Two Roads

by Joseph Bruchac

  Then he turns and closes the stable door, leaving us on the outside.

  Pop leans over my way. “One more thing to remember, Cal,” he says out of the corner of his mouth. “Notice how Mr. E. Wimslow grabbed your hand in that vise grip of his?”

  I look at my hand, wiggling my fingers to make sure they still all work.

  “White man handshake. One way white men show how much power they’ve got. In the white world you always have to prove yourself. Everything is a competition. Not like it is with old-time Indians who knew sharing was more important than wealth or power.”

  I bite my lip as Pop says that. Ever since he’s told me his big secret there’s been a change in the way he talks about things. Like talking about white folks as if they’re different from him and me.

  Pop holds out his right hand. “Show me how I taught you to shake.”

  I reach out my hand and grasp his, just firm enough to hold on, our hands relaxing together, neither of us struggling for control.

  “You see,” Pop says. “You shake hands like someone who trusts the other and doesn’t have to prove he’s better. That’s an Indian handshake.”

  PART 2

  AT CHALLAGI SCHOOL

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  UNDER THE ARCH

  We’ve reached Challagi.

  Yet we are not really there. We’re just at the entranceway. Dropped off by a farmer who was kind enough to let us hitch a ride on his buckboard wagon, seeing as how he was passing by here on his way to his farm ten miles farther down the road.

  All I can make out of the buildings of this Indian boarding school is that they look tiny—like those in a kid’s toy town. They’re so far away down a dusty red road.

  “Over eight thousand acres,” Pop says. “Imagine that.”

  Around us, in every direction, is rolling prairie. It’s easy to understand why they called it Plains View. There’s a plain view here for sure.

  Above us is a metal archway thirty feet high. CHALLAGI, the big metal letters twisting across the top read. Below it, in smaller letters maybe a foot high each, are the words INDIAN BOARDING SCHOOL.

  There’s also a design perched on top in the center. It’s some sort of cross with each of its sides twisted. It makes me think of a whirlwind.

  As I look at it, something starts to happen. The world spins around and then I’m somewhere else. I’m on a broad avenue with big white buildings. There are people all around me, mostly men, marching along. Some are in uniforms, others in civilian clothing. They’re carrying signs I can’t quite read. People are watching and calling out encouragement. Everyone is happy and excited. Except me. I know something awful is about to happen. I look around for my father. I have to warn him. But I can’t find him. And now I’m hearing the rumble of tanks coming toward us.

  “You all right, Cal?” Pop says.

  I nod, but I’m not okay.

  For just a moment I feel angry at my father. Angry and worried both. Then I feel angrier at myself. I can’t give in to my feelings of uncertainty. I can’t let myself be held back by what was probably just a daydream because I’m feeling so anxious.

  I take care of you, you take care of me.

  Right now, taking care of Pop means making it possible for him to do what his heart is telling him he has to do. And the battle he plans to fight isn’t just for himself. It’s for me and him. And it’s for every other doughboy now being neglected by an ungrateful nation.

  I have to try to do the best I can. Pop is counting on me.

  I straighten my back and step out. Pop marches beside me, our feet raising little dust clouds from the bone-dry road. I start counting cadence to myself.

  Hup, two, three, four.

  Hup, two, three, four.

  We’ve gone at least a mile. The air’s less dry now. We’re passing between two small lakes, one either side of the road. There’s a bridge in front of us to cross. Far off to the left is the dam that created these shallow lakes from a creek.

  The smell of the water around us is sweet as summer rain.

  Water’s a blessing, something no farm can live without. We had plenty of water on our farm thanks to our deep well and a brook that ran year-round. It flowed down through the lower forty where our two cows and our horses, grazed. It hurts remembering that, so I turn my mind back to counting.

  Hup, two, three, four.

  As we continue, the buildings growing larger, I see there’s more of them than I realized. The most distant ones are big, finely built white structures with red roofs. Those must be the houses Pop told me about where the Indian students live. This road leads directly to the front of the biggest one. White limestone, four stories tall, with wide steps that lead up to an elevated porch. It looks more like a governor’s mansion than how I imagined an Indian school building would be.

  Hup, two, three, four.

  And there are more buildings to either side of us. They surround a big open area only partially visible through the closest building.

  “Print shop,” Pop says, nodding to the right. “Tailor shop next to it, then harness making and shoe repair.” He looks to the left. “Academic Hall there.”

  He looks beyond them, farther to the left. “Stock barn.”

  The stock barn is way off. I can barely make out its wavery outline in the heat already building up, though it’s not yet midmorn. The shapes that look tiny as ants must be horses or cows in the pasture behind it.

  So far, though, we’ve seen no people. Is it because this is a Sunday? Does everyone leave the school on the weekends?

  As is often the case, Pop senses what I’m thinking.

  “Once a month you get permission to go in to town,” he says, pausing to stretch his stiff leg. “But today’s Sunday. Might they be inside at services?” He looks up at the sun. “Nope. About eleven a.m.,” he says. “We missed Sunday School. Every one of us not Catholic had to go to it. Catholics always had their worship an hour earlier. So I expect they are getting set for Parade.”

  Parade? What’s that?

  Pop offers no further explanation. He just starts walking again. I set off behind him, trying to keep up.

  Hup, two, three, four.

  I continue the count in my head as we get closer to that big open area.

  HUP, TWO, THREE, FOUR.

  Whoa! Those shouted words were not in my head! We stop walking and turn toward the sound of tromping feet.

  From around the corner of the academic building comes a whole company of marching soldiers. More than forty of them.

  HUP, TWO, THREE, FOUR.

  That cadence is being counted by the officer walking beside them, watching with an eagle eye to make sure no one is out of step.

  HUP, TWO, THREE, FOUR! RIGHT!

  They turn to swing past us. They’re close enough now for me to see they’re all about the same age. Maybe three or four years older than me. At first they look the same. All in military attire, hair cut short, caps low on their foreheads. Only their brown faces suggest they’re Indian. Though I see some among them whose skins are as pale as a white man. Plus a few whose complexions are as dark as a Negro’s.

  DOUBLE TIME, MARCH!

  Their feet start moving faster, so perfectly in step they might be one giant many-legged being. Not a face turns our way as they pass.

  My mouth has fallen open watching them. It’s a stirring sight and also a little disturbing. Is marching like that what I’ll be expected to do?

  LEFT MARCH.

  They turn as one toward that big broad expanse of brown grass.

  No sooner have they passed than I hear the approach of another company. As they round the corner, they’re moving just as smartly as the first group we saw. And others are coming into view behind them. Company after company goes marching past. The student soldiers are getting progressively smal
ler as each company passes us. The youngest ones, who look like second or third graders, are fewer in number. They are having some trouble staying in step—which makes me feel a bit better.

  HUP, HUP, HUP, HUP, HUP.

  Finally the last group passes us. I didn’t try for an exact count, but I’d guess they numbered more than four hundred.

  Pop and I follow those marchers. It’s not clear where they were coming from, but it is dang sure obvious where they’re going. The open area ahead of us, the center of which looks to be a football field.

  As we get closer I hear the sound of drums and horns. They were barely audible over the thudding of those hundreds of marching feet moving in time to that music.

  “John Philip Sousa,” Pop says. “Best marches ever written.”

  I nod my head. I have to admit it makes my heart beat a bit faster.

  At the far end of the field are bleachers. In front of those stands is the source of that stirring music. It’s a big band, made up of Indian students dressed in uniforms much more colorful than those of the marchers. Some are banging on drums of all sizes. Others are playing horns, including a gigantic tuba twice as big as the boy blowing into it.

  Just behind them is all the rest of the people. Those bleachers are filled with more seated spectators than marchers. So many it makes my head spin. I’ve never been around so many folks all at once. It makes me feel small.

  Half of those in the stands are females. Most dressed alike. From the smallest little girl to the biggest young woman they’re wearing baggy long dresses with vertical stripes and ribbons in their hair. About the same number of girls as there were marching boys.

  In the very center of the stands, set apart from those female students, are adults. They stand out because their clothing is not all the same and far from military. Some of the men in suits look as dignified as foreign dignitaries. Among the women are ladies whose bright dresses and big, feathered hats make them look like exotic birds.

  “We’re in luck,” Pop says to me as we approach the stands, staying well to the side. “Got here just in time for the weekly dress parade.”

  Though none of those marching students turned an eye our way, that’s not true of the folks in the stands. We’ve been noticed, for sure. Some of those grown-ups are staring at us.

  We slip our packs off our shoulders and take seats off to the side of the bleachers.

  “Just look at that, Cal! My, oh my!”

  I turn toward the direction Pop’s indicating.

  Some of the squads of marching boys and young men are performing intricate maneuvers. The youngest ones, who had made some pretty obvious missteps as they passed, have now halted. They’re all standing at attention to the right of the parade ground.

  “The older boys are competing for privileges,” Pop explains. “Extra desserts, maybe release from some duties. Plus the best squads get advances in rank. They might even still be giving medals like they did in my day.”

  It seems to me as if every single person in those competing companies is perfect. But Pop’s practiced eye is sharper than mine.

  “Ooops,” he says. “That second company there. Third from the left just took a wrong step. Plus the boy behind him has his cap at the wrong angle. No rewards for them today. Those two are going to be in hot water tonight with their fellow squad members. Never mind what the drill master thinks. Last thing you want to do is let your company down. Ten to one they’ll have to stand at attention till midnight in their dormitory.”

  I do not think Pop even realizes how nervous everything he’s saying is making me. I don’t show it, of course. Nor do I say anything. But I can imagine myself as the one who takes a wrong step, trips, and brings the whole line down on top of him. They’ll likely stand me up in front of a firing squad for that!

  I’m ready to run away from Challagi Indian School before I’ve even spent my first hour here.

  “How do you like the music?” Pop asks.

  The maneuvers are being done to the music being played by a good-sized marching band standing directly in front of the crowd. They are mostly playing drums, though now and then some horn players join in, including one with a tuba about twice his size. I have to admit that I do find the sound stirring. It almost makes me move my own feet.

  “Now look there, Cal,” Pop says.

  He indicates with a turn of his chin a long-nosed, hatless man in a light brown suit who is standing at the front of the stands on a small raised platform. He’s tall and his posture is slightly stoop-shouldered, almost like a heron that’s just waded into a pond looking for frogs. His right hand, which seems unusually large, surrounds a microphone set up in front of him.

  “Know who that is?”

  It’s not really a question for me to answer. I know Pop is going to tell me.

  “That is the superintendent, Mr. Morrell,” Pop says. “He was the head ag teacher when I was here. Only classes I ever gave a hoot for. I heard he got promoted. Smartest thing they ever did, putting him in charge.”

  Pop pokes me in the side with his elbow. “And he is the main reason why I am sure you’ll be let in, even if it is halfway through the school year.”

  “Why? Cuz he knows you?”

  Pop raises an eyebrow at me, maybe a little surprised at my speaking up like that. Then he shakes his head.

  “More than that,” he says.

  The band suddenly stops playing. The marchers come to a halt, ranged in a dozen ranks that spread in a wide line facing the spectators. Each company is separated from the next by ten feet or so. The company farthest to the right is so close to us that I can see the sweat on their brows.

  A sound like a hammer hitting a nail comes out of a loudspeaker.

  Pop and I both turn to look back toward the center of the stands where most of the adults are gathered.

  Superintendent Morrell taps the microphone again with one long finger.

  “THIS ON. . .ON. . . ON?” echoes across the crowd. A smile crosses the superintendent’s face. “Yes, I guess it is,” he says.

  He scans the crowd. He’s taking everything in. Including Pop and me. His eyes rest on us for a split second and he nods. Then he holds up an enormous left hand. Everyone gets quieter.

  “I want to thank our student companies for their excellent performance this Sunday morning,” he says in a deep, mellow voice. “Shall we give them a round of applause?”

  The assembled crowd—including Pop and me—all start clapping. There’s also a fair amount of shouting from the girl students. Not exactly shouting, though. They’re making an echoing sort of call. It’s nothing like the catcalls or sarcastic hooting I’ve heard from the stands during the few baseball games I’ve seen. There is something old and strong about it.

  It stirs me even more than that drum music did, makes a shiver go down my spine. Some of the young men at attention in the drill squad closest to us are shifting their shoulders. Standing up even taller.

  That’s especially true of one boy two rows back from the front. I’d already noticed him because he looks sort of familiar. A scar twisting down his cheek from his ear to his chin makes him memorable. Despite that scar, his face has a friendly look to it. There’s also the hint of a mischievous smile there.

  Superintendent Morrell clears his throat when the sounds die down. Along with the rest of the crowd, I turn my attention back to him.

  “I wish to welcome you all here today to see this fine display of discipline and wholesome competition, principles that Challagi attempts to ingrain in our boys and girls as we mold them to meet a world so different from that in which their savage forebears lived.”

  “Hmmpf!” Pop says, a sound he may not even know he’s making. I’ve heard it before when something doesn’t sit well with him—like a man mistreating a horse. That “hmmpf” is usually followed by Pop stepping in to give that person what for. All he doe
s now, though, is cough loudly into his hand.

  “Bullrggh!”

  The only one, aside from me, who seems to notice is that boy with the scarred face. His eyes flick toward us and his lips move—just for a moment—into an actual smile. Then he winks at us.

  “So,” Superintendent Morrell continues, “the moment you have been waiting for. My judges and I . . .” He looks back at two other people seated behind him who nod their heads in agreement. “. . . have decided that today’s honors go to the eleventh graders of Blue Company.”

  He gestures toward the squad of boys two ranks to the left of us.

  “Step forward, men.”

  “Two steps forward, HUT!” the drill master barks and the eleventh graders of Blue Company move as one.

  A group of girls stand up from the front of the bleachers. They pass out ribbons to each of the boys, who accept them with their right hands while keeping eyes front. In a few cases, though, some of those boys briefly grasp—as if by accident—the fingers of the girls who’ve given them those honors.

  Pop chuckles. “Just like when I was here. They may try to keep the boys and girls apart. All sorts of rules and penalties if you’re caught fraternizing. But we’d still find ways to get together.”

  The girls retreat to their seats, but not without quite a few of them glancing over their shoulders at particular boys—all of whom are attempting to look impassive.

  “Thank you all,” the superintendent says. “You are dismissed.”

  The loudspeaker distorts his voice into a loud squeak at the end. It’s like a signal for the ranks of uniformed boys and young men to disintegrate into a disordered crowd. Caps are removed, jackets unbuttoned. Some boys start scuffling playfully. New groups are being formed as friends join one another.

  None of the adults, their teachers and advisers, seem to be concerned about the roughhousing. Most are heading off on their own. A few men, though, who look like they might be Indian themselves, are talking and joshing with the boys themselves.

  “Former students,” Pop says. “Challagi likes to hire back its best graduates.”