The Expeditions (27 page)

“Yes,” Reverend Stone said. “Your mother is gone.”

Elisha stared into the cookfire’s low flames. He felt himself nodding, as though hearing news he had long known to be true. He felt an urge to cup the flames in his hands and pour them like water over his head. The flames would warm him, he was certain. A junco called and the sound was like a squealing hinge. Elisha said, “I do not understand.”

“It was just three months after you departed. I would have written but I did not know your whereabouts. I am sorry. My child, I am so very sorry.”

Reverend Stone looked away; then his shoulders jerked and a sob rose from his throat. Elisha could not face the sight. He laid an arm around the man’s shoulders and stared into the forest. “Father,” he whispered, “please.”

“She wondered if you had met a girl. A Boston girl, to balance your seriousness.”

Elisha was trembling. He felt like a flickering flame about to be quenched.

“I believe that was her primary worry: that you find a good woman to guide you. That you settle yourself with a good congregation and a good woman, and bring your mother a grandchild.” The minister laid a hand on the boy’s cheek. His expression was grave and tearful, suffused with love.

“I hear her,” Elisha said hoarsely. “Sometimes when I am nearly asleep I hear her speaking to me. She is calling me to supper from the creek. She is calling my name.”

“Yes.”

“But then I awaken and she is gone. Her voice is gone.”

“And you strain after the sound but there is nothing. And you pray she will speak again but she does not.”

Elisha drew his father to him, and the feeling of the man’s body caused something inside the boy to fracture. Tears slid down his cheeks. He heard himself sobbing but could not quiet himself; he felt himself shivering but could not still his hands. He stroked his father’s head, comforting him as he would a child.

“Elisha,” Reverend Stone said, “my dear son. Let me tell you about your mother.”

Reverend Stone was asleep when Mr. Brush returned to camp that afternoon. The man emerged from the forest humming a marching song, his wet hair clinging to his forehead. His humming ceased when he saw the minister’s sleeping form. Elisha ushered him aside, describing his father’s voyage as Brush’s expression moved from wariness to sober admiration. He offered Elisha whispered condolences. Elisha thanked him; then he gestured toward Ignace Morel. The voyageur was sitting beside a cookfire at the clearing’s edge, staring at Mr. Brush.

He had entered camp two hours previous. Reverend Stone had introduced the man and Elisha had shaken Morel’s hand, smiling to conceal his shock. Ignace Morel was younger than Elisha had imagined, with broad, thick features that looked like they’d been molded from clay. A large pack was perched on his back and a second was slung across his chest. Without a word he’d stalked to the clearing’s edge and unslung the packs, set to gathering firewood. He was just ten yards from Elisha and Reverend Stone, but all afternoon Morel had ignored the pair.

Now the voyageur approached Mr. Brush and nodded to the man. “You lead this expedition.”

“I do,” Brush said.

“My wife is Susette Morel. She is with you here. She is your guide.”

Mr. Brush’s gaze flicked to Elisha. “Madame Morel was indeed our guide. Another member of our expedition hired her on at Sault Ste. Marie. You say you are the woman’s husband?”

“Tell me where she is. She is with you here.”

“Monsieur Morel.” Mr. Brush paused. “Monsieur Morel, there has been a grave misfortune. Your wife vanished from camp some six days ago—she departed to fish at the nearby waterfall and never returned. We searched for her intensely and found evidence of her clothing but nothing more. We believe she came to an accident while she was fishing, and was carried over the falls. I am profoundly sorry.”

Ignace Morel smiled faintly, his gaze moving from Brush to Elisha. “No. I do not believe you.”

“I am profoundly sorry—I disbelieved it myself, at first, however I am now convinced. We found a fragment of her dress near the falls, as though she had been swept away by the current. I suspect she became injured and attempted to return to camp, but could not.”

“Monsieur Morel,” Elisha said. “Please accept my sincerest condolences. I am very sorry.”

Mr. Brush laid a hand on Morel’s shoulder but the voyageur jerked away. “I do not believe you. You tell me where she is.”

“We cannot,” Brush said.

“You tell me where she is!”

“Monsieur Morel!” Mr. Brush leaned forward, his jaw set in a clench. “You must behave as a man. Despite this misfortune you must behave as a man. Your wife is vanished. She is likely dead. Now, please accept our condolences.”

Ignace Morel paced backward, smiling at the pair. “I do not believe you,” he said. “I do not believe either of you.”

The man turned and ran to the clearing’s edge, then took up a rifle and disappeared into the forest.

Past midnight an aurora in the form of a shimmering green cloud appeared overhead. Elisha sat watching light spread over the starry sky. He had not slept, and the aurora served as a welcome diversion from his muddled thoughts. Dusty purple smudges bloomed at the cloud’s edges.

Beside him Reverend Stone lay asleep, his breathing a faint rattle. The man appeared peaceful and calm, as though he had traveled one mile instead of a thousand. How strange, Elisha thought, that even now his father was a mystery. Their years spent under the same roof had meant little. Their meals taken at the same table had meant little. Their prayers spoken together had meant little. What they shared, simply, was love: a deep, unsettling pull.

He rose and paced the camp’s perimeter, and as he did anxiety overwhelmed him. His father was very ill. He must take him to the Sault, to be bled by a fort surgeon. Then by steamer to Detroit and a better surgeon, a boardinghouse room with sunlight and fresh air. In his mind’s eye Elisha saw himself bringing the man tea in a chipped earthenware mug, smoothing white bedsheets over his bony legs. The notion was so strange as to be unbelievable.

He moved before Mr. Brush’s and Professor Tiffin’s tents. The men lay but a yard apart, asleep on their bedrolls, their tent flaps open to the night. Elisha touched each man’s shoulder, and when they started awake he said, “I’m very sorry to disturb you both. I must speak with you.”

Mr. Brush sat up, exhaling in a hiss. Professor Tiffin lay squinting at the lit-up sky.

“My father,” Elisha said. “He is not well. I must return with him to Sault Ste. Marie at once.”

Tiffin emitted a pleased murmur. “Aurora was the goddess of dawn in Roman myth. Did you know that, my boy? Some ignoramuses mistake the lights for religious revelation—they believe the hosts of heaven are descending all around them. Others believe the lights to be visions of dead warriors, battling in the skies for eternity. Foolishness, of course. Most likely the colors are caused by moonlight, reflecting onto the firmament off of glaciers in the polar regions.”

“I am in earnest. I will depart at dawn. I apologize for not completing the expedition.”

“You must remain here,” Mr. Brush said. “Rest is the best tonic for your father’s condition. Surely you recognize that.”

“For once he is correct,” Tiffin said. “It is widely agreed that rest and fresh, pure air are the most effective treatments for consumptives.”

“My father needs to be treated by a surgeon. And he claims there is medication at the Sault that comforts him. Now, I cannot aid him here, nor can either of you. I must get him medication and treatment at Sault Ste. Marie.”

Professor Tiffin struggled upright, his nightshirt billowing like a dirty flag. “I have studied this sort of illness in profound detail. Elisha—hear me now! Your father’s illness can be soothed by an infusion of pine bark and pitcher’s thistle and basswood root. Stay! I will concoct a remedy, and when your father has recovered we can transport him back to the Sault in comfort.”

Elisha nodded to conceal his impatience. “We will hike slowly back to the canoe. I will paddle across the lake and he can rest during the journey. But I will not let him lie here in pain. I cannot do that.”

“You intend to travel alone with your father?” Brush asked. “Or will you bring Ignace Morel?”

Elisha paused. “I’ll need the voyageur’s assistance. Of course.”

“I forbid your departure,” Tiffin said suddenly. “Who will attest to my discovery, if you leave? If you leave you will not share in the expedition’s glory!”

“Mr. Brush can attest to your discovery. He can share in the glory.”

“Who will cook, and attend to camp? Who will bear the stores?” Professor Tiffin pointed at Mr. Brush. “I will not cook for this man. I will not bear his stores.”

“You are welcome to come with me,” Elisha said. “I mean that sincerely. Both of you are welcome to quit this charade and follow me back to the Sault.”

“You must wait four days,” Tiffin said, “until my excavations are complete. I am so very near! You must—”

Mr. Brush seized Elisha’s arm and pulled the boy toward him. “Little man, you offered your word in Detroit, which I accepted as your bond. Now. If you depart we will be unable to carry a sufficient quantity of gear and stores. We will be forced to curtail this cursed expedition. And that is unacceptable.”

Elisha twisted away as a furious sob rose in his throat. To Professor Tiffin he said, “Your tablet is a fake! You carved it in Detroit and hauled it here, then pretended to dig it up!” He turned to Mr. Brush. “And your survey reports are a parade of lies! You are declaring the richest land to be worthless, so you can purchase the lots yourself! Now listen to me, both of you: Tomorrow morning I will pack some food and cooking gear, and you will pay me full wages for this summer’s work. In exchange I will disappear from this expedition, and it will be as though I never set foot in this territory. I will never speak your names, ever again.”

Reverend Stone shifted in his sleep and the men froze; then Tiffin said quietly, “Let us discuss this situation. I am certain we can devise a mutually profitable arrangement. You might be the primary author on the report describing the tablet’s discovery! And Mr. Brush can—”

“Listen to me.” Brush’s voice was a cold blade. “Your mind is disturbed by your father’s illness—that is why I have chosen to ignore your slanderous allegations. However. Madame Susette Morel is vanished, to where I do not know. You, I suspect, know precisely where she is. You have made a pact with the woman to reunite in the coming weeks.”

“No. No, that’s not true.”

“Madame Morel’s grieving widower lies not ten yards distant. I expect he would be powerfully interested to hear the details of her duties on this expedition. By which I mean her service as your half-dime whore.”

Elisha felt himself trembling at the edge of control. To calm himself he focused on Mr. Brush’s boots, standing beside the man’s bedroll: even now they were polished to a black gleam, a scurf of mud coating the heels. He said, “I am not troubled by your threats.”

“You should be.”

“I’m not, and I don’t care what you do! I want nothing more to do with either of you, or this expedition! I wanted to learn to be a scientist this summer and that’s all! Now leave me be!”

Silence lengthened between the men; then Mr. Brush chuckled wearily. “To think that I chose you for this expedition because I took you for a frightened young fool. Well. I suppose I am the fool.” Brush smiled at Elisha, and for a moment the man appeared genuinely disappointed. “I should never have hired you on in Detroit, my boy. Your jacket was filthy.”

“I have never been your boy,” Elisha said. “I will depart at dawn.”

Reverend Stone lay awake with his eyes closed, listening to wind sigh through the pines, a current of pleasure running through him like liquor. Each inhalation brought a whiff of balsam. For the first time in many days he felt no soreness in his limbs. Beside him Elisha squirmed in his sleep, mumbling a litany of praise: “Good,” the boy said. “Good. Yes. Good.” Reverend Stone thought to wake the boy then changed his mind.

At the first sliver of dawn his son rose and began unloading his pack. Reverend Stone sat up and sipped from a flask. The water tasted of resin. When Elisha noticed that the man had risen he said, “Fetch your trousers and boots, Father. We are leaving for the Sault.”

“Do not allow me to distract you from your work! I will return with Monsieur Morel after a short stay—one day, perhaps two. We will follow the same route we came.”

“I’ve spoken with Mr. Brush and Professor Tiffin. We’re leaving this morning—if you’re well enough to travel, that is.”

“I feel well.” Reverend Stone was surprised by his own admission. “I feel better than I have in days. Perhaps weeks.”

“Then. We’ll depart in one hour.”

His son’s tone left no avenue for response. Reverend Stone watched the boy parcel out rice and flour and pork belly, salt and matches and powder and shot, then fetch a frypan and hatchet and file. He loaded the stores into his pack. As the boy worked Mr. Brush and Professor Tiffin stood before their tents, stonily observing the scene. Reverend Stone smiled at the men but his greeting was not returned.