[Canadian West 02] - When Comes the Spring (23 page)

Wordlessly, he put on his hat and followed the excited boy.

It was very late when Wynn returned home. I was still waiting up
for him. He crossed to me and kissed me. "I'm sorry, Elizabeth," he
said; "you should have gone to bed."

"I couldn't sleep anyway," I said honestly.

The truth was that while Wynn had been gone, I had been doing
a lot of thinking. I really had no idea how Wynn filled his days. When
he came home at night, after a long day being-well, somewhere-we
talked about what I had done with my day. I had never really asked
Wynn about his before. What were Wynn's days like? Surely they
weren't all as difficult as this one had been.

I had been anxious to tell him about my tea with Nimmie and
about meeting Miss Katherine McLain. He had faced grave problems
and possible death and likely would have made no comment about
either if I hadn't made an opportunity just to make idle conversation. I
felt ashamed. From now on, I determined, Iin going to pay more attention to my husband and be less concerned with my silly little doings.

By the time Wynn had returned from dressing the wound, I was
feeling quite meek. Hadn't I come north with him to be his companion
and support? I had been living as though I had come merely for his
decoration.

I tipped my face now to receive Wynn's kiss, then asked, "How is
the man?"

"He'll be okay, though he does have a nasty flesh wound. Barring
infection, he should have no problem."

I shivered thinking about it.

"You're cold," said Wynn. "You should be in bed."

"No, I'm not cold, just squeamish," I answered. "Would you like a
cup of something hot to drink? Coffee? Tea?"

"Tea sounds good. Is the water still hot?"

"I kept the fire banked. It will just take a minute."

"It's very late, Elizabeth. I know you're tired. I don't need-"

"It's no trouble," I assured him as I moved to the kitchen area.

Wynn sat down in the one easy chair and I could hear him removing his high-topped boots. He must be nearly dead of exhaustion, I
thought.

I brought Wynn's tea and he gulped more than sipped it.

"You wanted to talk?" he said, lifting tired eyes to me.

"It can wait for morning."

"It doesn't need to wait," maintained Wynn:

"It's not that important. I just met Miss McLain today and had tea
with Mrs. McLain. I'll tell you all about them at the breakfast table."

I took Wynn's empty cup from him and carried it to the table.
Then I turned to him. "Come," I said. "This day has been long enough
already."

The next few weeks were rather uneventful. Wynn still was busy;
but now that he had carefully patrolled all the area to which he was
assigned, he was able to do more of his work from his one-room office.
I liked having him around more, and it also helped me to become
more familiar with what he did.

He was police, doctor, lawyer, advisor, handyman, and often spiritual counselor-and so much more. The people came to him for any
number of reasons. He was always patient and just, though sometimes
I wondered if he wasn't a little too frank. They seemed to expect it. If
he said, "No, Cunning Fox, that is not your territory for trapping; and,
if you insist upon using it, I will need to lock you up," the Indian did
not blink. At least he knew exactly what to expect.

The Indian women came often for tea, though not nearly as regularly as they had at first. Mrs. McLain, my friend Nimmie, called, too:
and L always enjoyed her visits. Miss McLain did not come, though I
had bolstered up my courage to invite her on more than one occasion.

We still did not have a school. Nimmie and I had spent hours
poring over books, both hers and mine. I was so anxious to get started;
but she felt it was far more likely to succeed if we could convince the
chief, or at least some of the elders, that it would be good for the
children. This would take time, she assured me. As the chief of the
band did not live in our village, but in a village farther west, we had
no way to hurry our negotiations.

One Wednesday morning, a swollen-faced Indian came to see
Wynn. After a brief examination, Wynn came into the kitchen.

"Got any hot water?" he asked me.

I indicated the kettle on the stove, and Wynn pulled out a pan and put some simple instruments in it, then poured the water over them
and set the whole thing over the heat.

"What are you doing?" I asked, curious.

"Reneau has a bad tooth. It's going to need to come out."

"You're going to pull it?" I asked in astonishment.

"There isn't anyone else," Wynn answered. Then he turned teasingly to me. "Unless, of course, you want the job?"

"Count me out," I was quick to reply.

Wynn became more serious.

"In fact, Elizabeth, I was about to do just that," he said, turning
the instruments over in the pan. "How would you like a little walk, for
half-hour or so?"

I must have looked puzzled.

"I have no anesthesia. This man is going to hurt."

I realized then that Wynn was giving me opportunity to get away
from the house before he began his procedure.

"I'll go to the store," I said quickly.

It didn't take me long to be ready to leave the house. Wynn was
still with the shaking Reneau. I wondered who was dreading the ordeal
ahead more-Reneau or Wynn.

There really wasn't anything I needed from the store, so I decided
to drop in on Nimmie. She didn't answer my knock on her door. I
turned to look around me, and then I spotted her in a little grove of
poplar trees just beyond her garden. She had gathered about her a
group of the village children. I hoped I wasn't interrupting things and
approached quietly. Nimmie was telling a story, and all eyes were raptly
focused on her face. She must be a good storyteller-not a child is moving!
I marveled.

I stopped and listened.

"... the man was big, bigger than a black bear, bigger even than a
grizzly. He carried a long hunting spear and a huge bow and arrow
with tips dipped in the poison potion. Everyone feared him. They
feared his anger, for he roared like the mighty thunder; they feared his
spear, for it flashed as swiftly as the lightning. They feared his poison
arrows, for they were as deadly as the jaws of a cornered wolverine.
They all shook with fear. No one would go out to meet the enemy. They would all be his slaves. Each time they came from the trapline
they would have to give to him their choicest furs. Each time they
pulled in the nets, he would demand their fish. Each time they shot a
bull elk, they would have to give him the meat. They hated him and
the slavery, but they were all afraid to go out to fight him.

'And then a young boy stepped forward. `I will go,' he said. `You
cannot go,' the chiefs told him. `You do not have the magic headdress.
You do not have the secret medicine. You are not prepared for battle.'
`I can go,' said this young boy named David, because I take my God
with me. He will fight for me."'

I stood in awe as the story went on. I had never heard the story of
David and Goliath told in this fashion before. I was surprised to hear
Nimmie telling it now. Where had she heard it? She had not attended
a mission school. And why was she telling it to the children in English?
Few of them could understand all of the English words.

I was puzzled but I was also intrigued. How often did Nimmie tell
the local children stories, and how often were they taken from the
Bible? Did she always interpret the stories with Indian concepts and
customs?

"'See,' said David, `I have here my own small bow and five tried
arrows. God will direct the arrow. I am not afraid of the bearlike Goliath. He has spoken against my God and now He must be avenged.'

"And so David picked up his small bow and his five true arrows
and he marched out across the valley to the wicked enemy. Goliath
laughed in scorn at David. `What are you doing,' he cried, `sending out
a child instead of a brave? You have shamed me. I turn my head from
you. I shall feed this little bit of meat to the ravens and foxes.'

"But David called out to the man as tall as the pine tree, `I come
not as a child, nor yet as a brave; but I come in the name of my God,
whom you have insulted,' and he thrust one of the tried arrows in his
bow, whispered a prayer that God would guide its flight on the wings
of the wind, and pulled the bow with all of his strength.

"The arrow found its mark. With a cry, the big warrior fell to the
ground."

If I for one moment had doubted that the children were able to
follow the story, the shout that went up at the moment of Goliath's defeat would have convinced me otherwise. They cheered wildly for
the victorious David.

When the noise subsided, Nimmie went on, "And so David rushed
forward and struck the warrior's head from his body and lifted his huge
headdress onto his own head. He picked up the long spear and his big
bow and arrows and carried them back to his own tribe. They would
never be the slaves of the wicked man again. David had won the battle
because he had gone to fight in the name of his God."

Again there was a cheer.

"And now you must go," said Nimmie, shooing them all away with
her slim hands.

"Just one more. Another one. Only one," pleaded a dozen voices.

"You said that last time," laughed Nimmie, "and I gave you one
more and you say it again. Off you go now."

Reluctantly the children began to leave, and Nimmie turned. She
had not been aware that I was standing there. A look of surprise crossed
her face, but she did not appear to be disturbed or embarrassed.

"What a bunch," she stated. "They would have one sitting all day
telling stories.-Come in, Elizabeth. We will have some tea. Have you
been waiting long?"

"Not long, no. And I enjoyed it. Do you tell the children stories
often?"

"Often? Yes, I suppose so-though not often enough. I don't know
who enjoys it more, the children or I. Though I try to make it sound
like they are a nuisance."

She laughed again and led the way to the house.

"But you told it in English," I remarked. "Do they understand?"

"They understand far more than you would think. Oh, they don't
catch all the words, to be sure; but as they hear the stories again and
again, they pick up more and more."

"And you told a Bible story," I continued, still dumbfounded.

"Yes, they like the Bible stories."

I wanted to ask where she had learned the Bible stories but I didn't.

"I love the Bible stories, too," she explained without being asked.
"When I was learning to read English, the Bible was one of the books
I read. At first it was one of the few books my new husband had on hand, so he taught me from it. I enjoyed the stories so much that, even
now that I have many books, I still read from the Bible. They are such
good stories."

She opened the door and let me pass into her home.

"I like the stories about Jesus best," she continued. "The children
like them, too. I tell them often. The story about the little boy and his
fish and bread; the story about the canoe that nearly was lost in the
raging storm; the story about the blindman who could see when Jesus
put the good medicine on his eyes. Ah, they are good stories," she
concluded.

"You know, Nimmie," I pointed out, "those aren't merely stories.
Those are true reports of historical events. All those things really happened."

She looked so surprised and bewildered that I said, "Didn't-didn't
Ian tell you that that the Bible is a true book, that those events, those
happenings-?"

`Are they all true?" asked Nimmie incredulously.

"Yes, all of them."

"The ones about Jesus?"

"Every one."

"And those wicked people really did put Him to death-for no
reason?"

I nodded. "They did."

There was silence. Nimmie looked from me to the Bible that lay
on the little table, her eyes filled with wonder and then anger. "That's
hateful!" she protested, her voice full of emotion. "How could they?
Only a white man could do such a thing-destroy and slay one of his
own! An Indian would never do such a shameful thing. I would spit
on their graves. I would feed their carcasses to the dogs." Her dark eyes
flashed and her nose flared.

"It was terrible," I admitted, shocked at her intensity. "But it wasn't
as simple as you think. The reason for Jesus' dying is far more complicated than that. We could read it together if you'd like. I'd be glad to
study the story with you, right from the beginning, and show you why
Jesus had to die."

She began to calm herself.

"He didn't stay dead, you know," I went on.

"Is that true, too?" she asked in disbelief.

"Yes, that's true, too."

She was silent for a moment. "I might like to study that."

I smiled. "Fine. Why don't we start tomorrow morning? At my
house?"