Between Earth and Sky(18)

“How old is this old fort?”

“Built clear back in 1819,” he said, walking with plumbed pride. His chest deflated when he saw Alma’s frown. “Don’t worry. It’s been fixed up a bit since then.”

“What happened to them?”

“Who?”

“The Sioux.”

He shrugged. “A few of them was hanged, I think. Some starved. Nasty winter that year. Eventually thems that weren’t no threat were sent back to their reservation.”

Alma’s feet slowed. The island’s dense foliage hid whatever imprints the teepees and fire circles might have left, as if nature had swallowed all memory of these people. She paused a moment more, then rubbed the chill from her arms and hurried after the sergeant.

A round structure—like the ruins of a medieval castle—became visible at the end of the drive. Long, narrow musket holes cut through the stone walls, and battlements crowned the roof. “Is that the round tower?”

“Yup, there she is.”

Inside, the round tower looked more like a storehouse than a defense post or prison. Crates and boxes lined the walls. Odd bits of furniture lay dust-covered and jumbled. Stairs leading to a second story circled around a great stone column in the center of the room.

At first, the room appeared vacant; then Alma heard a faint snoring. A soldier—so small and narrow through the shoulders Alma first thought him a child—sat on the bottom step, cradling his head atop his knees.

Sergeant Brooks’s cheeks flashed crimson. “Attention!”

The tiny soldier sprang to his feet, swaying slightly and rubbing his bloodshot eyes. “Private Robinson, at your service.”

Brooks glared at him. “This woman wants to see the prisoner.”

“The Indian?”

“Yes, the Indian. How many prisoners ya got?”

“Well . . . um . . . just the one, sir.”

“Very well, then. Where’s the visitors’ log?”

The private’s eyes darted about the room. “He ain’t had no visitors yet, sir . . . but I’m sure there’s a log around here somewhere.”

Alma waited while the men rummaged through piles of clutter. Her gaze drifted up the winding stairs and her heart bounded. She fidgeted with her hat and smoothed the wrinkles from her dress.

“Here it is, ma’am. Just sign here.”

Alma took the fountain pen he offered and signed the blank sheet of rumpled paper. Halfway through, she frowned and crossed out the lettering. The black ink seeped and spread. “Forgive me, I, um . . .” She steadied her hand and started over. “Blanchard was my maiden name.”

Neither of the soldiers appeared to care. The private grabbed a ring of keys and started up the stairs. “Just a warning, ma’am, he don’t talk much. Might not know any English, come to think of it.”

Alma smiled. “His English is impeccable.”

The second floor was nearly bare. Narrow beams of light spilled in through the embrasures, illuminating a hidden army of dust in the air. Rusty metal bars cordoned off a quarter of the room. At one end of the cell lay an empty cot with a chamber pot tucked beneath. A tray of stale bread and mushy beans sat untouched upon a small table nearby. And there, in the corner, facing away from them in a simple, straight-backed chair, was Asku. Alma’s breath hitched. Gray trousers and a dirty white shirt sagged against his bone-thin frame. A long black braid trailed down his back. Though he must have heard their footfalls, he did not turn around. She rushed to the iron bars. “Asku.”

Little more than a whisper escaped her throat, but Asku turned around. She swallowed a gasp. The face of a stranger stared back at her. Deep lines cut his forehead and fanned from the corners of his eyes. His chapped skin looked several shades darker than she remembered. A dull expression hung from his face.

Then his eyes brightened, like dying embers coaxed back into flame. The boy she remembered shone in those eyes—curious, precocious, gentle. He rose from his chair, hastily buttoning his cuffs and wiping his trousers. “Azaadiins!”

Azaadiins. She’d almost forgotten the sound of the name. Her name. “Gigwiinawenimin, Asku.” I’ve missed you.

“Gimiikawaadizi.” He wrapped his hands around the bars just below hers. “How beautiful you look.”

The private rattled his keys against the bars. “None of that funny Indian talk. I thought you said he speaks English.”

Asku glowered at the guard. Gaunt as Asku was, he still towered above the private. “I do.”

The small soldier puffed out his chest, but took a step backward. “Let’s hear it, then.”

Alma flashed the private her prettiest smile. “Might I have a chair to sit on while we talk?”

He looked around the empty room.

“I saw one downstairs,” she said, batting her eyes for good measure. “Would you be so gallant as to fetch it for me?” He stalked toward the stairs, and she turned back to Asku. “Are they treating you all right? You’re so thin. They haven’t hurt you, have they?”

He stroked her gloved hand with his index finger. “No, Azaadiins. They have not mistreated me.”

“I read about your case in the paper, my husband—”

“Turn, nishiime. Let me look at you.”

Alma blushed. She stepped back from the bars and did a quick spin. “I came right from the train depot. I hope—”