The Drums of Change by Janette Oke Page A

she was encouraged by her tribal elders to take her own spiritual journey toward that vision.
    So she drifted, feeling that while at the school she had no connection with God, any god, in any way. She was an observer, apart. Merely looking on as the others went through their simple ceremony that involved no fire, no good medicine, no drums, and no dancing. There was singing, but it had little in common with the chants Running Fawn had grown up with and understood.
    Everything seemed to be centered on the big Black Book. It looked much like the Black Book that the missionary had brought to Running Fawn’s band, and Running Fawn heard many of the same words read from the Book. It seemed strange to her that both Black Books should carry the same words, until she realized that many of the books in the chapel and in the classrooms were also duplicates. That seemed to take away the mystery.
    On most days, Running Fawn was content to lay all thought of worship aside. But on certain days, days when she looked at the turning leaves or heard the honking of the geese that passed overhead, she remembered that such events had significance for her people and would mean a ceremony would take place in the camp. On those days Running Fawn longed for home with renewed passion. She felt increasingly alone and lonely, shut away from her people and the life she had known and loved.

    An unusual amount of excitement swept along the corridors and throughout the classrooms. Something known as a was to take place. Running Fawn had no idea what the excitement was all about, and she didn’t suppose that she would care too much anyway. She decided to retreat to a corner of the large playground and let the girls chatter on in their noisy, high-pitched voices.
    There was a good deal of activity in the field. For a moment Running Fawn let her eyes drift over the running to and fro of busy figures. She had never seen the white people running about with such animation. Perhaps there was to be a hunt. New structures had been raised here and there across the open field. Yet they did not look like corrals for rounding up mustangs, nor blinds from which to shoot wild game. They were not piskuns, the Blackfoot word for buffalo jumps. But then, that would be foolish. There were no more buffalo.
    Running Fawn turned her back. Whatever it was, it was of no interest to her.

    In spite of her determination to remain aloof from the present events, Running Fawn felt her pulse quickening. The track meet had turned out to be a sporting event, and Running Fawn had always enjoyed the competitions held among her people when the young men and braves contended wholeheartedly in various events to prove their strength or valor. She found it hard not to be interested now, though many of the events were foreign to her and she could not understand the rules that governed the activities.
    It was of particular interest to her when Silver Fox turned out to be one of the athletes. The other girls seemed to each pick a certain young man whom they cheered on noisily. No one was calling out the name of Silver Fox, who was now called Thomas by the members of the school. There were calls of “Run, Wilbur,” or “Go, Carl,” but she heard no urging on of the dark boy named Thomas.
    Running Fawn, known in the school as Martha, did not call out his name either. But inwardly she gloried each time he bested the other boys. He was particularly skilled in running, and won most of the events in that sport. He also placed in the discus and outthrew all the boys with the javelin. Running Fawn felt pride—not personally, but for her people. Suddenly she felt challenged to prove her race superior. Perhaps she should not withdraw from the sports events. She was sure that she could do as well as the other girls. Maybe even better. Perhaps, for the sake of her people, she should become involved in the white man’s sports. There was honor at stake. She should have realized it earlier. She would help