The Drums of Change (28 page)
She remembered the chants—for that she was thankful, but they did not satisfy her inner being as she had hoped they would. In fact, she had arrived empty and had returned empty, in spite of her honest endeavor to take part wholeheartedly.
Her trip home was no better. Again she walked alone. Again she searched the land and the heavens looking for some sign—some indication that their prayers had been heard. That the gods had been pleased by their rituals. But she found nothing that lightened her heart or gave her hope. Secretly she wished she had not gone. She wondered if she would ever find the desire to go again. But her thoughts troubled her. She would not have dared to voice her thoughts and feelings. Surely she would be gravely punished by the gods. Surely only trouble lay ahead.
And winter, the enemy of her people, lay just ahead.
She did not return to her custom of taking food to the young missionary. Fear held her back. Fear because her religion no longer brought satisfaction to her soul. Fear because he seemed so content in his. Fear also that her gods, even though they no longer brought her pleasure, might indeed begin to bring her great pain. In her heart she had already deserted them. Or had they deserted her? She was not sure. She only knew that the religion she had hoped to re-embrace now left her empty and unsatisfied.
She was puzzled and lonely, but she did not know where to turn for an answer to the pain within.
The first snow of winter arrived only two days after her return.
It is as I feared, already the gods are venting their anger
, she thought silently.
But the storm was not one of fury. The gentle snowflakes fell in soft swirls that turned the ugly brown of the camp to blanketed whiteness, and then stopped as suddenly as it had come. Her father appeared from the shelter of the tepee, smiling, gun in his hand.
“We will have fresh meat for the cooking pot,” he said with confidence. “It is good snow for tracking.”
True to his word, when he returned he had a fresh kill flung over the back of his mount.
Running Fawn was stirring a pot of savory stew when another horse appeared. It was the missionary. Her pulse quickened with tension. She had not seen him since her return. Her father left the skin he was scraping and moved toward the young man, a broad smile of welcome on his face.
“Sit at our fire,” he said with enthusiasm. “We have fresh meat tonight.”
Man With The Book dismounted, his nose twitching slightly as the aroma filled the air. “No one makes a pot of stew like Running Fawn,” he observed.
Running Fawn flushed at the compliment and bent her head to stir the pot. The man would not need to be encouraged further to join them, she was sure.
The two men seated themselves before the fire and settled in to visit. Most of the talk was about the little group that formed the local church. Wider interests were also discussed. Running Fawn listened with one ear as she dished out generous helpings and handed them to the occupants of the log seats.
“I had a letter from Silver Fox,” the man said, not realizing what his simple words would do to the heart of the young woman.
“He has accepted the Christian faith. He had hoped that his father would make the first move, but he said that he could wait no longer. His heart cannot deny that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of the living God.”
Running Fawn felt her whole body stiffen. Silver Fox, the chief’s son? He had taken Christianity? What would Chief Calls Through The Night think of his son’s denial of the people’s religion? Would he remove his son from the right to follow him as chief? It would be logical. And expected. And Running Fawn had heard that a nephew was anxious for the honor.
Her father was beaming as he expressed his pleasure at the news. Running Fawn found it hard to understand. Did her father realize the importance of the step that the young man had just taken? Did he know that it might ruin his whole future?
“Does the chief know?” asked her father.
The missionary was nodding his head. “He knows. Silver Fox sent me to talk to him—and to deliver his words in a letter.”
“What did the chief say?”
Running Fawn’s whole world seemed to come to a standstill as she waited for the answer to the question.
“He said he will give the words much thought,” replied the missionary.
Running Fawn felt her knees weaken.
Much thought
. What would that mean? What would the outcome be? Perhaps … perhaps Silver Fox would never come back to his people.
Running Fawn did not go back to the cabin of the missionary, but he often joined them at their campfire. He was always welcomed by her father and, indeed, if Running Fawn had felt free to express her feelings, she would have welcomed him also.
In spite of the fact that she still did not share his religion, she did enjoy his company. He always brought news which he shared generously. He even drew her gently into the conversation. Her father did not seem to object. In fact, he too seemed to welcome her opinions on topics under discussion.
Winter settled in around them. The wind blew on some days. The snow fell in gentleness or with sweeping blasts—but it was not a bad winter in spite of Running Fawn’s fears.
The Riel Rebellion was quickly and efficiently defused without the help of the Blood warriors, and though there were those who secretly felt disappointment at the white man’s victory, nothing like that was openly declared. Starvation did not strike the people. Sickness did not sweep through all the tents. Running Fawn began to realize that the bad omens that had gripped her in such fear were not bringing the bad fortune she had imagined.
Perhaps she could breathe more easily. Spring was just around the corner.
A strange haze lay over the distant hills as Running Fawn picked up her pail and headed to the river for her day’s water supply. She was later than normal in making the short journey, but she did not mind. She had spent the morning chatting with the missionary, who had made his daily call in the early hours of the day rather than his customary evening visit. Now he had gone, and Running Fawn was left to hurry with the tasks that had been delayed.
As she walked, her thoughts were on other matters than filling the bucket in her hand. She now enjoyed her times spent with the missionary. She had almost ceased to think of him as white. He seemed to be more akin to her than many of her own people.
Her people. She should be making more effort to keep contact with her brother, Crooked Moose, and his wife. She would not even have known that Laughing Loon was with child had not her father come bearing the exciting news.
She wondered if Crooked Moose had been able to put away his bitterness now that he had a wife and would soon be a father. She had not seen him for many months.
Nor had she heard from Silver Fox. The only word she heard about him came through his letters to Man With The Book. She was sure the missionary did not know that she waited for the return of Silver Fox to determine what her own future might hold.
But even as she considered her situation, she brushed the thoughts aside. She had not ever been sure that Silver Fox had meant what she had thought he might. And what would the situation be now, with Silver Fox a Christian and Running Fawn still tied to the old ways of her people?
Tied? No. She really had given up the old ways too. She had been disappointed. Disillusioned. But even though she no longer took part in the medicine dances or the religious ceremonies, she was not ready to embrace another religion.
Man With The Book had spoken to her again. Would she not reconsider? He prayed nightly for her salvation. He longed for her to accept his faith. He wished with all his heart, his being, that she might learn to know his God. If only he could make her understand. If she would embrace his faith, then he would be free to …
And then he closed his lips tightly and looked agitated and embarrassed. What had he been about to say? Running Fawn’s heart raced as she remembered the look on his face. The pleading in his eyes. She did not know the ways of the white man’s courting, of making a promise, but she read something in the missionary’s eyes that made her cheeks grow warm.
She cast another glance toward the sky. The haze had thickened. She lifted her head and sniffed. Smoke.
Running Fawn was used to the smell of smoke in the air, but this was not the smoke of many campfires. There was a different smell. Acrid. Potent. Grass. Burning grass. She was sure of it. A prairie fire was moving their way.
She turned and raised a hand to shade her eyes. From what direction was it coming? The train tracks? Another spark from the train’s steel wheels that had started the dry grasses ablaze?
The fire seemed to be off to the west. She could not see over the next rise to judge the distance. Surely there would be those out fighting it even now. The people who lived beyond the hills were used to the train fires. They would be ready.
She quickened her pace. She must get her water and hurry home. With a fire just beyond the hills, should her father return and find her missing, he would worry.
The river was shallow at the edge, so she waded out into the stream and dipped her pail where the water ran deeper. Lifting the pail with both hands she shifted it to her right hip and walked back to the shore.
The wind had quickened, she noticed, as she took to the trail. That would not help the cause of the fire fighters. She hoped they soon had the blaze under control.
Again she lifted her eyes to the horizon and noticed that the smoke already was much more dense. She was sure that the fire had moved much closer. Panic seized her. Had the fire moved into the area where Crooked Moose and Laughing Loon had their tepee?
She began to run.
There was nothing she would be able to do to save them, but perhaps the missionary could ride for help. She must go to his cabin with all haste.
She had not gone far when she realized that the pail of water hampered her progress. Without a moment’s hesitation she tossed it aside, hoisted her buckskin skirts, and ran full stride. She had done well in the school’s track events. Surely that would stand her in good stead now.
By the time she reached the cabin, she could see the first flames licking at the dry grasses of the nearby hills. Her eyes turned to search out the missionary’s corral fence. There was no horse in the enclosure. She continued on to the cabin anyway, calling out as she ran, “Fire. Fire. There is fire. We must get help!”
The cabin was empty.
Perhaps he is at the church
, she reasoned and turned to run on to the small wooden building. There was no one there. Had he gone to another destination rather than returning home?
Gasping from her long run, she turned to stare at the approaching flames. The smoke was thicker now. There was nothing but grass between her and the quickly approaching blaze.
I must get back to the river
, she told herself in panic. But even as she spoke the words she knew she would never make the river. There was not time.
For one frantic minute she stood and trembled. She was trapped. Trapped on the prairie with only wooden structures in which to hide and a prairie fire, whipped by the wind, drawing closer with each second.
Her eyes cast about for some way of escape. There was no use trying to run. She would be overtaken before she was beyond the first knoll.
Had she known how to pray, she would have prayed. She did not cry. Common sense told her that she needed to think. More clearly than she had ever thought before.
Her eyes swept the scene before her again—and then they lit upon her only hope of escape. The cistern.
It was not deep. She had drawn water from it many times. But should it be full, the water would be over her head. She had never learned to swim. Even if she was able to hang on to something, there would not be enough room for life-giving air if the water was anywhere near the top.
But it was her only hope. She ran toward it, hoping that the rope was there. At least that might give her something to cling to if the cistern was filled with water.
She managed to remove the heavy wooden cover, though desperation made her hands clumsy. The smoke was now so dense around her that she coughed as she struggled to pull the lid from the well. She groped for the twined rope. She could see nothing.
