A Sweetness to the Soul (30 page)

She held her belly, her slender fingers spread like a fan over the mound of her body. She panted quickly, like a dog. Her eyes seemed to bulge and then sank down deep in her head, showing more white than the brown. Her eyelashes fluttered; her body shook. A rattly sound back in her throat threw me into action! I thought I’d heard those sounds before!

“I’ll get help!” I told her and scrambled to my feet, frightened, smelling death at the door. With a twist I turned, ran, shouting, “Morning Dove! Standing Tall! Kása! Come quickly!”

I headed straight to Eagle Speaker’s house, racing across the circle and disrupting the dancers still mingling about. I stumbled into the opening, my eyes adjusting to dark, words jumbling out. “Follow. To come. Sunmiet, the baby. Something—”

“What’s wrong?” Morning Dove interrupted me.

“Where is she?” Eagle Speaker demanded.

Morning Dove pushed me out of the opening. “Take us!” she said.

We raced, seemingly so slow, yet wind was forced into my
mouth. I barely noticed the faces flashing by me as I gasped. “There! By the juniper!”

Morning Dove pushed past me, her husband close behind. They hovered over their child making throaty sounds, her body shaking less now in the dust.

I stood there feeling helpless, panting, watching with frightened eyes. Kása came running. Eagle Speaker bent across his wife who was holding his daughter. Someone told Standing Tall and I saw him rush across the dance grass. Everything happened so quickly and yet as if part of a slow-moving dream.

So later I did not blame myself that I overlooked J. W. Case standing in the cluster of men I’d raced by or that I failed to notice the pointy-eared dog until he laid at my feet. And who could fault a fourteen-year-old girl so frightened for her friend that she did not recognize her future and her hope when he stepped out of Peter’s home and into her life, forever.

Red earth, red rocks, and a lake of red water marked the area. That’s what Logan, the agent, had told Joseph when he stopped at The Dalles his first trip out from the Turner’s care. It was luck he’d found the agent there instead of having to ride to the reservation to discuss his ideas. It was a miracle, Joseph thought, that the agent volunteered information about the “Herbert girl” and where she was.

“They’ll be feasting,” the agent told Joseph. “Don’t know how receptive they’ll be to your coming, talking about business. Sure you can’t wait?”

“Some of the business can wait; others not,” Joseph said, not wanting to reveal all that he had on his mind. “It’s already April and I took a time-eating detour, to those falls.”

The falls. At the falls on the Deschutes he’d finally put together the puzzle pieces that had piled up in the corners of his mind. At the falls, the builder in him saw the pattern, finally. And what had been only a wispy dream began at last to form into a plan.

He kept to himself his other reasons for seeking out the Root Feast, kept to himself the visit he would need to make at the Herbert ranch to face a father before he headed south.

The agent shrugged his shoulders. “You know anyone you can talk with or talk for you if you need?”

Joseph was thoughtful. “Peter Lahomesh and his son, George. If they’re there.”

“You mean Washington?” Logan asked, surprised. “Thought that was Peter’s son’s name. Washington.”

“Way he introduced himself to me at the falls,” Joseph said, thoughtfully.

“Everyone here calls him George Washington.” The agent laughed. “Thought they named him that.” The agent grunted, his freckled forehead wrinkled in thought, his bushy red eyebrows like lazy caterpillars over his eyes. “No matter,” Logan said, dismissing the thought. “Names mean nothin’ to ’em or they’d stop changing them all the time. But if you can find Peter and his son—whatever’s his name—they’ll help you. Feast should be over before long. Everyone will spread out, digging.”

But Joseph could hear the drums as he rode down over the ridge into Simnasho and exhaled his relief. The feast was not over. “She should still be there,” he told the kelpie and the man who rode at his side. He kicked his gelding, Nugget, and they picked up their pace, the kelpie perched on the saddle in front of Joseph like the sentinel he was.

Joseph discovered me in the midst of great anxiety over Sunmiet.

Kása had pushed by me, thrown a blanket over Sunmiet, and held her head in her lap as the convulsions ceased. Morning Dove wailed in distress, hovering. Kása silenced her. “Quiet!” she told her daughter. “She lives. I have seen this, when the baby is big, big for its time and the mother craves water. The baby will breathe air later than planned; not this night. She needs rest now.” Sunmiet focused her eyes on me, a confused, frightened look flooding her face.

“It’s a-right,” I said softly, moving in closer, stroking her arm. “It’s a-right,” I repeated, remembering what once comforted Pauline. “Kása says not to worry.”

Kása closed her eyes, sang her prayer song over Sunmiet and the girl calmed, seemed to return from some faraway place. “Leave us,” Kása said. Her words were gentle but gave no room for discussion.

Defeated, I put on my bonnet and turned to face the surprise of my life—Joseph Sherar standing behind me.

His dark hat shaded his eyes but his smile lit up the remainder of his face. Thinner now than when I’d last seen him almost a year before, he wore a well-trimmed beard that outlined his full, bronzed face. His hair had been cut with a barber’s scissors. The bulk of him still cast a long shadow standing beside J. W. whom I confess I truly did not see until he spoke.

J. W. said, missing the conversation going on between my eyes and Joseph’s, “Told ya she didn’t say much. Sure you know what you’re doing?”

Peter and the others who had been standing with the men moved quietly away, leaving the three of us non-Indians to step out of Sunmiet’s circle of activity, stand off by ourselves.

I don’t know how long we stood there, just staring until finally Joseph swallowed, removed his hat, and ran his wide fingers through his newly barbered hair. Hesitation may have visited his thoughts earlier, but not his words now. He spoke directly, soft eyes looking into mine, his deep voice vibrating to my very core.

“J. W. agrees to let you choose,” Joseph said. He did not let me wonder about what. “And while it has been some months since we have spoken, it is my hope you will consider me in marriage as I have the license and the justice of the peace arranged.” An Irish brogue drifted through his words like a soft afternoon breeze blowing over the Warm Springs river. He bit at his lower lip. “We only wait the arrival of my friend Philamon Lathrope from the Klamath country,” he said with finality.

He must have seen the quick flicker of annoyance cross my face for he thought better and added, “And your answer, Jane. I await your answer, as it is your choice.”

If he had said my name before I must not have heard it for his speaking it with deep and melodious tones seemed to tear me open, lay my soul before him on the gift hide of my heart.

I chose not to tell him that there would be much more to do than simply wait upon his friend before we married. I did not make corrections. For once, I chose not to risk the loss of happiness at the expense of being right.

“Yes,” I said, the word catching in my throat without sass. “Yes. It will be my pleasure to become your wife.”

Joseph reached out to take my hand then, and lightning passed between us. Later, I thought it happenstantial and a sign that our first touch should bring with it the features of a storm.

J. W. accepted the situation with dignity, standing there in the presence of a mind-changing. He and Joseph had conferred about “deals gone sour” before they rode together to the feast, French Louie having teamed them up in town. “Whoever she’ll have,” J. W.’d said to Joseph, confirming my belief about him wanting to do right, once he learned of Joseph’s intention. “I’ll withdraw my offer if she consents to you. Hasn’t really said yes to me. Waiting on May, as I recall.” He had no strong feeling of me except for fondness and a wish to please my papa and mama. “Don’t want no woman what’ll be dreaming of another,” he said, both fists rubbing his eyes like a sleepy child.

I wondered about the conversation Joseph must have had with my father, but I did not want to doubt the outcome so I kept my caution silent. Having lost the choice, J. W. meandered off seeking stick games, looking to make some bets, not knowing they were not allowed at Root Feast.

“There is nothing we can do to help Sunmiet,” I ventured, “so maybe we could walk?”

Joseph nodded, bent his elbow to my hand, and we walked with
Peter Lahomesh (keeping his word to Papa) a respectful pace behind. We drifted around the circle of the dancers in full view. Fires lit the dancers’ faces and I suppose ours too, if anyone watched. Few words popped out of my usually fresh mouth. The strings of my poke seemed especially tight across my throat, and I wanted to take the bonnet off so I could see him better and at the same time, wished to hide behind it. Mostly, I found myself gazing more at my moccasins as they slipped out beneath my skirts than at the man I had just consented to marry.

It is a powerful event to be faced with the appearance of a miracle, an answer to a prayer made one New Year’s Day. Fearful, too. I sneaked a glance at the man who walked with a slight limp beside me. What young girl wouldn’t bear some fear that her prayer to be out of a poor marriage by May was answered by a tall Californian a whole month before? Had I jumped from the long-handled spider into the flames?

“I’d not rush you,” Joseph said as we walked back to Eagle Speaker’s lodge, Peter close behind. The moon was out, not quite full, but cast some pale light over the teepees of visitors and the small homes of the residents. Some still danced to the drums beating like a pulse. “I’d give you more time to think of having me or not. But I want your father not to reconsider.”

“You think he will?” I said, looking up at him with alarm. I noticed the artery in his throat throbbing steadily against the skin of his neck.

“He has reneged before, over something not as consequential as his daughter.” He spoke with me as someone who had known me always, without hesitation as he added, “And your mother was not present during our discussion. The wheel’s reversed. So there is that to yet contend with.”

A kind of quiet silence surrounded us as we stood before the doorway of Eagle Speaker’s lodge. Wild irises released their sweetness into the air competing with early lilacs in bloom. A night owl hooted high above us in the firs. Joseph took my hand in his, held it gently,
running his fingers over my nails. “I am pleased beyond words,” he said softly.

My pounding heart greeted my racing thoughts as long-absent friends no longer certain of their relationship.

Releasing my hand, he untied the strings of my bonnet, pushed it back off of my head, the long sashes pulling like silk against the velvet of my throat, falling noiselessly to the earth. In the darkness, I could barely make out his features and knew he could see little of mine. He leaned toward me then, my heart pounding. With both hands, he lifted my face, his touch both tender and firm. His fingers wore the scent of leather.

I thought he would kiss me.

Instead he said so close I could smell the sweetness of his breath: “You’ve pulled me from some suffocating place, and I am grateful.” He seemed to study my face, memorize its features in the darkness, as though he might not see them again. “My life,” he added, dropping his hands, “has just begun.”

He nodded his head to me next, touched the brim of his hat he replaced on his head, then disappeared into the darkness.

In the morning we checked on Sunmiet before leaving. “She sleeps well,” Kása said from the doorway of Sunmiet’s house. Her toes lifted a plump puppy out of the way before it slipped inside. “Go now. When next you see her, she will be a proud mother.” I nodded once and resisted my wish to hug her, to tell her of my happiness, afraid of her rebuff.

We mounted, me on Puddin’ Foot, Joseph on Nugget. Peter stayed as he’d promised my father he would do, escorting me, until we saw the corn fields of our home at Fifteen Mile Crossing. J. W. would eventually ride on to the Columbia, but for now, he and Peter rode behind us with our privacy in mind.

Something about the freshness of the April morning and the burst of purple phlox and early lupine added to the joy and awe I felt
in riding here beside this man. I told Joseph of that feeling when we’d been wed some years. “Did you not feel awed upon that day?” I asked him.

“Not by someone whose huckleberry eyes looked at me as an equal,” he told me. “Saw you that way that day. Always will.”

Perhaps it was that sense of equal I felt that fragrant morning that gave me courage to ask of his encounter with my father, how this life I hoped for had even come about.

“He considered throwing me off his land at first. I know he did,” Joseph said. “But I had made my mind be humble beforehand. I went there with one purpose and I thought, ‘What would make a man as willful as your papa think to look at me anew?’ And when I figured I’d come across it, I set out. Believed I’d see you there too, but it was better that you weren’t. And knowing he consented to you spending time with Sunmiet told me he did have some open places in his mind.”

I laughed but saw that Joseph did not see the humor in his words so serious were his reflections. “So I arrived at your father’s place just two days past, hat in hand, with not the dog nor Benito neither. Left Bandit with J. W. well beyond your place. So it was just me and him that met, man to man.

“Your papa stood on the porch, above me, still chewing some dinner I suspect, a napkin fisted in his hand. ‘I came to make a truce,’ I told him before he could swallow and speak, ‘and to express my apologies.’ ”

“You apologized to my father?” I asked, turning to stare at this man I really didn’t know. “What for? He’s the one who should have said he was sorry, for being rude, for not keeping his word about the mules.” I was a bit indignant wondering if Joseph’s judgment kept him from seeing what was right.

“No room for shoulds when a man has a greater purpose,” he said. “Nor too much pride, either. Can’t let being right stand in the way of winning. What mattered was that your papa see me differently, allow me to press my case about you. The road that way was
rocky but not impassable.” He smiled at me, lifted the brim of his hat from his wide forehead revealing those sky blue eyes. “No road is ever impassable if you set your sights clear. And you don’t have to push someone off just for you to be on it. Just make a good survey, be willing to reroute, and never lose sight of where you’re going.” His words fascinated me.