Free Black Apple by Joan Crate

insubordinate bull intent on whipping the earth under its feet to a dust storm, its anger both righteous and demonic. A bull that thought nothing could stop it.
    As a child on the farm, Mother Grace had had dealings with bulls, and she knew that a great deal of damage could be wreaked by beasts of the field who thought they were wild animals. Her own uncle had been killed by a plough horse, for heaven’s sake. Trampled to death. She felt heat course through her breast and rise to her head. She was angry, she realized. En colère. And it felt good.
    “It is true, Sister Joan, that as yet no guidelines for corporal punishment have been issued by our superiors, neither the Church nor the government of Canada. Except that it must be given in the presence of the school principal. Are you aware of that?”
    Again Sister Joan snorted.
    “In fact, until this very afternoon, I never believed guidelines were needed. Let faith and common sense lead the sisters, I have always maintained. Today, Sister Joan, you have proven me wrong.” She rose, startled by her sudden agility.
    Sister Joan took a step back.
    “Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy!” she said, the words sounding strange to her. They seemed to break from a room in the core of her body, one that she had not been in for some time. “Suffer the little children to come unto me and forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of God.” She stepped from behind her desk and moved closer to Sister Joan, who took another step back.
    “The words of Jesus, our Saviour. Dieu soit loué. I cannot begin to tell you how very disappointed I am in you, Sister. How shameful your brutality, and against a child, one of the youngest in the school and certainly the smallest!” She took another step forward, enjoying Joan’s discomfort—her downcast eyes and purpling skin—as she backed her through the door. “You must pray to Him for guidance and forgiveness at all times of worship and an hour before sleep for two weeks. That is your penance! Do you understand?” Her voice was booming, loud enough, she realized with surprise, to be heard throughout the first floor.
    Joan’s head twitched up and down.
    “Good. Let the word of Christ dwell in you .”
    She watched Sister Joan jerk open the door and bolt down the hall.
    “I will be watching!” she cried after her.
    A victory! She sat down as a wave of elation washed over. Looking through her office window, she observed the distant snow-covered mountains peering through whiffs of cloud like clouds themselves, like a presence, uncertain and undefined—like God, she thought—and she let it fill her. As her gaze fell to the prairie, vast, stretching everywhere around her, cold and empty, her elation ebbed away. Perhaps a very small victory.
    Later, she wished she hadn’t made that last remark. Arrogance. Yet she could not stop feeling somewhat pleased with herself. As she hadn’t been for over three years. She hoped it was possible to maintain the clarity her righteous anger had provided.

9
Visiting Hour
    D AYS SHRANK AND nights stretched. A blizzard hit at the end of the hunting moon. Rose Marie remembered Papa telling her, “That’s when the mi-yiks-sop-oyi swagger from the highest mountain peaks and swoop in.” Mi-yiks-sop-oyi, then aahki-tsimii— snow blowing, biting, freezing fingers and toes. At home, they had always stayed inside, all together, Papa telling stories, Mama feeding wood into the stove and making spruce tea. But this school was way, way east of home, east of the Reserve, even, and the wind grew bigger and madder as it swept over the plain, slamming fists against the brick school and making threats through the chinks. I’m coming for you. I’ll get you. No one was allowed outside. The cold, the cramped-up space, and the not-enough-to-eat could bring sickness, Rose Marie knew.
    At night, the girls pretended to be asleep until Sister Cilla finished her last dormitory check. Then the big