by Jenna Kernan
Batista tugged at Lucie. “English! We speak only English here!” He turned to the stranger. “Go away or I’ll have you removed.”
The stranger’s smile was confident as he switched back to English. “You could try.”
Batista went pale, but he recovered with indignation. “I am a servant of God.”
“Not my god,” growled the man.
Batista pressed his lips together and grasped Lucie’s elbow. The man looked ready to intercede. He lowered his chin and took a step in their direction. The priest released Lucie and stepped behind her, putting her between him and the approaching threat. Lucie glared a warning as her hand slipped in her pocket and her fingers curled about the knife. The stranger stopped.
“I must speak to you,” he said.
She stared up at him. “Why?”
“I carry a message.”
Batista hurried away, leaving her alone to face the son of Ten Horses.
Who would send her a message through him?
The answer took the starch from her spine and she swayed on her feet. It couldn’t be. Yet who else would choose this messenger but the warrior who had once made her his wife?
“From Eagle Dancer?” she asked in English.
He nodded.
She could barely speak past the cold terror that gripped her throat. “I will not hear it.”
Lucie whirled away, half expecting him to grab her or throw her over his shoulder. Had he been sent to capture her again? She lifted her skirts and hurried away, squeezing her eyes shut against the memories of her capture that flashed, like heat lightning, through her mind. Somehow she reached the church offices and sank onto a bench. She was glad to sit, for her head was spinning.
This was the blue-eyed boy who had ridden with Sacred Cloud, the son of one of the war chiefs of the Bitterroot tribe. He would not speak to her, despite her repeated efforts. The People said he was taken from a wagon full of dead people and that was why he had ghost eyes, though they were merely a startling blue. Her parents had told her that he did not remember his real family and none could be located. According to her mother, Sky was the one who had recognized her photo and told them where she was. She owed her rescue to him. She had never even thanked him.
What had happened to the boy after the immigrant had taken him? He’d gone west, but where she could not remember. Like her, he had come back to the plains. Only she had not come to return to the Sioux. Oh, no, not ever again. Her captivity had been too harsh and, although her return to her people had been hard, she had never feared for her life…until today.
How had Eagle Dancer survived the many battles? She thought back to the day she had been taken from her mother and made a slave of the Sweetwater People. For the months that followed, Lucie felt the cruelty of captivity. The beatings, the work and the lack of food nearly killed her. But the hope of rescue had sustained her during that dark time. She knew her mother would not stop looking for her and she had been right. Still she couldn’t have survived to see that day if not for Eagle Dancer. His interest in her had proved to be a mixed blessing, for he fell in love with her and had elevated Lucie from slave to wife. The choice seemed an obvious one at the time. Even at thirteen, Lucie had known her life depended on his protection. And although he had never mistreated her, he would not let her go. Her feelings for him were still a raw tangle of gratitude and resentment. Even now she felt remorseful for having fled, knowing her escape would hurt him. But why should she feel guilty? She was a prisoner. It was her duty to escape.
Lucie bowed her head, knowing that was only part of her misery.
Beneath the regret burned a secret shame at having been his wife. She knew what people would say if they knew she had willingly wed an Indian. That was why she never spoke of it, never thought of it, had tried every day for twenty years to pretend it never happened. Her parents thought she had been forced. But the choice had been hers. Wed or remain a slave, live or die. And her great shame was that, despite the cost, she had chosen life.
Unlike the revered heroines of the books and magazine stories who protected their honor above all else. She found the price too high. Lucie’s chin sank to her chest as she cursed herself for being a coward.
She felt sick to her stomach. The priest, Mrs. Fetterer, Mr. Bloom at the trading post.
No. They must not learn of it. She would protect her secret as she had always done.
Why did this messenger chase her, haunting her like a ghost from her past? One look at him told her he would not give up. If she spoke to him, made him understand, would he go away before the others found out her shame? She sat torn between two equally bad options. She did not want to go to him, but she could not afford not to. She sat frozen with indecision.
Father Batista opened the door. “Miss West?”
Lucie dragged to her feet, preparing to be contrite, demure and submissive. Lucie had learned from experience that there were many fights she could not win. But she might win if she was repentant and she would do anything to stay here with the girls and protect her position.
What had gotten into her back there? She needed this work, needed to stay here. So why did she jeopardize everything, why couldn’t she do as she was told? She had never been defiant before. It baffled her. She had survived captivity only by obedience and she had continued with this course while under her parents’ roof, deferring to her mother’s judgment up until she had taken this position. Had she made a terrible mistake, as her mother believed? If she had stayed at home, none of this would have happened.
But her parents’ home had become intolerable, a kind of stifling prison that wore out her soul. She couldn’t go back there. Better to be a spinster schoolmarm than a full-grown woman hiding like a child under her parents’ roof. Lucie wanted to find her own place, somewhere where she belonged, was wanted. The girls needed her—didn’t they?
Then why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut? She clamped her lips together, vowing to be silent, to push down her objections. Lucie squeezed her eyes shut tight.
What had changed? Why was she suddenly rebellious when she knew full well that such behaviors only made her way more difficult? These strange actions exposed her and frightened her. She must stop, do as she was told.
Father Dumax stood at his desk, hands behind his back. His head looked like a melon except for the fringe of hair at his temples and beneath his round jowly chin. The man’s bushy brows hung low over his eyes. The deep lines at his mouth seemed more engrained as he frowned at her.
“I have just spoken with Mrs. Fetterer and now Father Batista has made me aware of a serious offense.”
She noticed the dust covering his black robe. Everything here was coated in dust, because they had stripped away all the grass to make a yard for marching.
“Is it true? Were you leading the girls in some heathen ritual?”
“It is a song that we danced to. It was just to lighten the load of work.”
The men exchanged a look. Batista lifted his brows at her confirmation.
Lucie tried to apologize. “I’m very sorry, Father. I only tried…”
“Yes?”
“They’re lonely, frightened and heartsick for their families. I just wanted to bring them a moment’s peace.”
“Lucie, these are a defeated people. They are wards of the government. You do them no service encouraging them to revert to their aboriginal ways. The only chance these girls have for survival is to learn to be civilized. You of all people should appreciate that.”
Lucie rubbed her chin, feeling the echoing pricks of the bone awl Yellow Bird had wielded against her. There was no hiding the dreadful blue fanglike marks.
Even the good father was unable to keep from glancing at her tattoos. She thought it might be different here, but it was worse, because now she was more confused than ever. Somehow she remained standing under the crushing disappointment.
She squared her shoulders.
What this man could not see painted on her face was that her time with the Sioux had
taught her fortitude. She knew at a glance she was stronger than this man.
“They need compassion, as well,” she said.
His eyes rounded in surprise and he was left momentarily speechless at her audacity. Had she just done it again? She felt her face flush.
He blustered a moment and then found his tongue.
“Miss West, it is our calling to educate these poor heathens. But we must kill the Indian to save the man.”
She bowed her head, but the words came nonetheless. “It’s wrong.”
“You are in no position to judge. I begin to suspect Mrs. Fetterer is correct. These savages have damaged your mind. I cannot permit you to undermine our good work.”
She lifted her chin. “They are not uncivilized. Their way is just different, not wrong.”
He rounded the desk to face her. “Miss West, we have made allowances for you because of your tragic past. We have spoken to you about using only English around the children. Yet you persist in your willfulness and then, when caught, you are unrepentant. Father Batista says you were just speaking in Sioux to a man, immediately after he intervened.”
“That’s true.”
“So I ask you, Miss West, why you would do something that would jeopardize your position here, when in our last meeting you assured me that you would take all actions required to keep your situation?”
Lucie held her breath. He was going to dismiss her. She could see it in his eyes.
“We brought you here as an example to the children, to show them the results of their savagery and to encourage them to repent and accept Christ, our Lord. But this situation has not worked out as hoped. It is not your fault, child. We will pray for you, but as of this moment you are relieved of all duties at this school. I will, of course, telegraph your parents and ask them to collect you.”
Lucie felt her heart squeeze in panic. Why had she chanted that silly song? “Please, Father. I can’t go back there. I have to find my own place.”
“Perhaps, with God’s grace, you shall. But it will not be here.” His eyebrows rose. “Be at peace, child. Your parents assured me that you will always be welcome in their home.”
“But that’s just it. It’s their home. I need, I want… Please, Father…” Words failed her.
Silence stretched. When she had brushed the tears from her cheeks, she lifted her head to find Father Dumax studying her.
“You have had a difficult journey. Although I do not forgive your disobedience, it does give me pause. If you are truly remorseful and can devote yourself to our mission, I will follow the good Lord’s example and forgive you. You have one more chance, Miss West. I pray you will use it wisely.”
Behind her, Father Batista made a sound that reminded Lucie of a hog rooting for scraps. She did not need to look to see the man’s disapproval.
“Thank you, Father.”
“Thank God, for his mercy, and recall that we are not the enemy. We are all trying to save these poor savages, but unlike you, I must worry about more than their bodies. I am also responsible for their souls.”
Lucie nodded her agreement and said nothing more.
He opened the door and Lucie slipped out.
She was halfway across the yard when she remembered the stranger. She hesitated, but found no sign of him. She reached her room and sat at her desk to write her parents, to tell them that she was failing here, as well. She must be such a disappointment to them.
It was as if part of her was still out there in the prairie, still there with the Lakota people and the rest of her was here in this world. But like vinegar and oil, she could find no way to blend the two.
She heard the girls return to the dormitory as Lucie reread what she had written. The letter was too raw and far too sad to send to her parents. She wadded up the page and tossed it on the floor.
She had saved her position, but in doing so she had agreed to do what she felt was wrong. Should she stay here or go back to California and again live like some addled child in her parents’ home? Lucie winced. Her gaze wandered out the window to the place where the lawn was not trimmed and the tall prairie grasses swayed. There was a third option. No, she would never go back to him. He’d refused to release her even when she had begged him to do so. She’d escaped, but he’d kept her too long. Now she had no home, no place where she belonged.
The bell for dinner chimed and Lucie rose to collect her charges and walk them to the dining hall. Eating meals together with all the proper silverware was an important step in assimilation. She took pride in her table of the youngest, each of whom used their napkin correctly. She was still working on the proper way to hold the fork and, of course, they needed help cutting some of the larger bits of meat and potatoes. She lined her students in even rows, five across and marched behind the older girls to their place at the tables. Lucie had them all seated and had bowed her head, when she realized the oldest girls, the ones with whom she had been for the laundry lesson, were missing from their place.
She sought out Mrs. Fetterer, interrupting her as she prayed and received a harsh glare.
“Punished,” the matron said.
Lucie’s stomach twitched. “For the singing?”
“For uttering their gibberish and all of it entirely your fault.”
Lucie straightened. “Where are they?”
“The chapel.”
Lucie hurried away. Mrs. Fetterer hissed after her. “What about your charges?”
Lucie did not turn or look back. She stormed across the drill yard like an infantry officer only instead of a saber she held her indignation.
She found the girls on their knees before Father Batista, who was administering something to them like communion. It was not until she drew closer that she recognized it was slivers of soap from a large bar used for laundry.
“What are you doing?” Her voice held all of the fury of her ire.
“They need to understand the rules and pray for forgiveness for their heathen ways.”
“Father, it’s my fault that they were singing.”
He placed another wafer of soap on a girl’s tongue. She made a face and swallowed hard.
“Oh, Mattie, don’t eat that.”
Batista cast her a glance. “I told them to eat them. This is all they will have for supper.”
It took all she had not to strike the silver dish from his hand and then knock him to the ground. How could they be so heartless and stupid?
“I am responsible.”
“I agree. But unfortunately Father Dumax has absolved you. These children need a firm hand if they are going to give up their godlessness.”
Lucie glanced down the line of girls. There were sixteen or so still waiting for their lesson.
“I’ll take their punishment.”
Father Batista’s eyebrows lifted. He opened his mouth and then closed it again, assessing her. A smile played on his lips. “All right.”
“And in return these girls will go to supper.”
His smile vanished. “But they will stay to watch and if you cannot take all their ‘meals’ then they will have them.”
“Done.”
She felt her stomach lurch in anticipation.
“Kneel, my child,” he said.
She did and opened her mouth. The first sliver of soap touched her tongue. She tried to swallow and gagged. On the second try, she forced it down, but it tried to come up again. She had to press her hand over her mouth and squeezed her lips shut, focusing all her will on keeping the soap in her belly. At last she opened her mouth and accepted the next.
When she looked at Batista she saw the triumph in the priest’s eyes. It was all the inspiration she needed to swallow the next and the next. Her stomach churned. She knew it would revolt eventually and so she accepted the unholy communion with greater speed.
The girls were crying now. Mattie, kneeling beside her, grasped her arm and shook her.
“No, no, missus.”
Lucie held up her hand to stop Mattie. The jostling m
ade her stomach lurch. She clamped her hands over her mouth.
“Only three more,” said Batista. “But I’d say you’ve had enough. You’re green as a pickle.”
Lucie opened her mouth. The taste of lye coated her tongue and throat again as she swallowed the next piece and the next.
Batista’s smile vanished as he saw his victory slipping away. His lips now pinched in an angry scowl as he fed her the last wafer of soap. Lucie swallowed.
Batista set aside the tray as Lucie clutched her belly. He clapped his hands. The girls startled.
“Up, all of you, and off to supper! Hurry now, you are late already.”
He turned and left Lucie there on her knees, following the girls out.
Lucie fell forward to her hands. She knew she would be ill, but did not want Batista to have the satisfaction of seeing her. So she staggered out the side door and vomited on the ground. Over and over her stomach expelled the foul contents until there was nothing but bile left to release. Lucie sat, sweating on the stoop. It was many minutes before she could stand.
In those minutes she questioned again her decision to come and to stay. How could she be a part of this? This assimilation was not a gentle, loving hand. They did not offer enlightenment but a cruel discipline.
She kicked dirt over the mess she had made. Lumps of white soap poked out through the sand. She swallowed and still felt sick. In the kitchen she found water, which did not settle her stomach, but only launched her into a new round of illness. Finally, she tried a little bread and this made her tortured stomach settle.
Only then did she rejoin her girls at the table. She felt the eyes of every student upon her as she entered. Had the word of her actions spread so quickly?
She tried to keep her thoughts on her students, but instead she came again to the feeling that she had made a mistake coming to this place.
Lucie remembered the blue-eyed stranger and wondered at the message he carried. She rose to her feet, feeling pulled in two directions at once.
All afternoon and evening, Sky Fox had followed Lucie. He’d heard her singing on the laundry yard. She had a fine, clear voice, full of passion and joy. The sound had made his insides jump and twitch like a rabbit caught in a snare. But the blackrobe did not like her song. Disobedient, he called it. Sky Fox had wondered how it was disobedient to follow your heart. Would it lead her back to the Sweetwater People?
