White Feather 3-Book Bundle. Jennifer Dance

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      Never had Red Wolf seen a room as large as the refectory, and never had he seen so many boys. They were all wearing the same clothes and the same vacant expression. And they were all silent. A plump woman at the counter ladled food into his upheld bowl. He stared at the thick, lumpy goop, but was soon pushed along by impatient boys and steered toward one of many plank tables.

      A booming voice broke the silence. “Let us pray.”

      Red Wolf copied the other children as they bowed their heads, closed their eyes, and held their hands in the position he had learned that morning.

      “Thank you, Lord, for the bounty that you have provided today, for the food which we will now enjoy —”

      Red Wolf peeked at Father Thomas. The priest had changed out of his nightclothes and was once again wearing the black robe from the previous day. The boy thought it strange that the robe had no openings at the front. The robes of The People opened down the front. Mister Hall’s shirt opened down the front. So did Red Wolf’s new school shirt and the shirts of all the other boys. But Father Thomas’s robe didn’t seem to have any openings, and the stiff white collar that throttled his neck appeared to be the wrong way round, too. Red Wolf wondered if the priest had forgotten the right way to dress himself.

      The boy looked at the crossed sticks that hung from the Father’s neck. Red Wolf furtively slipped his hand into his trouser pocket and caressed the piece of carved bone, seeing the image of the wolf head through his fingertips. The warmth that came to his fingers as he rubbed them over the bone made him feel warm all over. My wolf is much nicer than his sticks. Is that why they tried to take it away from me? Do they want it for themselves?

      Finally the boy deduced, correctly, that since the priest was the only one wearing women’s skirts, the only one wearing his clothing backwards, and the only one wearing the crossed sticks, Father Thomas must be chief.

      Red Wolf’s stomach growled. He had not eaten since the previous morning, and he was hungry. Food was in front of everyone, but nobody was eating! They were poised over their bowls, immobile as rock carvings, heads lowered, eyes closed, palms together. Red Wolf ascertained that Father Thomas’s eyes were firmly shut, then quickly dunked two fingers into the porridge and scooped it into his mouth. He had barely tasted the sticky food when a firm blow on the back of his head sent his hands flying into his bowl.

      “There will be no eating when Father Thomas is talking to our Lord,” hissed Mister Hall, his bald head red with outrage and orange hairs bristling from his ears. Mister Hall’s angry outburst was over as quickly as it had come and Father Thomas continued with his prayer.

      “Thank you, Lord, for all the gifts you have bestowed on us today. Thank you for providing these lost children with this home and thank you for giving me, and all the staff here, another day to minister to their souls. And for what we are about to receive … make us truly grateful.”

      The chorus of Aaah-men was barely out of the mouths of the children before they were shovelling down spoonfuls of porridge. Red Wolf stared around him in disbelief, absently licking the sticky mess from his fingers.

      It was now Mother Hall who whacked him on the back of his head. “Spoon!” she said, pushing a cold, shiny utensil into his hand. “Only savages eat with their hands.”

      Red Wolf took the spoon and copied the others, but he had lost his appetite and he did not like the taste of the food. He listened to the clanking and scraping of metal spoons on enamelled bowls. The sound was abrasive and jarring compared to the duller sound of maple ladles on maple bowls. He laid down his spoon and waited.

      “Nishin! Eat. Quick,” the boy next to him whispered in the language of The People. “If you don’t, they hold you and push it down your throat. And you get a haircut like Henry over there!” He gestured with his lower lip to a boy who had a three-finger-wide strip of baldness running down the centre of his scalp from forehead to nape. In horror, Red Wolf ate the food, almost gagging on the lumps. He had barely finished when the bell clanged again and without a word the boys were instantly on their feet, waiting in silence in one of several lines to wash, dry, and stack their own dishes and spoons.

      With the dishwashing done, and with the bell clanging yet again, the boys walked silently away in different directions.

      Red Wolf didn’t know where to go.

      “Follow Henry,” the other boy whispered. “He’s in Grade One. He should be in Grade Two, like me, but he’s doing Grade One again.”

      “Why?” Red Wolf asked.

      “Because he’s a stupid Indian.”

      CHAPTER SIX

      Henry was easy to follow. His bald stripe set him apart, and once inside the Grade One classroom he was a head taller than the other boys. The teacher took Red Wolf’s hand and led him to the front of the class. All the boys stared at the newcomer with expressionless faces, everyone except Henry, who sat front and centre with a scowl on his face.

      “Say, ‘Good morning’ to George,” the teacher instructed the class.

      “Good morning to George,” they said in unison.

      Henry rolled his eyes at their stupidity.

      Turning to face Red Wolf, the man pointed at his own chest. “Master Evans,” he said, several times over until Red Wolf was able to repeat the name perfectly. This pleased the man, who smiled and tousled the boy’s hair for a long time. Red Wolf felt uncomfortable.

      Master Evans showed Red Wolf a nametag that said George. All of the children, except Henry, had similar nametags pinned to their shirts. When Red Wolf successfully sounded out each letter of his new name, the teacher beamed and pinned the nametag on him. Then he pointed at Henry. “Henry, you may go back to your old desk now.”

      The big boy moved quickly to the back row, obviously happy to be returning to his old location. The teacher steered Red Wolf by his shoulders to the empty desk.

      “Sit down!”

      Red Wolf understood! He slid across the smooth oak seat that was still warm from Henry’s backside. He wriggled around, slipping and sliding on the well-worn surface.

      Suddenly a ruler smacked down on Red Wolf’s desk a fraction of an inch from his arm. He jumped and let out a startled yelp, inadvertently banging his knees on the underside of the desk.

      “Sit still!”

      Red Wolf understood that, too.

      Some of the boys were giggling, almost inaudibly, but Henry’s laughter was loud and scornful.

      Master Evans’ voice was shrill. “Silence!”

      The boys were quiet, and Red Wolf learned another word.

      The teacher turned his back to the children and with a short white stick made marks on a large blackboard that hung on the wall. Red Wolf knew these must be the tracks his father had spoken of, the white man’s signs that he must learn before he could leave school. He gazed at the marks and hoped for understanding. It didn’t come.

      The children lifted the tops of their desks, took out slates, and worked at copying the teacher’s writing, their faces furrowed with concentration. Red Wolf did the same. He clutched the smooth СКАЧАТЬ