Tanayia Page 3

  Mary Billy hesitated. “Sister Enid?” she questioned, a thread of fear in her voice. Glancing at the frightened child, she asked “today?”

  The woman glared down at her, and her spine locked in outrage. “Do you question my orders, girl?”

  Mary Billy reached for the child, lifted her out of the tub and wrapped her in a cloth. “No, Ma’am. I will take her to Sister Enid.” The child seemed to sense a kinship between herself and the strangely dressed Indian girl, immediately she quieted.

  The child resembled a small, frightened creature as she clung to Mary Bill’s neck. I watched Mary Billy walk the length of the lodge toward the doorway. As she came nearer I saw her dark eyes appeared empty, as if her soul had shriveled up and died.

  I looked away, not wishing to see into her soul. I suddenly feared for myself. The Gahns had visited my camp but my ceremony was not complete. There was no medicine to pray for my safe return. Would I too, shrivel up and die?

  The line moved forward and soon, it was my turn.

  I stepped before the tall woman, and gave not a cry of protest when I felt the cold blade of the scissors at my neck, or cruel yanking of my long thick hair at the scalp. I watched my hair fall to the wooden floor until it formed a mountain of raven’s wings. I uttered not a sound from my lips, nor did a tear form in my eye; only my heart beat, like a righteous drum of anger, and my soul mourned for all that I had lost.

  My gaze locked with the blue eyes of the teacher as I shed my clothing and stepped into the cold metal tub. Hers were the eyes which lowered first. I knew, as surely as the stinging water bled into my skin and the burning anger of the rush clawed against my arm—I had made my first enemy.

  My people want to be friends with your people, but I ask you this one question. Why? Cannot Apaches have some country of their own?

  This is the country where we have hunted for all time does not belong to the Mexicans.

  They cannot sell it to the United States. It belongs to the Apache.

  -- Mangas Coloradas, Apache Chief

  Chapter 4

  I remember dressing in the dark scratchy clothing the teacher handed me, and sliding the heavy shoes upon my feet. Afterwards, I was taken from that room and I was sent to a second room. I do not know for how long in clock time I waited, but I was very cold and hungry. Outside there were clouds and sunshine, but I felt I was all alone in this strange world. I felt that my spirit was like a fledgling eagle, perched on a tall craggy cliff, alone and frightened. I could only trust that the Creator would give me wings so that I, too, could fly to safety.

  But soon, four moons passed and during that time I came to learn many truths. Most importantly, speaking my language near a teacher earned me a swift slap across my face. I was expected to learn the white teacher’s words. I was not to make mistakes or disobey the teacher’s commands.

  “The punishment,” Mary Billy whispered in halting Apache while she stood in the shadows, “is to be put in the attic. It is a dark place filled with small rooms. Like caves in the mountains.”

  I shivered and glanced over my shoulder to make certain no one overheard us. Our mountain caves were alive with ghosts—dark holes filled with evil. I could not imagine what this attic held, nor did I wish to find out.

  I discovered everything in this school was done by the ringing of bells atop a tall white building. This was very difficult for me. I did not understand the reason for the bells, or why the white teachers read the face of the large clock. I learned the white man’s time and days of the week.

  The Nde lived by the seasons, by the passage of moons, and by sleeps. We ate when we were hungry and we slept when our bodies told us it was time.

  The Nde are resourceful and my grandparents taught me well. They told me the only way to defeat the enemy was to learn his ways and discover his weakness. And so, I learned by observation.

  1880, The Season of Swimming Ducks

  Each of us was assigned duties that we were to complete every day after the class bell rang. My task was the washing of clothes.

  First, I must fill the large metal tub with hat water from atop a wood burning stove. The metal buckets were very heavy as I carried them the length of the room. I took great care not to burn myself or catch the long sleeves of my dress in the fire. To this water I added a foul-smelling powder and six arms full of dirty clothing.

  “Use this,” Nellie Poor Woman said, handing me a small stool. “Stand on top so your back will not hurt. Go ahead, take it”

  Nellie was one of the older students, she spoke in a soft voice and her words were lisped. Though I did not understand many of her English words, I understood the kindness in her voice.

  I placed the stool next to the tub.

  “Stand on top.”

  “Stand?” I couldn’t understand what she wanted.

  She patted the top of the wooden stool and lifted up one foot and then the other.

  “Like this, right foot, left foot.”

  I frowned and she repeated her actions.

  Suddenly I understood what she wanted. Carefully I balanced myself upon the stool and tossed the final armful of laundry into the tub.

  “Good. Now use the paddle to stir the clothes.” Removing a long wooden stick from the hoop on the wall, she shoved the wide end of the paddle into the tub.

  “I should Paddle?”

  “Yes. Sister Enid says the clothes must be clean.”

  I watched her slosh the water inside the tub, over, under, and then around the small mountain of laundry. Nellie Poor Woman moved the narrow paddle. Steam rose form the water.

  “Be careful. The water is very hot.” She said, rolling up my sleeves before pushing the paddle into my hands.

  “Stir the clothes, harder, and push. Lift the shirts up like this so the water runs underneath.”

  I pushed the end of the paddle under a white shirt. The paddle rose to the top of the water. It am very strong for my size, still I could keep the paddle under the water for only a short time. Soon I discovered, resting the handle on the edge of the tub and leaning against the paddle, made the task easier to perform.

  Nellie Poor Woman watched and nodded her approval.

  “Do you understand?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You must be quick. Sister Louisa is coming.”

  “Teacher?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sister Louisa will not care that this is your first day. . .”

  Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the teacher called Sister Louisa. She walked slowly around the room, her skinny back straight, and her bony fingers poking at each student. Her voice shrill, echoed in the large room.

  “You, Nellie Poor Woman, stop dawdling. Get back to your station. I won’t have you doing anyone else’s work!”

  “I only meant—”

  “Don’t argue with me girl. Everyone pulls her weight in this school.”

  “Yes, Sister.”

  Nellie Poor Woman gave me a worried look before scurrying back to her ironing board.

  My throat went dry and my heart pounded against my chest as Sister Louisa glared at me. Why did Sister Louisa look at me with such hate-filled eyes?

  I pushed the paddle hard into the scalding water and concentrated upon my task. I did not wish to anger the teacher.

  “You, girl,” Sister Louisa said, coming to stand beside me. “Stay on task. I want the clothes clean. Clean. Do you understand me, girl?”

  “Yes, Sister.”

  “Hurry up. The others are behind in their work because of your laziness.”

  “Yes, Sister.”

  I tried to move the paddle as Nellie Poor Woman had shown me. The water swirled and the shirts thumbed against the tub.

  “Stupid girl!”

  My hands trembled as I gripped the paddle. Sister Louisa poked at my shoulder then pointed at the water.

  “Watch what you’re doing, girl.”

  “Yes, Sister”

  “Heathens. You come to this school kn
owing nothing of cleanliness. I’m expected to train you.”

  Sister Louisa thumped the end of the paddle with her open palm. I felt the wood shake under my hands and the soapy water sloshed up the side of the tub. I dare not move. If the tub tipped over the hot water would burn us all.

  Sister Louisa gave a snarl of disgust.

  “Don’t stare at the water, girl. Get to work!”

  “No.”

  “Girl, what did you say?”

  “No, Sister.” I blinked back the tears. I spoke few English words, but I needed for her to understand. Frustration caused me to bit the inside of my lip to stay silent. I dared not speak my language.

  Again, the metal tub rocked in protest as Sister Louisa pushed the paddle into the water. I heard a stream of water sizzle a path to the floor.

  Sister Louisa must stop!

  “No touch!” I shouted, my hand gripping her wrist.

  Sister Louisa snarled and flung my hand away.

  There was silence, almost absolute except for the shuffle of boots and a cough. No student dared to move. Or to speak.

  I watched Sister Louisa’s face turn red and she shook with anger. She gripped by wrists. Her fingers were like a bundle of broom straws, tiny and dry, but the strength of them us unnatural.

  “You dare to defy me?”

  I did not reply. I could only stare at her.

  Sister Louisa’s skin was a deadly pale. Her eye sockets, two deep lash less hollows in her skull. I watched her brown lips move, but heard only a jumble of words.

  Grandfather had warned me of the Pindah—the white eyes. But he had never told me they hated children.

  Suddenly the teacher released me with such force, I stumbled to the floor. My stomach pitched and hot tears burned by eyes. She looked at me sharply, and her gaze turned strange.

  “Sister Enid will hear of this, girl. Do not cross me again,” she said, shoving the paddle back into my hands. “Now get back to work!”

  “I did not blink. I did not speak as I watched the teacher walk away. Still, something howled in my mind. Loss and darkness. I knew I must stay strong. Somehow, I would find a way back to Apacheria.

  All day my thoughts strayed to Apacheria as I washed the clothes and tried to understand the ways of this school.

  The white teachers had strange thoughts about cleanliness. My people bathed in a free-flowing river and we used herbs and flowers to scent our body and hair. Our trade cloth clothing was washed in the same manner and laid upon the shrubs to dry.

  If our buckskin dresses and leggings became dirty, we placed the clothing next to a hill of large ants. Ants cleaned the leather of all dirt and oils. Afterwards, the leather was brushed and was ready to wear once more.

  I gazed at the swirling water beneath my paddle and blinked as the smell of foul wash powder stung my eyes and throat. Sweat trickled down my spine and along my forehead. I gave a bitter laugh. Soon I would be as foul smelling as the water I stirred.

  Grabbing a forked stick, I removed the dripping shirts into a second tub for another girl to rinse, before I emptied the large tub in the same manner I had filled it. Then, once again, I repeated by earlier actions.

  Within two sleeps I learned to hate this task.

  1880, The Season of Gathering Corn

  In Apacheria, my world, there are many colors on the mountains, and the earth is bright with clay and with sand. Red and blue. Sage and sky. Spotted horse that graze in a dark wildness in the hills beyond. The land is strong. It is filled with beauty and quietness of spirit. It is home.

  Here, dawn is the ringing of the school bell and I see only darkness all around me. I feel only emptiness within my heart and fear that I will never return to my Apacheria world. The world I dream about. My soul once soared with the freedom of an eagle and the wildness of a dear; but mow my soul is like the dry, broken lumps of soil and rock that circles the white man’s school. Each morning as I climb from my bed, my bare feet upon the hard, ice-cold floor. I shiver from both the cold and the fear peach will never again me mine.

  I finish dressing and follow the other girls outside the building. We move one by one. The small ones are the last to tumble out of their beds and dress. Careful not to be discovered speaking their own language, the older Comanche girl, Anna Thunder, speaks soft words of encouragement to her young sister, Fawn.

  May Billy and Nellie Poor Woman are in the other dormitory. They are the only students I have spoken to since coming to this place.

  Linda White Lance takes hold of Vida Graycloud’s hand and helps the young girl find her last she. Though the Kiowa girl and I arrived upon the same day, I feel none of her ease at being here. Nor do I know how to make friends in this place.

  Vida sits upon the floor next to a girl her own age. Each giving the other a toothless grin, they race to finish dressing before the second bell sounds.

  Soon, the young ones are finished and runt out the door and their place in one of the six lines of waiting Indian students.

  I gaze all around me and see sixty-five girls and young women dressed as one great tribe of starched black dresses. Faded white cotton underwear covered our red skin beneath our clothing and heavy black shoes are tied upon our feet. A tribe of white man’s Indians, I think with a bitter smile.

  Sister Enid, the head mistress, leads this school by both her rules and her example. Two of the younger teachers try to show kindness, but Sister Enid refuses to allow it.

  “Take the Indian out of the child, “Sister Sarah says each morning before we march. What I wonder, will be left of us if they do this thing?”

  Straight like trees, unmoving like a fat rabbit testing the air for the scent of a hungry hunter, in the silence of the dawn all of us stand, awaiting Sister Sarah’s orders.

  “Students ready. . .forward march. Left. Right. Left. Right,” Sister Sarah calls out in her shrill, loud voice.

  We obey, as we have obeyed for many months. Each of us has learned that Sister Sarah and Sister Enid deal out punishment with a generous hand.

  I listen to the crunch of shoes upon the ground and the sound of my own breaths, harsh in the cool air. I obey Sister Sarah’s words. I remain in line as we march across the school yard. Again, and again, we march, until my ankles ache from the heavy weight of my shoes.

  I have learned many English words while sitting in the classroom each day, but in my heart, I hear only Apache.

  With each step, my soul begs me to return home. I miss my grandparents. I miss the comfort of my warm fire, the softness of my fur robes. I miss my people. My aunt’s corn soup. Grandfather’s stories. My eyes search the morning sky for the flash of sunlight and its harsh yellow glare that is sunrise at my home. I even long for the shine and glitter of ice against the gray cloudy sky and the horses drinking at the crooked line of the river that circles my village. The joyous sound of Yellow-Bird’s laughter as we run to greet the warriors. And White Eagle. I miss his smile of welcome and the touch of his strong hand against mine when we stand beside my grandfather’s lodge.

  I know these times are gone forever. A deadly cold lance of hopelessness travels down my spine, and I shut my eyes. I fight back a sob of pain at the heavy aching sorrow crushing my chest.

  Always. Always, the memories of home are with me. The heavy clopping of walking boots, wakes me from by memories, and I know that Sister Sarah walks beside me. I scrub the tears from my face and bit my lip to still its quiver. It is all I can do to keep the tears from raining down my face. Why? I ask the Creator, am I held captive in this terrible place? Is it not enough that all my people have died?

  “You, girl.” Sister Sarah said, as she walks beside me. “Eyes straight ahead. March!”

  I step more quickly, but my vision is blurred from my tears and my steps are not sure. Left. Right. Left. I try to keep the pace.

  Still, she is dissatisfied.

  “No. Stupid girl,” she shouts. “Lift your legs higher. Keep your shoulder back,” Sister Sarah says, shoving me forward. “Do
not fall behind. Faster. Faster, girl.”

  I nearly stumble, but I keep my eyes straight ahead, grinding my back teeth together to hold back a scream of rage. No one brings a hand against a Nde. No one. Still, I have learned to hold my tongue. To raise my voice against Sister Sarah will only bring her punishment upon me.

  I shake with anger, but I remain silent. It is my fear of the attic, not the woman, which holds me silent.

  Soon Sister Sarah grows tired of ordering me about and steps to the center of the school yard where she can watch us.

  After two more circles around the yard, Sister Sarah tells us to wash up and go into the dining room.

  I fall back allowing the others to rush before me. I do not want to show weakness.

  “Why do you wait?” Mary Billy asks, walking beside me.

  “I have seen the others,” I whispered in Apache. “The way they lick their plates like puppies, trying to blunt the edges of their hunger. Sister Sarah and Sister Enid watch too. They watch the bullies steal the weak girls’ food. The small ones go hungry. Mary Billy, this brings a smile to Sister Enid’s lips. If Sister Sarah knows that my stomach twists with hunger she will use this against me. She will tell Sister Enid. No Nde gives their enemy a weapon to use against them.”

  “You are right, Tay. But I must leave you, for Sister Enid expects me to oversee the others,” she said before running toward the kitchen doorway where Sister Sarah stood, waiting.

  I find my place in line. It reaches from the kitchen to the house of worship. I know if any food remains it will be hard and cold.

  Sunrise is soft against the morning sky, and the oil lamps in the kitchen cast a harsh light in the doorway. Dampness is in the air and cool dew from the grass brushes against my long skirt and I feel it on the skin of my calves. As I slowly move toward the kitchen. In the months that I’ve lived here I have grown familiar with the manner in which the school is run.