by Janette Oke
Running Fawn let her eyes drift over the area around them. Where was the stream? The spring for a water supply? She knew the Bow River lay just over the nearby hills, but surely one did not need to make daily treks all the way to its banks through the heat of the summer sun to fill the water buckets? Eventually she saw a strange-looking apparatus with a wooden handle that someone was working vigorously up and down until a small stream of water poured from its iron mouth. Here was where one filled the buckets, she was told. But it was still a long way from their tepee settlement. It was almost closer to walk to the river.
But they were not given a choice. Those responsible for the welfare of the Indian people explained that all water for cooking or drinking must be taken from the hole in the ground—the well—for the sake of their health.
It puzzled Running Fawn. They had been drinking from the streams and rivers all their lives.
She would close her ears to the words and follow the ways of her people.
As the weeks slipped by, Running Fawn felt the tension and inner turmoil slowly slipping away—for though much had changed, much was still the same.
They lived, to a large part, as they had always lived. There were the hunting parties who left the camp each morning and, more often than not, returned with game by day’s end. There were still the sturdy tepees lifting their proud heads toward the blue of the sky. There were still the busy women, bent over tanning skin or stirring the cooking pot. There were still the campfires, lazily sending curls of blue-gray smoke into the haze of twilight, even though now it came from hundreds of campfires scattered throughout the hilly plains.
The slender girl, now grown strong and skillful in Indian ways, even promised herself that come the next spring, she would learn how to plant a garden and make the turnips, potatoes, onions, and carrots readily available for the cooking pots.
And then her world changed again. She was informed by the smiling Man With The Book that the chief had authorized a new tent school, and she was one of the fortunate ones who would be returning to classes.
Her heart sank. She had no desire for more lessons. More learning, yes. Lessons from the white man’s books, no. But when she glanced toward her father, she read in his eyes such pride that she knew he would not understand the disappointment of her heart. She lowered her eyes in submission. When the classes began again, she knew she would be in attendance.
In spite of her reluctance, she worked hard at school. She had a natural thirst for learning, and she told herself that if she learned quickly all that was intended for her, she would soon be done and be able to go about her normal life again.
In spite of her diligence, she could not keep up to Silver Fox, who was still eagerly studying in spite of his years.
All through the winter months and into the spring they pored over their books. Running Fawn was greatly relieved when the missionary announced that they would take a break for the planting season. She stood in line at the small post for her allotment of garden seed and learned from a neighbor how to place them in the warm prairie soil. Soon little sprouts were raising their heads to reach for sun, and Running Fawn’s heart quickened. She tended them as she would have cared for a child. Watering them when they appeared thirsty. Plucking weeds from her patch as soon as they dared show a leaf. Gently hoeing and hilling, and quickly dispatching any intruding insects.
But Silver Fox kept right on studying. No longer joining the hunting parties, he seemed totally absorbed in learning. Driven to discovering something new in the books. Hungry for knowledge. Running Fawn could not understand his passion.
In the fall, classes began again. A number of younger children joined them, now in a small wooden building. Running Fawn gladly would have given up her seat to any one of them.
“Who are they?” Running Fawn asked her friend Laughing Loon as they peered at two unfamiliar white men in long-tailed black coats who were approaching their settlement.
“I not know,” whispered Laughing Loon, even though the distance between them and the men would have made it impossible to hear a normal voice.
They were used to strangers visiting the Reserve. They came in fancy eastern dress representing the Queen on government business. They came representing the law, dressed in scarlet tunics and astride leather saddles. They came as traders in the garb of frontiersmen, seeking beaded leather goods in exchange for pots or bullets. But these two men looked like none of the others. Running Fawn frowned.
The two friends watched as the strangers were greeted by the chief and admitted with ceremony into his tent. Then the girls were distracted by a group of boys who wrestled on the stiff brown grasses, trying to prove to one another—or to the girls—which was the strongest. Mostly they proved which was the loudest.
It was not until the next morning that Running Fawn had cause to remember the two visitors. When she entered the school building, they stood before the class, broad smiles lighting pale faces, hands tucked neatly behind their tailed coats. Silently Running Fawn slipped onto the bench behind the wooden desk, her eyes traveling quickly to Man With The Book.
He smiled around at the class and then at her, seeming very pleased with himself—or something.
“Class,” he began as soon as they had repeated the Lord’s Prayer and sang the verse of a hymn, “we have good news. Two of our students have been chosen to attend advanced classes at the Mission Boarding School in Fort Calgary.”
He paused expectantly and looked again around the room. But it was with stunned bewilderment that Running Fawn heard the words.
The man with the biggest grin and blackest coat stepped forward. “We have already spoken with Chief Calls Through The Night. He is proud to send his best students for further learning.”
Running Fawn could not refrain from casting a sideways glance at Silver Fox. Everyone in the school knew who the best pupil was. But even he looked surprised.
The man now stepped back, his grin just as wide, his coattails flapping slightly in the breeze that came in the opened window.
“I will let your teacher make the announcement,” he said, as though bestowing a singular honor.
Man With The Book cleared his throat and flushed slightly. Then he took a step closer to his class.
“First I wish to inform you that if you study hard, this great opportunity may one day be yours as well.… Now—let me congratulate our first students to be allowed to study at the Mission School. You are indeed a credit to your families and to your chief.”
He stopped again and his small mustache twitched slightly.
“Silver Fox, may I congratulate you.” He held out his hand.
For one moment Silver Fox looked stunned. Then a small, quiet smile began to lift the corners of his lips as he stood to his feet and accepted the outstretched hand.
He was pleased. Running Fawn had known he would be.
“And the second student,” continued the teacher after he had completed the hearty handshake and turned slightly to face the other side of the room, “Running Fawn.”
It was like a loud clap of thunder. Like the sickening roar of an avalanche. Like lightning smashing into a towering pine. Running Fawn felt the world whirling around, making her dizzy with flashing light and deafening sound. She could not move. Could not speak. Could not even swallow.
She was dimly aware that there was movement before her. That someone stood before her desk, hand outstretched, but she could not respond. Could not even think.
“I do believe our student is dumbstruck,” said a teasing voice that seemed to roar in her ears. A giggle was heard somewhere near her and began to spread throughout the room. Gradually she felt herself returning to reality.
She managed to stumble from her desk and stretch out a limp hand to be clasped firmly by the teacher. Then she was allowed to sink back onto the support of the wooden bench as she fought to gather her wits about her and make some sense of the announcement.
The boarding school. In Fort Calgary. She did not want to go to t
he boarding school. Let Silver Fox learn the ways of the white man if he wished to. She wanted no part of it. None whatever. No. No, she had no intention of going. She would speak to her father. He knew that she was needed at home. Her mother still was not strong. And another child was on the way. Her mother needed her. She wouldn’t go. She would not.
She tried to clear her head. She looked up just in time to see the pair of long-tailed coats disappearing out the door. She hoped she had seen the last of them.
She felt eyes upon her and turned slightly to discover Silver Fox looking at her. He gave her the slightest smile just before she dipped her head in confusion.
The next morning, the two men with the black suits sat in a black buggy hitched to a pair of gray horses. Silver Fox occupied the high seat behind them, his eyes shining, his back straight. Running Fawn slowly mounted the steps into the buggy, her movements stiff and her heart heavy with fear and frustration.
She sat as close to the far edge of the seat as she could, gripping firmly the small bundle that was all she would have of home. She longed to weep. Longed to cling desperately to her mother’s skirts. Longed to streak across the broad prairies until she found a hiding place.
She did nothing. Just sat, tight-lipped and stiff. Shivering inside, and silent and cold on the outside. Someone called to her, but she did not so much as turn her head. Stoically she stared straight in front of her at the broad back of the man in the black coat.
He lifted the buggy whip, spoke to the horses, and they began to move out of the camp. The big wheels turned round and round. The buggy bumped over prairie-dog holes. Dust began to lift in little clouds until she felt she would choke. But she did not turn her head. Did not look back. She would not look back all the long way to the unknown Calgary.
Chapter Eight
Boarding School
On the first night they stopped at the home of white settlers, and she was shown to a small lean-to room at the back of the house. A strange-looking frame on one side of the room held blankets, and Running Fawn looked at them with longing. She was extremely weary and ached for her buffalo robe bed. But there was no such place in sight. After the door had closed, Running Fawn furtively looked about, then reached to snatch the top blanket from the pile. Wrapping it securely about her, she lay down on the crude wooden floor and wept silently until she fell into a troubled sleep.
The next morning after a rather strange breakfast, they were on the way again. That night they stopped at another small farmhouse. Running Fawn was given a blanket and, with many apologies, shown to a loft over the kitchen. The small storage area had been stacked with soft hay. It was much more comfortable than the bare boards of the night before.
They rumbled on over the rutted prairie for the next day, stopping at a small settlement, where they were all taken into a large building with many rooms. Again there was a frame with blankets, and again Running Fawn took the top one and curled up on the floor. This floor was covered with a strange kind of blanket all its own. Running Fawn found it much softer than the bare planks.
From then on she stopped counting. Stopped thinking. Day after day they traveled, and night after night they stopped in one strange place after the other.
Running Fawn had spoken no word since leaving the Reserve. Silver Fox passed questions from the two black-coated men on to her and she nodded or shook her head, her only response. She did not want to speak to the white men, even though she recognized most of the words they used. She did not like the white men, nor their self-proclaimed mission that was taking her far from her home and family. She had no intention of responding to any of their rather obvious overtures of friendship.
They allowed for frequent stops and moments of privacy. For that, Running Fawn was grudgingly grateful.
They ate more strange food along the way. Roasted beef wrapped between pieces of bread. Bits of dried fruits that were bigger than any berries Running Fawn had ever seen, and different flavors as well. These white people mixed various things in big pots and let them simmer and simmer. Running Fawn had never tasted these dishes before and did not like the taste now. They drank hot drinks, cooked over an open fire, even though the days were warm and a cool drink would have been preferred.
The men on the buggy seat seemed to chatter incessantly. Running Fawn wondered if white people ever stopped long enough to make time for thinking. They laughed a lot too. Hearty chuckles or loud guffaws. It made Running Fawn nervous.
She wished she could get down and walk. The jostling buggy had her bones aching. Besides, the dust from the wagon’s wheels and hooves of the horses filled her eyes and her nose, making her want to sneeze.
The sun beat down unmercifully. She wished she had a hat like the men up front. She was tempted to place her small bundle on her head, but she didn’t want to be noticed or seen in need of help.
She still had not spoken to Silver Fox. She felt angry with him. Angry that he was such a good student. Angry that he didn’t seem at all concerned about leaving their home and people. She was sure that her situation was due to his diligence. The strangers would not have picked her for the long journey had not Silver Fox done so well and gotten Man With The Book to think of Mission School for him. And they couldn’t send just one from the small band. It would look like favoritism for the chief’s son. But why couldn’t it have been one of the boys? Or even Laughing Loon? She would not have minded leaving her family’s campfire nearly as much as Running Fawn.
But it was not one of the boys, and it was not Laughing Loon. She, Running Fawn, was sitting on the buggy seat, forlornly watching the miles slip away beneath the wheels that lifted dust to settle on her dark buckskin skirts.
She had left her heart with her own people in the little community on the prairie that she knew and loved.
“Are you well?” It was the first that Silver Fox had spoken to her directly. He did not use the English words they had learned but spoke in their native tongue.
She turned to look at him. His face looked genuinely concerned.
Taking a break from the heat of the day, they sat side by side in the shade of some scrubby bushes near the edge of the Bow River that they generally had been following. It felt good to get out of the sun. It was good to hear the song of the flowing water. It had been good to kneel on the cool, damp ground and lift the cold wetness to splash on her flushed and dusty face.
The two men in the black coats had walked on along the river. She did not trouble herself to wonder where they were going—or if they were coming back.
She now turned away from Silver Fox. His question, asked kindly, threatened to bring the tears to her eyes. She shook her head slowly. She was not well.
“Did you not wish to come?” he continued.
For a moment Running Fawn felt that she would choke with emotion. She shook her head again.
There was heavy silence with only the distant call of a meadowlark to break the stillness.
“I am sorry,” came the quiet response, and Running Fawn felt that the words were truly spoken.
She wished that she could get up and move away—but there really was no place to go. Besides, she ached so badly from all the jostling that she wished she would never need to move again.
“I wanted to,” said Silver Fox in little more than a whisper.
Running Fawn favored him with a dark scowl. That was the whole problem. His desire to learn and learn.
“I want to study so that I can help my people,” he continued.
Running Fawn made no reply.
“Someday I may be chief,” he continued matter-of-factly, no bravado in his tone.
Running Fawn gave him another dark look. Of course he would be chief. His father was old. Chief Calls Through The Night would not be chief of their band for long.
“I want to be a wise chief,” said Silver Fox, his eyes on some faraway object unknown to Running Fawn.
She twisted sharply to stare at him. “Your father is a wise chief,” she responded hotly.
&n
bsp; She did not need to say that his father had never been to the white man’s school.
But Silver Fox did not seem perturbed by her outburst, only nodded.
For many moments they sat in silence and then he spoke again. Slowly. Softly.
“These are different times. It will never be the same again. If our people are to survive, to prosper, we must learn to live in the new world. With new ways.”
“Would you forsake the old?” she demanded.
“No. No,” he quickly answered. “We must build upon them. But we must move on. We must. I—”
But she had heard enough. In spite of her reluctance to leave the cool spot in the shade she sprang to her feet.
“The old ways are good,” she spat at him. “There is no reason to leave them. I will not—will—take the ways of the white man. I will not.”
With her angry cry ringing in the air, she left him and ran along the riverbank until she rounded the bend and no longer was in sight. Exhausted by the heat and her emotions, she sunk into a little heap on the rich river grasses and let the sobs shake her entire body.
Running Fawn had never seen so many wooden buildings intermingled with strange-looking tent dwellings in one area. They traveled through narrow passages lined with the structures, where people, mostly white people, hurried back and forth, always seeming determined to get to some other place.
Dust from the wheels of their buggy joined that of many other conveyances to fill the air and every available crevice.
She wanted to turn to Silver Fox and ask him if this was Fort Calgary, but she still was angry with him and would not speak.
At last the driver of the team pulled back on the leather straps and said a loud “whoa.” The buggy rolled to a stop in front of a large white building.
“Here we are,” announced the second man, looking back at them and giving them a big grin.
