Red Wolf struggled to focus on the tip of the finger that was moving closer and closer to his face. And then it happened — he felt himself stretching upward, growing taller and thinner until he was looking down on the man’s bald head. He saw sweat gleaming there.
“— don’t make my job more difficult, or you’ll be sorry.”
Red Wolf floated peacefully. Beneath him, the man’s meaty fist engulfed the fragile hand of a small boy, a boy whose eyes were wide with fear. Red Wolf noticed the whiskers that sprouted from the man’s ears. They were the colour of autumn leaves and he thought it strange that Mister Hall had orange hair on his ears, but none on his head. He wondered if the hair of white-skins changed colour in the autumn and fell from their heads like the leaves fall from the trees.
The man’s demeanour softened, his mouth stretching into a grin. “But if you behave yourself, you’ll be just fine.”
Red Wolf slid back into his own moccasins, but he felt no reassurance from the man’s words, and no comfort from the man’s smile. The grey-blue eyes did not twinkle with warmth and kindness like those of The People. And, as Mister Hall led him along the corridor, he felt something he had never felt before: dread.
“This is your house-mother, your wiigwam mother,” Mister Hall said, speaking loudly in stilted Algonquian. “She’s my wife, my woman. But you call her Mother Hall. Understand?”
The woman’s voice was shrill and she spoke words that had no meaning. “Take off your clothes so I can disinfect you. We don’t want your lice and fleas in the building.”
Red Wolf stared blankly at her.
“Quickly!”
Her mouth continued to move as she spat sounds into the air. Red Wolf watched, but he didn’t understand the words. He noticed the thin, colourless hair that was pulled tightly from her face, creating the illusion that she had no hair at all. He noticed that her long grey skirt was fastened at the waist with a leather belt and that rawhide strips hung from the belt, dangling almost to the ground. The woman fingered them as she spoke. Suddenly, with a flick of the wrist, she sent the strips flying though the air. They snaked around Red Wolf’s bare calves with a stinging slap. He jumped away, yelping at the unexpected pain. He bit his bottom lip and wiped away the tears with the back of his hands.
The woman continued to make the strange sounds, her whole face involved in her speech, but Red Wolf kept his eyes focused on her hands, especially the right hand. When it brushed against the rawhide strips, he braced for more stinging pain, but it didn’t come. Instead the woman thrust both her hands skyward and looked up. Red Wolf looked up too.
“Good grief!” she exclaimed. “Here’s another one that don’t speak English, not a single word!”
Slower and louder still, she tried again. “Take … off … your … clothes.”
She pulled the soft hide shirt over his head and tossed it into the open lid of the potbellied stove. The fire belched smoke. The child was distraught. He had failed to protect his mother’s handiwork and her disappointment weighed on him. He told the woman how hard his mother had worked making the shirt, and how she had made the fringe extra long because he had wanted it that way.
The rawhide strips coiled around his legs and ankles.
“Don’t speak that savage language!”
It was fear, not comprehension that made him obey.
Why did Father leave me here? Why doesn’t he come and take me home?
The silence was soon shattered by another shrill outburst from the woman. Red Wolf stood immobile and mute. Mother Hall reached out to remove his breechcloth. Red Wolf held on fast, but after a brief struggle the woman won and, except for the wolf’s head pendant that hung around his neck on a strip of leather, he was naked.
“Superstitious witchcraft!” she shrieked, snatching the pendant with a force that broke the leather and bruised his neck. She turned to poke at the fire, not noticing that the pendant had slipped from the leather to the floor.
Red Wolf’s foot reacted instantly, pushing the pendant under the desk, where it was out of sight. As his bare toes made contact with the carved bone, he remembered when his father had made it. It had been in the days following the summer hunt when the weary hunters had rested and when the women had worked at preparing the meat.
HeWhoWhistles was sitting at the edge of the lake, holding a piece of bone in his palm and running his fingers over it, listening to it, he had said, so he could free the spirit within. But then Grandmother had spoiled everything! Usually Red Wolf enjoyed spending time with the old woman; she told him the names of the plants, the ailments they cured, the colour dye they gave, what was good for brewing tea or flavouring stew. But on this day he had just wanted to sit with his father and watch the magical transformation that was about to happen.
Later, when he returned to his father’s side, the pelvic bone of the deer had become the head of a wolf. Red Wolf was thrilled when his father tied it around his neck on a rawhide strip.
Now, naked in front of this stranger, with his hands clasped over his groin, a tear slipped onto his cheek. He didn’t notice Mother Hall pick up the shears. Before he had the chance to realize what was happening, both of his braids had been chopped off and tossed into the potbellied stove. The boy was aghast. His hands left his private parts and flew to his head, reaching for the remaining hair that bounced around his ears. He knew hair was sacred! It should be cut only when someone died.
Has Mother died? Is that why Father brought me here? The odour of burning hair filled his lungs and he could no longer hold back the torrent of tears.
“Only babies cry,” Mother Hall said, flicking the whip again, but Red Wolf jumped away in time.
She shook the whip toward him, steering him backward to the far side of the room, all the while speaking the language that he couldn’t understand. “Stay away from the stove! I’ve got to wash your hair in kerosene to kill the lice. We don’t want you going up in flames and setting fire to the whole building.”
He understood the sternness in her voice.
“Shut your eyes,” she ordered, closing her own eyes to demonstrate. When the boy obliged, she forced his head over a chipped enamel bowl and poured a strong-smelling liquid over his scalp.
“Keep ’em shut.”
His head started to sting. He squeezed his eyes even tighter and tried not to breathe, but tears were choking him and some of the liquid ran into his mouth. It burned. He spat and spat again. When he thought he could stand it no longer he was lifted into a metal tub and warm water was poured over his head. Ignoring his coughing and spluttering, the house-mother lathered his head with soap. Finally, she pulled him out, wrapped him in a towel, and prodded him back toward the stove. For a horrifying second Red Wolf thought that she was going to toss him into the flames. He almost collapsed with relief when he realized that he was just supposed to stand close to the stove to dry.
The woman handed him clean clothes and mimed putting them on. The thick underpants and trousers felt rough and scratchy on his skin, unlike the soft deerskin breechcloth and leggings he had grown up in. He stared blankly at the unfamiliar fasteners on the white cotton shirt.
“It goes like this,” Mother Hall said, slipping the tiny button through the equally tiny hole. He clumsily tried to fasten one. “You’ll soon be able to do it. Here, put these on your feet.”
She helped him lace and tie the brown leather boots. They felt uncomfortable. The rough leather chafed his bare skin. He was unable to stretch and wiggle his toes as he had always done in his moccasins. But worst of all, he could not feel the earth beneath his feet.
“You’ll get wool socks when the weather gets cold, and a jacket and cap, too,” she said, wrapping a stiff collar tightly around his neck and attaching it with a stud. It was so tight he could barely breathe.
“Now pull the suspenders up over your shoulders, like this. And put your arms into this waistcoat.”
Standing back to admire the transformation, the woman smiled. “Good,” she said.
“You look almost civilized.” Without understanding any of the words, Red Wolf knew she was happier now. Her tone was lighter and he felt less threatened. “Now let me straighten things up here and I’ll take you to the office.”
Red Wolf ran his hands down his new clothes, discovering two deep pockets in his trousers. As soon as the woman turned her back, he snatched up the wolf pendant from under the desk and plunged it into the right pocket. He fingered the smooth bone and traced its outline, seeing the face of the wolf in his mind. The bone became warm to his touch and comforted him. He had this one thing, this one memory of home, and he was determined to keep it at all cost.
Mother Hall finished her chores and turned her attention back to the boy. “Take your hands out of your pocket, boy,” she ordered.
He remained still and silent, not risking another slap by confessing that he did not understand.
“Hand,” she said, lifting his left hand from his pocket.
The child’s heart raced. Don’t let her find my pendant. Holding out her own large hands, she repeated the word, “Hand.”
Red Wolf realized that she wanted him to make the same sound. Tentatively at first, expecting the rawhide strips to wrap around his legs, he said the word.
The woman smiled. “Good,” she exclaimed, tousling his new short hair, “that’s a start. You’ll be talking English in no time. Come on. I’ll take you to meet Father Thomas.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Father Thomas was sitting at a large oak desk, writing in a ledger with a quill that he dipped into a pot of dark ink. Red Wolf, who was barely taller than the desk, stood on tiptoes to see better.
Blotting his work, the priest stood and peered at the new boy. The boy peered back, fascinated by the two circles of glass balanced in front of the priest’s bulging eyes.
“Better late than never,” he said, unhooking the wire frame from around his ears and placing the reading glasses on the desk. “George! That’s your new name. G-E-O-R-G-E, George.”
Red Wolf stared blankly at the strangely dressed man.
The priest spoke louder and touched Red Wolf’s chest lightly with his index finger. “George! Understand? You say it … George.”
Red Wolf, relieved to see that the man didn’t wear the rawhide strips around his waist, said nothing.
The priest sighed. “We can’t keep track of your heathen names, and anyway they’re too difficult to pronounce, so from now on your name will be George Grant.”
Red Wolf spoke in the language of The People, proudly telling the man in the black robe that his name was Mishqua Ma’een’gun. “I am named Mishqua for the red of the firelight that shone on my face when I was born. And I am named Ma’een’gun for the wolves who announced my birth with their howls. The wolves did not howl to claim territory, or announce a herd was nearby. They did not talk of loneliness, or hunger. They sang a joyful song to celebrate my birth. They said I am their brother and that my name is Ma’een’gun: Wolf. Mishqua Ma’een’gun: Red Wolf.”
He smiled, pleased with himself for telling the story so well.
The priest reached for Red Wolf’s hand and turned the palm upward. “This hurts me as much as it hurts you,” he said, smacking the ruler down across the unsuspecting child’s palm, “but it’s for your own good. You have to learn.”
Red Wolf snatched his stinging hand away and hid it behind his back. His bottom lip quivered and he wanted to cry, but he suspected that tears would bring more punishment.
The priest placed the ruler back on the desk, rested both hands on Red Wolf’s cringing shoulders, and lowered his face to the same level as the child’s. “Say George.”
The boy copied the sound hesitantly. “Saygeorge.”
The priest exhaled. “You’ll soon understand. Anyway, your name doesn’t really matter. In the school you’ll be known by a number. Your number is 366. Understand? I’ll write it on your hand so you remember.” The child struggled to free his hand from Father Thomas’s grasp.
“Don’t worry! This won’t hurt.”
The boy couldn’t understand the assurance, so he continued struggling, but this time there was no pain as the man inked numbers onto his flesh.
“You will find things different here,” the priest continued. “You will have lessons in the morning and farm work in the afternoon.” He looked at the long-case clock that stood in the corner of the room. “Oh, my, it’s nearly bedtime. You got here far too late!” He popped his head out of the door and shouted down the corridor, “Mrs. Hall!”
The house-mother promptly appeared with a pile of bedding. Before she shepherded the child from the office, Father Thomas knelt to look Red Wolf in the eye. He reached out as if to take hold of the boy’s hands, but Red Wolf was too quick for him and hid them behind his back. The man rested his soft white hands on the boy’s shoulders instead and spoke gently. “We are strict, not because we are mean, and not because we want to hurt you, but because you need to learn our language, our civilized ways, our Christian religion. Believe me, it’s for your own good. You’ll thank me one day. You see, you’ll never get to Heaven unless I save your heathen soul.”
Red Wolf had absolutely no idea what the priest said.
Red Wolf followed Mother Hall along the corridor, up two flights of wood stairs, along another corridor, and into a long room filled with two rows of rectangular boxes. There was a flurry of activity as boys scampered to them, jumped on top, and pulled grey blankets to their chins. They lay still and silent, their dark eyes staring at Red Wolf as he walked toward the vacant bed.
Mother Hall twisted Red Wolf’s arm so that the inked numbers on his hand were the same way up as the painted sign on the wall above the bed.
“Three-six-six,” she said. “That’s you!”
She quickly unfolded a clean bed sheet and sent it billowing into the air, allowing it to float down onto the horse-hair mattress.
“Watch how I’m doing this,” she said. “Next time, you’ll do it yourself. I’m not playing housemaid to you.” She tucked the corners and sides and smoothed it down, following it with a grey blanket. She slid the stained pillow into a clean pillowcase and then gave him a nightgown. “Here, take off your clothes and put this on.”
Red Wolf still had no comprehension of the words, but he understood what was expected of him. Mother Hall helped him with the shirt buttons and showed him how the day clothes were to be folded. She held the trousers upside down, making them crease down the front. Red Wolf’s heart leapt. The pendant will fall out. She’ll see it. She’ll hit me. She’ll burn it. But miraculously the pendant defied gravity. Relief washed over him. The trousers were folded and along with his other clothes were stashed in the box under the bed.
“Prayers, boys,” Mother Hall ordered.
The boys jumped from their beds and knelt. In unison they slowly recited: “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. Amen.”
“Bed!” Mother Hall ordered.
Red Wolf, who was accustomed to sleeping on a mat or fur laid on the earth, found it strange that he was expected to sleep on this platform in the air, but during the last few hours he had learned not to question things and to move fast when instructed to do something, so taking his lead from the other boys, he quickly climbed onto the bed and pulled the blanket up to his chin.
Mother Hall turned down the wicks of the oil lamps, plunging the room into darkness.
Red Wolf was exhausted and longed to close his eyes and sleep forever. But his mind wouldn’t let him go to that place of hiding. Around him boys tossed and turned, molding their bodies into the lumpy mattresses. They snuffled and whimpered and snored, but Red Wolf stared through the vertical bars of the window to the black sky. Before long a half moon rose and in his mind’s eye he saw his father. It had been the last night of their trek to the school. Just the previous night! It seemed so very long ago. “When you look up and see the moon and the stars, know that we are looking
at the same moon and the same stars … and we are loving you.”
Tears pricked the corners of his eyes and he yearned with an intensity he had never felt to be back with his father and mother, snuggled under their shared blanket close to the fire. He fought to be the brave boy he knew his father wanted him to be.
HeWhoWhistles’ voice spoke again. “Every night before we go to sleep, we will ask Creator to watch over you. Never forget, my son, that Ma’een’gun is your brother and your guide. He will help you. And remember the story of your birth.”
In this unfamiliar sleeping place, raised above the floor, and without furs or family to keep him warm, Red Wolf tried to hear HeWhoWhistles tell the story of his birth. It was a story that had been told and retold on winter nights when the wind had whistled around the wiigwam and snow had blown down the chimney and sizzled in the fire; nights when The People had snuggled under bear skins, singing songs and telling the history of their tribe, going back to the very beginning. But he couldn’t concentrate on his father’s voice.
A horrifying thought struck him. Had his mother sent him away because he ate too much food? He was always asking for more. He saw StarWoman in his mind’s eye, smoothing the long strands of black hair that had fallen loosely around her face, gathering them at the nape and fastening them with sinew so they flowed down her back like a horse’s tail. He remembered the worried look on her face when the baskets of rice and smoked meat were empty, when his belly ached and he whined for food. He heard the shortness of her reply, “No,” then the softer reassurance that tomorrow HeWhoWhistles would check the traps again and would bring home a rabbit. But tomorrow would come and often there would be no rabbit, and he would complain again. Was that the reason she didn’t want him anymore?
He slipped out of bed and in the darkness felt through his clothes until he found the wolf pendant. Cupping it in his hand, he climbed back into bed and drew his knees to his chest, wrapping his whole body around his only possession. “Brother Wolf,” he murmured, “help me find my way home.”
Red Wolf Page 3
