Between Earth and Sky

by Amanda Skenandore

  He paid the driver and helped her into the brougham. “I hope he opens up to you. We need his cooperation.”

  “He will.”

  His face was stoic as the carriage pulled away from the curb. He checked his watch again, then disappeared into the thick of towering buildings and streetcars. Her heart squeezed. Stewart deserved better. Could nothing in her life remain unsullied?

  She sagged, resting her cheek against the cold glass window. Once again, that wide gray river meandered into view, an unwanted companion as she headed south toward Fort Snelling. The first white settlers had adopted the Ojibwe name: Mizi-ziibi. Harry had told her that. She’d never expected to see its broad waters again. She’d never expected to revisit any of this. She slipped a hand into her purse and withdrew a necklace of strung porcupine quills. At its center hung a beaded medallion sewn onto leather backing. Her fingers traced the intricate design of beads, each painstakingly inlaid to form the image of a sun. Their bright coloring belied the years. Belied all that had happened. A sob built in her throat and she thrust the necklace back in her handbag.

  She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She could do this. Harry would talk to her, clear up all the confusion about the murder. He would go free; she would go home. Stewart would still love her. A day, maybe two and she could return to her dollhouse life.

  CHAPTER 8

  Wisconsin, 1881

  Alma threw off her quilt and hurried to the window. She watched the girls scurry across the roof and clamber over the ledge one by one until only Margaret remained.

  Grabbing either side of the window frame, Alma lifted her leg and swung it over the sill. The night air raked over the exposed skin of her neck and face. Her heart sped. “Wait!”

  Margaret spun around, eyes wide and mouth agape.

  As Alma scrambled over the sill and through the window, her knee caught on the hem of her skirt and she lost her balance. She tumbled toward the shingled roof. Margaret rushed forward, breaking her fall.

  “Thanks,” Alma said, wary to let go of the girl’s arms. The slanting roof felt slick beneath her feet. The flat, solid ground seemed impossibly far away.

  She’d never been on a roof before, and the thrill of it dampened her fear. From this height, she could see for miles. Dark trees covered the landscape, rising and falling with the hills and bluffs. The last of fall’s leaves trembled with the breeze. Goose bumps tented her skin. A smudge of light lit the horizon in the direction of La Crosse. The only other illumination came from blinking stars and the thin sliver of a moon hanging above the trees.

  Margaret pulled free from Alma’s grip and frowned. She nodded back toward the room and then tilted her head to the side, cradling it against her palms. “Sleep.”

  Alma glanced over her shoulder through the open window. She could just make out the tidy rows of beds and the scrolling design of the damask wallpaper. It was warm inside. And safe. Part of her wanted to creep back, lie in her bed with her quilt pulled high, and forget all plans to run away. But then she’d wake up tomorrow to the same lonely life. “I’m coming with you.”

  Margaret’s lips pinched into a scowl. “No. No come.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  A cross between a sigh and a growl sounded from Margaret’s lips. She turned her back on Alma and stalked toward the edge of the roof.

  Alma inched behind, her feet once again unsteady. “Wait.”

  Margaret did not. She dropped to her knees and inched backward over the ledge. Her legs grasped the corner post of the porch below, and she slid down until her feet hit the railing. From there, she jumped to the ground, landing with a crunch on the dry grass.

  Looking down after her, dizziness stirred in Alma’s stomach. She closed her eyes and sucked in three long breaths. Walking about the roof was one thing. Climbing down was something else entirely. Suppose she fell and ripped her stocking. How furious her mother would be. Not at all beseeming a young lady, she’d say. And Papa, how the glint in his eyes would fade.

  But Margaret had made it look so easy. Pushing aside her doubts—she was running away after all—Alma sat down and swung her legs over the ledge. Margaret hissed at her from below and pointed again toward the dormitory. Alma ignored her. She rolled onto her stomach and inched her torso down off the roof. Her legs dangled, searching for the corner post. Her foot touched something hard just as her hands slipped from the shingle overhang. She careened downward, her stomach lodging in her throat, until her flailing legs found purchase around the beam. She twined around it and slid down. Slivers of paint poked through her dress, prickling her skin as they peeled away from the post and fell like snowflakes to the ground below.

  When her feet found the railing, she felt the tug of both laughter and tears. She’d done it! She clambered down the half wall of the porch to the ground, landing on her hands and knees. The grass was cool and brittle. It crackled as her fingers spread and closed, spread and closed—the sound, the sensation somehow exhilarating as if she’d never felt grass before. No one stood over her telling her not to dirty her hands or her dress or her shoes. No sharp ahems. She could run if she wanted, and jump and scream—though she’d better not, at risk of waking the house—but she could, if she really wanted to, and that was enough.

  Margaret’s footsteps whispered toward her, and Alma’s fingers stilled. If the Indian had been mad before, now she’d be furious. Bracing herself for more reproof, she leaned back on her haunches and glanced up. Margaret’s face was contorted, but not with the scowl Alma had expected. Instead, her clamped lips held back a laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” Alma asked.

  Margaret pointed at the roof and flailed her arms. A giggle burst free from her mouth.

  “I could have fallen.” Alma stood and brushed the dry grass and paint chips from her dress. “Broke my arm or worse.”

  Margaret made a wide-eyed face and clawed at the air, still laughing.

  “What do you expect? It’s my first time climbing from a roof.” Alma locked her arms across her chest as Margaret continued to chuckle. “You do all kinds of funny things like . . . like holding your spoon wrong and wearing your boots on the opposite feet, and I don’t laugh at you.” Well, maybe she had—a little. Just to herself. That was quite different from laughing in someone’s face. She turned to stomp away, but Margaret grabbed her hand. Despite her flushed cheeks and leaking eyes, her face held a look of contrition. She smiled, not a sneer or smirk, but a friendly smile. Alma found herself smiling too.

  Hand in hand, they ran to the edge of the yard where the other girls had gathered. Strands of hair, freed from their long braids, fluttered around their faces in the night’s breeze. When they reached the other girls, Alma noticed a lumpy pillowcase slung over Alice’s shoulder. Bare feet peeked out from beneath the hem of her nightshirt. Before Alma could ask about the pillowcase’s contents, Catherine bullied forward.

  Alma had no idea what the words meant, but she could tell from the rancor in Catherine’s voice, from her leering eyes and flattened lips, that Alma’s presence wasn’t welcome.

  “Shaa. Giganoondaago,” Margaret said, followed by more indiscernible words.

  “Listen, I think we should—” All four sets of eyes turned on Alma. The remaining words dried up in her throat.

  Catherine put her hand out, palm toward the ground. She swung it quickly so the palm faced upward, then flipped it back again.

  Alma looked back and forth between the two arguing Indians. She was not entirely sure they knew what the other was saying, but with unflinching eyes and set jaws, neither looked ready to back down. The knot in her stomach returned. She took a step back, but Margaret, who still had hold of her hand, pulled her forward. Margaret extended her other hand, palm out, two fingers pointing upward, then raised her hand until the tips of her fingers were as high as her head. “Nindaangwe.”

  Maybe Catherine didn’t know the word, but she understood the gesture. Both girls were quiet for several moments. Then Alice lifted the sile
nce.

  Catherine said with a huff. She turned and stomped into the forest. Rose and Alice followed.

  Margaret lifted her chin and smiled. Keeping hold of Alma’s hand, she started into the black tangle of trees behind the other girls.

  Little of the moon’s meager light penetrated the woods. The leafless branches, like long, twisted claws, hovered over them, shuddering in the breeze. Alma opened her mouth, the words let’s turn back poised on her tongue, but she stopped. Nothing of the spooky forest seemed to bother the other girls. They walked on with steady, almost beaming expressions, their footfalls quiet and graceful.

  Alma plodded beside them, her feet snapping every felled branch, tripping over every exposed root, crunching through every drift of leaves. Catherine snickered at the noise. Rose and Alice shook with suppressed giggles, but Margaret only clutched her tighter.

  The farther they went into the forest, the more Alma’s skin bristled with misgivings. Maybe they’d better not run away after all. Nothing but barren trees surrounded them in all directions. The smell of rotting leaves hung in her nostrils.

  A high-pitched shout cut through the quiet of the forest. Alma froze. It sounded like the voice of a boy, young like her and possibly in danger. Her eyes combed the darkness, her ears alert for any other sounds.

  The Indian girls laughed at her startled expression.

  Margaret tugged her onward in the direction of the noise. Alma’s heart clamored, but her feet obeyed.

  The cry came again, this time descending through a series of notes, more like a chant than a scream. Another voice joined with the first. Whoops and hollers cut in and out. A low, resonant sound pulsed behind the voices, steady and rhythmic.

  Through the trees, Alma saw the glint of firelight. Dark figures danced in a circle around it. A sudden cold flooded her body and her hands trembled.

  Night witches!

  She’d read about such monsters in her fairytale picture books. Again her feet stalled.

  Margaret squeezed her hand and smiled. Her teeth were brilliant in the moonlight, small and straight save for a gap between the two at front just breaking in. She and the others weren’t scared. How bad could whatever awaited them be?

  Alma shuffled forward, glued to Margaret’s side. The forms around the fire took on shape and detail.

  Not witches—Indian boys.

  Ten of them clustered in a small clearing around the blaze. Some sat on fallen logs or leaned against nearby trees. The rest jumped and stomped, circling the fire in time with the song. Though they moved to the same tempo, each boy’s dance was unique. Some crouched low to the ground, arms extended, step heavy. Others kicked up their knees, springing from one foot to the next. One boy brandished a long stick. Still another moved his hands through the air as if he were pulling back the string of a bow.

  The girls were not running away after all. Relief more than disappointment lit Alma’s heart. The fire, the dancing, the song all seemed so welcoming. She decided she’d not really meant to run away either.

  Alma recognized a boy named Walter seated on the ground drumming on a hollow log. Frederick, the tallest and lankiest of the boys, sang out the strange tune. Harry spun and shuffled in the fire’s glow, his eyes squeezed shut, his movements trancelike. She could not recall the other boys’ names, but could picture where they sat in class. Like the girls, only the oldest had come.

  Catherine, Rose, and Alice skipped into the clearing and sat beside the fire. The boys continued dancing and drumming, acknowledging the newcomers with little more than a nod. But when Alma emerged through the trees, close on the heels of Margaret, Frederick’s high, clear voice fell silent. He stared wide-eyed in her direction, his mouth agape. The drumbeats died too. One dancer stopped. The rest, still lost in motion, slammed into him.

  one of the boys said, jutting his chin out at her.

  “Kauqui nahkma ne?” another asked.

  A flurry of words Alma did not understand piled up from every direction. Anger flamed in the boys’ faces. They closed in around her and Margaret, sneering, shouting, and throwing fiery gestures.

  Alma clung to Margaret’s arm. Both girls cowered and shuffled backward.

  One of the boys hissed in Alma’s direction. Another spit at her feet. The fight between Margaret and Catherine had been nothing compared to this.

  Harry broke through the jumble. He held his hand out, palm forward, and brought it down sharply. “Bizaan.” His voice was even and commanding. He stepped in front of them and faced the gang of boys. “Bizaan. Onzaam sa naa. Gaawiin da-zanagizisii.”

  Murmurs rose above his words. Someone stomped. Arms flew up, pointing toward the woods.

  Harry stood his ground. “Nishiime.” He pulled Alma forward, flush beside him.

  From the back of the crowd Frederick nodded. “Nishiime.” He made the same two-fingered gesture Margaret had signed earlier.

  A few other boys also appeared to understand and backed away, but those who remained glowered in Alma’s direction. Harry put his hand out in front of him, as if to keep them at bay. She could see the profile of his face, chin raised and jaw set, eyes steady.

  “Friend,” he said in slow, clear English.

  “Friend,” Margaret echoed, her accent thicker, but her voice just as pointed.

  Friend. Alma couldn’t stop the smile that spread across her lips. The boys’ grave faces softened.

  One by one, they shrugged and returned to the fire. Frederick took up song again.

  Her heart retreated from her throat. She followed Margaret to the log where the other girls sat.

  Harry perched beside them.

  “Thank you,” Alma said to him. “You speak very good English.”

  Harry smiled but shook his head. “No. No good English.”

  He turned his gaze toward the fire; Alma did the same. The logs crackled, and sparks drifted upward. Dust swirled around the dancers’ feet. The biting night air no longer bothered her. Guilt and worry fled her mind. Her heart beat in time with the straight, steady rhythm of the makeshift drums.

  A nudge drew her back to her companions on the log. Alice opened her pillowcase to reveal a stash of apples. She tossed one to Alma.

  Undoubtedly, the apples had come from barrels in the cellar. Alma hesitated, the fruit inches from her mouth. Her father’s voice filled her head. And the Lord saith thou shalt not steal.

  This didn’t feel like stealing, though. Hadn’t the Indian Bureau sent the apples for them to eat? Why must they only eat them at someone else’s behest? She took a bite. And another. Juice rolled down her chin and she wiped it away with the back of her hand.

  When she finished, Alma tossed the core into the fire and turned to Harry. “What’s the word for apple in your language?”

  He drew his dark eyebrows together and shook his head.

  “Apple.” She pointed to the leftover fruit in Alice’s pillowcase. “In Indian.”

  “Ah! Mishiimin.”

  “Mishiimin,” she repeated.

  A giggle came from Margaret’s direction. Alma remembered several times when she’d seen Harry and Margaret whispering together in the hall or at the edge of the yard. She pointed back and forth between them. “Are you from the same tribe?”

  Harry nodded. “Anishinaabe.”

  Alma puzzled at the word. Her father had made her learn the names of all the tribes sending children to Stover. Anishinaabe was not one of them.

  “White man say Chippewa.” He pointed to Margaret. “He my . . . sister.”

  Alma giggled. “She’s my sister. That’s what you say for girls.”

  Harry’s cheeks colored slightly and he bobbed his head.

  She looked back and forth between the siblings. They shared the same almond-shaped eyes, the same round faces. Margaret was taller, though Alma suspected Harry to be older. Both had the same plump shape. Her mother would call it pudgy. Alma thought it handsome.

  “Anish . . .”

  “Anishinaabe,” Margaret prompte
d.

  Alma frowned. Why would her father call Indian tribes by something other than their real name? She pointed to Rose. “Anishinaabe?”

  Again Margaret giggled and shook her head.

  Rose leaned forward. “Ho-chunk.”

  Margaret nodded in the direction of Alice and Catherine. “Naadawe.”

  “You say Oneida,” Harry said.

  Alice said, making sounds from her throat and nose Alma had never heard before.

  Looking from one smiling face to the next, Alma’s head swam. The Chippewa, who were really the Anishinaabe, called Alice’s people Naadawe. White people called them Oneida, and they called themselves . Then something else occurred to her.

  “What was your name before Harry?”

  Confusion clouded his face. She pointed at herself. “Alma.” Then directed her finger at him.

  “Harry.”

  “No, Anishinaabe name.”

  His eyes brightened. “Askuwheteau. It mean . . . he looking over . . . he watch.” He waved his hand over the camp.

  “He who keeps watch?” Alma asked.

  He nodded.

  “Asku . . . wet . . . toe.” She stumbled over the syllables. “I’ll call you Asku for short.”

  Despite Asku’s puzzled look at the sound of his new nickname, Alma took his silence for assent. She turned to Margaret. “What’s your Indian name?”

  The girl shook her head.

  “Gigagwejimig ezhinikaazoyan,” Asku said to his sister.

  “Oonh! Minowe.”

  “Minowe.” Finally a name Alma could easily pronounce. “What does it mean?”

  Minowe blushed. She looked down and started to sing. Alma leaned closer. The words and tune were unfamiliar, but Minowe’s voice was beautiful. The drumming slowed, and Frederick quieted his cry. The dancers stopped.

  Minowe’s voice filled the clearing, not loud, but bright and full. The melody had a slow, simple phrasing, like a lullaby. All the forest seemed to listen.

  When the song ended, the boys whooped and hollered. Rose gave Minowe a one-armed hug. Alma clapped.