Red Dove, Listen to the Wind

by Sonia Antaki

  Red Dove breathed a sigh and felt the knot inside her begin to loosen. She nodded.

  Gray Eagle smiled and pointed at the flap of the tepee. “Now go. And be the child you still are—”

  “I’m not a child, Grandfather—you know that. I’m almost a woman. I’ll have my coming-of-age soon—”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Perhaps? Why do you say that?”

  The old man didn’t answer.

  The relief that Red Dove had felt disappeared.

  “Now go and tell Falling Bird that her children will not leave,” Gray Eagle murmured, “even if we all go hungry.”

  “But Grandfather—” Red Dove began, knowing that he was not going to answer. He sat in his customary pose, legs crossed, eyes closed, listening to something—just not to her.

  So Red Dove did as she was told. She pulled up the flap and crawled outside into the late-summer day.

  There’s just so much I don’t understand.

  ›› All You Need to Know ‹‹

  Red Dove returned to her tepee and found Falling Bird squatting inside with her back to the opening. Her shoulders were shaking.

  “Mother?”

  There was no answer.

  “Mother?” Red Dove inched closer.

  Her mother turned to look at her, eyes glistening with tears. Strands of silver ran through her hair—more than Red Dove remembered.

  When did she get so old? Red Dove wondered. But what I have to say will cheer her up. “Grandfather says we won’t have to go to the school,” she said.

  “Washte. Good,” Falling Bird said, as a smile lifted the corners of her mouth.

  “But we will be hungry—”

  “Han. Yes, we will. But we can trade our beadwork for food. And Walks Alone can hunt.”

  Red Dove longed to tell Falling Bird that she was the real hunter in the family—but didn’t. She’ll only be mad at me again.

  “Maybe the person who used to leave food outside our lodge will come back,” Falling Bird said.

  “Do you know who it was?”

  Her mother shook her head.

  “Do you think it was my father?”

  “Hiya, no!” Falling Bird said. “Do not speak of him!”

  “But why? You’ve never told me what happened.” Red Dove tried to sound calm. “You said we lived with him when I was little, and then he left. Did you do something… ,” Red Dove knew she should stop, but couldn’t. She asked the question she had wanted so long to ask. “To make him go away?”

  Her mother didn’t look at her. Instead, she rose slowly, pulled up the flap and left the tent.

  Red Dove poked her head through the opening. “Mother?” she called.

  “Follow me.”

  So Red Dove did, past the fire circle and cluster of tepees, across the grassy meadow, and towards the patch of cottonwood trees that fringed the little stream.

  My mother’s quiet place, Red Dove thought, as fear sparked through her. Why is she bringing me here?

  “Sit,” Falling Bird ordered. “It is time you learned the truth. About your father.” Her shoulders slumped, light drained from her eyes, and the lines in her face were etched deep by the brightness of morning. “He left because he didn’t care. He betrayed us. And left us to starve—”

  “Then why were you with him, if he was so terrible?”

  “Ah,” her mother sighed. “How can I explain it? He was kind at first. I thought he loved me… us—”

  “Did you love him?”

  “Han. But something happened. He changed. He was Wasichu, so he didn’t keep his promise—”

  “Why not?”

  “He deserted us.” Falling Bird searched her daughter’s face. “And I don’t want him to hurt us anymore. Do you understand that?”

  Red Dove saw the pain in her mother’s eyes. It was too much.

  “You don’t remember anything of him, do you?”

  Do I? Maybe. “But why did he change?” she dared to ask.

  “White people change. We do not.”

  But I’m half white, so what does that mean for me?

  Falling Bird slapped her knee and rose abruptly. “So now I’ve told you all you need to know.”

  The bright prairie morning was thick with the scent of sweet grass and sage as Red Dove watched her mother walk away. She shook her head to clear it, filled as it was with memories just out of reach. “Wait,” she called softly, sensing Falling Bird was already too far away to hear. “You haven’t really told me anything!”

  ›› We’re Going to the Fort ‹‹

  “Get up, daughter.”

  Red Dove opened her eyes. The first light of dawn was visible below the flap of the tent, but sleep was sweet and she didn’t want to wake.

  Her mother pulled a worn woolen blanket around her shoulders. “We’re going to the fort today to trade with the Wasichu.”

  All summer long they had beaded moccasins and pouches to exchange for the flour, sugar, coffee, and oil they needed, and with a hard winter approaching, it was more important than ever that they make a good trade.

  The fort was a dangerous place, everyone said, filled with treacherous Wasichu, but Red Dove looked forward to the sights.

  She braided her hair carefully, making sure that the two long plaits fell neatly behind her ears. She pulled her bead necklace over her head and slung the roomy parfleche bag across her chest. Her robe was missing a few of the precious quills that decorated the bodice and her leggings and moccasins were worn thin in patches. In spite of that, she was proud to wear her deerskin. She tugged her blanket around her shoulders. “I’m ready,” she called.

  “I want to give you something first.” In Falling Bird’s hand was a beaded amulet in the shape of a turtle. “This is your opahte. It holds the cord that connected me to you when you were born. I’ve been keeping it for you.”

  Red Dove picked up the little bag by its leather thong and studied the bright blue and yellow beadwork. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

  “It’s been watching over you all these years. I was going to give it to you at your coming-of-age ceremony.” Her mother reached for the little object. “So here, let me.” Stepping behind Red Dove, she pushed aside her daughter’s thick black braids and circled her slender neck with the thong. Then she tied it securely in back. “Don’t let anything happen to it,” she whispered, as she turned Red Dove gently and smiled into her face. “Now go and tell your brother that we are leaving. Wana. Now.”

  “Is he coming with us?”

  Falling Bird shook her head.

  “But why? We need him to carry, don’t we?”

  “Carrying is woman’s work. And he’s still too weak. ”

  “Not any more, he isn’t,” Red Dove began.

  “Show respect, daughter. Hoka. Let’s go.”

  I do, thought Red Dove, as the tenderness she felt dissolved in the thin morning air. I just wish other people would show some respect for me.

  ›› We Do Not Eat the Fruit ‹‹

  Scents of wood smoke, sweetgrass and sage filled the crisp morning air as Red Dove and Falling Bird set off down the hill and onto the grassy plain. They carried roomy parfleche bags, one stuffed with their precious beadwork, the other empty, waiting to be filled at the fort.

  “Why is this women’s work?” Red Dove asked.

  “What?” Her mother swatted at a bee buzzing around her.

  “The bags will be heavy when they’re full. Shouldn’t Walks Alone help us?”

  “Men don’t carry. And he’s still sick.”

  He’s been sick ever since he came back from the white man’s school, Red Dove thought. “I wish we had a pony to ride,” she muttered instead.

  “I do too, but we don’t, so stop talking about it.”

  “What will they give us in trade?”

  Her mother stopped and swung the stiff parfleche bags from one shoulder to the other. “I told you. Flour, sugar, lard maybe,” she said with a sigh.

  “
To make fry bread? I’ll help you cook it.”

  “You’d better, since you like eating it so much,” Falling Bird said with a faint smile.

  Red Dove, pleased to see her mother happy, felt her spirits lighten. She watched the sun climb overhead as they started across the grassy meadow. Distant bluffs, pink and purple in the morning light, began to fade and the early chill blended into the heat of noon.

  Now she was thirsty. “Water,” she whispered, through parching lips.

  Falling Bird stopped and thrust the bulging skin towards her. “Here,” she said.

  Red Dove took a gulp.

  “Slow down. Leave some for the way back. There won’t be any in the Wasichu town—”

  “Wasichu don’t have water?”

  “Of course they do.” Her mother’s face turned serious. “Just not for us.”

  “We would share, wouldn’t we?”

  “Yes,” said Falling Bird. “But they don’t think and feel as we do.”

  “Why not?”

  Falling Bird stopped dead. “Would you please stop asking me so many questions?”

  Disappointed, Red Dove went silent.

  By now her stomach hurt, a reminder that she hadn’t eaten since the sun was high the day before. There, up ahead, was a low bush covered with shiny purple fruit.

  Plums. Her mouth watered as she imagined how good one would taste. “Look.”

  Her mother’s anger was swift. “That is the Dead Man’s Plum Bush—”

  “The one Grandfather talks about in his stories?”

  “The same. You know we do not eat the fruit,” said Falling Bird.

  Red Dove stared at the ripe, juicy plums left rotting on the ground, insects swarming above them. “Those bees aren’t afraid—”

  “Enough.” Her mother wheeled around and glared at her.

  “But they aren’t afraid,” insisted Red Dove, as she watched the creatures feasting on the sticky pulp, “so why should I be?”

  She looked at her mother shuffling ahead, too far away to hear. She listened to the sounds all around: the scrape of moccasins against the sandy soil, the growl in her belly that rumbled and churned, and the drone of bees as they devoured the delicious fruit that she was forbidden to touch.

  ›› Soldiers ‹‹

  Red Dove followed her mother along the well-worn path, dawdling until a row of flat-roofed log buildings came into view.

  Everything here is sharp and angular, she observed, not like the rounded, comfortable dwellings in our village.

  Her heart beat faster and she closed the gap. “Is that it?”

  “Han. That’s where the soldiers live. You know what happened there, don’t you?”

  Red Dove remembered what her grandfather had told them. This was where the soldiers had imprisoned Dull Knife and his people before sending them back to the reservation, where they would sicken and die of disease and starvation and where the soldiers shot them down when they tried to escape—men, women, and children alike.

  Red Dove felt a sudden chill. It was just past midday, but the sun had vanished behind a cloud and in its place was thick, dark shadow. The light had changed so swiftly that for a moment it was hard to see.

  Their ghosts must still be here. Do the soldiers know that?

  She didn’t have long to think about it. She turned a corner and saw a mass of people, crowded into the center of a square, more than she had ever seen in her life.

  They look like women from my village… but different somehow.

  Instead of deerskin, they wore frayed calico with blankets pulled over their shoulders. Their faces were dull and vacant, their bodies hunched. Then she saw a girl, about her age, whose eyes were drained of life.

  “What’s wrong with her, Mother?”

  “Come,” ordered Falling Bird, pulling her towards the low, straight-lined buildings on the other side of the square.

  “But why are they here?”

  “Getting food from the Wasichu—”

  “Like we are?”

  “No.” Her mother stopped abruptly. “We have things the Wasichu want that we can trade,” she said. “They are here to beg. We do not. No more questions,” she warned.

  They reached the far end of the courtyard and saw a cluster of blue-coated soldiers playing cards, laughing, shouting, and banging metal cups. Odd, screechy music came from inside the bunkhouse.

  Red Dove felt her mother’s hand tighten around her own.

  She’s afraid, she thought. Then she saw why.

  “Hey!” a soldier with greasy yellow hair and a black eye-patch called. “Whatcha got? Lemme see.”

  Red Dove understood the few words of English, but it was his scowl that told her he wasn’t friendly. She watched him walk towards them and felt the blood freeze in her veins.

  Falling Bird kept walking.

  “Lemme see whatcha got, I said.”

  “Inahnio,” her mother said, urging her to hurry. They rushed past the soldier’s one glaring eye and up onto the wood-plank sidewalk.

  “Indians” muttered the man.

  A tawny-faced boy in a blue uniform, his arms around a scruffy yellow dog, knelt in the dirt, watching them.

  “Sic ’em, Spirit,” the man yelled.

  The boy wrapped his arms tighter around the squirming animal. “No!” he shouted as the dog wriggled free.

  Falling Bird looked wildly around, searching for a place to hide. She pulled Red Dove behind a pillar.

  But the mongrel wasn’t after them. Leaping and snarling, it went for the one-eyed man.

  “Whaaa?!” shouted the man as the dog locked its jaw around his leg. He pulled out his gun.

  “Don’t, Jake!” The boy raced over and hauled the animal away.

  A soldier with snow-white hair threw down his cards and limped over. “Give me the gun,” he said.

  Jake’s fingers twitched on the trigger as he glared at the white-haired man.

  “Give it to me, Private.”

  Jake looked at the man, then lowered his eyes. “Yessir, Cap’n,” he said.

  The captain took the gun, emptied the chamber and put the bullets in his pocket. “Just in case,” he said. He hobbled back to the table and picked up his cards.

  Red Dove watched the one-eyed man slink away. Then she noticed her mother. Her eyes were fixed on the white-haired soldier. “Do you know him?” Red Dove asked.

  Her mother didn’t answer. Instead, she turned away and pulled her blanket over her head.

  She doesn’t want him to see her… why? Red Dove studied the man. Middle-aged and paunchy, he wore a uniform covered with gold-colored metal. He must be someone important.

  When he dropped back into his chair, raised a flask to his lips, and reached for his cards again, she noticed his arm was bent at an odd angle.

  Like it had been broken—and healed wrong.

  Then she looked at the boy, still holding his dog, his face buried in its scruffy fur.

  She smiled at him, but crouched over the animal, he didn’t see. She was about to say something when the one-eyed man turned and walked back to the boy.

  “Hiya,” she cried. “No.”

  Too late. Jake took aim and gave the animal a hard, swift kick.

  The dog howled in pain.

  “For the love of Christ,” shouted the captain.

  “I hate mutts,” snarled Jake. He turned his one good eye on Red Dove. “Indians too.”

  Red Dove raced up behind her mother onto the rough plank sidewalk, as far away from the one-eyed man as she could possibly get.

  ›› You Dropped Something ‹‹

  They came to a rickety screen door that squawked as it opened. Behind it was a little, round-faced white woman in a shiny purple dress.

  She’s the one who came to our village.

  The woman narrowed her eyes at them and raised her chin as she tried to shove through, but her enormous skirt caught between the door and the frame until finally, after tugging and twisting, she worked her way free.
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  “Excuse me,” she sniffed, as the door slammed behind her.

  Red Dove watched her go. “That’s the woman—”

  “I know. Hurry,” Falling Bird said, pushing the door open again.

  Red Dove looked in at the shelves piled high with bags and boxes and metal things, more than she had ever seen in one place.

  “Hello,” her mother called to the man standing behind a wooden counter.

  “Whatcha want?” he said.

  “Mista Reed?”

  “Not here. Go away.”

  “We trade… Washte… .”

  “Washte? Don’t speak Indian.”

  “Washte mean… good,” Falling Bird tried. “Mista Reed say—”

  “Reed ain’t here, I tell you. Now go away,” snarled the man.

  Her mother reached into her parfleche and pulled out a pouch. “Good… washte,” she said, and tried to lay it on the counter. “You like.” But her voice was shaking.

  The man raised his fist and lunged, sending everything flying. He grabbed a pouch and threw it at them. “Get out, I said!” Blue and yellow crystals skittered around the room.

  Red Dove snatched the parfleche, grabbed as much as she could, and she and her mother raced out the door. Eyes to the ground, they ran across the courtyard, past the card-playing soldiers, the strange white-haired man, and the line of ragged women.

  When at last they reached the far end, they stopped to catch their breath. Red Dove felt something behind her. The boy… .

  “Is your dog all right?” she called in her own language.

  “Huh?”

  Red Dove pointed to the animal.

  The boy nodded.

  “Washte… good,” said Red Dove.

  The boy raised his hand. “You dropped something.” He pointed back to the courtyard.

  The sun was high overhead, the ground without shadow. Red Dove lifted a hand to shield her eyes and squinted.

  “Whatcha doin’, Rick?” called Jake. “You turnin’ into some kinda Indian-lover?”