by Sonia Antaki
“Where am I?” she asked, Jerusha hovering over her.
“Home, my dear. With us.” Jerusha nodded at Rick, who had walked in behind her. “You collapsed, you know. From exhaustion. There’s a bruise on the side of your face, but nothing serious. How do you feel?”
“All right. I have to get back—”
“You will. We all will, but there are others in charge there now and they’ll take care of things while we rest. In the meantime, I’ll make you a nice cup of tea—”
“Walks Alone?” Red Dove said with a rush of remembering. “Where is he?”
“Here, my dear.” Jerusha reached out to brush the stray hairs from Red Dove’s forehead. “On a cot in the kitchen. We’re taking care of him.”
Red Dove sat upright. “I have to go to him.”
“Of course you do, just not yet.” Jerusha pushed her gently back down. “He’s sleeping. You should rest, too.”
“I have to.” Red Dove pulled off the covers, dropped her feet to the floor and walked into the kitchen, where Walks Alone sat on his cot, propped up next to the black cast iron stove. He smiled weakly when he saw her.
“I’ll leave you two alone then,” Jerusha said, picking up the little orange cat and crossing into her bedroom.
“You seem better,” Red Dove said.
“I am. I was lucky. The bullet knocked me down and broke a rib, but it wasn’t serious. Just a flesh wound. What happened to you, Sister?” he asked, staring at the purple bruise across her cheek.
“I fainted and fell and hit my head, but I’m all right now.”
Walks Alone patted the space next to him on the cot and Red Dove sat down.
“Mother? Grandfather?” she said, giving voice to the questions burning inside her, “did you find them?”
“Grandfather—” Walks Alone choked.
“What?”
“He was there—”
“At Wounded Knee? You saw him?”
“He came looking for me.”
“He’s alive? What happened?”
“I don’t know,” her brother said sadly. “I saw him, talked to him, and then… when the shooting started, I lost him.”
Red Dove didn’t want to think of what that meant. “And Mother?” she blurted.
“Stayed behind. With our people, Grandfather said.”
“Where are they now, our people?”
“Paha Sapa I think, but I don’t know.” Walks Alone hung his head. “That’s where Grandfather said they were going.” His voice trailed off. “But he came to look for me, he said. He knew somehow that I had escaped from the school—”
“Maybe he’s with the survivors then,” said Red Dove, hoping that by saying the words, they would be true.
“I didn’t see him.”
“Jerusha says there are more wounded coming in so he might be with them. I’ll go—”
“Where?” asked Jerusha, wiping her hands with a towel as she walked back into the room.
“To the church,” said Red Dove. “To look for Grandfather. Walks Alone said he was there.”
“There?” Jerusha frowned and then, nodding slowly, began to understand. “Oh… at Wounded Knee—then I’d better come, too.”
›› Grandfather ‹‹
Together, Red Dove, Jerusha and Rick plodded through the snowy yard, across the slushy street and up to the door of the church. It was full morning now, and Red Dove’s eyes, blinded by sun reflecting off snow, couldn’t see into the darkness inside. But she didn’t need to see as she made her way slowly into the crowded room. She reached up and touched the pouch.
All the noises—the racking coughs, the angry curses, the desperate moans—blended into an ever-present drone.
I have to find him, she thought, and I need the pouch for that, but I don’t want to feel what all the others are feeling. Not here, not now.
She tried to look away from the suffering faces, the ghastly wounds. Then she reached up, untied the pouch from around her neck, and stuffed it in her parfleche.
“Grandfather, where are you?” she whispered.
The drone continued, louder and louder as she moved farther into the room. It’s trying to tell me something… It knows where Grandfather is.
She followed the drone to the darkest, dimmest corner of the church—and at last, she saw him, lying on a wrinkled blanket on the straw.
“Grandfather!” She rushed over and fell on her knees, trembling at the sight of his beloved old face.
Dressed for battle, an eagle feather in his thin gray hair, his clouded eyes searched hers. “You’re not wearing the pouch.”
It hurts too much, Grandfather.
“It is the pain of others you feel—”
I don’t want to feel their pain.
“You must—if you want to understand—”
I don’t want that. Not anymore.
“Ah, I see.”
Grandfather, I’m sorry… I thought I was stronger, but I’m not. All I want now is to know how you are, so I can have you back again. That’s all I care about.
A sad glint in the gentle eyes. “Then touch me—and you will know.”
Leaning in and placing the flat of her palm against his narrow, bony chest. Feeling the pulsing of his heart, beating like a drum. Entering his thoughts: smelling the wood fire, the sacred healing smoke, seeing the dancers swaying in their painted shirts.
You were there at Wounded Knee, Grandfather?
“I was, Gray Eyes. I went to bring your brother home.”
But you’re both safe, so you’ll be with us soon… won’t you?
“The power is inside you now.”
That’s not an answer. We’ll all be going home soon, won’t we?
“The power is inside you now.” His eyes glowing with a strange, otherworldly light. “Use it to find your happiness instead of pain.”
How can I find happiness if all I feel is pain? That doesn’t make any sense!
“It will.” The voice began to fade. “And soon. But do something first… here.”
Her throat ached and she wanted to wail the way she had as a child when things were too much to bear. Instead, Red Dove took a breath and let her eyes follow his finger, as it pointed to the little girl with the terrible wound.
Don’t make me look at her, Grandfather. I don’t want to feel what she’s going through—
“Her name is Windflower, in the white man’s tongue.”
Turning towards the still little body. “Her spirit has fled.”
“It has not. Help her find her happiness and you will find your own. Remember: Windflower.”
“Windflower,” Red Dove repeated. When she turned again to look at him, all she saw was a pile of rags on the floor.
“Grandfather!” she screamed.
“What’s the matter, Red Dove?” Jerusha cried, rushing over.
“Grandfather… was here… I know he was.” Red Dove was sobbing now, because she did know. He had been there—but in spirit, not in life.
She stared at a beam of light that found its way through the small high window above the altar and lit the dust motes dancing in the air. She watched it crawl slowly across the floor, until at last it came to rest on her shoulders. She felt the glow of warmth that rose from her chest and spread outward across the room.
“Grandfather,” she whispered, as she rose on trembling legs and stumbled towards the little girl. She looked at the still, small face, saw the eyelids flicker, and caught the ghost of a smile.
“You are living still,” she murmured. She wanted to reach inside her pocket for the pouch, but remembered her grandfather’s words and placed her fingers on her own bare throat instead. “The power is inside me now,” she said, “so I know what to do.”
She reached into the parfleche, pulled out the doll her mother had made and wrapped the little girl’s fingers around it. “This is for you,” she whispered, “because you are meant to live. And I will make you a promise: I will help you find your happiness, and through you
rs… I will find my own.”
›› A Weapon ‹‹
“You’re very good to her, my dear,” said Jerusha, bending over both Red Dove and Windflower in the cold chapel, now empty of all but a few of the wounded. “This is the last of them, thank God. We should go home now, too.” Her bright, birdlike eyes scanned the room. “Sometimes I wish we had a weapon. Something so powerful that the men who did this would have to understand. Something that would make them feel the pain they caused, show them the truth.”
Something like the pouch? Maybe the best weapon is the truth.
Jerusha put her hand to her forehead. “Forgive me. I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. I’m so exhausted that I’m not really making any sense.” Her shoulders slumped.
You are, thought Red Dove, more than you know. “What would you do if you had something like that?”
“It would be wonderful, wouldn’t it?” Jerusha answered with a faint smile. “We could use it to fight against all this.” She swept the air with her hand. “If people had to live it for themselves… feel it—”
“They would know the suffering they caused,” said Red Dove, finishing the sentence for her. “And understand.”
“Yes.” Jerusha’s eyes bored into Red Dove. “And the killing would stop.”
“So we should give it to them,” Red Dove thought out loud—and then realized she had said too much.
“Give what?” Jerusha frowned.
“Nothing. I mean, maybe we should challenge the soldiers, make them face what they’ve done… show them.”
“I see.” Jerusha tilted her head. “Are you really that brave, my dear?”
I don’t know, thought Red Dove, as she watched ideas taking shape in Jerusha’s head.
Jerusha had a steely glint in her eye. “If we brought the soldiers here—the ones in charge, that is—they could see what they’ve done, all the harm they’ve caused, and they would be forced to understand. We should go to the fort—”
“I can’t go there! I’d be a captive again.”
“I wouldn’t let that happen.”
I doubt you could prevent it, Red Dove thought, remembering Jerusha’s inability to protect her before. “Besides, I can’t leave her,” she blurted, nodding at Windflower.
“We’ve done as much as we can here; there’s hardly anyone left to care for, and there are others, finally, to look after them.” She nodded at an efficient-looking woman in a clean white apron. “So we should go where we can do more good.” Jerusha hesitated. “But of course, you don’t have to if you’re afraid—”
“’Fraid of what?” asked Rick, sidling over.
“Of going back to the fort,” said Jerusha.
“Why would you do that?” asked Rick with a puzzled frown. “Thought you was headed to Paha Sapa.”
“I was.” Red Dove looked at Rick, then Jerusha, and finally down at the figure of Windflower, lying on the ground.
The woman emerged from the kitchen, a linen towel in her hands. She walked over to Windflower, bent down and picked up the doll that had fallen from her tiny fingers. “Here, little one,” she said with kindness in her eyes. “This belongs to you.”
“It does,” said Red Dove. “It was a gift I gave her, from my mother.”
She stopped, looked at the woman as she tended Windflower, and back at the few survivors left in the room. Jerusha’s right. Windflower deserves justice. They all do.
She reached up to touch her neck.
And I know how to get it.
“Let’s go,” she said, and headed to the door.
“What? Where?”
“To the fort, like you said.”
“But… wait,” Jerusha grabbed her shawl and bonnet and followed Red Dove out the door. “We’ll take the buggy. It’s a bit of a journey and it’s getting dark—”
“I’ll ride my pony,” said Red Dove. Because I might need her if I have to get away.
“An’ I’m comin’ too,” said Rick, scurrying up behind them. “Better get back so they don’t think I’m a deserter.”
›› You’re Hers ‹‹
The little party—Rick and Red Dove on horseback, Jerusha following in the buggy—rode steadily southward. Dusk fell as they finally approached the walls of the fort.
“State your business,” shouted the sentry from the watchtower. “Say… that you, Rick? Where you been? We was worried about you.”
“Bringin’ back a runaway,” Rick nodded at Red Dove. “From the school.”
He means me, Red Dove thought with alarm. Will he turn me in?
She searched his face and his smile told her the answer.
“Chasin’ after an Indian, huh?” the sentry chuckled and waved them in. “Cap’n’ll be pleased to see you. Go on.”
Jerusha snapped the reins and the wagon lurched forward. The ground inside the gate had been churned by boots and hooves into a slushy mass. Dim light shone through the dirty windows that surrounded the yard. Odors of coffee, tobacco smoke and manure filled the air.
Jerusha wrinkled her nose. “Where will I find the commanding officer?” she asked a soldier walking past.
“Colonel’s away, but the captain’s in there.” He gestured towards a small, lighted window in the corner. “He’s the one in charge til the colonel gets back.”
Jerusha pulled the buggy to a stop, slid carefully down and tied the horses to the rail. “This way,” she said to Rick and Red Dove as she stepped up onto the rough plank sidewalk and tapped on the door.
“Come in,” barked a voice and Jerusha opened the door.
The overheated room smelled of liquor, sweat and damp wool. A brass clock ticked away on the mantelpiece over a smoky fire. A man in a dusty cavalry hat was slumped behind a desk in the corner. He leaned forward, put his elbows on the table and poured himself a drink from a small metal flask. “Whatcha want?”
Red Dove stared at his crooked right arm and steel gray eyes. I know him, she thought.
Then he sat up. “Rick? Where the devil you been?” His voice was thick with drink and colored with a strange foreign sound. He took off his hat. His head was covered with snow-white hair.
He’s the one I saw when I was here with my mother.
“And what are you doing with these women, son?
“I brought back a runaway, sir.” Rick nodded at Red Dove.
“Runaway, eh?” the man chuckled.
“Yessir, from the school.”
“Christ.” The captain smiled and poured himself another drink. “All right then. I knew you weren’t a deserter. I didn’t raise you that way.” He jerked a thumb at Red Dove. “So who is she? Come over here, young woman. You seem familiar. Have you been here before?”
“Yes.” Red Dove took a deep breath. “With my mother… to trade.”
“And who might you be?” he said to Jerusha.
“Jerusha Kincaide. And I’m here—we’re here—,” she looked at Red Dove, “to tell you something.”
“What?”
“Your men have done a terrible thing… wicked… evil,” Jerusha began, but her voice trembled so much it came out in faint bursts. “Someone has to speak up for the victims. Your men have killed innocents, women and children, people who meant no harm to anyone,” Jerusha went on. She looked hopefully at Rick. “Tell him, Rick. You saw them, didn’t you? At the church.”
Rick didn’t answer.
Jerusha looked back at the captain. “We simply want you to know what you’ve done. Come to the church and see the wounded—”
“I seen plenty of wounded in me day,” said the captain. “And I don’t need to see more. Now if you’ll excuse me, I got work to do.”
“But—” Jerusha tried.
“Sergeant, show these women out.”
“Yessir.” A burly soldier moved towards them. “This way.”
Red Dove reached up for her pouch and then remembered it was in her parfleche. “Wait,” she said, bringing it out. “Here.” She extended her hand.
“A we
apon?” In one swift movement, the captain crossed the floor and before she had time to act, he grabbed her fist and forced it open. His fingers closed around the pouch.
He’s not supposed to touch it here, Red Dove thought.
“There’s nothing there,” he roared, and stared at his hand.
His eyes grew round, and he staggered back, pouch in his hand. “What’s… happening?” He looked straight at Red Dove.
But he needs to be looking at the wounded, Red Dove thought, for it to work. He needs to feel what they’ve gone through. Maybe if he’s looking at me and I’m thinking of them, he’ll understand.
“Think of your mother,” came a voice.
My mother?
Falling Bird.
“Falling Bird?” she whispered. And try as she might to focus on the victims, their wounds, their pain, her mind was filled with the image of her mother’s gentle face.
The captain’s mouth hung open as he gaped at her. “Falling Bird… ,” he said, looking at Red Dove, but seeing someone else. Then he shook his hand, slowly at first, then frantically. “It’s burning. God almighty, there’s nothing there, but it’s burning. An’ I’m hearing things, seeing things… about you… and her.”
“Who are you?” He pushed his face close to Red Dove, so close that she could smell the whisky on his breath.
The buzzing noise grew louder as she saw what he was seeing: memories of a beautiful black-haired woman in a deerskin dress. Her face was turned away, but from the toss of her head, Red Dove knew she was young and pretty and very much in love.
“You’re hers, ain’t you? Falling Bird’s?” he repeated. “That means that you’re my—”
“No,” Red Dove ripped the pouch from his hand. She raced through the door, grabbed Wichinchala’s reins and leapt upon her back.
“You’re not my father—you can’t be. You’re a soldier,” she shouted, galloping across the courtyard. “You’re lying—and this thing is too,” she cried, and hurled the little pouch into the muck.
›› Things That Are Lost ‹‹
“Paha Sapa,” said Red Dove, patting her pony. “That’s where we’re going. To find Mother. So she will say it’s all a lie.”