“But fate came to visit,” the doctor said.
Fate. With crooked leg and black feathers. If it had never appeared at my window, would you be with me, little one? Would I even now feel your movements below my ribs? Would I still be dreaming of the day that I would be allowed to hold you and kiss you?
I am a fool to court such thoughts. A hollow coincidence, surely, that the beak struck the glass just as your heart stopped beating.
Your forehead. Your heart. The small flutter of your life. You. You. You are gone, yet still I address you. Still I wait to feel you and know you.
Dr Randall says it is unlikely I will ever give birth to a living baby. If I try, he says, it could be the end of me. My womb, so ill-formed for motherhood, could rupture. I could bleed to death.
May 5
I despise my own propriety. It keeps me to this bed, docile and quiet, hair brushed and pinned, bed clothes smoothed neatly over my lap. I mark the days. I eat. I breathe. I say thank you and please and feign sleep. Yet it is all a lie. In my heart I am something else altogether. I am burning with grief. I should be out in the rain, barefooted and wild. I should roar and claw at the sky. I should rip open my gown and bare my breasts and bare my pain and plead and rage.
It is a selfish daydream. Who am I to claim such boundless sorrow? This heartache, acute and true as it may be, is slight compared to all of this world. Five miscarriages, two stillborns, three live births, and Mrs Connor is one of our fortunate. She is not disemboweled in the snow. Her hands have committed no atrocities. She believes in God.
It is remarkable how we go on. All that we come to know and witness and endure, yet our hearts keep beating, our faith persists.
Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester
May 5, 1885
I do not know whether to count it as bad luck or good that we cross paths again with the Old Man.
Yesterday, we continued to walk upriver even after the sun went behind the mountains. We aimed for a small thicket of spruce we could see upriver. I am certain we must be near the valley of the powerful tyone. Also, Nat’aaggi spotted tebay on a nearby mountain. Samuelson believes the animals are less than a day’s hike away. We plan to set snares for rabbits, then search for the village while others go after the tebay. The spruce forest will provide firewood & more shelter than the open riverbed.
As darkness neared, Boyd was the first to spy firelight in the forest. We discussed whether we should avoid the strangers or seek them out with hopes of finding food.
?—?Nat’aaggi says we should be careful. When we passed through the canyon, we came into a new land.
Did she refer to a new countryside, or a new tribe of Indians?
?—?More than that. She says we walk towards the land of the dead. From here on, nothing follows white man’s rules. The old stories live. This is where her otter husband came from.
It seems that, out of ignorance, these people attach some superstition to the upper stretches of the Wolverine River. Such fearful beliefs mean little to me. More urgently, we are in need of food, so I decided we would seek out the campfire.
Darkness came on as we entered the forest. There was the occasional scent of cooking meat.
?—?Now that’s something worth sniffing out, Samuelson said.
?—?It could be goose they’re roasting. Or something far worse, Tillman suggested. —?These here aren’t any blanket Indians. Don’t forget about those bones? Why would there be children’s bones, gnawed and scattered about like that?
None of us had an answer.
When we reached the camp, we found no sign of tent or hovel, only a large campfire positioned in a clearing surrounded by tall spruce trees.
I called ahead a greeting.
Our eyes adjusted to the light & shadow. We could see there was a solitary person crouched beside the fire. A slab of meat was speared through by a stick, held close to the red coals.
As we stepped into the clearing, the figure turned his head, lifted his face to us, pushed back his hat. The firelight lit up the bronze face, black shadows in the deep lines, so that it looked like a mask carved with a sharp blade.
Tillman cursed. After all his shenanigans, I was no more pleased to see the Old Man. How is it that he, elderly & bent at the back, could have traveled faster than us up the river valley without our notice?
He beckoned us towards the fire.
?—?First, ask him what kind of meat he’s got cooking there, Tillman said.
?—?He says we should taste it, tell him what we think it is, Samuelson said. —?Seems he cooked it just for us. Been waiting for us to come along.
?—?No God d?——?d way I trust that devil! Tillman said.
I had to agree. We remained at the edge of the firelight.
Samuelson, however, did not hesitate. He strode towards the Old Man, unsheathed his knife, knelt at the fire, sliced off a hunk of meat, bit into it.