Red Dove, Listen to the Wind

by Sonia Antaki

  One Elm Books is an imprint of Red Chair Press LLC

  www.redchairpress.com

  Publisher’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data

  Names: Antaki, Sonia. | Bosley, Andrew, illustrator. | Spotted Elk, Calvin, writer of supplementary textual content.

  Title: Red Dove, listen to the wind / by Sonia Antaki ; with illustrations by Andrew Bosley ; [foreword by Calvin Spotted Elk, Lakota].

  Description: Egremont, Massachusetts : One Elm Books, an imprint of Red Chair Press LLC, [2019] | Includes Lakota terms and phrases. | Interest age level: 010-014. | Summary: “Abandoned by her white father, thirteen-year-old Red Dove faces another lean winter with her Lakota family on the Great Plains. Willful and proud, she is presented with a difficult choice: leave her people to live in the white world, or stay and watch them starve. Red Dove begins a journey to find her true place in the world and discovers that her greatest power comes from within herself.”--Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: ISBN 9781947159129 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781947159136 (paperback) | ISBN 9781947159143 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Indian girls--Juvenile fiction. | Racially mixed youth--Juvenile fiction. | Identity (Psychology) in youth--Juvenile fiction. | Lakota Indians--United States--History--19th century--Juvenile fiction. | CYAC: Indian girls--Fiction. | Identity--Fiction. | Lakota Indians--United States--History--19th century--Fiction. | LCGFT: Historical fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.A61 Re 2019 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.A61 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018955613

  Main body text set in 13/18.5 Adobe Caslon Pro

  Text copyright © 2020 by Sonia Antaki

  One Elm Books, logo and green leaf colophon are trademarks of Red Chair Press LLC.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in an information or retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical including photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission from the Publisher. For permissions, contact info@redchairpress.com

  Printed in Canada

  0519 1P FNF19

  This is an original story,

  Dedicated to my Goddaughter, Lily Spotted Elk, Lakota—

  Descendant of the man who led his people at Wounded Knee

  Introduction

  I first met Sonia at an event I was hosting for Chief Arvol Looking Horse, (the 19th keeper of the Sacred White Buffalo Calf Pipe). After striking up a friendly conversation, I could see that we were kindred spirits of sorts. Subsequent visits revealed that she was writing a book for young readers about a 13-year old half-Lakota, half-white girl.

  Since my own ancestry dates back to include my Great Grandfather, Wiyaka Sakpe (Six Feathers), who rode with Crazy Horse in “The Battle of Little Big Horn”, or as our people refer to as “The Battle of the Greasy Grass”, it seemed only natural that I would help with a few details to make the story more “authentic”, even though it is a work of fiction.

  Red Dove, Listen to the Wind is a tale of a mixed-blood girl who struggles to bring her worlds together. It is an entertaining work that shares the Native American experience of a turbulent time in U.S. history with our world today.

  As the story unfolds, you feel the angst of an adolescent girl who has a lust for life, but who is riddled with frustration, curiosity and a little rebellion for good measure—something most young people still experience.

  I read it non-stop, alternating between scolding this precocious youngster and cheering her tenacious search for a place to belong.

  Red Dove, Listen to the Wind is a good read for all ages.

  –Linda Sixfeathers, Lakota Sioux

  Foreword

  When Sonia Antaki asked me to consult for Red Dove, Listen to the Wind, I agreed, because I knew how important it was to bring this story of traveling between worlds, told through the eyes of a thirteen-year-old girl, to an audience of new readers.

  I am Lakota, and my daughter Lily and I are descended from the man who led our people at Wounded Knee. The history books call him Chief Big Foot—Si Tanka—but his true name was Spotted Elk—Unpan Gleska—the name that my daughter and I carry now.

  Like many Lakota growing up on South Dakota’s Pine Ridge Reservation in the 1970s, my childhood was marked by poverty and loss. I know what it is to attend a school like the one described in the story. I also know what it is to live with the legacy of Wounded Knee.

  Red Dove, Listen to the Wind is a work of fiction, but it tells a tale that resonates still, in the hopes that some young reader, boy or girl, will grow up to help right the wrongs that have been visited on our people for far, far too long.

  –Calvin Spotted Elk, Lakota

  Kantasa Wi

  The Moon-of-Ripe-Plums

  Dakota Territory—Late Summer, 1890

  “Girls don’t hunt,” Red Dove’s brother said. “So go away!”

  Red Dove pretended not to hear. She pointed to the flock of wild turkeys squawking and squabbling in the meadow below. “We’ll go hungry if you miss again, Walks Alone, so let me try.” She pulled her brother’s ash wood bow out of his hand.

  He jerked it back. “I’m not letting you use my arrows,” he said, glaring.

  “I don’t need yours. I have my own. Wait here.” Red Dove darted towards the old cottonwood tree. Scrambling up to the knothole, she pulled out her secret treasure: a quiver of arrows.

  She raced back but her brother was nowhere in sight. “I told you to wait!” she cried.

  Branches clawed her face and tore at the fringe of her deerskin robe as she struggled through the dense chokecherry bushes.

  She felt a tap on her shoulder and spun around. Walks Alone put a finger to his lips and pointed to a flock of birds. “Over there. You’ve frightened them and now they’re too far away,” he said softly.

  Red Dove followed the flight of the big, ungainly birds. She glanced back at their village, nestled in the safety of the Black Hills. It was summer’s end; the month called the Moon-of-Ripe-Plums, and cold would be coming soon. Smoke from the cooking fires mingled with the sweet smell of papa, the dried venison that would see them through the winter.

  Red Dove and her brother followed the birds until finally, in the patch of trees at the edge of the meadow, they came upon the flock. “There,” she whispered.

  Walks Alone pointed at the biggest tom in the center, strutting and fanning its tail. He raised his bow, pulled the string and shot.

  The hens set up a shriek and rose, flapping, into the air.

  “You missed! Why didn’t you let me do it?”

  Walks Alone threw down his bow and Red Dove lunged to pick it up. Before he could stop her, she fitted an arrow, pulled back and let fly.

  It found its mark and the turkey plummeted to earth.

  “What did you just do?” Her brother’s eyes were round with disbelief.

  Pride and wonder mingled in Red Dove’s chest. What did I just do?

  She raced over and stared at the creature before her, motionless except for the breeze that ruffled its feathers. Then she looked at the bow in her hand and felt a surge of pleasure.

  “I’ve been practicing. With your bow—”

  “You took my bow? You’re not supposed to hunt. It’s not our way.”

  “Don’t tell Mother. She’s always so angry with me,” Red Dove said, picturing her mother’s face when told her rebellious daughter had broken yet another rule.

  “Only if you tell me where you got those arrows.” Walks Alone pointed to the buckskin quiver. “They look special, like Grandfather’s—”

  “I made them.”

  “You made them? Did he show you how?”

>   Red Dove felt her brother’s envy. “I just watched him while he was working. Nobody saw me. Mother was too busy and you were always so sick.” She flinched when she saw his angry face. “Well, you were!”

  “Be careful what you say to people, Gray Eyes—”

  “Don’t call me Gray Eyes. I can’t help it if my father was white.”

  Her brother shrugged. “You’re right; it’s not your fault. But you should know better. You’ve lived thirteen winters. You’re old enough now to respect our ways.” He reached down and plucked the longest tail feather from the dead tom. “Here.” He pushed it into Red Dove’s tightly wound braid. “For your coming-of-age ceremony.”

  “Thank you, Brother—”

  “Don’t thank me. Thank the animal.”

  “Wopila,” she said, and bowed her head to thank the creature that had given its life.

  ›› Wasichu ‹‹

  Red Dove and her brother carried their kill through the forest to the clearing. Walks Alone moved steadily ahead, the bird slung over his shoulder. Red Dove followed until they came to the glistening stream their mother loved.

  “We have a surprise!” Red Dove called when she saw their mother sitting on a lichen-covered stone.

  Falling Bird smiled at her handsome son. “What have you got there?”

  Resentment curled inside Red Dove. Why does she always look at him—and not at me?

  Walks Alone threw the bird on the ground and grinned. “A turkey,” he said.

  “But I’m the one who brought it down,” Red Dove blurted.

  The look of shock on her mother’s face frightened Red Dove. “What? Have I raised you so badly that you do not know your place?” said Falling Bird. “Girls don’t hunt—unless they have to.”

  Red Dove bowed her head, filled with sudden shame.

  “These things are taught so we can live in balance.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Red Dove said. Why is it I can’t ever seem to do things right? Is it because I’m half white?

  “Listen,” her brother said and cocked his head. They all heard it then: the clatter of cart wheels and the beat of horses’ hooves. Soon, they saw the source of the sound.

  Wasichu! Red Dove thought. White people… sometimes they bring food.

  She scrambled towards them, but her mother pulled her back. “Wait here.”

  But Red Dove wasn’t afraid and her curiosity was stronger than Falling Bird’s grasp. She broke away to follow the wagon as it rolled into their village.

  A crowd gathered around the two whites who were sitting in the carriage. The few men who remained in the village stood silently by, while anxious mothers held tight to their children.

  Red Dove’s grandfather crossed the ground towards them. Gray Eagle was thin-boned and short of stature, but his frail body held a power his people knew well. He lifted his head and stared out of age-clouded eyes.

  Red Dove’s mother wagged a finger and warned her to stay back, but Red Dove edged closer.

  A gaunt, leather-faced man in dirty denim and sweat-stained buckskin climbed off the wagon, his battered gray hat pulled low over red-rimmed eyes. I’ve seen him before, Red Dove thought. He’s the one they call Old Tom, the white man who speaks our language. He’s Iyeska… a traveler between our worlds.

  Old Tom said something to the plump, pink-faced woman in the carriage. Her pale blue eyes behind silvery glasses were soft and frightened, and a drop of sweat rolled from under her lacy black headdress. She tugged at a faded gray shawl that kept slipping off her shoulders over the shiny purple dress that clung to her curves.

  White women dress so strangely, thought Red Dove. Women in our village would be ashamed to wear tight clothes like that. And her hair is a funny color, almost orange… .

  The woman squinted at Old Tom, but did not climb down.

  Red Dove’s grandfather raised his hand in greeting.

  The woman said something in a language that Red Dove recognized as English, from what she had learned from her mother and brother, who had lived with the whites.

  When the woman had finished, Old Tom began to translate so they all could understand. “It has been decided,” he said, “that the Lakota people should learn to live like white men—”

  Red Dove’s mother gasped.

  Would that be terrible? Red Dove wondered.

  “There isn’t enough food for you here,” Old Tom continued. “Summer is over and winter will soon come.” He looked back at the woman, took off his grimy hat and wiped his brow. He ran his fingers through the wisps of hair still clinging to his head and mumbled something. The woman nodded and said something more.

  Kicking up a clod of dirt, Old Tom put his hat back on. “The U.S. government will give you food if you send your children to the school and live on the reservation like the rest of your people have done… .” He seemed startled by the words the woman was making him say.

  Red Dove watched her mother’s face. Her mouth was set in a firm line, but tears were pooling in her eyes.

  When Old Tom had finished, Gray Eagle raised his head and stared at the Wasichu woman. “We are hungry. Our young men are gone and there are no more buffalo. You have killed them all.” He stared into the distance. “We have heard about your schools… and what happens there. You want us to live on the reservation and trade our children for food?” He paused and lowered his head. “No.”

  He nodded at Old Tom, who began translating to the woman. She frowned and said something back.

  “This is different,” Old Tom said, echoing her words in Lakota. “The school we are talking about was started by the priests, the ones your leader Red Cloud invited—”

  “Red Cloud is not our leader. And we did not invite them.”

  “If you do not let them go,” Old Tom went on, not daring to meet the old man’s eyes, “the soldiers will come. And take them. By force.”

  A trickle of fear crept down Red Dove’s spine.

  Gray Eagle stared at the woman. She stared back. Neither spoke. Then he raised his hand to signal he was finished and moved closer to the fire. When the smoke had cleared, Grandfather was gone.

  The white woman looked frantically around. She shrieked something to Old Tom, but he just shrugged and climbed calmly onto the wagon. Then he flicked the reins and the horses jerked away, jostling the woman’s floppy headdress loose.

  She grabbed it just in time as her small, light-colored eyes fell on Red Dove. Now, they were no longer afraid. Now they looked cold, hard, determined. “I’ll be back,” they seemed to say.

  ›› Even If We All Go Hungry ‹‹

  Smoke from the council tent rose in a curl and drifted into the sky as the village waited to hear the fate of their children. At last, Gray Eagle came out. He strode past the fire circle and disappeared inside his own dwelling.

  “Stay here,” Red Dove’s mother hissed, but Red Dove pulled away. Something strange was happening and the only one who could explain it was the wicasa wakan, the medicine man, Gray Eagle himself. She pulled up the flap and entered the tent.

  “I’m sorry, Grandfather,” Red Dove said, “but I have to know. Will the white people really make me leave? I want to stay here.”

  The furrows on his face deepened. “If things were like they were in the past, you would go to the women for answers. Your aunties would be guiding you—”

  “But everything is different now, you say. My aunties are so busy finding food they don’t have time for me.” She paused and smiled up at him. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

  “Hau, Takoja,” he said, patting her head and answering yes to his favorite grandchild. Then he sighed. “I know you want to stay here with me, but there may be nothing for you—”

  “There is. I want you to teach me to be a healer. Like you.”

  “It takes a lifetime to be a healer—”

  “I can wait.”

  The old man raised an eyebrow and laughed. “You’ve never waited for anything in your life.” Then he softened his gaze. “T
ell me why you want that,” he said. “Is it because you want to help others?”

  Red Dove nodded. “And I want people to listen to me, and what I have to say… like they do to you.”

  “Ahhh. Then you must learn to listen—to them—”

  “I do.”

  “You do not.” Gray Eagle pressed his lips together. “You ask many questions, little Gray Eyes, but when the answers come you do not hear them—“

  “Don’t call me that!”

  “What, Gray Eyes? But your eyes are gray. Gray like the dawn—”

  “I can’t help being different, Grandfather; you know that!” Red Dove looked at the ashy fire, as if to take courage from the smoke rising from it. “Is that why no one listens to me? Because I am half… Wasichu?”

  The old man smiled and placed his hand gently on top of her head. “You are different, but not just because your father was white.” He removed his hand and turned away. “And some day you will see that as a gift,” he said quietly. “You will be special—”

  “Special? How?”

  “You will be Iyeska—”

  “An interpreter, like Old Tom? I want to be like you.”

  “I am Iyeska, as you will be also. And more. You will have the gift of understanding, of what is behind the words that people speak. You will travel between worlds—”

  “What worlds, Grandfather? The world of the whites, the Wasichu?”

  “Worlds you cannot yet imagine,” he whispered. “You will travel between them, explain them to others and bring them together.”

  Red Dove wanted to shout at him. Nothing was making any sense. She stared at his hunched figure and dared to ask the question that had plagued her since the white people came. “So, will you send me away?”

  Gray Eagle turned. “Only if you want to go, Granddaughter.” He placed his hand on her shoulder and she felt its reassuring weight. “We will not make you. Even if it means we go hungry.” He tilted her face up towards his. “Remember, we are the last of a free people.”