The Drums of Change (16 page)
“Martha,” Miss Brooke said, coming into the kitchen where Running Fawn helped prepare the evening meal, “you have a visitor. Mrs. Nicholson says you are to be excused from your duties to go to her office.”
Running Fawn untied her apron and hung the checkered covering on the hook provided. A frown creased her usually smooth brow. Who would be coming to see her? Was Silver Fox asking for some kind of meeting? But why?
As she entered the room she noticed that it was a white man who occupied the chair across from Mrs. Nicholson. A white man she did not know. He stood to his feet when she entered the room, a slight smile lighting his face.
“Running Fawn,” he greeted her in her own tongue. “You have grown.”
Running Fawn stared at the man. It was the missionary. He was so thin that his garments hung loosely on his tall frame. He had grown a beard, and his face looked older—older and darkened, and there was a sadness in the blue eyes that once had glinted with enthusiasm.
Running Fawn stood at the entrance to the room, taking in his appearance, trying to hold back a rush of questions about her people. He turned back to the matron and spoke again, his words in the language of the Blackfoot.
“May Running Fawn and I have some time together, please?”
The woman looked confused. “I’m afraid you must speak to me in English,” she answered, and the man flushed and begged her pardon.
“Please,” he repeated in English, “is there a place where I might talk with Running Fawn and Silver Fox?” he asked the woman.
“Certainly. Miss Brooke, show the Reverend to the library office. I’ll send Thomas in to join you, Reverend, as soon as he arrives.”
“Thank you, matron,” the man acknowledged with appreciation.
Running Fawn turned to follow Miss Brooke to the small office the matron had indicated. The missionary paused a moment more.
“I do hate to impose, matron,” he said in an apologetic tone, “but we have much to speak of. Would it be a dreadful inconvenience for our meal to be sent to the office as well?”
For one moment the matron looked unsure, then she smiled pleasantly and nodded. “I’ll have a tray brought to you,” she agreed.
“Thank you,” the missionary replied. “I would hate to delay your supper hour or cause disruption in the dining room.”
The matron nodded.
As soon as they had been shown to the library office, the missionary switched back to the tongue of the Blackfoot.
“How are you, Running Fawn?” His voice held such care that she wanted to weep.
“I … I am doing well.” With head lowered.
“You have grown. You look so different … in the … the school uniform.”
“I feel different.” She raised her eyes to meet his penetrating gaze. He did not speak further for a time while he searched her face.
“Has it been difficult?” His words were gentle. She again lowered her gaze to stare down at her stiff leather shoes laced above her ankles. She did not speak. It was not necessary.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a whisper. “I hoped it would … be all right for you … here.”
The door opened quietly and Miss Brooke ushered Silver Fox into the room to join them. The young man greeted him joyfully.
“Look at you,” exclaimed the missionary, pushing the young man back to arm’s length and measuring him with his eye. “You are nearly as tall as I.”
Silver Fox nodded, his smile full of quiet pride.
“How is school?”
“I am learning much.” The reply came in English. Running Fawn wondered if Silver Fox now despised his native tongue, had forgotten it, or was merely showing off for the benefit of the white man.
“Good. Good.”
But then Silver Fox quickly switched back to his own language. Maybe the one reply had simply been a subconscious response to a white man.
“How are things with our people? Do you have any news?” The questions quickly poured out, one on the heels of the other. “Are they keeping well? My father? Is he well? Have the people learned to make good crops?” With each new query, the eyes of the missionary seemed to darken.
“I do not bring … good news,” he finally said when Silver Fox stopped for breath.
At the expression that crossed the face of the young man, he hurried on. “Your father is well. I saw him just before I left. He sent greetings.
“Others have not fared so well,” the missionary explained after Silver Fox looked relieved. “That is why I have come to the city. To find medicine to take back to our people. There has been much sickness. Much.”
Running Fawn, who had been quietly observing the exchange, suddenly stepped forward, fear gripping her heart.
“My mother?” she asked through stiff lips.
The missionary turned to her, his expression full of surprise.
“You have not heard?” He looked at her with deep concern and sympathy. She could only stare at him.
“I am sorry,” was all he said.
The iciness within her crept upward, numbing her, chilling her very being. She could not move, could not speak. She was aware that the eyes of the missionary and Silver Fox were both fastened on her, but she could not respond.
“I am sorry,” the missionary said again in a whisper, and his hand reached out to rest on her shoulder.
Silver Fox finally asked the questions she could not form. “When?”
“With the first snows of winter.”
“What happened?”
“She was not strong. The new baby became sick with the whooping cough. She could not save him. Then she also took the illness.”
So the new baby had been a boy. Her mother would have been so proud to have borne another son. A new flood of sorrow passed through her.
“And her father?” asked Silver Fox.
“He mourns.”
Silver Fox nodded.
“Crooked Moose—and Little Brook. And Bright Star?”
“Crooked Moose and Little Brook are well.”
So she also had lost her little brother, her mother’s little pet, in the epidemic. She felt that she could not bear the pain that filled her spirit.
“Little Brook has her own fire,” went on the missionary. Running Fawn lifted her eyes at the news that her sister had moved to another’s tepee.
“Who?” asked Silver Fox with interest. “Who has won her hand?”
Man With The Book smiled. “He is from one of the other bands,” he informed them. “They met at the well. He was watering his horses. She was drawing water for the cooking pot. His name is Tall Man.”
There was a sound at the door, and young Esther brought in the tray with their supper.
Running Fawn tried to take a bit of the meal but found it hard to swallow. She sat and toyed with her food, pushing it back and forth on her plate while the missionary and Silver Fox continued to talk as they ate. She wished she could give her plate to the missionary. He looked like he could make good use of additional nourishment.
Running Fawn’s mother was gone. Her little brother Bright Star and the baby brother she had never seen. Little Brook was now another’s wife. Caring for her own fire, her own cooking pot. Who was looking after her father in his sorrow? Running Fawn felt a grief that she could not have expressed. And no one seemed to fully understand her feeling of loss, or the intense homesickness that overcame her heart.
All the students had gone home for the summer months except the Indian young people. Little Flower—Esther as she had been named by the faculty—had left earlier because of illness. Mrs. Nicholson feared that she might be coming down with something communicable, and had her taken home by one of the school’s staff. Running Fawn secretly thought that the real problem with the young girl was homesickness. This “disease of the heart” she could understand.
The two young boys who had joined the school that year seemed to be doing fine. Silver Fox had introduced them to dormitory life, and they also worked in the gardens and looked to be quite settled. Running Fawn kept to herself. Her grief over the loss of her mother and brothers was buried deep in her soul, and the fact that her father had no one to care for him, to prepare his food, to carry water for his needs, nagged at her.
Man With The Book had been successful in his mission to obtain more medicine for the Reserve. He had canvassed the city—doctors’ offices in particular—and managed to put together a substantial supply. Armed with the drugs and as much food as he could gather, he hired a wagon and left again for the Reserve. Running Fawn ached to go with him but dared not voice her request.
Running Fawn looked forward to resuming her responsibilities in the garden, but before she could take up her trowel she was informed that with three boys to care for the garden, her help would not be needed there. She would work in the kitchen honing her cooking skills.
She was also assigned ironing duties. Although she did not like the task, she did a fine job of pressing cotton shirts and bed linens. She became so adept that she was even advanced to some of the finer clothing of the ladies on the staff.
The hot days of summer monotonously followed each other like matching beads on a string. Running Fawn had little to look forward to with the dawning of each new day. The three boys had one another’s company and spent many hours tossing a ball or playing on the tennis courts, a sport they all were beginning to enjoy. Running Fawn was alone, except for staff women who were much her senior. When she finished the day’s assignments there was little to fill the time until the next day began.
“Martha, you need something to fill your evening hours,” Miss Brooke kindly observed one day. “Would you like some needlework?”
Running Fawn was not particularly interested in needlework. At least not the type the white ladies busied themselves with as they sat by their fire in the evenings. She shook her head.
“Would you like to read? I am sure Mrs. Nicholson wouldn’t object to your using the library.”
The thought was a pleasing one and Running Fawn was quick to seize it. “Reading would be nice,” she agreed.
From then on the key to the library was placed where Running Fawn had access to it. Night after night she spent her hours with books.
“Running Fawn.”
The young girl lifted her head and looked for the voice that spoke her Indian name.
“Over here.” Silver Fox stood beneath the porch where Running Fawn sat with her book on her lap. She acknowledged his presence with a slight nod.
“I’ve news from the village,” he continued.
Running Fawn stood quickly to her feet, her book forgotten in her hands.
“What news?” she asked eagerly as she took the steps down to the sidewalk.
“How did you get news?” she continued as she advanced toward Silver Fox.
“Eagle Claw was here. He just came from the Reserve. Man With The Book is ill. My father sent Eagle Claw for medicine.”
“What is wrong?” asked Running Fawn, and was surprised at how deeply the information troubled her. Hearing of his illness, she realized just how much he had tried to help her people.
“They do not know. My father wanted him to go to a white man’s doctor, but he is too ill to travel.”
Running Fawn could not find words to respond. She knew that if the young missionary died, the band would indeed bear a great loss.
“Has Eagle Claw returned to our village?”
“Yes, he started back immediately.”
“Why … why did he come here?” asked Running Fawn.
“To inform the mission. My father said that the white missionary needed his own people to pray. Perhaps the Great God of the white man would choose to spare him.”
Running Fawn’s eyes widened in astonishment. “Do you believe that?” she asked.
“I do not know,” answered the young man slowly. “Perhaps.” He hesitated. “Sometimes I think it is so—that the white man’s God is real. Is right. And then I wonder.”
Deep in thought for a while, at last he spoke again.
“If they are right,” he observed carefully, “then our traditions—our beliefs about the spirit gods—are wrong.”
“Our people are not wrong,” she contested hotly. “We have served the same gods for generations. They would not leave us now.”
“Perhaps they already have,” Silver Fox said, lowering his gaze sadly.
He then lifted his eyes to her face. “Eagle Claw also had another message,” he said, and she noticed a softness in his voice. “One I was to bring to you.”