?—?Let me ask you this. How did our Colonel first spot the herd?
I recalled the camp robber that squawked outside the cabin.
?—?Not the first time, the trapper said. —?Not by a long shot.
When the work was done, all of our hands frozen in blood, Pruitt & I each picked up two caribou legs, carried one over each shoulder. Tillman took on the rib cage. Samuelson wrapped heart, liver, kidney in burlap he had thought to bring.
We left the entrails to the camp robbers & a raven that flew in just as we packed up.
Most of the day was gone by the time we returned to the cabin. We cooked pieces of meat on the woodstove. It is good, tough but flavorful, improved I am sure by our intense hunger.
We could use the meat of several more animals. I asked if there was any chance we’d see the herd again.
?—?Hard to say, Samuelson said. —?But I shouldn’t count on it.
We will remain at Boyd’s cabin in hopes that the caribou return.
60°53’ N
144°41’ W
25°F, exposed bulb
19°F, wet bulb
Clear. Night cold. Aurora Borealis.
The fog and blood have left us, yet I cannot wipe them from my eyes. They seep from me, the remains of massacres. The shots echo in the valley still. If only I could shed tears as pure and clear as those of this solitary prospector who mourns his lost love, Love for God’s sake mourned, at his rough-hewn table. If I could shed tears like those, then perhaps my grief would not sicken me so. Bathed in such tears, I would have the strength to cut out my own half-frozen heart, dripping in the blood of a caribou, & hand it to the Lord, if there was such a Lord and He would have such a heart.
Easter Day, Christ’s Ascension, come and gone without notice, faith so frail it is eroded by cold wilds. What if, beyond the echo of those shots, I could hear the sound of Heaven? The crackle of electric current through colored glass. Thunder vibrating through steel. Would the angels cry out?
I once thought to kill myself so that I would no longer wander through a fog such as this. How could it be any greater crime than that which I have already faced, committed, failed to undo? Yet I am a coward. I have written the truth on this page. Cowardice, sickly yellow thing, I found you like worms writhing beneath an overturned rock?—?I peeled back my self and beheld you at my core where a shining soul should have been.
I have lost no lover, yet I grieve, the days before: clean blue sky; dry dust of the earth on my skin so that I could recall Man’s very Creation; my brain afire with the printed pages of curiosity, I could not have enough of it.
That is my love lost. Curiosity, Purity, my Soul.
Caribou Tracks
Sophie Forrester
Vancouver Barracks
February 21, 1885
A heartbeat!
“There, there it is,” Dr Randall said after some time of searching with his stethoscope, and I do believe he almost smiled. After I begged, he even allowed me to try to listen, but I could hear nothing but the gurgling of my own stomach. He said one must have a “trained ear” but he assures me that the heartbeat is strong and regular.
I told him I have been feeling well, eating the healthful foods he recommends, but that I am in desperate need of more fresh air. He was persuaded to permit me longer walks, but only on days of fair weather, and still I should keep mostly indoors. When I asked if I might venture up the hill behind the house, however, his stern irritation resumed.
“What would be the sense in that?”
It is no matter?—?I am content to roam the barracks grounds. My field notebooks have been too long ignored, and I look forward to seeing what new wild birds March brings to this place.
(When the surgeon came to the house, I thought to hide away his book, and he made no mention of missing it. Yet I almost wish I had given it back while I had the opportunity.)
February 27
Miss Evelyn has planted an ugly seed in my thoughts. She has suggested that Mrs Connor allows me to employ Charlotte only so that she might wheedle gossip out of the girl. I scoffed at the mention of it. “You’re telling me that shy, mousy child is a spy?” I asked.
Evelyn raised an eyebrow and shrugged.
“All I know is that Mrs Connor is no good Samaritan. She is a nosy gabble mouth. You keep too quiet and frustrate her, so she has come up with this scheme.”
I confess, as trivial as it all is, I am bothered. I would prefer to keep my own house and, with it, my privacy, yet I am afraid I cannot do without Charlotte’s assistance. What would I have done when the water wagon came today? Dr Randall said I must not lift anything heavier than a small sack of sugar. Charlotte, however, put quick work to filling the barrels and jugs. She is much stronger than she appears.
I am embarrassed by how little I can do, and so earlier in the week confessed to Charlotte my condition and apologized for requiring her to do nearly everything. At times I wonder if she isn’t a little slow, for she only stared at me and said nothing.