Red Dove, Run Through the Fire

By Sonia Antaki

Her mother is Lakota, her father white, and fourteen-year-old Red Dove's dream is to bring her worlds together. With her grandfather's medicine pouch, she has survived the cruelties of the Indian boarding school and the tragedy of Wounded Knee. She's ventured across the ocean to Europe to perform with Annie Oakley in Buffalo Bill's Wild West Sho

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atmosphere Press
• Release date: Nov 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9781639887156

Sonia Antaki

Of Swiss, British, and Syro-Lebanese ancestry, Sonia Antaki was born in Egypt. She's spent her adult life as a performer, a financial analyst, and a Tony-nominated Broadway producer. She lives with her dog in California.

Book preview

Red DoveRed Dove

by Sonia Antaki

with illustrations by Andrew Bosley

atmosphere press

© 2022 Sonia Antaki

Published by Atmosphere Press

Cover art by Andrew Bosley

No part of this book may be reproduced without permission from the author except in brief quotations and in reviews. This is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to real places, persons, or events is entirely coincidental.

atmospherepress.com

If you’ve missed any part of Red Dove’s journey, look for

Red Dove,

Listen to the Wind

(Book One of the trilogy)

and

Red Dove,

Tell Truth to Darkness

(Book Two of the trilogy)

For more, go to

www.soniaantaki.com

This is an original story,

Dedicated to my Goddaughter, Lily Spotted Elk, Lakota—

Descendant of the man who led his people at Wounded Knee

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Introduction

Red Dove, Run Through the Fire, like the other books in The Red Dove Trilogy, is a novel based on history. Some of the characters—Buffalo Bill, Annie Oakley, L. Frank Baum and others—did actually exist, but the circumstances and actions described are fiction.

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Foreword

Red Dove, Run Through the Fire is the third and continuing story of The Red Dove Trilogy. I believe it to be one of the finest historical fiction series for young readers, set in the late 1800s and based on Lakota Sioux culture.

The trilogy follows Red Dove’s journey as, after a heartache-filled early life, she contends with parental abandonment, loss of cultural identity and the political upheavals of the time. She nevertheless perseveres—and pursues the opportunities she’s offered.

Through her adventures, we experience victories over the many obstacles that come her way. The path to adulthood is not always easy, but can be most colorful and rewarding when we choose the one that shines the brightest.

Congratulations, Sonia Antaki, on a thoroughly researched and entertaining series. Well done.

—Linda Six Feathers, Lakota Sioux

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Heyunka Wi

The Frost Moon

New York—December 1891

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Do as the buffalo—

turn and face the storm

L Fire K

T

he tall-masted steamer pulled into New York Harbor and docked. Disembark! came the shout from the bridge.

Fourteen-year-old Red Dove, the girl with the startling gray eyes, leaned over the lower-deck rail and stared at the strange new city. The first-class passengers milled above, chattering as they awaited instructions. Smoke drifted from their expensive cigars.

They would be the first to get off, she knew, so she had plenty of time. She pulled her worn woolen blanket tight around her reservation calico dress and shivered in the frigid air, remembering why she was here.

To perform in a show, on a theater stage.

So different from the arenas she had toured in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West, in England, Scotland, Germany.

And so very far from her home in Paha Sapa, the sacred Black Hills.

Because I’m half white, Grandfather called me Iyeshka—a traveler between worlds—but will I ever get to do what I want: bring those worlds together?

Disembark! came the shout again.

Better check on my pony.

Jerking back from the rail, she trod carefully across the icy deck, down the steps and into the dark belly of the ship. Squeezing past barrels and crates, she crept up to the cramped stalls, where horses shifted in their pens.

When she adjusted to the dim light, she saw her pony pacing in her stall. What’s the matter, Wichinchala? Why are you so nervous? She patted the velvet muzzle. Nothing to worry about, girl. I’ll make sure you’re all right.

The little paint whinnied in answer.

Red Dove buried her nose in the pony’s neck and breathed in her musky, horsey smell.

Suddenly, Wichinchala shied.

Red Dove pulled back and looked around. Something stung her eyes. She smelled it then, bitter, sharp, familiar.

Smoke…

A message from Grandfather? Maybe he’ll appear.

She scanned the stalls, but his spirit wasn’t there.

The pouch.

Out of habit, she touched her throat, where once the opahte—the little leather pouch her grandfather had given her—had hung. Sacred, it contained the medicine, the power to peer into the minds of others—and know what they were really thinking and feeling.

But the pouch wasn’t there either. Of course, it wouldn’t be. She had returned it to the ancestors, buried with her grandfather. Still, it waited to be summoned, and would appear if needed.

She listened for the familiar sound, the hum of swarming bees, the cry of eagle bone whistles, that told her the spirits were at work.

But heard nothing.

She reached into the parfleche bag slung across her chest. Tasseled, brightly painted and made of softly tanned leather, it carried her treasures—and she kept it with her always.

Her hand closed on the slick mother-of-pearl handle.

My pen.

Carved in the shape of a feather, it was what the warrior queen’s spirit had bequeathed her—a weapon more powerful than anything because it contained a knife blade—and gave her the courage to speak.

There might be a sign.

She waited.

But there was none, so she reached again into the parfleche.

The Celtic cross.

Her fingers grazed the cool, rough metal of the gift her friend Sister Mary Rose had given her, the tool to help her find what she was looking for.

When she realized—this smoke wasn’t coming from the spirit world.

But from somewhere else.

Because this smoke was bitter, sharp, sweet…

And real.

The fresh, crisp smell of burning hay.

Fire! she screamed, knowing everyone else, porters, passengers, crew, were all out of range, shuffling down the gangplank or waiting up on deck.

We have to get out of here, Wichinchala. Now!

She heaved on the iron rail that separated her from her terrified mare.

It wouldn’t give.

Fire! she screamed again and raced to the top of the stairs, yelling until her voice was raw and nothing but a croak came out.

Still, no one came.

She ran back down, tugged and pushed and pulled with all her strength, but the bar held fast.

She tore open the parfleche, pulled out the penknife, and flicked open the blade, then dug it in the lock and twisted.

It finally gave way.

Go, she yelled as Wichinchala charged up the ramp, answering the call of light and air.

The smoke cloud swelled, but the air was thick with sound as well. A big black stallion, trapped in his stall, was lunging and rearing, desperate to flee. Eyes bulging, he snapped at the bars of his cage.

I can’t leave you! Coughing and choking, she unlocked the latch, and with a mighty heave, shoved open the bar to watch the stallion thunder past. Rushing from stall to stall, she freed the other maddened creatures, horses, cows, buffalo, elk and deer, all who’d toured with the Wild West show. Slipping and stumbling they raced up the stairs, out of the hold and onto the deck above.

A bark made her turn. The smoke was so thick she could barely breathe, but still she forced her way deep into the back of the ship, and, holding her breath until she was about to explode, saw the scruffy wolf-like dog, trapped in a crate in the corner.

Spirit! Why’d they put you here? Rick’d never get over it if anything happened.

She grabbed at the scorching latch and twisted with her knife.

Hey, what… It was Rick, calling from the top of the stairs. That you, Spirit? Here, boy, he yelled. I told ’em never to put you here!

He ran down, pulled off his U.S. Army hat and flailed at the flames while the terrified dog raced to freedom, tail flying high. What happened?

I don’t know, Red Dove choked as she burst out of the poisonous cloud and onto the main deck.

At last, men scrambled down, hauling buckets and hoses, spraying water on the blaze, and Red Dove, sputtering and gasping, fell against the rail and filled her lungs with fresh, clean air.

L Ruined K

The cries of the men, the roar of the engines and the moan of the ship’s horn hit Red Dove’s ears. When at last the horses, cattle, buffalo and all the other animals were penned safely, the passengers emerged from the safety of their cabins, treading slowly back on deck. They hugged the rail and watched the fireboats surround them in a watery dance, streaming spray high in the air.

You can let go now, said Jerusha Kincaide to the seven-year-old girl tugging at her hem. Everything’s all right. She patted Windflower’s glossy black braid with her aging hand. I looked after you the whole time while we were on tour, after I persuaded Bill Cody to let you come with us, remember? You know I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.

Windflower nodded, but as Red Dove searched the woman’s face, she heard the sound of swarming bees and eagle bone whistles that meant the power of her grandfather’s pouch was at work—the power that allowed her to enter the thoughts and feelings of others—so she could read what Jerusha was thinking:

I did let things happen to her, back when I was her teacher at the boarding school—the beatings, the humiliation. It wasn’t easy for me, surrounded by all those nuns when I wasn’t one myself. I felt powerless to stop it. Still—there were times I could have done better.

Windflower looked up, trust in her round dark eyes, and finally let go of Jerusha’s skirt only to place her little fingers over the vivid purple mark that curled around her neck and chin.

You don’t need to do that anymore, Windflower. Haven’t I told you time and time again? No one notices your scar anymore. Oh Thomas, Jerusha called to the hunch-shouldered cowboy in the worn leather pants who was ambling up beside them, What’s all this commotion? Isn’t it over yet? And when will they let us off?

When they’re good an’ ready, Sis. When they’re satisfied that there’s no harm done—and no harm meant. They have to investigate first.

Investigate what?

The fire, of course. Old Tom pulled his battered hat off his head. But don’t you worry none. You’re safe—

Then tell me everything that happened. Jerusha lowered herself into a deck chair, settled Windflower beside her, and peered up at her brother. I want to know.

"It’s thanks to her no one’s hurt. Old Tom nodded at Red Dove. An’ she saved all the animals too. He scratched his balding scalp and put the crumpled felt back on again. Just in time. Could’a all gone up in flames."

Red Dove’s own brother Walks Alone gazed at her with a proud glint in his dark eyes, as if waiting for her to speak, but she couldn’t think of what to say—or how to say it. She didn’t want to think about the fire—or what might have happened if she hadn’t been there.

"And I’m supposed to be looking after her," Jerusha sighed, pulling off her bonnet and patting her graying hair into place.

Dunno how we’re gonna do that show, though, Old Tom went on. Now that everythin’s ruined.

What do you mean? Jerusha asked.

Can’t do a magic show without tricks, and from what I hear, a lot of the props an’ stuff got burnt.

All those beautiful sets and costumes? The props and everything? Surely not the piano. I need it to play in the show. Jerusha blinked her soft blue eyes.

Looks like there might not be any show. Not any magic show, anyway.

I never wanted to do a magic show, thought Red Dove. It’s all fake! I just wanted to get on stage and tell the story of my people.

Then what will poor Gustav do?

Gustav? Old Tom scratched his chin. Oh, you mean Herr Auer. Guess he’ll just have to think of somethin’ else.

He’s already hired and paid for that famous magician, Señor… Señor… Oh, what’s his name? This will just destroy him.

We should just be grateful no one got hurt, Sis.

Yeah. Now it was Rick’s turn to comment