The Warriors

by Joseph Bruchac

  Jake heard a cough from behind him. He turned around quickly and looked toward Kofi’s bed against the western wall of the dorm room. He caught Kofi, halfway between watching and pulling the sheet back over his head. Found out, Kofi propped himself up on one arm and smiled at Jake.

  “So, you have caught me observing your morning ceremonies,” Kofi said in his half-British accent. The lilt and rhythm of Kofi’s voice, his precise use of language, always made Jake think his West African roommate was about to break into song.

  “Unh-hunh,” Jake said slowly, meaning he knew Kofi had something more to say.

  “It takes you home, what you do every morning. Does it not?” Kofi asked.

  Jake nodded.

  Kofi’s smile broadened. “And just so, I also wait every morning for the light of the new day that comes from the East, from Africa where my family lives, to touch my face, knowing they, too, have smiled up at Mawu, the same great sun that shows the power of God.”

  Kofi took a small leather pouch from under his pillow. “My uncle prepared this for me. He is a well educated man with his master’s degree and a faithful Methodist, but he was also taught to be a priest in our old religion. This pouch contains things that protect me when I am far from home. Every now and then, when no one else can see, I hold it up so it, too, can bathe in the light of the African sun.” Kofi chuckled as he put the pouch back under his pillow. “So, Jake, it seems that we are brothers. We each have secrets we keep from the white eyes.”

  Jake laughed as he held out his hand and took Kofi’s to shake it, ending with the Ghanian finger snap that Kofi had taught him soon after they became roommates.

  “Brothers,” Jake agreed, turning to look at Muhammad’s bed against the northern wall of their room, wondering if he, too, had been watching. But, like every morning, the figure curled under the covers made no motion. Muhammad was always the last one to rise, but he was never late to morning assembly. Jake wondered about that.

  “Ah, have you not noticed?” Kofi said, as if he were reading Jake’s mind. Kofi hopped out of bed, crossed the room, and pulled back Muhammad’s covers. Instead of their shy Pakistani roommate, Jake saw two pillows rolled together to look like a sleeping body. “Every morning, even before you, Muhammad goes quietly from our room. He has a place where he can spread out his rug and offer his morning prayer toward Mecca. Though he has not told you of it, I know he would not mind your knowing. After all, we three have much in common, do we not?”

  A while later, Jake and Kofi walked together across the common between their dorm and the assembly hall where each new school day began. Jake thought about how little most people know about each other. It seemed as if most of the kids—and the teachers, too—didn’t really want to get to know who you really were. They were just satisfied with knowing the role you played. The Three-Gens, for example, were like royalty at the school. That seemed to be enough for them. Jake might be Indian, but because he was so good at lacrosse, his main identity at Weltimore was that as one of the Scorers. Kofi might be from Ghana, but because he always seemed to have the answer in every class, he was known to everybody as one of the Smart Kids. Muhammad’s identity was that of a kid who was trying to play a new sport and, as a result, didn’t know how to do anything right. It was still a struggle for him to figure out how to catch and throw a lacrosse ball. Muhummad’s own favorite sport was field hockey, but he no longer mentioned that to anyone.

  “In America,” one of the Three-Gens told Muhammad, “field hockey is a girls’ sport. Do you wear a dress when you play it?”

  It was like that in class, too. Muhammad seemed to always be the one who made mistakes—the one who had to stand at attention in Coach Scott’s class or had to take home extra assignments in math or was assigned remedial tutoring in science.

  Jake shook his head. It was even worse than that for Muhammad. Because of the things that had happened with Middle Eastern terrorists, because of all the panic on the news, some people looked at Jake’s Pakistani friend in a very different way, a way that wasn’t good. They looked at him with suspicion and uncertainty, as if he might suddenly turn dangerous. Jake knew it was the same way some people about a hundred years ago looked at American Indians.

  Muhammad was already in his seat when Jake and Kofi entered the assembly hall, so they sat down next to him. As always, Kofi’s tie was perfectly knotted, good enough to be in an ad in Gentleman’s Quarterly. But Muhammad’s rumpled tie looked as if it had started as a four-in-hands, tried halfway through to turn into a bow, and then gave up. He’d get demerits for sure when Coach Scott saw it. Of all the teachers, Coach Scott was the worst about enforcing the dress code.

  Kofi reached over and shook Muhammad’s hand, smiling when the shake ended with a satisfyingly loud snap of both their fingers. Muhammad laughed out loud. It was the first time he’d gotten the finger snap right. Jake laughed with his two friends. It was another day at school and maybe, just maybe, it would be a better one.

  C H A P T E R T E N

  COACH SCOTT'S STORY

  JAKE CLOSED HIS EYES, wishing he could close his ears at the same time. A long thirty minutes remained until the end of the class. Coach Scott had been talking for just a few minutes. He was telling the story he’d promised, the one about that event in 1763. Just as Jake had feared, it was another story with Indians in it, but it was even worse than he had expected. And, of course, it was also about lacrosse.

  “As the sun rose higher over Fort Michilimackinac, beside the great lake, not far from present-day Detroit, the poor English soldiers had no idea what they were in for that day,” Coach Scott said, building the suspense.

  Even with his eyes closed, Jake could imagine the grim smile on Coach Scott’s face. Stories like this one, tales that ended up with blood and death, made Coach Scott’s classes really popular. Somehow, just about every historical event he described seemed to end up in a pitched battle. Coach Scott loved warrior tales.

  “The local Ojibwe were angry at the English, who had just taken over the fort from the French, former allies of those Indians. Those Ojibwes had also heard that the great war chief, Pontiac, was calling for all the tribes to revolt and throw out the English,” Coach Scott continued. “But the English soldiers were strong and well-armed. The walls of the fort were high. The only hope the Indian warriors had was treachery. So they announced they were going to have a big lacrosse game, right there in front of the fort.”

  Jake put his head down onto his arms, folded on top of his desk. He could feel the other students stealing glances in his direction as Coach Scott continued his story. After all, Jake was the only Indian. Jake worried that maybe they were wondering right now if he was just as mean as those “treacherous” Ojibwes.

  Coach Scott took a breath, then continued. “The innocent white soldiers left the gate of the fort open while they watched the game. They had no idea what was happening when the lacrosse ball was thrown, as if by accident, through the gate and into the fort. The soldiers laughed as the Ojibwe ballplayers rushed madly into the fort, supposedly in pursuit of the ball. But the white men’s laughter stopped when those lacrosse players pulled out hidden weapons and began to massacre the surprised soldiers.”

  “All right!” somebody said from the back of the class. Jake recognized the voice. Sam Sewall, one of the Three-Gens.

  Coach Scott smiled as he paused from telling his story. Jake knew what came next—it was time for one of the coach’s funny remarks, usually a bad pun, something that would make the boys in the class laugh.

  “So it was,” Coach Scott said, “that the old warriors’ game was used as a trick to wipe out those English soldiers. That was one lacrosse game that truly ended, you might say, with the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat.”

  “Game over,” Sam Sewall said as almost everyone in the class began to chuckle. Doug Radebaugh, who was sitting to Jake’s right didn’t laugh. Of all the Three-Gens, Doug was the quietest. Even though he was a terrific goalie, he didn’t
make a big deal about it. He glanced over at Jake. Jake looked away.

  “In fact,” Coach Scott added, with a smirk, “that might have been the first ‘sudden-death overtime.’”

  Just as he expected, the class went wild with laughter.

  After class, Jake walked down the hall and turned off into the boys’ restroom. It was empty. All the other kids were hurrying to their next class. Jake went back to the furthest stall, one with a lock that still worked, sat down, and latched the door. He leaned over and put his head in his hands. He felt so sad, angry, and confused that he didn’t know what to do. He had no doubt that Coach Scott’s story was right out of a history book. He’d gone to the library the last time Coach Scott mentioned Indians just to look up what the coach had said. Jake found that the facts in a book agreed with the coach’s version. But Jake felt there had to be more to these stories than just what the books reported. He knew there was always more than one side to a story. That was why, Grampa Sky had told him, Sonkwaiatison, the Creator, gave human beings two ears—so we could always listen to both sides.

  Jake always asked himself the same questions: Why did Coach Scott always make his stories about Indians so bloody, always tales about war and battles and killing? And why did he have to make lacrosse a part of that? Lacrosse was more than just a game, more than just a way of getting ready for war. Being a real warrior, in the Indian way, didn’t mean killing people. It didn’t mean setting yourself above others or bullying people and telling them what to be. To be a true warrior meant that no matter how strong or skilled you were, you had to stay humble. You had to work to help others, be ready to defend the people when they needed your help. To be a true warrior meant you had to love peace and keep that love of peace in your heart.

  “I wish I could tell him,” Jake said to himself in a soft voice. But even as he said it, he felt sure there was no way he could make Coach Scott—or any of them— really listen.

  C H A P T E R E L E V E N

  GAME DAY

  IT ALL HAPPENED IN LESS TIME than it took to count to ten. But it was as if everything was moving in slow I motion, just as it often seemed when Jake was into the flow of a game. It was like time didn’t exist or as if Jake had all the time in the world to work his moves.

  “Drop in, Mack, drop in!” the goalie shouted to the defender who was supposed to be on Jake.

  Jake smiled as he ran. The goalie had seen what Number 18, the defender in front of Jake, had not. He was playing Jake too far from the goal. Jake lowered his chin and pushed out his lower lip. He stepped right, planted his foot, and spun left. Number 18 stumbled and fell forward.

  “Tommy!” the goalie yelled to the one defender left in front of Jake, “Move out! Move out!”

  But Tommy, Number 19, was too late to close in on Jake and screen out the net. Jake passed him like a diving hawk. The goalie stepped back into the crease, holding up his stick, just waiting for Jake’s shot. Jake could see that the goalie was sure it would be a high shot, like the one Jake had taken when he scored his second goal.

  At the last second, though, Jake brought his lacrosse stick down and dipped for a low sidearm shot, going into a forward roll onto his left shoulder The ball struck the ground, went between the goalie’s legs, and slammed into the net. Jake bounced to his feet at the same moment the ref called, “Goal!”

  The whistle blew. Jake stood, as he always did after a goal, holding his stick in his right hand, his head down. It was something his uncle had shown him long ago, an old salute to the Sun, the one who gives life and light to all things. The Sun loves to watch lacrosse being played well.

  “Thank you, Elder Brother,” Jake said softly. Then he dropped his stick down. He never held his pose for long. He didn’t do it to call attention to himself. It had just become as natural to him as cradling the ball or shooting. Now he was hardly aware that he gave his thanks that way. But Jake had done it enough times that others on his team knew it and had come to expect it.

  From his place on the bench, where he spent every game, Muhammad caught Jake’s eye and gave him a thumbs-up. Darris and John, who had each scored a goal, too, ran up to high-five Jake.

  “Fifth hat trick in five games,” Darris said as he slapped Jake’s hand and then hugged him. “Way to go, Super Chief!”

  “We’re gonna kill the league,” John yelled. “Yooooo! Weltimore rules!”

  “Okay, men,” Coach Scott called from the sidelines. He sounded happy. “Over here, bring it in.”

  Pushing Jake ahead of them, the two team captains joined the circle around their coach. Coach Scott held out his right hand, palm down. One after another, the Weltimore lacrosse players stacked their right hands on top of his. Tentatively, Jake added his hand. The coach looked around the circle of grinning faces, pausing just for a moment to nod at Jake. “Good game, men,” he rasped. “Radebaugh, great job in the net. Now let’s hear it!”

  “WAH WAH, WELTIMORE!

  WARRIORS WIN!

  WAH WAH, WELTIMORE!

  WIN AGAIN!”

  The team walked off the field after shaking hands with their opponents, who had lost 11 to 3. Kofi waved at Jake from the crowd. Jake raised his hand to him and nodded.

  Darris, who had kept his arm around Jake’s shoulder, leaned in to speak to him.

  “Hey, Chief,” Darris said.

  Jake winced a little. Chief. Super Chief. Somehow he’d gotten those two names. He didn’t know when or how, but once you were given a nickname on a school team, it was harder to get rid of than dried gum on the bottom of your sneakers. He’d thought of telling them that he didn’t like the names, that being a chief was a sacred thing and that he really wasn’t one. But he hadn’t been able to get the words out, mainly because he knew they didn’t mean to hurt his feelings.

  It was crazy, he thought, how so many of things they did to show him they liked him and approved of him instead made him feel so uncomfortable. Instead of making him feel included, they made him feel like more of an outsider. It was as if a glass wall was between him and the other kids on the team, and only he knew it was there.

  “Yes?” Jake said.

  “We were just wondering why you always do that after a goal. You know, raise your stick up with your head down like that?” Darris asked.

  “Yeah,” John said. “That some kind of Indian victory thing, like a war dance or something?”

  Jake’s face felt hot. His mouth seemed to be full of cotton. Somehow, though, he managed to keep the smile on his face and to speak.

  “No,” Jake said. “It’s just a way of saying thanks.”

  Darris laughed. “Thanks? Man, with the talent you got, you don’t gotta say thanks to nobody, Chief.”

  “No way, José,” John added, poking Jake playfully in the chest.

  Jake didn’t say anything. The smile was still on his face. But the glass wall was getting thicker.

  C H A P T E R T W E L V E

  RUNNING HOME

  JAKE WASN’T SURE how he was going to get through the school gate. It was almost always locked, open only when the cars and buses came through at the start of school and at the end of the day. Weltimore had two extra security guards in place to ensure the safety of the students and staff. Since the second week Jake had been at Weltimore, security had been dramatically increased. Even though the police had caught the two men who’d been randomly shooting people, the security stayed. Instead of feeling safer, Jake felt more like a prisoner.

  But, somehow, today he had to get out. He shifted the backpack over his shoulder and tried to walk as silently as a shadow down the main hall of the classroom building. He wasn’t sure why he had decided to do it this way. He could have made it easy for himself and have left the dorm while everyone was at breakfast. Jake didn’t even remember eating breakfast, but he knew he must have. He must have gotten dressed and eaten and gone to morning assembly and then to class, because here he was.

  His mind was all mixed up, filled with worry and uncertainty about everything
—except one thing. He knew he had to get back home. He had just received word about the accident, about Uncle Irwin getting hurt. Jake was told that the doctors weren’t sure that his uncle was going to survive. Jake knew he had to get home and see him.

  Somehow, Jake thought, if I can get home to see him, he’ll be okay.

  Jake remembered the story Grampa Sky had told him about Jim Thorpe, the Sac and Fox Indian who had been the world’s greatest athlete. Jim Thorpe had won the decathlon and pentathlon at the Olympic Games in Sweden in 1912. He’d played both professional baseball and football. Grampa Sky had known him. They hadn’t gone to Carlisle Indian School together—Grampa Sky wasn’t that old—but when Grampa Sky was a teenage boy, Jim Thorpe had come to their reservation one summer and had watched the young men play lacrosse. That day, even though the famous athlete was fifty-yearsold at the time, Jim Thorpe had rolled up his sleeves, taken off his shoes, and borrowed a lacrosse stick so he could play with them.

  “And he was a good lacrosse player,” Grampa Sky said. “Scored five goals in ten minutes!”

  At the end of the game, Jim Thorpe sat down and talked with Grampa Sky. Somehow he had heard that Grampa Sky was a Carlisle boy and that he was thinking about not going back for his last year at Carlisle. Just like Jake, Grampa Sky wanted to stay home. So Jim Thorpe told Grampa Sky a story. He told about how when he was first at an Indian boarding school, Haskell Institute, not Carlisle, he got word that his father had been shot in a hunting accident.

  “Even though my home in Oklahoma was hundreds of miles away from Haskell, way up there in Kansas,” Jim Thorpe said, resting his arm around Grampa Sky’s shoulder, “I just took off running. I didn’t pack no bag or look back. I just knew I had to get home.” Then Jim Thorpe laughed. “I was in such a hurry to get home that I ran a hundred miles in the wrong direction to start with. It took me two weeks to get home, and when I got there, my father was waiting for me, all recovered from that accident.”