The Drums of Change (30 page)

All through the hours of the morning she strained for sound. A meadowlark sang nearby. Running Fawn wondered if he was mourning the loss of his nest—calling for his mate. But there was no answering call.

She heard a hawk. She saw him high in the sky, circling, circling, and she imagined his bright eyes alert to movement of any little creature on the ground. She wondered why he didn’t move on. Surely he knew that all life of any small prey had already been taken.

Other than the bird life there was total silence. All through the morning hours and on into the afternoon.

The sun moved on, its rays reaching the side of the concrete above her head. She wished she could stretch up. Could lift herself so that the warmth would fall on her back, her shoulders, her aching limbs. She watched as the bright spot shifted, faded, and then was gone.

Again she drank, cupping her hands to hold the wetness, lifting the moisture to her mouth and feeling it drip off the end of her chin. Again and again she dipped her hands and held them to her lips. It was not like drinking from a fresh mountain stream. The water tasted—of what? She was not sure. Staleness? Her buckskins? She tossed the last cupped handful aside. She had taken enough. It was not pleasing.

Gradually the brightness faded from the sky. A coyote announced the close of another day. In the distance another answered. A low, baying, full-throated call. It sounded mournful on the still evening air. Silently she wished them well on their hunt. They undoubtedly had a den of cubs that needed feeding.

She felt weary, but she was not sure if her discomfort would allow her rest.
I must sleep
, she told herself.
If I do not sleep during the night, I will be drowsy during the warmth of the day and might miss someone’s coming
. She made herself as comfortable as she could up against the concrete structure at her back and tried to close her eyes. But sleep did not come.

The stars appeared. Bright and flickering in the sky. An owl cried out in the night, causing her to shiver. She remembered the story of her people. If the owl called your name, it meant that death was near. Had the owl spoken her name in its crying? She shivered again. She did not wish to die. She longed for light and warmth and people. All that gave meaning to living. And if not living, then she longed for peace and consolation in dying. She was not ready to die. Not with her heaviness of heart. She had forsaken the old ways of her people. She had denied her gods. Were she to meet them now, they would not be pleased with what she had become. Should she try to make amends? Was there a way to get back in their good graces? She did not know. The ceremonies. The rituals. They could not be performed in the bottom of a well. She had no eagle’s feather. No ceremonial shawl. Nothing. Nothing. But what if … what if it was as the missionary said? What if it was as her father now believed? And Silver Fox? What if the Christian’s God was the one whom she must face after death? If only she knew. If only she had some sign. Some omen. But the missionary said that the omens of her people were to be disregarded. How then did his God speak? Through the Black Book. But she had no Black Book. Through a silent message to the soul of man, he had said. To the heart. You will know in your heart, he had assured her. It will be stilled, comforted. It no longer will cry for peace. It will be calm, like the loon chick riding securely on its mother’s back through the waves of the storm.

Did it really work so simply—so well? She wished she knew. She longed for inner peace. You need to pray, the chaplain of the mission school had informed them. God will hear your prayer.

She wished that she knew how to pray. For the first time in her young life she felt that she would be willing to call out to the Christian God.

When the third day dawned, Running Fawn felt so cramped that it was difficult to pull her body to an upright position. Her injured ankle was so stiff and swollen that she could not even force it into motion.

Again she went through her little routine of loosening the muscles of her neck and shoulders, arms and torso. Again she forced herself to drink of the water. Again she lifted her eyes upward, judging the time of day by the position of the sun. She must be alert. She must be ready.

Hour after hour the sun shifted its overhead position. Hour after hour Running Fawn lifted her head, watching the slow movement of the rays on the side of the concrete above her. Midday. Afternoon. Soon the sun would be sinking back to relax in the arms of the distant hills after another long, heat-giving journey.

Her heart felt as heavy as her drenched buckskins. She was about to give up and settle herself for another cold night alone when she felt she heard a stirring. Somewhere out there in the open, something was moving about.

Perhaps it was a deer or an antelope that had come looking for water. Maybe it was a coyote sniffing through the ruins of the cabin. But she was sure that she had heard something.

Quickly she pulled her uncooperative body to an upright position, tilted back her head and cried, “Help,” as loudly as she could. There was no response.

“Help,” she cried again. The one word echoed back at her, bouncing off the concrete walls.

She listened. Still no footsteps to indicate that anyone had heard and was moving toward the cistern.

She mustered all her strength, braced herself against the concrete structure, and called again. “Help.”

Silence.

It must have been an animal
, she concluded, deeply disappointed. Her voice had frightened it away.

She slumped back down into a sitting position, her back against the coolness. She could no longer make herself pretend that the firmness that pressed against her was the cool granite stone of the mountain camp.

From overhead a voice called down, its loudness in the silence startling her, “Halloo. Anybody there?”

She jerked upright, her head tilting back to see who was above her, bumping hard against the concrete. “Yes,” she cried before the person could move away. “Yes—I am down here.”

There was some surprised murmuring. Running Fawn heard English words. Then there was a loud shout. “Parson. Parson—I found the girl. She’s down here. The cistern.”

Running Fawn sank back into the water. They had come. She was saved. She laid her head on the arms across her pulled-up knees and let all of her pent-up emotions escape in quiet sobs.

“Running Fawn. Are you all right?”

Running Fawn recognized the voice of Reverend Forbes. She willed herself to stop her trembling, to wipe away the trace of her tears. “I am well,” she called back with a faltering voice.

“Thank God,” came the intense response.

There was some anxious discussion, then he called again.

“We will throw down a rope. Can you manage it?”

“I … I think so,” she responded, her voice trembling.

More discussion.

“I am coming down,” called the missionary. “Stand aside.”

Running Fawn looked around her. The cistern was not very wide across. Where was she to move to be out of his way?

She managed to get back to her feet just as the missionary lifted his body over the rim of the cistern and began his descent. Running Fawn pushed herself flat against the concrete wall. She could not get her right leg to cooperate at all, so she had to shuffle her weight around.

He landed with a splash beside her and reached out an anxious hand.

“I had about given up,” he said huskily as he pulled her to him and pressed her head to his shoulder. “We searched everywhere—day and night. The people from the Reserve—neighboring farmers and ranchers. All of us. We thought … I was afraid—I … I have never prayed so hard in my entire life.”

Up above, a hoarse voice called down, “Ya got ’er?”

Reverend Forbes released her, for the first time seeming to realize his actions. “Yes,” he called up, “she is here. She is fine.”

“Get the ropes fixed and give us a holler. We’ll bring ya up.”

Man With The Book turned to Running Fawn, held her gently at arm’s length. “I’ll send you up first,” he told her and proceeded to tie a large loop in the rope.

“I am … I am afraid I cannot move … well,” she shivered. “I—seem to have hurt my ankle.”

Immediately he dropped down on a knee as his fingers gently sought out the injury. “It’s badly swollen,” he stated, his voice showing deep concern.

“Yes,” agreed Running Fawn.

“Can you stand the pain? The lift?”

“I think so.”

“Perhaps I should hold you.”

“No,” quickly said Running Fawn, who was already trembling from her last experience of being unexpectedly held. “I will be fine.”

He slipped the loop over her head, and she positioned it so that she could sit in the rope.

“Use your hands,” he cautioned. “Use your hands to keep from scraping against the sides.”

She did not tell him that her whole body was so stiff from the confinement and the cold that she wasn’t sure any part of her would function properly, but she clasped the rope with one hand, clinging for dear life, and kept the other hand free to direct her way back to the surface.

She was bumped and juggled as she was hoisted up, but she felt that the additional bruises would not add much to her pain. At last she was seized by outstretched hands and gently eased over the side of the cistern and deposited on the charred prairie sod.

Hands lifted the rope from around her. She did not even look up to see whose faces were bending over her. She was conscious only of the fact that she was free. Free. Safe. The sun in the western sky was just dipping behind the distant hills. Off toward the river a coyote bayed. Another answered. And then the owl called again.

You were wrong—this time
, Running Fawn whispered inwardly.
I did not die. You were wrong
.

In spite of her discomfort, she smiled softly to herself as she thrust a hand deeply into the warmth of the blackened soil beneath her.

“I am so sorry,” whispered Running Fawn when the missionary knelt beside her on the ground. “Your home—the church—everything—gone.”

To her surprise he laughed. A soft yet joyous laugh.

“Not quite everything,” he said happily. “Look.”

Running Fawn turned to follow his pointing finger. There, to her amazement, stood the little church. The charred trail of the fire ran directly up to its door—and then stopped.

“But I thought—” began Running Fawn.

“We were all afraid that it would be burned. During the fire, the Christians got together and prayed and prayed—until the rain came.”

Her eyes widened. “You do rain ceremonies?” she asked incredulously.

He really laughed then, throwing back his head and letting the sound ring across the prairie. The other men in the search party were busily engaged in building a fire and preparing to cook something in a pot over the flame. They turned to look at him in surprise.

“No,” he answered her. “No, our prayers are quite different from rain ceremonies.”

“But—”

“God does answer our prayers. He did. See. There is the answer.”

Running Fawn could not argue against the evidence before her. The little church was still standing.

“That was not all we prayed for,” he went on solemnly, softly.