by Janette Oke
Her eyes cast about for some way of escape. There was no use trying to run. She would be overtaken before she was beyond the first knoll.
Had she known how to pray, she would have prayed. She did not cry. Common sense told her that she needed to think. More clearly than she had ever thought before.
Her eyes swept the scene before her again—and then they lit upon her only hope of escape. The cistern.
It was not deep. She had drawn water from it many times. But should it be full, the water would be over her head. She had never learned to swim. Even if she was able to hang on to something, there would not be enough room for life-giving air if the water was anywhere near the top.
But it was her only hope. She ran toward it, hoping that the rope was there. At least that might give her something to cling to if the cistern was filled with water.
She managed to remove the heavy wooden cover, though desperation made her hands clumsy. The smoke was now so dense around her that she coughed as she struggled to pull the lid from the well. She groped for the twined rope. She could see nothing.
Ah. The rope. She grasped it tightly and swung herself over the edge. Her feet did not touch water. There would be room for air at the top.
She pushed off, hanging on to the rope with both hands, sliding down, down, and then the splash as she eventually reached water level.
She expected to sink until she was totally submerged. She clung more tightly to the rope in her hands. To her surprise she stopped short immediately after her feet had felt the cool water. She landed on the bottom in an awkward heap. As she pushed herself up to a sitting position, she found that the water was only a foot or so deep.
With relief she leaned back against the cold concrete and sucked in great draughts of air.
Above her the fire raged. She could hear the crackling of timbers as the small cabin was engulfed, then hungrily devoured. Man With The Book, she cried in the darkness, his home will be gone. And the church. The little church that he had worked so hard to build. The place where he met with others to worship his God. It would be gone as well. Why? Why had not his God protected it? Why must everything he had worked for be destroyed? It did not seem fair. Perhaps her people deserved punishment. They had deserted their ways, their gods, but the missionary had stayed firm and true. He had allowed nothing to sway him from the path he had taken. Why should his work all be lost?
Running Fawn buried her head in her arms and wept.
It was a strange sensation. The wetness of her sitting position seemed to be creeping up her body and pouring in on her head. But that was ridiculous. She knew that. Yet she could not deny the cold moisture that suddenly was wetting her hair and running down the sides of her cheeks. Surely her tears … No. Her tears had been warm. This was cold water. She turned her face upward. It was pouring rain.
Rain. With relief she leaned back against the cold concrete and shut her eyes. The rain would do nothing to ease her discomfort, but if it rained hard enough, for long enough, it would stop the advance of the hungry flames. If only it had come sooner. If only the missionary could have been spared.
Throughout the darkened hours she sat in the cool water, the prairie night seeming to send long, cold fingers down to the depths of the concrete cistern. She had long since quit her shivering. She was too cold to even feel the chill. Overhead there was still an occasional snap or crackle. Running Fawn guessed that the nearby cabin was still smoldering in spite of the rain that had passed.
Some smoke had seeped into the cistern, making her have occasional fits of coughing, but the strong wind had blown most of it in its wake. She really was quite unharmed. She had never climbed a rope before and was reluctant to attempt the concrete walls in the dark now.
She worried about her people. Her father. Crooked Moose and his expectant wife. Had they survived? She wondered where the missionary had been. Was he at the home of one of his parishioners? The Agent’s? Had he ridden to the fort? She hoped that wherever he was, he had not been caught in the path of the fire. She hated to think what awaited him at his return. Everything lost. Everything.
Later, it rained again. But rather than a wind-driven angry rain, this one was gentle. She even welcomed it as it fell upon her head and shoulders.
With the rain, the final crackling stopped. The smoke lessened. Looking up, Running Fawn thought that she might see traces of daylight through the still-heavy haze. It was time to leave the cistern.
With difficulty she pulled herself to her feet. The water sloshed about her legs. Her sodden buckskins felt weighted. She moved about cautiously, flexing aching muscles, working protesting limbs. When she felt that she was ready, she grasped tightly the strand of slippery rope and pulled it taut.
She braced herself and placed one wet foot against the side of the cistern. With the strength of her arms and upward motion of her feet, she began to propel herself slowly up the concrete side. It was working. It was difficult, but it was working. If she could just keep going, she would reach the top and be out in the open again.
Her tight body ached with each forced upward step. Her shoulders pained with the strain. The rope bit into the flesh of her hands with each inch.
She was almost to the top when she heard a sickening rending sound above her head and felt herself dropping through the air. With a splash she landed back in the water, a sharp pain searing through her ankle and shooting up her leg.
She was back where she had started. Only this time a broken rope dangled uselessly in her hands, and her ankle throbbed with pain from her fall. She would never get out now. Never. And no one knew where she was. No one would even think to look for her at the burned-out church site.
Even as panic gripped her, something deep inside told her not to give in to her circumstance. To struggle. To fight for survival. Dig your fingers in and climb, said the screaming inner voice. Climb. You must escape. You must. Climb—or you will die.
With great self-control she stilled the voices. Climb? She could not climb the concrete. Struggle? It would accomplish nothing but to wear her out. Fight? Yes, she would fight—but she must do it by her wits, not her strength.
She carefully drew herself to a sitting position, her painful ankle throbbing even in that motion. At least the cool water should help the swelling and the pain, she thought.
Think, she commanded herself as the wave of nausea from the pain gradually receded. Think.
What does one need to survive? Her early teaching served her well. Her father had reviewed the lesson with her and her siblings often when they were children.
Fresh air. She had plenty of that. With the top off the cistern she should not run out of an air supply. Still, she reminded herself that every now and then she should wave her arms just to keep the air circulating in the tank.
Water. She had that. She smiled wryly at the thought. This was the first she had ever sat in her water before drinking it. The thought both amused and repulsed her. But the water in the cistern did provide one of her most basic needs.
Food. There was no food. But the human body could survive for many days on water alone.
Warmth. It was cold in the cistern but not dangerously so. Only uncomfortable. And if the sun began to beat down again, it might warm up considerably during the day, even though it would certainly cool off in the night.
One more, she told herself. I know there is one more. Wits. That’s it. Her father had said one must keep one’s wits. Be able to think. Reason. Wits could be the most important factor of all. People with sufficient air had suffocated because of panic. People with water near had been known to die of thirst, people with a food supply at their fingertips had starved. Yes, she had to keep calm. Think. She must not allow herself to panic.
She felt better knowing that even though she was totally helpless, she could survive for some days in her present circumstance—providing she kept calm.
She remembered her flight from the mission school. Ignoring her capacity for reason had nearly cost her her life. Sh
e had disregarded the rules of her people and had not made sure she kept aware of the basic needs of her body. In her determination to return home as quickly as possible, her common sense had been depleted by the hot sun and lack of water. She had wandered aimlessly, not being able to think or to act rationally. She could have died on the open prairie. Her fault had been her haste. Her lack of patience.
Well, she would not be impatient now. She would not tire her body with senseless efforts. She would relax and wait for someone to come. Eventually someone would. She would listen for steps, for hoof beats. She would save her energy to call out for help at the proper moment.
For now, she would force herself to relax.
She leaned against the concrete behind her and told herself to think back—back—back—to when she was but a child and had stood in the forests, the song of the gurgling spring filling her ears and the coldness of the granite rock feeling cool and strong at her back.
Chapter Twenty-one
Release
It was a long time before Running Fawn was able to relax enough to sleep. When she awoke her body ached with cramped muscles, tightened by both her slumped position and the cold water. She struggled to her feet, the sudden shooting pain in her ankle reminding her vividly of her recent fall.
Bracing herself against the cold concrete, she began to work her limbs. First her stiff neck and shoulders, then her arms and upper body. There was little that she could do about her legs. The one hurt too much to move and the other was needed to support her upright position.
She lifted her head to peer upward. The sun was gone. Above her, stars sprinkled the evening sky. From her vantage point she could pick out two that were familiar. Her people had often used them as guides in their travels from site to site.
She missed the travels. She especially missed their winter camp. She had loved the mountains. Their coolness. Their freshness. The song of the birds. The ripple of the stream. The closeness of the towering pines and spruce. She missed it all.
She missed her mother. The woman whose efficient hands were always at work over the fire or dressing the hides, providing for her needs and her safe-keeping. The woman whose dark eyes held gentle smiles and genuine care for her. She missed her mother.
In the stillness of the prairie night, with the dim stars way above her head and her body aching from the dampness,
Running Fawn lowered herself to her watery seat and wept once again.
With the coming of a new day Running Fawn scooped up a handful of water and lifted it to her lips. She had to drink, even if she did not welcome the source. Her body needed the moisture, even though she felt sodden from the outside in.
It looked like it would be a bright, warm day. Running Fawn tried to get her thoughts organized for what lay ahead. Above all, she needed to stay alert. Someone might come to the burned-out site. She had to be listening for the sound of steps, ready to call out when she heard any stirring. Once the damage had been surveyed, maybe no one would come again.
All through the hours of the morning she strained for sound. A meadowlark sang nearby. Running Fawn wondered if he was mourning the loss of his nest—calling for his mate. But there was no answering call.
She heard a hawk. She saw him high in the sky, circling, circling, and she imagined his bright eyes alert to movement of any little creature on the ground. She wondered why he didn’t move on. Surely he knew that all life of any small prey had already been taken.
Other than the bird life there was total silence. All through the morning hours and on into the afternoon.
The sun moved on, its rays reaching the side of the concrete above her head. She wished she could stretch up. Could lift herself so that the warmth would fall on her back, her shoulders, her aching limbs. She watched as the bright spot shifted, faded, and then was gone.
Again she drank, cupping her hands to hold the wetness, lifting the moisture to her mouth and feeling it drip off the end of her chin. Again and again she dipped her hands and held them to her lips. It was not like drinking from a fresh mountain stream. The water tasted—of what? She was not sure. Staleness? Her buckskins? She tossed the last cupped handful aside. She had taken enough. It was not pleasing.
Gradually the brightness faded from the sky. A coyote announced the close of another day. In the distance another answered. A low, baying, full-throated call. It sounded mournful on the still evening air. Silently she wished them well on their hunt. They undoubtedly had a den of cubs that needed feeding.
She felt weary, but she was not sure if her discomfort would allow her rest. I must sleep, she told herself. If I do not sleep during the night, I will be drowsy during the warmth of the day and might miss someone’s coming. She made herself as comfortable as she could up against the concrete structure at her back and tried to close her eyes. But sleep did not come.
The stars appeared. Bright and flickering in the sky. An owl cried out in the night, causing her to shiver. She remembered the story of her people. If the owl called your name, it meant that death was near. Had the owl spoken her name in its crying? She shivered again. She did not wish to die. She longed for light and warmth and people. All that gave meaning to living. And if not living, then she longed for peace and consolation in dying. She was not ready to die. Not with her heaviness of heart. She had forsaken the old ways of her people. She had denied her gods. Were she to meet them now, they would not be pleased with what she had become. Should she try to make amends? Was there a way to get back in their good graces? She did not know. The ceremonies. The rituals. They could not be performed in the bottom of a well. She had no eagle’s feather. No ceremonial shawl. Nothing. Nothing. But what if … what if it was as the missionary said? What if it was as her father now believed? And Silver Fox? What if the Christian’s God was the one whom she must face after death? If only she knew. If only she had some sign. Some omen. But the missionary said that the omens of her people were to be disregarded. How then did his God speak? Through the Black Book. But she had no Black Book. Through a silent message to the soul of man, he had said. To the heart. You will know in your heart, he had assured her. It will be stilled, comforted. It no longer will cry for peace. It will be calm, like the loon chick riding securely on its mother’s back through the waves of the storm.
Did it really work so simply—so well? She wished she knew. She longed for inner peace. You need to pray, the chaplain of the mission school had informed them. God will hear your prayer.
She wished that she knew how to pray. For the first time in her young life she felt that she would be willing to call out to the Christian God.
When the third day dawned, Running Fawn felt so cramped that it was difficult to pull her body to an upright position. Her injured ankle was so stiff and swollen that she could not even force it into motion.
Again she went through her little routine of loosening the muscles of her neck and shoulders, arms and torso. Again she forced herself to drink of the water. Again she lifted her eyes upward, judging the time of day by the position of the sun. She must be alert. She must be ready.
Hour after hour the sun shifted its overhead position. Hour after hour Running Fawn lifted her head, watching the slow movement of the rays on the side of the concrete above her. Midday. Afternoon. Soon the sun would be sinking back to relax in the arms of the distant hills after another long, heat-giving journey.
Her heart felt as heavy as her drenched buckskins. She was about to give up and settle herself for another cold night alone when she felt she heard a stirring. Somewhere out there in the open, something was moving about.
Perhaps it was a deer or an antelope that had come looking for water. Maybe it was a coyote sniffing through the ruins of the cabin. But she was sure that she had heard something.
Quickly she pulled her uncooperative body to an upright position, tilted back her head and cried, “Help,” as loudly as she could. There was no response.
“Help,” she cried again. The one word echoed back at her, bouncing off the
concrete walls.
She listened. Still no footsteps to indicate that anyone had heard and was moving toward the cistern.
She mustered all her strength, braced herself against the concrete structure, and called again. “Help.”
Silence.
It must have been an animal, she concluded, deeply disappointed. Her voice had frightened it away.
She slumped back down into a sitting position, her back against the coolness. She could no longer make herself pretend that the firmness that pressed against her was the cool granite stone of the mountain camp.
From overhead a voice called down, its loudness in the silence startling her, “Halloo. Anybody there?”
She jerked upright, her head tilting back to see who was above her, bumping hard against the concrete. “Yes,” she cried before the person could move away. “Yes—I am down here.”
There was some surprised murmuring. Running Fawn heard English words. Then there was a loud shout. “Parson. Parson—I found the girl. She’s down here. The cistern.”
Running Fawn sank back into the water. They had come. She was saved. She laid her head on the arms across her pulled-up knees and let all of her pent-up emotions escape in quiet sobs.
“Running Fawn. Are you all right?”
Running Fawn recognized the voice of Reverend Forbes. She willed herself to stop her trembling, to wipe away the trace of her tears. “I am well,” she called back with a faltering voice.
“Thank God,” came the intense response.
There was some anxious discussion, then he called again.
“We will throw down a rope. Can you manage it?”
“I … I think so,” she responded, her voice trembling.
More discussion.
“I am coming down,” called the missionary. “Stand aside.”
