Soldier Sister, Fly Home

by Nancy Bo Flood

  Poem on this page by Emily Dickinson, originally published in Poems, ed. Mabel Loomis Todd and Thomas Wentworth Higginson (Boston, MA: Roberts Brothers, 1890).

  Text copyright © 2016 by Nancy Bo Flood

  Illustrations copyright © 2016 by Shonto Begay

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Charlesbridge and colophon are registered trademarks of Charlesbridge Publishing, Inc.

  Published by Charlesbridge

  85 Main Street

  Watertown, MA 02472

  (617) 926-0329

  www.​charlesbridge.​com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Flood, Nancy Bo, author.

  Soldier sister, fly home/Nancy Bo Flood.

  pages cm

  Summary: Half-Navajo, half-white sisters Tess and Gaby are separated when Gaby drops out of college to join the army. Now as Gaby is deployed to Iraq, she asks Tess to care for Blue, the spirited horse that Tess dislikes. Tess struggles with her identity and with missing her sister, and she decides to spend the summer with her grandmother at sheep camp where tragedy strikes.

  ISBN 978-1-58089-702-0 (reinforced for library use)

  ISBN 978-1-60734-821-4 (ebook)

  ISBN 978-1-60734-822-1 (ebook pdf)

  1. Sisters—Juvenile fiction. 2. Navajo Indians—Juvenile fiction. 3. Families—Arizona—Juvenile fiction. 4. Horses—Juvenile fiction. 5. Arizona—Juvenile fiction. [1. Sisters—Fiction. 2. Navajo Indians—Fiction. 3. Indians of North America—Arizona—Fiction. 4. Family life—Arizona—Fiction. 5. Horses—Fiction. 6. Arizona—Fiction.]

  I. Title.

  PZ7.F668So 2016

  813.6—dc23 [Fic]

  2015018819

  Ebook ISBN: 9781607348214

  Production supervision by Brian G. Walker

  Ebook design adapted from printed book design by Martha MacLeod Sikkema

  v4.1

  a

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue: Raven’s Lament

  Chapter One: Fallen Warrior

  Chapter Two: Purple Blanket

  Chapter Three: Cowboys and Indians

  Chapter Four: Change of Orders

  Chapter Five: Hózhq, Walk in Beauty

  Chapter Six: Promises

  Chapter Seven: Protection Ceremony

  Chapter Eight: Sing to the Yé’ii

  Chapter Nine: Flunk!

  Chapter Ten: A Real Indian

  Chapter Eleven: Espresso

  Chapter Twelve: Sheep Camp

  Chapter Thirteen: Hoghan, Hogan

  Chapter Fourteen: Dare to Fly

  Chapter Fifteen: Flying

  Chapter Sixteen: Rain

  Chapter Seventeen: Waterfall

  Chapter Eighteen: Moccasins

  Chapter Nineteen: Wild

  Chapter Twenty: Broken

  Chapter Twenty-one: Sing

  Chapter Twenty-two: Blue

  Chapter Twenty-three: Stone

  Chapter Twenty-four: Email

  Chapter Twenty-five: Lii’ Dootł’izhii, Blue Horse

  Chapter Twenty-six: Ghaaji’, October

  About the Navajo Language

  Glossary

  Acknowledgments

  Reader’s Group Guide for Soldier Sister, Fly Home

  To the memory of Lori Piestewa, and to all the women in the military who put themselves in harm’s way

  Feathers fly,

  Carrying a heartbeat.

  Fly home.

  Blue Horse, Ł’ Dootł’izhii.

  prologue

  raven’s lament

  The last time I shot a rifle, I was ten. Dad picked me up after school, and we headed to the rifle range just outside Flagstaff.

  We drove along Route 89, the four-lane highway that runs down the long slope of the San Francisco Peaks like a frozen gray river, straight into the hot, dry belly of the desert. The Navajo Nation. My home.

  I liked being at the range with my dad. I liked the kick of the rifle, the way the explosion vibrated through me and shook the sky. The burning smells were raw and real. I had a steady hand. A sharp eye. I liked it all.

  Gaby, my older sister by six years, never came with us to the rifle range. Gaby hated guns. My sister looked Navajo, like a woman warrior with gorgeous long hair. I looked white. Some kids at school didn’t believe we were sisters and said I was lying about being half Navajo. But we were both tall, with champion-fast running legs.

  No one else was at the rifle range that day, just Dad and me and one big old raven. It always showed up. Craawk! It sat hunched over on top of a light pole, head cocked, and watched. Reminded me of Gaby—watching, thinking, and then speaking her mind.

  A shiny new pickup drove in, stirred up a whirl of dust, and stopped next to us. The front door opened, and a big white guy hauled himself out of his truck, lifted out his rifle, stood and stared, made me nervous.

  Craawk! The raven didn’t like him either.

  I took careful aim at the farthest target, pulled the trigger, and shot a bull’s-eye.

  “That ain’t real shooting, but maybe not so bad for a girl.”

  The man held up his rifle. He glanced at the target but then stared at that big old bird. The raven stared back.

  I should have shouted, waved my arms. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t even move.

  One shot. Bang!

  A cloud of red dust puffed up beneath the pole. Black iridescent feathers lay in a heap. The raven’s eyes, still open, staring, surprised.

  I didn’t even move.

  The man walked over and kicked it. “Dumb bird. Not even good for eating.”

  I swore right then that I’d never shoot a rifle again.

  That was three years ago. Now my sister is the one carrying a rifle.

  chapter one

  fallen warrior

  Before dawn, Grandpa stepped into the kitchen. I had gotten up in the dark to take an early-morning run. Grandpa looked at me with eyebrows raised, then lit the kerosene lantern rather than switching on a light. I slipped on my running shoes, stopped, and waited.

  Grandpa reached for his rifle from above the doorway, handling it as carefully as if it were one of Grandma’s newborn lambs. He sat down and reached for a flannel cloth and a can of oil. With a slow, steady rhythm, he rubbed oil into the dark wood. It was beautiful to watch.

  Light from the lantern flickered across Grandpa’s face. He reached into his shirt pocket, took out an arrowhead, and placed it on the rifle. He repeated several phrases in Navajo, sat silent for a moment, and then returned the arrowhead to his pocket.

  Grandpa revered his rifle nearly as deeply as Grandma did the sunrise.

  Slowly he stood up, straightened out his stiff joints. I stepped out of the way as he replaced the rifle above the door.

  “Going running?”

  I nodded. “I won’t be late.”

  He looked at the round white clock over the sink. “Watch the time, Teshina. This memorial is important.”

  “If I’m not back when it’s time to leave,” I said as my hand tightened around the door handle, “go ahead without me.”

  “This memorial is for Lori, for her family.” He cleared his throat. “We all need to be there.”

  My glance met his. Neither of us said another word.

  I stepped out and eased the door shut, careful to not make a sound so it wouldn’t wake Mom. She’d worked the late shift at the hospital in Tuba City and had returned home only a few hours ago. I looked up at my bedroom window. I had always shared that room with my sist
er. But not anymore. Not since everything had changed.

  —

  Already the sky was brightening from dark to gray. Soon streaks of red would appear and a haze of gold would pour over the sagebrush and drifts of sand. Then the sun would lift over the mesa’s edge and start warming up the day. So many times my mother’s mother—my shimá sání—had reminded me that each sunrise was sacred, a gift, a time to greet the Holy Ones, a time to receive their blessings.

  As always, Grandma had gotten up long before dawn in order to be outside facing east, ready to greet the sunrise. Afterward she began hauling hay and water to her herd of goats and sheep. I walked toward the corral, my steps cushioned by the soft sand. The air was still cool and full of good smells—sweet green hay, smoke from the cook fire, and the sour odor of livestock. Grandma turned, her face brightening as I waved. She continued with her work, tossing handfuls of grain to her animals, calling each by name, scolding the troublemakers. Apricot was easy to spot because of her rust-colored wool, but also because she was always nudging close to steal an extra mouthful of grain. Grandma laughed, pushing Apricot away from the feed bucket. Old Jack, with his long scraggly beard, shoved his head in as soon as Apricot’s head was out. Grandma pulled Jack away and tossed oats to both of them. Then she gave an extra handful to Betty. I smiled. Grandma had nicknamed that goat Betty-Boobsy because Betty made more milk than any other three goats combined.

  I waved again and kept on walking, past the horse shed and the horse corral. Blue was circling round and round, kicking up dust and whinnying his complaints. I shook my head. I hated that horse. He was mean to everyone except Gaby, and he was hotheaded and stubborn. It was his fault that my sister’s ankle had gotten smashed. That translated into no more running track, no more trophies and blue ribbons. My sister lost all chances for a college sports scholarship. Then what did she do? She dropped out of college and enlisted in the army—how stupid was that?

  My stomach did a flip-flop. We didn’t need any more fallen warriors around here.

  A curve of sun broke over the mesa’s edge, and I was still staring at Blue. Get moving, Tess. Stop thinking about stuff you can’t change. Run! I breathed in, said a little prayer to the spirits just in case they really were listening, and took off. My body started to feel alive, and my mind quieted. I looked to the horizon and ran full out. Someday I’d run all the way to Elephant Feet. Gaby had promised to race with me. Nonstop. But now my sister isn’t running—she’s marching. My throat started getting tight. Stop thinking, Tess. Just run. A steady rhythm settled in, my legs reaching, arms pumping. Breathe. Run. Nothing else.

  The horizon shimmered as if the Holy Ones were pouring out their blessings. Running worked its magic. My heart pounded, and I was flying. Running free. Running and wishing I’d never have to turn around. I don’t want to go to the memorial. Not this one, not today.

  I stopped. Breathing came in fast gulps. I yelled to the sky, “Gaby, why aren’t you here? Lori was your friend!” Overhead a raven swooped low, cawing as if scolding me. I stopped. Breathing…

  I kicked at the sand, turned, ran slowly back home.

  Mom, Gramps, and Grandma, dressed in their best Navajo attire, sat around the kitchen table, sipping coffee, waiting. As soon as I opened the door, Mom glanced at the clock. No one said a word.

  I rushed through a cold shower, threw on some fresh clothes—my good jeans and the Western shirt Mom had washed and ironed the day before. I hurried outside. Mom had loaded the truck bed with gifts for Lori’s family. Grandpa sat in the front on the passenger side, his fingers tapping the sill of the rolled-down window. Grandma sat in the middle. Dad was missing—still in Phoenix, working overtime. He had transferred to Phoenix when Gaby started college. Not that he wanted to, but it meant a higher position in the computer department and more pay. When Gaby found out, she threatened to drop out of college and get a job. Both Mom and Dad had snapped back, “Don’t you dare.”

  Well, she had dared and dropped out. But not for a job.

  I climbed into the back of the truck, sat down, and off we went.

  The truck bumped along the rutted driveway. Red dust swirled behind us. We turned onto the main road, and my insides got jumpier.

  I sat upright, my back pressed against the cab window, and watched the long highway unwind. It felt strange sitting in the truck bed all alone. Usually Gaby and I sat huddled next to each other, singing silly songs and telling goofy jokes, like when we were younger. Riding in the truck bed was our special time. Even after Gaby left for college, every Friday after school I’d ride along with Mom to Flagstaff. We’d do some shopping, pick up Gaby, then head back home. I’d talk nonstop for a while, filling her in on all the latest Rez gossip. For the entire drive it was just the two of us with the wind whipping by.

  Once when I was little, Gaby had leaned in close and said, “I’ve got a secret—promise not to tell?” Of course I had promised.

  “I have a boyfriend and he kissed me, a big long kiss.” She had grinned. “Tess…I liked it.” She had a ridiculous look on her face. “We’re going to do it again.”

  As soon as we had gotten home, I hopped out of the truck and told Mom. I didn’t want my sister kissing some slobbery boy. Gaby hadn’t spoken to me for a week. Finally I had written her a long poem about my sorry, sad heart. Even then I had to agree to do her share of dishes for an entire month.

  Tuba City came into view as we drove over the final set of hills. Not much to see. Up ahead was the one shopping center—a grocery store, a pizza place, Frank’s Dry Goods store, and a Chinese takeout restaurant. Rows of government housing—identical, tan-colored houses with blue metal roofs—lined the streets. All along the barbed-wire fences, shreds of white grocery bags flapped like broken-winged birds. Our truck slowed, and we turned just before the post office, where the US flag flew at half-mast.

  My stomach did another flip-flop. Half-mast. For Lori.

  Traffic was backed up, a long line of pickups and SUVs. We inched along to the school and finally parked in one of the last remaining spaces.

  Mom climbed out and hurried around to help Gramps and Grandma out of the truck. I didn’t move. Mom frowned at me. “Teshina, it’s time.”

  I swung myself over the side of the truck. Grandma patted my hand. Then she looked at Mom. They often said a lot to each other without saying a word. Gaby and Mom were like that too.

  Car doors slammed shut. No one spoke. No one shouted hello. An uneasy quiet hovered over the parking lot. I followed my family into the gym.

  I felt the drums before I could see them.

  Their vibrations echoed through my bones.

  Boom-BOOM! Boom-BOOM!

  I felt scared, like when I was little. I wanted to reach up and hold on to my big sister’s hand.

  chapter two

  purple blanket

  Our family paraded single file along one side of the gym and up into the bleachers—everyone except for Grandpa. He was dressed in his full Navajo veteran regalia: his good jeans and official yellow-orange shirt, and he’d put on his string tie and his United States Marine Corps hat with gold initials—USMC—across the front. Grandpa strode straight to the front of the gym, where other veterans had gathered. As an honored warrior, one of the oldest veterans, and a World War II Code Talker, Grandpa would lead the procession.

  The drums beat steadily—three large wide drums clustered together. Six or seven men sat circled around each drum. The gym buzzed with the murmuring of voices. Someone coughed. A baby cried. Suddenly the drumming grew louder, more demanding. The tempo accelerated, and the sound crescendoed to a final boom-boom beat. Silence. I glanced at my mother. Tears slid down her cheeks. Softly, very slowly, the drums began again. The people in the lowest row of seats stood. Then row after row, like ripples across a pond, we all rose to a stand. The men took off their hats. The procession began.

  People stepped quietly, single file, forming a long line that soon circled around the gym. Everyone was dressed to show their
respect, to give honor. The men wore stiff new jeans, Western shirts, braided bolo ties, polished boots, and broad-brimmed hats. Older women wore their traditional velvet-layered skirts, satin blouses, circles of silver and turquoise on heavy squash-blossom necklaces, and wide silver belts. White moccasins wrapped up past ankles and softened steps.

  Each familiar face caused me to catch my breath. Miss Begay, my kindergarten teacher, had been Lori’s teacher too. Mr. Yazzie, the high school basketball coach, stared straight ahead, his ashen face showing no emotion. Behind him walked Mr. Whitethorn, our art teacher, a champion rodeo rider, and Mrs. Goldtooth, the track coach, who had once told Mom that I showed great potential. After starting school in Flagstaff as a boarding student, I seldom thought about these people. Flagstaff was only an hour’s drive away, but it was a whole different world—another planet, where I was always an outsider, an Indian, and, even worse, a mixed-blood. At school, I thought about survival, not about the Rez. My teammates called, “Hey, Navajo!” or “Move it, Pokeyhontas!” They never saw me. They never saw Navajo or white—they only saw an Indian.

  I kept to myself. I sat alone in the cafeteria, always reading a book. I was invisible.

  Here is home. These are my people. But I had left, and each time I returned, I felt more mixed up. Today was even harder than I thought it would be. Part of me wanted to be here, and part of me wanted to escape, even back to Flagstaff.

  Row after row of people continued to file down the bleachers to join the circling procession. It was our turn. Mom took hold of Grandma’s arm and helped her stand up. Shimá Sání looked small and wrinkled. She stood to full height, head high, shoulders back. It didn’t matter that she barely came up to my chin. She was saying, Yes, we can survive this. We have survived so much else. Grandma had lost her oldest son and two of her brothers—fallen soldiers in previous wars.

  The drums kept beating. Boom-BOOM.

  My mother stepped forward, her hands clenched around the Pendleton blanket we would give to Lori’s family. Lori and my sister had been friends here in Tuba. My sister was a few years younger and wanted to be a champion Little League player like Lori.