The Drums of Change (7 page)
One young man in particular had caught his attention. The chief’s son, Silver Fox, had impressed him from their first meeting over a shared meal in the chief’s tent. He watched the young lad now as he called to his friend while wrestling a heavily laden travois into position behind a reluctant pony.
“Are you ready, Speaks With Full Mouth?” he called over in his native tongue when he saw Martin watching him.
“I am ready, Silver Fox,” Martin replied carefully with the unfamiliar words. A delighted grin was the boy’s response as he swung up on the pony.
Running Fawn found the measured pace of the band at odds with her inner excitement. She was going . At last things had settled. They could once again be as they had been.
True, the treaty that had been signed had identified their allotted reserve as many days’ travel from their usual winter campsite. But there was nothing in the treaty that required them to desert their lifestyle and stay within the confines of the Reserve. It was as her father said. There were still buffalo on the plains, still deer in the forest. There were still fish in their stream and roots and berries in the hills. There was no reason for concern. They would still be a free people.
Running Fawn hurried along the path, water bucket in hand. It was her first trip to the spring since returning to winter camp from the open prairies. She could hardly wait to see her favorite spot again. If she rushed, she would have some time to linger. Her mother surely would know that she needed a little while to just look and enjoy.
The stream was rather low for that time of year. For one moment Running Fawn feared it meant that the spring had stopped its flow. Without water the band could not stay.
She quickly pushed aside a willow branch that hung over the trail and peered around its sloping limb. If the spring had failed her, she would be sad indeed. But to her relief and pleasure, a first look at the rocks from which the spring was born revealed the bubbles of water gurgling forth just as she had remembered.
She breathed a deep sigh, knelt at the edge of the small basin, and reached a sun-browned hand to trail her fingers in the cold water. A few fallen leaves twirled in an eddy, and she scooped them up and lay them gently aside, then stretched her hand into the water again to enjoy its refreshing coldness. In very short order her fingers began to tingle with the chill.
“Nothing back on the plains is this cold,” she whispered and took great pleasure in the knowledge that was hers.
She pushed slowly to her feet and backed up so she brushed gently against the outcropping of granite.
“I hope we never have to leave again. Never,” she said quietly as she gazed off in the distance.
The bucket at her feet was forgotten as she studied the familiar sight. One large pine had fallen. Perhaps in a storm. She missed its mammoth limbs against the sky, but perhaps—just perhaps its exposed roots would make a home for the bear mother.
Thinking of the bear, she strained for a sound that would indicate its presence. Only the whisper of the wind and the gentle gurgle of the spring, with the background ripple of the small stream, reached her ears. Then a bird called. A mountain bluebird, and another answered. From the lake beyond, a loon cried. Running Fawn smiled. She was home. Home. She leaned back more firmly against the rock at her back. She would be able to spend another winter here where she belonged.
She stirred. She was not anxious to go, but her mother would be waiting for the water. Reluctantly she reached down for the pail at her feet. It was a new metal pail, recently acquired at the trading post. She would not need to haul with the clumsy bucket made of skin anymore.
“Hello,” said a quiet voice, making Running Fawn jump in spite of herself. She swung around to see the strange white man sitting on a rock a few steps away. Running Fawn’s first thought was of flight—but she did not have the water bucket filled.
“I’m sorry,” he continued softly in her own tongue, though the words sounded different coming from his lips. “I did not mean to frighten you.”
Running Fawn shrugged in careful nonchalance and turned her back to him. She would quickly dip her pail and be on her way.
“This is a … a beautiful place,” he continued, groping for the correct words.
For a moment Running Fawn felt anger. He had no right to her spot. Why did he think that he could intrude?
But she quickly realized how foolish the thought was. All of the small band used the path that led to the spring. All water buckets were dipped from the small basin.
“I took a walk as soon as we got into camp,” he went on. “The path led me here. I’m so glad it did. It is a wonderful place for prayer.”
Running Fawn straightened and looked at the strange man. He was speaking words that she did not understand.
“Prayer—” he explained gently. “Talk—with God.”
She still frowned. He smiled at her and stood from his seat on the rock, but he did not approach her.
“Did you ever wonder how this all came to be? Who created this … this beauty? It was God. God the Creator of all things. This Book—” He held up the hand that was holding a strange-looking black book. “This is the Book that tells about Him. It is called the Bible. When I talk to Him—it is called prayer.”
He waited. Running Fawn did not respond, but she couldn’t help but be drawn to his words. How could that object—the Book—tell about God?
“That is why I have come here—to live with your people. I want to tell you all about this Book. About the God of all”—he flung one long arm in a big arc—”this.”
Running Fawn did not know whether to listen further or to dash for the safety of the camp.
“Your mother will be waiting for the water,” he said gently. “We can talk more later.”
Quickly Running Fawn knelt to swish aside small intruders on the pond surface and scoop her bucket full of water.
Without even a backward glance she ran down the path that led back to the village. The whole encounter had unsettled her—but she wasn’t sure just why. At least she now knew why the man had come to stay with them. He came to talk about the Black Book. Running Fawn had never seen a book before. She had no idea what it was all about, but she felt a strange stirring of curiosity. She wished she were brave enough to take the Book in her own hands.
In spite of their white visitor, they all quickly settled back into camp life. The young man was seen talking with this warrior or that, and often with the chief. On several occasions, Running Fawn even saw him chat with the young boys. She wondered if he was showing them the Black Book. She longed to take a peek at it herself but stayed at a distance, quickly dipping into the bush or dashing behind a tent if she saw the white man coming her way.
She now dreaded the trips to the stream and always made sure she went in the company of other young girls. She felt cheated. Like she had given up a part of her own self.
And then one night the chief announced that there would be a meeting around the open fire. The white man had something he wished to say and they all would be there to listen. Running Fawn felt both curiosity and panic. What could the white man say that would be of interest to her people—to her?
When the last chores of the day had been completed, the open fire was built in the middle of the camp. Running Fawn followed closely behind her mother, who led little Bright Star by the hand. The baby had now outgrown the cradle board and wished to toddle along with the family, but he still needed a hand, as his little feet were prone to trip over small roots or uneven ground. Moon Over Trees smiled good-naturedly and patiently helped her little son to his feet again.
They settled close to the circle, blanket shawls wrapped around their shoulders to keep away the chill of the mountain night.
When the chief was assured that all were present, he stood to his feet. He was a commanding presence in spite of the ravages of time and a nomadic life.
“We have come,” he began, “to listen to our white friend who has something important to tell us. I have listened for many nights. I have heard his words and they speak to my heart. Now I wish you to hear his words. What he says is a new sound. He calls it Truth. He speaks of a god we do not know. A god who he says made all things. The rivers, the mountains, the trees, the buffalo. What he says is strange. If it is a right way, I do not know. Listen. We will listen together and then we will decide if it is right.” He sat down and folded his blanket closely about his shriveled frame.
The white man now stood. In the light of the fire and the glow of the rising moon, his face looked pale and glistening. If she had met him along a wooded trail, Running Fawn was sure she would have run away in fright.
He lifted the Black Book that he always seemed to have in his hand and began to talk to the people. His voice was quiet but powerful as he slowly and carefully chose his words.
“Long, long ago, before the sun was in the day sky or the moon lighted the night, before man walked on earth or the deer fed in the forest, there was God. A great God. He had always been. Had never been born to the tepee. Had never grown in the cradle board. He had never had mother or father—for He is God. Without Him, nothing would be—for He is the maker of all things. He planted the forests and placed the mountains and the valleys. He started the streams and rivers flowing and formed the lakes at the foot of the hills. He put the buffalo on the plains and the bear in the woodlands. He showed the geese how to fly and the loon how to swim.
“Then He said, ‘I will make man—in my likeness’—and He did. Man, and woman, his helpmate, were the greatest of His creation. Mankind was made good. God loved His creation.
“But mankind did not stay good. They did wrong. They went against the command of God. They spoiled the good world He had made. God said, ‘Because you have disobeyed my word, you will die.’
“For many years the world got worse and worse, but God still loved His people. He still longed to have them obey Him. So He had a plan. He gave them laws to follow—laws that would honor Him. Instead of facing death for their wrongs, He let them offer an animal to die in their place. But they could not keep the laws. They kept making bad choices and doing wrong. Their hearts were selfish—wishing to have their brothers’ land and horses, cheating and killing one another. But God had another part to His plan. This part showed God’s great love. Doing wrong still meant death. But God loved His people. He did not wish for them to die. So He sent His Son—His only Son. ‘My Son will die in their place,’ said God. ‘He will pay the penalty of death for them.’
“And He did. His Son Jesus died for wicked mankind. He paid the death penalty. He wants to give His people new hearts—to love Him and to love each other. We must be sorry for our evil hearts and ask Him for a new one. This Book—the Bible—tells us how we are to live. I have come here to tell you of its message. It has been given for all people. The white, the Blackfoot, the Cree, the Stoney, the Sarcee. All people. All people were made by the one true God. All people have done wrong. But Jesus, the Son of the only true God, has died for all people of the earth. God wants them to be brothers.”
Running Fawn was sure that the white man had more words to speak, but the chief now stood shakily to his feet. The young man lowered his upraised hand that held the Black Book. Courteously he stepped back into the shadows.
“We will hear more on another night,” announced the chief, his tone giving hint of what he thought about these strange new ideas.
Running Fawn was disappointed. The story had been interesting. She had never heard a tale around the fire that had so gripped her attention. She wished they could hear it all. She wanted to know more about this great God of whom the young white man spoke.
But Chief Calls Through The Night was already wrapping his blankets closely around his frail shoulders and moving off toward his own tent where the fire would take the chill from his elderly bones.