Sorrows’ Children Sorrows’ Children
It was easy for Buck to convince himself that the bay gelding was deserving of the extra brushing. Nor did he have any difficulty telling himself that because the light in the barn was dim, he needed to check the animal’s hooves for damage twice. But when he tried to raise the bay’s front foot for a third inspection the horse grew weary of the attention and refused to cooperate.
Buck drew a slow breath and combed his fingers through the coarse, black strands of the gelding’s mane. “You’re right, Red,” he admitted quietly as if imparting a confidence to the animal. “I’m wastin’ time. It’s just safer out here is all.”
Although, despite its patches, the barn leaked and its joints groaned with the ache of an old man against the breeze, the barn did offer a safety the more secure school building didn’t afford him. In the dim confines of the barn there was no black robed inquisitor, no questions to answer, no decisions to make - only the sweet smell of fresh straw, the muffled sound of heavy hooves and the melody of a late summer shower on the roof.
A glance to the sky as he led the gelding to the barn assured Buck the Reverend Mother was accurate in her prediction. Clouds laying low and lightly bruised to the west held the promise of rain but the meek bank bore no malice – no thunderous words or jagged barbs of light lay hidden in their folds. The rain would be enough to rinse the air and settle the dust. A rarity in August. A blessing. Had he only himself to consider, Buck would have weathered the shower on the open prairie and enjoyed the communion with a higher power but his indecisiveness regarding Daniel dictated that he stay.
Illuminating his path with a rusted lantern, Buck crossed the barn toward the hay mound. The bay had served him well and needed to be fed but, in spite of the Reverend Mother’s instruction, he felt badly about taking it. From what he had seen so far, Sorrows really couldn’t afford to share. His steps interrupted by the methodical sound of chewing cud, Buck raised the lantern to the side and peered into softly familiar brown eyes. He smiled in spite of himself.
“You still here, Blossom?” Buck asked, approaching the brown and white Guernsey. Completely content in her domesticity, the cow didn’t shy away when Buck reached over the top rail of the stall to scratch the curly thatch of hair between her eyes. “’Bout time for you to retire, don’t ya think?” he inquired of the aging milk cow. The cow’s bony frame shifted impatiently on heavy hooves, a look of expectation in her eyes. Noticing the pile of oats on the ground beside him, Buck understood. The student assigned feed duty had evidently been in such a hurry to complete his task he had missed the feed box and instead poured most of the ration of oats onto the barn floor outside the cow’s stall.
Buck shook his head disapprovingly as his eye followed the meandering trail of oats. As if Sorrows didn’t have enough trouble, valuable grain was going to waste. The Reverend Mother would certainly not hesitate to punish the young perpetrator for his carelessness. After a moment the harsh lines of Buck’s critical expression softened a bit. Truth be known, he had hurried through a few of Blossom’s feedings himself. Setting the lantern aside he dropped to his knees and scooped up a handful of oats letting the soft particles filter through his fingers into the trough. Intent on saving the grain, he didn’t guard himself against the image of a hungry thirteen year old runaway and the intensity of the memory knocked him backward against the feed box. The barn wasn’t as safe as he thought.
Running Buck regarded the
scoop of grain in his hands with equal measures of desperation and disgust.
Having shadowed his older brother from the time he took his first steps,
Running Buck, although only thirteen summers old, was an accomplished hunter. Not for big game. He wasn’t
old enough to accompany Red Bear into the hunting grounds, but he could snare
a rabbit or bring down a deer with his bow as well or better than any of the
other boys in the village. For all the
good it did him. If he had killed a
massive buffalo bull with his bare hands and dragged the carcass home to a starving
village, the Kiowa would have still found fault with him. Just like they
always had. Just like they always would.
Two months prior in a moment of utter despair, his spirit too weary and
wounded to face another day of torment, he made the decision to leave the Kiowa
and slipped from his brother’s tepee into the cover of night.
Uncertain as to just how far it was to the white world, he considered
taking one of Red Bear’s horses, but without his brother’s permission it would
be stealing. Determined to find a better life in the world
of his father, he started walking with no intention of turning back. Had he known it would come to this, he might
have considered his decision more thoroughly.
Assuming the white world lay
in the direction opposite the hunting grounds, he had traveled south along the
foothills of the great mountains. Treated
no more hospitably by the few whites he encountered than by his own people,
the young Kiowa runaway found himself debating whether it was worse to be cursed
in his own native tongue or in the strange language of the white man.
Not that he understood their angry words.
He didn’t need to. The tone of their voices and look of repulsion
on their faces said plenty. Running
Buck consoled himself by deciding that they just weren’t the “right” white people.
These poor farmers weren’t the friendly, generous families of Camille’s
memory. He would find the prosperous villages and places
of learning his white friend had described. He just needed to keep looking.
Although nights in a prairie
grass bed had left his young muscles as stiff as the ground he slept on and
the solitude began to wear on him, he had, at least most of the time, been able
to find something to pacify the gnawing emptiness in his stomach. Having snapped the sinew string on his bow
early in his trek with no means to repair it, his diet consisted primarily of
jack rabbits that had the misfortune of stepping into his snare. Using every available daylight hour to search
for the white villages, Running Buck limited himself to hunting only in the
evening and one meal a day. At the end
of each day the protests of a young body needing fuel to grow were strong, but
certain there were better days ahead, he was convinced he was doing just fine.
Then the rain started.
Caught unprepared in the open
prairie, he watched as black thunderheads bullied their way across the sky and
stalled overhead. Battling torrents
of rain that rolled across him like a swollen river, he had stumbled through
the flooded grassland for two long days until a flash of lightning exposed the
angles of the barn’s roof.
His buckskins soaked and heavy
with mud, his long hair glued to his face and neck, Running Buck made his way
to the shelter. While the wind took
a moment to inhale he managed to pry open the door and slip inside. Following the sound of shuffling hooves, aided
by an occasional flash of light filtering through the cracks in the roof, he
felt his way to the rear of the barn coming face to face with the large doe-eyed
creature. Although unknown to the Kiowa,
he had seen a few such animals behind the white farmer’s fences. Running Buck had been confounded by the animals’
willingness to be penned in – to be held captive. Were all the white man’s animals so lacking
in spirit?
Her interest in the young
intruder fleeting, the cow lowered her head into the feed box and resumed her
meal as if he wasn’t there. Running
Buck couldn’t help feeling a bit envious of the animal. Trapped for a seemingly endless time in the
storm he couldn’t quite remember when he had eaten last. The lack of food had left him weak and a bit
dizzy. The pains in his empty belly
had traveled to his head, encasing his skull in a pounding so relentless that
at times he had to press his hands against his eyes to prevent them from bursting
from their sockets.
Moving a bit to the side to
escape a drip from the roof, he bumped against a sack of grain outside the cow’s
stall. Knocked on its side, the contents
spilled from the burlap bag onto the earthen floor. Running Buck dropped to
his knees and ran his hand hesitantly through the grain. Not an agricultural people themselves, the
Kiowa traded fur pelts and buffalo hides for grains offered by farming tribes
and an occasional trustworthy white peddler. Although a bit damp, the oats felt
like the grain he remembered his mother pounding into a powder for bread. He brought a handful closer, wrinkling his
nose and flinching involuntarily at the spoiled odor.
Running Buck sank to the floor
in a crumpled heap under the weight of his mother’s memory. Life in the village had been bearable while
she was alive. Red Bear loved him regardless
of his pale skin and brown hair, but rather than take measures to prevent the
abuse that became a constant fixture in his brother’s life, the chief simply
chose not to see it. That selective
blindness had been the final blow that drove a wedge between Running Buck and
his older brother. Still, he missed
Red Bear’s throaty laugh and the relative safety and warmth of his brother’s
lodge. To honor her husband, Red Bear’s
wife had seen that he was fed, even if it was after everyone else had finished.
He had left the Kiowa confident
in his pilgrimage to a new world, but his empty belly growling like an angry
dog, drenched to the bone and no closer to his goal than the night he ran away,
his resolve was slipping. Although he
would certainly be punished for running away, Red Bear would take him back.
But to return to the village, admitting defeat, would only validate the
Kiowa’s claim that he was nothing . . . that he was so worthless the white world
didn’t even want him. If life in the village had been unbearable
before, the torment would be murderous if he returned. If not his body, his spirit would surely die.
No . . . No, he wouldn’t go back. Running
Buck rolled the grain in his hand, his fingertips brushing against the hairy,
greyish-green growth. He was thankful for the darkness. If he couldn’t see what he was doing, it would
be easier to deny his actions to himself later when things were better.
Running Buck took the handful of molded oats into his mouth, pressed
his eyes closed, and swallowed.
Running Buck hadn’t intended
on falling asleep, at least not sleeping for very long. Assuming the barn belonged to another white
farmer, he planned to leave at the first hint of light and continue on his way
before the familiar pattern was repeated and white man threw him out. But cocooned in golden threads of straw, the
roar overhead reduced to a soft patter, he slept hard. Streams of morning light spilling through cracks
in the shrunken siding fell across his face and he rolled toward the warmth.
Running Buck arched his back, stretching
like a cat waking from a nap and tossed a lazy arm over his head.
The sun’s rays seeped in steadily like a warm fluid flowing through channels
of awareness, waking him slowly.
Noises. Daytime noises. Voices. Running Buck’s eyes
flipped open like a sprung window shade expecting to see a pitchfork wielding
farmer standing over him. What he saw
startled him even more and he dug his heels into the mound pushing himself further
into the straw burrow.
Their features were softly
rounded like a woman’s, but nothing else in their appearance was the least bit
feminine. Dressed in stark black from
head to toe, they looked nothing like the white women he had encountered so
far. They stood close together, gripping each other’s hands, so wide-eyed that
Buck wondered for a moment if he had grown a third leg overnight. Following their gaze he realized it wasn’t
an extra limb, but the large hunting knife strapped on his leg that frightened
them. A youngster, a boy Running Buck
estimated to be a few years younger than himself, stood beside them clutching
a metal milk bucket to his chest like a piece of armor. Pointing an accusing finger in his direction, the boy started forward
until one of the black clad women grabbed his arm and pulled him back.
The two women leaned into
each other, their heads slightly bowed, speaking in whispered tones while the
boy’s curious gaze held Running Buck in place.
The women nodded as if coming to an agreement. The larger woman moved toward him and pointed toward the knife.
She didn’t carry a weapon, at least not that he could see, but at a distinct
disadvantage on his back in a pile of straw Running Buck slowly complied and
handed over the knife. The nun held the blade cautiously with only
her thumb and forefinger carrying it well away from her body as if it might
suddenly spring to life and do damage on its own. Returning to her position beside the other woman, she motioned for
him to get up and follow.
Running Buck’s heart plunged
into his stomach. He expected to be
thrown out again but how would he survive without his knife? Although the woman
was bigger than he was, he was certain he could overpower her easily and retrieve
his knife, but the other woman’s hands were hidden in her black dress.
A small gun like the one he saw an angry farmer pull from a sheath on
his hip could be easily hidden in the many folds of fabric.
When he didn’t respond the woman motioned to him again and said something
he didn’t understand. He slowly rose
to his feet and followed them out of the barn. What else could he do?
Unaccustomed to the bright
light, Running Buck brought his hand up, shielding his eyes from the morning
sun as he stepped out of the double barn doors flanked by the black dressed
women. What he saw surprised him. If this was a family it was a very large one.
Children of many different ages ran around the buildings, playing some
sort of game he didn’t recognize while other black dressed women tried to keep
them in the grassy areas and out of the puddles of water and thick layer of
mud covering the yard.
Ushered toward a building
larger than he had ever seen, he noticed a group of boys about his age pulling
on the low branches of a cottonwood tree, grabbing for something hidden in its
limbs. They were singing, although it
was a song much different from the chants and prayer songs he was familiar with.
Ike McSwain! Ike McSwain!
The dummy can’t even say his name!
Ike McSwain! Ike McSwain!
The dummy can’t even say his name!
As Running Buck and the nuns
approached the tree one of the boys caught a glimpse of the strange procession
and smacked his friend on the shoulder, pointing a finger in Running Buck’s
direction.
“Will you look at that!” the
boy exclaimed to his friend causing the other troublemakers to turn and gawk
at the young Kiowa.
“I found him!” shouted the
smaller boy with the milk bucket running along behind the two nuns and the trespasser.
Puffing out his chest he added, “found him in the barn when I went to
milk Blossom! Prob’ly lying in wait, gonna scalp us all!
Got his knife away from him though!
Ya’ll are safe now!” he finished, not bothering to mention it was Sister
Beatrice who had collected the weapon and not himself.
Finding this intruder more
interesting than their treed prey, the boys fell into line behind the nuns.
They had never seen a “real” Indian before and were a bit disappointed
in this one. He didn’t look all that dangerous - not like
the screaming, wild eyed, savages of their late night story telling sessions.
Still, they kept some distance. If
he was a killer, better he attack one of the nuns who was assured a place in
Heaven than one of them.
“Whatcha gonna do with him Sister? Huh? Whatcha gonna do?”
“Do ya think there’s more
of ‘em?”
“He ain’t painted! I thought Indians were s’posed to be painted!”
Their questions flew until
Sister Margaret turned to face the gallery, her arms folded across her chest,
exasperated. “He is none of your concern.
The Reverend Mother will decide what is to be done.
Now go on about your chores! And
haven’t you been told to leave Ike alone? He’s
hard enough to handle without you tormenting him.”
Turning to the smaller boy she added, ”and don’t you have a cow to milk,
Michael Shaughnessy?”
Buck knew he should be accustomed
to it by now, but the predatory gaze pasted on the boys’ faces still made him
feel like a cornered animal. The nun’s
order sending the boys scampering away, he tilted his head to the side so he
could see into the tree wondering what kindred spirit they had trapped in its
branches. He expected to see a raccoon,
perhaps a possum. Both animals were
common to the area. What he saw was
anything but common and he pulled back in surprise.
It wasn’t an animal at all,
but a boy crouched in the branches of the cottonwood. A boy with no hair and huge, piercing eyes ready to pop from his
head. Rays of sunlight filtering through
the leaves reflected off his hairless scalp making it almost glow. He sat with his shoulders hunched up around
his ears giving the appearance that he had no neck. An owl. He looked like an
owl! Running Buck had learned early
on that an owl was bad medicine. Even
a solitary hoot from the bird in the darkness was known to strike a chord of
impending doom in the superstitious Kiowa people.
Their path cleared of onlookers,
the procession continued across the muddy yard. Adolescent curiosity winning out over caution,
Running Buck turned, craning his neck to look back into the tree. The boy made no sound or attempted to climb
down - simply stared back at him with wide eyes. Running Buck felt a sense of dread blanket him as Sister Beatrice
nudged him toward the building. He didn’t
know exactly what this place was, but the owl boy was a bad sign.
“He was carrying this, Reverend
Mother,” Sister Beatrice said holding up the knife. “I shudder to think what he is capable of.”
Reverend Mother Mary Augustine
clasped her hands behind her back and walked a slow circle around the young
Indian. His moccassins caked in mud,
bits of straw stuck to his still wet buckskins and sticking out from his waist
length tangle of hair, he didn’t look threatening. Running Buck didn’t bat an eye as she continued
her inspection, running her gaze from the sharp angles of his shoulder blades
jutting against the worn buckskin shirt to the obviously hand-me-down trousers
barely held up by his narrow hips. Thin. Painfully
thin. And no doubt frightened. Yet he stood unflinching before her like a soldier
at attention. Mother Augustine pressed
her lips into a tight line, her assessment made. This Indian was a prideful one.
The Reverend Mother took the
knife and examined it closely, then laid it aside. “It is very possible that
the knife is used for hunting,” she said, addressing Sister Beatrice. Nodding to the other nun she added, “You may
go, Sister Margaret.”
“Thank you, Mother,” the young
nun answered making a hasty retreat.
“Where was he found?”
“Michael Shaughnessy found
him in the barn and alerted Sister Margaret and myself. He probably broke in
during the night. I can only imagine
what he was doing there.”
“I should think he was taking
refuge from the storm, Sister,” Mother Augustine said, her eyebrows arched disapprovingly
at the younger nun’s insinuation. “And because the barn is not locked, he could
not have ‘broken in’.”
“But what would he be doing
here, Mother? Why would he be in our
barn and not in his own . . . his own place . . . with his own people?”.
“I doubt that he has a place.
Otherwise, he would not have been in our barn. He is not full-blooded. Look
at the color of his hair – brown not black. I have heard that some tribes do not take well
to mixed blood. He has probably been
expelled or abandoned by his own people. Judging
by the looks of him, he is fortunate to have found us.”
Running Buck watched the two
black clad women with cautious curiosity. They
had yet to act threateningly toward him although he did feel a bit intimidated
by them. He wasn’t accustomed to being
inside a building and was more than a little anxious about being trapped inside
one with these strange women. Their robes hung to the ground giving them the appearance of floating
rather than walking when they moved and the sleeves of their heavy black garments
flowed around them like wings. Black
from head to toe, they reminded him of crows. He turned his head from one to the other following
their cackling conversation. The small
crow was obviously in charge - he could tell by the way the other one lowered
her head when she was spoken to. He understood a few of the words from Camille’s English lessons.
“Mother”. “Sister”.
“Indian”. But mostly it sounded
like cackling.
“Reverend Mother, you aren’t
suggesting that we take him in are you?” Sister Beatrice brought her hand to her throat protectively as if
the very thought could slit it open. “He
is an Indian. He doesn’t even speak English.”
“Are you forgetting the word
of our Lord, Sister?” Mother Augustine asked. “ ‘But Jesus said, suffer
the children and forbid them not to come unto me for such is the Kingdom of
Heaven’. Matthew 19:14. Perhaps you should reread the gospel of Matthew
tonight to refresh your memory. Teaching
is our mission, Sister. This is a school.”
The familiar word caught Running
Buck’s attention. “School?”
The Reverend Mother and Sister
Beatrice turned toward him in unison.
“Yes,” Mother Augustine answered,
taking a step toward him. “Yes, this
is a school for children who have no home. Do you understand what a school is?”
“School,” he said again nodding.
Could it be possible that he had found one of the places of learning
that Camille had described?
“It appears that someone has
already taught him a bit of English.”
“But Mother. . .” Sister Beatrice implored.
Mother Augustine ignored the
interruption and continued as if Running Buck could actually understand her.
He regarded the small crow warily as she once more clasped her hands
behind her back and began to circle around him.
“If you are to stay at Sorrows
and go to school, I will expect no less from you than any other student.
You will be required to learn English, attend mass, dress and act as
any other pupil. Your hair must be cut short like the other
boys. And . .” she paused for a moment
taking in the oddity dangling from his earlobe and the cloth pouch around his
neck. “Students at Sorrows are not allowed
to wear jewelry or adornment of any kind. Nor is a weapon allowed. Your
possessions will be held for you and returned when you have graduated.
Is that clear?”
Running Buck didn’t understand
a word she spoke, but the expression on her face indicated that she expected
a response. Not knowing what else to
do and having been taught to respect those older than himself, he nodded.
“Good. Now what is your name?”
Name. He knew what that meant. “Running Buck,” he answered solidly in the
well practiced words Camille had taught him.
“Well, I must say the name
suits you,” the Reverend Mother said, “but you must have a Christian name. What do you suggest, Sister Beatrice?”
Understanding that her further
objections were futile, Sister Beatrice attempted to take an interest in the
Reverend Mother’s new project lest she be reading the entire New Testament overnight.
“Perhaps, Levi or Benjamin?” she suggested. “We have no students named Levi or Benjamin
currently.”
The Reverend Mother considered
the names but shook her head. “Both
fine names, Sister. But I fear if we
change his name completely, he will not understand that we are addressing him.
Perhaps a Christian surname will suffice.”
Mother Augustine reached for the crucifix hanging around her neck as
she often did when in thought. A tight
lipped smile slid across her features. What
better symbol of Christianity? “Cross,”
she said, addressing the young Indian. “Your
Christian name is Buck Cross.”
The boy shook his head.
“Running Buck,” he answered pointed to himself.
“No.” Speaking the words slowly and with definition,
she stated again, “Your name is Buck
Cross.”
Running Buck felt his palms
begin to moisten and the sour grain in his belly churned into a heavy clump.
His mother had given him his name – it was important to him - yet this
crow woman was trying to change it. His concerns compounded when the small woman
pointed to his earring, medicine bundle and bracelet, then held her palm open
expecting him to hand them over. Learning that this strange place was a school,
he had allowed himself to feel a glimmer of hope for his situation but now he
wasn’t so sure. The owl boy had indeed been a bad sign.
Not wishing to be reminded
of his pitiful state the previous night, Running Buck tried to swallow away
the taste of spoiled grain that lingered in his mouth, but the aftertaste was
persistent. If he was to survive in
this new world, he needed to be taught the white man’s ways, needed to understand
his words. There was so much he needed
to learn. This white woman could teach
him. Assuming they were required in
trade for a place in the white school, Running Buck reluctantly placed his belongings
in the nun’s waiting hands.
“Good. Sister Beatrice we have a new student. Give him a haircut and see to it that he takes
a bath. Issue him a suit of clothing and make up a bed in the boy’s dormitory.
I will take him into my beginning readers class until he has learned
some of the language then he may advance to the classes for his own age.”
“Yes, Reverend Mother,” the
young nun said obediently, careful to hide her distaste for Sorrows’ newest
pupil.
“And Sister,” Mother Augustine
added, “give the boy a piece of bread.”
Running Buck reminded himself
that this was what he wanted. That this
was what he had spent two moons searching for. But rather than relax him, the warm water of
his bath began to dissolve his well crafted composure.
He was all too aware of the
younger woman’s opinion of him. The
mistrust in her eyes and look of disgust when his dirty hand brushed against
hers as she handed him a bar of strong smelling soap was no different than the
prejudice he had run away from. He couldn’t
help but notice the striking difference in the color of her hand against his.
Sadly he realized that no matter how well he cleaned himself, no matter
how much dirt he washed away, the skin that had always been too pale to be Kiowa
was much too dark to be white.
She had given him a crust
of bread to eat – but only after he paid for it. It tasted good and had helped cushion the hard lump in his stomach.
But his clothing and chopped off hair piled into a dirty heap on the
floor beside the washtub seemed like a stiff price for a piece of bread.
He had found a school that
would provide the education he needed. It
was just that he never expected to be required to give so much of himself in
exchange. They had taken everything
he had – the bracelet that bound him to his brother, his knife, his medicine,
his name. And his hair. Oh, his hair! He timidly ran his fingers through the short spikes sticking out
from his head like the quills of a startled porcupine. He understood that hair meant very little to
a white man, but to his people it was a sign of strength and the distinctive
style, cut short to just under his ear at the front of one side the remaining
hair left to grow long, had identified him as Kiowa.
Alone in the quiet room, his
thin shoulders began to shake and he quickly wiped away a tear as his last bits
of confidence slid into the bath water. Life
in the village had been difficult, but at least he knew who he was.
He was Running Buck, half brother to Red Bear.
Who was he now? He didn’t have the slightest idea.
