The
site of Sister Francis dozing in the small chair at the table was comical.
Sister Francis was round and soft like rising bread dough and her ample
frame spilled over the edge of the seat.
Leaning a stubby bent arm on the table to support her head, she had
fallen asleep an hour or so earlier. The
pressure of her jowls against the heel of her hand made the large woman’s
open mouth sit slightly contorted on her face. Buck stifled a giggle as the nun’s double chin
slipped off her hand sending her head bobbing. For a moment she wove slowly back and forth like a child’s toy top
in its final rotations before toppling over. She mumbled something he couldn’t quite hear and fell forward using
her oversized arms on the table top as a pillow. She was doing a fairly poor job of watching
over the sick room. Luckily he was
only battered and bruised rather than really sick.
He could probably die of one of the white man’s illnesses without Sister
Francis ever waking up.
Buck noticed
out of the corner of his eye that the boy in the other bed was amused by Sister
Francis as well, although he made no sound.
The owl boy never did. He looked
to be white and should know his own language, but in the four months Buck
had been at the school, he had yet to hear the hairless boy utter a single
word. He was very odd. Most of the time he acted wild, like he was possessed with something
dark and strange. But the image of
the boy standing by the stairs, watching Albert’s gang beat him was lodged
in Buck’s mind. The bald boy had made
no effort to help him then. Why had
he helped him today?
The boy turned
away from the sleeping nun, his eyes locking briefly with Buck’s sideways
glance before each boy quickly flitted his gaze elsewhere.
A yellow circle in the middle of a quilt block on the other boy’s bed
caught Buck’s attention. His curious
gaze seemed determined to seek out the boy again, but Buck focused hard on
the yellow circle to keep his eyes from straying.
It was late, but he wasn’t really tired. There were too many thoughts
rumbling around inside his head to rest.
He and the
owl boy had been included in a group of older students to accompany several
of the nuns to pick up the school’s supplies at the mercantile in Oak Grove
that afternoon. Buck had felt uncomfortable hemmed in by the
tight aisles inside the store and preferred to wait on the front porch while
the shopkeeper totaled the bill. He
had never seen a general store up close and was intrigued by the amount of
merchandise. That much food could
feed an entire Kiowa village for weeks. Even
months!
Some of the
vegetables in the display bins were unknown to him and he had picked up various
pieces of produce to examine them more closely.
His actions didn’t go unnoticed by the shopkeeper’s sixteen year old
son and his friends. The group of older boys had spent the last
half hour leaning against the hitching post outside the store, trying to conceal
the metal flask passed between them and impressing each other with jokes about
the troupe of orphans loading the ramshackle wagon. Taking offense at the “stinkin’, low-life, dirty, half-breed” handling
his father’s goods, the shopkeeper’s son was quick to confront the younger
boy and demand payment for the merchandise the “no count, Injun” had ruined
by touching it.
In his still
limited English, Buck had tried to tell them he was only looking and had no
money to buy anything and nothing to trade.
“Well that
is a problem, Injun,” the older boy said, tilting his head in mock concern
for the orphan’s plight. “But no r’spectable white woman’s gonna buy
this merchandise now that some stinkin’ Injun’s done touched it. You gotta pay, breed, and it you ain’t got
no money, looks like we’ll just hafta take payment outta your hide.”
Buck understood
enough of what the older boy had said to realize he was in trouble, but before
he could react, one of the group clamped a hand over his mouth while the others
dragged him into the alleyway between the mercantile and the livery.
He had hesitated
to fight back when Albert and Dutch had cornered him in the hallway at the
school for fear the small woman in charge would turn him out and he would
find himself homeless and hungry again. But
even though he had been on the receiving end of the fight, she had punished
him as if he had been the cause of the altercation.
When she was finished with her wooden paddle, his backside was as tender
as his bruised middle, but she didn’t send him away.
He’d had a few more problems with Albert and his bunch since, but unlike
the first time, had no qualms about fighting back. He was going to be punished either way and at least if he got a
few good licks in, he would retain a bit of pride. A sore bottom was a small price to pay for the satisfaction of seeing
Albert or Dutch sporting a black eye or swollen lip.
But these boys
were much bigger than Albert’s gang. Stronger
too and he smelled something ugly and dangerous on their breath. Buck bit down hard on the hand over his mouth and felt a satisfying
rush of blood sweep across his lips. Cursing
and enraged by the bite, the older boy rewarded Buck’s efforts with an uppercut
to his chin so fierce that Buck’s head snapped backward like a rag doll shaken
in the mouth of a mad dog. Flying
fists pounded him relentlessly from more directions than he could keep track
of. He heard laughter, but from far away as if
he was in the bottom of a well. He
began to feel dizzy. Their grinning faces moved in and out of his vision in
a strange, swaying, slow motion. Buck
staggered but kept his feet, knowing that to fall would most likely be his
end. A thundering blow to his nose sent flashing lights before his eyes and
blood spewing from his mangled face like a geyser.
Buck stumbled backward as another blow broke his eyebrow open and a
gush of blood flooded over his eye.
His vision
obscured by blood and dancing lights, he didn’t recognize the owl boy for
a moment and even when he did, he didn’t quite believe his eyes.
Never in his entire life had anyone come to his aid in a fight. Yet there he was, the bald headed boy, fists
clenched, swinging wildly at his attackers.
He wasn’t a
seasoned fighter, that much was obvious, but a few of his blows hit their
mark before the shopkeeper’s son swatted him away like an unwelcome pest.
Not to be deterred, the boy simply ran toward the ruckus, jumped on
the nearest gang member’s back and held on tight, gouging eyes and pulling
hair. The interruption gave Buck the
opportunity to clear his head and wipe away the blood blocking his vision. Before he could comprehend this strange turn
of events, the two orphans were side by side, swinging, kicking and clawing
at their attackers with a combined vengeance.
They still lost the fight. Badly.
But before falling into blessed blackness, Buck was certain he saw
the trace of a smile cross the owl boy’s battered face.
He woke up
on the trip back to Sorrows lying beside the owl boy in the back of the wagon
between sacks of flour and cornmeal, wondering what on Earth had happened.
Because they had both been knocked senseless and the Reverend Mother
thought their eyes still looked a bit strange, she had decided they should
spend the night in the infirmary. So
there they were, alone in the sickroom, under the less than watchful care
of Sister Francis.
It was said
if he touched you, your hair and tongue would fall out.
Buck raised his hand to his shorn head, fingering what little hair
he had left protectively, and dared another sideways glance in the white boy’s
direction. The boy didn’t notice. He
was just lying in his bed, tracing a piece of the quilt block with his fingertip
– not snarling or clawing the air with his hands. He didn’t look very threatening.
Though his
English had made significant strides, Buck was still in the Beginners class
and knew the silent boy only by watching him during meals and in the big room
of beds at night. He remembered waking in the night once to the
sounds of laughter when some of the other boys had tried to scare the owl
boy by putting a mouse down the collar of his nightshirt while he slept. The boy had been frightened waking to the scratching
and scurrying of the mouse in his clothing and lashed out in his animal way.
But after his antics scattered the troublemakers he carefully set the small
creature back on the floor. His gentleness with the mouse had surprised Buck
at the time, but he assumed it was because the boy was really some sort of
animal, too. Now he wasn’t so sure.
Fighting back
was the only response Buck knew, but perhaps this boy’s defense was to frighten
people. He’d shown that he wasn’t much of a fighter. By scaring his tormentors away he used his
wits instead of his fists and kept his face intact. Well . . . at least intact
until that afternoon.
“Why?”
Buck’s question
hanging in the silence of the sickroom startled the boy.
He raised up on an elbow and turned to face the Indian in the bed opposite
him, arching his eyebrows as inquisitively as his battered face would allow. He didn’t understand what the dark skinned
boy was asking and was more than a little surprised that he had said anything
at all.
“Why you fight?”
Buck asked again. Each word he spoke was pronounced sharply –
the edges of a new language not yet rounded smooth.
The boy was
still for a moment, then finally twisted his expression and shrugged to indicate
he had no answer. His lack of a reason puzzled Buck all the more
and he sat up in his bed, dangling his legs over the side, to get a better
look at this strange, silent boy. The
quiet one seemed a bit uncomfortable under the scrutiny, but when the Indian
offered a quiet “I thank you”, he sat in his bed, mirroring Buck’s position
and nodded solemnly to accept the words of gratitude.
Though the
light in the infirmary was dim, Buck could see that the white boy’s face was
a mess. One eye was completely swollen shut and the
pale skin was bruised an ugly purple. His
bottom lip was split and swollen twice its normal size. By the hunched over way he sat, Buck knew the
boy had been kicked in the middle and was probably nursing as many sore ribs
as he was. Buck didn’t feel any too
well himself, but was confident he didn’t look nearly as bad as the white
boy did.
Buck pointed
to the other boy’s face. “Hurt?”
His sick room
companion puckered his mouth in thought, then raised his hand, his thumb and
index finger spread apart to indicate an amount.
He thought for another moment and then moved his fingers a bit wider
apart. He then pointed at the Indian opposite him
to pose the same question.
Despite the
ache encircling his chest, Buck straightened his back to sit taller and gingerly
traced the hump of his nose with his index finger.
It was tender and swollen so full it was almost a straight plane from
the bridge of his nose to his cheekbone.
“No hurt,”
Buck replied, wincing at the pain in his nose as he lied.
The bald boy simply smirked and rolled his eyes.
This Indian was a prideful one.
To refer to
him as the ‘owl boy’ no longer seemed appropriate.
When Buck first saw the boy crouched in the limbs of the cottonwood
tree in the school yard, he had been certain it was a sign of doom, but a
bad omen would have never come to his aid in a fight.
“What name?”
Buck asked, then realized the silent boy wouldn’t answer.
To his surprise the white boy reached for his shirt at the end of the
bed and withdrew a small piece of paper and the stub of a lead pencil from
the pocket. He scribbled something on the paper and then
reached out to hand it to Buck.
Buck hesitantly
accepted the paper. His English was much improved but new words
were still very hard. He gripped the
note, thumbing through the stacks of grammatical rules newly imprinted in
his memory before attempting it.
“Ike?”
The boy broke
into a grin and nodded.
“Ike,” Buck
repeated with more confidence. That
wasn’t so hard. Pointing to himself
he said, “Running . . .” He stopped
and shook his head. No, that wasn’t
his name anymore. “Buck Cross,” he
said correcting himself. Ike merely
nodded nonchalantly. He knew the Indian’s
name.
The two sat
in silence for a time doing little more than look at each other and occasionally
grin at the generously sized nun snoring slightly from the far end of the
infirmary. It was a different silence than either had experienced before. Not an empty silence begging for words to fill
the stillness but a comfortable, fertile silence where seeds of possibility
sprouted.
“Why no talk?”
Buck asked. “No tongue?”
Ike
looked slightly offended and rolled his tongue out of his mouth.
Yes, he indeed did have a tongue!
His indignity was short lived. He frowned and ran his hand up and down his
throat, then shook his head and shrugged.
A haunting
sadness floated in the boy’s eyes as he tried to explain his muteness -
almost as if there were ghosts scaring him speechless from the inside.
Buck understood now. It wasn’t that Ike didn’t want to speak – he
couldn’t. Ike was alone not because
he wanted to be or had done something to deserve his isolation, but because
of a difference he couldn’t control. No
more than Buck could control the color of his own skin. This boy was just as parched for the cool waters of acceptance as
he was. His soul had been cut just
as deep by the sharp angles of a rigid, unyielding world.
The silence
returned while Buck contemplated his offer.
It was hard enough taking care of himself.
He needed to concentrate his efforts on learning the white man’s ways. There was so much yet to learn. But he owed this boy and his Kiowa upbringing
demanded that his indebtedness be paid.
“I teach you.”
Ike frowned
and shook his head, motioning to his uncooperative throat again.
“No.”
Buck started moving his hands, making shapes and gestures that Ike
didn’t understand. “Make words with
hands.”
Ike leaned
forward, his posture anxious with interest in what the Indian was doing.
“Not hard,”
Buck assured him. “I teach you.”
A slow grin
of understanding spread across Ike’s face, brightening the dimly lit room. He leaned across his bed and pulled another piece of paper from
the shirt pocket, then quickly scribbled a word across the paper. He started to hand the scrap to Buck but stopped
and instead on the reverse side of the piece reprinted the word in block letters
that would be easier for the Indian to read.
Buck sounded
out each letter carefully. “Fend?”
Ike shook his
head “no”, his eyes urging Buck to try again.
Buck studied the letters closely, then made another attempt.
He concentrated hard on the ‘r’ in the word. There was no such sound in the Kiowa language and its pronunciation
was still difficult for him.
“Friend.”
The hopefulness
in Ike’s eyes made Buck realize it wasn’t just a word but an offer . . . a
plea. If he could have turned his eyes upon himself,
he would have seen the mirror image of that longing in his own.
Buck raised
his right hand to neck level, his palm facing outward.
He brought his index and middle fingers together until they touched,
then folded his thumb and remaining fingers into his palm so only the touching
fingers were extended. He then raised his hand until his fingertips
reached the level of his face.
Ike’s blue
eyes danced with excitement as he mimicked Buck’s hands.
He repeated the sign until his movements were smooth and fluid. Buck nodded his approval.
“Friend.”
Sorrows’ Children 
