Through Rushing Water (31 page)

“Thank God you brought home Lone Chief and Little Chief, old as they are and about blind,” Will said. “But White Swan's got a few years on him. Big Elk has that cough. And Sitting Bear was limping when they left. None of them's in prime shape.”

“What's between here and Indian Territory?” Nettie asked.

James scowled. “Wasteland.”

The north wind shook the house and Sophia shivered. “Could we telegraph the railroad, ask them to let the chiefs on the train for free? Could we send a wagon for them?”

“Kemble wired Washington. They'll notify the army.” James pushed back from the table and staggered into his office.

“So, if they do not die of starvation or exposure, the army will hunt them down like animals.” Sophia picked apart her bread. “What can we do?”

“We can pray.” Will turned to Henry.

“After this mess I can't imagine God would want to listen to me.” The rev dropped his empty bowl into the dishpan, then followed James.

“We can pray and we will pray.” Nettie grabbed Sophia's and Will's hands.

Nettie's hand was almost as work-hardened as his, but Sophia's was soft and—

He was supposed to be praying.

“Dear Jesus, we ask You to watch over and bless White Eagle, Sitting Bear, Standing Bear, Standing Buffalo, Big Elk, Little Picker, Smoke Maker, and White Swan tonight. Like the people of Israel traveling in the wilderness, provide them with food and clothes that don't wear out. And a warm place to sleep. Keep them safe and bring them home. Amen.”

Sophia squeezed his hand before she let go. “You memorized the names of those who went.”

Nettie gave him a hug. “My guess is you've been praying for them all this time.”

“Perfect weather for a Good Friday service,” Nettie muttered to Sophia as they stood to sing “Go to Dark Gethsemane.” Dark clouds blocked the sun, leaving only the candles on the altar as light. Thunder added its bass note to the wheeze of the melodeon.

Four weeks ago the ice had broken up on the Missouri. Ten days ago long lines of geese and ducks began their journeys up the river. Trees budded. On the south side of the school, shoots of green poked through the matted brown grass. Spring had returned but not the chiefs.

Where were they? What happened? Should they plan funerals? The chiefs had been chosen to represent the entire tribe, so everyone was related to at least one of the men. All mourned their loss. The entire tribe, children included, seemed to be holding its breath.

Henry read the lectionary, the account of the crucifixion.

In other years Sophia had listened and wondered how the ancients could be so cruel. If she had been there, she would not have betrayed Jesus. She would not have fallen asleep like the disciples, or denied Christ and run away like Peter. She would not have allowed anyone to beat and kill her Lord.

But this year she understood. The Indian Office's treatment of the Poncas approached crucifixion-levels of cruelty. And despite all her efforts, the torment continued.

She glanced around at the congregation, nearly every face as tear-streaked as her own.

She had failed them.

She had failed God.

Will's gaze met Sophia's as he let her into Brown Eagle's house. He shook his head. She hugged the older children and kissed Rosalie and baby Michael, asleep on a trundle bed.

Henry, her escort, took up a post by the door, hands clasped and eyes closed. Since returning from Indian Territory, his fire and brimstone had turned to cold ashes.

In the back room, dim light from an oil lamp showed a narrow bed close to the stove and Elisabeth propped on it. The young mother opened her eyes for a moment, moaned, then coughed. Mary wiped blood from her chin. Elisabeth looked just like Julia in her last days.

Brown Eagle got up from his place near the bed and offered the chair to Sophia. “My wife cannot eat or sleep. Would you make music for her?”

“I am honored.”

Will helped her out of her coat.

Sophia sat and tuned her gusli. “Do you have a favorite hymn?”

Brown Eagle sent a worried glance at Henry. Go ahead, Will motioned. The rev wasn't giving anyone guff these days. Brown Eagle sang their blessing song. As far as Will knew, Sophia had only heard it once, a couple months ago when his friend had led the Sunday service, but she followed along well. From the bench in the front room, the children joined in. They sang two more in Ponca, and a couple in English. Then Sophia played a song that must have been a lullaby, because Elisabeth finally slept.

“Thank you,” Brown Eagle whispered as they left.

The moon had set, leaving Henry's lantern and the agency house's lamp the only light in the village.

Will said, “Seems too cold to be Easter.”

“It seems like a Russian Easter. We meet outside church around eleven for the Paschal Vigil. Then at midnight, the priest opens the doors.”

“Outside, in the middle of the night? Isn't it cold?”

“Of course. Often it snows, but we dress for it. Then, after church, in the early hours of the morning, we feast on all those foods we could not eat for Lent.”

“Long church service. Anyone fall asleep?”

“While standing? No.” Finally he got a smile out of her. “The worship is exceptionally beautiful, so much singing, hundreds of candles, such a celebration . . .” The smile faded. “Not like here.”

“Not like here. No feasting, no warm clothes, no candles here.”

Henry's arms shot out. The lantern made wild shadows. “What am I supposed to say in the sermon tomorrow? After all the Poncas have gone through, and now the chiefs missing, are they supposed to believe God loves them?”

Sophia turned to him. “I suggested to God that the chiefs return on Palm Sunday, a reenactment of the Triumphal Entry. I would think Easter Sunday would work as well.”

Sophia gave God suggestions? Will waited, but she didn't smile and make a joke of it. And Henry didn't call her on it.

“Hope,” Will said. “Talk about how God is our hope. They can't hope in the Great White Father, or the Indian Office, or their agent.” He nodded at the dark bulk of the agency house. James's snores rattled the windows. “But they have hope in God.”

Sophia climbed the porch steps. “I have been reading in the Bible about the many people who suffered and prayed, yet did not receive what they wanted.”

“The faith chapter in Hebrews.”

Henry set the lantern on the table, then yanked off his hat, leaving his hair as wild as a madman's. “If I tell them the disciples hoped for the overthrow of Romans, the Poncas might think of revolting against the US government.”

“Tell them what the disciples got was better than anything they hoped for: Jesus, come back to life, bringing eternal life for us.” Will helped Sophia out of her coat again, another chance to almost touch her. “They didn't expect it, didn't know to hope for it, even. The Poncas would get that.”

Henry's train of thought derailed. “Where's Mother?”

“This cold, damp weather exacerbated her rheumatism. She went to bed early.”

“Nettie would want us to pray about your sermon.” Will bowed his head before Henry could stop him. “Dear Jesus, please help Henry find not the right words, not the best words, but Your words. And help us all to hope, to hang on to faith, and to listen to You in these hard times. Thank You. Amen.”

“Back to it.” Henry stomped into his office.

Bowls of eggs filled the table. Will pulled the lantern closer. The designs made them look more like jewelry than anything coming from a chicken. “Fancy. How'd you do this?”

“I drew the pattern in melted wax, then dipped it in dye made from red onion skins and vinegar.”

“Ah, that's what I've been smelling.” Each had a different design. “How did you learn this?”

“Not the way I should have.” Sophia rolled an egg between her palms. “In Russia, on the eve of Easter, women dye the eggs, forty days' worth from the Lenten fast, passing down the family recipes and the techniques. I asked my mother if I could join her, but she said I was too young. The next week, she was gone.”

“How old were you?”

“Eight. Old enough for Smolny, the boarding school, fortunately.”

“Too young.” Will thought of himself at that age, following his ma and pa around, asking a hundred questions a day. Going to school made him antsy, even though he had Harrison and Charlotte, even though he'd only be gone a few hours, even though he could see his house from the window. Boarding school would have killed him off for certain.

Sophia held her pocket watch up to the lamp. “Midnight. Christ is risen.” She handed him the egg. Her smile, a genuine smile, had Will wondering if his prayer had been answered already.

“He is risen indeed. Are you going to break your fast too?” Will asked. She hadn't eaten much all month, and nothing today as far as he knew.

Her shrug wasn't her usual exotic dance of shoulders, but more of a surrender to fatigue. “I wish I could make for you the special Easter foods,
kulich
, the bread, and
paskha
, the cheese.”

“Would an egg salad sandwich do?” Will went to the pantry for bread.

“Do we have any mustard left?”

He grabbed the jar. “Sure do.”

“Then let us celebrate.”

“Such intricate designs.” Nettie examined each egg as she set it in the basket. “Sophia, you're an artist.”

She shook her head. “You have not seen the Ukrainian eggs. They are the true artists.”

James's hands shook as he poured a mug of coffee. “No Easter bonnets and parades today, ladies.”

Sophia handed him an egg as red as his eyes. “Christ is risen.”

“Indeed.” He slumped into his chair. “Don't suppose we have any Hostetter's left.”

“Hostetter's?” Sophia asked.

“Hostetter's Stomach Bitters,” Nettie explained. “They call it medicine, but it's no cure for a hangover—it's hardly better than the cause.” Nettie put a plate of toast on the table. “Try to get some food down.”