Between Earth and Sky(16)

Murmurs rose above his words. Someone stomped. Arms flew up, pointing toward the woods.

Harry stood his ground. “Nishiime.” He pulled Alma forward, flush beside him.

From the back of the crowd Frederick nodded. “Nishiime.” He made the same two-fingered gesture Margaret had signed earlier.

A few other boys also appeared to understand and backed away, but those who remained glowered in Alma’s direction. Harry put his hand out in front of him, as if to keep them at bay. She could see the profile of his face, chin raised and jaw set, eyes steady.

“Friend,” he said in slow, clear English.

“Friend,” Margaret echoed, her accent thicker, but her voice just as pointed.

Friend. Alma couldn’t stop the smile that spread across her lips. The boys’ grave faces softened.

One by one, they shrugged and returned to the fire. Frederick took up song again.

Her heart retreated from her throat. She followed Margaret to the log where the other girls sat.

Harry perched beside them.

“Thank you,” Alma said to him. “You speak very good English.”

Harry smiled but shook his head. “No. No good English.”

He turned his gaze toward the fire; Alma did the same. The logs crackled, and sparks drifted upward. Dust swirled around the dancers’ feet. The biting night air no longer bothered her. Guilt and worry fled her mind. Her heart beat in time with the straight, steady rhythm of the makeshift drums.

A nudge drew her back to her companions on the log. Alice opened her pillowcase to reveal a stash of apples. She tossed one to Alma.

Undoubtedly, the apples had come from barrels in the cellar. Alma hesitated, the fruit inches from her mouth. Her father’s voice filled her head. And the Lord saith thou shalt not steal.

This didn’t feel like stealing, though. Hadn’t the Indian Bureau sent the apples for them to eat? Why must they only eat them at someone else’s behest? She took a bite. And another. Juice rolled down her chin and she wiped it away with the back of her hand.

When she finished, Alma tossed the core into the fire and turned to Harry. “What’s the word for apple in your language?”

He drew his dark eyebrows together and shook his head.

“Apple.” She pointed to the leftover fruit in Alice’s pillowcase. “In Indian.”

“Ah! Mishiimin.”

“Mishiimin,” she repeated.

A giggle came from Margaret’s direction. Alma remembered several times when she’d seen Harry and Margaret whispering together in the hall or at the edge of the yard. She pointed back and forth between them. “Are you from the same tribe?”

Harry nodded. “Anishinaabe.”

Alma puzzled at the word. Her father had made her learn the names of all the tribes sending children to Stover. Anishinaabe was not one of them.

“White man say Chippewa.” He pointed to Margaret. “He my . . . sister.”

Alma giggled. “She’s my sister. That’s what you say for girls.”

Harry’s cheeks colored slightly and he bobbed his head.

She looked back and forth between the siblings. They shared the same almond-shaped eyes, the same round faces. Margaret was taller, though Alma suspected Harry to be older. Both had the same plump shape. Her mother would call it pudgy. Alma thought it handsome.

“Anish . . .”

“Anishinaabe,” Margaret prompted.

Alma frowned. Why would her father call Indian tribes by something other than their real name? She pointed to Rose. “Anishinaabe?”

Again Margaret giggled and shook her head.

Rose leaned forward. “Ho-chunk.”

Margaret nodded in the direction of Alice and Catherine. “Naadawe.”

“You say Oneida,” Harry said.

Alice said, making sounds from her throat and nose Alma had never heard before.

Looking from one smiling face to the next, Alma’s head swam. The Chippewa, who were really the Anishinaabe, called Alice’s people Naadawe. White people called them Oneida, and they called themselves . Then something else occurred to her.

“What was your name before Harry?”

Confusion clouded his face. She pointed at herself. “Alma.” Then directed her finger at him.

“Harry.”

“No, Anishinaabe name.”

His eyes brightened. “Askuwheteau. It mean . . . he looking over . . . he watch.” He waved his hand over the camp.

“He who keeps watch?” Alma asked.

He nodded.

“Asku . . . wet . . . toe.” She stumbled over the syllables. “I’ll call you Asku for short.”

Despite Asku’s puzzled look at the sound of his new nickname, Alma took his silence for assent. She turned to Margaret. “What’s your Indian name?”

The girl shook her head.

“Gigagwejimig ezhinikaazoyan,” Asku said to his sister.

“Oonh! Minowe.”

“Minowe.” Finally a name Alma could easily pronounce. “What does it mean?”

Minowe blushed. She looked down and started to sing. Alma leaned closer. The words and tune were unfamiliar, but Minowe’s voice was beautiful. The drumming slowed, and Frederick quieted his cry. The dancers stopped.

Minowe’s voice filled the clearing, not loud, but bright and full. The melody had a slow, simple phrasing, like a lullaby. All the forest seemed to listen.