As an answer, the tent flap swung open and in galloped ten horses and their whooping riders. They were dressed in full Indian regalia, traditional feather headdresses of eagles and hawks and mountain lions, fringed buckskin pants, beaded moccasins, and leather necklaces and wristbands with bells on their belts and reins of the horses. Next came four more horses pulling a heavy platform. It had eight wheels to sup-port the weight of a large metal tub, three feet deep and eight feet across, filled to the brim with water. The horses strained against the heavy load as they pulled it to the center ring.
“We’re in luck. They’re going to practice the Flaming Dive of Death!” Burton announced.
“Woohoo!” Jonny couldn’t contain his excitement.
The riders dismounted and seized two large ropes that hung from the poles supporting the canopy overhead. The ropes passed through a series of pulleys that were connected to another rope that stretched from pole to pole over the center ring high in the air above our heads. Suspended from the center was a third rope to hold the Fire Diver when he appeared.
“There he is!”
The diver entered to the sound of pounding drums, standing astride a black mustang galloping full speed. He had feathers along his arms and down his back and was wearing an eagle headdress with a curved wooden beak and glass eyes. He thundered into the ring, leaped from his horse, and grabbed the hanging rope. He soared up and out in a high arching circle, arms spread and feathers flapping. By taking turns pulling on the ropes, the assistants made the feathered Indian fly higher and higher, faster and farther, while the circle got wider with every pass.
An archer at the far end shot a burning arrow into the pool and the surface of the water burst into flame. With a final yank on the ropes, the soaring Indian swung directly over the pool of burning water, back and forth until the third pass. The drums silenced; the yelling stopped; the flying Indian released the rope from his harness. Arms outstretched in a swan dive, followed by one, two, three, four somersaults, the diver plunged headfirst into the tub and disappeared in a flash of smoke, water, and flames. The splash extinguished the fire, and a masking cloud of steam rose up from the dark pool. He was gone!
“What happened? Sheriff Burton? Where’d he go?”
Burton didn’t answer. Instead, the black mustang suddenly reappeared and trotted across the tent and into the center ring with the Fire Diver sitting on its back! Neat trick! How did he get from the pool onto a horse? How did he get from inside the tent to the outside? How did he dry off so fast? We clapped our hands, whistled loudly, and stomped our feet in appreciation.
“That was absolutely amazing,” I said. “How’d they do that?”
Burton just smiled and shrugged. “You got me. I’ve seen it twenty times, and I still can’t figure it out.”
We noticed a man break from the performing group and walk across the sawdust until he stood at the foot of the bleachers where we were sitting.
“Hello, Sheriff Ernie. It’s been a while since you visited.”
“I came out with the family for your end-of-the-season show in August. You were fantastic as always, Flaming Arrow.”
“Thank you,” the man said, bowing his head slightly.
“What brings you out today?”
“We need to talk to the chief,” Burton said. “You prob-ably know why.”
Flaming Arrow nodded. “I do. Chief Knife Thrower is across the road at the longhouse. He’s holding tribal council today with the other tribal elders. You actually chose a good time to come. I don’t know if he’ll talk to you, though—not in public, in any case. Good luck.” He turned and left the tent.
“Tribal council?” I asked after he was gone.
“Sure. Chief Knife Thrower and his leaders sit down twice a month and deal with Hopontop business. It’s an ancient system, as old as the tribe itself. Anyone who wants can come and present a grievance, argue a case, announce a marriage, that sort of thing. The council hears them out, offers advice, passes judgment. After council is over, they have a community dinner, dancing, story-telling, and some friendly competitions—archery, wrestling, horse races, that sort of thing.”
“Sounds interesting. Like Flaming Arrow.”
“What do you mean?”
“His English was flawless. I don’t mean to sound stupid, but I wasn’t expecting that. I wasn’t expecting any of this.”
“Oh, I see what you mean. You thought they were ignorant savages?”
I didn’t have a good answer.
“Let me help you out. Take Flaming Arrow, for example. He graduated from the University of Washington with a degree in civil engineering. He is in charge of the design and construction of the tents and staging; he directs the transportation, safety, and security; he’s also pretty good with a bow and arrow. When he’s not busy with the circus, he teaches math and science in the Hopontop school. But that’s nothing unusual. Everyone around here knows what’s up.”
“Except maybe for me,” I admitted.
Burton smiled. “Maybe. But you’re starting to catch on.”
We were out of the tent and crossing the muddy road on our way to the longhouse. Burton explained as we walked, “Over the years, a lot of tribes were almost wiped out, but not the Hopontops. They held on to their language, told their stories, and danced their dances. Sure, they’ve learned the knowledge of the new world, but they also held on to their traditions. What you see here is the result of hard work and determination. This is their land and their life on their terms.”
“I’m impressed. I really am.”
The three of us crossed the road and ducked our heads to enter the center door of the longhouse. We joined a short line of people waiting to see the council. Two older gentlemen stared, but mostly everyone ignored us. A few others slipped in behind us and waited patiently for their hearing. The dim building was lit by a low fire that burned in the center of the enclosure and three slits for windows along the south wall. The smoke drifted up and out through a hole in the ceiling. Blankets covered the floor and hung from the walls, muffling the voices of the council as they deliberated.
When it was our turn, the tribal scribe recorded our names in his register and presented us to the council. No one spoke. No one moved. Not until the chief nodded to the other men. Without a word they stood up, walked to the door, and took everyone else with them. Soon the room was entirely empty except for the chief. He pointed, inviting Burton, Jonny, and me to take a seat on the floor opposite from him. We did and waited for him to speak.
Chief Knife Thrower was nearly eighty years old, at my best guess. His face was lined with a dry riverbed of wrinkles. He had dark, intelligent eyes that glittered with insight. He wore a brightly decorated blanket around his shoulders, an intricately beaded breastplate on his chest, and he held a feathered arrow in his right hand, the symbol of his office. His wise face was a stoic mask until he finally broke the silence.
“I know why you are here,” he said in a clear, deep voice. “You have seen the baby.”
“Yes,” I answered. “On my doorstep yesterday morning.”
“She is well?”
“Yes. Quite well. The doctor has been to see her. My wife is caring for her.”
“That is good.”
“Of course, we were wondering about the parents.” I hesitated, waiting for a sign from the chief. “You seem to know about it.”
“I do.”
“I’m assuming one of the parents was Indian? Hopontop, perhaps?”
“Yes. The father is Hopontop, one of our tribe. The mother is white.”
“So I’ve learned,” I explained, telling the chief and Burton and Jonny about the phone call I’d received. It was from Reverend Platz; it seemed that the parents of the mother were members of his congregation, but they wanted to remain anonymous.
“And what were you told?” the chief asked.
“The mother of the baby was heartbroken. She talked it over with her parents, and they decided it would be best for the baby to
be placed for adoption. But leaving the baby on my doorstep, that wasn’t exactly part of the plan; and the mother suddenly leaving town to stay with family in another state—that was a surprise too. Still, Reverend Platz wanted me to know that the grandparents were happy to have the baby end up with us. Except I don’t know what to do next.”
“Do? What is there to do?” the chief asked.
“There’s the father to think about. You said he was a Hopontop. Can I speak to him?”
“No.”
I wasn’t expecting such an abrupt response. “No? What about the baby? The father probably has something to say about it.”
“The father has left. He is gone and will not return.”
“What? Why?”
“Like the mother of the baby, he thought it was best—and I agreed. Both of them were sorry for what happened; they knew they were not ready to be parents. And they thought that leaving would give the baby the best chance at being in a new family.”
The two teenage parents were willing to make a difficult sacrifice in order to correct a serious mistake. I’ve always believed that people who give their children up for adoption are heroes. It was noble of them; they were to be commended. But it still wasn’t exactly what I was hoping to hear. What was I supposed to do with a baby?
“Don’t you think we should try and do something?” I persisted.
Chief Knife Thrower frowned. “Why must you do some-thing? The white man always wants to do something. Always anxious. Has to fix everything.”
“What are you suggesting? Do nothing?”
Chief Knife Thrower didn’t answer, not right away. He thought for a moment and when he answered, it seemed like he was changing the subject. “You are the new minister in Boomtown.”
“Yes. I’ve been here for about four months.”
“You have been told about the history of our people?”
“A little. Sheriff Burton filled me in on the way here.”
“That is all? You do not know enough. How could you possibly understand after a ten-minute car ride?”
“Explain it to me so I can understand.”
The chief frowned and closed his eyes. We waited.
“We could adopt the baby ourselves, but that is not as easy as it sounds. I have a duty to preserve the heritage of my people—we have had to fight for it for hundreds of years—mostly against our white neighbors. So, it would be difficult for her, I think, if she were to remain here. It is better that she be raised among her mother’s people.”
I tried to consider his position. “I think I see your point.”
“Do you? Before the settlers came, we lived under the sun. We died under the moon. We preserved our ways. But then the land was taken. The forests were taken. The rivers were taken. Our freedom was taken. But still we have honor. It cannot be taken from us unless we give it away. Can you understand that?”
I didn’t know what to say. There was nothing I could say. He was trying to be fair. He was trying to help his tribe. He was trying to help the baby and the birth parents. Under the circumstances, he was probably right.
The chief asked, “When you found the baby, did you find anything else?”
“A note.”
“What did it say?”
“No names. Just, ‘Take her as your own.’”
“That is what I think you should do.”
Chief Knife Thrower crossed his arms, bowed his head, and refused to say anymore. The audience had ended as abruptly as it had started.
We stood up and went out the door. Those waiting out-side watched silently as we climbed into the car, turned around, and drove out of the village. Burton didn’t say a word on the drive home. Jonny didn’t say anything either. Both of them let me sit and think. I stared out the window and watched the snow-covered trees go by. I looked up into the steel gray sky and prayed. I waved good-bye when Burton dropped us at our front door. Jonny and I went inside.
Janice was in the living room waiting for us. The baby was asleep in her arms, snuggled in a thick blanket. The room was warm and dimly lit in the waning light of the winter afternoon. There was Christmas music playing on the radio, and I could hear Sarah and Jonny whispering in the other room as he told her what had happened. Ruth hovered nearby, waiting for the verdict.
Janice smiled nervously and asked, “So what did you find out?”
She rocked the baby gently, waiting for my answer. I could see redness in her eyes. She had been crying. She was afraid I’d found the father, afraid he’d changed his mind, afraid she’d have to let go of the baby—a baby who had only been in our home for one day but was now in her heart forever. She was afraid I’d tell her to get in the car, afraid of what would happen when we got there. Looking at my wife clutching the baby, that’s when I finally understood.
“I found out what happens when you have to make a hard choice because of a difficult situation. The father of the baby, he had to make a choice. The mother and her parents, they had to make a choice. The chief had to choose between one of his people versus all of his people. And you and I, we have to make a choice too.”
Janice held her breath and waited for me to finish.
“I learned something new today. I learned that when you’ve made a wrong choice, the best way to redeem it is to make a right choice.”
“And what is the right choice?” she asked, almost whispering.
I smiled and said, “I suppose if she’s going to stay, you have to pick a good name.”
Janice gasped. “You mean it? Thank you! Thank you, honey!” She kissed the baby’s forehead. “You won’t regret this, I promise.” Then she kissed me.
Ruth began to cry and I heard Sarah hollering from the other room, “I knew it! I knew it! She gets to stay!” She came running into the living room to celebrate with us. Jonny came in behind her, and even he was excited about the baby—even if she wasn’t a boy.
Janice said, “I’ve already picked out a name. I’ve been thinking about it ever since we saw her on the porch.”
“What is it?” we all asked her.
“I want to name her Holly, because her skin is such a pretty red like a holly berry. It will remind us that she came on Christmas. What do you think?”
“It goes perfect with her Hopontop name,” I answered. “Before I left, the chief told me they called her Snowbird. He said it was because she flew into our lives in winter.”
Janice laughed and wiped at her tears. “Holly Snowbird. I absolutely love it. I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”
And you know what? To be perfectly honest, neither had I.
CHAPTER 9
The Boomtown Museum
Holly settled into our family like she’d always been there. She was happy, healthy, and loved, not only by our family but by everyone who met her. The church members were delighted. The old women clucked and cooed over the baby. They held a baby shower and sewed little dresses and offered to baby-sit. It’s true that some were uncomfortable with Holly’s mixed heritage, but for the most part, everyone was gracious and kind.
Once a month the circuit judge, Maria Rodriguez, would come into town. She’d hold court at town hall and hear any cases pertaining to Boomtown; usually there wasn’t much for her to do. During this particular visit, she met in closed session with the mayor and Sheriff Ernie to review the progress of the investigation into the mysterious robberies. This was followed by a second closed session with Holly’s grandparents—and the baby’s mother, who had returned to Boomtown to complete the adoption.
We sat nervously in another part of the building waiting for the news. After about a hour (it seemed more like ten), the judge called us into her chambers. Janice and the three kids heaved a huge sigh of relief when we were told that the mother had not changed her mind; rather, she had wished us well and was happy that her daughter would be raised by a loving family. Many of our friends were there to witness the signing of the papers, and afterward we held a huge celebration party at the Nuthouse restaurant. It
was one of those perfect, amazing, life-changing days I will never forget.
A week after the adoption ceremony, we decided to have our first official family outing. It was Saturday, so we took Sheriff Ernie’s advice and headed to the Boomtown Museum. Burton had told us all about the museum—actually a mansion that had been converted into a museum. It was the largest single residence in Boomtown, located on the east side of town, situated on eighty sprawling acres nestled against the Okanogan River, with gardens, walking trails, workshops, and the Boomtown Power Plant and Water Pumping Station. It was a three-story Victorian home with twenty rooms, four elevators, a conservatory, a great room, a basement, and a number of sub-basement levels where the inner workings of the house and the exhibits were stored.
Beyond its Victorian facade, however, all resemblance to a “normal” house ended. It had been the property of Dr. Mfana Losotu, the famous South African inventor, philanthropist, musician, archeologist, linguist, business-man, author, and teacher. Dr. Losotu was as well known for his generosity as he was for his inventions. He had also been a close personal friend of Chang. They had collaborated on a variety of projects—most that worked, a few that hadn’t. He’d been a minority owner of the powder factory and Chang’s partner in a number of business interests.
When Dr. Losotu died in 1929, he bequeathed his home, its contents, the land, and a portion of the estate as a perpetual endowment to maintain the home as a museum. Burton told us that ever since its foundation, the children and grand-children of Dr. Losotu had managed the property.
When our family came to the door, we were greeted by a stunningly beautiful black woman dressed in the traditional garb of her homeland: a purple turban, an ochre shawl, a bright red skirt, an elaborately beaded gorget around her neck, copper arm bands, and woven grass and bead anklets on her bare feet. She bowed deeply as we entered and introduced herself as Samora Losotu, the great-granddaughter of Dr. Losotu.
“You’re so beautiful!” Sarah said.
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