by Sonia Antaki
“Things are gettin’ mighty complicated.” Old Tom scratched his stubble. “An’ you’re gonna have a hard time findin’ your people in the dead of winter. They left their summer camp a while ago. Prob’ly headed to Paha Sapa, though it’s hard to say for sure. Everythin’s different now with all the fightin’ an’ they could be anywhere.”
Disappointment darkened Red Dove’s mood as she watched Old Tom carry Rick’s plate to the sink.
“It’s still none too safe to be travelin’,” Old Tom called over his shoulder. “So what say we all jus’ stay put and wait for Jerusha to get home. She may have news.” He picked up Red Dove’s plate and moved close to her ear. “That boy’s a fool if he thinks you’re his captive. More like he’s yours.”
Rick eyed them suspiciously. “Can you tell us what’s ahead, sir? How bad it is, after the battle—”
“Weren’t no battle.” Old Tom aimed a wad of spit at the copper pot lying next to the table. “It was a godawful bloody slaughter.”
Rick flinched. “I left before the fightin’ started. Cap’n sent me away, so I never saw what happened. I just heard it was terrible.”
“Yeah,” said Old Tom with a wave. “It was. That’s what I heard too. So like I said, let’s wait for Jerusha to get home—”
The door opened with a creak. “An’ here she is now.”
›› What Did You Hear? ‹‹
Jerusha burst through the door, ran up to Red Dove and threw her arms around her. “I am so glad to see you.” She dropped her heavy satchel on the table and pulled off her damp shawl. “What happened?”
“I came on my own,” said Red Dove.
“You ran away? Good.” Jerusha’s eyes shifted to Rick. “And who might you be?”
“Name’s Rick Ryan, ma’am.” Rick rose and extended his hand.
Jerusha pulled off her soggy bonnet, threw it on the table next to the satchel and extended her hand. “A soldier, I see.”
“Yes ma’am. An’ she’s my captive.”
“Captive? What’s she done?” Jerusha asked with alarm.
“Run away.”
“Is that all?” Jerusha tilted her head and smiled at Red Dove. “I’m glad you’re out of there, papers or no papers—”
“Got any news for us, Sis?” Old Tom nodded at a corner of damp newsprint sticking out of the bag. “Whatcha learn?”
Jerusha gave Tom a meaningful look. “Just things. I’ll tell you later.”
There’s something she doesn’t want me to know, Red Dove thought, as she watched Jerusha sink into a chair, put her elbows on the table and drop her face into her hands.
Red Dove touched her fingers to the pouch and started to read her thoughts, but Rick interrupted.
“I was there, ma’am,” he said softly.
“Where?” asked Jerusha, raising her head to look at him.
“At Wounded Knee.”
“You were there… at the massacre?” Jerusha’s voice shook.
Rick shifted in his seat. “It wasn’t a massacre exactly.”
“It wasn’t?” Jerusha’s voice pitched higher. “What would you call it then, exactly?”
“I wasn’t there, ma’am, but I heard… .” Rick looked to Old Tom for help.
“You heard? I thought you said you were there.”
“Easy, Sis,” Old Tom cautioned, but Jerusha ignored him.
“No, seriously; do tell us, young man,” she said bearing down on Rick. “What is it you’re doing here… exactly?”
“Leave the kid alone, Jerusha.”
But Jerusha wouldn’t stop. “This is too important, Thomas. This gentleman says he was there, so we have an eyewitness account. I want him to tell me in his own words what happened.”
“Like I tried to say, ma’am,” Rick said quietly, “I was there, but not when it happened—the fightin’ I mean. I left before the shootin’ started.”
Jerusha eyed him suspiciously, took a breath and went on. “All right, then. What did you hear?”
“That it wasn’t s’posed to go like it did. We jus’ wanted to take the Indians’ guns away. We wasn’t s’posed to hurt ’em—”
“You weren’t supposed to hurt them with rifles and cannon? How could you not?”
Red Dove watched Rick’s knee jerk up and down under the table.
He’s trying not to cry, she thought.
“He’s just a kid, Jerusha—” said Old Tom.
“And so is my brother,” said Red Dove. “Has anyone seen him?” The room went silent and Red Dove stared at her empty mug, focusing on a crack near the handle as ugly thoughts raced through her head. “Maybe he was there,” she whispered.
“I’ll never forgive myself if he was,” said Jerusha. “That horrible, horrible school. I wish to high Heaven I’d never brought you there. And now this.” She flicked the newspaper.
“Stop it, Sis. You’ll just get upset,” said Old Tom.
“I am upset, Thomas. Why shouldn’t I be? Why shouldn’t we all be?” said Jerusha, with a fierce look in her red-rimmed eyes. Then she turned to Red Dove. “I am sorry, my dear. Truly sorry. For bringing you there. I never should have. And I want you to know we will find your brother, won’t we, Thomas?”
“Course we will, Sis.”
Jerusha nodded at the slim white spire, barely visible through the wavy glass of the little cabin window. “I’ve heard that they’re taking some of the survivors to the church, so we should start looking there.”
“So what’s in that newspaper anyway, Sis? You gonna tell us?”
“Not now.” Jerusha looked at Red Dove. “I hope you’ll be warm enough with just that blanket, my dear, if we walk to the church.”
She’s changing the subject, Red Dove thought, because there’s something in the newspaper she doesn’t want me to know. She looked through the window. The morning brightness was blending into the coming light of day. She could see Wichinchala, still tied to the fence. “My pony—”
“Go put her in the stable. Thomas will help you.”
“I’ll do it,” said Rick, leaping up and knocking over his chair. “Sorry,” he muttered, picking it up again. “I’ll make sure she’s fed an’ watered an’ everythin’.”
“Why thank you, young man,” said Jerusha, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe you’re not such a bad sort after all.”
Red Dove saw the glow in his eyes. And felt a tiny thrill. Why am I feeling this way, when everything else is so terrible? she wondered.
›› Let’s Go ‹‹
Red Dove followed Rick out the door and onto the snow-covered porch. Something made her turn back around again. “You go ahead, Rick. I’ll be right there.”
“Sure,” Rick said with a shrug and untied Wichinchala from the rail.
Red Dove pulled the door nearly shut, leaving a crack through which she could see Old Tom and Jerusha sitting at the worn wooden table, surrounded by four bark-covered walls.
Jerusha dropped a morsel of cheese onto the worn floorboards. “Here kitty, kitty,” she called softly to the small orange cat who stretched herself across the windowsill and yawned.
“So what’s in the paper, Sis?” Old Tom asked.
Jerusha didn’t answer. Instead, she picked up her napkin and dabbed at her lips, eyes fixed on an elegant brass lamp that sat on the sideboard. “I don’t know what I was thinking when I brought that from back East. It gives off such bright, clear light when there’s whale oil to fill it, but we can never get any of that here. Just kerosene and these,” she said, picking up a stub of yellow wax and stuffing it into a crude clay cup. “It gets so dark here, once summer’s gone. But I’ll have to get used to that.”
“You’re not answerin’ the question, Sis, so somethin’ must really be botherin’ you. What’s in that paper? I wanna know.”
“All right.” With a quick glance at the door, Jerusha pulled out the damp newspaper and spread it on top of the oak table. “See for yourself.”
“Can’t read it, Sis. Too wet,” Old Tom said. “W
ritin’s blurry.”
“Oh Thomas,” Jerusha sighed. She pushed her spectacles higher on her nose. “It’s by that editor, L. Frank Baum. He writes children’s books, I think.”
“Jus’ read it.”
“Fine.” Jerusha cleared her throat. “This is from the December 20 edition of the Aberdeen Saturday Pioneer. ‘The Whites, by law of conquest, by justice of civilization, are masters of the American continent, and the best safety of the frontier settlements will be secured by the total annihilation of the few remaining Indians—’”
“Huh?” said Old Tom.
“That’s what it says. Annihilation!”
What’s that? Red Dove wondered. And then, reading Jerusha’s thoughts, she knew—and felt as if someone had tied a stone around her waist and thrown her into a deep, black pool.
He wants us all dead.
“‘Their glory has fled, their spirit broken, their manhood effaced,” Jerusha went on, dropping her voice to a whisper, “‘better they should die than live… .’ Then he wrote this after the massacre: ‘We had better, in order to protect our civilization, follow it up and wipe these untamed and untamable creatures from the face of the earth… .’ Can you believe that? Wipe them from the face of the earth? He cannot mean it.”
“Sounds like he can’t bear to see people suffer, so he wants ’em to just disappear. Or else he’s bein’ sarcastic. Either way, it ain’t right.”
“No, Thomas, it isn’t. But isn’t it better to know the truth? And wouldn’t we be doing the same thing by not reading it? Pretending it didn’t exist, wanting it to disappear?”
“Mebbe. But I don’t think you should read it to Red Dove.”
“It would be too much, wouldn’t it?” Jerusha’s eyes strayed to the door. “They left the door open. It’s freezing.” She got up, walked over and caught sight of Red Dove standing behind it. “Oh no!” Jerusha shut the door and sat down.
Red Dove walked to the table and sank into a chair. No one moved. Afternoon shadows deepened as they sat in silence.
It was Old Tom who spoke, finally. “I think you do understand, don’tcha?” he said, leaning close to Red Dove with a searching look in his gentle blue eyes.
“Yes,” said Red Dove.
Rick burst in, brushing snow from his pants and jacket. “Cold as heck out there,” he said, “but the horses’ll be warm though.” He looked around. “Hey, what’s goin’ on?”
Jerusha took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes fiercely. Then she picked up a small copper plate and studied her reflection in the polished surface. “Right,” she said, “that’s it. Who’s coming?” She wiped her hands on her skirt.
“Where, Sis?”
“To the church. To help the survivors. Who’s joining me?” she said, picking up her shawl and bonnet.
“Huh?”
“I am,” said Red Dove.
“Me too, ma’am,” said Rick, ducking his head with a shy smile at Red Dove.
“Thomas?” asked Jerusha.
“Why, well—why yeah, if you think it’s the right thing.”
“I do. Let’s go.”
›› Altar Cloth Bandages ‹‹
Jerusha led the small party out of the cabin, across the slushy, sun-warmed street, and up to the door of the little white church. She knocked once, got no answer, turned the knob and pushed her way in.
A nightmare scene met their eyes. Sickened by the stench of blood and urine, Red Dove stared at the dark wooden beams and dingy whitewashed walls, still festooned with Christmas greenery and a banner that read “Peace on Earth, Good Will Toward Men.”
A bushy-bearded soldier in a wrinkled uniform stumbled over bodies lying on the straw-covered floor. “This one’s gone,” he called to a weary-looking, old, gray-haired woman.
Gone… does he mean dead? wondered Red Dove.
“What can we do to help?” asked Jerusha, raising a handkerchief to her nose.
“Not much, I’m afraid.” The soldier bent down and pulled a blanket over the face of a young woman. “She’s beyond our help.”
“Well, we have to do something. Put us to work, won’t you?”
“Fine. Go fetch water. In the kitchen. There.” The soldier nodded at a door, and Jerusha moved swiftly towards it.
Jerusha looked around the filthy room. “I’d better boil it first,” she said.
Old Tom shuffled over to the gray-haired woman in a bloody apron, who hovered over a tiny girl. “Here, let me,” said Old Tom.
The old woman looked up, startled, and nodded with gratitude in her weary eyes. “Thank you.” She handed him a bowl of murky red water with a brown rag floating in it. “Bleeding’s nearly stopped. But she can’t drink because of the hole in her neck… water keeps seeping out. She’ll die of thirst this way.” The rest of her words were muffled as she choked back a sob. “Butchers.”
“Here.” Old Tom handed Red Dove the bowl of water. “Look after her.” He led the frail old woman to a chair in the corner and lowered her into it. “Rest.”
“Thank you. God bless you, I will,” said the woman. “We’re all so bone-weary tired. And there’s no one here to help,” she said, pushing a strand of gray off her face and looking around.
“Where’s the doctor?” asked Old Tom.
“Doctor?” scoffed the woman. “He’s come and gone. Said there was nothing he could do. It was the first time he’d seen women and children shot to pieces like this and he just couldn’t take it.”
Red Dove saw Rick watching in horrified silence. Do something, she thought, anything. But she herself didn’t know what that should be. She knelt next to the little girl and dabbed at the wound with the blood-soaked rag.
“No more’n five or six years old, prob’ly,” Old Tom muttered, walking back over.
The girl’s eyes flicked open.
“Aho,” he whispered to her.
The little mouth moved in response, but no sound came out.
Old Tom rose, shoulders shaking. “Bandages,” he said through gritted teeth. He looked at Rick. “Hurry.”
“Where should I get ’em?”
“Anywhere. Just get ’em. Now.”
“Yessir.” Rick gave an awkward salute and scurried over to the old woman. “Bandages?” he asked.
The woman motioned weakly to an open door. “Storage closet over there. Make ’em up yourself out of whatever you can find.”
Rick stumbled to the closet. “Nothin’ here but some old cloths.”
“Altar cloths. Use those.”
“Ain’t that kinda against religion?”
“Killing people is against religion,” the woman muttered. “God will understand.”
Rick pulled out his knife, held it high, and stabbed at the worn linen until a mountain of bandages grew at his feet.
›› Walks Alone ‹‹
The long hours left them all exhausted as they labored deep into the night. Wagons full of wounded kept arriving, and working tirelessly alongside the others, Red Dove watched Jerusha, Old Tom and Rick drag buckets of water, fetch wood for the fire, and wrap bandages. The feeling of dread was back, the sensation of drowning in deep, cold water, sick and lost.
No. She covered her ears to block out the curses, the groans, the whispers flying around the room. I don’t want to feel what other people are feeling. Not here, not now.
Blocking her ears didn’t shut out another sound: a distant thrumming drone.
The pouch?
Her eyes fixed on the dimly lit corner. A native youth lay there, someone only recently brought in. The symbols on his blood-spattered, blue-painted tunic looked familiar, and when he turned his head, she saw.
“Walks Alone!” She hurled herself across the room.
He turned his head to meet her gaze and moved his lips, but all she heard was a hoarse whisper.
Falling to her knees, she touched her open palm to his chest. Watching him, she heard what he heard, saw what he saw, felt what he felt: voices rising and falling in a room filled with mur
ky light, the bite of blood and bile on his tongue. She felt his hideous pain.
“He’s alive,” she screamed, waving wildly at Jerusha and Old Tom.
Jerusha broke away from the girl she was attending and rushed over. “Dear God!”
“Well I’ll be,” said Old Tom. “Thought we’d never see you again, son.”
Eyes closed, Walks Alone turned his face weakly towards them.
“See if he’ll take this.” Jerusha’s fingers shook as she handed Red Dove the bowl of fresh water. When the cool liquid touched his mouth, Walks Alone’s eyes opened again.
“You’re safe now,” Red Dove said in their language.
He shook his head. “They want to kill us all.”
Red Dove listened to the buzzing, and saw again what he had seen: the blue-coated soldiers, the cannon on the hill, the bullet meant for him.
She felt a blow to her chest and a wave of pain swept over her.
I’m feeling what he felt… but no, this is worse. I’m living the experiences of all the people here, she thought, as the memories of those in the room became hers. Too many voices, too much hurt. She closed her eyes and began to sway.
“Red Dove? Are you all right?” Jerusha reached a hand to steady her. “You’ve been working too hard. You need rest.”
“I need to go… outside… .” Red Dove stumbled up, her head filled with a deafening roar, her body racked with pain.
She staggered to the door—but before she could reach it, her knees crumpled and she fell, hard, onto the filthy, rush-covered floor.
›› He Was There ‹‹
Red Dove awoke in an unfamiliar bed. It was full morning and a buttery light beat against her eyelids, making her head throb. She smelled the sweetness of bacon frying. Her stomach groaned.
How did I get here? she wondered.
The bed sheets were softer, smoother than the coarse homespun she remembered from the school. The pillow was fluffier, the blanket thicker. Everything here smelled fresh.
