Red Dove, Listen to the Wind

by Sonia Antaki

  But all she heard was the hard-edged language of the Wasichu. In her confusion and not finding a friendly face to focus on, she couldn’t understand a word.

  I do need the pouch, she thought… but didn’t dare reach for it.

  Miriam pointed to the seat next to her. “Sit,” she hissed.

  Red Dove sat down across from a tiny girl whose bright, dark eyes glowed up at her.

  “Hannah,” said the little girl, pointing to herself.

  “Red Dove, Wakiyela Sa—”

  “You’re Mary,” said Miriam. “So get used to it.”

  Mary? Red Dove wondered again. Why?

  When she thought no one was looking, she reached into her pocket. Her fingers lightly grazed the pouch as she watched the faces around her.

  And understood.

  They’re not really laughing at me. They just don’t know what else to do, because they’re sad, too—very sad. They’re each remembering the day they arrived here, what it’s been like since. Even Miriam, she realized.

  Wedged up next to her, Red Dove watched the other girls sitting on benches, shoulders hunched and staring ahead as they waited.

  For what?

  On some signal she failed to see, the girls folded their hands and closed their eyes, murmuring in unison. Red Dove bowed her own head, trying to make sense of what they were chanting.

  And then, more silence.

  Red Dove waited until finally Sister Agatha said something—Amen, was it? She opened her eyes just as an elbow jabbed her ribs.

  “Pass the bread,” said Miriam, pointing at the wooden bowl that held a dried-out loaf.

  Red Dove did and Miriam broke off a piece. She pushed the bowl far from Red Dove.

  When Miriam wasn’t looking, Hannah pushed it back.

  “Wopila,” Red Dove managed before a slap sent the loaf flying.

  “The word is ‘thank you,’ miss,” growled a fat, greasy-faced nun, her hand still in the air. “Don’t let me hear zat heazen talk coming out your mouze or I vill shove a bar of soap in it.”

  Tears blurred Red Dove’s vision. She stared at her plate, took a breath and waited. Finally, she picked up a chunk of potato in the bowl next to her plate and raised it to her mouth.

  This time the slap came down on the side of her head. “Stupid girl!” the nun screeched, as the potato broke into a floury mass on her plate. “Use a fork!”

  Fork?

  Hannah pointed to a pronged metal implement lying by her plate and Red Dove reached for it, but her hand was shaking so much she couldn’t raise it to her mouth.

  What now? she wondered sadly, as she looked at the girls around her, quietly eating.

  Tomorrow then, I’ll eat tomorrow, she decided, and dropped her hand back down.

  Little Hannah caught her eye. She picked up a piece of bread, put it in her pocket and smiled. I’ll save it for you, she seemed to say.

  ›› The Scent of Sun-Drenched Pines ‹‹

  The meal over, Red Dove followed the girls out of the dining hall, up the stairs and into the vast dormitory. She sat on her bed, and with her back to the room, reached in her pocket, and tried to tie the pouch around her neck.

  “What’s that?” Miriam said from the bed behind her.

  Red Dove dropped her hand. “My opahte—”

  “Use English! The nuns’ll take it away if they see it. But if you’re lucky, we won’t tell, will we?” Miriam said with a wicked grin.

  Will they? wondered Red Dove, searching the faces of the girls around.

  “Prayer time,” Miriam announced, folding her hands and dropping to her knees beside the bed. “You too,” she nodded at Red Dove. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.”

  Red Dove knelt, closed her eyes and waited while the rough floorboards dug into her knees.

  The door creaked open. She opened her eyes and saw Sister Agatha. “Sayin’ your rosaries? Good night then, girls.”

  “Good night, Sister Agatha,” the girls chimed back.

  The door shut. Beds creaked and floorboards groaned before the room went quiet. Someone walked over to the lamp, blew it out, and all went black.

  Red Dove listened to the sounds of sleep, waiting. With the door shut, the place was hot and stuffy and airless. Through the clouded pane of the tiny casement window, she could just make out some starry shapes. Wichinchala Sakowin—the seven little girls carried to the sky by an eagle, a story from the Cheyenne people that Grandfather used to tell. They’re with me now, even here.

  Then, from far outside, she heard another sound, a comforting coo, a five-note trill.

  But doves don’t fly at night, do they?

  She fell into a dream before she could think of an answer.

  Drifting high above the room of sleeping girls. Floating free of the dark dormitory and over a place she knew, her people’s home, the Black Hills—the beloved Paha Sapa. Smelling clover-scented air; seeing rivers dancing in the mist; granite crags thrusting up; buffalo so plentiful they churn a sea of yellow grass to black.

  “Gray Eyes; remember why you are here: to listen and to learn.”

  I will, Grandfather, Red Dove murmured. She saw his kindly old face before it began to blur.

  Grandfather?

  “Enough for now.” The words began to fade.

  “Grandfather?” Red Dove tried again, but the vision disappeared.

  She opened her eyes. Light seeped through the cloudy pane as dawn approached and the air carried a chill. She looked at the girls sleeping round her, pulled the blanket close and shut her eyes again, longing for the world of dreams that she had left.

  A door creak woke her and she squinted at the morning light. The room was empty, the girls gone.

  No!

  Little Hannah walked over to her, holding out a piece of bread. “Here,” she said. “Miriam say not wake you… but I know you hungry.” Her bright eyes shone down at Red Dove.

  “Wopila—I mean, thank you.”

  “You late. Hurry to chapel,” Hannah laid the bread carefully on Red Dove’s rumpled blanket and scurried from the room.

  Red Dove tore off her nightgown, pulled the starchy gray dress off its hanger and tugged it over her head. She quickly finished dressing and made her way down the stairs.

  The hall was empty.

  Panic gripped her.

  “Where are they?”

  She looked through the open door to the courtyard and saw them all heading back into the building.

  ›› Was It Something You Were Forgetting? ‹‹

  Is that the chapel Hannah talked about? Red Dove was about to step out onto the gravel courtyard when she heard the sound of women’s voices coming through a half-opened door behind her. She looked in the room and saw Jerusha sitting at a table, rubbing her temples. Standing over Jerusha was the well-fed nun who had slapped Red Dove.

  Red Dove ducked behind the half-closed door and peered through the crack between the door and the wall.

  “Sister Agatha vil be mit you in a minute,” Red Dove heard the nun say.

  Jerusha raised her head. “Yes, thank you, Sister… ?”

  “Gertrude.”

  “Are the children all right? I worry about them.”

  Red Dove wedged herself tighter into the space to hear the answer. She reached up to touch the pouch and sighed with relief to find it still tied around her neck.

  “Vich children?”

  “The ones I brought, of course,” said Jerusha, frowning. “Red Dove and her brother Walks Alone—”

  “Ach, Mary und George—”

  “You renamed them?” Jerusha raised an eyebrow.

  “Mit proper Christian names. Zey get used to it, like ze rest.”

  “Where is Mary, then?”

  Here! Red Dove wanted to shout—but didn’t.

  “What’s this?” barked Sister Agatha, coming from the other end of the hall.

  Oh no, she saw me! What’ll she do? A chill ran through Red Dove, but the nun only brushed past the
door, squeezing her tighter against the wall.

  “Well now,” Sister Agatha sniffed, “to what do we owe this honor?”

  “I wanted to know how the children were doing,” said Jerusha, her voice sounding feeble.

  “Settling in.” Sister Agatha lowered herself into the stiff-backed chair at the opposite end of the table, reached for her glasses and picked up a piece of paper.

  “How does she seem… the girl, I mean?” Jerusha tilted her birdlike head and went on. “She’s especially clever, you know—”

  “She has much to learn.” Sister Agatha squinted at the document she was holding and pushed it back down again. “You’ve done the right thing, bringin’ ’em here.”

  “I certainly hope so. Red Dove—Mary, that is—shows a lot of promise. She speaks English, talks in full sentences—”

  “Does she now? Then she knows more than she lets on. Indians often do. They like to deceive.”

  That’s not true!

  “Maybe you’re right,” said Jerusha. “All I know is, when she starts to speak, she puts her hand to her throat like this.” Jerusha patted her neck. “I wonder if it’s some sort of Native practice.”

  Sister Agatha arched an eyebrow. “Touchin’ an amulet, prob’ly. Nasty habit. We’ll soon break her of it.”

  Oh no you won’t! thought Red Dove, as she watched the nun’s fingers fiddle with the beads that dangled from her waist.

  “But I am surprised to see you back so soon… Miss Kincaide, is it? Was it something you were forgetting or are we to expect your presence every day? We’re very busy.”

  “I just came to see how my charges were doing. I’m a busy woman too—”

  “You can’t see the children now. They won’t learn anythin’ if you won’t leave ’em alone.”

  “But I brought them.”

  “And you’ll be glad you did. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it, to see they’re raised proper?”

  “Yes—” Jerusha faltered, looking confused.

  Don’t give up now! Red Dove wanted to cry out, sensing that if Jerusha did, there would be no going back to the life she knew. She searched the nun’s face. It was blank, impassive, the pupils in her eyes tiny pinpricks surrounded by watery blue. She was about to step out from behind the door, anything to prevent being given away to this horrible creature in the black robe. And then she heard Jerusha’s words.

  “You’re right. One day we’ll all be grateful that we’ve taken this step,” said Jerusha, sounding defeated.

  “So if you’ll excuse me.”

  “But we haven’t talked about the boy—”

  “We’ve said all we need,” said Sister Agatha. “I have work to do.” She nodded at the door.

  Jerusha saw she was being dismissed. She rose awkwardly. “I am a teacher you know, so maybe—”

  “Yes. Thank you.” Sister Agatha’s tight smile meant the discussion was at an end. “And you can come out of there now, Mary,” she added, as her smile melted.

  Red Dove’s blood froze in her veins. She stepped from behind the door.

  “Have you been here all along, my dear?” Jerusha, startled, rose from her chair and rushed over to Red Dove.

  “Yes.”

  “Well… then… you’re going to be fine. Isn’t she, Sister?”

  “Take us with you,” Red Dove blurted, looking straight at Sister Agatha. “Get us out of here.”

  “Oh, my dear, I can’t. I’m not responsible. That’s what you said, isn’t it, Sister?”

  “’Tis.”

  Jerusha’s eyebrows came together with concern. “Shouldn’t you go and join the others? I think I saw them in the chapel.” She reached out to touch a strand of hair that had fallen across her forehead.

  “Take me with you,” Red Dove tried once more.

  But Jerusha didn’t answer. Instead, she dropped her hand when she saw Sister Gertrude plodding towards them.

  “Komm, Mary,” Sister Gertrude said, breathing heavily and grabbing Red Dove’s arm. “Time to cut your hair.”

  “No!” Red Dove pulled away.

  “Oh dear,” Jerusha soothed. She lifted one of Red Dove’s glossy black braids. “It’s a pity to lose your lovely hair, but I’m sure it will turn out all right. She let the braid drop. “And now,” she sighed, “it’s time for me to go, since you’re no longer my responsibility.”

  “That’s right,” said Sister Agatha.

  That’s not right, Red Dove wanted to shout. You brought us here, so we are your responsibility.

  ›› Haircut ‹‹

  “Hurry up, Mary. Zat’s vat zey call you, nein?” Sister Gertrude lumbered across the floor and dragged a three-legged stool to the center of the kitchen. She mopped her greasy forehead with a damp rag. “How old are you? Tvelf maybe? You haf gray eyes. You part vite?”

  Red Dove approached slowly, unsure of what was happening. She didn’t understand what she was supposed to do with the round wooden object that stood small, squat and ugly before her.

  “Sit,” ordered the nun.

  “You shtink.” Sister Gertrude pinched her nose.

  Red Dove did smell, but it wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t washed in days, hadn’t been near a stream or a river, or even a pot of clean water. She bent her head, ashamed.

  “Here,” said the nun, pointing at the rag swimming in a bucket of evil-smelling brown liquid. She set the bucket next to a tub of dark, cloudy water. “Vash up gut or I do.”

  But she’ll see the pouch—and take it away! Fingers tight around it, Red Dove bent over the bucket. The stench hit her nostrils.

  “Kerosene,” announced Sister Gertrude. “Kill anyzing you haf. Scrub gut so I can cut your hair.”

  Red Dove didn’t move.

  “Böses Mädchen. Bad girl.” The nun pulled the dripping rag from the oily liquid and handed it to Red Dove. “Here. Vipe your face.”

  Red Dove touched it to her skin. It burned. “Aaieee,” she cried and dropped the rag in the tub.

  “Dummkopf! Zat vas clean vater, but I not change now.” The nun threw the rag back into the kerosene, sloshed it round and rubbed it hard against Red Dove’s cheek.

  “I’ll do it,” Red Dove cried and grabbed the rag. She dabbed at her tortured skin.

  “Na ja, Mary,” said the nun with a grim smile. “Take off your dress and vash mit kerosene und zen mit vater. Or I call Sister Agatha.” The nun’s eyes glinted as she lowered herself onto a chair. “Und you don’t vant zat.”

  “Sister Agatha’s callin’ for ya,” said a young nun, peering in through the doorway.

  “Gott in Himmel.” Sister Gertrude raised herself off the chair and waddled to the door. Then she looked back at Red Dove. “Verstehst du? I come back.”

  Red Dove crept to the door and closed it carefully. She stared at the grimy bucket, the pasty yellow wall, the blackened stovepipe that snaked across the ceiling. Tears blurred her vision as she fumbled with her dress. Picking up the vile-smelling rag, she began to rub the sharp, poisonous liquid into her skin.

  “Finish?” Sister Gertrude asked, plodding back into the room.

  Red Dove turned away and struggled to pull on her dress. “Yes,” she murmured, fingers on the pouch hidden just below her collar.

  “Now hair.”

  Sister Gertrude opened the brass-hinged door of a wooden cabinet that hung from the wall. She reached in and pulled out a pair of gleaming metal blades tipped with silvery rings.

  Red Dove lunged from the stool, but Sister Gertrude was quicker. She grabbed Red Dove’s arm, wrenched it behind her and jerked her down. “Scissors, you shtupid girl!” she yelled.

  Red Dove, powerless against the mountain of flesh that was Sister Gertrude, gave in.

  “Besser,” the nun soothed when she saw Red Dove was not going to resist. Sister Gertrude grabbed her braid and Red Dove, rigid now, stared straight ahead.

  Why is she cutting my hair? We only do that when someone dies. Did someone die? Is it… Walks Alone?

  Fig
hting panic, she began to count silently in her language, wanji, numpa, yamni… to block the terrifying images that filled her thoughts. She felt metal, heard the strange slinch slinch slinch as the blades sliced through her hair. Suddenly one side of her head felt light.

  “No,” she cried and leapt off the stool. A slap hit her full in the face and the scissors clattered to the floor.

  She struggled to stay upright. Through a blur of pain, she saw the devastation. There before her was the hair she had tended since infancy, the hair she would cut only to honor the death of a loved one.

  Red Dove felt for the other braid that still clung to her head.

  You won’t get this, she thought as her fingers curled around it. It’s sacred. It holds memory. No one gave you permission to touch it—no one. She clenched her jaw and glared.

  “You!” the nun sputtered, making the sign of the cross. “Hexe… vitch! Put spell on me, so I not stay. Somevun else finish.” She picked up the shears. “But I take zese… in case.”

  ›› My Name is Sister Mary Rose ‹‹

  Red Dove reached up and felt her butchered hair, the empty air where her braid had been. She was alone now, sitting on a stool in the kitchen, the reek of kerosene still clinging to her skin.

  “What’re ya doin’, child?” called a voice behind her.

  Red Dove bolted from the stool. “Who’s there?”

  “Didn’t mean to startle ya.” It was the young nun who had summoned Sister Gertrude. Her green eyes glowed under her feathery lashes, coal-black against the whiteness of her skin. “Sister Gertrude sent me to finish up.” Crystal beads dangled from her waist and tinkled as she walked.

  Red Dove put her hand to her throat, but all she felt was skin.

  My pouch!

  She looked down and saw it lying in the pile of hair on the floor, just as the broom the nun was wielding swept it up into the shovel.

  “Don’t,” she cried. “It’s mine!”

  “What? It’s just a pile of old hair.”

  Red Dove raced over, picked it out and closed her fist tight around the soft little bundle. “It’s Wakan… sacred… magic,” she stammered.