The Drums of Change

by Janette Oke

  “Thank you, matron,” the man acknowledged with appreciation.

  Running Fawn turned to follow Miss Brooke to the small office the matron had indicated. The missionary paused a moment more.

  “I do hate to impose, matron,” he said in an apologetic tone, “but we have much to speak of. Would it be a dreadful inconvenience for our meal to be sent to the office as well?”

  For one moment the matron looked unsure, then she smiled pleasantly and nodded. “I’ll have a tray brought to you,” she agreed.

  “Thank you,” the missionary replied. “I would hate to delay your supper hour or cause disruption in the dining room.”

  The matron nodded.

  As soon as they had been shown to the library office, the missionary switched back to the tongue of the Blackfoot.

  “How are you, Running Fawn?” His voice held such care that she wanted to weep.

  “I … I am doing well.” With head lowered.

  “You have grown. You look so different … in the … the school uniform.”

  “I feel different.” She raised her eyes to meet his penetrating gaze. He did not speak further for a time while he searched her face.

  “Has it been difficult?” His words were gentle. She again lowered her gaze to stare down at her stiff leather shoes laced above her ankles. She did not speak. It was not necessary.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in a whisper. “I hoped it would … be all right for you … here.”

  The door opened quietly and Miss Brooke ushered Silver Fox into the room to join them. The young man greeted him joyfully.

  “Look at you,” exclaimed the missionary, pushing the young man back to arm’s length and measuring him with his eye. “You are nearly as tall as I.”

  Silver Fox nodded, his smile full of quiet pride.

  “How is school?”

  “I am learning much.” The reply came in English. Running Fawn wondered if Silver Fox now despised his native tongue, had forgotten it, or was merely showing off for the benefit of the white man.

  “Good. Good.”

  But then Silver Fox quickly switched back to his own language. Maybe the one reply had simply been a subconscious response to a white man.

  “How are things with our people? Do you have any news?” The questions quickly poured out, one on the heels of the other. “Are they keeping well? My father? Is he well? Have the people learned to make good crops?” With each new query, the eyes of the missionary seemed to darken.

  “I do not bring … good news,” he finally said when Silver Fox stopped for breath.

  At the expression that crossed the face of the young man, he hurried on. “Your father is well. I saw him just before I left. He sent greetings.

  “Others have not fared so well,” the missionary explained after Silver Fox looked relieved. “That is why I have come to the city. To find medicine to take back to our people. There has been much sickness. Much.”

  Running Fawn, who had been quietly observing the exchange, suddenly stepped forward, fear gripping her heart.

  “My mother?” she asked through stiff lips.

  The missionary turned to her, his expression full of surprise.

  “You have not heard?” He looked at her with deep concern and sympathy. She could only stare at him.

  “I am sorry,” was all he said.

  The iciness within her crept upward, numbing her, chilling her very being. She could not move, could not speak. She was aware that the eyes of the missionary and Silver Fox were both fastened on her, but she could not respond.

  “I am sorry,” the missionary said again in a whisper, and his hand reached out to rest on her shoulder.

  Silver Fox finally asked the questions she could not form. “When?”

  “With the first snows of winter.”

  “What happened?”

  “She was not strong. The new baby became sick with the whooping cough. She could not save him. Then she also took the illness.”

  So the new baby had been a boy. Her mother would have been so proud to have borne another son. A new flood of sorrow passed through her.

  “And her father?” asked Silver Fox.

  “He mourns.”

  Silver Fox nodded.

  “Crooked Moose—and Little Brook. And Bright Star?”

  “Crooked Moose and Little Brook are well.”

  So she also had lost her little brother, her mother’s little pet, in the epidemic. She felt that she could not bear the pain that filled her spirit.

  “Little Brook has her own fire,” went on the missionary. Running Fawn lifted her eyes at the news that her sister had moved to another’s tepee.

  “Who?” asked Silver Fox with interest. “Who has won her hand?”

  Man With The Book smiled. “He is from one of the other bands,” he informed them. “They met at the well. He was watering his horses. She was drawing water for the cooking pot. His name is Tall Man.”

  There was a sound at the door, and young Esther brought in the tray with their supper.

  Running Fawn tried to take a bit of the meal but found it hard to swallow. She sat and toyed with her food, pushing it back and forth on her plate while the missionary and Silver Fox continued to talk as they ate. She wished she could give her plate to the missionary. He looked like he could make good use of additional nourishment.

  Running Fawn’s mother was gone. Her little brother Bright Star and the baby brother she had never seen. Little Brook was now another’s wife. Caring for her own fire, her own cooking pot. Who was looking after her father in his sorrow? Running Fawn felt a grief that she could not have expressed. And no one seemed to fully understand her feeling of loss, or the intense homesickness that overcame her heart.

  Chapter Eleven

  Striking Out

  All the students had gone home for the summer months except the Indian young people. Little Flower—Esther as she had been named by the faculty—had left earlier because of illness. Mrs. Nicholson feared that she might be coming down with something communicable, and had her taken home by one of the school’s staff. Running Fawn secretly thought that the real problem with the young girl was homesickness. This “disease of the heart” she could understand.

  The two young boys who had joined the school that year seemed to be doing fine. Silver Fox had introduced them to dormitory life, and they also worked in the gardens and looked to be quite settled. Running Fawn kept to herself. Her grief over the loss of her mother and brothers was buried deep in her soul, and the fact that her father had no one to care for him, to prepare his food, to carry water for his needs, nagged at her.

  Man With The Book had been successful in his mission to obtain more medicine for the Reserve. He had canvassed the city—doctors’ offices in particular—and managed to put together a substantial supply. Armed with the drugs and as much food as he could gather, he hired a wagon and left again for the Reserve. Running Fawn ached to go with him but dared not voice her request.

  Running Fawn looked forward to resuming her responsibilities in the garden, but before she could take up her trowel she was informed that with three boys to care for the garden, her help would not be needed there. She would work in the kitchen honing her cooking skills.

  She was also assigned ironing duties. Although she did not like the task, she did a fine job of pressing cotton shirts and bed linens. She became so adept that she was even advanced to some of the finer clothing of the ladies on the staff.

  The hot days of summer monotonously followed each other like matching beads on a string. Running Fawn had little to look forward to with the dawning of each new day. The three boys had one another’s company and spent many hours tossing a ball or playing on the tennis courts, a sport they all were beginning to enjoy. Running Fawn was alone, except for staff women who were much her senior. When she finished the day’s assignments there was little to fill the time until the next day began.

  “Martha, you need something to fill your evening hours,” Miss Brooke
kindly observed one day. “Would you like some needlework?”

  Running Fawn was not particularly interested in needlework. At least not the type the white ladies busied themselves with as they sat by their fire in the evenings. She shook her head.

  “Would you like to read? I am sure Mrs. Nicholson wouldn’t object to your using the library.”

  The thought was a pleasing one and Running Fawn was quick to seize it. “Reading would be nice,” she agreed.

  From then on the key to the library was placed where Running Fawn had access to it. Night after night she spent her hours with books.

  “Running Fawn.”

  The young girl lifted her head and looked for the voice that spoke her Indian name.

  “Over here.” Silver Fox stood beneath the porch where Running Fawn sat with her book on her lap. She acknowledged his presence with a slight nod.

  “I’ve news from the village,” he continued.

  Running Fawn stood quickly to her feet, her book forgotten in her hands.

  “What news?” she asked eagerly as she took the steps down to the sidewalk.

  “How did you get news?” she continued as she advanced toward Silver Fox.

  “Eagle Claw was here. He just came from the Reserve. Man With The Book is ill. My father sent Eagle Claw for medicine.”

  “What is wrong?” asked Running Fawn, and was surprised at how deeply the information troubled her. Hearing of his illness, she realized just how much he had tried to help her people.

  “They do not know. My father wanted him to go to a white man’s doctor, but he is too ill to travel.”

  Running Fawn could not find words to respond. She knew that if the young missionary died, the band would indeed bear a great loss.

  “Has Eagle Claw returned to our village?”

  “Yes, he started back immediately.”

  “Why … why did he come here?” asked Running Fawn.

  “To inform the mission. My father said that the white missionary needed his own people to pray. Perhaps the Great God of the white man would choose to spare him.”

  Running Fawn’s eyes widened in astonishment. “Do you believe that?” she asked.

  “I do not know,” answered the young man slowly. “Perhaps.” He hesitated. “Sometimes I think it is so—that the white man’s God is real. Is right. And then I wonder.”

  Deep in thought for a while, at last he spoke again.

  “If they are right,” he observed carefully, “then our traditions—our beliefs about the spirit gods—are wrong.”

  “Our people are not wrong,” she contested hotly. “We have served the same gods for generations. They would not leave us now.”

  “Perhaps they already have,” Silver Fox said, lowering his gaze sadly.

  He then lifted his eyes to her face. “Eagle Claw also had another message,” he said, and she noticed a softness in his voice. “One I was to bring to you.”

  Running Fawn waited.

  “I’m sorry. Your father also is ill.”

  “I must go to my father,” Running Fawn said, her voice quiet yet determined.

  “I’m sorry. I know how you must feel, and I wish … I wish there was some way for us to get you home. But the men are all away right now. There is no one to take you to the Reserve. I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Nicholson.

  “I can go—”

  “Oh no. You must not even think of such a thing. The trail is long and difficult—even for a man with horses. You would never make it alone.”

  “Please … please … perhaps Silver Fox would travel with me.”

  “That wouldn’t be at all proper.”

  Proper? Running Fawn could not understand why traveling back to their own people would not be proper.

  “The menfolk will be back in a week or so. We will see what can be done then,” comforted Mrs. Nicholson. “Perhaps by then your father will be well again and the long trip will not be necessary.”

  Perhaps by then he will be dead, was Running Fawn’s silent but desperate response.

  “I have been told that another supply of medicines has just been procured for the Reserve,” the lady added. “Your father will be in good hands. Reverend Forbes—”

  “Reverend Forbes is also ill,” cut in Running Fawn, her agitation making her careless about her manners.

  “Reverend Forbes? Oh, my. How ill?” said the woman, concern in her face.

  “Very ill,” responded Running Fawn. “Chief Calls Through The Night sent one of the men for medicine.”

  “Oh, my,” said the woman again. “We must have special prayers—”

  “Yes—I was to tell you. Silver Fox brought the word. The chief wished for the mission to pray.”

  “Does that mean that the chief has become a believer?” asked Mrs. Nicholson, enthusiasm in her voice, though concern still showed in her expression.

  “A believer?”

  “In God.”

  Running Fawn shook her head. “We have our own gods,” she replied evenly.

  “But—” began the woman and then stopped. Running Fawn knew she was a big disappointment to the faculty. In spite of their teaching, their prayers, their earnest desires, she would not accept their God.

  Running Fawn turned to go, her head up proudly.

  “Martha,” the woman called softly after her.

  Running Fawn turned slightly, her head still up.

  “Do you … do you mind if we include your father … in our prayers?” the woman asked gently.

  For one moment Running Fawn stared at the face of the woman. She saw only love and concern there. Not contempt or ridicule. At last she nodded.

  “If you wish,” was all she said as she left to go to her room.

  All through the long hours of the night and into the next day, Running Fawn worried about her father, her thoughts circling back to the same place. She should be there. She should. He needed her to care for him. He did not even have the help of the missionary. The white man also was sick. Why did this strange man stay with her people? Why had he not left them after the buffalo were no longer? After all the illnesses had smitten the little band? Why had he not gone back to his own—to the comforts of the white man’s lodge?

  It was a puzzle to Running Fawn. She knew she would not stay with the white man if the situation were reversed. Were she free to go, she would leave immediately. Without a moment’s hesitation.

  I am free, came the startling thought. I am not a prisoner. I am not bound. I can go. I will go!

  Running Fawn’s head whirled into motion with plans. She needed supplies—yet she had nothing, and she would not steal. She really did not know the way—she would have to count on her instincts alone to guide her. She could not run off with the clothing that belonged to the school—yet she did not know where her own had been taken, and if she had them they doubtless would no longer fit. She had been a much younger, smaller girl when she had been brought to the boarding school almost two years earlier.

  What could she do?

  At last she concluded the only thing was for her to borrow from the school. She would leave a note, explaining her dilemma. She would promise to pay back her debt at the earliest opportunity. Surely there would be some way to clear her obligation in the future. She could not wait for the men to return. She had to get to her father.

  Late that night Running Fawn stripped the pillowcase from her pillow and crept soundlessly toward the kitchen. The first thing she placed in her makeshift sack was a length of kitchen cord. She had no thongs to help her with her journey, so the cord would have to do. She placed a small loaf of bread in the pillowcase. Only one—she would allow herself no more. She sliced one wedge of cheese, carefully noting the portion size. She should have meat for strength on the journey, but there was none that was properly prepared. The cheese would have to do. After hiding the case with its contents in the bushes by the rear entrance, she returned to her room and took one blanket from the bed, then sat down to write her note to the matron.


  “Please forgive me,” the note said, “but I must see my father. He needs me. I cannot wait. I will pay you back for all that I have taken as soon as I am able.” Following the statement was an itemized listing of all that she had that was not properly hers. The list was a lengthy one. She included the oxford shoes, the white shirtwaist, and the gray skirt.

  Quickly she changed her mind and hurried to remove the school uniform she was wearing, arranging the blanket about her body in a long, loose robe. She would need the shoes, she decided. Her feet no longer were used to the hard rocks of the trails. She scratched the clothing items from her list, glad that she would not have so much to repay at a later date. Carefully folding the articles that were to be left behind, she laid them on her empty bed. She wished she would have had time to wash and iron each piece, but she could not delay her departure. Casting a last glance about the room, she left as quietly as the hard-soled shoes would allow.

  Once outside the building, she retrieved her case and its food supply from the bushes and started off. Overhead the moon dipped in and out of scattered clouds. She wished she had its continual light to help her on her way. She needed to get her bearings. To decide how best to untangle herself from the streets of the city. Once in the open, she was sure she would be able to find her way home.

  She was not sure of the path she should take, nor how many days she would be on the trail, but she was sure of one thing. She was going home.

  It seemed to take forever for her to put the maze of crisscrossing streets behind her, but at last she was out on the open prairie. By the time she passed the last buildings and turned her face eastward, the morning sun was beginning to scatter bits of pink and gold across the distant horizon. She felt more confident now. The rising sun was just where she had expected it to be. With long, steady strides she set out in a southeasterly direction. That was where the Reserve and her village lay. There she would find her father—if she was in time.

  She had not gone far when the shoes began to cut into her feet. What had seemed reasonably comfortable as she walked the halls or worked in the kitchen now became most uncomfortable. One spot on her heel was burning dreadfully.