April 18
Father is very much with me just now. It is something of these dreams, but also the time of day. Such a warm and pleasant evening, even observed from the confines of this bedroom. For a few precious minutes as the sun descended, through the doorway I could see that the hall and kitchen was cast in a golden glow, and as Charlotte swept, the dust specks were suspended in the shafts of light. Father would have thought the scene very pretty. The fairy hour, the magical hour, when light moves from gold to silver. A bittersweet nostalgia settles upon me.
Father once told me that every artist leaves behind a self-portrait, whether he intends to or not. In my childish imagination, I pictured a cool, white marble Father, standing silently in the forest. I asked him when he would carve it.
As was common to him, his mood shifted like quicksilver, so that I could not tell if my question amused or angered him, or only made him sad for some reason I could not fathom. There was a dangerous edge to his voice that made me wary.
“Why Sophie?—?I finished it long ago. Don’t you recognize me?”
Why had I not seen it before?
“You have,” he said. “You know it well.”
It was some sort of riddle, a trick. I tried to guess. Is it the figure with hood and staff? Not the horse with the long mane, or the sea serpent, dipping in and out of the earth?
No. No. His laugh more like a cough, and he grabbed me up in his strong arms.
“There I am,” he said, and he pointed to the bear.
I should have known, for it had always been my favorite. I wish I had told him so.
April 19
At last! Oh, it fills me with such joy, and hope, oh dare I write that word “hope,” even if good sense cautions me otherwise. Yet how can I feel anything but elation, when I feel you swimming inside of me, little one?
I was lying in this bed, as always, nearly drowsing, when it came. A flutter in my belly, as if with nerves. Or perhaps an oddly twitching muscle. I lay completely still and nothing more happened. I waited and waited until I had nearly given up, but then you surprised me again, little one. Was it a summersault, or did you wriggle and swim like a tadpole?
It is you. I am certain of it now. My sweet little one, hold fast. I am here waiting for you.
April 21
Nearly three months Allen is gone now. The weather turns fair and warm, and oh great happiness, I am allowed to venture out of doors again. Still I am not permitted to walk far, so Charlotte brings me a chair so I can sit in our yard and watch the birds come and go. My notebook fills with observations and pitiable sketches. Dark-eyed junco, evening grosbeak, golden-crowned sparrow, song sparrow, a large flock of Canada geese in the far distance, and a solitary mallard drake that quacked as he flew overhead, as if he had lost his way.
Now and then the baby turns about, as if to call for my attention. Here I am! It seems more and more like another presence within me, and I find myself speaking out loud to the baby. Do you hear that funny old duck, quacking away? Are you listening, little one? Can you hear the sound of my voice?
I was speaking just like that when Charlotte suddenly appeared at my side with my dose of warm honey water. I started to explain that I wasn’t talking to myself but to the baby, and the girl must have seen my embarrassment.
“Don’t bother ’bout it, ma’am. Whenever she’s expecting, Mam sings to her belly. She says it makes for happier babies.”
So I am forgiven this eccentricity. And I am glad, for I do enjoy talking with you, little one. I will tell you all about the wild birds that I see, and I will try to imagine where your father is just now and what adventures he might meet. How I long for the day when he comes home to us.
Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester
April 21, 1885
We came across a grisly scene this afternoon. Tillman & Boyd were stringing snares along the river for rabbits, while Pruitt remained in camp. Samuelson & I set out for a ravine in search of clean drinking water?—?the river becomes gray & sandy as spring advances.
Within less than half a mile, the narrow creek valley turned rocky, steep enough to halt our progress. There we found the remains of an avalanche not unlike the one the Old Man set down upon us in the canyon. High above, we saw its path. Trees had been torn out by their roots, rocks & dirt churned into the deep snow that was now melting.
At the end of this destruction were the corpses of two white animals so far into decay all that remained were loosened fur & discolored bones. Samuelson said they are what the Indians call tebay, a type of wild sheep that live in these mountains.
A dozen or so ravens & magpies were gathered at the bone piles. They behaved strangely. They did not flap their wings or make to fly off, as one would expect, nor did they utter a sound. They were silent, watchful, & I felt their black eyes upon us as we turned our backs to them.