The Drums of Change (27 page)

“I fear there are going to be some difficult days ahead,” said the missionary, his weary shoulders slumping, “and some hard decisions to make. I need to get back to the council fires.”

The discussions were lively. The Indian bands were restless, agitated, and feeling deprived of what had been their rights. Living on the Reserve was not the same as living on the great plains, even if they had in the past needed to defend their borders and their herds of horses from the attacks of neighboring tribes. There were those who were anxious to put their strength behind the Metis. Drive out the whites. Take back their land.

Cooler heads reasoned. The white lived peaceably. The North West Mounted Police patrolled the land. There had not even been reason to fear attacks from other Indian bands since their coming. The law was to protect everyone, regardless of race or tribe. The government had kept the promise to provide tools, guns, and the medicine chest. True, there had been times when the food supplies had been scant and the medicine chest had been empty, but those in charge had sought to correct the situation and live up to their part of the treaty.

Besides, the buffalo were gone. The animals would no longer supply the food and clothing needed. That meant quite simply that the Indian peoples could no longer care for their own needs. If the white man was driven out, how would they survive?

It was not easy to find the answer. The chiefs thought long and hard, seeking wisdom from their gods for the answer. When the last council fire had been reduced to ashes and the great Chief Crowfoot rose to speak for his people, his answer was unswerving, his voice strong. The Blackfoot Nation would not join the Metis of Louis Riel. They would have no part in the rebellion.

Some of the Crees of the north chose to fight. They had long been enemies of the Blackfoot, so it was a surprise to many when, over the months that followed, renegade Cree families were silently welcomed to Crowfoot’s fire and given nourishment from his cooking pot.

He may not have thought it wise to go to war for the land, but neither would he turn his back on those of kindred blood, even if through the long years on the prairies they had, in the past, lived as his enemies.

Chapter Nineteen

Winter

Running Fawn could not have explained why she continued to take the walks down the path that led to the home of the white missionary. Perhaps though she was no longer specifically needed, she still felt some measure of responsibility. Maybe she feared that if she did not feed him properly he would soon be sick again and needing further nursing care. Or it may have been that she was lonely and needing someone to talk to, if only for a few moments. The way of life on the Reserve was not like the old. There was no longer a ring of tepees, each with a fire and busily engaged chatting women. They were scattered over the land that they had been given, and the new kind of life did not suit Running Fawn.

Her father was well enough now to walk to the nearest council meetings and talk with the other older men, but he rarely shared with her the news that circulated through the camp. The fires that he now shared were with those of the other Christians among the people. Running Fawn supposed that they did not talk of the same things that they had spoken of in the old days.

Crooked Moose had taken his Laughing Loon and set up his own tent some distance from where his father and Running Fawn had their dwelling. Laughing Loon wished to be closer to her own family.

Running Fawn often found herself longing for companionship.

If she wondered about the absence of young braves making open declarations of intent, she did not let herself dwell on it. Did the rest of the band know that the chief’s son had already left his gift at her door?

She thought of Silver Fox. She could not have denied it. But her thoughts were troubled and confused. What had he meant by his visit? If he was following the custom of their people, why had he left her and gone back to school? What might be his feelings when he returned? Would her one word, “Go,” be seen as a final dismissal with no future contact? She had no answers, so she tried to push all of the disturbing thoughts aside and concentrate only on her many tasks and the preparation for the coming winter.

But daily she placed food in the basket and walked the short distance across the browned grasses to call at the missionary’s door.

She learned that she must go early. Now that he was feeling much better, he was often up and off to call on one of his little flock or to speak to an, as yet, unyielding prospective convert. He took trips to see various government officials or to the forts of the North West Mounted Police, always presenting the needs or causes of his people. And he also made his appearance at council fires, having been invited by Crowfoot himself.

But before he left each morning, he spent time reading his Black Book and in his manner of praying. Running Fawn knew that. He also wrote letters and reports. So if she went during the early part of the day, she would catch him still at home.

It was much easier to talk with him now. She had put aside her shyness and become quite at ease with their bit of friendly exchange. He often asked her questions and listened attentively to her answers. For some strange reason, she felt more a
person
in those morning chats with the missionary than at any other time of her day.

“Are your people saying it will be an early winter?” he asked as he watched her lift the day’s portion of food from her basket.

“I have not heard them say,” she admitted. Her father had not expressed his views on the matter, and she had talked with no one else for several weeks.

“There is to be a religious ceremony soon,” he went on. “The people are giving thanks to the Sun God for a good harvest of their crops and gardens and seeking his favor for a mild winter.”

She had not heard.

“Where will it be?” she asked.

“In the south camp—near Crooked Hill.”

Running Fawn knew the place.

“The Christians will not be attending,” went on the missionary. “We will have our own service and seek the blessing of the Holy God.”

Running Fawn said nothing.

“Your father will be coming to the church.” His words reminded her that she and her father were now traveling different paths. It brought renewed discomfort to her heart.

“Will you join him?” asked Man With The Book.

Running Fawn shook her head. “I could not do that,” she said softly. “I have not taken the Christian faith.”

“We would still welcome you,” he was quick to inform her. “You might learn from the service, and better understand what we believe.”

“The Sun God would not be pleased,” she cut in quickly. “Already he has been angered by those who have left his fires to turn to the white man’s God.”

“Running Fawn,” the missionary said patiently, pushing back his Black Book and looking at her earnestly. “I have tried to help you understand that the God of heaven, the Creator of all things, the one who sent His Son to die for mankind, is not the
white man’s
God. He is the God of all—all people of whatever color or nation.”

Running Fawn had heard the words before but she had not been able to believe them. Wasn’t it the white man who came with the new God? The Indians had not known of Him before the missionaries came to the land. Yet they had worshiped for years. Had held to a religion. Wouldn’t they have known if they had been wrong?

“I will go with my people,” she said stubbornly.

“If winter comes, will you have fuel for the fire?” he asked, instead of pursuing the matter further.

Running Fawn quickly took up the new subject. “The buffalo chips, once so plentiful, are nearly gone. Soon we may need to seek other means of keeping the fires burning.”

“I have been speaking with the Agent. Telling him that we are soon going to need wood hauled to the camp,” said the missionary. From there the conversation moved easily to other, more ordinary, things.

The invitation was repeated. “Would you like to come with me to the church service?” her father asked amiably. Running Fawn hated to be seen as defying her father, but she shook her head slowly.

“I wish to go to the gathering of my people,” she responded.

“The people of the meetinghouse are people,” he answered, his eyes reflecting his concern.

Running Fawn was not sure what to say in answer, so she let his words pass.

“It is a long way to travel to the meeting place alone,” he said, dropping the matter of the church service.

“I will enjoy the walk.”

She could have said that she would not go far until there would be others to join. Many would be traveling the distance to the campsite where the religious ceremonies were to be held.

He nodded and did not press her further.

Running Fawn felt some excitement as she prepared for the journey. It had been a long time since she had taken part in the ceremonies of her people. She hoped that she still remembered the rituals—the words to the chants. She did wish that she had family members to accompany her. For the first time in several months she ached again for the presence of her mother. Her mother would know what to do.

But Running Fawn was determined. Though she might feel uncomfortable in the beginning, she was going to seek out the old ways of her people and become involved again with the religion that had been passed down from generation to generation. And with that purpose in mind she made her preparations.

She could not find an eagle’s feather, though she searched through all of the belongings in the tepee. What had happened to the one that had been her mother’s? That should now belong to her. There was not even a trace of it or her father’s feather. Where had they gone? Surely her father had not departed so far from the old ways that he had disposed of them. The gods would be angry. No wonder their cooking pots were sometimes empty. Running Fawn felt shivers of fear run up her spine. Worse things would be happening in the future, she was sure.

She would go to the ceremony anyway. Perhaps she would be able to trade something she possessed for an eagle’s feather. She wished she had thought ahead. She would have made a quest of her own, in search of one. The missing eagle’s feather was not a good omen.

It was only the first bad omen of the whole experience. As she traveled toward the gathering place of her people, she noticed many things that made her tremble with fear. Tirelessly she searched for good omens to offset the bad, but could find little to put her mind at ease.

It is as I have feared
, her troubled thoughts raced.
My people will be punished for the way they have chosen. Taking the religion of the white man will only add to the anger of the gods
.

“How was your trip?”

Her father asked the question. Running Fawn looked at him guardedly. He sounded sincere in his query, but she did not answer with any enthusiasm. “It went well.”

“Our service went well also,” was his reply.

Running Fawn nodded.

The truth was her trip had not gone well at all. In the first place she walked the entire way alone. Any of her people that were moving her direction were either in the distance ahead of her or far behind. That was another bad omen. When she arrived she was not able to procure an eagle’s feather. Another bad sign. She joined the crowd of young women but she did not feel that she belonged there. They were her own people, yet she felt like a stranger in their midst.