12 Drums of Change

by Janette Oke

  Winter

  Running Fawn could not have explained why she continued to take the walks down the path that led to the home of the white missionary. Perhaps though she was no longer specifically needed, she still felt some measure of responsibility. Maybe she feared that if she did not feed him properly he would soon be sick again and needing further nursing care. Or it may have been that she was lonely and needing someone to talk to, if only for a few moments. The way of life on the Reserve was not like the old. There was no longer a ring of tepees, each with a fire and busily engaged chatting women. They were scattered over the land that they had been given, and the new kind of life did not suit Running Fawn.

  Her father was well enough now to walk to the nearest council meetings and talk with the other older men, but he rarely shared with her the news that circulated through the camp. The fires that he now shared were with those of the other Christians among the people. Running Fawn supposed that they did not talk of the same things that they had spoken of in the old days.

  Crooked Moose had taken his Laughing Loon and set up his own tent some distance from where his father and Running Fawn had their dwelling. Laughing Loon wished to be closer to her own family.

  Running Fawn often found herself longing for companionship.

  If she wondered about the absence of young braves making open declarations of intent, she did not let herself dwell on it. Did the rest of the band know that the chief’s son had already left his gift at her door?

  She thought of Silver Fox. She could not have denied it. But her thoughts were troubled and confused. What had he meant by his visit? If he was following the custom of their people, why had he left her and gone back to school? What might be his feelings when he returned? Would her one word, “Go,” be seen as a final dismissal with no future contact? She had no answers, so she tried to push all of the disturbing thoughts aside and concentrate only on her many tasks and the preparation for the coming winter.

  But daily she placed food in the basket and walked the short distance across the browned grasses to call at the missionary’s door.

  She learned that she must go early. Now that he was feeling much better, he was often up and off to call on one of his little flock or to speak to an, as yet, unyielding prospective convert. He took trips to see various government officials or to the forts of the North West Mounted Police, always presenting the needs or causes of his people. And he also made his appearance at council fires, having been invited by Crowfoot himself.

  But before he left each morning, he spent time reading his Black Book and in his manner of praying. Running Fawn knew that. He also wrote letters and reports. So if she went during the early part of the day, she would catch him still at home.

  It was much easier to talk with him now. She had put aside her shyness and become quite at ease with their bit of friendly exchange. He often asked her questions and listened attentively to her answers. For some strange reason, she felt more a person in those morning chats with the missionary than at any other time of her day.

  “Are your people saying it will be an early winter?” he asked as he watched her lift the day’s portion of food from her basket.

  “I have not heard them say,” she admitted. Her father had not expressed his views on the matter, and she had talked with no one else for several weeks.

  “There is to be a religious ceremony soon,” he went on. “The people are giving thanks to the Sun God for a good harvest of their crops and gardens and seeking his favor for a mild winter.”

  She had not heard.

  “Where will it be?” she asked.

  “In the south camp—near Crooked Hill.”

  Running Fawn knew the place.

  “The Christians will not be attending,” went on the missionary. “We will have our own service and seek the blessing of the Holy God.”

  Running Fawn said nothing.

  “Your father will be coming to the church.” His words reminded her that she and her father were now traveling different paths. It brought renewed discomfort to her heart.

  “Will you join him?” asked Man With The Book.

  Running Fawn shook her head. “I could not do that,” she said softly. “I have not taken the Christian faith.”

  “We would still welcome you,” he was quick to inform her. “You might learn from the service, and better understand what we believe.”

  “The Sun God would not be pleased,” she cut in quickly. “Already he has been angered by those who have left his fires to turn to the white man’s God.”

  “Running Fawn,” the missionary said patiently, pushing back his Black Book and looking at her earnestly. “I have tried to help you understand that the God of heaven, the Creator of all things, the one who sent His Son to die for mankind, is not the white man’s God. He is the God of all—all people of whatever color or nation.”

  Running Fawn had heard the words before but she had not been able to believe them. Wasn’t it the white man who came with the new God? The Indians had not known of Him before the missionaries came to the land. Yet they had worshiped for years. Had held to a religion. Wouldn’t they have known if they had been wrong?

  “I will go with my people,” she said stubbornly.

  “If winter comes, will you have fuel for the fire?” he asked, instead of pursuing the matter further.

  Running Fawn quickly took up the new subject. “The buffalo chips, once so plentiful, are nearly gone. Soon we may need to seek other means of keeping the fires burning.”

  “I have been speaking with the Agent. Telling him that we are soon going to need wood hauled to the camp,” said the missionary. From there the conversation moved easily to other, more ordinary, things.

  The invitation was repeated. “Would you like to come with me to the church service?” her father asked amiably. Running Fawn hated to be seen as defying her father, but she shook her head slowly.

  “I wish to go to the gathering of my people,” she responded.

  “The people of the meetinghouse are people,” he answered, his eyes reflecting his concern.

  Running Fawn was not sure what to say in answer, so she let his words pass.

  “It is a long way to travel to the meeting place alone,” he said, dropping the matter of the church service.

  “I will enjoy the walk.”

  She could have said that she would not go far until there would be others to join. Many would be traveling the distance to the campsite where the religious ceremonies were to be held.

  He nodded and did not press her further.

  Running Fawn felt some excitement as she prepared for the journey. It had been a long time since she had taken part in the ceremonies of her people. She hoped that she still remembered the rituals—the words to the chants. She did wish that she had family members to accompany her. For the first time in several months she ached again for the presence of her mother. Her mother would know what to do.

  But Running Fawn was determined. Though she might feel uncomfortable in the beginning, she was going to seek out the old ways of her people and become involved again with the religion that had been passed down from generation to generation. And with that purpose in mind she made her preparations.

  She could not find an eagle’s feather, though she searched through all of the belongings in the tepee. What had happened to the one that had been her mother’s? That should now belong to her. There was not even a trace of it or her father’s feather. Where had they gone? Surely her father had not departed so far from the old ways that he had disposed of them. The gods would be angry. No wonder their cooking pots were sometimes empty. Running Fawn felt shivers of fear run up her spine. Worse things would be happening in the future, she was sure.

  She would go to the ceremony anyway. Perhaps she would be able to trade something she possessed for an eagle’s feather. She wished she had thought ahead. She would have made a quest of her own, in search of one. The missing eagle’s feather was not a good omen.

  It was o
nly the first bad omen of the whole experience. As she traveled toward the gathering place of her people, she noticed many things that made her tremble with fear. Tirelessly she searched for good omens to offset the bad, but could find little to put her mind at ease.

  It is as I have feared, her troubled thoughts raced. My people will be punished for the way they have chosen. Taking the religion of the white man will only add to the anger of the gods.

  “How was your trip?”

  Her father asked the question. Running Fawn looked at him guardedly. He sounded sincere in his query, but she did not answer with any enthusiasm. “It went well.”

  “Our service went well also,” was his reply.

  Running Fawn nodded.

  The truth was her trip had not gone well at all. In the first place she walked the entire way alone. Any of her people that were moving her direction were either in the distance ahead of her or far behind. That was another bad omen. When she arrived she was not able to procure an eagle’s feather. Another bad sign. She joined the crowd of young women but she did not feel that she belonged there. They were her own people, yet she felt like a stranger in their midst.

  She remembered the chants—for that she was thankful, but they did not satisfy her inner being as she had hoped they would. In fact, she had arrived empty and had returned empty, in spite of her honest endeavor to take part wholeheartedly.

  Her trip home was no better. Again she walked alone. Again she searched the land and the heavens looking for some sign—some indication that their prayers had been heard. That the gods had been pleased by their rituals. But she found nothing that lightened her heart or gave her hope. Secretly she wished she had not gone. She wondered if she would ever find the desire to go again. But her thoughts troubled her. She would not have dared to voice her thoughts and feelings. Surely she would be gravely punished by the gods. Surely only trouble lay ahead.

  And winter, the enemy of her people, lay just ahead.

  She did not return to her custom of taking food to the young missionary. Fear held her back. Fear because her religion no longer brought satisfaction to her soul. Fear because he seemed so content in his. Fear also that her gods, even though they no longer brought her pleasure, might indeed begin to bring her great pain. In her heart she had already deserted them. Or had they deserted her? She was not sure. She only knew that the religion she had hoped to re-embrace now left her empty and unsatisfied.

  She was puzzled and lonely, but she did not know where to turn for an answer to the pain within.

  The first snow of winter arrived only two days after her return.

  It is as I feared, already the gods are venting their anger, she thought silently.

  But the storm was not one of fury. The gentle snowflakes fell in soft swirls that turned the ugly brown of the camp to blanketed whiteness, and then stopped as suddenly as it had come. Her father appeared from the shelter of the tepee, smiling, gun in his hand.

  “We will have fresh meat for the cooking pot,” he said with confidence. “It is good snow for tracking.”

  True to his word, when he returned he had a fresh kill flung over the back of his mount.

  Running Fawn was stirring a pot of savory stew when another horse appeared. It was the missionary. Her pulse quickened with tension. She had not seen him since her return. Her father left the skin he was scraping and moved toward the young man, a broad smile of welcome on his face.

  “Sit at our fire,” he said with enthusiasm. “We have fresh meat tonight.”

  Man With The Book dismounted, his nose twitching slightly as the aroma filled the air. “No one makes a pot of stew like Running Fawn,” he observed.

  Running Fawn flushed at the compliment and bent her head to stir the pot. The man would not need to be encouraged further to join them, she was sure.

  The two men seated themselves before the fire and settled in to visit. Most of the talk was about the little group that formed the local church. Wider interests were also discussed. Running Fawn listened with one ear as she dished out generous helpings and handed them to the occupants of the log seats.

  “I had a letter from Silver Fox,” the man said, not realizing what his simple words would do to the heart of the young woman.

  “He has accepted the Christian faith. He had hoped that his father would make the first move, but he said that he could wait no longer. His heart cannot deny that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of the living God.”

  Running Fawn felt her whole body stiffen. Silver Fox, the chief’s son? He had taken Christianity? What would Chief Calls Through The Night think of his son’s denial of the people’s religion? Would he remove his son from the right to follow him as chief? It would be logical. And expected. And Running Fawn had heard that a nephew was anxious for the honor.

  Her father was beaming as he expressed his pleasure at the news. Running Fawn found it hard to understand. Did her father realize the importance of the step that the young man had just taken? Did he know that it might ruin his whole future?

  “Does the chief know?” asked her father.

  The missionary was nodding his head. “He knows. Silver Fox sent me to talk to him—and to deliver his words in a letter.”

  “What did the chief say?”

  Running Fawn’s whole world seemed to come to a standstill as she waited for the answer to the question.

  “He said he will give the words much thought,” replied the missionary.

  Running Fawn felt her knees weaken. Much thought. What would that mean? What would the outcome be? Perhaps … perhaps Silver Fox would never come back to his people.

  Running Fawn did not go back to the cabin of the missionary, but he often joined them at their campfire. He was always welcomed by her father and, indeed, if Running Fawn had felt free to express her feelings, she would have welcomed him also.

  In spite of the fact that she still did not share his religion, she did enjoy his company. He always brought news which he shared generously. He even drew her gently into the conversation. Her father did not seem to object. In fact, he too seemed to welcome her opinions on topics under discussion.

  Winter settled in around them. The wind blew on some days. The snow fell in gentleness or with sweeping blasts—but it was not a bad winter in spite of Running Fawn’s fears.

  The Riel Rebellion was quickly and efficiently defused without the help of the Blood warriors, and though there were those who secretly felt disappointment at the white man’s victory, nothing like that was openly declared. Starvation did not strike the people. Sickness did not sweep through all the tents. Running Fawn began to realize that the bad omens that had gripped her in such fear were not bringing the bad fortune she had imagined.

  Perhaps she could breathe more easily. Spring was just around the corner.

  Chapter Twenty

  Into the Flames

  A strange haze lay over the distant hills as Running Fawn picked up her pail and headed to the river for her day’s water supply. She was later than normal in making the short journey, but she did not mind. She had spent the morning chatting with the missionary, who had made his daily call in the early hours of the day rather than his customary evening visit. Now he had gone, and Running Fawn was left to hurry with the tasks that had been delayed.

  As she walked, her thoughts were on other matters than filling the bucket in her hand. She now enjoyed her times spent with the missionary. She had almost ceased to think of him as white. He seemed to be more akin to her than many of her own people.

  Her people. She should be making more effort to keep contact with her brother, Crooked Moose, and his wife. She would not even have known that Laughing Loon was with child had not her father come bearing the exciting news.

  She wondered if Crooked Moose had been able to put away his bitterness now that he had a wife and would soon be a father. She had not seen him for many months.

  Nor had she heard from Silver Fox. The only word she heard about him came through his letters to Man Wit
h The Book. She was sure the missionary did not know that she waited for the return of Silver Fox to determine what her own future might hold.

  But even as she considered her situation, she brushed the thoughts aside. She had not ever been sure that Silver Fox had meant what she had thought he might. And what would the situation be now, with Silver Fox a Christian and Running Fawn still tied to the old ways of her people?

  Tied? No. She really had given up the old ways too. She had been disappointed. Disillusioned. But even though she no longer took part in the medicine dances or the religious ceremonies, she was not ready to embrace another religion.

  Man With The Book had spoken to her again. Would she not reconsider? He prayed nightly for her salvation. He longed for her to accept his faith. He wished with all his heart, his being, that she might learn to know his God. If only he could make her understand. If she would embrace his faith, then he would be free to …

  And then he closed his lips tightly and looked agitated and embarrassed. What had he been about to say? Running Fawn’s heart raced as she remembered the look on his face. The pleading in his eyes. She did not know the ways of the white man’s courting, of making a promise, but she read something in the missionary’s eyes that made her cheeks grow warm.

  She cast another glance toward the sky. The haze had thickened. She lifted her head and sniffed. Smoke.

  Running Fawn was used to the smell of smoke in the air, but this was not the smoke of many campfires. There was a different smell. Acrid. Potent. Grass. Burning grass. She was sure of it. A prairie fire was moving their way.

  She turned and raised a hand to shade her eyes. From what direction was it coming? The train tracks? Another spark from the train’s steel wheels that had started the dry grasses ablaze?

  The fire seemed to be off to the west. She could not see over the next rise to judge the distance. Surely there would be those out fighting it even now. The people who lived beyond the hills were used to the train fires. They would be ready.