Читать книгу White Feather 3-Book Bundle - Jennifer Dance - Страница 12

Henry was easy to follow. His bald stripe set him apart, and once inside the Grade One classroom he was a head taller than the other boys. The teacher took Red Wolf’s hand and led him to the front of the class. All the boys stared at the newcomer with expressionless faces, everyone except Henry, who sat front and centre with a scowl on his face.

“Say, ‘Good morning’ to George,” the teacher instructed the class.

“Good morning to George,” they said in unison.

Henry rolled his eyes at their stupidity.

Turning to face Red Wolf, the man pointed at his own chest. “Master Evans,” he said, several times over until Red Wolf was able to repeat the name perfectly. This pleased the man, who smiled and tousled the boy’s hair for a long time. Red Wolf felt uncomfortable.

Master Evans showed Red Wolf a nametag that said George. All of the children, except Henry, had similar nametags pinned to their shirts. When Red Wolf successfully sounded out each letter of his new name, the teacher beamed and pinned the nametag on him. Then he pointed at Henry. “Henry, you may go back to your old desk now.”

The big boy moved quickly to the back row, obviously happy to be returning to his old location. The teacher steered Red Wolf by his shoulders to the empty desk.

“Sit down!”

Red Wolf understood! He slid across the smooth oak seat that was still warm from Henry’s backside. He wriggled around, slipping and sliding on the well-worn surface.

Suddenly a ruler smacked down on Red Wolf’s desk a fraction of an inch from his arm. He jumped and let out a startled yelp, inadvertently banging his knees on the underside of the desk.

“Sit still!”

Red Wolf understood that, too.

Some of the boys were giggling, almost inaudibly, but Henry’s laughter was loud and scornful.

Master Evans’ voice was shrill. “Silence!”

The boys were quiet, and Red Wolf learned another word.

The teacher turned his back to the children and with a short white stick made marks on a large blackboard that hung on the wall. Red Wolf knew these must be the tracks his father had spoken of, the white man’s signs that he must learn before he could leave school. He gazed at the marks and hoped for understanding. It didn’t come.

The children lifted the tops of their desks, took out slates, and worked at copying the teacher’s writing, their faces furrowed with concentration. Red Wolf did the same. He clutched the smooth stick in his fingers, chewed on his lower lip, and contemplated how to start. He made his first mark. The chalk screeched and snapped in two. Red Wolf was mortified. The teacher directed a chain of meaningless words at him, and he felt everyone’s eyes boring into his back. He wished he could disappear. He closed his eyes tight, but when he reopened them he was still in the classroom, still at Bruce County Indian Residential School, still far from his parents and Crooked Ear. He picked up half of the chalk and made the same tapping sound as the other boys.

Master Evans was small-boned, almost to the point of being fragile. He was nothing like Mister Hall in size or weight. His voice was small, too, and he carried only a ruler, not a cane or strips of leather. Even so, when he walked up and down between the rows of desks, Red Wolf was afraid, and as his footsteps got closer Red Wolf tensed in anticipation of punishment. He knew that the marks he was making on the slate bore no similarity to those on the blackboard, just as the tracks made by Crooked Ear’s paws were different from those made by the split hooves of a deer. By the time the teacher peered over his shoulder, sweat from the palms of his hands had dampened his slate.

Master Evans unclipped a thick wad of felt from his belt and leaned over.

Red Wolf flinched.

Master Evans wiped the slate clean. “Try again,” he said.

Red Wolf breathed a sigh of relief.

In the way of The People, HeWhoWhistles had taught his son to observe; to watch and listen. Red Wolf was only five but he could identify a bird from its song. He could recognize the thumping hind feet of an alarmed rabbit, the huffing of rutting elk, the bark of a vixen calling her mate, the caw of a raven when food was close. He could even gauge approaching weather by listening to the wind and feeling it on his skin. So in the confines of the school where language gave him little information, he watched how hands moved and how facial expressions changed. He listened to tone of voice and inflection, unconsciously knowing that these things gave meaning to unfamiliar words.

It didn’t take Red Wolf long to realize that Master Evans’s voice rose in pitch just before he expected an answer. In response to that higher pitch, some boys threw one arm into the air and spoke in the foreign language. The master smiled and stroked their hair and spoke words that sounded happy. Red Wolf didn’t have any answers in the new language and decided that silence would be the best way to stay out of trouble. When the teacher spoke directly to him, Red Wolf looked at his desk and anxiously fingered the scratched surface, worrying at a splinter until it broke free from the gouged wood. The teacher’s sudden grip on his arm surprised and hurt him. The boy jumped to his feet, words of The People flying from his mouth, before he could capture them. “Ouch! That hurts. Let me go!”

The man wrestled him to the corner of the room and pushed him onto his knees facing the wall. Red Wolf stifled a yelp as the ruler slapped across his buttocks. He heard Henry snickering. Red Wolf was grateful, at least, for one thing: he was facing the wall, so no one could see him crying. But when tears escaped onto his cheek and he dabbed at them with his hand, Henry’s snickers turned to full-blown laughter.

“Henry! Stop laughing,” Master Evans ordered.

Red Wolf learned another phrase.

He felt as though a long, long time passed. He looked up to see the round face of a ticking machine that hung on the wall. He had no knowledge that it marked the passage of time, but he watched the pointers move. The one that made the ticking noise advanced around the circle more quickly than the other. When both pointed straight up, the school bell clanged again and the children got up from their seats.

“Stand up, George,” Master Evans said. Red Wolf tried to stand and was aghast. His left leg was missing! He looked down expecting it not to be there. It was, but it wouldn’t move and it felt heavy like a stone. He hopped on his right leg, dragging the useless leg behind him.

“It’s gone numb from kneeling,” Master Evans said, seeing the dismayed expression on Red Wolf’s face. “It will be fine soon. Don’t worry.” The advice didn’t help Red Wolf since he didn’t understand, but the circulation soon returned, bringing with it an unpleasant tingling.

He hobbled after the others, along the corridor toward the refectory. Henry turned and waited for him to catch up. Red Wolf limped toward him, watching the expression on his face. By the time he was close enough to read malevolence in Henry’s eyes it was too late. Henry’s fist sank into his gut, doubling him over and forcing him backwards with a grunt. He staggered and fell to the floor.

“Henry!” Master Evans shouted. “Come with me to my office!”

Henry threw a disdainful glance at Red Wolf then walked away with Master Evans.

In the refectory, Turtle, the boy who had spoken to Red Wolf at breakfast, beckoned him with a subtle movement of his chin. After the encounter with Henry, Red Wolf wondered if he should ignore the gesture, but he read no malice or contradiction in Turtle’s face, only open friendship. Turtle slid along the bench enough for Red Wolf to squeeze in. The two boys didn’t speak, but the closeness made Red Wolf melt inside. He almost cried.

The midday meal was stew. It was not as good as his mother’s. It didn’t smell or taste smoky the way food should, but the chunks of potato and ragged cubes of fatty meat warmed his stomach. Apart from the slurping and scraping of spoons, there was silence. Red Wolf wiped his bowl clean with a hunk of bread, hoping there would be more, but there wasn’t. He was pleased at least that his dish was so clean it didn’t need washing. Nevertheless, he had to wait in line to go through the ritual.

After dishwashing, Turtle pushed his chin toward the growing line of Grade One children, and Red Wolf understood that he was to line up there. He flashed a smile of gratitude to Turtle, but the boy was already hurrying away. Red Wolf glanced around for Henry and was relieved when he realized that, as yet anyway, the older boy was nowhere to be seen. Red Wolf followed the Grade Ones to the back of the building, where work clothes hung on numbered pegs. Like a swarm of bees swooping into flowers, the boys homed in on their own pegs. Red Wolf looked at the washed-out numbers on his hand and tried to find a peg number that looked the same. Panic was rising in his throat by the time he spotted it. The same number was stitched across the back of the tan coverall that hung on the peg, as well as on the chest pocket. So they know it’s me from the front as well as the back, he thought. The boots that stood as a neat pair under the peg were numbered, too. They had mud on the soles and were creased to the shape of another boy’s foot. Red Wolf wondered if the boy who had worn them had gone home. He hoped so.

He watched other children untie their school boots by pulling on the free end of a lace. He yanked at his own lace and was relieved when the bow unravelled. He plunged his feet into the work boots. They were much too big, but at least he could wiggle his toes. He tried to lace them, but the process for tying was much more complicated than untying. A man was bearing down on him, a cane tapping the floor. Red Wolf froze like a frightened fawn, hoping the predator would pass him by. But the man stopped. Red Wolf crunched down, hands covering his head, waiting for the cane to strike.

“Watch,” the man said, squatting and tying the lace slowly so that Red Wolf could see. “Now you try.”

After two attempts Red Wolf was wearing a pair of laced-up work boots. His feet slipped and slid inside them as he clomped after the other children through the back door of the school to the farm. The autumn sun shone from a clear blue sky and the air was fresh and clean, but Red Wolf didn’t notice. He was completely absorbed, watching the man’s cane rap the legs of boys who strayed marginally from the rigid procession. Red Wolf felt the twinge of anticipation that his legs would be the next to be rapped. No one spoke except for the man. He barked incomprehensible orders, sending boys to different areas of the farm. Finally Red Wolf alone remained.

“I’m the farm manager,” the man said in English. “They call me Mister Boss. Here we teach you how to grow food so you won’t go hungry again.” Ironically, Red Wolf’s stomach grumbled its half-empty complaint. “The wandering lifestyle you all have, picking berries and hunting, isn’t civilized. When the hunting is poor, especially in the winter, you go hungry, or even starve! Here you’ll learn how to grow crops and how to raise animals for food.”

He pointed to a red cow contained in a pen. The animal knelt and stretched her neck under the split rail fence, her nose pushing aside the purple asters until her long pink tongue could wrap around a clump of orchard grass. Then she staggered to her feet with her prize. Red Wolf heard the grass fibres tear and watched the cow’s jaws grind slowly back and forth. For a few seconds he felt at peace.

The strike to his leg was light. It barely hurt at all, but it surprised him enough to make him yelp.

“Pay attention when I speak,” the man ordered, shaking his cane at Red Wolf, “and come with me.”

He guided Red Wolf to an area of weedy pasture.

“Here’s the new worker,” he said to a brown-skinned youth who was shouting commands at younger children. “Looks like you need him. I want all this dug by the end of the week. Think you can do that?”

“Yes, sir, Mister Boss,” said the youth, handing Red Wolf a shovel.

“I’ll leave you in charge then,” the man said as he walked away.

Once the boss was out of earshot, the youth spoke, but in yet another language that Red Wolf did not understand! Red Wolf remained silent, and the youth tried again.

“Anishnaabe?”

Red Wolf nodded. The youth smiled and continued in a mix of English and signs that the child understood “Me no speak Anishnaabemowen. Me Mohawk. Me name Sparrow Hawk. They call me Frank, Top Boy Frank.”

He spread his arms to indicate all the boys working in the field. “We many people; Cree, Anishnaabe, Huron, Métis, Mohawk. We speak many tongues. No understand each other. All must speak English.”

“English,” Red Wolf said, pronouncing the word perfectly.

Top Boy Frank smiled. “Good!” He placed his foot on the top edge of the shovel blade and pushed down with his body weight. “Dig,” he said, “like this.” His shovel cut through the turf and he deftly flipped it so the weeds and grass disappeared under the fresh brown earth. Red Wolf tried but lacked the strength and technique to cut through the thatch of vegetation. “You’ll soon get it,” Top Boy Frank encouraged. “Keep trying.”

Red Wolf tried and tried. It was hard work and soon he flopped to the ground, exhausted.

“Get up!” Frank urged, pulling him up with one hand. “If Mister Boss sees you idling, I’ll be in trouble as well as you.” He pushed Red Wolf’s shovel securely into the soil and propped the child against it. “Lean on your shovel, like this … and look like you’re working.”

In this position, Red Wolf watched a robin. The bird landed on the freshly turned soil and within a second of cocking its head sideways pounced on the exposed tail of a worm. The robin planted its feet firmly and tugged with all its might. The worm stretched, becoming narrower and paler, until it suddenly broke into two. The piece in the earth quickly wriggled back under the soil, but the piece in the robin’s beak was promptly dispatched down the bird’s gullet. The day before, when Red Wolf was still a child, he would have giggled, but today there was no laughter in him.

On the neighbouring farm an old man walked behind a plough. The workhorse knew the routine and plodded faithfully along the edge of the furrow, throwing her weight into the collar. The farmer’s arthritic hands gripped the plough handles to stop the share from bucking. It was hard work for a man his age, but when he finished the field and was finally able to take his eyes away from the soil, he shook his head and sighed. In the distance small boys were ploughing a field with shovels.