Red Wolf

by Jennifer Dance

  It didn’t take Red Wolf long to realize that Master Evans’s voice rose in pitch just before he expected an answer. In response to that higher pitch, some boys threw one arm into the air and spoke in the foreign language. The master smiled and stroked their hair and spoke words that sounded happy. Red Wolf didn’t have any answers in the new language and decided that silence would be the best way to stay out of trouble. When the teacher spoke directly to him, Red Wolf looked at his desk and anxiously fingered the scratched surface, worrying at a splinter until it broke free from the gouged wood. The teacher’s sudden grip on his arm surprised and hurt him. The boy jumped to his feet, words of The People flying from his mouth, before he could capture them. “Ouch! That hurts. Let me go!”

  The man wrestled him to the corner of the room and pushed him onto his knees facing the wall. Red Wolf stifled a yelp as the ruler slapped across his buttocks. He heard Henry snickering. Red Wolf was grateful, at least, for one thing: he was facing the wall, so no one could see him crying. But when tears escaped onto his cheek and he dabbed at them with his hand, Henry’s snickers turned to full-blown laughter.

  “Henry! Stop laughing,” Master Evans ordered.

  Red Wolf learned another phrase.

  He felt as though a long, long time passed. He looked up to see the round face of a ticking machine that hung on the wall. He had no knowledge that it marked the passage of time, but he watched the pointers move. The one that made the ticking noise advanced around the circle more quickly than the other. When both pointed straight up, the school bell clanged again and the children got up from their seats.

  “Stand up, George,” Master Evans said. Red Wolf tried to stand and was aghast. His left leg was missing! He looked down expecting it not to be there. It was, but it wouldn’t move and it felt heavy like a stone. He hopped on his right leg, dragging the useless leg behind him.

  “It’s gone numb from kneeling,” Master Evans said, seeing the dismayed expression on Red Wolf’s face. “It will be fine soon. Don’t worry.” The advice didn’t help Red Wolf since he didn’t understand, but the circulation soon returned, bringing with it an unpleasant tingling.

  He hobbled after the others, along the corridor toward the refectory. Henry turned and waited for him to catch up. Red Wolf limped toward him, watching the expression on his face. By the time he was close enough to read malevolence in Henry’s eyes it was too late. Henry’s fist sank into his gut, doubling him over and forcing him backwards with a grunt. He staggered and fell to the floor.

  “Henry!” Master Evans shouted. “Come with me to my office!”

  Henry threw a disdainful glance at Red Wolf then walked away with Master Evans.

  In the refectory, Turtle, the boy who had spoken to Red Wolf at breakfast, beckoned him with a subtle movement of his chin. After the encounter with Henry, Red Wolf wondered if he should ignore the gesture, but he read no malice or contradiction in Turtle’s face, only open friendship. Turtle slid along the bench enough for Red Wolf to squeeze in. The two boys didn’t speak, but the closeness made Red Wolf melt inside. He almost cried.

  The midday meal was stew. It was not as good as his mother’s. It didn’t smell or taste smoky the way food should, but the chunks of potato and ragged cubes of fatty meat warmed his stomach. Apart from the slurping and scraping of spoons, there was silence. Red Wolf wiped his bowl clean with a hunk of bread, hoping there would be more, but there wasn’t. He was pleased at least that his dish was so clean it didn’t need washing. Nevertheless, he had to wait in line to go through the ritual.

  After dishwashing, Turtle pushed his chin toward the growing line of Grade One children, and Red Wolf understood that he was to line up there. He flashed a smile of gratitude to Turtle, but the boy was already hurrying away. Red Wolf glanced around for Henry and was relieved when he realized that, as yet anyway, the older boy was nowhere to be seen. Red Wolf followed the Grade Ones to the back of the building, where work clothes hung on numbered pegs. Like a swarm of bees swooping into flowers, the boys homed in on their own pegs. Red Wolf looked at the washed-out numbers on his hand and tried to find a peg number that looked the same. Panic was rising in his throat by the time he spotted it. The same number was stitched across the back of the tan coverall that hung on the peg, as well as on the chest pocket. So they know it’s me from the front as well as the back, he thought. The boots that stood as a neat pair under the peg were numbered, too. They had mud on the soles and were creased to the shape of another boy’s foot. Red Wolf wondered if the boy who had worn them had gone home. He hoped so.

  He watched other children untie their school boots by pulling on the free end of a lace. He yanked at his own lace and was relieved when the bow unravelled. He plunged his feet into the work boots. They were much too big, but at least he could wiggle his toes. He tried to lace them, but the process for tying was much more complicated than untying. A man was bearing down on him, a cane tapping the floor. Red Wolf froze like a frightened fawn, hoping the predator would pass him by. But the man stopped. Red Wolf crunched down, hands covering his head, waiting for the cane to strike.

  “Watch,” the man said, squatting and tying the lace slowly so that Red Wolf could see. “Now you try.”

  After two attempts Red Wolf was wearing a pair of laced-up work boots. His feet slipped and slid inside them as he clomped after the other children through the back door of the school to the farm. The autumn sun shone from a clear blue sky and the air was fresh and clean, but Red Wolf didn’t notice. He was completely absorbed, watching the man’s cane rap the legs of boys who strayed marginally from the rigid procession. Red Wolf felt the twinge of anticipation that his legs would be the next to be rapped. No one spoke except for the man. He barked incomprehensible orders, sending boys to different areas of the farm. Finally Red Wolf alone remained.

  “I’m the farm manager,” the man said in English. “They call me Mister Boss. Here we teach you how to grow food so you won’t go hungry again.” Ironically, Red Wolf’s stomach grumbled its half-empty complaint. “The wandering lifestyle you all have, picking berries and hunting, isn’t civilized. When the hunting is poor, especially in the winter, you go hungry, or even starve! Here you’ll learn how to grow crops and how to raise animals for food.”

  He pointed to a red cow contained in a pen. The animal knelt and stretched her neck under the split rail fence, her nose pushing aside the purple asters until her long pink tongue could wrap around a clump of orchard grass. Then she staggered to her feet with her prize. Red Wolf heard the grass fibres tear and watched the cow’s jaws grind slowly back and forth. For a few seconds he felt at peace.

  The strike to his leg was light. It barely hurt at all, but it surprised him enough to make him yelp.

  “Pay attention when I speak,” the man ordered, shaking his cane at Red Wolf, “and come with me.”

  He guided Red Wolf to an area of weedy pasture.

  “Here’s the new worker,” he said to a brown-skinned youth who was shouting commands at younger children. “Looks like you need him. I want all this dug by the end of the week. Think you can do that?”

  “Yes, sir, Mister Boss,” said the youth, handing Red Wolf a shovel.

  “I’ll leave you in charge then,” the man said as he walked away.

  Once the boss was out of earshot, the youth spoke, but in yet another language that Red Wolf did not understand! Red Wolf remained silent, and the youth tried again.

  “Anishnaabe?”

  Red Wolf nodded. The youth smiled and continued in a mix of English and signs that the child understood “Me no speak Anishnaabemowen. Me Mohawk. Me name Sparrow Hawk. They call me Frank, Top Boy Frank.”

  He spread his arms to indicate all the boys working in the field. “We many people; Cree, Anishnaabe, Huron, Métis, Mohawk. We speak many tongues. No understand each other. All must speak English.”

  “English,” Red Wolf said, pronouncing the word perfectly.

  Top Boy Frank smiled. “Good!” He placed h
is foot on the top edge of the shovel blade and pushed down with his body weight. “Dig,” he said, “like this.” His shovel cut through the turf and he deftly flipped it so the weeds and grass disappeared under the fresh brown earth. Red Wolf tried but lacked the strength and technique to cut through the thatch of vegetation. “You’ll soon get it,” Top Boy Frank encouraged. “Keep trying.”

  Red Wolf tried and tried. It was hard work and soon he flopped to the ground, exhausted.

  “Get up!” Frank urged, pulling him up with one hand. “If Mister Boss sees you idling, I’ll be in trouble as well as you.” He pushed Red Wolf’s shovel securely into the soil and propped the child against it. “Lean on your shovel, like this … and look like you’re working.”

  In this position, Red Wolf watched a robin. The bird landed on the freshly turned soil and within a second of cocking its head sideways pounced on the exposed tail of a worm. The robin planted its feet firmly and tugged with all its might. The worm stretched, becoming narrower and paler, until it suddenly broke into two. The piece in the earth quickly wriggled back under the soil, but the piece in the robin’s beak was promptly dispatched down the bird’s gullet. The day before, when Red Wolf was still a child, he would have giggled, but today there was no laughter in him.

  On the neighbouring farm an old man walked behind a plough. The workhorse knew the routine and plodded faithfully along the edge of the furrow, throwing her weight into the collar. The farmer’s arthritic hands gripped the plough handles to stop the share from bucking. It was hard work for a man his age, but when he finished the field and was finally able to take his eyes away from the soil, he shook his head and sighed. In the distance small boys were ploughing a field with shovels.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Henry stormed across the field to join the diggers. Red Wolf wasn’t the only one who watched him approach. Several other Grade One boys monitored his progress, and Top Boy Frank watched, too.

  “Did Master Evans keep you back after class again?” Frank asked quietly.

  Henry didn’t reply. Instead he shoved Red Wolf on both shoulders. “It was your fault,” he yelled.

  Red Wolf felt tears welling up, but he gulped down the sob that tried to burst from his chest.

  Henry drew close, carefully forming his words and spitting them into Red Wolf’s ear. “Next time, don’t make a sound, you hear! And don’t tell anyone, or else....” He leered and drew his index finger across Red Wolf’s neck. The child didn’t need to know the language to understand the threat. His knees buckled.

  “That’s enough, Henry,” Frank said, sheltering Red Wolf with his body. “Leave him alone. Don’t make me report you again. Get to work.”

  Henry snatched up a shovel and started attacking the soil. Red Wolf was shocked to see that Frank watched Henry with compassion! Red Wolf didn’t understand why. He hated Henry!

  A warning whistle, not unlike a jay’s strident call, pierced the air and all the boys in the old pasture began digging with renewed vigour. Someone was coming: a man and a dog. Red Wolf looked up and his heart leapt into his throat. It was the man called Indian agent.

  It all seemed so long ago now when the white man had ridden into the summer camp of The People. That was the day it had all started, he thought, the day the man had invaded his childhood and had called him Horse Thief. He was no longer the carefree boy who had walked with the chestnut gelding that sunny afternoon, just a few moons ago. Since then he had lost everything.

  He threw his weight behind the shovel and averted his head, hoping the white man would not recognize him, but the hound ambled straight toward him, tail wagging gently, a happy greeting on his face.

  “Get over here, dog!” the Indian agent yelled. The animal lowered his head, rounded his back, and with tail between his legs approached his master. He was rewarded for his obedience with a raised hand and a harsh voice. “Don’t you be getting friendly with the Indians.”

  The dog sighed and flopped to the ground.

  “I hear that my special friend is here at last,” the man called out to no one in particular. Red Wolf froze like a frightened rabbit. “Ah, there he is!”

  The Indian agent loosely wrapped a meaty arm around Red Wolf’s neck and rubbed his head in an amicable manner. Fear paralyzed the child. The man’s powerful bicep tightened against his throat.

  “Horse Thief!” he whispered, his breath rank against Red Wolf’s cheek. “I said we would meet again, did I not?”

  Red Wolf could barely breathe, and the Algonquian words stabbed at his heart like a hunting knife.

  Then, as suddenly as it had started, it was over. The man released him, turned on his heels, and walked away. “Dog!” he yelled.

  Red Wolf gasped and realized that he was trembling.

  The dog dragged himself up and slunk after his owner.

  As the sun changed its angle in the sky, Red Wolf’s hands started to blister and then the blisters broke and oozed.

  “You’d better go to the infirmary,” Top Boy Frank said.

  “Firmamy?” Red Wolf questioned.

  A voice spoke in the language of The People. “I’ll take you.”

  Red Wolf looked around and smiled at Turtle, following him to the school building.

  A young woman in a white apron greeted the boys. “Hello,” she said, her voice light and warm. “What can I do for you?”

  Turtle held up Red Wolf’s hands. The nurse made sympathetic noises and turned to get cotton and alcohol to clean the wounds. “What have you been doing?” she asked.

  “Digging the old pasture,” Turtle replied.

  “That’s a man’s job,” she said, shaking her head. “This will hurt a bit, I’m afraid.”

  Red Wolf winced and tried to pull his hand away, but she held it firmly. “We have to make sure it’s clean.”

  She turned to Turtle. “Bring a biscuit for the wounded farmer and take one for yourself.”

  Before the boys had taken more than one bite, brisk footsteps were heard echoing down the corridor, getting louder and closer.

  “Swallow fast,” whispered the nurse.

  Mother Hall appeared at the door just as the boys gulped down the biscuits. Her small, critical eyes appraised both boys before settling on Turtle. “There’s nothing wrong with you, boy. Get back to work.”

  Turtle silently obeyed.

  She then examined Red Wolf’s palms. “Why are you here, wasting time for just a few blisters? Outside! Go!”

  “I’d like him to stay another moment while I bandage his hands,” the nurse said.

  “Bandages!” Mother Hall shrieked. “We can’t be wasting good bandages on such trivial things. He needs to get back out there and start toughening up those hands. Work will harden them in no time.”

  She grabbed Red Wolf by the scruff of his coverall and lifted him to the tips of his big leather boots. With years of experience behind her, she steered him out of the doorway into the corridor, releasing him with a firm shove. Red Wolf stumbled away from her as fast as he could but stopped dead in his tracks when her high-pitched voice shrieked what he now understood was his new name.

  “Three-six-six,” she yelled, reading the number on the back of his coverall and pointing to the wooden floor. “Look at this mess! Get back here and clean it up.”

  Red Wolf looked where she pointed and saw fresh earth that had fallen from his boots.

  “We don’t wear farm boots in school,” Mother Hall ordered, rolling her eyes. “Take them off immediately.”

  The nurse stood behind Mother Hall and mimed taking off boots. Red Wolf sat on the floor and tried to yank the uncomfortable things from his feet, forgetting that first he had to untie the laces. Knowing that the rawhide strips would soon be whizzing though the air and cutting painfully into some part of his body, he tugged at the laces, but his palms were slippery with sweat, and salt was stinging the raw flesh.

  Mother Hall turned to the nurse. “Oh, Lord. He still don’t know how to untie his laces!”


  “Don’t worry, Mother Hall, I’ll help him with his boots,” the nurse said, squatting beside Red Wolf and unravelling the bows. “Then I’ll make sure he sweeps the floor.”

  “Humph!” Mother Hall turned her attention back to the infirmary. “Who’s this?” she asked, looking at a gaunt child who lay motionless under clean white sheets.

  “Three-five-nine,” the nurse answered.

  Mother Hall shook the boy, but there was no response. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He’s not eating or drinking,” the nurse said, “but the wire snags look clean, they’re not infected.”

  Comprehension lit the older woman’s eyes. “Wire snags! He’s the boy who tried to climb the fence?”

  “Yes. He got hooked on the barbed wire.”

  “He’s malingering, using the caning as an excuse to get out of work.”

  The nurse sighed. “I don’t think so. In my opinion he’s homesick and heartsick.”

  “That’s nonsense!” the housemother said. “Indians don’t have emotions like we do. He’s just shirking. If he’s not eating and drinking, force-feed him!”

  Red Wolf’s first day finally drew to a close. His legs were wobbly with fatigue. He wanted to clamber into bed fully clothed, but the fear of punishment forced him to stay upright long enough to change into his nightgown. However, by the time the boys chanted Now I lay me down to sleep, Red Wolf was dead to the world.

  Mother Hall watched him. He lay on his back, his chest rising and falling under the blanket. She knew she should wake him and make him kneel at the side of his bed to recite the prayer. Father Thomas would expect that of her. But she looked at the child’s relaxed face and felt a tug of sympathy. She decided that prayers weren’t that important anyway. At least the boy had folded his clothes and put them away before falling asleep.