The Drums of Change

by Janette Oke

  Running Fawn eased her basket of buffalo chips to the ground and straightened her shoulders. She had expected to have a visit from Silver Fox now that the days of mourning for his father had passed. But the days had turned to weeks, and the weeks to months, and he had not come. She began to think that maybe … maybe she had been wrong.

  He stood before her now, his face somber, his dark eyes intense. It was strange to see him in full Indian dress. Many of the men on the Reserve had incorporated the cotton shirts and vests of the white man into their own wardrobe. Silver Fox was dressed in buckskin.

  She nodded silently, then modestly lowered her gaze.

  The day was cool. A north wind had been blowing throughout the night, threatening to bring an early winter to the land. Overhead a flock of Canada geese flapped their way southward, large wings taking advantage of the wind at their backs to conserve some energy for the long journey. They called words of encouragement to one another as they flew, though Running Fawn had always found their honking to be plaintive.

  “Do you wish to stay by the fire?” Silver Fox asked, acknowledging the brisk wind and the cool day.

  Running Fawn shook her head. Her father had not yet left the tent. She knew that his aging bones much preferred the warmth to the chill of the wind. She would not disturb him, but he might soon be stirring to check what was in the cooking pot. Instinct told her that this discussion should not be disturbed.

  “I will get my heavy shawl,” she answered simply.

  It was not difficult for her to enter the tent and retrieve her wrap without waking her father. He slept on, his lean body enshrouded in the wool blankets of the Hudson’s Bay Company.

  The two began a silent walk toward the river. It seemed like the logical place to go. Neither spoke until they reached its banks and settled cross-legged on the grass-covered ground.

  “I have wished to come for a long time,” began Silver Fox. “I had many duties after my father’s death.”

  Running Fawn nodded, her eyes on the gentle ripple where a submerged rock in the stream almost touched the surface.

  “I have not forgotten my promise.”

  Running Fawn’s heart skipped within her, much like the stone that he had thrown into the current when they had visited the stream together in a time that seemed so long ago. She could not keep her eyes from lifting to his. She knew the full implications of that promise. She would be his wife. She knew that it was what she wanted. Had wanted for a very long time. Perhaps ever since the young Silver Fox had guided her carefully, gently, home to the Reserve on the small pony.

  “I have not yet paid my debt to the mission,” said Running Fawn in a trembling voice. “I gave my word.”

  The promised payment still hung heavily on her mind. She had worked diligently with her beadwork, but she had no access to a trading post to exchange the work for money.

  “The debt is paid,” responded Silver Fox simply. Running Fawn did not have to ask who had made the payment.

  Silence—for many minutes. Running Fawn stole a glance at Silver Fox and saw a sober, thoughtful face. Troubling thoughts raced through her mind. Was he regretting the long-ago promise? Would he hold to his word, in spite of his heart? Perhaps … perhaps there was another maiden. Maybe even a white girl from the mission school. She did not want to spend her life with a man bound only by a promise. Not if his heart was elsewhere. She wanted …

  But Silver Fox spoke again.

  “I have taken the Christian faith. It warms my heart. It gives me hope for the future. For my people. I cannot lay it aside like a worn moccasin.”

  Running Fawn nodded silently.

  “You cling to the ways of the past,” he went on without recrimination. “I am not sure the two ways would go well in the same tepee.”

  “But I … I would not … I would understand. You may keep your ways.”

  Running Fawn had never had such difficulty trying to express her thoughts. Her feelings.

  “I do not wish a wife to allow me my faith,” said Silver Fox seriously. “I desire a wife who shares my faith. Who loves my Lord as I do. Who seeks only to follow His way. Who raises our children to understand about His love—and mercy. That is what I want in a home.”

  Running Fawn’s rapidly beating heart seemed to suddenly still. He had come to tell her that he could not keep his promise of old. That they would not be man and wife—ever.

  Running Fawn nodded mutely, her eyes cold, her body stiff.

  “For that reason I have a request,” went on Silver Fox as he reached inside his leather tunic. When he withdrew his hand it held a Black Book. Smaller than the missionary’s—yet Running Fawn knew that it was the Bible.

  “I ask only that you read its pages,” said Silver Fox with intense feeling.

  “But I know … I already read. At the mission.”

  “Yes,” he acknowledged, “I know that you have heard many of the stories. I know that you were assigned reading portions. Memorization of passages. You put them from you. Now—I ask one thing. That you read—and that you listen with your heart to the words.”

  For a moment Running Fawn wished to resist.

  “This book is for the white man,” she said. “If a Blackfoot accepts the words, his whole life must change.”

  To her surprise he leaned toward her and took her long, slim hand in his. “Running Fawn,” he said earnestly, “anyone who accepts the words must change. Any man or woman. White or red. Yellow or black. We may be different on the outside, but inside—” He laid a hand over his heart. “Inside we are all the same. Evil. Sinful. Needing someone to save us from all that. We all need to change our ways—from the inside to the outside.”

  It was a new idea for Running Fawn.

  “Please … just … just read the book. Promise me,” he went on. “Then … we will speak again.”

  So she had not been totally dismissed. There was still a chance. She … she … Then a new thought struck her and made her swing around to face the young man. Her back stiffened, her eyes flashed. “I will not say that I take the Christian faith just to become your wife,” she said, her voice low but full of intensity.

  He surprised her with a smile. “I know you will not,” he answered evenly. “That is why I dared to ask for your promise to do this—read the Book again.”

  Running Fawn kept her promise. Daily she found time from her duties to spread the Black Book before her and read the English words.

  She began with the book of Matthew, and for some reason that she could not explain, it seemed much different to her than when she had read it at the mission school. Then she had seen it as a myth, the white man’s way of thinking. Now she was reading it as though the people in the stories had really lived, really shared her world. She often found herself caught up in the pages, forgetting to feed the fire or stir the cooking pot. Her father only smiled.

  She read strange words and ideas. A man named John had preached long ago, to white people. He had called them evil and demanded that they repent and put away their sin. White people. They had to accept Christianity. It was not just naturally theirs because they were white.

  The man Jesus, who was also the Son of God, walked by the water’s edge and called out to the fisherman. They left their boats, their way of life, to follow Him. Running Fawn was amazed that these white fishermen had been called to change their whole way of living.

  On and on she read through the Gospels, and again and again she saw the message, Let go of the past. Be willing to have your life changed. You need a new life, new ways. What you have clung to in the past will keep you from heaven. For everyone—and it meant total change. Total submission to God.

  But it wasn’t until she read the words in the book of Second Corinthians that she realized just how complete that change needed to be. Her eyes widened with surprise and her heart began to race with reverent fear. “Therefore, if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature; old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.” She read the pass
age in chapter five, verse seventeen, again—and again—emphasizing the words that spoke directly to her heart. “Therefore, if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature; old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.”

  If the white man could not have access to heaven without great change, and it was his religion, then what hope had the Blackfoot?

  No … no, that was where her logic was all wrong. Just as Silver Fox had tried to tell her, it was not the white man’s religion. Not at all. It was for all people. The verse said any man. Those of the Blackfoot Nation had as much right to the salvation offered by the Son of God as any white man.

  The thought was both a sobering and exciting one.

  Running Fawn read on.

  The apostle Paul went about preaching to the people and always his message was the same. You need to repent. You are living in sin. God cannot accept you as His child until you change. You can only change, as God forgives you and changes your heart, through the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ His Son. Then you will change your ways.

  “The white people are no different—or better—than the Blackfoot,” observed Running Fawn. For a moment she felt a bit of satisfaction from the fact.

  But a new, sobering thought quickly followed. They might be no better than the Blackfoot in the eyes of their great God, but neither were they any worse. If they needed to repent, to change their ways, to seek forgiveness and find their way back to God, then so did she, Running Fawn.

  With tears in her eyes she turned her attention to the verses that explained how she was to find forgiveness for the evil thoughts and feelings in her heart.

  A verse that spoke directly to her was in John chapter three. A new birth. At first it sounded ridiculous. Impossible. No one, once born, could be born again. But as Running Fawn pondered the verses, she soon realized that Christ was not speaking of a physical birth—but a spiritual. Running Fawn had no difficulty relating to the spiritual. Her people had known since their beginning that man was more than a physical being. She was quite willing to accept the fact that she had a spiritual dimension. And yes, she now was even willing to admit that it was not in a proper relationship with a Holy God.

  That was the start—a new birth—regardless of one’s race. A new birth. God’s family was made up, not of a particular nation, but of all those, of any color or race, who had been spiritually born into His family. Running Fawn could easily understand the rights and privileges of birth. Her proud people had handed down those important traditions for generations.

  Running Fawn allowed the truth of new birth to fill and illuminate her mind, and she found verse after verse presenting this teaching and explaining how one went about experiencing its reality.

  “It is what I need,” she finally concluded with tears running down her cheeks. “It is what I have fought against. I need a new birth. Not to change who I am. I have no desire to try to become—white. I will always be Blackfoot. But I have an evil heart. Evil thoughts. I need to be forgiven. To be spiritually reborn. To change on the inside. That is where the change must be. My spiritual being—that inside part that is eternal.”

  And Running Fawn bent her head and accepted the truths of the Word of God. “If we confess our sin, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sin and to cleanse us from all un-righteousness,” she whispered to herself. As she confessed, the tears of sorrow, then of joy, fell unheeded on the hands folded over the pages of the Black Book.

  Her father did not need to ask what had happened in her life. Her face and manner reflected the joy and peace that filled her heart.

  “I think you should visit Man With The Book,” he suggested, his face full of his own great joy. “He is planning a baptismal service before the cold of winter comes.”

  With shining eyes Running Fawn nodded. It was what she wanted. She would speak with the missionary—soon. Baptism would be her first public step of obedience in her new faith.

  The day was cool but there was no wind blowing. Running Fawn stood on the shore of the river with the five other new believers and listened carefully to the words spoken by the man standing knee-deep in the frigid stream, his black suit soaking up the water swirling about his legs.

  She had been disappointed to learn that Silver Fox would not be in attendance. He had gone to the city on important government business for his people. She had not as yet been able to tell him about her new faith.

  At first she wondered if she should postpone her baptism so he could be there. But she had quickly changed her mind. It was important for her to be baptized, and this was the last opportunity before the cold northern winds would move in to lock them in another prairie winter.

  “The Holy Scripture admonishes us to ‘repent and be baptized,’ “said the missionary. “Those of you who stand before me today have repented. You have accepted the work of Jesus Christ on Calvary as your atonement and have asked His forgiveness for your sin. He has accepted you—as He promised. Now you have come to be buried with Him in baptism—to rise again to new life as one of His followers.”

  Running Fawn felt excitement tingle through her. She was a follower of Jesus. A new spiritual being. A child of God—now fit for heaven through acceptance of His atonement. It filled her with such remarkable joy that she wondered if she would be able to contain it.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The Answer

  The missionary sat at Running Fawn’s campfire enjoying a warm cup of coffee on a chilly autumn evening. He seemed to be deep in thought. Running Fawn could feel his eyes on her as she stitched the moccasin in her hands. She was making sure that her father had proper footwear for the coming winter. The white man’s shoes did not keep the winter frost from freezing feet.

  Running Fawn felt restless. Her ears were straining for the sound of her father’s returning horse, and her eyes pierced the darkness to try to make out an approaching form. He had not yet returned from picking up their allotment at the agency. It was not that she was in need of supplies. It was just that, for some reason, she felt uncomfortable in the present circumstance.

  The missionary broke the silence.

  “How old are you?”

  It seemed a strange question.

  “I am past my seventeenth year,” she answered and returned to her sewing.

  Perhaps he feels that it is strange that a girl my age has not taken her own campfire, she reasoned. Her face flushed slightly.

  He chuckled softly, bringing her head up. She had no idea what was amusing to him.

  “You have always seemed so mature,” he said softly. “I had supposed you were a bit older than that. But looking back—yes, you were merely a child when I first arrived.”

  He was silent again, then said, “I thought I was quite grown up at nineteen. Imagine.” He laughed again—softly and to himself. “Well, I have done some growing up—some aging—since then. Many things have changed.”

  He shook his head as though sorting through all the difficult years that he had shared with her people.

  “So you are seventeen,” he continued to muse, staring at the dancing flame of the fire, the cup of coffee forgotten in his hand. “I have just turned thirty. Thirty.” He shook his head as though it was hard to believe. Then he looked up and asked candidly, “Do you think that is too old?”

  Running Fawn frowned. Too old? Why, her father was much older than that and he still rode in the hunt. Planted the grain.

  “No,” she said quickly. “Thirty is not too old.”

  He smiled, then leaned to set aside his coffee cup. “Good,” he said and he sounded greatly relieved.

  He stood to his full height. He was a tall man. Taller than the Indian people with whom he worked. Running Fawn, sitting on the robe beside the fire, had to look way up to see his face.

  He looked serious now. Serious but excited. “I have written the mission,” he said, and his usually controlled voice was husky with intensity. “I am awaiting their reply. If they have no objection—and I do hope they will
not, I would so much rather be able to stay with the mission—then—”

  He stopped and began to pace as though agitated. Running Fawn continued to look at him, a frown creasing her smooth forehead.

  He spun around to face her, took a deep breath and continued, slowly, as though he wished her to catch every word.

  “Then I plan … to ask you to be my wife.”

  Running Fawn was shocked. Her head reeled, her voice failed her. She wanted to stand to her feet, but she was sure that they would never hold her weight. She looked up at him, then quickly down.

  “You may see this as … sudden,” he went on. “It is not. I have given it much thought. I have prayed … and waited. I could not speak until … until you had accepted the faith. You will never know the agony of the waiting. The—”

  Running Fawn finally rose shakily to her feet. She must speak before he could say more. She held out a hand imploring him to be silent. He seemed to understand her gesture but not her message. He stepped closer and took the trembling hand in his.

  “I—you must—I cannot—”

  He quickly interrupted. “I know that you must care for your father. We will care for him … together.”

  She shook her head. “No,” she said, her eyes begging for his understanding. “No … it is not that way. I … I am … promised.”

  He looked confused.

  “Promised?” For a moment he looked stunned, then he seemed to brighten. “Your father is a Christian now. He would not hold you to the old ways. He would not give you to a man who does not share your faith. He—”

  “My father did not make the promise,” said Running Fawn quietly, yet with firmness.

  “Then who—?”

  “Running Fawn,” she answered, laying her free hand on her heart.

  “You … but … I do not understand.” He looked totally baffled. “When?” he asked her.

  “Many years.”

  “But … but how do you know—? What of the … the … man? Does he expect you to—? Does he share your faith?”

  He faltered, then added one more direct question. “Does he still wish to marry?”