Elizabeth Lane - Navajo Sunrise

He was still struggling with his anger when he felt a light tugging at his sleeve. Something tightened around his heart as he glanced down into the liquid eyes of his six-year-old daughter. She did not speak, but her small fingers crept into his palm, seeking reassurance.

“Nizhoni.” He murmured her name as his hand tightened around hers. Nizhoni was too young to remember their life before the Long Walk; too young, even, to remember her mother’s smile and the sound of her voice. This white man’s purgatory was the only life that she, and so many other Diné children, knew.

What would Nizhoni’s life be like if the Diné were sent to the Oklahoma reservation? Would she ever know the joy of standing between the four sacred mountains and watching the morning sunlight steal over the peach-colored walls of Canyon de Chelly? Would she celebrate the dawn of her womanhood by blessing her people as Changing Woman?

Or would she go to the white soldiers, as so many had done, and offer her young body in exchange for a meal and a warm bed?

Instinctively he drew his little girl closer, as if to shield her from sight. She was only six, little more than a baby. But the years would fly, and before he knew it she would be a beautiful young woman. How long would he be able to keep her safe?

“Ahkeah!” Someone near the front of the line had hailed him. Trouble already, and, as usual, he was being called upon to straighten it out. The new Navajo agent, Theodore Dodd, was the first decent administrator to serve at the fort, but Dodd was a white man and, for all his good intentions, he was no miracle worker. For the Diné, little had changed. The problems continued as always.

“Ahkeah!”

“Here.” He thrust Nizhoni toward his aunt, then broke from the line and hurried forward.

Miranda edged her chair back into the shadows as Ahkeah strode toward the table. She had seen some kind of argument break out between the first Navajo in line and the small, efficient-looking man in civilian clothes who was seated at the table and appeared to be in charge. Clearly, there was a problem, but the two of them could not speak enough of each other’s language to make themselves understood.

“The man at the table is Theodore Dodd, the new Indian agent,” Violet whispered. “The Navajos call him Little Gopher. You can certainly see why, can’t you?”

Miranda nodded, straining to hear what was going on at the table.

“They have their own names for many of us,” Violet continued. “Your father is Big Hat. My husband is Lame Bear because he has a bad knee. Even I have a name. They call me Sparrow Woman.”

Again Miranda nodded, her attention on the dispute. The elderly Navajo was arguing vehemently, pointing to the burlap sack into which one of the soldiers had just dumped a measure of flour from a large barrel. More than a hundred similar barrels were stacked outside the issue house. How many would it take to feed all these people, Miranda wondered, even for a few days?

“Blast it, I’m aware of the problem, but this is what they sent us! It’s all we could get!” Dodd looked up in relief as Ahkeah broke through the crowd of Navajos and made his way to the table. “Tell him, Ahkeah. Tell them all! I’ve sent scores of wires to the bureau! They promised us beans and corn, but, blast them all to hell, this is what they sent!”

Dodd was interrupted by an outburst from the man with the sack, who then turned his outpouring of anger on Ahkeah. Ahkeah listened calmly, then turned back toward the agent. “Are you aware that this flour is full of worms?” he asked.

Dodd swore under his breath. “It wouldn’t make any difference if I had been aware. There’s nothing I could have done. I’m sorry, Ahkeah, but your people will just have to clean the flour as best they can. Now tell your friend to take his family’s share and move on.”

Ahkeah did not move. “Do the soldiers at the fort have to pick the worms out of their flour?” he demanded. “Or do the bilagáana think themselves too fine to eat what they provide for us?”

Dodd looked pained. The Navajo who’d first complained turned around and began talking to others in the line. The soldiers behind the table shifted nervously, fingering their carbines.

Miranda felt her throat tighten in apprehension. Ahkeah, she knew, was using this incident to make a statement of pride. But pride would not feed eight thousand starving people. If the Navajos didn’t accept the flour, they would go hungry. Was that what Ahkeah wanted? To trigger an incident for the benefit of that sleazy reporter—an incident that would call public attention to the plight of his people? Or was he merely a troublemaker, a reckless firebrand with more pride than common sense?

“You, Major.” He wheeled suddenly to face Miranda’s father. “You have a daughter. So do I. How can you ask me to feed my daughter what you would not feed your own?”

The silence that followed was broken only by the raucous call of a passing crow. Miranda saw Iron Bill’s neck and ears redden, a sure sign of rising impatience.

“I asked you a question, Major.” Ahkeah’s voice was as flat and as cold as the blade of a knife. “I’ve met your daughter, and I know her to be a fine and proper lady. Would you expect her to eat bread made from this flour?”

Miranda could sense her father’s anger welling. She could see it in the bristling eyebrows and in the clenched fist that rested on the table. She could feel her own tension building as she waited for the explosion…

The explosion that would be exactly what Ahkeah wanted.

“Why don’t you ask me that question?” The words burst out as Miranda rose to her feet. All eyes were suddenly on her—Ahkeah’s eyes, coldly challenging; her father’s eyes, startled and outraged; the reporter’s eyes, narrowing as he flipped to a fresh page in his notebook.

“Miss Howell?” Ahkeah’s voice dripped ice.

“Ask me your question,” she said. “I can answer for myself.”

“As you like.” His contemptuous gaze measured her, testing her mettle. “Would you eat this?” He filled a scoop from the open flour barrel and thrust it under her nose. Miranda fought the urge to recoil as the surface of the flour stirred slightly and a small, tan insect fluttered upward, past her face.

“If I were starving and there was nothing else, yes, I would eat this flour!” Miranda declared. “And if I had hungry children, yes, I would give it to them! I would give them anything to keep them alive!”

“Very passionately spoken.” Ahkeah glanced at the circle of listeners, playing to them with the skill of a politician. “But you aren’t starving, are you, Miss Howell? I saw you come directly here from the mess hall. Is this what you had for breakfast?”

“No.” Miranda remembered the gluey, tasteless oatmeal. Ahkeah, she knew, was intent on using her. He would take advantage of her natural squeamishness to make fools of Agent Dodd, her father and the U.S. Government. There was just one way to stop him—a way that lay before her now in a scoopful of weevil-infested flour.

Swallowing hard, she forced herself to meet his cold eyes. “If I show you that I’m not too proud to eat this flour, will that satisfy you, Ahkeah? Will you then be still and allow your people to get their rations without shame?”

A spark flickered in the depths of Ahkeah’s obsidian eyes, but his face remained as impassive as granite. “You, a bilagáana, would dare such a thing?”

Without answering him she turned to one of the soldiers. “Take a cup of this flour to the kitchen and ask the cook to make one flapjack—”

“No,” Ahkeah interrupted sharply. “We will do the cooking right here, where all the people can see.” Turning to the openmouthed private, he ordered firewood, an iron skillet, salt, baking powder, a spoon and a measure of lard. Spurred by the authority in his voice, the young soldier scurried to do his bidding.