by Sonia Antaki
The one my mother gave me that day at the fort. I didn’t know I left it.
She plucked it from the air and put it back in her parfleche next to the pouch. Pushing aside the splintered wood, she explored the gap with her fingers. Below it was another small crevice.
Why didn’t I see this before?
She felt something.
A letter?
She pulled it out, brushed off the dust and began to read:
December 16, 1890
My Dearest Red Dove,
Sister Agatha sent me away because I knew too much. Now I must warn you about the danger you are in.
I told you that long ago, back in Ireland, she was in love with a soldier who abandoned her and the child she was carrying, and that after she lost that child she came to this country, looking for revenge. What she found when she got here filled her with even more rage and hate: he had married an Indian woman and had a child by her.
That man was your father, and that child, you.
So be careful! Get away if you can. And use the gift I leave you now: my cross. You didn’t accept it before because it didn’t work for you, but try once more. It may help you find what you need.
You are on a journey, my brave little friend. You told me a word from your language once—Iyeska? You said it meant someone who traveled between worlds, who explained those worlds to others, and who brought them together.
Be that person now: Iyeska.
And one day, if God is willing, come and find me so we can be together once again.
In God’s love always, Sister Mary Rose
Hands trembling, Red Dove folded the note and pushed the fragile pages into her parfleche.
I will find you, Sister. I promise.
She reached to the bottom of the crevice and felt what she knew had been lying there all along: the Celtic cross.
She held it up and waited. Slowly the metal began to warm to her touch.
“Grandfather?” she whispered.
“Find Sister Agatha,” his voice answered.
But I have to find Windflower and get her out of here.
“First find Sister Agatha,” his voice insisted, “and you will find what you need.”
›› Summon the Pouch ‹‹
Red Dove’s hand shook so much her knock was too faint to be heard. She tried again.
“Enter,” called Sister Agatha.
The nun sat in her high-backed chair, her long gnarled fingers toying with a leather belt. “I told you to change your clothes,” she said, narrowing her eyes at the strap.
Red Dove’s legs began to give way. “I just came to find—”
“Do you think you have a choice—what now?” Sister Agatha snarled, as a knock interrupted them.
The door creaked open and Sister Gertrude barged in. “Here is anuzzer vun,” she said, thrusting Windflower into the room.
Sister Agatha recoiled at the sight of the vivid purple scar that snaked across Windflower’s throat and chin. “She’s hideous.”
Red Dove rushed over and threw her arms around the cowering little girl.
“Her people dead. No vun know vat to do. Zey bring her here,” said Sister Gertrude.
“Deal with her, then,” said Sister Agatha with a wave. “I’m too busy. And I don’t want to look at her any longer than I have to.”
“You gif her name? Vat you call her?”
“Her name is Windflower,” Red Dove tried.
Sister Agatha ignored her. “Let’s see,” she sighed, picking up the Bible and leafing through. “Where did we leave off? The last letter was ‘m,’ so ‘n.’” She jabbed the page with her thumb. “Naomi. Means sweetness. She’ll need all the sweetness she can get with that face.” She stopped abruptly and turned to the little girl. “Naomi, are you listening? You have a new name.”
Windflower stared up with terrified eyes.
“I asked you a question. Answer me.”
“Hiya,” Windflower whimpered, shaking her head in confusion.
“What?”
“Hiya. Means no in our language,” said Red Dove. “She’s telling you she doesn’t understand—”
“Your language? She’s forbidden to use it! And so are you.” Sister Agatha looked at the belt.
Windflower, shaking like a small animal, darted for the door. But Sister Gertrude was quicker. She grabbed her, picked her up, and dropped her in front of Sister Agatha.
“Don’t!” cried Red Dove, throwing herself between them.
Sister Agatha raised the strap.
Red Dove folded her arms around Windflower, as the first blow fell.
More beat down, covering Red Dove’s neck, arms and legs with welts as she shielded the little body with her own. Through a blur of pain, she heard Sister Gertrude’s mumblings, Windflower’s whimpers, and Sister Agatha’s labored grunts.
Grandfather, help! she begged, as the room spun around her.
“Summon the pouch.”
Red Dove could barely utter a word without releasing the screams inside her, but she gritted her teeth. “I… summon the pouch,” she managed in a choked whisper. Then, in spite of the blows, she stood up, straight and tall.
Everything stopped. The room went quiet.
The nun, belt in hand, stood frozen in place. “What did you say?”
“I summon the pouch.”
The sound of swarming bees filled the air.
“What pouch? What’s happening?” Sister Agatha mouthed.
Red Dove watched the pouch, unseen by the nuns, emerge from the depths of the parfleche and begin to rise.
“What is it you’re staring at?” whispered Sister Agatha, eyes round as she watched Red Dove follow the pouch’s progress. She dropped the strap and stared upward, confused.
The pouch hung above her head, visible to Red Dove.
“What’s there?” Sister Agatha raised her arms to ward it off. “Something I can’t see?“
In answer, the pouch shot to her open palm. And stuck.
Sister Agatha went silent, gaping at what she now felt in her hand. Then she looked down, sensing something as a cloud of silver blue swirled from below her feet and spiraled up.
“No,” she wailed, raising her arms against the blows she began to feel. “Why?” she screamed in horror.
“Why?” repeated Red Dove. “You know why!”
Windflower, wide-eyed with terror, started to tremble.
“It’s all right,” Red Dove soothed. “She’s seeing what you saw, and hearing and feeling what she just did to us, because we’re remembering it. It’s the pouch at work.”
“Ohhh,” Sister Agatha moaned, lost in the agony she created.
Sister Gertrude crossed herself and backed towards the door. “Teufel. Devil!” she cried and ran from the room as fast as her swollen legs would go.
Panting and howling, Sister Agatha tried to shake herself free, but her fingers only closed tighter. “Get it off!”
She shook her arm… but the pouch held fast.
“Help me, someone help!” Sister Agatha roared.
“Tell her to look at you, now. And think of all she’s done—the cruelty, the pain she inflicted when you were at the school. Send your thoughts back at her. Make her endure what you had to—and it will happen to her.”
“Look at me,” Red Dove said, spitting out the words and forcing herself to remember every blow, every beating, all the shame and betrayal.
I want her to suffer, Grandfather. She deserves it.
“She does, Gray Eyes, because she deserves to understand. But you must understand as well—”
Suddenly, Red Dove was no longer standing on the hard-polished floor of a cold, sterile school. Now she was in a smoke-filled cottage, surrounded by damp stone walls and a packed mud floor, watching a ragged man with rage in his eyes pull off his belt and raise it above a cringing little girl, landing blows on her neck, her arms, her shoulders.
Who’s that?
“Sister Agatha—Maura then—when she was youn
g.”
I don’t want to watch.
“You wanted to see her punished.”
Not like this. She’s too young. What did she do to deserve it?
“Nothing. This is how she became what she is. This is how she learned to hate.”
Red Dove felt something give way inside her. Her rage dissolved, replaced by a new emotion.
I feel… sorry for her, Grandfather.
“You are feeling compassion, the remedy for hate—”
So can we make the punishment stop?
“She is the only one who can do that.”
How… ?
As if in answer, Sister Agatha collapsed and fell into the chair. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, uttering the words that would break the spell. “Truly, deeply sorry. Can you forgive me?”
The pouch fell from her hand.
Red Dove darted to pick it up. “Forgive you?” she shouted as she pushed it into the parfleche and started backing away. “How?”
“I’m sorry,” the nun said weakly, “because I do know what it’s like… to suffer.” Her once glittering eyes were dull and glazed. “And I see… what you’ve been through—what I put you through.”
Sister Agatha nodded weakly at Windflower, who was still shaking with fear. “What I did, what we all did. You must believe me. I understood your suffering when I remembered my own.” She looked helplessly at Red Dove. A strange, wounded expression came into her face, one Red Dove had never seen before. “I don’t want to cause any more pain. Please. I need you to… forgive me.”
Red Dove glared back at her. “How can anyone forgive you after what you’ve done?”
“Try,” said the nun helplessly. “I’ll be different from now on—”
“You’ll never change,” said Red Dove.
“I will. After whatever… spell you put me under, I want to make amends.”
“How?”
“I am a different person,” Sister Agatha said, as if reading Red Dove’s thoughts. “I felt the pain I caused you. From now on I am going to be kind. To her,” she nodded at Windflower, “and to the others—but especially to you… even though I know you’re his,” she said softly. “Maybe because you are his.”
His? Who… my father?
“You even look a bit like him. Those same gray eyes, that serious expression—”
“I can’t believe you,” said Red Dove, pulling Windflower towards the door, “after all you’ve done!”
›› Tell Him Where I Am ‹‹
“She hurt you, didn’t she? Let me get some light so I can see.” Jerusha touched a match to the wick and the lamp sputtered to life, erasing the shadows in her small, plain cabin. Then she reached across the rough wooden table to trace the mark, still vivid, on Red Dove’s arm. “It must have been horrible.”
“I’m all right,” Red Dove shrugged, although the welts still burned. She looked around the neatly kept parlor. “If we could just stay here for a short while—”
“Of course.” Jerusha adjusted the flame and the lamp spread its golden light throughout the room. “And you know I’ll give you any supplies you need, but wouldn’t it be better if you remained here a little longer before you went searching for your brother and mother? You could wait until spring, when it’s warmer.” She looked at Windflower. “She’s been through so much. Don’t you think she’d be better off here, where I can look after her?”
“It’s safer in Paha Sapa,” Red Dove answered. “The soldiers might come for me here.”
“But didn’t Rick say the captain got you a pardon?”
“Yes, but some soldiers—like Jake—might not honor it. In Paha Sapa, we’ll be with our people. We’ll all be better off.” All except you, Red Dove thought, looking at Jerusha’s weary face.
“I suppose you’re right,” Jerusha sighed. “At any rate, I’m glad you and Windflower came to me first. You know that if you need anything, I’ll help. Thomas can always get word to me here—where I’ll be. He wants to go live in the Black Hills with your brother—”
“I told you I wasn’t going to, Sis. Can’t leave you here.”
“You should come with us,” she said, though she knew Jerusha would never agree.
“No,” Jerusha tapped her chin with her finger and turned to look out the window. “I can’t live like you do, outside, in the wild. I have another idea. Sister Agatha asked you to go back and teach, didn’t she? Why do you suppose she did that?”
“She needs teachers. A lot of the nuns have gone—”
“Yes, but she was different suddenly—kinder to you, you said. What made her change?”
“I don’t know.” Should I tell her about the pouch? Red Dove wondered. Grandfather said not to—and she wouldn’t believe me anyway. “I won’t go back, but maybe you should,” Red Dove said to change the subject—and seeing what Jerusha was thinking.
“My thoughts exactly,” Jerusha laughed. “You are such a little mind reader. Well, why not? I was a teacher once, back East—a good one. Wasn’t I, Thomas?” She looked at her brother, who was bent over the toe of his boot. “Thomas? Are you listening?”
“What? Hole needs mendin’,” he grumbled.
“I asked you a question. I was a good teacher, wasn’t I? Maybe I should be one again.”
“Sure, Sis.” He looked up with a crooked grin. “Maybe you should. An’ then I could go live in the hills.”
“You could, Thomas, if it’s what you really want.” Jerusha then questioned Red Dove. “But can we trust Sister Agatha?”
Can we? wondered Red Dove. She remembered how the pouch had made Jake change for a while—until he took up his old ways again. Maybe the pouch can make people change—but only if they want to.
“It’s a risk, I’ll grant you,” Jerusha went on, not waiting for an answer. “But one I think I might be willing to take. If things don’t work out, I can always just leave. And the truth is… I’ve come to love you children.” She nodded at Windflower, whose tousled head rested between her two arms on the table.
Jerusha took off her glasses, rubbed her tired eyes and peered at Red Dove. “You wouldn’t consider it, would you, my dear?” she said, with a note of hope in her voice. “Come with me to teach.”
“No,” answered Red Dove. “If I did and things didn’t work out for me there, I couldn’t just leave. I’d be stuck.” She nodded at Windflower. “And I made a promise to Grandfather. To help her.”
“Ah, your promise. I know how much that means to you.” Jerusha shoved her glasses back on. “You’re so resourceful, I’m sure you’ll find a way… out there. By the way—what if that young man, Rick, comes looking for you?” she asked with a sudden frown.
“Then tell him where I am,” said Red Dove, ducking her head to hide the hopeful look she knew was in her eyes.
›› The Power is Inside Us Now ‹‹
Red Dove sat in the moonlit room and looked around at the bark-covered walls, the cup of chamomile tea that sat cooling by the bed, her meager belongings.
She got up quietly, careful not to wake Windflower who was sleeping next to her, and crept to the window. Her cheek made contact with the icy glass and she stared through the lavender darkness at the vast prairie that led to Paha Sapa.
Wichinchala’s tracks were still visible in the snow, a reminder of how far she had come that day.
She thought of the nuns remaining at the school. They would be crossing the yard on their way to evening prayers, before their nighttime rest. She thought of the cold, dark dormitory, the endless rows of hard metal beds, the lonely little graves on the hill—and the lifeless children lying there.
I won’t let that happen to her, she vowed, looking at Windflower. Jerusha wants us to go back because she thinks things will be different now—but has Sister Agatha really changed? Can I trust her? And for how long? Soon it will be the Moon-When-the-Geese-Return, followed by the Moon-When-Leaves-Are-Green, and on and on through the seasons. Will she still be a kinder person then—or will she turn back into
the monster she was before?
Red Dove strained to listen for an answer, but none came. She reached inside the pocket of her nightgown, searching for the comfort of the pouch.
Her fingers came up empty.
She felt in her other pocket.
Panic thrummed in her veins.
She picked up the parfleche and pulled it open.
There was the Celtic cross, lying next to the two feathers—one long and sturdy, from her brother, the other, soft and delicate, from her mother.
But the pouch had disappeared.
“Grandfather?” she whispered. Her heart was pounding, her blood pulsing in her ears. “Grandfather?” she tried again and listened long and hard, until at last, from the deepest, quietest place inside, she heard his voice.
“It has returned to the ancestors, where it belongs, Gray Eyes.
Why? I still need it!
“You do not… the power is inside you now. But if and when you do, then summon it and it will come—”
Will it?
“Yes. But use it wisely—along with the many other gifts that you possess—”
What other gifts?
“The gift of language, for one, of words.”
What good are words, Grandfather?
“Words carry medicine, Gray Eyes; medicine that heals; medicine you share when you tell the story—and when you listen. With them you can travel between worlds and bring those worlds together. Remember, if you listen… you will be Iyeska.”
Red Dove was silent for a moment before another question pierced her thoughts. What about you, Grandfather? Will you still be with me if I travel between worlds?
“I will always be there, Gray Eyes. Although you may not know it… so listen.”
The voice began to fade.
I am listening, Grandfather. You talked about other gifts. What other gifts? What else? Red Dove asked.
But all she heard was Windflower mumbling in her sleep. She turned to look at the little face, the soft round cheeks, the jagged scar.
“Listen,” her grandfather’s voice said.
She heard another sound then, from deep inside the parfleche, like the music of crystal beads.
