The Indian School (2 page)

“Yes, ma'am,” Mary said. She kept her chin tilted down but glanced quickly at me out of the corners of her large brown eyes before hastily disappearing into the kitchen.

“Tomorrow, Lucy,” Aunt Emma said, “I will show you your duties. We will also begin your lessons.”

Uncle Edward cleared his throat a few times. “Surely Lucy can have a day or two to become used to us, Emma?”

“It is never too soon to make a beginning, Edward. Now, Lucy, I will take you to your room.”

We climbed a stairway so narrow, Aunt Emma had to gather in her skirts. In my room was all I needed but nothing else. “We have a simple life here, Lucy. The Indian children pay nothing for their keep but corn and sometimes venison. The missions can send little in the way of money. It is only by hard work and sacrifice that we manage.”

My aunt left me with a caution to go to
bed at once so I would be rested for the morning. I hung my clothes upon the pegs and placed my comb and brush upon my washstand. I hoped the presence of my few belongings would make the room more familiar. But the strangeness would not go away. That night I slept fitfully, disturbed by the hooting of an owl and the cry of some animal that sounded as lonely as I.

The knock on my door came early. I dressed at once, with only a quick glance in the bit of mirror that hung over the washstand. The glass was so small, I was sure it was meant for neatness and not primping. I had seen my aunt look disapprovingly at my wayward curls. Now I tried to pull them into a prim straightness. Even my freckles seemed too much decoration.

Meals were taken with the Indian students. As I entered the dining hall, all eyes
turned to me. Though the students ranged in age from infants to nearly grown-up, they were dressed alike. The boys wore corduroy trousers and cotton shirts. The girls were in calico shifts and homespun aprons. In Detroit I had been used to seeing Indians in clothes embroidered with colored beads and wearing necklaces and bracelets of beads or silver. I thought of the yellow birds that lose their bright plumage in the winter. These students all seemed to be winter birds.

As soon as breakfast was over, Aunt Emma said, “Edward, I have much to do. It would be best if you showed Lucy the school. When you return, I will quiz her to see what class she will enter.”

I was glad to follow Uncle Edward outside. My aunt's busyness made no room for me.

My uncle paused, uncertain. “Shall we see the barn first or the schoolrooms? The barn, perhaps. No. Let us start with the school. We have fifteen boys and twelve
girls. The Indian children come to us for many reasons. Some are brought here because they have no parents. Some come because their parents wish them to learn. They see the writing on the wall. The Indian lands are overtaken by white settlers. As the woods disappear, the animals disappear. The Indians can no longer make a living in the fur trade. The settlers do not leave the Indians enough farmland for their crops. The old life of the tribes will soon be a thing of the past. The Indians must become farmers and smiths and carpenters.”

I thought it a pity that so much of the change must come from the Indians and so little from the white man.

“It is our hope,” Uncle Edward went on, “that some of our students will go on to our church's academy in New York or to some other university.”

We entered a room in which two older Indian girls were working at a loom while another was spinning. “This is the weaving room,” Uncle Edward said. “Last year
nearly a hundred yards of cloth were woven here. The Indians seem to have a special talent for making things with their hands. At first they wished to use their own designs, and very pretty some of them were. Your aunt thought it best that the cloth be woven in a more plain design.”

We went from the carpentry shop to the smithy, where Mr. Jones oversaw the work of two Indian boys. We saw the chicken coop and the cow barn. In the pasture three milk cows nosed aside fallen leaves to pull at the browning grass.

As he showed me about the school, Uncle Edward became less uncertain in manner. Proudly he pointed out where corn and potatoes had grown and where the winter wheat was planted. Rows of pumpkins and squash lay ripe and orange on the brown earth.

“Someday,” he said, “we will have our own grist mill. Then we need look to no man for help.” He sighed. “Now it is time to return to your aunt.”

We visited the classroom where my aunt was teaching reading and writing to the younger children. When I remarked on how alike the children were dressed, Uncle Edward explained their clothes were sent from the mission.

Aunt Emma dismissed her class. She spoke to Uncle Edward as though he were one of her students. “You have been dawdling, Edward. Come now, Lucy. Let us see what you know of schoolwork.”

I tried very hard.

“Well, Lucy. You are better at your reading and your sums than I would have thought. You will take your lessons with the older girls.”

My aunt did not give praise easily. She closed the books and stood up. “I am sure you know less of practical things.” I was led out to the henhouse and taught how to scatter the feed so all the chickens might have their share. At lunch I was told to watch over the youngest scholars and see that, like the chickens, they all shared equally.

With their dark hair, brown eyes, and golden skin they were pretty children. I could not keep from kissing the cheek of one little boy. This did not please my aunt. She warned, “If you are softhearted, the children will have no respect for you.”

After that I was more prudent in my attentions. Still, a small hand would creep into mine or a tender smile reward another portion of pudding. Then my heart would soften in spite of my efforts. I tried to hide my weakness from my aunt, for I liked being among the children. I could not forget that like myself many were without father and mother.

That evening I was pleased when Aunt allowed me to help in getting the youngest boys ready for bed. Their sleeping room held narrow cots. At the foot of each cot was a small trunk for each child's clothes. The children had to be coaxed to wash their faces, for the water in the pitchers was cold. After the washing and the putting on of nightclothes, each child knelt
by his bed and said his prayers. Then my heart became soft indeed. It was very bad of me, but after I turned down the lamp, I hastily kissed each child good night.

Uncle Edward said it was his custom to read a verse or two of scripture before bed. We settled down next to the fire. Just then we heard a knock at the door. Uncle Edward put down his Bible and went to see who was there. It was an Indian man. By his side was a small boy and a girl a year or two older than myself. “Come in,” my uncle said. “How can we help you?”

The man took a few steps into the room. He was dressed in a torn shirt and soiled leggings. Though young, he was stooped, as though he were carrying a heavy burden. There was a frown between his eyes and a tightness to his mouth. He looked like he did not want to be there. The children hung back. The man reached down and gave each child a gentle push forward. “I am Lost Owl. This is my son, Star Face, and my daughter, Raven.”

I thought Raven well named. Her black hair dipped on either side of her forehead like the wings of a raven. Her eyes were black and quick and sharp like the bird's eyes. Star Face was no more than five or six. His long hair was matted and snarled. His clothes, what there were of them, were in tatters. He had eyes for one thing only: a bowl of apples on the table beside him. The temptation was too much. He picked up one of the apples and began to eat it greedily.

Aunt Emma stood up. “Young man, put that down at once.” The boy dropped the apple onto the table. He hid behind his father's leg, holding on for dear life. At this the girl, Raven, walked slowly over to the table. She picked up the half-eaten apple and handed it to her brother, who began to eat it again.

For a whole minute Aunt Emma was speechless. “Put that down, I say.” She snatched the apple from the boy's hand. But by now she held nothing but a stem
and a few seeds. She turned to Lost Owl. “Your daughter is a wicked girl. Take your children and leave here.”

Uncle Edward had been taken aback by the girl's actions, but now he said, “My dear, we cannot send this man away without finding out why he has come.”

“I am sorry that my children should give you trouble,” Lost Owl said. “They are hungry. We have come a long way from our village. There are as many dead from smallpox as there are alive. The sickness came like a hungry fox to a nest of young birds. My wife is dead. My brother and all his family are dead. The rest of my family have gone far away so the sickness cannot find them. I was told Indian children are welcome here.”

“I am not sure we have a place for children who are so lacking in manners.” Though my aunt's words were hard, I saw that she was moved by Lost Owl's story.

“We have never turned away someone in need,” Uncle Edward said. “Even with
such sauciness we cannot begin now.” There was no indecision in his voice.

Lost Owl had something more to say. “I am not giving you my children. I will go far north of here where there are still many animals. When the winter is over, I will come back with pelts. I will buy my children back.”

Aunt Emma was truly shocked. “We do not buy and sell children here! What we do, we do for charity. No money will change hands. You may have your children back whenever you wish. I dare say we will be glad to be rid of them. I will promise you, though, that when they are returned you will find them much improved.”

“I thank you,” Lost Owl said. He bent to embrace his son. Star Face clung to him sobbing. Uncle Edward pulled him gently away. Lost Owl put his hand on Raven's shoulder in farewell. Raven stood very stiffly. She said nothing and gave no sign of sadness at her father's departure.

After Lost Owl left, I was asked to put
Star Face to bed with the younger children. At this Raven looked startled. I saw that she did not want to be parted from her brother. Still, she would not give my aunt the satisfaction of showing her distress. When Aunt Emma led her away, Raven followed along with her chin high in the air. Only once, when my aunt's attention was otherwise engaged, did Raven look quickly back at her brother. There was much love in her look. When she caught me watching, her face became stormy and closed. Timidly I asked my aunt, “May I take Star Face to the kitchen and give him some milk before I put him to bed?”

“Yes, Lucy. I should have thought of that myself. But do not call him by that foolish name. We will find a proper name for him tomorrow. Girl, would you like something as well?”

Raven shook her head. Yet she looked so thin, I was sure it was her pride and not her appetite that answered for her.

When I had warmed some milk for Star Face and fed him bread and jam, the
unhappiness seemed to go out of him. He followed me like a lamb follows its mother to the small boys' dormitory. It was only when I tried to put a nightshirt on him that he rebelled. I had to let him climb into his cot in his soiled and tattered clothes. There he made a nest of his bed, burrowing into his bedclothes and curling into a ball.

That night it was not Star Face I thought of, but Raven. At last, unable to close my eyes, I crept down the hall to the girls' sleeping room. I peered in. By the light of the moon I saw Raven. She had pulled her blanket from her cot. Wrapping herself in it, she had lain down on the floor. Her shoulders were shaking with silent sobs. At first I thought of comforting her. Yet I was sure she would not like to be seen crying. I crept back to my room.

I slept no more that night. When I had first come to the Indian school, I had been brave. Seeing Raven's unhappiness, I thought of the absence of my own parents and I cried with her.