PUBLISHED BY:
Cate Masters on Smashwords
Follow The Stars Home
Copyright © 2015 by Cate Masters
Previously published by Eternal Press. All rights were returned to the author in 2015.
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To Gary, always
Follow the Stars Home
by
Cate Masters
Note to Readers: I first learned about the Carlisle Indian Industrial School from a PBS special shortly after moving to Carlisle, Pa. I found the episode so compelling, I would purposely drive by the students' graveyard on what is now the Army War College campus.
I found myself researching the school before I knew I was going to write about it. The Cumberland County Historical Society has a wonderful exhibit of student photographs and artifacts at its Carlisle museum, which I visited.
Later, Dickinson College's Trout Gallery had an exhibit on the school, included photographs of the students, some of their personal effects such as drums, clothing and moccasins. The most striking was the pictograph created by Etahdleuh Doanmoe called A Kiowa’s Odyssey, which documents the experiences of this student.
Captain Pratt's motto was: Kill the Indian, Save the Man. In some cases, it just killed the Indian. Students died of exposure to foreign diseases, or sheer homesickness, or sometimes suicide. Many ran away. In fact, many ran away to join the spectacular traveling show Buffalo Bill's Wild West.
I wove in Lakota mythology and legend, using books such as Richard Erdoes and Alfonso Ortiz' American Indian Myths and Legends, and James Mooney's The Ghost-Dance Religion. Linda Witmer's "The Indian Industrial School" provided a great deal of factual information about the student's daily lives, along with fascinating photos. Pratt was careful to document students' progress through photographs, showing them as sad savages upon their arrival, and happy, neatly dressed civilians after attending his school.
Follow The Stars Home places fictional characters in the real-life events that occurred during the founding of the Carlisle Indian Industrial School in 1879. I hope you will find it as fascinating as I did.
Follow the Stars Home
Chapter One
The first rays of the late spring sun shone through the dust rising from the warriors’ feet as they pounded in rhythm with the drums. Four nights they had danced. The new day signaled the end.
Shaking her gourd rattle, Quiet Thunder’s heart chilled. In an orange-red haze of dust, the dancers looked no more than shadows moving through blood-tinged air. The Ghost Dance appeared a vision of death. Icy tendrils of panic climbed up her throat, her pulse beating faster than the drums as she scanned the haze for Black Bear. Seeing no sign of him, her heart swam in misery. She sang alongside her mother and the other women. With all she could give, she called upon the spirits of the dead to help her tribe. Long had they been calling, but she heard no answer of hope. No thundering hooves across the plains of buffalo and horses driven ahead by their ancestors, as promised.
The Ghost Dance should bring triumph, not defeat. Bring back the buffalo herds and plentiful deer so her tribe would no longer suffer hunger. Send the wasichu back to taribo–east, where the whites belonged. So far away, she’d never have to worry of their intrusions on her people’s lives, or her dreams.
That’s why warriors from Cheyenne and Arapaho tribes traveled many days to her Sioux camp. They feasted together. Black Coyote, the medicine man, smeared each warrior’s face with powerful red paint. Sacred paint to bless them all with long life and health. To bring victory, bring back the old ways. Bring peace to their daily existence.
Amid the swirling haze of the dance, Black Bear emerged, solitary in his fullness of being. The only dancer who did not look a shadow. Quiet Thunder’s breath stilled as she watched him move with slow strength, his arms spread like soaring eagle wings, his feet like prancing horse hooves. Like her, he chanted with yearning. The pain in his face spoke of all their tribe had lost, even over these past few winters.
His dance slowed, and his face smoothed, though he appeared in a different kind of trance. She felt the power in his lean muscles as he reached his arms skyward. When he let them drop, outstretched toward her, his gaze met hers. He must have felt her spirit reaching for his. And his reached for hers, carried in song. In that moment, their spirits joined in their own dance. Her heart leaped, and fluttered against her ribs like a trapped bird. So powerful was their connection, she could almost feel his embrace enfolding around her, his heart beating in time with her own.
The dust turned golden in the light of day. Before he continued along the circle, Black Bear gave a nod and disappeared into it.
Unsure what to make of the vision, Quiet Thunder’s breath caught in her throat, and her voice failed her. She glanced at her mother, Pretty Eagle, whose eyes held sadness even though she smiled. Pretty Eagle raised her chin and sang, but her gaze, too, followed Black Bear into the amber haze. The warriors’ chant of hu! hu! hu! stopped sharply, its echoes filling the silence.
Quiet Thunder’s heart swelled with a nameless ache as Black Bear stood tall among the others, a hard gleam in his dark eyes, mouth set in a grim line. Not the trickster boy she’d known all her life, but a proud, fearsome warrior. The dust settled, and the dancers left the circle. Black Bear’s shoulders relaxed as his gaze found her again. The steady thump came not from the drums, but the beating of her heart. Her mother spoke as if from a distance, her words lost in the buzz filling Quiet Thunder’s ears—a buzz that seemed to fill the space between her and Black Bear. Only when someone clasped his shoulder and diverted his attention could Quiet Thunder breathe again, and hear her mother’s urgings to help prepare the meal. With a nod, Quiet Thunder followed, her glances tracking Black Bear, just as his gaze tracked her. Throughout the rest of the day, the morning’s haze seemed to linger in Quiet Thunder’s head, clouding all other thoughts but those of Black Bear.
Sitting beside the fire after the evening meal, her mother turned and asked, “Are you ill?”
Quiet Thunder’s cheeks burned, but from a different sort of flame. “I’m fine.”
Pretty Eagle’s stare held worry. “You’d better stay close tonight. I have a bad feeling, like something terrible’s approaching.”
Her mother often warned of danger in the shadows. Sometimes, events proved her mysterious sensations correct. Quiet Thunder suspected perhaps Pretty Eagle sensed the shift in her feelings for Black Bear, from exasperation to yearning. “But I—”
“Enough,” her mother snapped. “You and your brother will come to the tipi when your father says it’s time. Until then, you’ll stay where I can see you.”
Quiet Thunder swallowed back her argument. Despite wanting to follow Black Bear when he inclined his head toward the darkness surrounding camp, her stomach churned as hesitation fought with deeper urges. His impish grin made him appear as boyish as ever, but today she’d witnessed a new Black Bear emerging from the dust of Mother Earth, breaking free of his youthful, carefree self. She, too, sensed a new Quiet Thunder rising up, filling her spirit with desires she’d never before
experienced as she saw Black Bear with new eyes—no longer the eyes of a girl.
At her mother’s command, hesitation would win over yearning. For tonight.
****
The firelight spread its glow across the faces of the men sitting around it. Black Bear linked his hands around his bended knees and watched the sparks drift up as the wood succumbed to flame. As he’d succumbed to his feelings for Quiet Thunder. He understood now how the wood sacrificed itself for the burn. Each night, thoughts of her burned into his head and coursed through his veins, keeping him awake. He lived for the moments he could be with her, speak with her, touch her.
Someone bumped his shoulder, disrupting his thoughts.
Grinning, his friend Yellow Bird sat down. “The ceremony went well. My father was pleased.”
“And mine.” Except for his misstep. The pause that threw off the others who followed. All overlooked it, knowing Black Bear could not help but be entranced by Quiet Thunder. A weakness he had to overcome if he wished to become worthy enough to win her. Only great warriors controlled their minds, focused on their task at hand. In battle, such foolishness would cost lives, including his own. How then would he grow old with her?
“You’re quiet tonight.”
Black Bear grunted in response. Yellow Bird had been his friend since memory began, but he had no inclination to open himself to ridicule. Not tonight. He could think of nothing else besides going back to the stream to wait for Quiet Thunder.
Unable to contain himself, he scrambled up and strode behind a tipi close to hers. With the stealth of a wolf, he watched as she followed her family inside, glancing back several times before the flap swallowed her. Something about the way she moved, the way her gaze searched the camp, spoke of regret and longing. His fingers clamped hard to the pole beneath the buffalo skin. She wouldn’t come out again, he knew it.
Behind him, Yellow Bird whispered, “Maybe you could sneak in behind her. But then you risk the sting of Pretty Eagle’s knife.”
Black Bear held his tongue. Each night in his dreams, he held Quiet Thunder. Someday, they would share a tipi. Until then, he must do things properly. No, he wouldn’t risk her parents’ anger.
“I must go.” He had something to do. Something he hoped would please Quiet Thunder.
****
Voices outside awoke Quiet Thunder. On the other side of the tipi, Running Wolf’s chest rose and fell with soft breaths. The sun had begun its climb across the sky. She lay still and listened.
Outside, the voice of her father, Flying Horse, resounded strong and full with confidence. “My grandfather came to me in a dream. He will return soon, as Black Coyote said.”
Pretty Eagle’s hushed tone was no less strong. “We cannot last through another winter with so little food.”
“We must be patient and continue the Ghost Dance. Our hunters will bring us many deer.”
Her mother’s whisper grew harsh. “Not even the berries have been plentiful. The rains have been scarce.”
Her father grunted. “Soon we will move to a new camp. We will find a better place.”
Quiet Thunder drew a ragged breath that wound through her like a venomous snake. Her parents almost never argued. The tribe must face great peril. More whites moved into their territories, scattering the buffalo and deer herds, disrupting hunting.
Quiet Thunder shared her mother’s worries. The snows had brought death to the old and weak last winter, and they’d lost four Sioux: two elderly warriors, a grandmother and a baby. Many nights, she’d fallen asleep cold and hungry. She looked forward to the Moon of Strawberries, when the plump red fruit would spring from the earth. Maybe in the new camp, she could eat her fill.
After the tribe moved again, she hoped her father would make their tipi on the outskirts of camp. Many nights, she grew restless when the moon rose round and plump as a berry, showering its light onto the fields in a way that made her want to run through them, laughing. She dreamed of running with Black Bear, but not to race as when they were young. Though he displayed his prowess to others in his straight back and the set of his jaw, his shoulders rounded when he spoke to Quiet Thunder in soft tones, his words tripping his tongue. A giggle bubbled up as she remembered how he could not lift his gaze to hers a few months ago when he stumbled across her alone in the field, searching for chokeberries and turnips.
The tipi flap snapped up, startling the happy memory away.
Pretty Eagle glared from the opening. “Quiet Thunder. Why do you lie there? Get up and fetch water. Our guests leave this morning.” She glanced at Quiet Thunder’s younger brother as he leaned up on an elbow. “Running Wolf, help your father.” After grunting her disapproval at their laziness, she went back to the fire.
Her brother opened wide his dark eyes. “What’s wrong?”
Quiet Thunder couldn’t bear to speak of her parents’ worries. “We’ll talk later.” She slipped on her moccasins, though she wasn’t sure what she would tell him. To agree with her mother would anger her father. She didn’t want to worry Running Wolf. In his eleven winters, he had known enough hardship already.
She grabbed the two skin buckets and circled around the tipi before her mother could chastise her again. Two would make a heavy load, but the effort would please Pretty Eagle.
The dewy grass dampened her moccasins as she hastened across the field and through the stand of trees by the stream. The rush of water over stones calmed her troubled thoughts. She splashed her face and let the cool water run through her fingers. A movement upstream caught her eye, and sent a rush over her like a waterfall.
Black Bear stood in the middle of the stream, his strong legs planted wide as the water swirled up to his knees. As still and silent as a painted figure of a warrior, he pointed the tip of a sharpened branch down, poised to strike. His shoulders had widened these past few winters, and the twist of his body made the muscles of his narrow waist and stomach stand out in relief against his bronzed skin. Since they were young, he’d talked of someday being a Lakota fierce enough to overpower an enemy with fear. He had become that warrior, Quiet Thunder realized. But she wouldn’t tell him. His pride made him boastful. Someday it could hurt him, if he didn’t learn to be more humble.
In awe, she watched him, this man-boy.
Quick as a hawk’s dive, he plunged the branch into the water. When he lifted it again, a large fish flopped uselessly at its point. With a whoop, he pumped his fist in the air. He quieted when he saw her. The muscles rippled in his lean, long legs as he stepped onto the bank to add the catch to his full pouch. His black braids had grown halfway down his back and one swung across his chiseled chest as he shouldered the bag strap.
Quiet Thunder tried to hide her smile as she busied herself with the buckets. All her life, Black Bear went out of his way to tease her—pull her hair to make her angry, then laugh. Until two winters ago, when he grew taller than his father. Since then, he strived to run faster, ride his horse better, aim his arrow straighter than any other boy, always glancing her way to be certain she’d seen. Lately, his teasing had a different way of agitating her. Instead of wanting to berate him, she wished to tease him also. She suspected he intended it so. She hoped so, but also worried. Though his body had grown, his spirit sometimes resembled a little boy’s. In these uncertain times, she needed someone she could depend on.
When she glanced up, her thoughts silenced except for those of Black Bear. Her skin warmed as if the sun shone with full force.
With the stealth and grace of a wolf, he walked toward her, his gaze steady on hers. His stomach muscles rippled as he bent to set down his load, a faint smile crossing his lips.
With unsteady legs, she rose beside him. “Our guests will have another feast before they leave, thanks to your catch.” Her voice quivered, making her cheeks burn.
The fish wriggled in the overcrowded pouch, but Black Bear kept his gaze on her. His smile faded. “We must make them comfortable. The Wicasa Yatapickas plan today for the Sun Dance.”
/> “Yes.” She didn’t look forward to it. The Wicasa Yatapickas, the Four Great Leaders, would decide what the entire Sioux Nation would do for the next year. Unrest had befallen the tribes within the Seven Council Fires. Forced to stay within the confines of the reservations, the Lakota tried to stay strong, but more whites traveled into their territory each year, bringing sickness and bad luck. Many wasichu—even those at the Rosebud Agency—cheated tribes of food, or made false promises. Sly as the Iktomi trickster.
For days after each Ghost Dance, tensions mounted within the village. Hopes for relief had worn thin, and her people grew tired of waiting, always waiting.
She kneeled and set a skin bucket in the stream.
He knelt beside her. “Two winters have passed since the Sun Dance in which I became a man.” He held the other bucket in the water. “Soon I may consider taking a wife.” His gaze flicked up.
His words stole her breath. Surprise loosened her grip and the skin bucket slipped beneath the water.
With one deft movement, he grabbed the skin and held it up. Her fingers grazed his when she took it. His bronze skin glistened in the morning light, shadows making hills of the curves of his chest. Hills she found herself wanting to roam. For a moment, she forgot herself and nearly ran her hand across those hills. When he stiffened and eased closer, her heart pounded like a thousand drums.
A twig snapped beyond the trees. Black Bear froze, and then moved away. His keen hunter’s gaze slid left, fingers poised at the ground, muscles tensed and ready to spring.
Quiet Thunder gasped and turned to see her brother. “Running Wolf. What are you doing?” She jerked to a stand, and water sloshed against her doeskin dress. She groaned her embarrassment.
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