24 
Skypilot could no longer put off starting the school back up again. The beginning of October would be a late start back East, but this was the frontier.
He was in the church building, preparing a few lessons for the next day, when Harvey Turney walked in. Skypilot was glad to see the man. He had several things he wanted to talk to him about. Newer textbooks, for one thing. The possibility of filling some of the desks with a few of his little friends from the Chippewa village for another. Those children were learning so quickly, and they were teaching him quite a lot besides.
Harvey didn’t beat around the bush. “I hear you’ve been spending part of the summer living with the Chippewa tribe outside of town.”
“That’s true.”
“In a wigwam?”
“Yes. Why?”
“A lot of people in town aren’t real happy about the idea of our schoolteacher choosing to live among a bunch of savages.”
Was this the same man who had stood there spitting tobacco juice at a cat the first time he’d met him?
Harvey fidgeted with his pocket watch. “Because, well . . . you know.”
Skypilot kept his face impassive. “No. I do not know.”
“We do not think this is a proper activity for a man who will be guiding the minds of our children. If you are going to be our teacher, we insist that you start living like a proper white man.”
“And who is this ‘we’?” Skypilot asked.
Harvey Turney drew himself up to his full height. “Those of us who pay your salary.”
Skypilot closed the notebook in which he had been making out lesson plans. “Good luck finding another teacher.”
Harvey got flustered. “Now, look here, you know we’ll have a hard time finding a teacher willing to come all the way up here, let alone one who can deal with these students.”
Skypilot had learned a thing or two from the Chippewa. He stood impassively, watching this man bluster.
“I suppose you could stay with them awhile longer, but you’ll need to be moving back into the boardinghouse before it gets cold. You can’t possibly survive out there over the winter.”
“They do,” Skypilot said. “They survive.”
“They live like dogs!” Harvey’s voice rose.
Skypilot did not trust himself to speak. Instead, he picked up his notebook of Chippewa words and walked toward the door. He knew he had to leave before he knocked Turney senseless.
“Who’s going to teach our children?” Harvey yelled after him.
“Don’t worry,” Skypilot said. “I’m not going to abandon the children. I’ll be back on the job tomorrow.”
Turney’s eyes were angry, narrow slits—a man unused to being thwarted. “Not unless you start living like a civilized human being, you won’t. We don’t want Indian lovers teaching our kids.”
“Why don’t you try it yourself if you’re so concerned,” Skypilot said.
“I just might!” Harvey said. “In fact . . .” A calculating look came into his eyes. “I think I will.”
“It’s true then? The copper giving out, is it?” It was the only reason Skypilot could think of that would tempt Turney into stepping into the role of a teacher instead of a mine foreman.
“You’re fired.” Turney turned his back on him. “I’ll be taking over starting today.”
“Fired?” Skypilot could hardly believe his ears. He wondered if this had been in the back of Turney’s mind when the man had come in here. He gave Harvey a long, hard look before he left. “You won’t last a week.”
As satisfactory as that parting shot was, Skypilot now had a problem. He had no job in a town where jobs were getting scarce. The only thing he could think of was the possibility of getting a job in the copper mine, which was still working, in spite of less and less copper being brought out.
He didn’t want to go down into the mines, but on the other hand, he was broke. Choosing to live in a wigwam was one thing. Having to live there because he couldn’t afford to live anywhere else was another.
He headed over to the copper mine to check into applying for work. As he approached the place, he saw what looked like a body wrapped in sheeting being carried out. Several weary-looking miners were walking beside it.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Poor man was coming up from the 120th fathom in a shaft he was helping to sink,” one of the miners explained as both of them watched the others carrying the body up the hill. “When he got to the 110th fathom, his hand missed the top rung, and he fell backward to the bottom. Seventy-five feet he dropped. He hit his head something terrible. We had an awful time getting him out of there. He’s still alive, but I don’t think he’ll make it the night. Got a wife and four children.”
Skypilot noticed that the man had blood all over the front of his shirt. “You were one of the ones who got him out?”
“I was.” The miner swiped a sleeve over his eyes. “They ask too much of a man, making him climb so far, hand over hand when he’s already dead-dog tired. And those rungs slick as grease most days from the damp. One slip. Just one. It’s all it takes. And him a miner since he was only a boy.”
Before Skypilot could say another word, the miner walked on toward the sad procession.
Skypilot looked at the mining office and then back at the group of men toting their broken friend back to his home.
If he had a wife and children to feed, he would go into the mines if it was the only way to take care of them. But with only himself to take care of, he would find something else, or do without. After watching that procession, living on venison in a wigwam all winter didn’t seem like a bad option.
Moon Song and Standing Bear were deep in the woods, competing with squirrels to see who could gather the most acorns for the winter. Standing Bear at twelve months was able to walk quite well for his age. He was bright enough to be a lot of help at this task. Together they were making a game of gathering acorns and heaping them into a basket.
When they finished, she would cut the nut meat out of the acorn and then he would enjoy playing in the stream, helping her rinse the poison bitterness out of the acorns. Once all that was left was the sweet goodness of the seed from which the great oaks grew, she would dry it and pound it into flour to thicken stews or mix with corn cakes.
Suddenly, she saw one of the older boys race past. His eyes were wide with pure terror.
“Hanging Leaf!” she shouted in Chippewa. “Why do you run?”
He halted and looked back at her, panting.
“They have come.”
“Who has come?” They had no sworn enemies anymore, and they and the neighboring whites got along well enough as long as they stayed on their reservation and didn’t try to encroach on land the whites now considered theirs.
“Government people.”
This was puzzling. They waited sometimes too long for the government workers to show up with the annuities that they had been promised, but that only meant having to wait in long lines. Government people meant that food, guns, ammunition, blankets, and sometimes money were going to be distributed. Her people did not run away from gifts.
“Why are you afraid?”
“They have come to take us.”
“Take who? Where?” Nothing he was saying made sense.
His breathing had grown steady enough that he was able to speak without panting. “They say they have built schools that will help Indian children learn to live in the white man’s world.”
“What kind of schools?”
“I overheard two of them talking to each other as I hid behind our cabin,” Hanging Leaf said. “One said she could not wait to clean us up and cut off our braids.”
Oh my! The reason behind his terror became clear to her. It was one thing to wear white man’s clothing. Many of the men and women had various articles of clothing they wore because a color appealed to them or because they were fascinated with brass buttons or simply needed covering for warmth.
But it was another thing to have hair like a white man.
An Indian boy or man who had short hair was considered a coward, and he would be ridiculed mercilessly by the others for it.
No doubt the government workers thought they would just be tidying the boy up. They probably had no idea they would be destroying his reputation as a man. Perhaps a few words from someone who had lived in the white world and yet understood the Chippewa culture would help.
But would they truly take the children away? She had not known the schools were ready yet. When she’d heard about them, she thought this time would only come several years from now.
“Stay here. Rest and hide. I will go try to talk some sense into these people.”
She was not expecting the chaos she saw as she drew near to the village.
Children were crying and clinging to their mothers, who were looking as wild-eyed as Hanging Leaf. The braves had gone on a hunt, and the older boys like Hanging Leaf had all disappeared. Their chief, an elderly man with only a few words of English at his command, was trying to talk to three bored-looking white people. Two men and one woman.
“You go. Talk.” Fallen Arrow grabbed little Standing Bear out of her arms and shoved her toward the chief and government people. “Get this stopped.”
Moon Song did not need her grandmother’s urging. She could tell that something bad was happening and hoped that her fluency in English could serve her people.
“Can I help you, Uncle?” she asked in Chippewa to their frustrated chief.
“I think they have come for the children,” he said. “I cannot tell. They use words I cannot understand.”
Moon Song turned to the white people. “Please forgive the confusion in my village. Our chief has few English words. He, and others, think that you have come to steal our children.”
The man who seemed to be the leader snorted in contempt. “We aren’t coming to steal anything. We merely want to take some of the children away to help give them a better life. We have a beautiful new boarding school built at great expense to house a certain amount of Indian children. We have teachers who will not only teach them how to speak English but also teach them how to be productive citizens with manual skills that will help them make a living. They will be fed, clothed, and educated. We are not stealing children, we are helping them.”
Moon Song’s heart plummeted. The rumors she had heard were true.
“Where will the children sleep? With their parents?” She hoped she was misunderstanding what he was saying. She hoped this was simply yet another day school. Some churches had been known to set up a day school for Indian children, but they got to go home overnight.
“No,” he said. “That’s the whole point. We want these children to learn English as their first language, not as their second. We want to teach them how to be self-sufficient and not have to rely on the government for handouts anymore. It is the government’s intention to turn them into productive citizens.”
She saw him glance around at the village with disgust. One mother sat in front of her cabin, within hearing distance of the conversation, nervously pulling lice out of her three-year-old daughter’s long hair. The child’s face was dirty, as was the mother’s.
What the government worker didn’t realize was that it was hard keeping little hands and faces perfectly clean all the time when one lived close to the earth and cooked over open fires.
“Where is this school?” she asked.
“Oh, it is over in Pennsylvania.” A woman in a dress that looked elaborate and expensive broke into the conversation. Moon Song figured she was one of those do-gooder women Delia had warned her about. Someone with too much time on their hands, Delia had called them. Always meddling in someone else’s life.
“The children will get a lovely train ride there.” The do-gooder woman dabbed at her nose with a lacy handkerchief. “It will be quite educational.”
“How often will they come home?”
Do-gooder woman had the grace to look a little embarrassed, and dabbed at her nose again. “Well, the train ride will be rather expensive. Probably not until they graduate.” Her voice took on the enthusiasm of a true visionary. “But they will bring home wonderful skills that can help lift your people out of the poverty into which they’ve allowed themselves to sink.”
Moon Song thought of the caches of food that she and her friends had made from the abundance of their limited forest. She had not felt particularly impoverished as she’d helped harvest and preserve the food that they’d grown.
“Give us time to think, please?” she asked the woman.
The woman’s face took on an imperious expression. “Oh no. I don’t think you understand. This is not an option. It is a government mandate. We are to extract one child from every family here to educate for the betterment of that family.”
This went so far beyond cutting a boy’s braids that the audacity of it took her breath away. What they were proposing would destroy their families and their tribe. So far, only the do-gooder woman and one man had spoken. The other government man had remained silent. She took his measure now. He was more muscular than the man who had spoken with her, and she saw that he was carrying two guns on him. He was there to enforce this new law with weapons if necessary.
If they tried to take the children right now, there would be bloodshed because the mothers would put up a fight. She was afraid that the life of a Chippewa mother would have little weight compared against filling a government-mandated quota.
“What are they saying?” the old chief asked.
“I will explain when they are gone, Uncle,” she replied. “Please trust me for now.”
He nodded, folded his arms, and waited.
“I have lived with whites,” she said. “They treated me well. I know children need learning. My child is still small. When he is older, I will make sure he learns much from white man’s books and ways.”
She watched the three white people visibly relax. They thought she was on their side, which is exactly what she intended.
“If you take the children away now, many mothers will not understand the great good the government is trying to do for them. They will fight you, and bad feelings will come. Give me time to convince them why this school is a good thing. Give us time to make food and clothing for children’s long journey.”
“I’ll give you two days,” the man said.
“Pardon?”
“I’ll give you two days to get the mothers convinced and the children ready. We’ll be back on the morning of the third day. I expect one child from each family to be packed, dressed, and ready. If they are not, we will take the quota of children by force.”
“It will take much talk to convince my people. I will need two weeks, not two days.”
“Two days. Take it or leave it.”
Moon Song’s hand itched to reach into her boot, remove the knife, and make this arrogant dog beg for his life. Instead, she meekly nodded and agreed to his request. He had no idea how quickly she would act once he left.
The do-gooder woman, for whatever reason, felt it necessary to reach out and shake her hand. This was not a pleasant experience. Not only was the do-gooder woman’s hand small and limp, it was also moist. Moon Song surreptitiously wiped her palm on the side of her skirt the minute the woman turned away.
As they left, she overheard the do-gooder woman say to the man who had talked, “But what if they aren’t here when we come back?”
“Where else would they go?” His laughter was seasoned with derision.
If you only knew, Moon Song thought. If you only knew where we will go.
The minute the white people left, everyone gathered around her. Many had caught a word here or there and understood the gist of what was happening, but they wanted details.
After she had quickly explained what needed to happen, she sent the young women who were fleetest of foot to gather in the braves who were out hunting. Then she singled out Hanging Leaf, who had slunk back into the village with the other older boys.
“Choose one other boy from the village,” she said. “Someone who is as fast as you. Run to the town of Rockland. Find the man there that our Chippewa cousins know as Big White Bear. His other name is Skypilot.”
“And what do we tell him?” Hanging Leaf asked.
“Tell him that we need him here.”
“What if he doesn’t want to come?”
“Tell him that our village is in trouble and that Moon Song is calling for him.” She felt a measure of pride in front of her village as she said, “You might have trouble keeping up with him on the journey back. That is how fast he will come to me.”
“Boozhoo,” Skypilot said the minute he saw Moon Song. She was quickly rolling up rush mats and tying them with twine. “Aanii.”
She glanced up, smiled, and said in English, “Greetings and hello to you too! Aniish na?”
“I am fine, thank you for asking,” he said. “Gi zah gin.”
He had just told her that he loved her in Chippewa. It was one phrase he’d practiced over and over. Now, he saw the words sparkling in her eyes as well, but they did not come out her mouth.
“We have big work, Skypilot,” she said. “You love me? Help me make my people disappear before we lose our children. I’m moving my village to the Huron Mountains, to my father’s land. The government dogs will be surprised to find our village gone when they come back.”
“The boys told me what has happened. I agree that these boarding schools are a bad idea, but are your people with you on this plan to move to your land? The Huron Mountains are many days’ journey away.”
“It is our only hope. They will come with me.”
“I fear for the children in my tribe as well,” he said.
“Your tribe?” She glanced at him, surprised.
It surprised him too, even as he spoke, that he had said the words “my tribe” as naturally as if he were truly a part of the people with whom he had been living.
Moon Song smiled. “You care about them.”
“I do. They were kind to me and taught me much.”
“Those who want to come with us will be welcome, although they will have to prepare themselves quickly. I will send one of our fastest braves back to them. In the meantime, you can help me prepare for the journey.”
“Just show me what to do.”
It struck him how wise the Lord’s timing was sometimes when it least seemed like it. Being fired from his teaching job by Harvey Turney had infuriated him—but it had given him the freedom to leave the instant Moon Song needed him. Turney would not be as good of a teacher as Skypilot, but the white students needed his help less than the Chippewa children right now.
The other men of the tribe did not seem particularly surprised to see him there. He found out later that day that practically every move he had made the past two months had been discussed throughout the various groups of Chippewa.
Frankly, he did not think his life merited such interest.
As soon as those relatives from the other tribe who wanted to accompany them arrived, the procession to the Hurons began. Moon Song’s plan was simple. They walked into the forest with only what they could pack on their backs. The older people took turns riding Moon Song’s mule when they tired. Sometimes the good mule held two or three small children, allowing their mothers a rest from the labor of carrying them.
Moon Song was loaded down like a mule herself, as were all the young women. The young men, however, carried only their weapons. This behavior had gone on for centuries and made some sense to Skypilot now. The men were there to protect and hunt, not to be drudges who carried the heavy loads. A warrior would fight to defend his woman, but he would not lighten her load. That was the way it had always been.
In this way, they made their way toward the Huron Mountains. Toward the land Moon Song’s father had given her.