the torrent of tears.
“Only babies cry,” Mother Hall said, flicking the whip again, but Red Wolf jumped away in time.
She shook the whip toward him, steering him backward to the far side of the room, all the while speaking the language that he couldn’t understand. “Stay away from the stove! I’ve got to wash your hair in kerosene to kill the lice. We don’t want you going up in flames and setting fire to the whole building.”
He understood the sternness in her voice.
“Shut your eyes,” she ordered, closing her own eyes to demonstrate. When the boy obliged, she forced his head over a chipped enamel bowl and poured a strong-smelling liquid over his scalp.
“Keep ’em shut.”
His head started to sting. He squeezed his eyes even tighter and tried not to breathe, but tears were choking him and some of the liquid ran into his mouth. It burned. He spat and spat again. When he thought he could stand it no longer he was lifted into a metal tub and warm water was poured over his head. Ignoring his coughing and spluttering, the house-mother lathered his head with soap. Finally, she pulled him out, wrapped him in a towel, and prodded him back toward the stove. For a horrifying second Red Wolf thought that she was going to toss him into the flames. He almost collapsed with relief when he realized that he was just supposed to stand close to the stove to dry.
The woman handed him clean clothes and mimed putting them on. The thick underpants and trousers felt rough and scratchy on his skin, unlike the soft deerskin breechcloth and leggings he had grown up in. He stared blankly at the unfamiliar fasteners on the white cotton shirt.
“It goes like this,” Mother Hall said, slipping the tiny button through the equally tiny hole. He clumsily tried to fasten one. “You’ll soon be able to do it. Here, put these on your feet.”
She helped him lace and tie the brown leather boots. They felt uncomfortable. The rough leather chafed his bare skin. He was unable to stretch and wiggle his toes as he had always done in his moccasins. But worst of all, he could not feel the earth beneath his feet.
“You’ll get wool socks when the weather gets cold, and a jacket and cap, too,” she said, wrapping a stiff collar tightly around his neck and attaching it with a stud. It was so tight he could barely breathe.
“Now pull the suspenders up over your shoulders, like this. And put your arms into this waistcoat.”
Standing back to admire the transformation, the woman smiled. “Good,” she said. “You look almost civilized.” Without understanding any of the words, Red Wolf knew she was happier now. Her tone was lighter and he felt less threatened. “Now let me straighten things up here and I’ll take you to the office.”
Red Wolf ran his hands down his new clothes, discovering two deep pockets in his trousers. As soon as the woman turned her back, he snatched up the wolf pendant from under the desk and plunged it into the right pocket. He fingered the smooth bone and traced its outline, seeing the face of the wolf in his mind. The bone became warm to his touch and comforted him. He had this one thing, this one memory of home, and he was determined to keep it at all cost.
Mother Hall finished her chores and turned her attention back to the boy. “Take your hands out of your pocket, boy,” she ordered.
He remained still and silent, not risking another slap by confessing that he did not understand.
“Hand,” she said, lifting his left hand from his pocket.
The child’s heart raced. Don’t let her find my pendant. Holding out her own large hands, she repeated the word, “Hand.”
Red Wolf realized that she wanted him to make the same sound. Tentatively at first, expecting the rawhide strips to wrap around his legs, he said the word.
The woman smiled. “Good,” she exclaimed, tousling his new short hair, “that’s a start. You’ll be talking English in no time. Come on. I’ll take you to meet Father Thomas.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Father Thomas was sitting at a large oak desk, writing in a ledger with a quill that he dipped into a pot of dark ink. Red Wolf, who was barely taller than the desk, stood on tiptoes to see better.
Blotting his work, the priest stood and peered at the new boy. The boy peered back, fascinated by the two circles of glass balanced in front of the priest’s bulging eyes.
“Better late than never,” he said, unhooking the wire frame from around his ears and placing the reading glasses on the desk. “George! That’s your new name. G-E-O-R-G-E, George.”
Red Wolf stared blankly at the strangely dressed man.
The priest spoke louder and touched Red Wolf’s chest lightly with his index finger. “George! Understand? You say it … George.”
Red Wolf, relieved to see that the man didn’t wear the rawhide strips around his waist, said nothing.
The priest sighed. “We can’t keep track of your heathen names, and anyway they’re too difficult to pronounce, so from now on your name will be George Grant.”
Red Wolf spoke in the language of The People, proudly telling the man in the black robe that his name was Mishqua Ma’een’gun. “I am named Mishqua for the red of the firelight that shone on my face when I was born. And I am named Ma’een’gun for the wolves who announced my birth with their howls. The wolves did not howl to claim territory, or announce a herd was nearby. They did not talk of loneliness, or hunger. They sang a joyful song to celebrate my birth. They said I am their brother and that my name is Ma’een’gun: Wolf. Mishqua Ma’een’gun: Red Wolf.”
He smiled, pleased with himself for telling the story so well.
The priest reached for Red Wolf’s hand and turned the palm upward. “This hurts me as much as it hurts you,” he said, smacking the ruler down across the unsuspecting child’s palm, “but it’s for your own good. You have to learn.”
Red Wolf snatched his stinging hand away and hid it behind his back. His bottom lip quivered and he wanted to cry, but he suspected that tears would bring more punishment.
The priest placed the ruler back on the desk, rested both hands on Red Wolf’s cringing shoulders, and lowered his face to the same level as the child’s. “Say George.”
The boy copied the sound hesitantly. “Saygeorge.”
The priest exhaled. “You’ll soon understand. Anyway, your name doesn’t really matter. In the school you’ll be known by a number. Your number is 366. Understand? I’ll write it on your hand so you remember.” The child struggled to free his hand from Father Thomas’s grasp.
“Don’t worry! This won’t hurt.”
The boy couldn’t understand the assurance, so he continued struggling, but this time there was no pain as the man inked numbers onto his flesh.
“You will find things different here,” the priest continued. “You will have lessons in the morning and farm work in the afternoon.” He looked at the long-case clock that stood in the corner of the room. “Oh, my, it’s nearly bedtime. You got here far too late!” He popped his head out of the door and shouted down the corridor, “Mrs. Hall!”
