“Put the doll in the donation box!”
The girl turned away.
“Look at me, girl! I said put it in the donation box. Now!”
The woman wrenched the doll away, leaving only a stand of yarn in the girl’s clenched fingers.
“You ungrateful child!” she said, tossing it into the donation box. “These dolls are for deserving white children who don’t have any toys to play with. Stop your snivelling, you bad girl. Go to the office!”
And so it was that when Turtle dawdled down the corridor with his message for Father Thomas, he was shocked to see the girl on the chair. This had never happened before. His apprehension vanished in a rush of excitement. “Do you know my sister, Willow?” he whispered urgently.
“You mean Anne? She is in my dormitory!”
“Tell me where.”
The girl jutted her chin casually toward further down the corridor and murmured in a sing-song voice that could have been interpreted as a hum if anyone had overheard.
“Through that door, up two flights, third door.”
Turtle whispered. “Tell her I’m coming … tonight … after lights out.”
Turtle’s clandestine route to Willow’s dormitory took him down two flights of stairs, along the main floor corridor, past the grade one classroom and then past the offices. It was pitch black apart from the moonlight that shone through the barred windows, leaving a series of shadowy ladders emblazoned on the polished wood floor. When he saw the narrow shaft of lamplight that spilled from Mother Hall’s door, fear stabbed his chest and made his heart pound. He hadn’t anticipated that she would be there. Pinpoints of bright light flashed across his eyes and his knees buckled. He wanted to be back in his bed. But he couldn’t turn back! Willow was waiting for him. The fainting spell passed, and on trembling legs he stole closer until he could peek through the gap in the door. Mother Hall sat close to the potbellied stove with a stack of envelopes on her lap. Turtle’s heart was beating so violently that he feared Mother Hall would hear it.
“Little Deer,” she mumbled, reading the name on an envelope. “Ain’t got no Little Deer here.” She tossed the envelope into the open lid of the stove and picked up another. “Can’t even read the name on that one.” The envelope went into the stove.
Turtle gasped. He had never received a letter from his parents in the two years he had been at the school, nor had any of the boys, as far as he knew. This was the reason! He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs that it was not fair, it was not right. He wanted to run to Willow and go home with her, but he didn’t even know where home was! He had come to the school by train and wagon. It had taken days, through forests, across rivers. He would never find his way back. Besides, boys who ran away were nearly always brought back … and beaten.
Mother Hall tossed another envelope toward the stove.
With that, he tiptoed across the wedge of lamplight. A floorboard squeaked.
“Who’s there?”
Turtle froze in the shadow, poised on his toes, scared to let out his breath in case she heard him. His knees began to shake. He knew he couldn’t hold his position for long. It was all over! She would catch him! He would be whipped, and he would still not have seen his sister! A sound roared through his ears like the train that had brought him to school ... ker-chunk, ker-chunk, ker-chunk, ker-chunk. It took a second to realize that it was the pulsing of his own body.
Mother Hall turned her attention back to the stack of mail, throwing it piece by piece into the gaping mouth of the stove. Turtle exhaled as gently as he could and crept on, past Father Thomas’s office to the big door that led to the girls’ side of the building. He pushed the door but nothing happened. He pulled and pushed again with more strength, but still the door did not budge. His hands groped around the edges until, just above his head, he discovered a metal bolt. It flew back with a clunk that Turtle thought would wake the dead. He pushed open the door and left it standing ajar for his return trip. By the time he reached the bottom of the girls’ staircase, he couldn’t contain himself any longer. He didn’t care if he was caught or what they would do to him. He bounded up the two flights of stairs and ran past the doors … one … two …
There she was! Standing outside the door, waiting for him. He didn’t need the dim moonlight to identify her, even though she was taller than he remembered. She flung her arms around him and held him tight, and he felt as though he was back in his mother’s arms. He was warm inside and full, as though something deep inside his chest had grown bigger and could no longer be contained by bones and flesh and skin.
He barely heard the angry voices or saw the lamplight swinging down the corridor. They clung to each other as the cane crashed onto their backs. More staff arrived. It took the combined strength of five adults to wrench the children apart. Mister Hall almost lifted Turtle from the ground by his ear as he marched him away.
“You’re going to have a beating like you’ve never had before.”
All of the boys had to watch Turtle’s punishment. His wrists were tied to the post in the courtyard. Mister Hall didn’t use his cane. He used lots of rawhide straps joined together at the handle. Each piece of rawhide had a knot at the end. He hit Turtle over and over.
Often the older boys mocked the younger ones who were being punished, sneering at those who were forced to kneel in a corner, ridiculing those who had the striped haircut. But no one laughed when Turtle was being whipped, not even Henry. Red Wolf closed his eyes so he couldn’t see, but his ears still heard the sound of the leather smacking into Turtle’s skin, and the yelps that turned to moans and then to whimpers. He felt sick to his stomach.
Red Wolf didn’t see Turtle for many days. The morning that he reappeared in the refectory, Red Wolf was elated. But Turtle had changed. He was broken. The light in his eyes had gone.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Grade One boys gathered around the farm manager in the hayfield. He was on edge. “There’s enough grass in this field to feed the cows right through the winter,” he said, “but we need a good, solid, dry spell to harvest it.” He looked at the sky, trying to judge the weather.
Red Wolf felt the breeze on his face and was pretty sure that it wasn’t going to rain for quite a while. He considered telling Mister Boss this, but thought better of it.
“Haymaking is tricky. Rain ruins hay! Even a passing shower makes it damp, and it’ll grow mildew. Soon your sweet-smelling hay turns foul … musty, full of grey dust … makes the cows cough. But even worse than that, mouldy hay gets hot, really hot, so that it bursts into flames! I saw a whole barn go up once. It burned down in the blink of an eye, just because of mouldy hay. There wasn’t even time to get inside and open the stall doors. The cows and horses burned, too.”
The farm manager’s face crumpled briefly, then he gnawed at the edge of a fingernail and continued with his haymaking lesson. “But if you wait too long for a dry spell, the grass goes to seed, and that’s no good.” He yanked at a grass stem and passed it to the boys. “See, it’s perfect right now, just started to flower. We don’t want to wait much longer.” He looked at the children and singled one out. “And why don’t we want to wait any longer?”
“I don’t know, Mister Boss, sir,” the worried boy said.
“Because once the grass flowers, the plant puts all its energy into making seed. The seeds fall off as soon as they are handled. And then what do we have?”
Nobody volunteered an answer.
“A barn full of tough old stalks. Understand?”
The boys nodded.
“Yes, haymaking’s a tricky business.”
After another two days of sunny weather the farm manager finally made a decision. He sent the seniors across the field in a row, each youth swinging a long-handled scythe. The grass fell in orderly lines, like columns of schoolboys who had their legs knocked out from underneath them.
The following day lessons were cancelled so that every boy in the school could help in the hayfield. Red Wolf advan
ced across the field, gathering day-old grass, flipping it over and laying it back down. He stooped until his back was so sore he couldn’t straighten up, so he squatted and moved along on his haunches. Then he crawled on prayer-hardened knees with sweat stinging his eyes until the blazing sun disappeared over the horizon and the sky turned orange.
The following day, as soon as the dew burned off, they had to turn the hay again. Red Wolf ached all over, and his fingers were swollen and tender. When he squinted at them he saw fine thistle hairs embedded in his skin. He wondered how something so small could cause such discomfort.
It was hotter than the previous day, with not a cloud in the sky to offer a moment of shade.
“Haymaking and heat waves go hand in hand,” the farm manager announced. “There’s water in pails by the gate, but don’t think you can shirk by going to get a drink any old time. I’ll blow my whistle for a water break.”
By the end of the second day Red Wolf flopped straight onto his bed without changing into his nightshirt. When Mother Hall came in for prayers, most of the boys were already sleeping.
The next day, the hay was dry and ready to be gathered, but the air was hot and humid, and there was a haze in the sky.
“There’s a storm coming,” the farm manager warned. “Move faster!”
The seniors ran into the field pulling hay wagons and the juniors loaded the hay. Red Wolf tossed hay as high as he could, but most of it never made it into the wagon; it rained down on his head and shoulders, getting in the neck of his coverall and making him itch.
By the time the seniors had pushed the loaded wagon up the earthen ramp of the bank barn, they were dripping with sweat, hair plastered to their heads. The juniors stayed in the oppressive heat of the loft, unloading and sneezing, while the seniors rushed downstairs, where thick stone walls held the night’s coolness. They splashed themselves with water from the cattle trough until the farm manager complained they were wasting water. Then it was back to the field for another load.
Thunder was rolling in the distance as a Belgian mare the colour of rich honey trotted briskly across the hay field, a large empty wagon clanking behind her.
“I thought you could use some help,” the driver called out to the boys as he slowed the horse to a walk and guided her carefully through the rows of hay. “Load her up fast, rain’s on the way.”
The boys ran across the field like ants to a carcass, grabbing armloads of hay and flinging them up onto the moving wagon, their fatigue vanishing with the excitement. The horse sensed their eagerness and shook her head, jangling her harness buckles.
“Hi there, neighbour,” the farm manager called out. “How did you know we needed help?”
“From my place I saw these kids crawling all over the field. And I heard the thunder so I put two and two together. I’ve told you before, my friend, and I’ll tell you again. This school needs a good workhorse.”
The farm manager laughed. “Why do we need a horse when we have all these boys?”
“You could use one today,” the neighbour commented, disturbed as always by the subdued Indian children who worked as hard as grown men.
The horse pulled the final wagonload under cover just as fat raindrops started to spatter. The two men sheltered in the barn as thunder crashed and lightning forked angrily across the dark sky, but, unmindful of the danger, the boys stood in the pouring rain, letting the deluge cool them. One decided to strip his coveralls, another his boots, another his under-drawers. Before long the entire student body was leaping around stark naked, stomping in puddles and dancing in the sheets of water falling from the roof.
As the rain petered out, the farm manager poked his head out to look at the sky. He was appalled.
“What are you doing?” he yelled. “Cavorting like savages?”
The old man laughed. “No, they’re cavorting like children!”
The farm manager ignored him. “Have you all gone mad? Get your clothes back on before Father Thomas sees you.”
“They’re just being boys,” the old man said to the wind.
A few days after the hay was safely in the barn, impatient boys clustered around the barred windows that overlooked the driveway. They watched other children pile into the neighbour’s wagon that would take them to the train station and the long journey back to their reserves. And they stared into the distance, hoping that the next person to come into view would be their mother or father, big brother, or uncle. As the day progressed, the number of children at the windows decreased and, for those who remained, excitement turned first to apprehension and then to fear that nobody would come for them.
Mother Hall strode past the small group of remaining boys. “Are you still waiting?” she asked. “Perhaps your parents don’t want you no more. Heaven knows you’re a whole lot of trouble. I wouldn’t want you if I didn’t get paid for the job.”
It was late afternoon when Mister Hall strutted along the corridor, his cane lightly tapping the side of his leg with each footfall. He whacked Red Wolf on the side of the head.
“So your no-good father hasn’t shown up, eh?”
Red Wolf was silent, but then realized that an answer was expected. “No, Mister Hall.”
“Do you suppose he’s lying drunk in a ditch?”
“Yes, Mister Hall. No, Mister Hall. I don’t know, Mister Hall.”
“He probably spent all his ration money on drink and can’t even walk straight.”
Mister Hall guffawed, thwacking the heads of the other two boys who waited with Red Wolf, then strode off down the corridor.
The shadows were lengthening when Father Thomas stopped to talk to Red Wolf and the one remaining boy. The priest tutted at the wayward behaviour of Indian parents.
“Such degenerate conduct! Imagine neglecting your own children in such a manner. This is the very reason we take you from your families: to spare you this pain of rejection; to feed you, clothe you and give you the opportunity to better yourselves.”
Tears welled in Red Wolf’s eyes.
“It hurts me to see you so disappointed. It’s George, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Believe me, George, you are better off without them. I know you feel hurt, but suffering is part of growing up. Suffering will mold you into a better person. Wait and see.” Father Thomas rocked back on his heels and looked upward. “We learn from our pain, George. We cannot taste joy until we have drunk from the cup of sorrow.”
The priest was pleased with this analogy. Then he had another thought, and he beamed. “Just think, George, if you had not shivered through the cold, dark days of winter, you would not truly appreciate the warmth and light of summer.”
He patted the boy’s head and continued down the corridor, mentally composing his next sermon, which, he realized sadly, would not be until September.
Just before dark, the nurse came down the corridor and saw one lonely figure, his face pressed close to the pane of glass. “Oh, you poor dear,” she said. “Are you still waiting for your family?”
“They don’t want me,” Red Wolf replied, his downcast face hiding the tears that stung his eyes.
The nurse knelt and looked into the boy’s tear-stained face. “Oh, surely not!”
“They’ve forgotten me.”
“Heavens, that’s not true. How could anyone forget a boy like you?” She took a clean handkerchief from her apron pocket and wiped Red Wolf’s tears.
“So why haven’t they come for me?”
“Sometimes they can’t get permission to leave the reserve,” she explained sadly, “so they can’t come for you, even if they really, really want to.”
“What happens to me if no one comes?” the boy asked very quietly, as if scared to voice his concern.
“The big boys go into town. They work for white families in exchange for their keep. But the younger ones, like you, stay on here. They have to work for —” looking over both shoulders she whispered “— evil Mother Hall.” She pounced on Red Wolf in a s
pree of tickling and the boy giggled.
Red Wolf looked down the driveway one more time and saw his father shrouded in the dusk. “He’s here! He’s here!” the boy shrieked, bolting for the staircase and running outside. He threw himself into his father’s open arms, nearly knocking over HeWhoWhistles. And even though he was happier than he had been for ten long months, he wept. The nurse watched from the window and cried, too.
Red Wolf wanted to walk all night, to get as far away from the school as he could, but HeWhoWhistles had already walked all day and needed to sleep. They stopped where a brook ran through a field. Red Wolf didn’t want to sleep in case he woke up and found himself back at school, but within minutes of nestling into his father’s chest, feeling his warm skin and listening to his heartbeat, he was sleeping dreamlessly.
He awoke at dawn to the melody of a songbird.
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