Free Where the Broken Heart Still Beats by Carolyn Meyer Page B

called the Sabbath. On that day the men did not work in the fields, the women did less work, and the children were not allowed to play. Instead they prayed together and read from a big book. Was it not enough to watch the moon, to see what the earth produced in each season, to feel the change from cold to warm? But Lucy kept trying.
    "Next I'm going to teach you to read," Lucy said determinedly. "Then you'll be able to read our Bible. I can teach you to write, too. And when Prairie Flower is old enough, I'll teach
her.
"
    Sinty-ann smiled at that. What would Peta Nocona say when he learned that his wife could read the white man's writing? And write it, too?

Chapter Thirteen
From Lucy's journal, August 8, 1861
    Oh, how bitter this is! If something has happened to Cynthia Ann, I can blame only myself, and I am certain everyone else is already blaming me. I am so ashamed at the trouble I have caused, and now there is nothing for me to do but pray.
    It all began quite calmly. Every evening, when the sun has set and the air is a little cooler, Cynthia Ann and I have fallen into the habit of walking to my sister's new cabin to see what progress has been made. This has become a time for us to talk together, when there is no chance of anyone overhearing us. What began as "English lessons" has now become real conversation, as Cynthia Ann's mind again grasps the language of her childhood. She speaks in a rather odd, flat accent and her sentences are stiff, like an unused muscle. But the words are mostly there, and they seem to emerge more and more easily. I am quite comfortable with her, and I believe she is with me. Or was. I had even begun to feel that she trusted me.
    Yesterday, I shall always remember, Cynthia Ann described exactly how a tipi is made. She insists that the tipis she lived in were much better than our log cabins! "This door does not look toward east," she remarked when she saw the little cabin growing up out of the ground as Papa and Jedediah and Ben, still a help with only one arm, laid each squared-off log in place. "Uncle's door does not look toward east."
    Martha, who had come out of her half-finished cabin to greet us, seemed angry at this. "Why, pray tell, do you think they should face east?" she asked.
    "All doors must look to where the sun rises."
    "Why is that important?" I wanted to know.
    "When they wake up, men leave their lodge and bow to the rising sun. Warriors smoke pipes and blow smoke to east."
    At that, Martha simply shook her head and walked away, not bothering to explain that we build our cabins facing south in order to catch the breezes that blow in from that direction in summer. And I was more interested in hearing Cynthia Ann's explanation.
    "But
why,
Cynthia Ann?"
    I am truly curious about her Indian beliefs, how the sun is the source of all living things, and the earth is the mother, and the moon and stars are somehow important, too. I knew that Mama and Papa would not approve of our talking about these pagan ideas, and I was glad that Martha was not there to hear. So I continued to ask questions, and Cynthia Ann answered as best she could.
    If they heard her, this would disappoint my parents and Grandfather, who believe that she is giving up her heathen ideas. She might recite the 23rd Psalm word for word when Grandfather asks her to, but when she says "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want," it is not our God she is thinking about. It is the Great Spirit, or the sun, or the buffalo, or some such. I hold my tongue and do not tell her that her pagan ideas are sinful, because she seems so innocent! She's like a child, even though I am sure she is as old as Mama! And I shall further hold my tongue and not tell any of my family of our talks about religion, because that would upset them. Grandfather is convinced that Cynthia Ann is forgetting her godless beliefs and is becoming again the Christian she was born. It is not for me to tell him that he is mistaken.
    Every evening we gather at the