The Lost Ones

by Michaela MacColl

  Now she wished she could ask Mother how to pretend to be something she wasn’t, and still remain Ndé. She thought about this often, especially at night when she and Jack argued and he accused her of betraying their people. But mostly, she did whatever Mollie asked. It was safer that way.

  Charles had been right when he said that the bugling set the rhythm of life at Fort Clark. “Reveille” started the day and a bugle announced almost every hour until “Taps” told them to sleep. The bugle for “Fatigue Call” was when all the soldiers were given their daily chores. It might be working in the kitchen, fetching water, repairing a roof—there was a neverending set of tasks to keep the fort running. Mollie’s list of tasks was so long she joked that their “Fatigue Call” lasted all day. She did her best to keep the house clean and free of vermin, but Casita could see that the dirt and vermin were always winning. One day Mollie was in the kitchen preparing dinner while Casita sat on the front porch peeling potatoes. Mollie screamed and Casita came running.

  “A snake! A huge snake!” Mollie cried.

  Jack appeared from the backyard. “Where?” he asked, his eyes gleaming. He loved snakes.

  “In the pot.”

  Carefully, Jack peered inside, Casita looking over his shoulder. A long black snake with yellow markings on its smooth scales was coiled up inside. Jack reached in and picked up a loop of the snake. It moved slowly to tighten around his wrist. “It is not poisonous,” he said.

  “Kill it!” Mollie screamed, backing away.

  “But this snake kills rattlers,” Casita said.

  “I don’t care!”

  Scowling, Jack took the snake outside, Casita trailing after him.

  “It’s a good snake,” he said. “I won’t kill it.” He stroked the head of the snake and it wrapped itself slowly about his neck. “Mollie’s as bad as the soldiers. She wants anything that scares her to be dead.”

  “She was afraid,” Casita protested. “Usually she’s very kind.”

  As if Casita had planned it, Mollie appeared at the back door. “Jack, forget what I said. I can’t kill one of God’s creatures just because it terrifies me. Just take it far away.”

  After she had gone, Jack said, “I’m going to keep it.” His expression dared Casita to argue, but she didn’t bother. Jack had agreed to stay, but only on his own terms.

  Every day, Casita helped Mollie with the cooking, learning to use an Indaa stove. Almost all their food was either dried or out of tins. Fruits and vegetables were almost impossible to find. One morning, Casita saw firsthand how much Mollie missed fresh food. She came into the kitchen to see Mollie weeping at the table.

  “What is wrong?” she asked.

  Mollie emptied a bag onto the table. A dozen rotten onions spilled out. “The supply wagon came today. I paid three dollars for these onions so I could make Charles’s favorite soup. But look at them!”

  The word onion was new to Casita, but one sniff and she understood what type of plant it was. The smell took her back to that last day at El Remolino—but she shook off the memory. Thoughts of her mother only made her sad and didn’t help her with her new life.

  “There are wild plants that have the same taste,” she said. “We could look for them. They like water. Maybe down by the springs?”

  Casita had learned that the springs she had seen the day she arrived at Fort Clark supplied water to the whole fort.

  Mollie didn’t answer at first. She slowly washed her face with a damp cloth. When she finally spoke, her voice was wary. “I don’t think Charles would allow you to leave the fort.”

  Casita wasn’t surprised, but it was disappointing nonetheless. With an effort, she smiled. “Maybe Charles can take both of us.”

  “Perhaps,” Mollie answered without promising.

  Casita went outside and sat on the porch. Surrounded by all these buildings of war and soldiers as far as she could see, her freedom was an illusion. No matter how kind their captors were, Jack and Casita were still prisoners. But unlike Jack, Casita was determined to be happy.

  Compared to the Ndé, the Indaa lived easy. Even though she guiltily remembered how her mother hated matches, Casita loved the convenience of them. Instead of slaving over a baking stone, Casita picked up their readymade bread from the fort bakery. Even her new soft clothes smelled fresh and clean, because the cloth could be laundered. These comforts were hard to resist.

  As she slowly and steadily fell into Indaa ways, Jack grew more and more bitter. Charles was the only one not pained by Jack’s behavior. “That is exactly how a prisoner of war should behave,” he told Mollie.

  As Casita avoided Jack, Mollie grew more important to her. They became good friends. When spring gave way to early summer, they planned a garden together.

  “No one can seem to grow anything here,” Mollie said.

  “We grew corn and squash in our village,” Casita said. “But we lived by a river and had enough water.”

  “I can have water brought up from the spring,” Mollie said, her eyes brightening.

  Casita joined in her excitement. “And if you can spare an onion, we can grow fresh ones for Charles’s favorite soup.”

  Mollie’s answering smile made Casita glad. For the first time since she had arrived at Fort Clark, she had something to look forward to.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  AFTER A FEW WEEKS, MOLLIE MADE AN ANNOUNCEMENT. “BOTH of you, particularly Casita, speak English well,” she said. “It’s time for you to learn to read and write.” Mollie was a good teacher, but she needed every drop of patience as she tried to explain the mysteries of a written language. None of the Apache bands wrote down their language. Why would they?

  They were seated at a small table in the parlor and Mollie had a primer with the letters and short words for them to learn.

  “So when you write down a word,” Casita said slowly, “it means the same thing to everyone who reads it?”

  “Yes,” Mollie answered. “You can learn everything that was ever written down in a book, a letter, or a newspaper.”

  “We learn when we listen to our elders,” Casita said. “We trust them, so we know it is true. How do we trust a writer we have never met?”

  “What if he lies?” Jack asked. He didn’t plan to stay long, and in the meantime he would tease Mollie.

  “It is up to the reader to judge how trustworthy the writer is,” Mollie said.

  “But can he write anything he wants?” Casita asked.

  “In this country, everyone is free to say and write what they please,” Mollie said proudly.

  “Even the Ndé?” Casita asked.

  Mollie frowned and her voice was flat. “Not exactly. The US Government doesn’t consider you citizens, so you don’t have the same rights as we do.”

  “What does citizen mean?” Jack asked.

  “Someone who was born here in the United States and has the right to be protected by the government.”

  “We were born here,” Jack pointed out.

  “Our people were here long before your people,” Casita added.

  “I know. But the government has decided you aren’t citizens of America,” Mollie said sadly. She pushed the primer toward them. “So learn to read and write. Show the government you can be as civilized as any citizen.”

  Civilized was a word that Mollie had struggled to explain. The American government claimed that civilization made them better than the Ndé. Casita was still trying to figure out why.

  At first a handful of white students joined them in the parlor for afternoon lessons. They were of all ages, since the fort didn’t have a school yet. But they didn’t like Jack and Casita. It didn’t help that Jack would smear his face with mud like war paint and drum on the table. Even though Jack was smaller than they were, they were afraid and stopped coming to the house. Instead Mollie began teaching a class in the mess hall twice a week.

  Jack hated lessons and often skipped class altogether. Sometimes Casita saw him visiting his snake in its crate underne
ath the cistern, but all too often he was nowhere to be found.

  “Why should I learn to read?” he asked. “I should be training to fight, not to read. I want to be ready when Father comes.”

  Casita never told him that she had lost faith that Father would ever come. But she could use Father as a lever to force Jack to behave. “Think how pleased Father will be when you read the Indaa’s words without a translator,” Casita said.

  “You can do it,” Jack muttered. “I’m going outside.”

  Casita let him go and convinced Mollie it was for the best.

  Despite Mollie’s worry, Charles was unconcerned. “He’s not trying to escape or make trouble,” he said. “So let him be. I’m just glad it takes him out of the house.”

  Casita still worried, but there was little she could do about it. She set her mind to schoolwork. Once she could read a little, Mollie told her it was time to write the letters herself. The first time she dipped the quill into the ink and put the pen to paper, she trembled. But soon she saw that with a light touch, she could make designs on the paper. Slowly she began to draw the spider web glistening in the corner of the fireplace. The line was almost as fine and delicate as the web itself. Her hand moved faster and faster until, in her haste, she knocked over the inkwell.

  Mollie saw the mess and rushed over with a cloth. “Casita! You aren’t doing your letters,” Mollie scolded. But she exclaimed with delight when she saw the drawing. “How lovely. For once I am glad that the spiders spin the webs faster than I can sweep them away,” Mollie said with a giggle. “You have a real talent, my dear.”

  Satisfied that Mollie wasn’t angry, Casita asked for a clean sheet of paper. From that day on, Mollie gathered every scrap of paper and colored pencil she could find. Casita drew whatever was in front of her.

  Mollie gave her time in the afternoon to draw. Soon Casita was a familiar figure about the fort. Those who had previously avoided her greeted her warmly and asked to see her work. She took care to draw scenes they would like: the American flag unfurled; Captain Carter on his horse, inspecting the troops; even the privates washing dishes behind the mess hall. With her permission, Charles gave her drawings as gifts to his friends. He began to see her not as a servant or companion to Mollie, but as someone he bragged about. She was proud that he liked her work, even though she knew it was disloyal. Her parents had never encouraged her to draw.

  She thought of her parents a little less as time went on. But at night sometimes, she closed her eyes and remembered home. Then when she woke, she would draw from those memories. Her father. The river at El Remolino. Her favorite rock. She never drew her mother, for fear of waking her spirit again. She was happy to sketch her cousins Juanita and Miguel, because she wanted to believe they were still alive. These drawings she kept hidden from everyone, even Jack. Sometimes, when Jack accused her of becoming too “civilized,” she would take out the stack of drawings. They convinced her that she was still Ndé.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CASITA HAD GROWN UP WITH HOT SUMMERS, BUT THIS ONE FELT unbearable. Maybe it was the house, which held the warmth like an oven, but Casita slept poorly, dreaming that she was an agave heart roasting under a pile of leaves and dirt. The Ndé changed their habits in the summer: they woke up earlier and napped in the afternoon. The Fort Clark bugles set the same rhythm to the day regardless of the weather and the time of year. Never had she missed the cool river mist from El Remolino more.

  It was Mollie’s first summer in Texas and she suffered most. She lay in the parlor, near the open window, dabbing her temple with a wet cloth. Charles and Jack pretended that the heat didn’t bother them, but Casita was the one who had to wash their sweat-soaked shirts.

  Casita tried to find reasons to be outside, but even in the great parade grounds she couldn’t find a breeze. Enclosed on all sides by military buildings, there was no way for the wind to find the giant square. And the Army had carefully cut down every tree, so there was no shade. Even the soldiers’ maneuvers—usually so precise—were listless. At night, the temperature dropped and Casita finally felt as though she could breathe. But the children’s room was like a closed box, the tiny window too small to let in any cool air. One night at dinner, Jack asked if he could sleep outside.

  Mollie was horrified. “There are snakes. You’ll be stung by scorpions,” she said. But to Casita’s surprise, Charles was more sympathetic. “Jack and Casita are used to being out in the desert,” he told Mollie. “Before I was injured, I loved bivouacking in the desert. Someday I must take you there, Mollie. The stars are enormous and so close you feel as though you could reach out and steal one away.”

  Mollie stared at him. “I had no idea you missed it so much.”

  “I was younger then,” he said with a sigh. He glanced down at his bad leg. “But I’m sorry I didn’t remember earlier. Casita and Jack grew up in the wilderness, yet we expect them to stay in that little room. It must feel like a cage.”

  Casita and Jack exchanged glances. The last thing either of them had expected was that Charles would understand and sympathize.

  Charles went on. “Why don’t I build a little porch out back? They could sleep on top of it and be perfectly safe.”

  Jack helped Charles build the platform. At first they worked in near silence, but eventually the shared task improved their relationship. There was an ease between them.

  To reach the platform, Jack and Casita climbed a ladder. When they pulled the ladder up after them, they were, as Charles promised, perfectly safe. It was much cooler. And Casita loved watching the heavens dance at night. One night Charles joined them and they taught him the Ndé names for the stars, just as their father had taught them. When Casita finally closed her eyes, she slept better than she had since she had come to Fort Clark.

  One morning the sun was ahead of the bugler. Casita was wide awake watching the sun rise. Next to her, Jack was dozing, a slight snore coming from his mouth.

  “Casita is doing very well, I think,” Mollie said. Their sleeping space was not far from Mollie and Charles’s bedroom window, open to the breeze. Casita threw back her sheet to crawl closer so she could hear better.

  “She’s learning to cook our kind of food. And her reading and writing are progressing.”

  “But not Jack’s?” Charles asked with a laugh.

  “He speaks English well enough, but he refuses to come to school. After he finishes his chores he just disappears. He takes an enormous lunch with him and doesn’t return until dinner. I used to see him playing with that awful snake, but lately I don’t know where he goes.”

  Casita glanced at her sleeping brother. She worried about Jack, too. Where did he go?

  “Casita must know,” Charles said.

  “I’ve asked her, but she says not.”

  “Do you believe her?”

  “Of course,” Mollie said, “She’s the only person I have to talk to; we’ve become very close.” There was a long pause. “Do you think she might call me ‘Mother’ someday?”

  Casita stiffened. She and Mollie had become friends these past weeks and she liked her more than she had thought she could ever like an Indaa. But Casita could never betray her mother’s memory.

  “Mollie, you mustn’t forget they are still prisoners of war,” Charles said slowly. “She’s not your daughter.”

  “Until we are blessed with children of our own, I thought Casita and Jack could be our family.”

  Casita heard the yearning in Mollie’s voice. What would happen if Mollie had a baby of her own? Would she discard Casita and Jack? And in the meantime, if Casita wouldn’t be her daughter, would Mollie send them away and find another Indian to mother?

  “She’s practically white now,” Mollie went on.

  “But she’s not white,” Charles insisted. “She never will be. And Jack certainly will always be Apache. Your experiment has been successful, but don’t expect too much. Not even you can completely take the Indian out of those kids.”

  “I’m not
finished yet,” Mollie said with confidence. “You know what I believe. The solution to the Indian problem is—”

  “—love.” Charles said the last word with her and they both laughed.

  Casita heard them getting out of bed and she quickly crawled back to her blanket. She glanced at Jack and saw he was awake.

  “So your Mollie thinks we are the Indian problem,” he said bitterly. “She doesn’t care about us; we are an experiment.”

  “No,” Casita said quickly. “You heard her. She thinks of us as her own children.”

  “Until she has her own,” he shot back. “What then? Your plan kept us alive, but what kind of life is it? We pretend to be like them. And they pretend we are not Ndé.” He sat up and pulled on his shirt.

  “You try so hard to be one of them that you forget you are not,” he said. “But Charles hasn’t forgotten. To him we are savages.”

  “Where are you going?” she asked, as he tugged his boots onto his feet.

  “I’m going someplace where I can be Ndé.” He swung his body down the ladder and disappeared in the greyish morning.

  “Jack!” Casita didn’t dare raise her voice in case Mollie and Charles heard. What did he mean? Where could he be Ndé? Surely nowhere in the fort. She had a bad feeling that he was doing something stupid. Or dangerous. Or both. She had to stop him. She pulled on her moccasins and hurried down the ladder. She reached the ground just in time to see Jack slip behind the water tanks behind the house. He carried a knapsack that he hadn’t had before. Please don’t try to run away, she thought.

  Moving as silently as he was, she followed him. He darted from one outbuilding to another, circling the edge of the fort until he reached the place where the ground fell away to the spring below. She saw his silhouette, barely more than a shadow against the sky, and then he abruptly disappeared.

  “Jack!” she cried. Had he fallen? She hurried over. The hill was steep, but it wasn’t a sheer drop. If you knew how to look, there was a trail, barely noticeable, in the brush. She looked round. The area was deserted—these outbuildings were rarely used. She was at the edge of the fort’s land. When Jack went down the hill, he had left Fort Clark. As Charles would say, he was absent without leave. Was this where he went every day? Why? What could be so important to him that he would risk Charles’s anger?