After each session, they insisted Taabe rest for a while. She did not like to admit weakness, even to herself, but leaning on her crutches for a short time while she cleaned the dishes did drain her strength.
The day after Quinta’s visit, Sister Adele accompanied Taabe to her room to help her remove her outer skirt and settle on her bed. The sister leaned Taabe’s crutches against the adobe wall, where she could reach them easily.
Taabe reached out and patted the stool beside the bed.
Sister Adele looked at her in surprise. “You want me to stay?”
“Song.” It was one of the new words the nun had taught her. Taabe felt shy, not certain she should ask, but she wanted to hear Sister Adele sing again. Specifically, she hoped to hear the song that had sounded familiar.
Sister Adele sat and began softly to sing one of the songs the sisters sang in the chapel room. Taabe closed her eyes. It was not the one she had hoped to hear, but she would wait.
Every day the sisters went into the chapel at certain times. All of them went early in the morning, and again after breakfast. Late in the afternoon they gathered again, before supper, and once more after the sun had set. Taabe heard their songs, and sometimes quiet chanting.
Sister Adele finished her song and started to rise.
In Comanche, Taabe said, “Wait.”
Sister Adele peered at her.
“Song,” Taabe said.
Sister Adele smiled and resumed her seat. She began singing—the same song she had just sung.
Taabe’s frustration grew. How could she explain? She sat up and felt along the edge of the bed for her parfleche. She took out her small flute and began to play.
Sister Adele’s jaw dropped. After a moment she sat back, smiling.
Taabe finished the simple melody and lowered the flute. “Song?”
“That’s ‘Frère Jacques,’” Sister Adele said. “How clever of you!”
Taabe raised the flute and played the tune again. Sister Adele sang with her, softly.
“Frère,” Taabe said, eyeing the nun.
“It means Brother Jacques—or James, I guess.” Sister Adele went to a shelf near the door and took down the slate and chalk. She sat and quickly sketched four stick figures. “Family. Father, mother, brother, sister.” She pointed in turn to each figure.
Taabe frowned and took the slate. She pointed to the figures and said slowly, “Man, woman, boy, girl.”
Sister Adele nodded, smiling. “Yes, but this is a family.” She drew a small bundle in the woman’s arms. “Baby.”
“Baby,” Taabe said.
“Yes. Papa, Mama.”
“Mama.”
“That’s right. Baby.”
“Baby.”
Sister Adele pointed to the boy. “Brother.” She drew a line between the boy and the girl and pointed to each. “Sister. Brother.”
Taabe was familiar with the word sister. She placed her hand on Adele’s wrist. “Sister. You.”
Sister Adele laughed. “Yes, I am Sister Adele. We are all called ‘sister,’ but that’s different. In a family—” She tapped the slate with the chalk. “—the sister is the girl.” Again she touched the boy and girl figures. “Brother. Sister.”
Taabe frowned. It was too confusing.
Sister Adele went through the entire family again. “Father. Mother. Baby. Brother. Sister.”
Suddenly it all fit together, and Taabe caught her breath. “Mama.” She pointed to the woman.
“Yes.”
“Sister.” She touched the girl.
“Yes.” Adele’s face glowed.
Taabe put her hand to her chest. “I. Sister.”
“You are a sister?” Adele frowned. “You have a sister?”
Taabe thought of Pia, the girl she had grown up with, whose lodge she had lived in after their mother died. She whispered the Comanche word for sister. Her eyes burned with tears. She did miss Pia and her family. The life among the Numinu was a hard one. They had no beds, no stoves, no storerooms full of food. But she did love Pia and her baby girl. The others of the people she cared about as well. Perhaps she was making a terrible mistake to leave them behind. What lay beyond this temporary life with the sisters?
She touched the nun’s sleeve, still confused over the words. “Sister?”
“Oh, I don’t have any sisters,” Adele said. “Well, not outside of the church. We’re all sisters here because we’re sisters in Christ.” She pointed to the carved figure on the wall.
Taabe looked up at the man hanging there, more baffled than ever.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The westbound stage arrived a few minutes early, and Ned was still in the ranch house. He grabbed his hat and whip. “Papa, I don’t want to live at the mission.” Quinta set the pitcher of milk on the table with a thump. Patrillo frowned at her. “We will talk about it later. Right now you get the table set. We have three passengers to feed today. Quick!”
Ned followed Patrillo outside, where the passengers—three men who had come from Fort Smith—were taking turns at the water basin.
Patrillo carried the sack of mail straight to the stagecoach. Ned paused under the eaves and called to the passengers, “Dinner is ready, gents. We leave in ten minutes.”
The men rushed inside. Ned ambled to the stage and took the pot of grease from Benito. He worked his way around the coach, applying grease as needed to the wheel fittings. By the time he’d finished, the boys had the teams switched, Tree had settled the mail sacks inside, and Brownie had stowed his small bundle of belongings in the driver’s boot.
“One of the passengers asked me to put a packet in the treasure box,” Tree told him softly.
Ned nodded. So far they hadn’t carried much for valuables, other than the mail. It wasn’t as if they were in the middle of a mining district. But the desolate miles they traveled made them vulnerable to holdups. Reports had come from other areas of road agents robbing the passengers and stealing the mail sacks. The fact that the stagecoaches came to them after traveling through Indian Territory seemed to lend a little insurance. The tribes between Fort Smith and Texas knew that if they attacked the mail coaches, they would be severely punished and their agents along the route would lose their commissions. Still, a lot of people were leery of riding the stage through Indian lands.
“Are you going to put Quinta at the mission?” he asked.
Tree gritted his teeth. “I don’t know. She gets wilder and wilder. Yesterday she rode clear out to the cliffs by herself. I wanted to tan her hide.”
“Think the sisters can tame her?”
“I don’t know.” Tree shook his head. “Sister Natalie thinks so, but I’m not so sure. I’m thinking on it. She’d have to speak English all the time.”
“Is that bad?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I want her to be able to speak good English. People think better of you then, and treat you better.”
“Really?” Ned grinned. “Maybe I’ll treat you better if you start talking better.”
Tree laughed. “Maybe so. Are you stopping by the mission?”
“If I can find a translator.”
“I thought maybe I’d send something else for that girl, Taabe. They’re doing a good job with her.”
Ned looked up at the sun. “Save it for next time. We need to get rolling.”
“Right. I’ll go tell the passengers you’re ready.”
Ned climbed to the driver’s box.
The door of the house flew open and Quinta ran out and streaked toward the corral. In her overalls and plaid shirt, she looked like a little boy, except for the long, dark braids that flew out behind her.
Tree looked up at him. “If you see the sisters, tell them I’ll bring her to them for a week. They can see what they think.”
“Will do.” Ned looked at Brownie. This gave him an excuse to stop by the mission, regardless of whether he found someone who could speak Comanche.
Brownie shook his head. “Can’t say I envy the sisters.”
/>
Taabe sat on the floor in her room, playing her flute softly. She ran through the melody of “Frère Jacques,” then mimicked one of the songs she’d heard the nuns singing in their chapel room. Dissatisfied with that—she wasn’t quite getting it right, and this displeased her—she went back to the melodies she had learned in the camps of the Numinu.
As she played, images of the people she’d known danced across her mind. Pia, the baby, and Pia’s husband, Chano—a stern warrior, but gentle with his family. The older woman who had been her mother for so long, until she died two winters ago in a time of sickness and near starvation. Others who had died—some that she loved dearly. Then there were the Numinu children she had played with as a child, men returning from raiding with painted faces that frightened her, and captives that drew her pity.
Peca. She shuddered at the thought of the man who had pursued her. She had been here with the sisters many days, but Peca had not come to take her back. Her flight must have angered and shamed him. She couldn’t imagine the proud warrior ignoring the slight. No, Peca had followed her. He may have lost her trail, but he had surely found her horse. And so many white people had come to stare at her. If they all knew she was here, Peca would find her eventually.
She continued to play songs of the Numinu, but she stared up at the figure on the wall. “Cross,” Adele had said. The man hung on a cross. And he was God’s Son. That much Taabe had grasped. The sisters believed their God was bigger than any other spirits. Taabe wasn’t sure why His Son was being tortured on the cross, but she knew now that when the sisters spoke with their eyes shut, they were talking to Him. Praying, they called it.
Somehow that seemed normal to Taabe. White people prayed. How did she know this? The soldiers, the farmers, people like Ned Bright the stagecoach driver—did they all pray? In the shadows of her memory she could see white people with their eyes closed, their lips moving, speaking to their spirit God.
She had left her door open a crack, and now it creaked open. Sister Adele came in.
“That is lovely, Taabe. May I sit and listen?”
Taabe understood her name and “sit.” She nodded. Adele seated herself on the stool.
“You heard Mr. Bright say that Quinta Garza will come to us soon?”
Taabe hesitated then nodded. Ned Bright’s brief visit that morning had left her longing for the chance to spend more time with him—so different from the feelings Peca inspired in her. Ned had greeted them all cheerfully and told Sister Natalie something concerning Quinta. Sister Natalie had smiled and nodded, so Taabe guessed it was good news. And that must mean the girl would visit again.
Adele lifted Taabe’s slate from the bedside table. “I will teach Quinta.” She pointed to the slate and said again, “Quinta.”
Taabe’s heart lifted. The girl was coming to learn—perhaps to learn English, as she was. It might be like having a sister again. Sister. The word brought such longings. Did she yearn for Pia, her Comanche sister?
A girl with pale hair … was that a memory or did she imagine it?
She turned and looked at Sister Adele. “Family.” She touched her chest and repeated, “Family.” She wished she could speak what was on her heart, but she hadn’t the words yet.
Sister Adele looked into her eyes. “Yes. You have a family. Somewhere.”
Taabe laid aside her flute and reached for the slate.
She sketched two woman figures, one slightly larger than the other. “Taabe.” She pointed to the small one, then the large. “Sister.”
Adele smiled. “So. You do have a sister.”
Taabe nodded, troubled by her thoughts. She certainly had a sister among the Numinu. But maybe she also had a white sister. Other white people hovered at the edge of memory. Who were they? Slowly she drew another woman, larger than the others. “Mama.”
Adele caught her breath. “You remember your mother?”
Taabe’s heart pounded. What was real, what was wishful thinking, and what was a remnant of the fears her Numinu mother had pounded into her? A beautiful white woman with a book in her hands … did that thought come to her because of the numerous times she had seen the nuns holding books? But the woman in her mind wore no head covering. Her pale hair made a soft cloud about her face. And she held a book and read from it aloud to Taabe and the other girl.
She lifted the flute and blew into it. Slowly she played several notes to a song she did not learn in the Numinu village. One that should be sung, but she couldn’t remember the words.
The bell rang, clanging softly through the house. Sister Adele stood. “I have to go now. It’s time for prayers. Thank you for playing for me.”
Taabe nodded and watched her go out and shut the door soundlessly. She scrambled to her bed on her knees and grabbed her parfleche, opened it, and felt inside. Her hand trembled as she took out the folded and tattered piece of paper. Should she show it to the sisters? They might be able to tell her what it meant. Why had she kept it all this time?
“Couldn’t get anyone?” Brownie spat over the side of the stagecoach.
Ned gathered the reins and released the brake. “Nope. Nobody seems to know anyone who speaks the language well.”
“You’d think there’d be some buffalo hunters who would.”
Ned shook his head. “The captain says one of their scouts is good, but he’s off with a detachment. And somebody thought there was a boy who’d spent six months or so with the Comanche, but I couldn’t find out where he lives. Might be just a rumor. Have you heard of any captured kids being recovered?”
“Not for a while, and then it was south of here.”
Ned chirruped to the team and they broke into their road trot, smooth and easy. He settled back and enjoyed the drive. The cool breeze of early November was amplified by their speed, and he was glad he’d worn his leather jacket over a wool shirt.
“You stopping at the mission today?” Brownie asked. “Just for a minute. Got a man on his way to Fort Smith who heard about the school. He wants to talk to the nuns.” Brownie nodded.
It was almost a scheduled stop now. If Ned had an excuse, such as people who hoped to identify Taabe or Catholic parents considering sending their daughters for schooling, he felt less guilty about delaying the mail.
When he halted the stage outside the large adobe, he wasn’t surprised to see Tree’s wagon in the dooryard. Inside he found his friend in the small parlor with Sister Natalie.
“Hello, Mr. Bright.” The sister smiled. “Mr. Garza has brought us our first pupil.”
“Glad to hear it,” Ned said, though he still felt uneasy about a defenseless house full of women and girls. He nodded at Tree and introduced the man he’d brought.
“Sister Riva is with Quinta,” Tree said, “helping her settle into her room.”
Ned held out a bundle he’d brought from the fort. “I reckon you’ll want to leave this with her.”
“Oh, yeah, thank you.” Tree took the parcel wrapped in brown paper and handed it to Sister Natalie. “Like I told you, Sister, Quinta’s grown so much this year that her dress is very short. I asked Ned to pick up some material for a new one. I don’t know if you will be teaching her any sewing …” His dark eyes gleamed with hope.
“Of course.” Sister Natalie laid the bundle on a bench. She glanced at the man Ned had brought, then back to Tree. “Domestic skills are a big part of any girl’s education. We’ll train her in sewing, cooking, and housework, as well as spiritual studies, reading, history, English, music, mathematics, and, if you wish it, French.”
Tree swallowed hard. “My Quinta can learn all of that?”
“I’m sure she can. She seems to be a very intelligent child.”
“Well, she is that.” Tree glanced at Ned. “But you might have some trouble keeping her in a chair long enough to pass all of that on to her.”
Sister Natalie’s smile was so faint, Ned felt a stab of pity for Quinta. “She’s already pretty good in the kitchen,” Ned said. “She and her brothers take tu
rns cooking and cleaning up.”
“That’s right.” Tree threw him a relieved smile. “We have quite a crew of men at the ranch—me and my four boys, Ned, Brownie, and a couple of men who help with the freighting business. That’s a lot of frijoles and tortillas.”
“I’m sure your daughter will benefit from learning some additional skills in the kitchen,” Sister Natalie said. “Sister Maria will take charge of that portion of her instruction.”
Captive Trail (The Texas Trail Series Book 2) Page 8