Rick, not looking at Red Dove as he did as he was told.

  Numb with cold and fear, Red Dove sat on Wichinchala, following alongside. They continued straight for what seemed hours, Jake nodding off and then jerking awake, letting the horses lead the way, until at last something loomed in the distance, blacker than the leaden sky.

  The fort?

  A smell hit her nostrils: the sick-sweet stench of summer plums, rotting in the sun. Why? It’s not summer; there are no plums… Is the pouch trying to tell me something?

  “Cold ain’t it?” The boy squeaked, leaning close to her and away from Jake. She could barely see his face in the darkness. “Cold, ain’t it?” he repeated, an octave lower. “Name’s Rick. What’s yours?” he whispered.

  Red Dove shook her head.

  “Not gonna tell me, huh?