Between Earth and Sky(15)

Alma had no idea what the words meant, but she could tell from the rancor in Catherine’s voice, from her leering eyes and flattened lips, that Alma’s presence wasn’t welcome.

“Shaa. Giganoondaago,” Margaret said, followed by more indiscernible words.

“Listen, I think we should—” All four sets of eyes turned on Alma. The remaining words dried up in her throat.

Catherine put her hand out, palm toward the ground. She swung it quickly so the palm faced upward, then flipped it back again.

Alma looked back and forth between the two arguing Indians. She was not entirely sure they knew what the other was saying, but with unflinching eyes and set jaws, neither looked ready to back down. The knot in her stomach returned. She took a step back, but Margaret, who still had hold of her hand, pulled her forward. Margaret extended her other hand, palm out, two fingers pointing upward, then raised her hand until the tips of her fingers were as high as her head. “Nindaangwe.”

Maybe Catherine didn’t know the word, but she understood the gesture. Both girls were quiet for several moments. Then Alice lifted the silence.

Catherine said with a huff. She turned and stomped into the forest. Rose and Alice followed.

Margaret lifted her chin and smiled. Keeping hold of Alma’s hand, she started into the black tangle of trees behind the other girls.

Little of the moon’s meager light penetrated the woods. The leafless branches, like long, twisted claws, hovered over them, shuddering in the breeze. Alma opened her mouth, the words let’s turn back poised on her tongue, but she stopped. Nothing of the spooky forest seemed to bother the other girls. They walked on with steady, almost beaming expressions, their footfalls quiet and graceful.

Alma plodded beside them, her feet snapping every felled branch, tripping over every exposed root, crunching through every drift of leaves. Catherine snickered at the noise. Rose and Alice shook with suppressed giggles, but Margaret only clutched her tighter.

The farther they went into the forest, the more Alma’s skin bristled with misgivings. Maybe they’d better not run away after all. Nothing but barren trees surrounded them in all directions. The smell of rotting leaves hung in her nostrils.

A high-pitched shout cut through the quiet of the forest. Alma froze. It sounded like the voice of a boy, young like her and possibly in danger. Her eyes combed the darkness, her ears alert for any other sounds.

The Indian girls laughed at her startled expression.

Margaret tugged her onward in the direction of the noise. Alma’s heart clamored, but her feet obeyed.

The cry came again, this time descending through a series of notes, more like a chant than a scream. Another voice joined with the first. Whoops and hollers cut in and out. A low, resonant sound pulsed behind the voices, steady and rhythmic.

Through the trees, Alma saw the glint of firelight. Dark figures danced in a circle around it. A sudden cold flooded her body and her hands trembled.

Night witches!

She’d read about such monsters in her fairytale picture books. Again her feet stalled.

Margaret squeezed her hand and smiled. Her teeth were brilliant in the moonlight, small and straight save for a gap between the two at front just breaking in. She and the others weren’t scared. How bad could whatever awaited them be?

Alma shuffled forward, glued to Margaret’s side. The forms around the fire took on shape and detail.

Not witches—Indian boys.

Ten of them clustered in a small clearing around the blaze. Some sat on fallen logs or leaned against nearby trees. The rest jumped and stomped, circling the fire in time with the song. Though they moved to the same tempo, each boy’s dance was unique. Some crouched low to the ground, arms extended, step heavy. Others kicked up their knees, springing from one foot to the next. One boy brandished a long stick. Still another moved his hands through the air as if he were pulling back the string of a bow.

The girls were not running away after all. Relief more than disappointment lit Alma’s heart. The fire, the dancing, the song all seemed so welcoming. She decided she’d not really meant to run away either.

Alma recognized a boy named Walter seated on the ground drumming on a hollow log. Frederick, the tallest and lankiest of the boys, sang out the strange tune. Harry spun and shuffled in the fire’s glow, his eyes squeezed shut, his movements trancelike. She could not recall the other boys’ names, but could picture where they sat in class. Like the girls, only the oldest had come.

Catherine, Rose, and Alice skipped into the clearing and sat beside the fire. The boys continued dancing and drumming, acknowledging the newcomers with little more than a nod. But when Alma emerged through the trees, close on the heels of Margaret, Frederick’s high, clear voice fell silent. He stared wide-eyed in her direction, his mouth agape. The drumbeats died too. One dancer stopped. The rest, still lost in motion, slammed into him.

one of the boys said, jutting his chin out at her.

“Kauqui nahkma ne?” another asked.

A flurry of words Alma did not understand piled up from every direction. Anger flamed in the boys’ faces. They closed in around her and Margaret, sneering, shouting, and throwing fiery gestures.

Alma clung to Margaret’s arm. Both girls cowered and shuffled backward.

One of the boys hissed in Alma’s direction. Another spit at her feet. The fight between Margaret and Catherine had been nothing compared to this.

Harry broke through the jumble. He held his hand out, palm forward, and brought it down sharply. “Bizaan.” His voice was even and commanding. He stepped in front of them and faced the gang of boys. “Bizaan. Onzaam sa naa. Gaawiin da-zanagizisii.”