12 Drums of Change

by Janette Oke

  Running Fawn sat and stared. For some reason it was not at all what she had expected—though she could not have described what it was she had expected. It simply was all so strange. Where were the tepees? Where were the campfires? How did one ever—?

  The man on her side of the buggy stretched long legs down toward the ground and eased himself slowly from the seat. He reached up a hand toward Running Fawn.

  “Down with you,” he said good-naturedly. “We are at journey’s end.”

  Running Fawn knew he expected her to be happy with the news, but she could feel no joy.

  She could feel Silver Fox stirring beside her. For one brief moment she wished to reach out and wrap her fingers in his buckskin shirt just as she used to do with her mother’s skirts. But she turned from him instead and let the tall man help her over the wheel of the wagon.

  And then she was being led down a rock-hard path with green grass on either side and flowers tucked in all together in tight clumps rather than scattered freely.

  A large door opened before them and a white woman, flaming red hair piled high on her head and a dark dress trimmed with bits of white, stepped out. She was smiling. Running Fawn saw both white gentlemen sweep off their tall hats and bow slightly. Running Fawn wondered if that was the proper thing to do—but she had no hat. She ducked her head in a brief awkward bow.

  “I see you have brought my new charges,” said the woman with another smile.

  “We have, Mrs. Nicholson,” said the shorter of the two tall men.

  “Well—do let me see them.” She moved forward.

  “We are so pleased to have you join our Mission School,” she said in rapid English that was hard for Running Fawn to follow.

  She reached for Running Fawn first, placing her hands gently on her shoulders and turning her to catch the last rays of the afternoon sun.

  “You must be Running Fawn,” she said pleasantly.

  Running Fawn did not even nod in agreement. She wasn’t sure what she was expected to do or say.

  “Indeed she is,” said the taller man and he gave Running Fawn’s arm a little nudge. “Say good day to your matron, Mrs. Nicholson.”

  Running Fawn concentrated hard.

  “Goo’day your matron, Miz Niccason,” she managed to repeat.

  A loud guffaw followed her words.

  Running Fawn swallowed hard and looked from one face to another. She did not know why one tall man had responded with the hearty laugh and the other had coughed and turned slightly away. The woman simply smiled and reached out a hand to Running Fawn’s cheek. The whole scene made Running Fawn dreadfully uncomfortable. But the attention then turned to Silver Fox.

  “And you are Silver Fox,” the woman said and offered her hand to the young brave.

  He accepted it, bowing ever so slightly as he said in a respectful, yet confident voice, “Good day, Mrs. Nicholson. So nice to meet you.”

  The red-haired lady beamed. It was plain that she was impressed with the young man.

  “You must all be weary,” she said, looking around the group. “Please come in. I’ve asked Miss Brooke to draw you a bath, Running Fawn, and then she will bring you some supper. And you, Silver Fox, one of our boys, Wilbur, will show you to your dormitory. There is a bath waiting for you as well.”

  And Running Fawn was whisked off down a long corridor, where another smiling lady waited to escort her farther into the depths of the enormously overwhelming white building.

  Running Fawn’s first thought was that she would be led to a quiet stream, the only experience she had ever had with bathing. The strange words “draw you a bath” were totally confusing, but she fell into step with the woman whose hand rested lightly on her shoulder, and meekly allowed herself to be led away. For one brief moment she forgot her anger with Silver Fox and wished with all her heart that she did not need to leave him.

  They entered a strange little room. Sitting on clawed feet against one wall was a very large, shining white basin, half-filled with water. Running Fawn stood and stared.

  “I will leave you to have your bath, and then I will return to show you where to wash your hair,” the woman said, still smiling.

  “After you have washed thoroughly, you may wear these clothes.” She indicated a stack of garments lying on a nearby wooden object that Running Fawn had already learned was a chair.

  Running Fawn looked down at her own garments, a mixture of buckskins and white man’s cotton.

  “Just place your things in that basket,” explained the woman, indicating the basket she intended.

  She turned then and left the room with one more word. “Be sure you use lots of soap.”

  After the door had closed softly, Running Fawn just stood there and stared. First at the closed door, then the footed tub with its generous supply of water, and then down at the clothes she was to put on, then at her own that she was to leave in the woven basket. It was all so strange—this bath of the white man.

  With trembling fingers she began to remove her clothing, still feeling unsure of just how one used the strange white object for one’s bath. Tentatively she climbed over the side and stood in the middle of the tub. It was slippery under her feet and the water was very warm. Running Fawn was used to bathing in frigid waters. How could one be refreshed in water that did not even cool the body?

  Standing in the middle of the slippery tub she began to splash the water over her torso. Soap—another commodity the white man had brought. She was to use lots of soap. She found a piece in the dainty dish by the side of the tub and began to generously lather her entire body. She had to whip up waves of water to rinse all the sweet-smelling suds away. It was even harder to stand upright when the sudsy mixture foamed about the slick enclosure.

  At last Running Fawn was convinced that she had washed thoroughly. With a great deal of care and clinging to the side to keep from slipping, she managed to climb from the tub. The floor was wet with splashed water and little islands of soap suds. She found it very slippery, too.

  She padded across the puddles and reached for the clothing on the chair, casting a longing look at the little pile of discarded garments in the basket to her right. She did wish that she could put her own things back on.

  Reluctantly she unfolded the items before her. There were strange things in the pile. Running Fawn had no idea what they were or how they were to be worn. At last she came to the conclusion that the white woman had not meant for her to wear them all at one time. She began to shiver slightly as she pulled the shirtwaist over her wet arms and buttoned the tiny buttons with nimble yet nervous fingers. The task was new and strange. Then she pulled on the stockings, twisting the tops and tucking them under, as she had always done in the past. She gently laid aside the strange little garment with the long elastic tabs and funny little clips and placed it on the growing pile of unneeded articles. A girl she had met in the hallway had been wearing a white shirtwaist and a gray skirt. She reached for the gray skirt that looked just like it and let it drop over her head. The buttons were much larger and easier to fasten, but the skirt was too large for her. It sagged over her hips. But she was ready. Ready for the school mistress to show her what she was to do next. The shirtwaist and skirt were already showing patches of wetness as they sopped up the moisture from her body, but nothing could be done about that. There was no sun in the room to dry the excess water. She crossed her arms and waited silently, now and then casting a glance toward the soggy floor or the chair that still held several pieces of clothing that she had not needed.

  At last the door opened. Running Fawn looked up—just in time to see Miss Brooke’s face blanch even paler than it naturally was and hear a sharp intake of breath. Her arms lifted in unison and her eyes opened wide in shock. “Mercy me,” was all that Running Fawn heard her say. The young girl had no idea what the words meant.

  Chapter Nine

  Lessons

  From then on, everything was carefully explained to Running Fawn. It seemed that she was always bein
g shown something. You hold it this way, you wear it like this, you use this for that, you put this here, place that there. On and on it went as she was introduced to the strange ways of the white man. Often she felt confused. Frustrated. Many times she wished to say, “It works better like this,” but she never said the words. She wondered if Silver Fox was going through the same difficult initiation.

  Though her days were trying and filled with frustrations, Running Fawn was able to muddle her way through, catching on quickly to the new information and experiences that continually presented themselves. She did not need to be shown something twice, but kept a careful eye on the actions and movements of the other girls. She knew they frequently tittered behind their hands at her expense, and though she really didn’t care what they thought of her, the pride of the Blackfoot tribe was at stake.

  It was the nights that were the most painful and lonely. Running Fawn did not allow herself to weep after the lights had been put out and the dormitory had finally settled down to soft breathing as others slept. But something deep within her seemed to curl up and die a little bit more with each passing day until she felt numb and drained of all emotion. All but the intense longing to leave this place and return home to her own people.

  She saw very little of Silver Fox. The boys’ dormitory was in a separate building from where the girls lived. The playgrounds too were divided by a large wooden fence. There were times that she caught glimpses of him as they sat in chapel or marched to the dining room. He looked very strange in the white man’s clothes. A white shirt with a bit of dark cloth hanging down its front and gray flannel pants. She wondered if he hated the awkward, hard shoes as much as she did.

  One of the most difficult adjustments was to the white man’s unusual sleeping habits. They insisted, after her first night on the floor, that she use the odd frame they called a bed. She was to climb up on it, then slip into it, at just the right place, between this and that. The blankets were to be gently pulled up over her, not wrapped around her. She was to put her head on the soft whiteness they called a pillow. But it felt strange to her and kept tumbling to the floor throughout the night with all her tossing and turning.

  There was no one to snuggle up against. All the other occupants of the room slept alone in beds just like hers. She had to warm the stiff white sheets with the heat from her own slender body, and some nights she shivered alone for hours before she could get to sleep.

  Mealtimes at first had been another dreadful experience, but very quickly she learned how to hold the fork or spoon “properly” and get the food from her plate to her mouth. She sometimes wondered why she even bothered when some of the dishes were so lacking in flavor. She often longed for a good slice of venison roasted over an open fire or a piece of pemmican, with its tangy richness of dried buffalo meat and sun-ripened berries.

  But in the classroom, Running Fawn found herself momentarily forgetting her uneasiness and discomfort. She loved this new world of learning. She loved the many books available to her. There was excitement in discovering the world in a totally new way. She plunged into the lessons with her total being and for an all-too-brief period each day could forget how much she longed to return home to her own people.

  But as soon as the teacher announced, “Class dismissed,” Running Fawn felt the sorrow and loneliness close in upon her again. Now she was back in the world of young white girls. They were noisy and pushy, and if a supervisor was not looking, often rude. They teased and ignored her by turn, snickering and pointing and raising eyebrows in silent messages. Running Fawn then wished with all her being that she could turn her back and walk away. Walk away forever.

  “Why don’t you join the others?”

  Miss Brooke asked the question of Running Fawn one sunny afternoon while the girls squealed their excitement and tossed a ball back and forth on the green grass of the playground. “Don’t you like dodge ball?”

  Running Fawn let her eyes travel back to the noisy circle. So that was dodge ball. She had made little sense of the game, but then, she had paid little attention.

  She shook her head, then quickly added in soft accented English as she had been taught, “No, ma’am.”

  “I’m sure you would be good at it,” went on Miss Brooke. “You are naturally athletic.”

  Running Fawn wasn’t sure what “naturally athletic” was, though she had heard one of the teachers use the same words when speaking about Silver Fox. Perhaps it had something to do with being Indian.

  She shook her head slowly.

  “You do need exercise,” went on the persistent Miss Brooke. “Come on. Let’s both join the others.”

  She held out her hand and reluctantly Running Fawn allowed herself to be led over to the game.

  “Make room,” Miss Brooke said to the nearest girls. “We are joining you.”

  Running Fawn did not miss the frowns that spread quickly around the small circle.

  “She doesn’t know how to play,” the girl named Molly, now holding the ball, dared to argue.

  “Then we’ll teach her,” said Miss Brooke. She turned to Running Fawn. “The girls in the middle are ‘it.’ The object of the game is to hit one of them with the ball as you pass it back and forth around the circle. They try to keep from being hit. If the ball does touch one, that person must come out of the circle. The last girl left in the circle is the winner. Do you understand?”

  Running Fawn had listened carefully. She understood and nodded.

  They began the game again. At first the group showed little enthusiasm, but as the game progressed, the girls again picked up their squealing, and Running Fawn seemed to be forgotten.

  The girls in the circle ran around and around, crying and calling and skipping lightly out of the path of the tossed ball. Running Fawn kept her eyes on the whole procedure. So far the ball had not come her way.

  A small girl with light lemon braids was hit and had to join the outer circle. Then a girl named Meg, whom the girls in the dorm called Topper, was “out.” As the game went on, Running Fawn’s dark eyes riveted on the frisking, dodging Molly, one of the few still left in the middle.

  And then the ball bounced her way. Before any of the other girls could move to retrieve it, Running Fawn snatched it up quickly and with one quick, hard delivery sent it careening straight at the unsuspecting older girl, hitting her in the chest with such force that it toppled her to the ground.

  “Oh, my,” she heard Miss Brooke exclaim as the woman hastily hurried forward to check on the fallen student.

  Other than being shaken and angry, Molly was not injured. She got up, brushing at her gray skirt, eyes flashing as she cast a glance Running Fawn’s way.

  Miss Brooke, looking relieved that no serious harm had been done, turned back to Running Fawn. “We forgot to tell you that you just toss the ball gently,” she said patiently. “And we throw the ball low. From the waist down. The waist down.” She held her hand at her own waist and let it sweep downward to show the girl exactly what she meant. Running Fawn nodded mutely to let the woman know that she understood.

  The woman lifted the little chain that she wore around her neck and looked at the small watch that dangled at the end.

  “It’s almost time to wash for supper,” she said. “I think that’s enough exercise for one day.”

  Running Fawn turned away from the little group and started for the dormitory washroom. She did not even glance at the other girls. But as she walked her dark eyes took on a shine. For once, just once, she had bested the big, bossy Molly.

  Besides the daily chapel times, there were religious instruction classes. Running Fawn felt a certain amount of curiosity about the white man’s God, but she kept a careful inner distance from any deep interest. She knew instinctively that as long as she was at the school, she would not be allowed to sing the Blackfoot chants or do any dancing to the Sun God. But that did not trouble her, as she would not have felt inclined to do it on her own in any circumstance. The religion of her people was a joining to
gether. She needed the rest of her band to take part in the ceremony. The Indian tradition was that only seeking the Great Spirit’s vision was done alone in a quiet place of meditation. Running Fawn had not reached the age where she was encouraged by her tribal elders to take her own spiritual journey toward that vision.

  So she drifted, feeling that while at the school she had no connection with God, any god, in any way. She was an observer, apart. Merely looking on as the others went through their simple ceremony that involved no fire, no good medicine, no drums, and no dancing. There was singing, but it had little in common with the chants Running Fawn had grown up with and understood.

  Everything seemed to be centered on the big Black Book. It looked much like the Black Book that the missionary had brought to Running Fawn’s band, and Running Fawn heard many of the same words read from the Book. It seemed strange to her that both Black Books should carry the same words, until she realized that many of the books in the chapel and in the classrooms were also duplicates. That seemed to take away the mystery.

  On most days, Running Fawn was content to lay all thought of worship aside. But on certain days, days when she looked at the turning leaves or heard the honking of the geese that passed overhead, she remembered that such events had significance for her people and would mean a ceremony would take place in the camp. On those days Running Fawn longed for home with renewed passion. She felt increasingly alone and lonely, shut away from her people and the life she had known and loved.

  An unusual amount of excitement swept along the corridors and throughout the classrooms. Something known as a was to take place. Running Fawn had no idea what the excitement was all about, and she didn’t suppose that she would care too much anyway. She decided to retreat to a corner of the large playground and let the girls chatter on in their noisy, high-pitched voices.