The Indian School Read online

  Raven listened to Mr. Jones’ complaints. The next day she told him, “I will make you a special snowshoe.”

  Aunt Emma said, “That is a foolish idea. How can Luke fit a snowshoe onto a wooden leg?”

  “Often I helped my mother in the making of snowshoes,” Raven said.

  Mr. Jones looked at Raven with the little smile that was ever on his face. “Let her try.”

  My uncle seesawed. “You may lose one of the snowshoes in the woods. How would you get back? Yet these children must have more to eat.” At last he agreed.

  Raven hurried into the woods, returning with branches from an ash tree. As we stood about watching, she heated the ash until she could bend it into the shape of a bear paw. She attached small branches to the frame with twine. Finally she wove more branches in and out of the bear paw. The snowshoe would be laced to Mr. Jones’ good foot. Into the center of a second snowshoe she wove a small board. The wooden leg would be fastened to the board.

  Mr. Jones was excited. Eagerly he wrapped himself in warm clothes. My uncle insisted on going along. “I cannot let you go into the woods in this weather by yourself.”

  “You must stay here,” Mr. Jones told him. “You are not a man who can go into the woods quietly. The deer will scatter like a flock of birds. I must go alone.”

  We all stood at the doorway to see Luke Jones off. At first he had difficulty moving over the snow. After a bit he traveled more easily. We followed him with our eyes until he was no more than a speck against the white snow.

  Uncle Edward paced back and forth. Aunt Emma set Mary and Raven and myself to sweeping and cleaning. Aunt worked harder than any of us, washing away her worry in soap and scrubbing.

  Hours passed. Uncle Edward was just about to set off for the cedar swamp when a cry went up from some younger boys watching at a window. There was Luke Jones moving slowly across the surface of the deep snow.

  With no thought for the cold or our lack of boots we all ran out to meet him. As he drew closer he held up a haunch of meat. Though it was dripping blood, we had no pity for the unfortunate deer. As we cheered, we thought only of full plates and bellies. Uncle Edward fashioned a sleigh to bring the deer from the cedar swamp to the school. That night a portion of the deer was roasted and served up, accompanied by loud cheers for Mr. Jones. For once no one left the table hungry.

  SEVEN

  Early in March the snow began to draw in on itself. It pulled away from the roads. It disappeared from the south-facing hills. In the woods each tree had a circle about it bare of snow. Raven grew restless. “Soon it will be sugaring time,” she said. She looked longingly at the maple trees.

  The first week in March I celebrated my twelfth birthday. I said nothing about it, but Aunt Emma mentioned it at breakfast. “You will do your usual tasks,” she said, “for you would not wish to begin a new year by shirking your responsibilities.” I expected nothing more.

  Dinner that evening began as usual. I poured the milk for the younger children and buttered their bread. As I sat down to my own meal, I was surprised to discover a number of packages at my place. There was a thimble from Aunt Emma. Uncle Edward gave me a small book of hymns. The younger children had printed out a Bible verse for me in their neatest script: THE MEEK SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH. Luke Jones had fashioned a pretty heart-shaped trivet on his forge. From Raven there was a small decorated box made of birch bark. Aunt Emma admired the box. “It is quite pretty and required no materials other than those free for the taking. A thrifty gift.” It was the first time I had heard her admire something of Indian design.

  It was my first birthday without my parents. Even in my pleasure at all I had been given, I could not keep from thinking of them. In my longing to bring them closer, I turned to my aunt. “I am twelve now, Aunt Emma. Could I not have my book of poetry back?”

  “You must not think you are a grown woman at twelve, Lucy. You have your schoolbook and a very pretty book of hymns from your uncle. With my thimble you can find pleasure in sewing. I do not see that you need to occupy your mind with words written to amuse rather than instruct.”

  When Aunt Emma got her stern look, I thought of the chapter in the Bible where the people of Israel march into the land of Canaan. Joshua smites the Canaanites with the edge of his sword and destroys them utterly. I would have made no reply for fear of a smiting from my aunt. But I had seen Raven stand up to Aunt Emma many times and she had not been smitten and utterly destroyed.

  I took a deep breath. “There is a pretty poem about spring and daffodils. May I not copy that out of the book to keep us cheerful until the real spring comes?”

  “Very well, Lucy, but you must not get into the habit of coaxing.”

  My insistence had won me my book. I was less sure it was the meek who would inherit the earth.

  All that week Raven had kept an eye on the trail that led through the woods. Whenever she had a spare moment, I found her looking northward. “Hunting time is over,” she told me. “My father will surely come now.”

  By the end of the week Lost Owl was with us. He stood straighter. The burden he had carried seemed lifted from him. Matthew ran to him and clung to his leg as though it were the mast on some storm-tossed ship. Raven stood close beside him. She said little but her eyes were lively. I saw her hand steal into her father’s.

  “I went far north to country across the great lake,” Lost Owl said, “to the country of the British. There are still many animals there. The winter was cold, so the pelts were thick. They brought me a good sum. Now I will take my son and daughter back to my village. Before we leave, I will do something to thank you for caring for them. I am a good hunter. I can put meat on your table.”

  Everyone was pleased at this, for our venison had been eaten up long ago. The story of Luke Jones’ trip into the swamp was told.

  Raven tugged at Lost Owl’s arm. “Father, can we not show them how we take sap from the maple trees?”

  Uncle Edward protested. “We cannot ask too much of Lost Owl.”

  Aunt Emma was not so reluctant. “Nonsense. It would give us a sweetener the year round. There would be a great saving in not having to buy sugar. If we could get enough, we might even trade or sell some of it.” Aunt Emma was pleased at the idea of wringing syrup from the trees. She also saw that this would delay Matthew’s departure. She could not refuse Lost Owl his son. But she was in no hurry to have her favorite taken from her.

  When the sugaring commenced, the whole school was put to work. Every pail and vessel was rounded up. From the kitchen came kettles and saucepans. The horses’ oat buckets were borrowed. Raven showed us how to make birch-bark pails. The students were sent into the woods to gather fallen branches for firewood. Uncle Edward and Lost Owl cut down all the dead trees they could find.

  When all was ready, the trees were tapped. As the pails filled with sap, they were gathered and brought to a great kettle. We all stood by as Mr. Jones brought a glowing coal from his forge. The kindling caught fire. Flames flared up. The kettle boiled day and night. Mr. Jones, Lost Owl, and Uncle Edward took turns feeding the fire. However late at night I looked out of my window, I saw the blaze of flames against the black night sky. Huddled next to the warmth of the fire was a lone figure keeping watch.

  Some of the syrup was preserved in bottles. A very little was poured onto clean snow. It hardened like taffy and we all had it as a treat. The rest of the syrup was boiled until it thickened. It was then placed in a great pan. Like witches stirring their brew, we took turns paddling the sticky mixture until it turned into sugar. We had the sugar on our porridge and in our corn cakes. Raven said dog was very tasty cooked in maple syrup, but we did not think of trying that.

  By the end of March the sugaring was completed. My uncle and aunt were grateful for all that Lost Owl had done. Uncle Edward had something to say to Lost Owl. After one or two attempts he announced, “Lost Owl, you would be most welcome to stay here at the school. You can teach the students to sow and harvest our crops. In the winter
you can hunt and in the spring there will be the maple syrup. You will have a home here and Matthew and Raven can continue their schooling.”

  “Matthew is a bright little boy,” Aunt Emma said. “He will do well in school.” After a moment she added, “Raven is bright as well. She will profit by staying here and continuing to improve her deportment.” My aunt spoke in her usual stern way. Yet I saw how softly she looked at Matthew. Though she would not say so, she had grown to care for Raven as well. During the making of the maple sugar she had seen how hard Raven worked and how quickly she obeyed her father.

  For myself I longed to have them remain. Like my aunt I felt tender toward Matthew. What I cared about most was having Raven stay. Though there were many students at the school, if she went away I would be very much alone.

  Lost Owl was silent for a moment. The frown that he had lost returned. “I thank you, but it cannot be. Our home is in our village. My sister will come there to help me care for Star Face and Raven. Though I leave, I will not forget your kindness.”

  When I copied out the poem about the daffodils, I found some lines that I wrote out for Raven:

  But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,

  All losses are restored and sorrows end.

  When the time came for parting, I gave her the piece of paper on which I had written the bit of Shakespeare’s poem. Raven took the paper but said no word to me. There was a distant look in her eyes. In her thoughts I believe she was already back in her village.

  It was different with Matthew. He put his arms around me and then burrowed into the folds of Aunt Emma’s apron. At first he refused to be separated from her. At last Lost Owl tempted him away with a promise that he should have his own bow and arrows. At that he went happily. I thought life would be pleasant for Matthew. Everyone loved him. If one friend passed out of his life, soon there would be another to take that friend’s place.

  The whole school was there to say good-bye. Afterward I stood at the door with my aunt while the three figures grew smaller and smaller. At last there was nothing to see but the empty trail. Aunt Emma put her arm around me and drew me to her. In all the months I had been there it was the first time she had shown me such affection. I could not hold back my tears. I would miss Raven. I also envied her. I longed to have my mother and father return, as Lost Owl had returned, and take me away with them. As my aunt pressed me to her, I felt her tears mingle with mine. At last she pulled away. Straightening her skirts, she said, “I cannot stand here all day when there is work to be done. Go to the kitchen, Lucy, and see if you cannot be of help to Mary.”

  Like myself, Mary had been thinking of her family. I found her standing in the middle of the kitchen, her hands at her sides. “I have just remembered my Indian name,” she said. “It is Wabomeme, which means ‘dove.’ Will you call me that when we are alone, as you called Raven by her name? Only please don’t tell your aunt.”

  I promised that I would. “Wabomeme, would you like to go back to your tribe?”

  Mary shook her head sadly. “It would be like looking for snow on a summer’s day. My tribe have all melted away. Besides, all my ways now are the ways of white people. I have forgotten how to live in the tribe.”

  Later that night when I was alone in my room I took up the birch-bark box that Raven had made. I was still hurt at how she had left without a look or word for me. I opened the little box to smell the sweet grass that was woven around the inside.

  I thought of all Raven had taught me. She had shown me where to gather nuts in the forest and how to make maple syrup. I had seen her stand up to my aunt. Living in the lightning tree, she had shown me how you can survive on your own. Raven had been to the school for Indians, but I had been to Indian school.

  About the Author

  GLORIA WHELAN is a poet and award-winning short story writer who has also written many books for children, including ONCE ON THIS ISLAND, NIGHT OF THE FULL MOON, THE SECRET KEEPER, and HANNAH. She lives with her husband, Joseph, in the woods of northern Michigan.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  ALSO BY GLORIA WHELAN

  Once on This Island

  Copyright

  THE INDIAN SCHOOL. Copyright © 1996 by Gloria Whelan. Illustrations copyright © 1996 by Gabriela Dellosso. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  EPub © Edition NOVEMBER 2008 ISBN: 9780061975844

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