Читать книгу White Feather 3-Book Bundle - Jennifer Dance - Страница 13

Henry stormed across the field to join the diggers. Red Wolf wasn’t the only one who watched him approach. Several other Grade One boys monitored his progress, and Top Boy Frank watched, too.

“Did Master Evans keep you back after class again?” Frank asked quietly.

Henry didn’t reply. Instead he shoved Red Wolf on both shoulders. “It was your fault,” he yelled.

Red Wolf felt tears welling up, but he gulped down the sob that tried to burst from his chest.

Henry drew close, carefully forming his words and spitting them into Red Wolf’s ear. “Next time, don’t make a sound, you hear! And don’t tell anyone, or else....” He leered and drew his index finger across Red Wolf’s neck. The child didn’t need to know the language to understand the threat. His knees buckled.

“That’s enough, Henry,” Frank said, sheltering Red Wolf with his body. “Leave him alone. Don’t make me report you again. Get to work.”

Henry snatched up a shovel and started attacking the soil. Red Wolf was shocked to see that Frank watched Henry with compassion! Red Wolf didn’t understand why. He hated Henry!

A warning whistle, not unlike a jay’s strident call, pierced the air and all the boys in the old pasture began digging with renewed vigour. Someone was coming: a man and a dog. Red Wolf looked up and his heart leapt into his throat. It was the man called Indian agent.

It all seemed so long ago now when the white man had ridden into the summer camp of The People. That was the day it had all started, he thought, the day the man had invaded his childhood and had called him Horse Thief. He was no longer the carefree boy who had walked with the chestnut gelding that sunny afternoon, just a few moons ago. Since then he had lost everything.

He threw his weight behind the shovel and averted his head, hoping the white man would not recognize him, but the hound ambled straight toward him, tail wagging gently, a happy greeting on his face.

“Get over here, dog!” the Indian agent yelled. The animal lowered his head, rounded his back, and with tail between his legs approached his master. He was rewarded for his obedience with a raised hand and a harsh voice. “Don’t you be getting friendly with the Indians.”

The dog sighed and flopped to the ground.

“I hear that my special friend is here at last,” the man called out to no one in particular. Red Wolf froze like a frightened rabbit. “Ah, there he is!”

The Indian agent loosely wrapped a meaty arm around Red Wolf’s neck and rubbed his head in an amicable manner. Fear paralyzed the child. The man’s powerful bicep tightened against his throat.

“Horse Thief!” he whispered, his breath rank against Red Wolf’s cheek. “I said we would meet again, did I not?”

Red Wolf could barely breathe, and the Algonquian words stabbed at his heart like a hunting knife.

Then, as suddenly as it had started, it was over. The man released him, turned on his heels, and walked away. “Dog!” he yelled.

Red Wolf gasped and realized that he was trembling.

The dog dragged himself up and slunk after his owner.

As the sun changed its angle in the sky, Red Wolf’s hands started to blister and then the blisters broke and oozed.

“You’d better go to the infirmary,” Top Boy Frank said.

“Firmamy?” Red Wolf questioned.

A voice spoke in the language of The People. “I’ll take you.”

Red Wolf looked around and smiled at Turtle, following him to the school building.

A young woman in a white apron greeted the boys. “Hello,” she said, her voice light and warm. “What can I do for you?”

Turtle held up Red Wolf’s hands. The nurse made sympathetic noises and turned to get cotton and alcohol to clean the wounds. “What have you been doing?” she asked.

“Digging the old pasture,” Turtle replied.

“That’s a man’s job,” she said, shaking her head. “This will hurt a bit, I’m afraid.”

Red Wolf winced and tried to pull his hand away, but she held it firmly. “We have to make sure it’s clean.”

She turned to Turtle. “Bring a biscuit for the wounded farmer and take one for yourself.”

Before the boys had taken more than one bite, brisk footsteps were heard echoing down the corridor, getting louder and closer.

“Swallow fast,” whispered the nurse.

Mother Hall appeared at the door just as the boys gulped down the biscuits. Her small, critical eyes appraised both boys before settling on Turtle. “There’s nothing wrong with you, boy. Get back to work.”

Turtle silently obeyed.

She then examined Red Wolf’s palms. “Why are you here, wasting time for just a few blisters? Outside! Go!”

“I’d like him to stay another moment while I bandage his hands,” the nurse said.

“Bandages!” Mother Hall shrieked. “We can’t be wasting good bandages on such trivial things. He needs to get back out there and start toughening up those hands. Work will harden them in no time.”

She grabbed Red Wolf by the scruff of his coverall and lifted him to the tips of his big leather boots. With years of experience behind her, she steered him out of the doorway into the corridor, releasing him with a firm shove. Red Wolf stumbled away from her as fast as he could but stopped dead in his tracks when her high-pitched voice shrieked what he now understood was his new name.

“Three-six-six,” she yelled, reading the number on the back of his coverall and pointing to the wooden floor. “Look at this mess! Get back here and clean it up.”

Red Wolf looked where she pointed and saw fresh earth that had fallen from his boots.

“We don’t wear farm boots in school,” Mother Hall ordered, rolling her eyes. “Take them off immediately.”

The nurse stood behind Mother Hall and mimed taking off boots. Red Wolf sat on the floor and tried to yank the uncomfortable things from his feet, forgetting that first he had to untie the laces. Knowing that the rawhide strips would soon be whizzing though the air and cutting painfully into some part of his body, he tugged at the laces, but his palms were slippery with sweat, and salt was stinging the raw flesh.

Mother Hall turned to the nurse. “Oh, Lord. He still don’t know how to untie his laces!”

“Don’t worry, Mother Hall, I’ll help him with his boots,” the nurse said, squatting beside Red Wolf and unravelling the bows. “Then I’ll make sure he sweeps the floor.”

“Humph!” Mother Hall turned her attention back to the infirmary. “Who’s this?” she asked, looking at a gaunt child who lay motionless under clean white sheets.

“Three-five-nine,” the nurse answered.

Mother Hall shook the boy, but there was no response. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s not eating or drinking,” the nurse said, “but the wire snags look clean, they’re not infected.”

Comprehension lit the older woman’s eyes. “Wire snags! He’s the boy who tried to climb the fence?”

“Yes. He got hooked on the barbed wire.”

“He’s malingering, using the caning as an excuse to get out of work.”

The nurse sighed. “I don’t think so. In my opinion he’s homesick and heartsick.”

“That’s nonsense!” the housemother said. “Indians don’t have emotions like we do. He’s just shirking. If he’s not eating and drinking, force-feed him!”

Red Wolf’s first day finally drew to a close. His legs were wobbly with fatigue. He wanted to clamber into bed fully clothed, but the fear of punishment forced him to stay upright long enough to change into his nightgown. However, by the time the boys chanted Now I lay me down to sleep, Red Wolf was dead to the world.

Mother Hall watched him. He lay on his back, his chest rising and falling under the blanket. She knew she should wake him and make him kneel at the side of his bed to recite the prayer. Father Thomas would expect that of her. But she looked at the child’s relaxed face and felt a tug of sympathy. She decided that prayers weren’t that important anyway. At least the boy had folded his clothes and put them away before falling asleep.

Red Wolf walked on the beach at Clear Lake, where he had grown up. Darkness was falling, but he could still make out the bluffs and trees that sheltered the beach from the strong north wind, and he could see the ridge where the wolves sometimes howled. He snuggled between his grandfather and his grandmother, their furs draped over his shoulders, his sleepy eyes watching the orange-blue tongues of fire lick the embers. HeWhoWhistles and the other hunters sat around the big drum. With powerful forearms the men pounded their sticks against the skin, their high-pitched voices throbbing in time with the rhythm.

The women danced around the men in a circle, the old ones shuffling in the gravelly sand, the younger ones pointing their toes and lifting their feet in time to the strong heartbeat of the drum. StarWoman laughed and copied her younger sister, who had broken loose with a spinning dance that took her on a path outside the circle of more stately women.

Suddenly HeWhoWhistles’ piercing voice soared above the drumbeat. StarWoman danced over to her husband and stood behind him, lending her support and spiritual power to his voice. This was the way of The People, and Red Wolf knew that it was his way too. HeWhoWhistles’ song gave thanks to Creator and to the four-legged that had given their lives in order that the lives of The People would be sustained. He gave thanks to Mother Earth for providing yet again, enabling them to survive another long hard winter, and for the upcoming bounty of summer that would allow them to refill their baskets and prepare for another season of hardship. This, too, was the Anishnaabe way.

Red Wolf followed the bright sparks that rode a distance on the wind. He felt something warm inside his chest. It wasn’t just the fire, or the furs. He glanced up at the ridge and saw them! The wolves! He listened to their howl and his heart was filled with joy.

A bell clanged and Red Wolf knew something was wrong. Bells did not ring on the beach at Clear Lake. He looked at the sparks from the fire and watched them get snuffed into blackness.

He awoke. He could have wept.