“Don’t go in!” she hissed to the yards of empty meadow between them.
He paused before the dark opening and glanced back over the meadow. His eyes commanded her to stay put. Then he disappeared inside.
With him lost to her sight, each moment seemed to stretch to infinity. A bird cawed, far in the distance. The grass rustled. Just when she decided some horror must have befallen him, he emerged unscathed into the light and waved her over.
“An old trader lodging,” he said when she neared.
Alma glanced around the clearing. “Are you sure it’s abandoned?”
“Long empty.” He took her hand and led her inside.
The smell of must and damp earth hit her the moment she entered. She clutched arm and let her eyes adjust to dim. The room was no bigger than her bedroom. Dried leaves and other bits of fossilized flora crunched beneath her feet. A series of roughly hewn beams supported the packed clay walls and roof. A straw pallet, limp and dust-covered, lay in one corner. Crumbling charcoal and scattered twigs cluttered the ground in the opposite corner. The ceiling above was blackened and concave.
walked over and poked at the crater. Bits of earth and debris showered down around him, filling the room with dust.
Alma gasped. “The ceiling’s collapsing!”
But the downpour of earth had already stopped. He laughed and coughed at the same time. “No, , that’s just the chimney hole.”
She arched her eyebrows and continued to stare with distrust at the dark soil above them. The dank air swirled cool around her and she shivered. pulled her toward him and wrapped her in his arms. She forgot the cold, her fear, and leaned her head against his chest. “Tell me you’ll stay.”
She rocked with the slow ebb and flow of his breath.
“I do not know.”
Alma pulled away to hide her tears. How could she feel so much when he apparently felt so little? She hurried from the dugout into the blinding daylight. “Father, Miss Wells, Askuwheteau—they were all right. You’ll return to the reservation, back to your old life, and I’ll never see you again.”
He came and stood beside her. The few inches between them felt like a chasm, widened by his silence.
A shadow fleeted over them. Alma looked up. A great eagle circled overhead, its wings golden against the blue backdrop of the sky. It dipped and soared effortlessly, cradled in the arms of the wind.
“Maeq-Awaetok, the Great Spirit, made the first man from a bear. But he was alone.” pointed at the sky. “So the bear called to Kine’u, the eagle, and said, ‘Come join me, brother.’ And Maeq-Awaetok made the eagle a man, too.”
Alma sucked in a deep breath and wiped her eyes. The eagle continued to circle high above them, as if it owned the whole sky. “Then what?”
“Nama’kukiu, the beaver, joined them as well. Noma’eu, the sturgeon. Omas’kos, the elk. Moqwai’o, the wolf. Ota’tshia, the crane. These became the clans of the Menominee people.”
“Which clan do you belong to?”
“I am a Thunderer, of the Eagle clan. Some forget their clans now that we are caged on the reservation. But I will always be a Thunderer.”
He sat down, then took his coat and spread it over the ground beside him. She knelt atop the navy-blue fabric and tucked her skirt around her. Her mother would notice a mud stain. More importantly, it gave her reason to look away. She felt foolish for reading affection in his touch, devotion in his kiss.
He brushed her cheek with his hand.
“Stop saying that. I don’t know what it means.”
He laughed. “It is the name one calls his lover.”
Alma’s entire body hummed. “You love me?”
“Have I not showed you this?”
“You never said so.”
“Why? Better to know through action, no?”
“Wouldn’t you like to hear the words?”
He laughed again and shrugged.
Alma patted her hair and raised her chin. “Fine. I shan’t say so either, then.”
He leaned in and kissed her. She held out, fighting the urge to match the rhythm of his lips for five solid seconds, then gave in.
“I know you love me, Azaadiins.” He kissed her once more, then laced his hands under his head and lay back atop the tufts of grass. “I feel it in your touch. I see it in your face when you look at me.”
Her body went suddenly cold. “Do you think everyone else can tell?”
“No.”
She wrung her hands and glanced at the sun, tracking its progression through the sky since their departure from the schoolhouse. “We’re careful, right?”
He worked a finger inside the cuff of her sleeve and tugged playfully. “Nobody besides us two knows.”
“Umm . . . I might have let a word or two slip to Minowe and . And Asku might know too. But they’d never say anything to anyone.”
He snickered. She lay down beside him and rested her head on his shoulder. His soap and wood smell filled her senses. She could drink that scent forever and still desire more. With his hands behind his head, his shirt stretched taut over his chest. The outline of a necklace caught her eye beneath the white fabric. She ran her finger atop it. “What’s this?”
He unfastened the top buttons of his shirt and pulled out a long pendant. Alma’s eyes grazed the smooth dark skin of his chest before taking in the necklace. It was made with black beads the size of cherry pits strung between long pieces of porcupine quill. At its base hung a medallion of tiny colored beads threaded together to create the image of the sun. She remembered it from his first day at Stover when he’d stood above her and called her enemy.
“My father gave it to me before he died,” he said.
He had told her of his father before, of his death in a lumber accident when was young. “You’ve kept it hidden all this time?”
“I saw they would burn my clothes, that first day I came, so I hid it.”
“They never noticed at inspection? You’d get in so much trouble.”
His lips curved into a wry smile. “Every mornings Mr. Simms and your father look me up and down. Every mornings, but they never see.”
She traced the outline of the sun with her finger. “It’s beautiful.”
He flattened his hand over hers and looked up at the wide blue above them. She could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm. “What are we going to do?”
“You could come north with me, to the reservation.”
“I’m being serious. Please say you’ll stay.”
His jaw tightened and lips flattened. “It’s not so easy. Our worlds are like the sky and earth, Azaadiins. They get very close, but never touch.”
“We share in the same world, don’t you see?”
“You say these words, but you’ve never lived anything but the ways of the white man.”
“Are our ways so bad?”
He answered neither yes nor no, but pulled her tightly to his chest—so tightly she struggled to draw air. But it didn’t matter. They were more than close. They were touching.
CHAPTER 30
Wisconsin, 1890
At the cry of the bugle, the Indians marched from the schoolhouse double file. Scarlet and blue banners festooned the veranda. The students paraded down the freshly painted stairs and across the yard.
Alma watched their synchronized approach from her seat at the piano, carried out to the lawn for the occasion. One hand shielded her eyes from the bright midmorning sun while the other rested atop the ivory keys.
As valedictorian, Asku led the march, his fox eyes beaming, his shoulders back and head held high. Her own carriage swelled at the sight. His gaze flickered in her direction and he smiled broadly. They’d chosen his suit together: a single-breasted morning coat and matching striped trousers, both light brown. She’d given him the silk cravat he wore as a graduation gift. Both pride and sorrow pulled at her heart. She’d never met a more intelligent boy—white or Indian. Nor had she known a more constant friend. Already she could foretaste the bitter
sweetness of his absence.
The other graduates marched behind him—Catherine, Frederick, Alice, and dressed in finely tailored clothes. The rest of the students followed, red corsages pinned to their black uniforms.
. . . the looming prospect of his departure panicked her. Since their afternoon in the meadow nearly two months before, she’d broached the subject of his future several times, but his response was always vague, evasive. He had siblings back on the reservation and his mother. They needed him, he said. But she needed him, too.
The company of Indians marched down the aisle, bisecting the throngs of seated commencement guests. Heads crowned in felt hats and flowery bonnets swiveled, following the procession toward the grand dais at the edge of the yard. Red, white, and blue flounces skirted the platform. Atop it stood an oak lectern flanked by chairs. Her father perched on the centermost chair to the right, so buoyed by pride she thought he might float away. Miss Wells sat beside him like a glacier, her face pinched as if it knew no other expression, despite the day’s palpable excitement. Reverend Thomas and Mr. Chase—Superintendent of Indian Schooling, in all the way from Washington—joined them atop the dais. The superintendent’s eyes wandered over the yard and great brick schoolhouse, resting finally on the bright blue sky above, even as the parade of students approached. His plump fingers fidgeted in his lap, giving Alma the distinct impression he cared little for pomp and festivity.
She turned her attention back to the students, who had now reached the base of the dais. They arranged themselves in three lines, the smallest children in the front, each spaced a uniform distance from the next. Alma marveled at the display. They had drilled this entry every day for a month until Mr. Simms had lost his voice from shouting out commands. The result was as near perfection as any company could perform.
Her eyes lingered on the back row, flashing over her friends’ faces, until inevitably settling over . Something about him still whispered defiance. Whether it was his ruffled hair, his all-too-confident posture, or the sardonic curve of his lips, she could not tell.
Reverend Thomas approached the lectern and delivered the benediction. Alma peeled her eyes from and readied her fingers over the piano keys. When the reverend took his seat, she began to play. After a few bars, the Indians joined in with song.
Hail Columbia, happy land!
Hail, ye heroes, heav’n born band,
Who fought and bled in freedom’s cause,
Who fought and bled in freedom’s cause.
After “Hail, Columbia” ended, Alma moved right into “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” concluding her modest part in the commencement. She rose from the piano and took her seat beside her mother in the front row of the audience while the students marched around toward the back. Only the graduates remained—Asku, Frederick, Catherine, Alice, and . They took their seats atop the platform. Superintendent Chase delivered a short, generic address; then her father rose to the podium. His voice trembled with emotion, starting out quiet and ending just below a roar. The same words he had uttered a thousand times again passed his lips: progress, civility, triumph over savagery.
At the end, he wiped the perspiration glistening at the edge of his receding hairline and welcomed Askuwheteau to the stand. “And now it is my pleasure to present Harry Muskrat, a young man from the White Earth Chippewa reservation in Minnesota, and Stover’s first valedictorian. This fall, thanks to a generous grant from the Women’s National Indian Association and funds made available through Senator Dawes’s General Allotment Act, he will travel to the great state of Rhode Island to attend the prestigious Brown University.”
Asku stood and crossed to the podium. He moved with polish and grace, his posture without the air of haughtiness she saw so often in “well-bred” men. Despite his confident walk, his fingers curled and released at his side—his telltale sign of nervousness, one she knew no one in the audience aside from herself would recognize. Their eyes met and she smiled with full-toothed encouragement. His hands stilled and he pulled a slip of paper from his breast pocket.
“It is my honor to appear before you today under such great auspices. To this place, and its people, I owe an enduring debt. These walls have been my home for nine years, and I have passed here from a child to a man. From one who knew little of the world to one yet untested, but firmly set in the way of progress.”
Asku’s voice rang clear and steady. Golden sunlight lit him from above. His lively eyes swept the hushed crowd as he spoke, not once retreating to the unfolded speech atop the podium. Miss Wells’s lips softened into a smile. Her father wiped a tear.
“I come from a great and proud people,” Asku continued. “We have lived many generations upon this land. But if it be our destiny to continue, we must merge with the white man and meld to his ways. Like two forks of the same great river, our destinies lie intertwined. The course is set. We cannot uphold the past any more than we can reverse the water’s flow.” He paused. “Our hope rests in the future. A future made bright by unity with the white man. What we, the Indian, can offer we shall offer. What we can learn, we must learn so that both our peoples may prosper on this earth.”
Asku smiled amid a swell of applause. A tide of handshakes, backslaps, and hugs carried him back to his seat. Alma leapt to her feet, and the rest of the crowd did likewise. Only seemed unmoved. His hands banged together a couple of times, then knotted in his lap. His eyes wandered the sky. She could read the war playing out inside him by the way his forearms tensed and knuckles blanched. He hated what Asku said, and yet . . . and yet he cared for her.
A listless Mr. Chase distributed certificates of accomplishment to all the graduates and the ceremony concluded. The guests rose from their seats and drifted toward the large buffet of refreshments Mrs. Simms had set up at the far edge of the yard.
Alma moved to follow, but her mother grabbed her arm. Ahem. She examined Alma’s appearance with a roving eye. “You hit the wrong chord halfway through the first verse of the ‘Battle Hymn.’”
Was that all her mother had taken from the ceremony? “I’m only the accompanist.”
“The details matter, Alma. Let’s just hope Mrs. Pierce did not notice or she’ll have nothing else to say about the event. You know she fancies her daughter a better musician than you.”
Alma’s eyes drifted toward the cluster of people holding cups of punch and plates of cookies. As always, she sought . He stood in the shade of an oak tree talking with Mr. Wallis, who owned a carriage company in La Crosse.
“Alma! Are you listening to me?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes, more care next time.” She hurried off before her mother spewed further admonishment, and slipped into the crowd, addressing no one until she reached Asku. “Your speech was wonderful!” She laced her arm around his and squeezed. “Gigiiminowe. Very eloquent.”
He beamed. “Thank you. I had not expected such a crowd.”
“Father’s been waiting for this moment for nine years. I’m surprised he did not invite the entire state of Wisconsin.”
They both laughed. She released his arm and they strode side by side to the refreshment table. The cups of lemonade and punch brought back memories of an earlier day, the sun slanting down on a similar spread, anticipation quickening her blood, waiting for the very first Indians to arrive. Her throat grew tight and tears caught in the web of her lashes. “How I shall miss you, Asku.”
He grinned and handed her a drink. “Come east with me, then. Enroll at Vassar or Mount Holyoke.”
“Mother says I already have more education than I shall ever need.” Her eyes flickered toward the oak tree where still stood. “Besides, I think I should miss it here too much.”
Asku followed her errant gaze to the oak tree. The rosy exuberance drained from his cheeks, leaving his expression wistful.
Alma bit her lip and hastened down the buffet toward a towering tray of butter cookies. “You’ll meet hordes of terribly interesting people at Brown.” She heaped a pile of cookies onto a plate and handed it
to him. “The bustle of Providence will sweep you up, and you’ll forget all about me and this little school.”
Their fingers brushed as he took the plate. “No, I shall never forget you, Azaadiins.”
Before she could reply in kind, her father parted through the crowd with Mr. Chase. “There you are, Harry! Allow me to introduce Mr. Chase from the Indian Bureau. Mr. Chase, our valedictorian, Harry Muskrat.”
The superintendent’s thick lips curled and his nose wrinkled. “Muskrat?”
“The muskrat is an honored animal among my people. He gave his life so that the world could be built anew after the flood.”
“Hmm . . . interesting . . . Mr. Blanchard tells me you’ve been accepted to Brown. Bully for you, my boy! I’m a Yale man myself.”
The man’s watery gray eyes fell on Alma. The flat expression he’d worn throughout the ceremony livened. His thick lips, crowded between a graying mustache and beard, curved upward. “This must be your daughter.” He raised his top hat, exposing a crown of baldness beneath. “Miss Blanchard.”
Alma held back a grimace and bowed. Thankfully, her father steered the conversation back to Harry. Out of politeness, she endured a few more moments of the man’s sideways glances, then flashed Asku an apologetic smile and slipped away.
She scanned the crowd for . He no longer stood beneath the sweeping arms of the oak. He was not by the refreshment table, nor had he sought shade on the veranda.
At last, she spotted him through the dense gathering, standing with Frederick and a few boys from La Crosse. Their eyes met and he inclined his head toward the back of the house. He’d made his decision.
Alma hesitated. Could she bear to hear he was leaving? Just when she’d screwed up enough courage to follow, Lily Steele captured her arm. “There you are, Alma. What a quaint little affair. Almost feels like a real graduation ceremony.”
Alma grimaced. “It is a real graduation ceremony. They worked hard. They’re going off to jobs, colleges.” She slipped her arm free from Lily’s grasp. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, the . . . um . . . the cookies need replenishing.” She hastened to the buffet, grabbed the tray with the fewest shortbreads, and sped around the schoolhouse.
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