The Drums of Change (25 page)

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 head 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—?

Running Fawn switched her thoughts to other things. It was too much for her to untangle.

Chapter Eighteen

Choices

Running Fawn lifted her head at the sound of an approaching horse. It was the pony, Little Giant, ridden by Silver Fox. She felt her heartbeat quicken and dipped her head back to the hide she was tanning.

He ground-tethered the small animal and moved to stand before her. Only a portion of his fringed leggings resting on the tops of his beadless moccasins were in her view.

“I see your hands are busy,” he observed in their own tongue.

She looked up then and nodded slightly.

For several moments he stood silently while her long, slim fingers worked at the leather. “You do the tanning well,” he said at length.

She laid aside the deer hide and stood to her feet, her shyness seeping away. After all, they had spent many days together on the journey home. She managed to lift her eyes.

“It is a long time since you have graced our fire,” she said with just a touch of reproof in her voice.

She could see in his eyes that he acknowledged her rebuke.

“Silver Fox has not done well,” he admitted softly.

His words surprised her. She had not expected him to show any embarrassment about his absence. His next words surprised her even more.

“Could you spare a moment for a walk to the river?”

She let her eyes lift to his and saw conflict there. What was bothering Silver Fox?

She turned briefly toward the tepee where her father rested from the afternoon sun. She was sure she would not be needed in the immediate future. She nodded, then began to move slowly toward the path that would take them to the water.

He followed closely, and when the path widened, he moved up to walk by her side.

They did not speak. She knew he had something to say that he considered important, but she did not press or pry. He would speak his mind when he chose to do so.

They reached the river and walked down the grassy slope to stand near the river’s edge. Small bushes clung closely to its winding sides, their roots stretching down to draw from the stream’s coolness. Birds dipped above the murmuring current, swinging up on tireless wings and dipping again. Running Fawn felt her inner being becoming at one again with nature as it had when she was a child.