Between Earth and Sky(108)
Asku straightened. Gone was the boy of Alma’s remembrance, standing atop the bandstand, nervously clenching and unclenching his hands. Gone were his youthful visions of the future. Here was a man, worn yet proud.
“Nine years I attended Stover School for Indians and was educated in the ways of the white man. But all the education in the world could not change the color of my skin. I was not a white man and would never be treated as a white man. So I returned to my people. But even there I was an outcast for I no longer remembered the ways of the Indian. For years I lived a lonely life. A shadow life.” He paused. Anger lit his eyes, but his voice remained steady. Alma hid behind the wide brim of her hat and pressed her fingers like floodgates over her eyes as he continued. “Agent Andrews was a despot and a crook. I shot him so that I might have a place among my people. I am again one of them. I shall be hanged, and my Indian brothers will bury me a warrior.”
Muffled chatter erupted on the heels of his words. Mr. Raton shot to his feet, tugging down on his shiny silk waistcoat to keep the ends from furling over his round belly.
“Agent Andrews was no despot. He was upstanding in every—”
“Of that, sir, you are greatly mistaken.”
Alma had never heard her husband’s voice raised in such contempt. He too had quit his chair and stood brandishing his index finger at Mr. Raton. “I have evidence of usury, embezzlement, racketeering, corruption—”
The judge clamored for order. “The time for submitting evidence has passed, Mr. Mitchell.”
Stewart straightened and righted his bow tie. “I am well aware of that, Your Honor. I have no intention of making a submittal to this court.” He glowered over at Mr. Raton and Agent Taylor. “But I shall be releasing my findings to the Indian Affairs oversight committee in Washington and the local press.”
“Enough!” The judge banged his gavel and silence resumed.
Throughout the fray, Asku had remained a statue, standing face forward, his dark eyes locked in a diffuse gaze.
“If I may, Your Honor,” the prosecutor said. “The Indian’s speech only highlights his barbaric nature.”
“So it does . . .” Judge Baum smoothed a hand from mustache to chin, then turned to Asku. “Harry Muskrat, for the willful murder of Agent Blair Andrews, I sentence you to hang by the neck until you are dead.” His gavel rattled the windows a final time. “This court is adjourned.”
Alma sat breathless. Papers shuffled and the court’s various attendees rose. She clutched the edge of the bench and stared at the maple-slatted floor, trying not to vomit.
Asku’s voice came calm and somber. “Thank you, Mr. Mitchell.” Then, to her, “Miigwech, Azaadiins.”
She looked up and met the eyes of her friend. Something in them was renewed—not the hope and curiosity she had seen in them as a girl, but some of the spirit hitherto obscured.
She rose and grabbed his hand.
“Azaadiins?” Stewart said.
She smiled at her husband, though the expression was heavy to wear. “It’s the Indian name Asku gave me. It means little aspen tree.”
“Aspen tree?”
She gestured at her skin. “Their bark is white.”
The bailiff scuttled over and grabbed Asku’s arm. “Let’s go, Mr. Muskrat.”
Alma clasped his hand all the tighter, as if never to let go. Asku squeezed back, then gently pried his fingers from her grasp. “Not because of your fair skin,” he said as the bailiff led him away. “The aspen is a strong tree. A resilient tree. The first to grow back after fire has scarred the earth. For this reason, I named you Azaadiins.”
CHAPTER 45
Minnesota, 1906
From the train’s window, the Mizi-ziibi looked like a ribbon of black satin, a shade darker than the rest of the night-bathed landscape, but equally as tranquil. For several hours they had rocked along, mirroring the great river’s bend and sway; then the tracks veered east. Alma craned her neck and watched the smooth water vanish from sight. For a moment, her gaze lingered, searching the receding darkness for a final glimpse. Her breath made clouds across the window. She rubbed them away with the sleeve of her nightshirt and at last turned away.
Stewart lay beside her in their sleeper car, the rise and fall of his breath a gentle melody played in time with the hum of the train. She tried not to think of another train, one racing northward, carrying the body of her friend.
He had died with the same dignity with which he had lived; brave Asku, who as a boy was the first to leap down from the wagon into a new world. Before the execution, Alma had brought him fresh clothes laundered with crushed pine needles so that it might remind him of home. She stood beyond the bars of his cell, her entire body heavy, searching for the Anishinaabemowin word for goodbye. It did not come. Instead, she kissed him on the cheek, flashed her bravest smile, and left him to change.
Outside, brown grass and dried leaves crunched beneath her feet. A single line of chairs stood before the gallows. She sat down beside Stewart and squeezed his hand until her fingers went numb. It was quiet on the parade ground, even as Asku ascended the wooden steps to the platform. But in her mind, Alma heard drumming—hands thumping hollowed logs and upturned pots stolen from Mrs. Simms’s kitchen. Stomping feet echoed the drumbeat. Frederick’s voice cut in and then Minowe’s clear soprano.