He snorted, his lips curled in a mean smile. “There’s no need.”
“You mustn’t fall behind in your work.” Then he might have to stay longer at the school. The thought made her shudder.
Next to his bed, a tray held soup, the bowl still full.
“Why haven’t you eaten?”
Bitterness glittered in his eyes. “Like I said, there’s no need.”
Her blood chilled. “What are you saying?” But she knew very well: he intended to starve.
His mouth set in a grim line, he closed his eyes. “I told you before. Leave me alone.”
The other boy spat a chuckle. “We will show Pratt how successful his school is.”
She glared at him. “You weaken yourself to prove you are stronger? That makes no sense.”
The boy straightened. “I am Chief White Thunder’s son. The wasichu medicine has no power over me. And their food cannot bind me to a place I have no wish to remain.”
The fool. He’d tainted Samuel’s mind, too, with this nonsense.
Contentment crept across Samuel’s face.
She slammed her fist against the bed rail. “No. You will not do this.”
His eyes flew open. “You cannot-”
“Do you want to shame your father? Die here, and be buried by wasichu? With no Lakota ceremony?” She shuddered. “Your spirit would stay here forever–wearing Pratt’s uniform.”
Doubt flickered in his eyes.
She had to act fast. Picking up the spoon, she scooped soup onto it. “You will eat. And afterward, I will tutor you. And someday, you will return home.” She moved the spoon forward.
He opened his mouth. “The soup’s cold.”
“Whose fault is that?” Scoop after scoop, she fed him until the bowl sat empty, and then she retrieved the food-filled napkin. “Eat some of this too.”
He nibbled at it until a cough wracked his chest.
“Now we will read. When you are stronger, you’ll write so Miss Ely can grade your work.” Settling into the chair, she opened the book. Classes would wait. Samuel needed her here.
****
The tightness in his chest felt like a boulder sat atop Samuel. Maybe the Wakinyan visited him after all. The medicine man once told him the Thunder Bird spirits sometimes try to frighten a person during a vision quest. To test him, to see whether he has enough courage to go through his "crying for a dream" – four days and nights of fasting and listening and staying awake on top of a lonely hill. The Wakinyan are good spirits, but they might be disappointed in Samuel. He’d only completed three nights and days of fasting when the fever struck. He’d argued with the guards, but they forced him to his feet and dragged him to the infirmary.
Fasting was no longer possible, with Rose at his bedside. He wanted to tell her to leave, get on with her life without him, but the words wouldn’t form in his mouth. Having her there tied him to this world; otherwise, he could easily drift up into the blur of white above his bed and disappear forever.
Still, he couldn’t let her depend on him again. His spirit had shattered into too many pieces, sharp shards that would cut her if she got too close. He couldn’t control all those scattered pieces, not until he managed to bind them up again. If he could manage that.
Likewise, he could not depend on her. Everything in this place appeared an illusion, one that would fade if he reached for it. Nothing here was real. Nothing except the pain in his chest, and even that, he didn’t know whether his sickness caused it, or whether it was the pain of having his soul ripped away from his flesh.
****
After a week, Samuel’s cough eased, and he began to complain of forced bed rest.
The other two students fared worse. When little Maud worsened, Rose overheard the doctor say her lungs were inferior. “I’m afraid she has no chance.” Her empty bed the next day gave Rose the chills. A white headstone appeared next to the first in the school graveyard.
Ernest, the chief’s son, decided too late to begin eating again. Though he regained his will to live, he steadily weakened. One Saturday, his bed, too, sat empty.
“Did he…” Rose couldn’t finish.
“Last night.” Samuel stared at the ceiling.
She gripped the bed rail. “You must get well and leave this place of death.”
When he finally looked at her, a glimmer of warmth returned to his gaze. He nodded.
From her stack of books, she took the sketch pad one of the teachers found beneath his bed. “The doctor says you’re improving, but can’t go back to class yet. I thought you might want to have this.”
Questions filled his gaze when she handed them over. “A teacher asked me to give it to you. I hope you don’t mind that I looked at them. They’re wonderful.” Pride mixed with pain. None of the sketches included her. Had he forgotten he had meant everything to her? Did she no longer mean anything to him?
Sadness churned up, sending tears to her eyes. Brushing them away, she straightened. “Shall I read first?”
With a nod, he relaxed against the pillow, held the pad to his chest and closed his eyes.
Until he recovered, she wouldn’t add to his strain by speaking of her feelings. He knew, whether he admitted to it or not.
Over the next two weeks, his coughs grew more sporadic. The doctor discharged him, but warned him against physical exertion.
When he returned to class, Miss Ely appeared pleased when he read. “You’ve made great progress, Samuel. Rose, you’re an excellent tutor.”
Rose met his glance.
He cast his again to the book he held.
His silent rebuff caused her gut to burn. After the hours she’d spent by his bedside, she’d hoped his spirit would open to her. Now he seemed more closed than before. He took notes from her, but made no reply. When she attempted conversation, his terse responses discouraged more. He averted his gaze, never meeting hers.
Unlike William. Now the captain of the student guard, he smiled at Rose more often, asked to sit near her in the Dining Hall. Not wanting to hurt his feelings, she tolerated his attention but didn’t encourage it. The more time he spent near her, the more Samuel avoided her. Because of the doctor’s warning against physical exertion, Samuel concentrated on his studies and soon surpassed Rose’s skills.
Miss Mather called Rose to her office. When she arrived, Samuel sat in a chair. Her stomach clenched; did someone complain of their relationship? It couldn’t be, she told herself – who would do such a thing? They had no relationship, after all. The realization forced her to come to grips with its truth. They had no relationship. Whatever they’d shared, it had stayed in the territories. Here, she was Rose and he was Samuel.
Miss Mather gestured to the empty chair in front of her desk. “Please have a seat.”
Rose sank onto the chair, her muscles poised to spring.
“Thank you for coming today.” The teacher smiled. “I’ve heard such good reports about you both. I’m so pleased you’re excelling at not only your academic studies, but extracurricular activities too. Samuel, the art teacher tells me your sketches are among the best he’s ever seen.”
He nodded his thanks.
“And Rose, Miss Ely says your English is better than many local students.”
She didn’t know what to say. Did Miss Mather bring them here to congratulate them?
“The Industrial School will begin publishing a school newspaper. I’ve spoken to Captain Pratt, and he agrees you two would make a fine contribution to its staff. If,” she added, “you’re agreeable.”
“A newspaper?” Rose had read the Valley Sentinel, Carlisle’s publication, to learn of local customs, and which whites ranked in importance.
“Yes, you would write articles, and Samuel, your art would look magnificent. A newspaper would enable the school to advertise its events, such as the dance next month.”
He shifted in his seat. “What sort of art?”
Miss Mather pulled a sheet from a pile of papers on her desktop. “Mr. Jenkin
s provided me with some of your sketches. This would look wonderful in the masthead.”
With a quick glance, Rose sensed Samuel’s disapproval. As usual, the wasichu had already made their decision. Asking permission seemed more a ceremonial rite which had no bearing on the outcome. Samuel’s sketches would appear in the fledgling newspaper. Of that, she had no doubt. Whether she could be coaxed into writing articles was another matter, though to refuse would invite disapproval, or punishment.
To ease Samuel’s discomfort, Rose agreed with the teacher, adding, “It would make your father proud.”
His shoulders slumped. “Yes.”
Miss Mather’s cheeks shone with her smile. “Excellent. And you Rose—will you write for us?”
“Of course.” Maybe the Great Spirit intended for her and Samuel to be together after all. Now all she had to do was convince him of it.
****
Despite Samuel’s continued distance—or perhaps because of it—Rose wholeheartedly threw herself into the school newspaper. She gathered letters from new students to their parents and drafted features about the school’s inception.
Three other students, including William, worked on articles and advertisements.
Miss Ely, the paper’s editor, showed them a mockup of the final layout.
Rose stiffened. Beneath the masthead, the school’s motto ran: Kill the Indian, Save the Man.
She finally understood. The Indian Industrial School used the photos taken upon their arrival, and a few weeks after, to display the tribes’ submissiveness to the whites. Show how well they fit in. To tout to the world of Pratt’s success in converting them, obliterating any trace of their proud heritage.
She vowed privately never to refer to herself as Rose again. Her name was, and always would be, Quiet Thunder—a Lakota.
****
Because the doctor warned Samuel against physical strain, the football coach sidelined him indefinitely.
Creating art for the school newspaper afforded him a new outlet. A new purpose. He poured what little feeling he had left into his artwork.
Because his drawings matched the articles, his reading improved too. Simply skimming through the writing, he pinpointed the main idea and captured it in his illustration. Every new image evoked such powerful memories, it tore at his soul. Drawing was like performing a Sun Dance. When he finished an illustration, the shards of bone inserted in him broke free anew but from his spirit instead of his flesh, further tattering it. Soon he’d have too little left to piece back together.
In the classroom used to produce the school paper, he worked at his large desk. The longer he stayed at this school, the more of himself he lost. That was Pratt’s aim, wasn’t it? Kill the Indian, Save the Man? But Samuel only knew how to be a Lakota man. He’d never be a wasichu man.
Passing by with some papers, Rose stopped to admire his art. “It’s perfect.”
“Hardly.” He kept his head down. If he met her warm gaze, he’d remember that precious time they’d shared, and want to revive it—an impossible task.
“Yes, it is. Miss Mather’s received many compliments about your pictures. They always fit the articles so well.”
“Anyone could do it.”
“Nonsense. Why won’t you take credit for your talent?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose because Pratt manages to take credit for it.”
“He’s proud of you. Why do you think he put your pictograph on display outside his office?”
He let his sarcasm ooze. “To show how well the school is making wasichu of us poor Lakota.”
She glanced around. “Shh.”
“Why? Pratt boasts that without his guidance, we students would never have developed such fine skills.”
“If you weren’t so headstrong, you’d go see it, and hear the compliments for yourself.”
“No.” Samuel took care to avoid that area. To see his images of home on display would diminish them, and tarnish the memories. That, at least, he would not allow.
The classroom door closed, and only one other student remained.
Rose whispered, “Meet me later outside the dormitory.”
“What, to make it easy for the student guard to punish me again?” After his failed attempt at a vision quest, he no longer wished to see the inside of the guard house. And he wouldn’t encourage her feelings, either.
“Black Bear—”
“Samuel. We must remember to use our new names, Rose.” He hoped his overly formal tone would discourage her from continuing. He couldn’t bear to hear any more. This new, foreign person—this Samuel—he’d become, he could no longer reconcile with the person he used to be. Black Bear seemed like a dream he once had.
“I miss you. I want to be with you, as we were before.”
His throat thickened, and he choked out his words. “It can never be like that. Not here.”
Despair filled her face, and her voice. “I followed you here to be with you.”
For all that her emotion touched him, she might have spoken from a great distance, across the sweeping plains and endless sky. He recognized her deep love, but despite his desperation to return it, felt powerless to do so.
He might have been equally distant when he replied in his deadened tone, “You should never have come.”
A cry escaped from her, like an injured bird. The papers fell from her hands and she ran out the door.
Somewhere deep inside, the scream of a maniac came: Follow her! His body would not respond. He had nothing left of himself to give.
Lost between the old world and the new, he had to find a way back to himself, and soon. If he stayed long enough to graduate from this school, he would be lost forever, he feared. Both to himself and to Quiet Thunder.
****
All the way to her dormitory, Rose ran. At some point, William called to her, but she couldn’t stop. To admit her heartbreak would make it real. Devastated as she was, she had to cling to some tiny thread of hope. But now, she could think of nothing except curling up in her bed and shutting out the world.
Two girls in the hallway frowned at her hasty approach. “Are you all right?”
“No. I’m sick and need to lie down.”
Their whispers and tittering laughter told her she’d fooled no one. She no longer cared.
When she reached her bed, she threw herself on it and clutched her pillow.
Near five o’clock, a student guard called, “Almost time for dinner.”
Not moving, she lied again, “I’m sick.”
“Would you like me to bring you to the infirmary?”
“No. I just need to rest.” She let herself drift into a nightmarish haze, neither awake nor asleep.
In the morning, she couldn’t rouse herself at first call, nor at last call. Another student guard urged her to get dressed for breakfast, though she hadn’t changed from her clothes.
“I’m not hungry.” The thought of food turned her stomach.
The guard left, but two more returned shortly after. “You’re to report to the infirmary.”
Sobs burst forth. “Why won’t you leave me alone? I need to rest.”
“The doctor will decide what you need. Come on.”
Nausea churned her stomach. With veins of lead, she sat up, and the edges of the room closed in, leaving only blackness.
When she awoke, she lay in a bed near where Samuel had laid. Two other girls occupied beds closer to the wall. A uniformed girl held a tray, and set a glass by each girl’s bed.
The aide walked past. “How are you feeling? Can I get you anything?”
Thoughts jumbled in Rose’s head. “Water please.” She had no idea how to answer the first question.
The girl returned with a glass of water. “Are you able to eat lunch?”
Rose nodded.
Arching a brow, the aide turned to leave.
“What’s wrong with them?” She inclined her head toward the other girls.
“Influenza. Keep your distance so you
don’t catch it.”
Having no idea what it was, how could she avoid it?
****
Samuel entered the newspaper room. Several students clustered together, working. Miss Mather sat at a desk, shuffling through papers.
No Rose—again. She hadn’t been in class for three days. William had said she’d taken ill. Samuel yearned to visit her, but doing so would erase the barrier he’d constructed between them. Best to leave her alone. If she hated him for it, all the better. For her.
With apprehension, he approached the desk. The teacher wouldn’t like what he was abou to say.
Miss Mather looked up from her editing. “Hello Samuel.”
He nodded in greeting. “May I speak with you?”
She set down her pen. “Of course. What’s on your mind?”
“I can no longer be part of the student newspaper.”
“What? Why not?”
“I’ve enrolled in the Outing System and will be working on a farm. I won’t have time to draw.” Surely she couldn’t object. She probably helped Pratt design the program.
“Oh, Samuel, no. You have such talent. Why would you want to waste it working on a farm?”
“I need to earn money.” True enough. Locals bought the student newspaper for a nickel a copy, but none of the students benefitted from it. Despite his lack of vision in certain areas, Pratt told students they could keep whatever wages they earned from their Outing System jobs. Encouragement, he likely thought, for students to become more like the whites. Samuel intended to save enough to get out of here.
Miss Maher must have recognized the determination in his face. Giving a heavy sigh, her shoulders slumped. “All right. I’m terribly sorry to see you leave. You have a real gift for illustration.”
The gift felt more like a curse, bleeding his spirit onto the page with each stroke. “Thank you.” Without looking back, he strode out the door.
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