The Comanche Girl's Prayer, Texas Women of Spirit Book 2 Page 4

  “Of course. It’s candy.”

  “I’ve never had candy.” Laura broke off a small piece and put it in her mouth. “It’s so good, Miss Eckhart!”

  The joy on the little girl’s face made Soonie wish she’d brought a bushel of treats. I’ll have to give them bushels of knowledge instead. The need is so great. Lord, please give me what I need to accomplish this work.

  5 School and Clay

  “Onward Christian Soldiers,

  Marching as to war,

  With a cross of Jesus,

  Going on before . . .”

  The words of the song bounced off the cracked stucco walls of the large meeting house. Soonie waved a stick she had picked up from the ground on the way in a brave attempt to keep some kind of rhythm.

  The younger children sang with out-of-tune exuberance, while the four oldest boys leaned against the wall with tight-lipped stares.

  After the last note, Soonie held up her twig. “Well, children, I didn’t think you would already know that song. We only began singing it at my church a few months ago.”

  The young ones beamed. Every small face had been scrubbed until it glowed, though some cheeks and foreheads were painted with lines and swirls. Soonie was thankful everyone was fully clothed.

  “Perhaps we will try a new song tomorrow. Now, everyone have a seat.” She gestured to the eight woven straw mats arranged on the floor in the corner of the room. “Timothy, you and the older boys will sit in the back.”

  Timothy, Lone Warrior’s fourteen-year-old brother, slouched to the mat and sat down hard. His friends, Black Turtle, who was also Kiowan, and Hershel and Felix, who were Comanche, followed suit. Four pairs of eyes glowered at her.

  “All right. Laura and Prairie Bird, you sit here, in the middle, and Mira and Little Boar, you get to sit in the front.”

  Everyone scrambled to their places.

  When the room quieted, Soonie spoke. “First of all, how many of you know how to read and write?”

  Everyone raised their hands, except for Mira and Little Boar.

  Soonie couldn’t hold back her astonished grin. “That’s wonderful!”

  Black Turtle snorted. “We had school at the reservation. We’re not idiots.”

  “I would never suggest such a thing, Black Turtle. I only wish to find out what you have learned so I don’t teach you things you already know. And from now on, please raise your hand if you have something to say.”

  Soonie handed out flat, smooth pieces of wood and thumb-sized chunks of charcoal to each student. “Children, I know these are not going to be easy to use, but we will try to get slates very soon. I would like all of you who are able, to write your names. Both your Christian name and your other name, if you please.”

  Mira raised her hand. “What does a Christian name mean?”

  Hershel rolled his eyes. “It means the name the preacher gave you when you were baptized, dummy.”

  “Hershel! We will not use demeaning words in this class.” Soonie lifted her chin. I have to earn their respect right now . . . otherwise they will never listen to me.

  She picked up a slab of wood from the shelf behind her, which was the only piece of furniture in the room. Using her own piece of charcoal, she scrawled an ‘M’ and a ‘L’ across the uneven surface.

  I need to obtain better supplies. Soonie had asked Uncle Isak if they could purchase slates. He hadn't been certain. They'd have to run the idea by Brave Storm first. If he gave his approval, she could request an order from Captain Wilkerson.

  Mira and Little Boar each held their charcoal tightly and stared at their boards. Soonie sat down in between them. “Here we go.” She showed them her board. “You two can practice first letters today. Mira, yours looks like this.” She pointed to the M.

  A slab of board flew over Soonie’s head and thudded against the wall, followed by a piece of charcoal, which exploded into black dust.

  She leapt to her feet to face a stormy Timothy.

  “Why do we need to be here?” he shouted. “We use hides and paints. These boards are maw p’ahle!”

  Though Soonie didn’t know Kiowan, she could tell the word was unsavory by the scowl on his face.

  Three other boards flew against the wall, as Timothy’s friends stood and joined him.

  Soonie straightened her shoulders and looked Timothy in the eye. Her heart raced and she took a deep breath, swallowing her anger.

  “How dare you?” she said in a quiet, even voice. “You will all come and pick up your slates. You will write your names ten times each. And you four will sit inside for recess today. Do not make me fetch your fathers.”

  She turned and strode to the front of the room. Picking up her Bible, she flipped through the pages, refusing to turn around.

  After a very long silence, she heard the miraculous sound of feet scuffing across the floor, the slates being retrieved, and boys settling back into their places.

  She turned to see the boys writing. Timothy was practically hacking into his wood with the charcoal, making deep ruts in the surface.

  Should I correct him further? Best not to poke the bear, as Grandpa would say.

  “Now.” She smiled with all the courage she could muster. “I can see we will need a way to clean up all this coal dust. Any suggestions?”

  ###

  By the fifth day, lessons moved more smoothly. The four boys remained sulky, but obedient. From what Soonie heard, they were used to running wild through the woods like wolf pups. None of their mothers were alive.

  Laura glanced up from her work and smiled. The two older girls had been helpful and eager to learn.

  The older boys called Soonie ‘Mah-Tame-Mah,’ which was Kiowan for teacher. The younger children called her ‘Miss Su,’ since ‘Soonie’ proved difficult for them to pronounce.

  Soonie held up a slab of wood with the day’s Bible verse. “Be angry and sin not, Ephesians 4:26”

  She tried to choose short verses since the charcoal was proving harder to manage than she’d anticipated. She’d chosen a longer passage on Monday, and it had taken the students twenty minutes to write it out. Everyone--including her-- was covered in smudges by the end of each day.

  Eight slates, one for each child. Surely that couldn’t be so hard? She could have bought a slate for a few pennies from Bastrop’s general store. A few bracelets or a blanket should pay for all they needed.

  Her hand crept to her woven belt. Hidden underneath was a pouch containing two five-dollar gold coins, a parting gift from Grandpa. Emergency money in case she needed to travel back home. But some could be used for new slates, if that is the only way.

  Laura raised her hand. “Miss Su, may I please go to the privy?”

  “Of course you may,” Soonie answered, ignoring the guffaws from the older boys seated to her left.

  While Laura stood and made her way outside, Soonie turned to her little shelf of supplies. In addition to slates, some new books would be nice to have. Her Bible, a few of Molly’s medical books, and a battered copy of Aesop’s fables were all they had right now.

  She flipped open the fable book to the children’s favorite story, one about a fox who tricked a goat in order to escape from a well. The cunning creatures were highly respected by the people in the settlement, and the children fought over who got to read the tale.

  Laura returned from outside and sank down to the floor, her cheeks rosy despite her dark skin.

  “Why do we learn such things?” Timothy muttered. His eyes were lowered to his board, where his letters danced out in perfect script. Though he always wore a smirk or a scowl, his eyes burned with intelligence, and Soonie prayed daily for ways to break through the thick wall he had built.

  “Timothy, please raise your hand if you wish to speak.” Soonie smoothed her shirtwaist and tried to keep the tension from her voice.

  He folded his arms and leaned against the wall, his charcoal stick clattering to the floor. “These verses are not useful to a Kiowan warrior. We read the s
ky, the animal tracks, the patterns in the wind. We do not need the white man’s words, or his God.”

  “It is my understanding that your father does believe in God, Timothy. And the settlement’s elders, including your father, wish for you to learn these lessons. I am here to make sure you get an education.”

  He leapt to his feet, the feathers in his hair sticking out at odd angles. “I will not listen to this teaching! I am Kiowan! I will not have a woman tell me what to do!” His chest heaved, and his eyes bored into hers, waiting for a reaction.

  Soonie closed the book of fables. Time for a new approach. “Very well. Why don’t you teach me something today?”

  The other children gasped and murmured to each other.

  One of Timothy’s dark eyebrows arched up. “Teach you?”

  “Yes. I’ve wanted to know where you find the minerals you use to make your paint,” she touched a bright yellow circle, painted on Mira’s cheek. “Where did you get these colors?”

  “Clay!” Little Boar shouted. He clapped a hand over his mouth and raised his hand.

  “Yes, Little Boar?” Soonie held back a giggle.

  “Clay, Miss Su. We get it from the side of the hill.”

  “Very well.” She turned to Timothy. “You will show the class where to find the clays.”

  His chin lowered into his chest. “The clay is only for women’s work.”

  She opened her Bible again. “Fine. I’ll find five more verses for you to write today.”

  Black Turtle raised his hand. “Miss Su, I will show you the clays.”

  “Let’s go.” Soonie put the book back on the shelf, and the children raced to the door, jostling and pulling at each other.

  Timothy didn’t move. He had slouched down further and his eyes were glittery slits.

  “Come on,” Soonie pointed to the door. “I’m not going to leave you in here by yourself and I don’t want to bother your father today.”

  With a gusty sigh, he rose to his feet and slouched across the dirt floor, hands dangling at his sides.

  The class followed Black Turtle, who headed down the path in graceful lopes.

  Women paused from handiwork or gardening, and watched the impromptu parade with mystified expressions. Soonie smiled and waved.

  They climbed over small hills and into a large crack in the rock, which opened into a rocky, open-air enclosure, about the width and length of the school house. A trickle of water divided the ground. The children stepped in to bathe dusty toes in the meandering current.

  “Here, Miss Su.” Prairie Bird pointed to the wall.

  Over time, various types of clay and sand had washed through the valley. Bright red, yellow and orange dirt layered the cliff, like the fancy cakes ladies sometimes made for Bastrop Sunday luncheons.

  Little Boar ran over and dusted sand into his hand from the wall. He dabbed a few drops of water into his palm, then expertly mixed the two elements. With one finger, he painted orange swirls and lines on his face. “See?”

  “How lovely!” Soonie touched a finger to the orange and brushed it on the back of her hand.

  Soon all the children were busily painting rocks, tree trunks and each other. The supply seemed endless, so Soonie didn’t worry about the women being upset about waste.

  Prairie Flower came over with a handful of red paint. “It’s your turn, Miss Su.”

  Soonie couldn’t say no to the little girl’s hopeful smile. She closed her eyes and tried not to flinch while tiny fingers brushed paint over her eyes and cheeks.

  “All done!” Mira, who had come to help, clapped her hands.

  Soonie bent over the stream. A Comanche maiden with bright circles and stripes painted over her cheeks smiled back. Such a different me. Though she had worn her buckskins and shawl at home, she’d never felt this part of herself so strongly.

  Laura tugged at Soonie’s neat updo until her hair flowed loose and free over her shoulders. She braided it, and then poked in a dove’s feather. “Your hair is too long,” she scolded. “You still look like a little girl.”

  “Yes, I’ve decided to cut it, to about here.” Soonie pointed to her shoulder. “What do you think?” A sudden silence made her look up.

  The children stared at her. Smiles played around all their lips, even Timothy’s. But they weren’t mocking. Could that be respect shining from their eyes?

  She brushed out her skirts, then rescued her shawl from the tree where she had hung it. “Thank you, everyone. I feel very special to have been shown such a wonderful place.”

  Silence still hung in the air, but the children weren’t looking at her anymore. Their eyes were filled with . . . fear? Concern? She turned to see Lone Warrior, leaning against the clay wall.

  Soonie hadn’t seen him since her arrival a week ago.

  His face was clean of paint. Thin eyebrows narrowed over a thin nose, shaped to a point. High cheekbones added to this portrait of angular strength. His shoulders bent slightly, as though they carried generations of frustration and anger.

  Porcupine quills still quivered in his hair.

  She opened her mouth to attempt some sort of greeting, but closed it. The look on his face was so severe, she couldn’t even think of what to say.

  “You are not one of us.” Lone Warrior’s words dripped with scorn. “Go home, white girl, and dress up like your own kind.”

  Unbidden tears smarted in her eyes. His assumption that she was being disrespectful of their culture struck her heart like a dull knife. If only I knew the words to speak, to express how I feel.

  With her eyes, she begged him to understand.

  His mouth softened for a mere instant. Then he shook his head, turned and stalked away.

  “We think you are beautiful, Miss Su,” Laura whispered.

  The other children nodded, except for Timothy, who had suddenly become very busy stacking rocks by the stream.

  Soonie pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, moistened it in the water and dabbed at her face. “We should probably clean up and get back to class. It’s almost lunchtime.”

  That night, Soonie pulled out a precious sheet of paper and began her first letter home.

  August 25th, 1890

  Dear Zillia,

  If you write to me, do not be concerned if you do not receive a reply for many months. Correspondence in this area is shaky at best.

  How are Wylder and Orrie? Give them both my love.

  I miss you and Bastrop and our quiet walks down by the river. We only have a small spring here. I can hear it now from the tiny, open air window in my room. It has a nice voice, but not the same as my own wild, rushing Colorado River. Daylight still flows in, though it is late. I will miss my light when winter comes, candles and lantern oil are dear here.

  Oh Zillia, everything is so strange! I spend each night going over the events of the day again and again, wondering what I could have done better, or differently. So much is needed. Can I make a difference? Am I even up to this task?

  Soonie paused and tapped her pencil against her lips. The week had been so much more difficult than she thought. But what fun they’d had with the clay!

  She added a few more lines to her letter, then signed her name. I will look for the bright spots in each day, and shine them up as best I can, like pennies sprinkled on the path. All I can do is my best.

  6 Sunday

  One more twist.

  SNAP!

  Soonie stared at the broken halves of the metal hair pin in horror. The last of the five she had brought, and no way to purchase replacements. Perhaps Grandma Louise could send her a packet, but letters from the south were scarce. Any correspondence would come by rail, addressed to Captain Wilkerson to be picked up from the fort. Better figure out a new way to arrange my hair.

  A bundle of thin rawhide strips lay on the shelf and she pulled one out of the pile. Twisting the sections of hair, she bound them into what she hoped looked like a respectable bun. Styling had become more difficult since she gave in to temptation a
nd cut a foot off her braid, but the resulting coolness had been worth it.

  Uncle Isak had told her a circuit preacher, Clance Jenkins, traveled a route between Dallas and Fort Sill every few months, preaching, baptizing and marrying couples along the way. A close friend of Uncle Isak’s had mentioned the settlement to the preacher. He’d been riding there for over a year, risking a prison sentence if caught.

  Soonie couldn’t wait to meet him. What a noble man he must be, willing to sacrifice so much to preach the word of God.

  Soonie smoothed out her crisp muslin pinafore, which covered a lilac-sprigged calico gown. She poked her head into the larger room. “Molly, would you mind helping me with my buttons?” No one answered, so she pushed through the door and into the living area.

  Grandmother Eagle sat on her pile of blankets, tobacco smoke floating over her head. Though they lived in the same house and slept in the same room, the old woman rarely spoke. Soonie’s attempts at polite conversation were almost always ignored. But today the aged eyes watched her intently.

  The Comanche woman rose and hobbled over to her, reaching out a hand.

  Soonie blinked, then smiled. She turned around and felt the pieces of her dress pulled together as the buttons were fastened one by one.

  “You wear white woman clothes when the white preacher comes?” Grandmother Eagle’s voice rasped, like a gate not often opened.

  “Oh, that’s not the reason I dressed like this. It’s my custom to wear these kinds of clothes to church. I always have.”

  “It is fitting." Grandmother Eagle fastened the last button and went over to the table. Dried seed pods of some kind were spread out on its surface. She picked up a smooth, flat rock and began to pound them into dust. “White man’s clothes for the white man’s God.”

  Soonie raised her voice to be heard over the pounding. “But He’s not just the God of white people. I don’t know why some of you use this term. Jesus created all people, of every tribe, tongue and nation. He loves everyone the same.”