The Drums of Change

by Janette Oke

  Running Fawn, known in the school as Martha, did not call out his name either. But inwardly she gloried each time he bested the other boys. He was particularly skilled in running, and won most of the events in that sport. He also placed in the discus and outthrew all the boys with the javelin. Running Fawn felt pride—not personally, but for her people. Suddenly she felt challenged to prove her race superior. Perhaps she should not withdraw from the sports events. She was sure that she could do as well as the other girls. Maybe even better. Perhaps, for the sake of her people, she should become involved in the white man’s sports. There was honor at stake. She should have realized it earlier. She would help Silver Fox uphold the dignity of their people.

  From then on Running Fawn allowed herself to be drawn into the games and physical activities. The girls soon realized that whenever she played, she played well and played to win. This was a matter that caused discord when they played against one another in their own schoolyard, but changed quickly whenever they played against another school. Then Running Fawn was not just pushed to the front and cheered on, she was expected to win for the student body. Then the honor was not hers—it was theirs. Running Fawn found the whole thing confusing. How could girls who normally turned their backs when she entered a room suddenly begin cheering loudly when she competed against other schools? It did not make a bit of sense to the young Indian girl.

  Nor did she understand their anger when she occasionally failed to win one of those competitions.

  “What happened? Why didn’t you try harder? You could have won.” These comments came her way on the playing field or in the quietness of the dorm later that night.

  Running Fawn soon learned that though she may not have sought it, she had taken on the responsibility of representing their school in all sporting events. But inwardly she was not representing them, she was representing her people. When she won, it was for Blackfoot honor. When she failed to win, it was not because she had not given it her best. She would willingly die before she would disgrace her Indian blood—her heritage.

  She did not attempt to explain this, for they would not have understood anyway.

  “You did really good.”

  The words were spoken by Marilee, a girl who shared Running Fawn’s table at mealtime and dorm room at night. Apart from necessary polite exchanges, they had not spoken to each other, though the girl had offered tentative smiles on a few occasions. Marilee seemed as shy and withdrawn as Running Fawn herself, so the few brief words of affirmation after the track meet came as a suprise to the young Blackfoot.

  Running Fawn’s eyes lifted to the blue eyes before her. She saw the uncertain smile flicker briefly. She nodded in recognition of the compliment but did not respond further.

  She was not sure of the meaning in those few words. Was the white girl simply making a statement—or offering friendship?

  Running Fawn nodded again and paused for a moment to try to better understand the approach. Marilee did not move away.

  “Would you like to play catch after supper?” the white girl asked, still in the same shyly quiet voice.

  Running Fawn shook her head. “I have to work in the kitchen,” she answered, relieved for the excuse. A look of disappointment filled the blue eyes.

  As Running Fawn moved away she puzzled over the brief encounter. The girl seemed genuinely friendly. Perhaps, just perhaps, she should have been more responsive.

  But even as the thought crossed her mind, she felt herself withdraw. She wasn’t sure of the ways of the white people. Of the motives. She must be guarded. Must not reach out too eagerly. It was wise to be cautious.

  That evening Marilee offered Running Fawn a cookie from the box her mother had sent. Marilee had also offered a cookie to each of the other girls in the dorm room, and they exclaimed and smacked their lips in appreciation. Running Fawn inwardly longed to taste the treat, but she shook her head and retreated silently to her little bed and picked up the book she had brought from the library. As she did each night, she would read until it was time to turn the lights out.

  She was quite aware of the good-natured chatter that went on in the room, but she tried hard to block it out.

  When she peeked around the opened book, she saw the other girls lounging about the room in their long nighties as they chattered about frivolous things—all except for Marilee. Marilee was also already in her bed, her own book opened before her.

  Over the days that followed, Running Fawn was invited to share various activities, not only by Marilee but from other girls as well. Running Fawn always carefully assessed each situation. If it was a game they were playing, a sporting event, she would gladly take part. If it was something of a more intimate nature, she declined with a shake of her head. Never did she feel comfortable entering into their light and lively conversations.

  So she held herself apart—part of their world, but always an outsider. They seemed to accept her on her own terms. Including her in their playground activities, leaving her out of their girlish conversations.

  Running Fawn could not have expressed it, but the shy yet warm smiles that Marilee sent her way were important to her well-being. She watched for them, and in her heart she considered the young girl her friend.

  Chapter Ten

  A Visitor

  After what seemed like years of being away from her own people, the school term came up to the Christmas holidays. Running Fawn breathed a deep sigh of relief as she watched excited classmates pack their things in little rectangular valises and ready themselves for the arrival of their folks. Running Fawn couldn’t understand all the fuss about Christmas, but she wished she could pack too. Her heart beat faster at the mere thought of seeing family and home again. She would be only too glad to leave behind the strange pale faces and jeers from the other girls along with the snowy white shirtwaists, gray pleated skirts, and unfamiliar undergarments.

  She went looking for Miss Brooke to inquire about her own clothing, but it was Miss Brooke who found her instead.

  “There you are,” she said cheerily. “I’ve been looking for you. Mrs. Nicholson would like to see you in her office.”

  Perhaps she is going to tell me where to find my things, thought Running Fawn. She hurried after Miss Brooke, who was leading the way down the hall with long strides.

  “Martha. Come in, my dear,” Mrs. Nicholson greeted her. “Have a seat.” She indicated the chair across the desk from her own.

  Running Fawn knew this was more than the whereabouts of her possessions if she was to sit down. She did so woodenly, then lowered her head to stare at motionless hands in her lap.

  “I suppose you have heard all the commotion about Christmas vacation?” asked Mrs. Nicholson.

  Running Fawn nodded.

  “We always take a bit of a break this time of year before starting second term.”

  Running Fawn did not even bother to nod again.

  “We have decided that you and Silver Fox will stay on over Christmas. There really is no way to transport you—home, with winter storms being so unpredictable and all.…” Her voice trailed off as Running Fawn sat motionless.

  The woman smiled pleasantly, not seeming to notice the alarmed expression in Running Fawn’s eyes, as she continued. “Staff will care for you here. They are all quite willing to share the responsibility. This will be new for us. We have never had students stay over the holiday before. But … it seems to be the best solution.”

  Running Fawn slowly looked up from the fingers in her lap. No, her mind shouted, no, it isn’t the best. I want to see my people. My mother. She will have a new baby by now. I haven’t seen it. I don’t even know if it is a boy or a girl. I need to go home. I need to.

  But she did not speak. She merely nodded her head, while her heart broke with longing to return home to those she loved.

  Mrs. Nicholson’s smile widened. “Well, then,” she said, “I guess it is all cared for.” She stood, indicating the interview was concluded.

  Running Fawn struggled
to her feet and left the room without so much as a further glance at the head matron. There was nothing she could say or do. She allowed herself to be shepherded back to her dorm room, now vacant of other girls.

  “We will be able to teach you all sorts of special chores over the vacation time,” Miss Brooke enthused. “Mrs. Nicholson said that I might show you how to do the laundry and polish the silverware.”

  Running Fawn did not respond. Miss Brooke added, “And if things go well, they might even let you learn to use the sewing machine.”

  Running Fawn tried hard to swallow away the lump that persisted in trying to choke her. Miss Brooke was trying to cheer her, she realized that—but nothing could take away her deep hurt in being kept from her people.

  When spring rolled around and the students were getting ready to leave for the summer months at term end, Running Fawn was a bit more prepared when she was called to Mrs. Nicholson’s office again. The story was the same. It was wisest for her and Silver Fox to stay on. There would be special lessons, just for them, over the summer months. Advanced work for Silver Fox to bring him up to the standard of the boys his own age who had been in school since their early years, and lessons in homemaking for Running Fawn. Sorrowfully she conceded, though she could not keep her eyes from drifting frequently to the southeast. Somewhere out there on the plains, her people lived. She wondered if they even remembered her or if she had been totally forgotten, totally given to the white man’s world.

  “Hello.” The one word of greeting was spoken in English, and then the speaker repeated the greeting in the Blackfoot language. Running Fawn’s head came up. It was so long since she had heard the soft, melodic tones of her native tongue.

  Silver Fox stood before her, a wooden-handled hoe in his hands.

  “So we are to keep the garden,” he commented. “That is good. When we return you will know more about making the plants grow.”

  The brief reference to the little garden Running Fawn had planted on the Reserve both pleased and upset her. For some reason, she was glad that Silver Fox remembered her small plot of ground, yet saddened as she thought again of its loss along with everything else that was important to her.

  She nodded now and turned back to her weeding.

  “Do you like working the garden?” he persisted.

  “Better than working the iron,” replied Running Fawn shortly. She looked up quickly and caught a smile on his lips.

  “It is silly work, the ironing,” hissed Running Fawn. “Why take out the wrinkles with a hot iron in the heat of the day, when they will be back as soon as the clothes are worn?”

  Silver Fox laughed outright.

  He laid the hoe on the ground and knelt down to Running Fawn’s level. For a time he was silent, lifting handfuls of fine soil and letting it sift through his open fingers.

  “Do you like it here, now?”

  The personal question, spoken in a low and guarded manner, made Running Fawn wonder how much he knew, how much he had guessed about her feelings.

  She slowly shook her head, not raising her eyes to his.

  The silence settled between them. Running Fawn kept on with her weeding.

  At length he spoke again. “I want to learn as much as I can. This is a new world. I do not want my people to … to be left behind. We can help them—with our knowledge. We can teach them how to survive—without the buffalo. We can bring them medicines. Food. Implements for farming. They can only use them—if they have the knowledge.”

  He was so earnest that Running Fawn could not any longer refrain from looking into his face—his fathomless dark eyes. He really meant his words, she could see that, and for the moment he convinced her that he was right. She longed to believe that these days of loneliness and sacrifice would bring something of benefit to her people.

  The face of Silver Fox was intense, the flashing dark eyes filled with passion. She wanted to believe him—whatever he spoke.

  “Running Fawn,” he said, and the use of her Indian name sounded sweet to her ears, like she had just been given back a very part of herself, “we are the first ones to go to school. We need to prove that we can be students—learn. So we can teach—our people.”

  She nodded silently. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps they had a duty to perform. A duty toward their people.

  But she hoped with all her heart that the days would pass quickly. She was so anxious to go home.

  In the fall three more Indian students were brought to the school. They were from the Blood tribe, but all part of the larger Blackfoot Nation. There were two boys whom she gave little attention and one girl, slightly younger than herself. Running Fawn did not recognize them from any of their joint campsites in the past.

  Running Fawn could see in the young girl’s eyes the same fears, the same confusion that she herself had felt when she first entered the doors of the school. But by now she could go through all the proper motions, doing her work and living her life, taking her place at the table and sleeping in the white-sheeted bed, as though she had been living in such a manner all her life. Inwardly, though, she had never totally adjusted. She held a certain resentment toward the white man. Her ways were just as good. No—in many instances, they were better. Much better. Not so rigid, so confining. One could breathe more easily, walk more quietly, stand with greater comfort in the clothing of her people. And one could sleep much more soundly bundled in warm wool blankets and buffalo robes, snuggled up against the back of another family member. She still didn’t care much for some of the ways of the white man.

  When introduced to the new girl, who would be called Esther, she stepped forward and held out a welcoming hand. She did not want the trembling youngster to go through the same fearful experiences that she herself had faced. The very first thing she would do when they were alone would be to explain to the young girl how white people took a bath.

  March 16, 1884

  Dear Christian Brothers,

  I have cause for great rejoicing but also deep heaviness of heart. There has finally been a spiritual breakthrough, at least to some degree. Five believers are now meeting at my humble dwelling for Sunday Bible study and worship. However, they do come with some trepidation, as their chief still has not made known whether he favors the action. If only he would take a stand for the Gospel! I am sure most of his people would follow.

  For these few, I am most thankful to God. I feel confident now that in the near future the rest of the band will understand the message that I seek to bring.

  There have been good reports, both in academics and deportment, from the boarding school where our two best students are in attendance. They also have done well in the sports activities, but they still seem hesitant to embrace the Gospel. We must be diligent in prayer on their behalf.

  But the greatest concern for me at the moment is the health of my people. It seems that the last few months have brought one epidemic after another. First whooping cough passed through the entire Reserve, taking many of the young and a few of the elderly as well. Then, when the people were most unable to resist, influenza struck, taking many more. Now we realize that we are in the midst of a fight against tuberculosis. In spite of the efforts of the Agent and help from the North West Mounted Police, there is little in the way of medicine. We have used up all our supplies, and so much more is needed. I have done what I could, nursing those where I am able and giving out the little bit of rations and cures that I am able to obtain, but it is so little against such a great need.

  I have now decided that I must make a trip to the city to see if I can find some help for the people. It will not be an easy undertaking, as the spring winds are still bringing in periodic snowstorms and traveling is difficult. Two Hawk, one of the young men from the tribe, has said that he is willing to travel with me, and the chief is allowing me the use of one of his horses. I will leave at sunup.

  Your humble servant,

  Martin Forbes

  “Martha,” Miss Brooke said, coming into the kitchen where Running F
awn helped prepare the evening meal, “you have a visitor. Mrs. Nicholson says you are to be excused from your duties to go to her office.”

  Running Fawn untied her apron and hung the checkered covering on the hook provided. A frown creased her usually smooth brow. Who would be coming to see her? Was Silver Fox asking for some kind of meeting? But why?

  As she entered the room she noticed that it was a white man who occupied the chair across from Mrs. Nicholson. A white man she did not know. He stood to his feet when she entered the room, a slight smile lighting his face.

  “Running Fawn,” he greeted her in her own tongue. “You have grown.”

  Running Fawn stared at the man. It was the missionary. He was so thin that his garments hung loosely on his tall frame. He had grown a beard, and his face looked older—older and darkened, and there was a sadness in the blue eyes that once had glinted with enthusiasm.

  Running Fawn stood at the entrance to the room, taking in his appearance, trying to hold back a rush of questions about her people. He turned back to the matron and spoke again, his words in the language of the Blackfoot.

  “May Running Fawn and I have some time together, please?”

  The woman looked confused. “I’m afraid you must speak to me in English,” she answered, and the man flushed and begged her pardon.

  “Please,” he repeated in English, “is there a place where I might talk with Running Fawn and Silver Fox?” he asked the woman.

  “Certainly. Miss Brooke, show the Reverend to the library office. I’ll send Thomas in to join you, Reverend, as soon as he arrives.”