White Feather 3-Book Bundle - Jennifer Dance

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but Henry’s laughter was loud and scornful.

      Master Evans’ voice was shrill. “Silence!”

      The boys were quiet, and Red Wolf learned another word.

      The teacher turned his back to the children and with a short white stick made marks on a large blackboard that hung on the wall. Red Wolf knew these must be the tracks his father had spoken of, the white man’s signs that he must learn before he could leave school. He gazed at the marks and hoped for understanding. It didn’t come.

      The children lifted the tops of their desks, took out slates, and worked at copying the teacher’s writing, their faces furrowed with concentration. Red Wolf did the same. He clutched the smooth stick in his fingers, chewed on his lower lip, and contemplated how to start. He made his first mark. The chalk screeched and snapped in two. Red Wolf was mortified. The teacher directed a chain of meaningless words at him, and he felt everyone’s eyes boring into his back. He wished he could disappear. He closed his eyes tight, but when he reopened them he was still in the classroom, still at Bruce County Indian Residential School, still far from his parents and Crooked Ear. He picked up half of the chalk and made the same tapping sound as the other boys.

      Master Evans was small-boned, almost to the point of being fragile. He was nothing like Mister Hall in size or weight. His voice was small, too, and he carried only a ruler, not a cane or strips of leather. Even so, when he walked up and down between the rows of desks, Red Wolf was afraid, and as his footsteps got closer Red Wolf tensed in anticipation of punishment. He knew that the marks he was making on the slate bore no similarity to those on the blackboard, just as the tracks made by Crooked Ear’s paws were different from those made by the split hooves of a deer. By the time the teacher peered over his shoulder, sweat from the palms of his hands had dampened his slate.

      Master Evans unclipped a thick wad of felt from his belt and leaned over.

      Red Wolf flinched.

      Master Evans wiped the slate clean. “Try again,” he said.

      Red Wolf breathed a sigh of relief.

      In the way of The People, HeWhoWhistles had taught his son to observe; to watch and listen. Red Wolf was only five but he could identify a bird from its song. He could recognize the thumping hind feet of an alarmed rabbit, the huffing of rutting elk, the bark of a vixen calling her mate, the caw of a raven when food was close. He could even gauge approaching weather by listening to the wind and feeling it on his skin. So in the confines of the school where language gave him little information, he watched how hands moved and how facial expressions changed. He listened to tone of voice and inflection, unconsciously knowing that these things gave meaning to unfamiliar words.

      It didn’t take Red Wolf long to realize that Master Evans’s voice rose in pitch just before he expected an answer. In response to that higher pitch, some boys threw one arm into the air and spoke in the foreign language. The master smiled and stroked their hair and spoke words that sounded happy. Red Wolf didn’t have any answers in the new language and decided that silence would be the best way to stay out of trouble. When the teacher spoke directly to him, Red Wolf looked at his desk and anxiously fingered the scratched surface, worrying at a splinter until it broke free from the gouged wood. The teacher’s sudden grip on his arm surprised and hurt him. The boy jumped to his feet, words of The People flying from his mouth, before he could capture them. “Ouch! That hurts. Let me go!”

      The man wrestled him to the corner of the room and pushed him onto his knees facing the wall. Red Wolf stifled a yelp as the ruler slapped across his buttocks. He heard Henry snickering. Red Wolf was grateful, at least, for one thing: he was facing the wall, so no one could see him crying. But when tears escaped onto his cheek and he dabbed at them with his hand, Henry’s snickers turned to full-blown laughter.

      “Henry! Stop laughing,” Master Evans ordered.

      Red Wolf learned another phrase.

      He felt as though a long, long time passed. He looked up to see the round face of a ticking machine that hung on the wall. He had no knowledge that it marked the passage of time, but he watched the pointers move. The one that made the ticking noise advanced around the circle more quickly than the other. When both pointed straight up, the school bell clanged again and the children got up from their seats.

      “Stand up, George,” Master Evans said. Red Wolf tried to stand and was aghast. His left leg was missing! He looked down expecting it not to be there. It was, but it wouldn’t move and it felt heavy like a stone. He hopped on his right leg, dragging the useless leg behind him.

      “It’s gone numb from kneeling,” Master Evans said, seeing the dismayed expression on Red Wolf’s face. “It will be fine soon. Don’t worry.” The advice didn’t help Red Wolf since he didn’t understand, but the circulation soon returned, bringing with it an unpleasant tingling.

      He hobbled after the others, along the corridor toward the refectory. Henry turned and waited for him to catch up. Red Wolf limped toward him, watching the expression on his face. By the time he was close enough to read malevolence in Henry’s eyes it was too late. Henry’s fist sank into his gut, doubling him over and forcing him backwards with a grunt. He staggered and fell to the floor.

      “Henry!” Master Evans shouted. “Come with me to my office!”

      Henry threw a disdainful glance at Red Wolf then walked away with Master Evans.

      In the refectory, Turtle, the boy who had spoken to Red Wolf at breakfast, beckoned him with a subtle movement of his chin. After the encounter with Henry, Red Wolf wondered if he should ignore the gesture, but he read no malice or contradiction in Turtle’s face, only open friendship. Turtle slid along the bench enough for Red Wolf to squeeze in. The two boys didn’t speak, but the closeness made Red Wolf melt inside. He almost cried.

      The midday meal was stew. It was not as good as his mother’s. It didn’t smell or taste smoky the way food should, but the chunks of potato and ragged cubes of fatty meat warmed his stomach. Apart from the slurping and scraping of spoons, there was silence. Red Wolf wiped his bowl clean with a hunk of bread, hoping there would be more, but there wasn’t. He was pleased at least that his dish was so clean it didn’t need washing. Nevertheless, he had to wait in line to go through the ritual.

      After dishwashing, Turtle pushed his chin toward the growing line of Grade One children, and Red Wolf understood that he was to line up there. He flashed a smile of gratitude to Turtle, but the boy was already hurrying away. Red Wolf glanced around for Henry and was relieved when he realized that, as yet anyway, the older boy was nowhere to be seen. Red Wolf followed the Grade Ones to the back of the building, where work clothes hung on numbered pegs. Like a swarm of bees swooping into flowers, the boys homed in on their own pegs. Red Wolf looked at the washed-out numbers on his hand and tried to find a peg number that looked the same. Panic was rising in his throat by the time he spotted it. The same number was stitched across the back of the tan coverall that hung on the peg, as well as on the chest pocket. So they know it’s me from the front as well as the back, he thought. The boots that stood as a neat pair under the peg were numbered, too. They had mud on the soles and were creased to the shape of another boy’s foot. Red Wolf wondered if the boy who had worn them had gone home. He hoped so.

      He watched other children untie their school boots by pulling on the free end of a lace. He yanked at his own lace and was relieved when the bow unravelled. He plunged his feet into the work boots. They were much too big, but at least he could wiggle his toes. He tried to lace them, but the process for tying was much more complicated than untying. A man was bearing down on him, a cane tapping the floor. Red Wolf froze like a frightened fawn, hoping the predator would pass him by. But the man stopped. Red Wolf crunched down, hands covering his head, waiting for the cane to strike.

      “Watch,” the man said, squatting and tying the lace slowly so that Red Wolf could see. “Now you try.”

      After

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