Tanayia Page 5

  It was from this yard that I first heard the shouting. I thought boys were fighting and I moved closer to peek between the narrow fence slats.

  I remembered the stories about Susan One Star, a Pawnee girl, how she broke the rules. She would talk to the boys on the sly. One night she was caught climbing out of her dormitory window. The next day she had run away with Paul Looking Horse.

  The teachers were filled with fury. Side-by-side privileges, the school’s approved way of student courting, was stopped. The following week the wooden fence was constructed.

  “This was three years ago,” Mary Billy had said. “Never talk to the boys. Sister Enid beat a girl for talking to her own brother! She accused the girl of having evil thoughts.”

  Evil. Evil. It was all Sister Enid and Sister Louisa ever spoke of. I did not understand their fear, or their constant anger at the Indians. I only knew I did not wish to be punished. Sister Enid’s punishment was always swift, but seldom just.

  With that thought in mind, I began to move away but the shouting from the boys’ yard increased.

  I could not resist the urge to step nearer to the fence. Only a quick look. I promised myself. I would be back at the school before anyone noticed I was missing.

  I glanced around the school yard. The vegetable garden was a green barrier of corn stalks and leafy beans on poles. The teachers standing on the back porch could not see me.

  My hands moved against the splinter wood until I located a space between the slates. I hunkered down and pressed my face to the peep hole.

  I counted fifteen boys standing around a wide area of ground behind a second vegetable garden. The younger looked to be five years old and the oldest ones, several years older than myself.

  Soon I understood the boys were playing a game. This game was strange to me. It was not like the games boys played in Apacheria. Our games taught future warriors how to hunt and protect our camp. This game involved running and much noise.

  As the boys ran, dust was brought up from the ground. White warriors would never survive in Apacheria if this was how they trained their boys—future warriors. Did they not know that noise would scare away the game? Dusts could be seen from the far horizon. Dirt, without the markings brushed away, would leave a trail of footprints for an enemy to follow.

  Did the white man also train in this manner? Dressed in black pants, white shirts with stiff collars, the Indian boys did not look like Indians. Their movements were slow and clumsy, their heavy shoes catching on every stone and every root.

  Fascinated, I shifted against the fence to get a better look.

  One boy hit the ball into the air with a long wooden stick. Three other boys yelled and hurried to catch the ball. As I watched, two of the boys ran into each other. The youngest fell to the ground, holding his head, crying. While the third boy dropped the ball. After a moment, everyone changed places and the game began again.

  My heart slammed against my chest. And a hot rush of fear rang in my ears. I had been watching the boys for too long. By now someone would know that I was missing. What if Sister Louisa saw me?

  I stepped away from the fence and stumbled in my haste to get away. Regaining my footing, I glanced across the yard.

  Three of the teachers were huddled together against the side of the building. I could not see Sister Sarah or Sister Louisa.

  I exhaled an unsteady breath and moved toward the garden.

  It was then I heard a loud shout.

  “Watch out!”

  The ball came over the fence with a thud and landed near my feet. Uncertain as to what had happened, I glanced around looking for a teacher.

  Sister Louisa, I was glad to see, was beside Sister Bernadette, talking to two Ute girls. Moving out of view, I picked up the ball. It was heavy, like fist-sized stone, and covered with stitched leather.

  “Hey, you girl. Throw the ball. Over here.”

  I turned and saw a boy jump and catch himself at the top of the fence. The sunlight glinted off the blue black of his hair and brightened his friendly smile.

  I held by breath as a dizziness swept over me. I blinked my eyes. “White Eagle,” I whispered, forgetting my future husband was lost to me. Tears rimmed my eyes, by throat choked with emotion.

  “No. I am not called White Eagle,” the boy answered. “My name is Jacob Five-Wounds.”

  I looked at him again. The boy was handsome but he was not my beloved White Eagle. The pain of loss came upon me like a sharp lance through my heart.

  “Could you throw me the ball?” The team’s waiting.”

  “Throw the ball?”

  “Yes. . .no. Just hand it to me. Could you do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sick?” Jacob Five-Wounds asked. “You look like you need to sit by the porch in the shade.”

  “No, Jacob Five-Wounds, I am well.” Scooping up the ball, I reached upwards to hand him the ball.

  “Thanks.”

  I watched him jump from the fence and heard his footsteps fade into the distance.

  “Stupid Apache.”

  I heard the words and turned. Anna Thunder crawled from behind a row of beanpoles and glared at me. The heavy leaves of the plants had kept her from my vision.

  How long had she been waiting for me? How much had she witnessed?

  I knew she would tell Sister Louisa what I had done.

  A hateful sneer curled Anna’s thin lips. “Sister Enid punish Apache,” she hissed. “Anna Thunder glad. Anna Thunder wish Apache much sorrow.”

  The Comanche turned and ran toward the school house.

  Leaning against one of the splintered rails, I slid to the ground and brought my knees up to my chin and wondered what I should do now. I breathed in the dusty air, the sounds around me growing dimmer and dimmer, until I only heard the voice in my mind.

  Nothing mattered. Not Sister Louisa. Not Sister Enid. Not the threat of the attic.

  Nothing mattered because until this moment, only my mind told me of White Eagle’s death. Now it was my heart which cried out his death song. And it was my heart that was breaking.

  I accepted his death, the harsh reality engulfing me.

  My people were dead. All that was known to me, everything which had made up my life was gone. This was why I was sent to this school. Why I could not return home!

  White Eagle would never bring horses to my grandfather as a marriage offering for me. I would never be his wife. Never would I walk with him beside the river, or laugh with him when he brought home his kill from a long hunt. Our children would never play outside our lodge. We would not grow old together.

  A sob tore at my throat.

  I was alone.

  White Eagle was dead. I had no home to return to.

  I had no one.

  No one to love, or who love me.

  I buried my face against my skirt and grabbed a fistful of starched fabric in each hand.

  I cried.

  I cried until my throat was raw, my eyes swollen.

  I had nothing in my life. Nothing but this hated place.

  Suddenly I wished I possessed the courage of Susan One Star. Susan One Star had dared to run away, but I had no one and no place to run to.

  Happiness was lost to me.

  ***

  You must speak straight so that your words may go as sunlight into our hearts. These were the words of our great Nde leader, Cochise, Chief of the Chiricahua band.

  Grandfather spoke those words to our warriors and to me whenever there were times of indecision. Or when we doubted the Great Spirit was with us, in our every thought, every action.

  I remembered these words as I sat on my bed that night and prayed the memory would bring strength to me.

  The moon cast a soft light into the dormitory. I rested against the coolness of the wall, my torn white blouse in my lap, watching Anna Thunder sleep in what was once my bed.

  Pushing the needle through the sleeve, I made tiny, even stitches in the cotton fabric, repairing the damage
the Comanche had caused that morning. My anger had left me for the moment. The emotion I brought out in Anna Thunder was worth the torn sleeve. A small smile curved my lips as I remembered the rage of her face. Anna Thunder did not wish for Sister Kathleen to know that the Comanche ate their dogs.

  I was surprised when my words angered Sister Kathleen.

  “Tay, you are not to speak of the old ways,” she said, taking down a tin container from a shelf. “Sister Enid doesn’t wish for any of us to discuss our life before coming to this school.”

  Sister Kathleen dumped the coffee beans into a skillet on the stove. I watched her roast the beans and then prepare them for grinding. Suddenly, she looked very sad.

  “Teacher have people?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she whispered then lifted a large pot of water to the stove. “I was about your age when I watched my sister-in-law, Colleen, make coffee. . .how I would beg for a sip of coffee each morning. . .”

  I watched Sister Kathleen touch the stem of the grinder and look out the window. My heart grew heavy with sorrow. She was alone. She missed her people and her family.

  “Teach can go home.”

  “No, Tay. I can never return home. My life is here now.”

  “Why?”

  “Tay, we will speak of the past this one time. Afterwards, you will never ask these questions again. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Sister.”

  “I have people, Tay. My family is in Ireland, parents and eight siblings.”

  “Ireland?”

  “Yes, it’s across the sea. Far away.”

  “Far?”

  “Yes. Farther than you have ever traveled. I came over on a ship ten years ago.”

  “Alone?”

  “No. My elder brother was with me. . .he and his wife.”

  “Where now?”

  “Dead,” she replied, her voice a choked whisper. “They were both killed in a factory fire when I was fourteen. I was placed in a convent.”

  “School?”

  “Like a school. The nuns were all like Sister Enid and Sister Louisa.”

  A shudder ran down my spine and my gaze locked with Sister Kathleen’s. I saw her sky-colored eyes were filled with kindness and I smiled. She understood what it was like to be alone. What is was like to be punished.

  It wasn’t until much later, that I learned this boarding school was a catch-all place for nuns who did not get along anywhere else. Sisters who complained too much or who had simply lost their mind. I’ll always wonder, now after hearing this, where they found Sister Kathleen.

  “Unjust things happen in this world, Tay. We must do what we can and go on.”

  “Soldiers kill my people! Grandfather dead,” I said. “Tay, go home. Sister Kathleen help.”

  “Don’t you understand? You have no home to return to. I’m sorry. It was in the newspaper before you came to live here. All of your band—your people—are dead. You have no other place to return to. This school is your home.”

  There was no home for me to return to.

  Hearing the words spoken aloud, helped me to understand. There was no place in the Indian world to return to. I had searched for the stronghold. For other Nde bands. To my people, I too, was dead. No one would search for me.

  Her words still echoed in my mind that night, as I stitched the tear in my shirt sleeve.

  I snapped the thread off with my teeth and tied a knot. I stared out of the window and hopelessness filled my heart.

  I had no choice but to remain in this school. In this white world. For now, there was no other path for me to follow.

  I would learn, I promised myself. The Nde survived.

  When Sister Enid returned I would be strong, determined. She would never threaten me again. In my strength I would honor my grandfather and my people.

  I gazed down at Anna Thunder and a frown creased my forehead. She knew I had spoken to Jacob Five-Wounds. She would tell Sister Enid.

  I would be made to pay.

  I wondered how I could buy the Comanche’s silence.

  I see no longer the curling smoke rising from out lodge poles.

  I hear no longer the songs of women as they prepare the meal.

  The antelope have gone; the buffalo wallows are empty.

  Only the wail of the coyote is heard.

  We are like birds with a broken wing.

  --Chief Plenty Coups Crow

  Chapter 7

  The December wind had a bite to it. The cold stung my hands and froze my breath when I spoke.

  “Anna Thunder not tell Sister Enid Tay spoke to Jacob Five-Wounds.”

  The Comanche gave me a haughty look before pulling a fourth turnip from the ground. “Apache do what Anna Thunder say.”

  “No!”

  “Then Anna Thunder tell Sister Enid. Apache talk to Jacob Five-Wounds. Send Tay to the attic.”

  “I say Comanche lie.”

  “Anna Thunder not care. Boys saw Jacob Five-Wounds talk to Apache.”

  I held my tongue but I knew she read the fear in my eyes.

  “Anna Thunder and Apache be sent to attic,” she sneered.

  I swallowed hard and stuffed my shaking hands into the pockets of my skirt. My hate for Anna Thunder was strong, but not stronger than my fear of the attic. The Comanche knew this and smiled before she spoke.

  “Attic dark. Cold. No blanket. No window. Only crack in wall. Small light. Anna Thunder see rat. Anna Thunder hungry. Rat now have one eye.”

  I glared at the Comanche, my back stiff with pride. “Tay no care about rat. . .cold. Comanche afraid of dark not Nde.”

  “Bird of darkness live in attic,” she told me. “Bird of the night song come for mice.”

  I felt my blood turn to ice. Bird of darkness—the owl. Bringer of evil. Death. My people were not to look upon the bird, or speak its name.

  “Bird of darkness come for Apache.” Anna Thunder glanced up at the attic. Her body still while she listened. “Hear the cry? Tay hear song of white man’s owl?”

  I shivered. She was trying to bring fear into my heart. Grandfather told me never to listen when someone speaks of evil. If I did not listen, evil could not touch me.

  I thought of home. . .Apacheria. My heart pounded and panic pounded in my head. I looked at the early morning sky and my vision blurred. Yellow-Bird had seen the owl, was touched by its falling feather. Now, Yellow-Bird was dead. Death had fallen upon Apacheria after the owl came.

  I thought of Anna Thunder’s one-eyed rat. But in my mind the rat became my grandfather. I remembered Grandfather as he lay on the ground, his black eyes open, unseeing.

  I tried to fight the image, but it would not go away.

  The Comanche had won.

  To buy her silence, I would do as she asked.

  Anna Thunder tossed the turnips on the porch. I watched the soil; cling to the white roots as one turnip rolled along the wooden step.

  “No more talk,” she said, her breaths coming had against the cold air. “Anna Thunder find Sister Enid.”

  My shoulders slumped. Defeat, did not come easy to me. “What Anna Thunder want from Tay?” I ground the words though clenched teeth.

  She turned to face me. “Give Anna Thunder bread.”

  “Bread?”

  “Bread from kitchen. Hide in pocket. Give to Anna Thunder.”

  My gaze narrowed. Each day I watched Anna Thunder hide her slice of bread in her skirt pocket. I did not know why. Each night I watched. She did not bring the food from her pockets, nor where there crumbs leaving a trail among her belongings.

  “Why? Why do you ask this?”

  The Comanche was thin. Her arms like the bare branches of a sapling tree. Anna Thunder did not eat the bread she hoarded.

  “Will Apache bring bread?” she hissed.

  My stomach growled. Sister Enid had returned last evening and supervised the breakfast meal today. The oatmeal had been thin. There was little nourishment for my growing body. The bread Sister Kathleen gave me kept the pa
ins of hunger from my stomach. I did not want to give any food to my enemy.

  “Tay no trust Anna Thunder.”

  The Comanche stared at me with hard, black eyes.

  “Anna Thunder keep word.”

  “Tay think Anna Thunder keep bread. Tell Sister Enid of Jacob Five-Wounds.”

  “No! Anna Thunder keep bread. No tell Sister Enid of Jacob Five-Wounds.”

  “Why? Why I trust you?”

  The Comanche lifted her chin a notch and glared at me. “Anna Thunder keep word.”

  “Why Comanche want bread?”

  “Sickness. Anna Thunder need for sickness.”

  “There no sickness here. Comanche lie.”

  “Sister have coughing sickness. Keep her in house of the doctor. Nurse say food make little sister well.”

  I had head of this coughing sickness. Some of the Nde had died after trading with the white man. I saw the sadness in Anna Thunder’s eyes and knew she spoke the truth.

  “I will give bread for Anna Thunder’s sister. When sister well all is ended.”

  The Comanche nodded her head. “When sister well Anna Thunder no tell of Jacob Five-Wounds.”

  During the week that followed, I hid my bread in my pocket when Sister Kathleen’s back was turned. Then, so not to listen to the painful rumble of my stomach, I quickly finished my assigned tasks. When Anna Thunder walked past me carrying the slop bucket, I shoved the slice of bread into her eager hand.

  Today, as I swept the floor, I was filled with uneasiness. Sister Kathleen was more watchful over us, her gaze often scanning the doorway, as if waiting for someone’s arrival. Mary Billy, I noticed, was not well. A feverish glaze covered her eyes and sweat beaded her forehead.

  I glanced down at my skirt. Even with the covering of my apron I was fearful the folds of fabric would not hide the sharp outline the slice of bread made. Stealing from the kitchen was forbidden. Sister Enid would not care if the food was mine. In the teacher’s eyes, the food belonged to the school. Students were not given extra portions of food. If I was caught, no explanations or excuses would be heard. I would be punished.

  Stealing, lying, and running away all carried the harshest punishment. The price for these transgressions: a beating and ten days in the attic.