Marches to and from class provided no chance to speak with him. The teachers had selected officers from among the students to take charge of student companies, and these student officers allowed no speaking, no breaking from the line. Only in class could Rose sit near Samuel during the week, his warm presence her only reassurance that she’d made a good choice to follow him here.
When they practiced writing, Rose slipped him notes telling him how much she missed him, asking what trades he learned after class.
At first, his replies came in short phrases: Carpenter. Blacksmith. Tinsmith.
She understood little of what he referred to, but treasured his handwritten notes nonetheless. As his vocabulary grew, so did his notewriting. He described disliking the dirty work of blacksmithing, but appreciating the artistry of working with tin and wood. His teacher encouraged him to apprentice with a nearby tinsmith or carpenter, but doing so would take him away from Carlisle for those days.
Sorrow filled Rose when she read this. The words gave away none of his feelings. Would he miss her if he went?
As Samuel, he revealed nothing about himself, as if he’d tucked away Black Bear beneath a façade blank by his own design. He wrote to her as he might to an acquaintance. The warmth in his gaze faded to a cool, dull stare.
On weekends, when the students’ time was less structured, she sat with the other spectators by the football field. Samuel’s long, sinewy leg muscles propelled him out of reach of the opposite team’s attempts to retrieve the ball. He showed no expression of triumph when he scored a touchdown, or his team won a game. Nor when an opposing team member tackled him. Immediately, he’d stand and assume his position.
To sit near him during Sunday worship proved more difficult. Often in class, Miss Ely frowned at Rose’s whispers to Samuel. The teacher’s gaze followed her now on the way to church, and in the Dining Hall. Rose had to be careful not to raise suspicions, or she’d risk punishment–or worse, being moved to afternoon classes, away from him. Should that happen, her reason to awake each morning would be stolen from her.
****
Football began as a lark, but soon grew to an obsession. On the field, Samuel vented all his frustrations into a single focal point: the ball and getting it to the goal. He hadn’t run for months, let alone at full speed, so for the first few weeks, his muscles burned from overuse.
Though smaller, William could weave in and out of charging players with skill. Each time he crossed the goal line, he let out a whoop of defiance, pride shining in his eyes. Too much pride. Samuel vowed to best his fellow tribesman, and worked methodically to build up his muscles. Running laps around the field made his lungs and legs ache, but cleared his mind. For that short time, he remembered who he used to be. How he used to live. The times he’d spent with Quiet Thunder under the stars. Sometimes tears would sting at his eyes, but he refused to let them fall, instead channeling them back into himself to fuel his energy to run.
At practices, he threw himself into the drills, feverishly running the plays. When he carried the football past the goal, he allowed only a moment’s flush of pride. Despite himself, each victory grew sweeter. When the coach nominated him as the team’s top quarterback, jealousy burned in William’s eyes.
Later that night, Samuel lay in bed. Finished with writing practice, he pulled out the paper Miss Ely had given them. Lately, he’d been sketching scenes from the life he’d left behind: his beloved paint horse, hunting buffalo and deer with his friend Yellow Bird, the Sun Dance, all the families gathered together to say goodbye when they left in the wagons. Drawing these images helped him feel closer to them all. Several times, he’d begun a sketch of the nights with Quiet Thunder—by the stream, in the field under the stars. Tears burned at his eyes when those images brought back memories too painful to release, so he’d ripped up those pages.
Another boy came to stand beside his bed. From his stance, Samuel recognized William Eagle Elk.
“Drawing is for children,” William sneered.
In hopes William would leave, Samuel kept his pencil moving.
He crouched close, his eyes gleaming with a wild glare. “You think you are a big man because you’re a quarterback.”
“No.” Not big. Pathetic, using football to exhaust his frustrations.
“I see the way Rose looks at you—with love and admiration, seeing no other man but you. You may win at football, but I intend to win Rose. Someday, she’ll look at me that way.”
Thickness gathered in Samuel’s throat, and he gulped hard. William loved her; of that, he had no doubt. “She decides who she wants.”
A bitter laugh burst from William. “Yes. She deserves the best. Me.”
As much as it sickened him, he had to admit William would make a better partner for her than himself.
Edging closer, William hissed, “No matter how long it takes, I will make it so.”
The vow twisted in Samuel’s gut like venom. He couldn’t give Rose what she needed. He should step aside for William, who would rise above them all, whether by cunning or ruthlessness.
William’s earlier taunt came back to Samuel: Not man enough? Sadly, the boy had a long way to go to become a man. Samuel hoped he would rise above pettiness. He also hoped Rose’s strong spirit would guide her to make the right choice.
****
To alleviate boredom, Rose Quiet Thunder signed up for art and music classes. Standing at the easel evoked memories of her mother painting the tipi with images sacred to their tribe. What, she wondered, had her mother added since the children’s departure? Surely Pretty Eagle’s tears mixed with the berry paints. It brought a lump to Rose’s throat as she worked the brush against the canvas. How she missed her parents! And the winding flow of the days on the Plains – nothing like the rigid school days, structured to each hour of the day. Even horses here seemed bored, tethered to wagons, unable to throw their heads and gallop freely across the land.
Her music teacher took her aside after class. “You play the piano better than the others. I’d like you to practice so you can be our accompanist during concerts and plays.”
The offer took Rose by surprise, but she agreed. The piano gave her another reason to look forward to her days. Her nimble fingers danced across the keys as if she’d played all her life. The flow of the sonatas and cantatas mimicked the flow and swell of rushing rivers. Music allowed her to lose herself in it, forget the pain of missing her tribe.
In class, Miss Ely announced the students would sing in a concert for visiting Quakers, accompanied by Rose.
Black Bear gave a hard, quick glance.
Hurt pricked at her, followed by a surge of heated anger. Did he expect her to mope and moon for him, while girls cheered for him at football?
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You could join the band.” Then she’d see him at practice, and at concerts.
“No.”
“But you play the flute so well.”
He snapped his gaze to hers. “No.”
Its coldness chilled her. “I only meant...”
Grumbling, he pushed out of his seat.
“Samuel.” Miss Ely stepped toward him. “Sit down. Please.”
He shot her a glare then slammed the door behind him.
****
Anger blinded him. Samuel strode outside, unsure of where to go. Why would she ask him to play his flute for anyone else? He’d meant his songs for her alone, to show how much he loved her. And now she expected him to forget all that? To join the other students in forgetting the importance of the past. Playing his flute for the wasichu would strip the songs of all meaning.
An older boy wearing the patch of the student guard called, “Where are you going?”
Samuel kept walking. He had no idea.
The guard jogged over, and his arm shot in front of Samuel. “Hey! Classes aren’t over for another hour. Let me see your pass.”
He pushed past. “I have no pass.”
“Get back to
your classroom now, or I’ll report you.”
“Go ahead.” As if he cared. Coach would be the only one to miss him.
“Halt where you are.”
Blood pumped through him, and Samuel sprinted ahead. He might have been carrying a football, he focused so keenly. Not to score a goal, but to get away, somewhere quiet where he could be alone and think.
The student slammed into him from behind, grabbed his arms at the same time he grabbed his arms. Samuel hit the ground hard, his breath leaving him in a rush. When he lifted his head, black stars swam in his vision.
The boy pushed his head down. “Maybe a night in the guard house will remind you of the rules.” Roughly he grasped Samuel’s arm and jerked. “Let’s go. Get up.”
The rules. Samuel had thought of nothing else since coming here. A rule for every occasion and every day. Laughter bubbled up. “Yes sir.”
“What are you laughing at? You think it’s funny? Maybe you need more than one night.”
“Maybe.” Maybe he needed to spend the rest of his time there, alone. Like a vision quest, he would sit there and wait for guidance. If any Lakota needed it, it was him.
****
Rumors flew through the Dining Hall at breakfast. A student had been shot. Samuel’s conspicuous absence frightened Rose; she asked her brother if he’d seen him.
“No. I don’t think he came back to the dorm last night.”
Her insides twisted, cold as ice. “Did he run away?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who was shot?”
“I’ve asked, but no one wants to tell. A Cheyenne boy is missing today too.”
Where was Black Bear? Her lip quivered, and a small voice niggled through her brain: Black Bear? You lost him the day we left our tribe.
Thoughts swirled through her head, thoughts she wanted to quiet but couldn’t. The time had come. She should give up on him. He’d obviously given up on her.
Too upset to eat, she wandered outside. The cold wind snapped at her cheek. In two hours, she would be giving piano lessons to a wasichu girl from Carlisle. She should practice herself, to clear her head.
On her way to the music room, a movement caught her eye. William, patrolling the guardhouse again. Her breath caught in her throat. If he guarded it, someone must be inside. One of two possibilities: a Cheyenne boy, or a Lakota.
Her feet pounded the cold-hardened ground.
William stiffened at seeing her. “No, Rose. Not this time.”
“Tell me who is inside, Eagle Elk.”
Hearing his former name caused his mouth to drop open. “My name is William.”
She’d hoped he’d soften toward her if she dredged up memories. William had indeed killed Eagle Elk. “Who is inside?’
“I cannot let you see him this time.”
This time! Her heart leapt against her ribs, fluttering wildly. “Is it Black Bear? Tell me!” Her voice shook with tears.
“Yes of course. Who else?”
Her knees weakened, and she faltered. “The Cheyenne boy? Is he… shot?” She couldn’t bring herself to use the word dead.
William’s scowled. “I shouldn’t say.”
Softening her voice, she stepped toward him. “If you ever cared for me at all, you’ll let me speak to… Samuel.”
With narrowed eyes, he scanned her face. Abruptly, he pivoted away. “I’m walking over here. If you walk to the side without me seeing you, I can’t be responsible. But if you’re still there when I make my rounds, I will report you.”
“Thank you,” she whispered to his retreating form–another person so transformed, she didn’t know him.
Shivering, she rushed to the side. “Samuel. Samuel!”
No answer.
Fighting tears, she clenched her teeth. “Black Bear.”
“Leave me alone.”
Though weaker, his voice sounded like the Black Bear she knew. She spread her palms against the wall, and vowed to him as much as to herself: “Never.”
A nearing whistle reminded her of William’s patrol. She had no doubt he’d follow through on his threat.
“I’ll be back.” She ran into the girls’ dormitory, stopping short at the sight of two teachers. Running invited punishment.
“Are you all right, Rose?” one asked.
With a nod, she walked down the hall. “I forgot my cloak. I was cold.”
“Yes, you should be more careful. You don’t want to catch pneumonia. Do you have suitable activities today?”
“I’m giving a piano lesson soon.” The teacher couldn’t assign her busywork now.
“Wonderful,” said the other woman. “You play so well. I’m so glad you’re sharing your gifts.”
For a fee, Rose wanted to say. The offer of payment had enticed her to agree to the lessons; she could send some money home, and save some for after she graduated. Money, she’d learned, meant status and respectability in the white’s world. She cared nothing for it beyond its ability to shield her from suspicion.
Her heels clipped along the row of beds to her own. From beneath her bed, she slid her trunk – the last refuge of her possessions, her former life. The school allotted each student one trunk to save his or her things. Her hand lingered along her doeskin dress, the beads her mother had so painstakingly sewn. If only she could see her mother, know her parents had enough to eat this winter.
Swiping a tear from her cheek, she shoved the trunk back inside and went to the closet for her cloak.
The teacher’s hushed voices echoed in the hall.
“Captain Pratt will announce it to the students later,” said one.
“What will he say? That the boy shot himself?”
Rose stifled a gasp. The Cheyenne boy.
“An accident,” came the swift reply. “He will say it was an accident. For all we know, it was.”
From the teacher’s tone, it was no accident.
“What will they do with the body?”
So the boy had died. Rose stilled her breath.
“He’ll be buried here, on school grounds. Pratt will notify his parents of the tragic loss.”
Closing her eyes, she rested her head against the door and said a silent prayer for his spirit. Pratt would never honor tribal rites, even in death.
So the teachers wouldn’t accuse her of listening, she closed the door with a thud. With a forced smile, she swirled on her cloak as she passed them. “Good day.”
Their wide eyes suggested they’d forgotten her presence. “Good day,” they murmured.
Outside, she inhaled the crisp air like a tonic, and then made her way to the music room.
****
Wrapped in the woolen blanket, Samuel sat on the floor against the wall. Under his breath he sang to the Wakinyan Tanka, the Great Thunderbird. He traced the image of a lightning bolt on the wall with his finger to remind himself of the meaning of the symbols: the thunder beings. Wakinyan, guardians of the truth, helped those who asked for it. Samuel needed help desperately now.
“You’d best eat before the rats come for it.” The guard chuckled.
If he wanted a vision, he would have to fast for four days. Humming, he leaned back, lifting his face toward the moonlight streaming through the window. His prayers had to call the Great Thunderbird out from his tipi on top of a high mountain in the sacred Paha Sapa, the Black Hills. The window faced north, not west. He hoped his spirit was strong enough to lift up his song and carry it that far.
When he was small, Samuel’s father had told him no one can see the Wakinyan because they wrap themselves in robes of dark clouds, but one can feel their presence.
Samuel had never felt so alone in all his life.
****
Two days passed before she heard any news of Samuel. Another boy patrolled the guardhouse, forcing her to abandon an attempt to speak with him again. During cooking class, another girl whispered he’d been moved to the infirmary after developing a cough. Another student had pneumonia—a little girl named Maud, daughter
of Chief Swift Bear.
The infirmary—how could she see him there? Sneaking in after hours wouldn’t be possible, surely a nurse would be on duty.
An idea struck. The next day, she went to Miss Ely before class. “Samuel’s sick. I could help him keep up with classwork if I could visit him. Read to him…”
Doubt filled the young teacher’s eyes.
Rose’s muscles tensed as she waited. Miss Ely hadn’t protested Rose’s obvious affection for him before, but would she condone it now?
Miss Ely’s face softened. “It would be a shame for him to fall behind.” She gathered some materials.
Relief flooded through Rose. “Will I need a pass?”
A quick scrawl, and the teacher handed her the note. “Wish him well for me.”
With a nod, Rose hurried to her seat. The morning stretched out like a lazy cat in the sun. At dismissal, she couldn’t get to the Dining Hall fast enough. She tucked part of her lunch in a napkin and showed the room monitor Miss Ely’s note.
After a terse review of the paper, he nodded.
The afternoon sun did nothing to warm the air. Rose pulled her cloak tighter. The infirmary sat on the far edge of the school grounds. Even hurrying, she’d be tardy to her art class.
Inside, the nurse scanned the note and waved her into the ward. “To the left.”
Only three beds held occupants. The little girl at the far end must be Maud. She lay so still, Rose feared her dead.
Another boy lay in a bed closest to the entrance and watched her pass.
His complexion pallid, Samuel’s eyes fluttered open at her approach. “What are you doing here?”
“Miss Ely asked me to tutor you.” If she told him the truth, she thought, he’d likely send her away.
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