by Janette Oke
At last she turned to her father. He had been watching her silently.
“The flies are bad,” she observed. “So many.”
“Always many,” he answered.
She wondered if there had always been such a plague of flies or if the number had increased. Had she just forgotten? Or had she simply paid no attention to them before?
She continued with her tanning.
Her father broke the silence. “They were good to you?” he asked, not needing to explain who he meant.
“They were good,” she answered honestly.
He seemed pleased with her answer.
“You learned many things?” he asked after a few more moments of silence.
“Many things,” agreed Running Fawn.
He pondered for some time before asking, “Do you believe their God?”
Running Fawn whirled around to face him, her eyes wide, the shock showing on her face.
“No,” she said hurriedly. “I kept my own—our own gods.”
She wondered if she should say more. What had he thought? That she would betray her own people? Her own heritage?
But he did not appear to be condemning, though she could tell he was deep in thought. “Why?” he finally asked, his tone gentle.
Running Fawn was stunned. What was he asking? What did he want her to say? Was he really expecting an answer?
“I am … one of the people,” she said, feeling somewhat bewildered and flustered. “We have always believed—”
He was shaking his head. “Things change,” he said matter-of-factly. “Maybe the old gods went with the buffalo—no longer hear our prayers.”
Running Fawn stared in disbelief. Then she spoke with vehemence. “They will come back. They will come back when we have found our way again.”
“No,” said the old man, shaking his head wistfully. “No, I do not think so. Perhaps they were all a dream. A vapor. Now they have vanished—like the sun when night comes.”
“And like the sun they will return in the morning,” argued Running Fawn, conviction in her voice.
“No.” His one word was curt, final. Running Fawn wondered if she should go to him, comfort him.
But he did not seem despondent. He lifted his proud head and there was still determination in the dark eyes. “I have thought much,” he said. “The God of Man With The Book speaks well. I believe He is the only God with real power. He must now be the God for our people.”
Running Fawn could only stare.
Crooked Moose returned from the hunt, and across the front of his mount was the fresh carcass of an antelope.
After exchanging greetings, Running Fawn set to work to preserve the meat. Her father was still beaming with the good news of the hunt when she turned to him.
“I prayed the Blackfoot prayer of the hunt,” she informed him, hoping her words would also say that the old religion of the people still worked just fine.
His seamed face broke into a smile.
“I prayed also,” he told her.
Now it was Running Fawn’s turn to smile.
“See,” she said. “We do still have a god.”
“Yes,” he confessed. “We do. I prayed to the God of heaven, in the name of Jesus His Son.”
Running Fawn felt anger join her confusion. To return to a father who had laid aside the old religion for the God of the mission boarding school was something she never would have dreamed.
Her head lifted in defiance, something she had never done before. “Then I suppose we do not know which one answered,” she said meaningfully.
He only smiled in reply.
Running Fawn could not imagine what had happened to her father.
Chapter Seventeen
Care
As Running Fawn knelt over the cooking fire, adding buffalo chips to the flame and stirring the pot, she was reminded that life for her people was not easy. She had a fleeting moment of longing for the large enameled stove of the mission school, with its even heat and easy accessibility to fuel.
She may have disliked those days bent over a hot iron pressing items that seemed a complete waste of her time, but she had to admit that the hand-turned washing machine was much easier than hoisting her laundry bundle and heading to the river.
If she had been totally honest or allowed herself the pleasure of any further reflection, she even might have admitted to missing a few of the mission’s tasty dishes. But Running Fawn determined to close her mind to the past two years of her life and look steadfastly forward. She was Blackfoot. She was where she belonged, living the life to which she was born. If there were parts of it now that did not please her, she buried them deeply within and did not allow herself to think about them.
“Go see Man With The Book.”
Gray Hawk spoke the words while Running Fawn leaned over the fire, stirring the pot of seasoned stew. Even though the day had just begun she already felt tired. Her arms and back ached from the unaccustomed long hours of labor that had taken her time the previous day. The sun had set before she had the antelope meat on the drying racks and the hide scraped in preparation for tanning. She longed for a less busy and tiring day, even though she knew her work had really just begun.
She looked at her father with questioning eyes. Why was he commanding her to go see the white missionary? Surely he didn’t expect her to learn more of his religion. She had been at the boarding school for two years listening to the talk about the Great God and His Son Jesus. If that had not convinced her, then it wasn’t likely that anything else would.
“He needs food,” went on her father in explanation. “He is ill.”
“Does he not have someone to care for him?” asked Running Fawn.
“There is no one near him any longer. Old War Woman used to take him food. She is gone now. No one else lives close.”
Running Fawn had noticed the distance between the tents. It seemed strange that they were now scattered over the prairies instead of forming a loose circle where they could enjoy one another’s fires and companionship.
She straightened and looked at her father.
“Why?” she asked. “Why are the tepees so distant? Do my people no longer get along?”
He stirred and pulled his blanket closer about his shoulders. “It was the sickness,” he answered. “The Agent thought the sickness would not spread from tent to tent if the people lived farther apart.”
“But it didn’t work, did it?” Running Fawn commented with a hint of bitterness. Ever since her return she had been hearing names of those who had not survived.
“They tried,” said her father, resignation in his voice. “They did not have enough medicine for everyone.”
“Perhaps they should have used the medicine of our people,” retorted Running Fawn.
He shook his head. “The old medicine is not good for the new sickness,” he responded.
His words only made Running Fawn more agitated. The new sicknesses would not have come if the white man had not brought them from their distant lands.
“Go see Man With The Book,” he repeated now. “Take him some food from the pot.”
Running Fawn knew she must obey but she hated the thought of a long trek across the prairie to visit someone she had no interest in. She placed another stick on the fire under the pot and turned to her father.
“You will be all right?”
He nodded. “Crooked Moose will be home soon.”
Running Fawn was not so sure. She had seen little of her brother since she had been home. He slept late and then left as soon as he had filled his stomach with the food she had prepared, not giving any indication as to where he was going or how long he would be away.
“Do you want to go to your bed?” asked Running Fawn.
“I will sit in the sun,” he responded. “I feel stronger now.”
Running Fawn studied him carefully. He did look stronger, but surely just a few meals of nourishing food could not have made that much difference.
“You go,�
�� he prompted. “Make the journey before the sun is high.”
Reluctantly she nodded.
“Where does he live?” she asked.
Her father picked up a small twig and drew a map on the ground. Running Fawn had no difficulty following the simple directions.
She placed some food in a small pail and set off, anxious to get the mission behind her.
But it turned out to be farther than she expected. By the time she reached the small crude dwelling, the sun was high in the sky and her face was flushed. She dreaded the long trip back home in the heat. Then she had to face the work of putting the hides to soak in the acid compound.
She wasn’t sure how she should make her entry. Call and walk in as was the way of her people, or stop and knock on the door, waiting for an invitation, as the whites would do?
She decided to knock. The missionary was a white man—even though he had taken on many of the ways of her people.
There was no answer to her rap so she tried again. Still no response.
She didn’t feel she should just turn around and go home. And she didn’t want to leave the food on his doorstep. It would spoil quickly in the intense heat.
With hesitation she lifted the latch and pushed on the wooden door. It opened with a creak and she stepped inside.
For a moment she saw nothing as her eyes adjusted to the sudden change to darkness, and then she began to make out objects. A table. Stove. Chairs. Some garments hung on pegs. And a bed, up against the far wall.
At first she thought that it was empty, but then she realized that a form lay under the heap of blankets. She moved closer, hardly daring to breathe.
She scarcely recognized the missionary. His face was bearded and gaunt, his eyes shut. For one terrifying instance she thought that he was dead, and then she saw his eyelids flutter—ever so slightly.
She gathered her courage and moved closer. She could see that he was breathing shallowly.
“Reverend Forbes,” she prompted, choosing to use his English name rather than the Indian one. “Reverend Forbes.”
His eyes opened. He appeared to swallow. He did not answer.
She would not trouble him with further words. There was no need to ask if he was well. It was quite evident that he was not.
She set her small pail on the table and picked up an empty bucket that should have held water. As she hurried out, she wondered how long he had been without a drink. There was a cistern in his yard. She hoped it was not dry and that the rope was available as she hurried toward it and pulled back the heavy lid. The rope was there and there was some water in the bottom, but there was an offensive odor that she could not identify. She knew they had been told they were not to use the river water, but surely the water from the stream was safer than this stagnant water from a nearly empty concrete container. She did not even bother replacing the cover, but grabbed up the pail and ran toward the river just over the hill.
When she returned he appeared to be in a deep sleep. She had to shake his shoulder to get his eyes to flutter open again. When she held the cup to his lips, more ran down his chin and dripped on the bedding than actually was swallowed.
But she did manage to get him to drink a few drops. It seemed to bring him closer to awareness.
She lowered his head and went for the stew. She would only be able to feed him the broth. He would never be able to chew. She would not stop to build a fire and heat the meal. He needed nourishment quickly. Besides, he was already flushed with fever.
She worked steadily to spoon the liquid into his mouth. Sometimes he managed to swallow, but more often the broth dribbled away.
Medicine. What he needs is medicine. Surely there must be medicine somewhere. Running Fawn looked around the room but saw nothing that looked like a medicine bottle.
She thought of the mission. Did they know how ill he was? Did they even know he was ill? Would they send someone to nurse him if they knew? Would they transport him to the city where he could be cared for properly?
What about the Agent? Did he know? Surely he would send some kind of help for another white man.
And the converts? The people who were supposedly attending his Bible classes in the newly constructed wood-frame church? What of them? Didn’t any of them care?
Running Fawn puzzled over the whole affair as she tried to get some of the life-giving broth into his mouth.
Something had to be done or he would die. Maybe it was already too late to save him. But she had to try. Had to get him help someway. Even if she did not believe in his Gospel, she did have a measure of respect for the man. Had he not stood by the people when they were near starving? Had he not hunted and fished and nursed and fought for medicines? Certainly they owed him no less.
Running Fawn did what she could to make him comfortable and then left hurriedly. She had to get someone to help or he would be lost for sure.
Crooked Moose was sitting in the shade of the tepee when she hurried back. Her father had retired to the coolness of the tent for an afternoon rest. Crooked Moose shaded his eyes against the harshness of the sun.
“Where have you been, in the heat of the sun?” he asked with some interest.
Running Fawn, hot and sweaty, did not even slow her stride till she stopped in front of him.
“We need to get help,” she said hastily.
“Help?”
“For Man With The Book,” she replied. “He is very sick. Needs help. Medicine. We must get word to the Agent.”
If she expected his immediate response, she was to be disappointed.
“He is always sick,” he replied with little concern.
She stared at him. “He is sick.”
He shrugged careless shoulders.
She could not understand his attitude. “We need medicine,” she said again, as though he had not understood. “From the Agent.”
“The Agent does not have medicine,” replied Crooked Moose. “It is all gone.”
“Then they must get more.”
Crooked Moose laughed. It was plain to Running Fawn that he thought she knew little about life on the Reserve.
“I will write to the mission,” she said quickly. “They will send some.”
He shifted his position on the ground and studied her, a look that bordered on cynicism curling back his lip.
“Many have died,” he said carelessly. “Maybe one more.”
His words angered Running Fawn. “Will you take a message to the Agent?” she asked directly.
For one moment he just looked up at her from where he lay on the ground, then he rolled over on his stomach and lowered his head to his arms. “No,” he said emphatically. “He has a god. Let him pray.”
Running Fawn had never heard such callousness, such bitterness from her brother. What had happened to him?
She talked with her father.
“Why has no one helped Man With The Book?”
“They have. Many times.”
“You mean, he has been sick before?”
“As many times as the geese go south.”
“What is his sickness?”
“I do not know.”
“Why did they not help him this time?”
“Neighbors are too far away. They do not know he sick.”
“You knew. You told me to go.”
The elderly man placed his hand over his heart. “I pray,” he said simply, then pointed one finger upward. “He told me.”
Running Fawn did not ask any more questions. There was nothing to do but nurse the missionary herself as best she could.
Day after day Running Fawn made the trek over the hill to the little wooden cabin. Day after day she took broth from her stewpot. She brought fresh water, gave him cooling drinks, and sponged his fevered body. Gradually he began to gain back his strength. But he was still not able to leave his bed.
One day he surprised her by calling her name as she opened the door.
“Yes,” she replied. “I am here.”
He turned his h
ead slightly and even managed a bit of a smile. “I am not sure if you are my nurse—or my guardian angel,” he quipped as she bent over him to help him with a drink. She did not answer.
When he had finished he lay back on the pillow and took a deep breath. “Perhaps I should explain,” he said, his voice still weak but filled with determination.
“You need not explain,” said Running Fawn.
“But I would like to,” he insisted. He had switched to English. “When I was very ill, I thought I was going to die. In one way, I welcomed it. It was as Paul said, ‘To be absent from the body was to be present with the Lord.’ I was weary of fighting. I welcomed it.
“But just as I was about to slip away, a presence filled my room. ‘Not yet,’ He said to me. ‘I have more work for you.’ I wanted to argue. Then faces began to pass before me. Faces of those from the Reserve who have not accepted the faith. Calls Through The Night led them past me—one by one—and as they went they looked at me and some said, ‘Maybe … one day I will understand,’ and ‘Almost I am persuaded.’ I finally said, ‘All right, Lord, a little longer if it be your will.’ So I prayed. Prayed that if I was to stay, God would send someone to help me.
“And then you came. You see. You were His answer to my prayers. My nurse. My guardian angel.”
He managed a weak smile and lay back on his pillow, exhausted.
“You must rest,” scolded Running Fawn softly, “or I will need to start my nursing all over again.”
He smiled at her teasing but he did not protest.
Running Fawn encouraged him to rest while she went for fresh water. She would give him the broth when she returned.
As she walked toward the river her thoughts were in a whirl. She was hearing such strange things. “He told me,” said her father, pointing toward the heavens. “Let him pray,” said the bitter Crooked Moose. And now she was being told that Man With The Book had prayed, all alone in his room in his desperate hour of need, and she had come. She was not anxious to be the answer to the missionary’s prayers.
Yet she could not deny it. She was there. Feeding him. Nursing him back to health again. Could it possibly be that his God—?
