The Drums of Change Read online

  “Long winter,” voiced one of the hunters around the evening fire. “Mother Bear still feeds. Squirrels still store. Even on cold days. Rabbit has long, thick fur. Long winter.”

  Others nodded.

  “Birds all go,” observed another, his weathered face proclaiming that he had watched many winters come and go and thus was authorized to speak. “Beavers build high dam. They want deep water.”

  Faces sobered and daylight activity increased. All signs led to a long, cold winter, and once it arrived there would be little the camp could do to increase the food supply. Their time would be taken with finding enough wood to keep the tepee fires going.

  True to prediction, the cold north winds drove Old Man Winter into the area. The sharp sting of the storm soon had the horses in the meadow bunched together, heads down, backs to the wind. The few leaves stubbornly clinging to the poplar and birch trees were soon off on a twisting, reeling journey, helpless against the strength of the current that snatched them from the branches.

  Running Fawn was sent along with Little Brook to hurriedly gather an armload of wood for the inside fire. There no longer would be any fire built outside of the tepee. Every scrap of wood and hint of warmth was hoarded. The season of stinging eyes and huddling in furry robes was once again upon them.

  Running Fawn was thankful she had been born a girl child. She would not need to hunt in the cold or care for horses that unreasonably resisted attempts to ease their discomfort by tethering them close to the sheltering trees.

  She did have to venture out for water from the ice-covered stream. The spring would now be locked away behind ice and snow until warm weather returned to release it from winter’s grip. And she had to help Little Brook with the gathering of firewood. On the coldest days the task would not be an easy one, but it would be a chance to look out at the world she loved in its new white dress.

  But for the most part, she would be happy to remain in the tent, close to the warmth of the fire, adjusting her stinging eyes to the dim light so she might help with the sewing. Or squatting before the fire as she stirred the cooking pot, head turned slightly away from the smoke that always eventually made tears trickle down her soft, dark cheeks.

  Running Fawn felt only contentment. She had no concerns for her future or her safety as she listened, in welcoming silence, as the north wind, day after day, tore at the tent poles and piled the heavy, white blanket of snow against the walls of the tent skins.

  Chapter Two

  The Decision

  “What do you think?”

  “He’s young.”

  The gray-haired man at the head of the table seemed to reflect on the words for some minutes as he gently stroked the trimmed beard that covered his chin. “Yes,” he agreed at length. “Very young.”

  “But he has passion,” put in the man in the dark brown suit as he turned to the elderly chairman. He spoke the words with exuberance, force, as though he too had passion.

  The gray head nodded and the owner lifted up his face, revealing the spark in his steely blue eyes. Though an old man, his face still reflected a passion of its own.

  “He certainly knows the Scriptures,” interjected a man with horn-rimmed glasses, obviously the scholar of the group, and his words denoted that he felt strongly concerning the need for such knowledge.

  “He is young,” the chairman mused aloud, leaning back in his chair and making a bridge with his long, tapering fingers.

  “Even for someone older—more experienced—it will not be an easy task,” spoke the man to his left. He was a rather rotund person with a full face that appeared to want to smile and found it hard to show the proper solemnity for this serious occasion.

  “No,” agreed the chairman. “No, it will not be an easy task.”

  His bridge played a little tattoo as the fingers parted and came back together again and again like the soft, distant rhythm of beating drums.

  The other man at the table cleared his throat in preparation to speak. He seemed hesitant to even ask the question. “Why—” His voice still objected to being heard. He cleared his throat again. “Why the—Territory Indians?” he managed to say through his constricted throat.

  Four pairs of eyes turned to the questioner. For one moment he looked like he wished to withdraw the query. Then the drumming fingers stilled, and the chairman leaned forward and fixed blue eyes on the speaker.

  “I asked him that very question myself,” he said, and the others turned their full attention back to him.

  He stopped to shuffle a few papers before he went on to answer. When he spoke again, his eyes glistened with unshed tears.

  “He has—a real—burden, if you will. An intense love. A desire to take to them the Gospel.”

  He blinked as though to rid himself of the unwanted tears, then looked evenly at the four men about the table. “It’s genuine. I could sense it. He made me … made me long to be young again so that I, too, might go. I have never seen such—intensity.”

  “But he hasn’t even met the—”

  “No—there you are wrong. He grew up in the West—until the age of ten. At that time he lost his father, and his mother moved back to the East. But he knew them—as a child. Played with the Indian boys. His father ran a local Post. Used to trade them knives and guns and cooking pots—for furs. He knows them all right. He’s been—longing to get back to them. It’s been the sole purpose in his training—his preparation. To go back.”

  “I didn’t know,” someone whispered and others nodded their agreement. It seemed that the new knowledge would affect the decision to be made.

  They sat in a few moments of silence while they thought about the young man’s “call.” At last the man in the brown suit spoke.

  “So what is he proposing?”

  “He wishes to go as soon as we can send him.”

  “And that will be?” asked the bespectacled man.

  “Well, certainly not now—with winter closing in. Perhaps first thing in the spring. I know he’s chafing to be on his way. But it isn’t even practical to expect to cross the prairies at this time of year. And there will be much to be done to prepare for the journey. In the spring, I’d say. Even that will not be easy travel.”

  “And he’ll go—?”

  “By boat mostly. He said he is sure he can find some Hudson’s Bay trappers going west. He’s willing to travel with them. Says that will be the cheapest and most assured way. I think that’s the way he and his mother made their way back east.”

  Heads nodded. “If he can do that, it would certainly be the most practical,” agreed the brown-suited man.

  “What are his plans?”

  “He wants to get established with a local tribe. Prove he is coming as a friend. There is still a bit of mistrust there. More … hesitation than hostility. But he feels it will take a bit of time for them to accept him—and his God.”

  Heads nodded again.

  “He is most anxious to start a school. Feels that if he really is to make an impact on their lives, he must train their young so they can read the Scriptures for themselves.”

  “That will be a slow business,” said the scholar, “even though most necessary. I understand that none of the tribes have their language in written form.”

  “He will teach them English,” responded the gray-haired man.

  “English? Then he certainly will need a school. Does he think they will allow their children to attend?”

  “It will take dedication—and diligence—to make them understand that it is for their good. He will need to win the confidence of the elders in order for the task to be accomplished.”

  “And he thinks he can?”

  It was a candid, direct question. Terse, but intent. On this fact the whole mission was dependent.

  The older man nodded and his eyes misted again. “He has such a—love—such a passion—that he sees no reason why they shouldn’t respond to him in kind. He keeps … keeps repeating Scripture verses that promise him the Lord’s pr
esence—that promise the victory, through Christ Jesus. Oh, he has no doubt that his mission will be successful.”

  Each showing the emotion of the moment in different ways, five pairs of eyes looked down at five pairs of folded hands. The jolly man spoke and this time his voice held the proper solemnity for the serious occasion. “Then I think we should send him—with our prayers and blessing,” he said, and four voices followed his words with a soft but heartfelt “Amen.”

  It was decided. The Mission Society would ordain and send forth the young Reverend Martin Forbes as soon as the spring thaws deemed the land fit for travel.

  The long, cold winter would have been a harsh one had not the tribe had plenty of warning and been diligent in their preparation. Mother Earth had cooperated in sending game back to the winter campsite. Remarks were heard around campfires about the blessing bestowed upon them and their thankful response to the spirit in charge of their well-being.

  Running Fawn pondered the comments. She too felt thankfulness, but in her youthful innocence she wondered what had brought about the change. Had they been extra good or extra wise over the months of the past summer? Had they been bad the years before? Why was Mother Earth and the great Sun God smiling on them again, even in the midst of the cold darkness of winter? Why was the strength of the North Wind not able to penetrate the walls of the tents no matter how fiercely it blew? Why was game found where none had been in previous years so that the cooking pots were never empty or stomachs pained with hunger? What was the secret of plenty, and how could they guard it for the future?

  Whenever Running Fawn approached her mother with one of her puzzling concerns, Moon Over Trees shrugged off the question and cast a glance nervously about the tepee. “Do not question the gods,” she cautioned. “Do not make them angry. Someday, when you have a spiritual journey, they may tell you in vision. Maybe not. For now—walk with head bowed.”

  So Running Fawn buried her questions. Or at least she tried. But they stayed in the back of her mind to haunt her.

  To the impatient young man who paced back and forth in his small one-room apartment, it seemed that spring would never come. He had been accepted by the Mission Board, and had made his arrangement with the three trappers who would be traveling west as soon as the spring thaws freed the rivers from their wintry, icy grip. He had purchased and stored his supplies for the long trip. He had his plans in place, his destination well in mind. But winter dragged on and on.

  He tried hard to fill his days with practical things. Studying the Scriptures, memorization, mapping out his plans carefully on sheets of precious paper from his scant supplies. He walked the streets to encourage those in need, preached on the street corners, established a local prayer group, and shared his daily bread with those less fortunate. Yet he still longed to be off on the journey that would take him west. Longed to start the mission work that he had trained himself for. Each storm that blew through the area, each new scattering of snow and sweep of frigid wind, made his impatience more evident. Would spring never come?

  But at last it did—as it always must. And with a great deal of enthusiasm, he carted his carefully chosen stores over to the small local wharf and joined his travel-mates in loading the canoes until they were low in the water. They would become lighter and lighter as they traveled, for many of the supplies would be used en route. And, undoubtedly, even when one tried to guard against it, they would have their losses to river, rapids, thieves or elements. He prayed that his Bible and other books might be spared. He would rather go without food.

  Yes, their physical loads would lessen, but his spiritual burden, his great desire, would only grow and grow as they paddled the many miles that would take them to the West.

  Standing at the base of the spring, Running Fawn gazed with mixed emotions at a small stream bubbling to the surface through cracks in the ice and snow. Spring was coming. She could not but be glad to be released once more from winter’s deep chill, yet the return of warm weather would soon mean that the people would be breaking camp and traveling to the plains to a summer campsite.

  Already she had spotted returning crows and watched as geese honked their winged way northward overhead. The banks of snow were receding along the path to the stream, and the rabbits were slowly getting back some tinges of summer brown on their fur.

  But it was the water that was the sure sign winter was leaving the area. When the spring began to bubble, and then to flow, winter had surely lost its grip on the land.

  Though it had been a long winter, it had not been a particularly difficult one. Still, the mood of the camp lightened with the promise of another summer. Women left the comfort of their tents and called to one another as they cooked over outside campfires, glad to stretch their legs and rest their eyes. Young boys challenged one another to games of skill while young girls shyly watched. Older folks were helped to a place in the midday sun so that arthritic bones could be warmed from winter’s chill. But it was the men of the tribe who reacted with the most enthusiasm. The long days of winter had mostly shut them in, except for the occasional hunting parties that brought in the fresh meat or the trappers who worked over the pelts of beaver or fox. The young men in particular were relieved to be more freely around and about again. Voices filled the air as they challenged one another to mount the horses that had been idly feeding over the winter months, or tested their bows to see if their arrows still flew with swiftness and accuracy.

  Running Fawn loved the springtime. Yet she did wish they could forget about the move to the plains and just stay on where they were. It was a perfect place. The wild game had lasted well through the winter months. There was meat for the cooking pots. The spring waters were flowing again. They were secluded, almost hidden from the rest of the world. On the plains would be many people. Some viewed as old friends. Many others as a part of their great Blackfoot Nation. A few known as longtime enemies. But now … now there were also those who were strangers. They were the ones who disturbed her, even as they roused her curiosity.

  They were white of skin and wore strange clothes and talked a strange language and had strange ways of doing things. There was much discussion around the campfires about these people. Some saw them as intruders, a threat to the supply of beaver or buffalo. Others saw them as curiosity pieces, amusing and harmless, unable to withstand the harshness of the new land. There were those who saw them as an advantage, for they brought with them pots and blankets and bright knives with shiny sharp blades. These foolish white men bartered those treasures for a mere pelt or two—and pelts were plentiful.

  But already the people had come to realize that there were good and bad among these strangers. Some were willing to live by the code of the land, others seemed intent upon destroying everything in their wake as they swept their way westward. Some were silent in their approach into the Indian’s world. Others noisily thundered their way across the prairies, shooting their loud guns and chopping at trees with angry sticks fastened with sharp blades that rang out in the stillness and flashed brilliantly in the sunlight.

  Many of the women were deathly afraid of the white men. And children, driven by fear of the unknown, often ran to hide among the bushes, then peered out from cover, curiosity overcoming their good judgment.

  Moon Over Trees, Running Fawn’s mother, was not terrified by the white newcomers, but she did still favor a bit of caution. They liked her beadwork and paid her well in pots and trinkets, but she was careful to always be in the company of her husband and son when she did her bartering, and she cautioned her daughters, with dark glances from her knowing eyes, to stay within the circle of the family.

  So part of Running Fawn wished that spring had not come, even as she exulted in the fact that it had surely arrived. She didn’t like the thought of breaking up camp and heading out into the larger world. She didn’t like change. She longed for things to stay just as they were.

  Chapter Three

  Summer Camp

  They began their journey on a warm spri
ng day. Already the early flowers were poking from the ground, and birds were calling excitedly from the limbs of newly leafed branches, eager to get at the task of building the yearly nest.

  The tent skins had been removed and the tent poles lowered. Cooking pots and bedding were bundled and stacked on the backs of pack animals or arranged on travois. Old people and small children settled among the blankets and rolls, and the long procession began to move out from the small meadow where they had been securely tucked for the winter months.

  Horses, too long allowed freedom from burdens, were frisky and skittish as they were pressed back into service. Running Fawn knew that after a few days on the trail they would settle into a more sensible frame of mind.

  She sighed and hoisted the small bundle that was hers to carry. She joined a small group of chattering girls, far more eager than she to be on the trail that would take them over many miles, away from the tucked-in arms of her beloved Rocky Mountain Valley, to the wide sweeps of the open plains. A trail that would take many days and result in aching backs and tired feet. But a trail that would join them together with many of their own people, people scattered over the vastness of the land in smaller bands. People who shared their tongue, their nomadic way of life, and their intense religion. Running Fawn knew that she should feel the excitement the others evidenced, but she could feel only sorrow. She would miss their winter camping grounds, the place of her birth. It would be such a long time until she saw it again.

  Her heart heavy, her eyes fixed straight ahead, she found a place in the line of young girls. Though every part of her being longed to turn and run back to the familiar site, she lifted a stubborn chin, shifted her little pack more securely, and refused to glance back even for one final look.

  The letter arrived near the end of October. The first communication from the Reverend Martin Forbes brought a sigh of relief from those who received it. It had been a long time since the young man set out for the West. It began,