The Drums of Change (2 page)

Her mother lifted her face from the fire she was tending with small dry sticks. There was a hint of reproof in her dark eyes, but she did not raise her voice. In fact, it was several minutes before the woman spoke at all.

The heavy kettle, purchased with beaver pelts from trappers who passed through the area, balanced on three stones over the dancing flames and now held the water from the stream. Already the bannock was cooking. Just looking at it made the little girl’s stomach rumble in anticipation.

“I think we will make a name change,” said the mother in the soft tones of their simple native tongue.

The girl frowned.

The mother did not look up from her task.

“Your father calls you Running Fawn. I think we should call you Three-leg Porcupine.”

She knew her mother was teasing, yet there was enough truth to the comment to make her cheeks warm. With all four legs in good condition, a porcupine was the slowest creature of the forest. A three-legged porcupine would be slow indeed.

But her mother quickly changed the topic of discussion. “Is the spring good?”

It was a question of great importance. They needed the spring.

“Yes.” She could not keep the enthusiasm from her voice. Her dark eyes had an even brighter sparkle. “And I heard a black bear—calling to her cubs,” she hurried on, happy that she was the one to first discover such an important fact.

Her mother lifted her face, her own eyes reflecting the sparkle of the young girl’s.

“That is good,” she said with a nod, almost as though she was now commending her daughter for lingering in the woods to bring the good news. “That is good,” she said again, turning back to the bannock.

“Shall I tell Father?” asked the child eagerly.

“He is with the horses,” replied her mother. “Will be here soon. And hungry.”

“And Crooked Moose?”

“With Father.”

Running Fawn shifted lightly from one foot to the other. She was impatient to share her exciting information about the bear with someone else. Maybe her older sister.

“Little Brook?” she inquired.

“Gathering wood for fire,” replied her mother without lifting her eyes or her voice.

There was silence for a few moments. Running Fawn shifted her weight again. Her mother did raise her eyes then. She even smiled her quiet smile.

“You run,” she said good-naturedly. “Tell of bear.”

Running Fawn did not stop to daydream or dawdle. On swift feet she ran toward the meadow where the horses were grazed.

Her mother looked after her and shook her head as she chuckled softly. The young girl was now living up to her name. Perhaps they would not need to change it after all.

During the daylight hours, the weather remained warm and sunny long enough for the camp to be well settled before winter began. There were many things that needed to be done so the people would be ready for the cold and snow. The work proceeded rapidly with every able pair of hands assuming the various tasks. Running Fawn felt as though she spent all her days on the path that led to the spring, carrying pail after pail of water for her mother’s use. It turned out that she had little time to dream or to bask in the color of the pleasant fall. Every day the calls of the geese and the persistent tugging of the brisk autumn wind reminded them that time for winter stores was soon coming to an end.

The hunters had verified Running Fawn’s report that they shared their area with a mother black bear and two healthy cubs. The news brought much chatter around the campfires. It was the first time a bear had been seen at this location in the last three years. A fact that had been causing concern among the elders. They feared that their sure food supply was threatened and that wintering in the area might bring hardship to the group. But now with the presence of the mother and her offspring, who were still feeding on nearby grubs and leftover berries, the camp was in an almost jovial mood. Daily hunting parties went out and most often returned with game to be roasted over open fires or dried for future use.

For Running Fawn the bear was more than good news. It was a wondrous reprieve. She had heard talk around the campfires indicating the possibility that this campsite no longer was able to meet the needs of the small band. The chief had even talked of searching for a different site when the camp moved from the summer grazing ground. Running Fawn had been stricken when she heard the words. Her favorite spot. Not to see it again. She had wept silently when she went to her blankets that night, fighting to keep her sobs from waking her older sister.

It was true that all the land was “good.” But this place—this place where she had first opened her eyes to look out upon a new world, this place of her birth, was especially dear to her heart. She had spent every one of her six winters in this camp. She couldn’t imagine life without it.

With the small clearing near the spring occupied by a cluster of scattered tent homes, the bear moved her cubs a short distance downstream. Many times a day she lifted her long, sharp nose to check the wind for threatening scents. She carefully scanned a meadow before every appearance from the bush. Daily she grew a bit more nervous, a little more cautious, and coaxed her adventuresome cubs to stay a little closer to her side. They had grown well on the abundance of summer and were less attentive to her voice, so her patience was often worn thin, and an occasional cuff sent one or the other crying out in pain or rage. They could not understand the change in her behavior.

Had the mother known, she would have relaxed her vigil. The nearby tents with their chattering occupants posed no threat to her existence. Indeed, they would have been willing to guard her against other intruders. She was a good omen. A “sister” in the wild. They kept their distance but read her signs and movements as thoroughly as one might read a book. The time when she would decide to forsake her feeding and retire to her den for the winter would give them indication of the kind of winter they too would face.

The evenings were becoming increasingly chilly, and the she-bear had the urge to seek out a safe den and curl up with her growing cubs. But something drove her on, feeding and foraging for her cubs and adding more fat to the already thick layer that would be their winter insulation and nourishment. That, too, was noted.

“Long winter,” voiced one of the hunters around the evening fire. “Mother Bear still feeds. Squirrels still store. Even on cold days. Rabbit has long, thick fur. Long winter.”

Others nodded.

“Birds all go,” observed another, his weathered face proclaiming that he had watched many winters come and go and thus was authorized to speak. “Beavers build high dam. They want deep water.”

Faces sobered and daylight activity increased. All signs led to a long, cold winter, and once it arrived there would be little the camp could do to increase the food supply. Their time would be taken with finding enough wood to keep the tepee fires going.

True to prediction, the cold north winds drove Old Man Winter into the area. The sharp sting of the storm soon had the horses in the meadow bunched together, heads down, backs to the wind. The few leaves stubbornly clinging to the poplar and birch trees were soon off on a twisting, reeling journey, helpless against the strength of the current that snatched them from the branches.

Running Fawn was sent along with Little Brook to hurriedly gather an armload of wood for the inside fire. There no longer would be any fire built outside of the tepee. Every scrap of wood and hint of warmth was hoarded. The season of stinging eyes and huddling in furry robes was once again upon them.

Running Fawn was thankful she had been born a girl child. She would not need to hunt in the cold or care for horses that unreasonably resisted attempts to ease their discomfort by tethering them close to the sheltering trees.

She did have to venture out for water from the ice-covered stream. The spring would now be locked away behind ice and snow until warm weather returned to release it from winter’s grip. And she had to help Little Brook with the gathering of firewood. On the coldest days the task would not be an easy one, but it would be a chance to look out at the world she loved in its new white dress.

But for the most part, she would be happy to remain in the tent, close to the warmth of the fire, adjusting her stinging eyes to the dim light so she might help with the sewing. Or squatting before the fire as she stirred the cooking pot, head turned slightly away from the smoke that always eventually made tears trickle down her soft, dark cheeks.

Running Fawn felt only contentment. She had no concerns for her future or her safety as she listened, in welcoming silence, as the north wind, day after day, tore at the tent poles and piled the heavy, white blanket of snow against the walls of the tent skins.

Chapter Two

The Decision

“What do you think?”

“He’s young.”

The gray-haired man at the head of the table seemed to reflect on the words for some minutes as he gently stroked the trimmed beard that covered his chin. “Yes,” he agreed at length. “Very young.”

“But he has passion,” put in the man in the dark brown suit as he turned to the elderly chairman. He spoke the words with exuberance, force, as though he too had passion.

The gray head nodded and the owner lifted up his face, revealing the spark in his steely blue eyes. Though an old man, his face still reflected a passion of its own.

“He certainly knows the Scriptures,” interjected a man with horn-rimmed glasses, obviously the scholar of the group, and his words denoted that he felt strongly concerning the need for such knowledge.

“He
is
young,” the chairman mused aloud, leaning back in his chair and making a bridge with his long, tapering fingers.

“Even for someone older—more experienced—it will not be an easy task,” spoke the man to his left. He was a rather rotund person with a full face that appeared to want to smile and found it hard to show the proper solemnity for this serious occasion.

“No,” agreed the chairman. “No, it will not be an easy task.”

His bridge played a little tattoo as the fingers parted and came back together again and again like the soft, distant rhythm of beating drums.

The other man at the table cleared his throat in preparation to speak. He seemed hesitant to even ask the question. “Why—” His voice still objected to being heard. He cleared his throat again. “Why the—Territory Indians?” he managed to say through his constricted throat.

Four pairs of eyes turned to the questioner. For one moment he looked like he wished to withdraw the query. Then the drumming fingers stilled, and the chairman leaned forward and fixed blue eyes on the speaker.

“I asked him that very question myself,” he said, and the others turned their full attention back to him.

He stopped to shuffle a few papers before he went on to answer. When he spoke again, his eyes glistened with unshed tears.

“He has—a real—burden, if you will. An intense love. A desire to take to them the Gospel.”

He blinked as though to rid himself of the unwanted tears, then looked evenly at the four men about the table. “It’s genuine. I could sense it. He made me … made me long to be young again so that I, too, might go. I have never seen such—intensity.”