White Feather 3-Book Bundle. Jennifer Dance
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the wolf from the ground and sweeping him back and forth, but the wolf held firm. With a thud that shook the earth, the old elk fell heavily on his side.
There was a brief moment of silence.
Then powerful jaws crunched through bone and flesh.
Cloven hooves pawed the air.
Legs flailed in a desperate bid to run.
And life poured from the elk into the wolves.
Ravens watched from the trees as the wolves ripped into the soft underbelly of the old bull elk. Seraph turned on the others, growling ferociously, driving them back a few paces, where they snarled and squabbled among themselves. He pushed aside steaming intestines and tore the liver out of the body cavity. With two chomps of his massive teeth it was gone. Pushing his bloodied nose back into the tangle of guts, he rooted through to find the heart. Then, with a barely perceptible motion of his ears, he allowed the pack to join him.
The wolves snatched whatever was closest while trying to maintain their own pecking order. Crooked Ear was at the bottom. Even though he had played his part in bringing down the elk, he had to remain on the edge of the kill. Finally, as stomachs started to fill, Crooked Ear was allowed into the circle to feed.
Satisfied, with skin pulled taught across their distended bellies, the wolves ambled homeward, leaving the ravens tearing at the bulging intestines. A red vixen approached on silent pads. The ravens attacked and she retreated to wait her turn, along with those who had caught the scent on the wind and were still travelling toward the kill.
Within hours nothing would remain of the old elk except for a few fragments of bone and fur.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Spring was on its way, yet winter was not willing to relinquish its hold. Despite the warmer temperatures that had melted all but the most obstinate patches of snow, the trees remained bare. Then, suddenly, violets wearing hats of dried leaves popped up from the forest floor and bronze beech leaves that had rasped on slim branches all winter long were pushed aside by the force of new buds. A green carpet rolled across the landscape from south to north and, almost overnight, the school lawn became verdant. Mother Hall’s daffodils pierced the ground with their spear-like leaves and within days their yellow trumpets nodded in the sun.
It was a bright Thursday morning in May. Mother Hall entered the dormitory, her arms full of ironed shirts. This was unusual because the boys knew that Sunday was the day for clean clothes, not Thursday. Cleanliness was next to godliness and both these things coincided with chapel on Sundays. Mother Hall seemed jittery, in fact, a bundle of nerves. Promising a whipping to any boy who got his shirt dirty, she announced that an important man would be visiting them in the classroom, so they would stay inside all day and had better be good, or else.
Around noon, a horse-drawn carriage rolled through the gates. Father Thomas greeted the visitor and escorted him to the staff dining room.
“I’d like you all to meet our school governor,” he said to the assembled staff.
Mother Hall made a small curtsy. “It’s so lovely to meet you, Governor,” she said coyly in her most refined language. “You must be hungry after your long journey. We’ve prepared luncheon and the girls are waiting to serve, so please sit down.”
The governor unbuttoned his coat and Mother Hall helped wrestle the sleeves from his arms. Father Thomas watched the guest settle his ample backside on the chair, and he sent up a silent prayer that the slender mahogany legs would withstand the weight.
“Grace!” he said in a rush, wanting to get through the meal before disaster struck. The boys bowed their heads and Father Thomas recited the shortest prayer he had ever uttered. “Heavenly Father, thank you for the food we are about to enjoy. Amen.”
“We produce all our own food here, Governor,” Mother Hall said as five schoolgirls, their brown hands covered in white gloves, served roast pork, squash, potatoes, and gravy.
“The children are surely spoiled by such abundance,” the governor said, spreading his linen napkin over his rotund mid-section.
After several distracted bites and swallows, during which conversation was definitely not a priority, the governor directed his conversation to Father Thomas. “The board of governors is very pleased with the work that you are doing here, Father. I’m sure you’ll agree with me that the residential school system is working wonderfully well. The government builds the schools and provides the funding, and you, at Bruce County, use that money to transform the children’s lives. Obviously you do much more than just provide an education. You are civilizing the Indians, teaching them good behaviour, good manners, the difference between right and wrong.”
He snapped his fingers at the closest serving girl and with his plate heaped for the second time, he continued. “Clearly, taking the children away from their families is a big help when it comes to assimilating them into our society, especially regarding Christianity. Separating them from their pagan communities gives us a far greater success rate, don’t you agree?”
The governor didn’t wait for a response. “We’ve been criticized for wasting money educating the females,” he said, glancing at the serving girls, “but in my opinion, the fate of the next generation hangs on girls such as these! What will happen if the boys leave here and marry unschooled girls?”
The question was rhetorical, but Mother Hall valiantly tried to answer.
The governor ignored her, slapping his palms down on the table with a resounding smack that shook the water glasses. “They will fall back into their heathen ways! And the children from these marriages will almost certainly adopt the habits of their pagan mothers. All things considered, the money spent educating females is money well spent. By the next generation there won’t be an Indian problem because the Indians will have been assimilated into our society.”
“Yes, yes, quite so,” Father Thomas agreed, anxious to steer the conversation to another topic. “But we do have a problem for next year, and I was hoping you might be able to help.”
“That’s what I’m here for, Father, but I’d like to talk more about —” The governor stopped in mid-sentence. Apple pie, piled high with dollops of fresh whipped cream, had appeared in front of him.
Father Thomas, seizing the opportunity of the governor’s distraction, continued with his well-rehearsed speech. “Some of the children are now in Grade Eight, but we don’t have the curriculum or the teachers for higher education. We have wonderful, dedicated people on staff here. They have a passion to bring the love of God to these children, but none of them are qualified in the field of education —”
The governor swallowed and intervened. “My good fellow, you don’t understand —”
Father Thomas kept talking. “As you know, Governor, it’s hard to find qualified educators willing to come out to these remote places and work with the Indians. I made an enormous sacrifice coming here, giving up a comfortable life in a well-to-do parish. But I have no regrets. This is my calling. Remuneration and worldly goods are of little importance compared to saving the souls of these boys and girls. I am, after all, storing up treasures in Heaven, not on earth, where moth and rust can destroy. It’s what the Lord tells us to do.”
One or two heads nodded in agreement.
“However, the problem is this — we need someone capable of teaching the older children. If we were to offer a more lucrative salary we could employ one or two trained teachers. So, in short, Governor, I need you to organize additional funding.”
“My dear man,” the governor said, wiping cream from his lips, “the policy of the government is to provide the children with an elementary education! We are not trying to turn out Indian students who compete with our students for university places, or for jobs. The government policy is to rid the children of their Indian-ness, to kill the Indian in the child, so to speak! Then to assimilate them