The woman continued to make the strange sounds, her whole face involved in her speech, but Red Wolf kept his eyes focused on her hands, especially the right hand. When it brushed against the rawhide strips, he braced for more stinging pain, but it didn’t come. Instead the woman thrust both her hands skyward and looked up. Red Wolf looked up too.
“Good grief!” she exclaimed. “Here’s another one that don’t speak English, not a single word!”
Slower and louder still, she tried again. “Take … off … your … clothes.”
She pulled the soft hide shirt over his head and tossed it into the open lid of the potbellied stove. The fire belched smoke. The child was distraught. He had failed to protect his mother’s handiwork and her disappointment weighed on him. He told the woman how hard his mother had worked making the shirt, and how she had made the fringe extra long because he had wanted it that way.
The rawhide strips coiled around his legs and ankles.
“Don’t speak that savage language!”
It was fear, not comprehension that made him obey.
Why did Father leave me here? Why doesn’t he come and take me home?
The silence was soon shattered by another shrill outburst from the woman. Red Wolf stood immobile and mute. Mother Hall reached out to remove his breechcloth. Red Wolf held on fast, but after a brief struggle the woman won and, except for the wolf’s head pendant that hung around his neck on a strip of leather, he was naked.
“Superstitious witchcraft!” she shrieked, snatching the pendant with a force that broke the leather and bruised his neck. She turned to poke at the fire, not noticing that the pendant had slipped from the leather to the floor.
Red Wolf’s foot reacted instantly, pushing the pendant under the desk, where it was out of sight. As his bare toes made contact with the carved bone, he remembered when his father had made it. It had been in the days following the summer hunt when the weary hunters had rested and when the women had worked at preparing the meat.
HeWhoWhistles was sitting at the edge of the lake, holding a piece of bone in his palm and running his fingers over it, listening to it, he had said, so he could free the spirit within. But then Grandmother had spoiled everything! Usually Red Wolf enjoyed spending time with the old woman; she told him the names of the plants, the ailments they cured, the colour dye they gave, what was good for brewing tea or flavouring stew. But on this day he had just wanted to sit with his father and watch the magical transformation that was about to happen.
Later, when he returned to his father’s side, the pelvic bone of the deer had become the head of a wolf. Red Wolf was thrilled when his father tied it around his neck on a rawhide strip.
Now, naked in front of this stranger, with his hands clasped over his groin, a tear slipped onto his cheek. He didn’t notice Mother Hall pick up the shears. Before he had the chance to realize what was happening, both of his braids had been chopped off and tossed into the potbellied stove. The boy was aghast. His hands left his private parts and flew to his head, reaching for the remaining hair that bounced around his ears. He knew hair was sacred! It should be cut only when someone died.
Has Mother died? Is that why Father brought me here? The odour of burning hair filled his lungs and he could no longer hold back 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