The Snake River (28 page)

When he finished, Flare said, “Now, what the song means is that if it was May, we’d all get loved tonight.” He put a nice little twist on “loved.” Rough laughter around the fire.

Peculiar man, Maggie thought. He puts forth feeling, then pulls it back. Like all men.

Crack!

Shouts. She couldn’t make out the voices. Or the words.

Crack! Crack!

A screech of pain. Sima.

Miss Jewel jumped up, and she saw Flare in front of her.

Sima came hopping, skipping, trying to run. Mr. and Mrs. McDougal trotted behind him, Lisbeth behind her parents, bawling. Miss Jewel could barely see by the light of the bonfire.

Crack!

Screech of pain from Sima.

Mr. McDougal was…whipping Sima with an ox whip.

Miss Jewel started for him and bumped into Flare.

Oh, she saw, Sima was trying to run while he pulled his pants up.

Lisbeth wasn’t wearing anything but a blanket.

Alex McDougal blistered Sima with a torrent of curses. Maggie had never heard such profanity. Heather McDougal pitched in, too. In her French the English words “goddamn Shoshone” were repeated over and over.

“Stop him,” she snapped at Flare.

Flare shook his head. “Boyo’s got to learn to handle this kind of trouble on his own.”

Sima hopped off into the bushes. Mr. and Mrs. McDougal turned and started giving Lisbeth a tongue-lashing. The girl cowered. Heather McDougal kept saying “goddamn Shoshone.”

“Why does she talk about him being Shoshone?” asked Maggie. Meaning, she’s a half-breed, too.

“Lass, Indians have their prejudices as well. The Sioux and Shoshones are old, old enemies. But the bad part is that, to the Sioux, the Shoshones are ignorant trash Indians.”

She looked at him, unbelieving. Then she sat down on the ground and laughed helplessly, and held her head, and laughed and laughed, and cried.

Flare put his hands on her shaking shoulders and laughed with her.

Chapter Thirty

She wanted to pull away from these people for a little now. They were good folks, in their way. She couldn’t help liking them. She had to remind herself that every man jack of them had killed and scalped and consorted with low women. Even the horses they were celebrating were stolen. Unredeemed Man.

At any rate, they were not her folks. She moved back and sat on the porch of a cabin, alone. She’d spent the day not thinking a bit about her dilemma, just having a good time. That had helped. Time enough, soon, to
think
, productively, about her predicament. Instead of moping, girl. Time tomorrow to think, and act.

For sure she’d learned a lesson. She couldn’t survive by herself. Simple as that. Certainly cut a girl down to size.

Long ago Maggie Jewel had decided she’d never depend on a man, or for that matter on another person, for what she truly had to have. She’d been in foster homes where you had no right to anything, and she’d hated it. Then, later, she’d decided that by the same token she wouldn’t be left out. She’d make a place for herself.

And now it’s all boiled away, isn’t it, honey? And what’s left?

She smiled at herself, remembering. Her mother came from Vermont. She used to say the stresses of life to some people were like the fire under the bucket of liquid from the maple tree. When you made the stuff boil, you were supposed to get syrup. Some you boiled and got an empty bucket.

Life’s boiling you, girl.

You do in life exactly what you don’t mean to do. She was now dependent as could be, at the mercy of the mission folk. And completely excluded. Not to mention, she’d lost the thing she started out to do, teach Indian children.

To top it all off, she didn’t have a clue what to do about it.

So you’d best get to figuring, girl.

Alex McDougal came to the fire, and Flare eased in next to him. Lisbeth was with her mother. Flare wondered where Sima was.

McDougal’s eyes were still full of fire.

“You and I did the same,” Flare said softly.

“Doon be telling me my affairs,” muttered McDougal. He sucked on his pipe for a while. “Said they were in love,” he spat. “What I saw was in rut.”

“Aye,” said Flare. “Just children themselves.”

“I’m not ready to start in raising tiny ones again,” said McDougal.

“Ye may have trouble keeping ’em apart,” Flare said lightly.

“Ooh, I donna think so. Heather and I talked it over this last trip. We’ll be going back to Red River.”

“Red River,” said Flare. Sad for Sima.

“Aye. She wants to be with her people. Wants Lisbeth to marry into her people. Besides, the bloody missionaries are spoiling this country.”

He grinned lewdly at Flare. “As long as two thousand miles is longer than six inches,” he said, “we’ll be safe enough.”

Safe. But no more kind or wise, thought Flare.

“Sima’s mourning,” Flare said. “May I see you home?”

She nodded gratefully. “Is he all right?”

“His bottom is well enough, but his feelings smart considerable. I told him Lisbeth and her family are heading for the Red River settlements. To stay. He’s railing against the fates. My friend Murphy Fox is telling him the course of love never did run true. Before long Murph will give him a dram or two to drown his sorrow, which won’t hurt the lad. All ’round he’ll get through the night.”

They turned the horses down the trail in the dark, and rode slowly in silence. It was a gibbous moon, a couple of days before the full moon. The gibbous moon always struck Maggie as odd, incomplete, unsatisfying. A life not whole, like hers. Or Flare’s.

The moonlight splashed and dappled the trees, the new leaves, the earth, the spring grass.

“I loved your song,” said Maggie. “You have the soul of a poet.”

“The Irish are strong in the art department,” said Flare, “because the British have all the craft.”

“I think you’re an American now,” Maggie said.

“Aye, the Brits have dispersed the Irish, too. That’s one of their ploys.”

“Always jokes,” she said affectionately. “I want to tell you something, Michael Devin O’Flaherty. Despite your clowning, you’re a fine man.”

He didn’t speak for a moment. When he did, the sass and the lilt were gone.

“I want to tell you something, Maggie Jewel. What that Thomas Moore song brought to my mind tonight. You may not think I’m so fine when you hear it.”

He looked across at her in the dark. They stopped their horses. He didn’t speak.

She reached across and touched his arm. “I am your friend, Flare.”

“Sima should hear this first,” he began. “As he will as soon as he wakes up in the morning.”

He took a deep breath, let it out. “He’s seeking his father. That father is me.”

She drew her hand away. Then she thought, and put it back.

He told her about the webbed feet. He told her about Pinyon and his winter among the Shoshones. He spoke of bright, young love, beaming down. He spoke of his innocence then. He spoke of the feeling he had for Pinyon. He spoke with regret of not having sense enough to treasure it. Too young and ignorant, he said.

“But heavens, Flare, why haven’t you told him?”

“I’m a coward, Maggie. He told us all how he hates his father. Nothing new, I suppose, right down from that bloody patricide Oedipus.”

“No coward,” she said.

He was silent for a moment. “I’d just found him. I was stupidly surprised to discover that I had strong feelings about him. I can’t bear to lose him, not yet.”

She nodded, then nodded again. “Does anyone else know?”

“McLoughlin. He knew from the moment Sima asked the name of his father. The trader who spent the winter of ’18 among the Shoshone was I. McLoughlin keeps records of such things. He said if I don’t tell Sima, he will.”

Flare watched her a moment. “And that bastard Full knows. He spotted the webbed toes on both of us. He made sure I knew how much Sima hates his father, how Sima will spit on me.” Flare thought a moment. “The bastard threatened to tell Sima to get rid of me.”

“Dr. Full is a wicked man,” said Maggie. “And Sima doesn’t hate his father. He loves you. He will be deeply moved when you tell him.”

Flare let it sit. “I’ll tell him at first light. He’s got all he can handle tonight. Good Christ, but I want the lad to come ride the world with me.”

“What will you do? In your new life?”

Flare shrugged. Since he thought beaver was done, she wondered what directions he would take. He’d mentioned switching to the trade in buffalo hides. He’d told her William Clark, the superintendent of Indian Affairs, had suggested he’d make a good Indian agent for the Platte River country.

He answered simply, “Live.”

They rode on in silence. It was a good silence. Maggie felt splendid. Something good was going to happen for this man and boy she cared for.

They reined up in front of her cabin. Flare dismounted and helped Maggie down. He stayed back this time, but held on to her hands. He looked at her for a long moment. “Maggie,” he began, sounding clumsy, “I have other words unspoken.”

She waited.

“I love you. Will you be my wife?”

She burst into tears.

He held tightly to her hands.

“Maggie Jewel,” he said, “I beg you to hear me out. I heard you out once without a word.”

She nodded, but her head was half turned away, and the tears flowed.

“I love you. I cherish you. I believe you care for me.

“Truth to tell, Maggie, I’ve grown up some recently, and I want to make a different sort of life. With you. And Sima.

“What sort of life? That offer to be an Indian agent probably stands. You could teach the Indian children, which is what you want. That Platte River country is good, close to civilization but in the wilds.”

She almost sank to her knees.

“Listen to me, Maggie.” She half lifted her head. “Taos is a good country. American and Indian and Spaniard get on fine. Plenty of need for a teacher.

“And Californy’s a good country. Grand. Mild all year, anything will grow. Americans and Indians and Spaniards all together again, a new kind of world.

“I want to start a new life, Maggie. With you and Sima.

“That’s what I have to say.”

He waited.

It took her a moment to change tears for words.

“Oh, Flare,” she wailed, “just go away.” She pulled her hands back. “Please, go away.”

She ran for the cabin, sobbing.

Chapter Thirty-one

Before breakfast Miss Jewel dressed and went to see Dr. Full.

It was clear to her. Since she could remember, she’d wanted to come to the West and teach Indian children. Dr. Full and his wickedness were beside the point. She wanted to serve the children. She wanted to do what God called her to do. Right now the dream tasted bitter in her mouth. It wouldn’t always.

So she would damned well do what she must do.

She smiled at herself. That language was Flare’s sort of talk, and she would have to leave it behind, even in thought. No place for it in her world.

She would make her confession. She would say she had sinned with Billy Wells. She had lusted, and fallen to temptation. It was true—she had lusted, had sinned in her mind. If she hadn’t done everything they would understand by her words, that was their problem. She’d sinned, that was a fact. She would say so. A little deceptively.

She would survive.

She went past Mrs. Jick, who made a point of turning her back and not speaking, and past the children, who maintained an embarrassed silence, and found Dr. Full in the kitchen.

“I must speak to you about the condition of my soul,” she said, almost stammering.

“Of course,” he said gently.

Dr. Full stepped outside onto the grass with her. The children weren’t right since Annie Lee died, he said, though Mrs. Jick helped out. Everything upset them, including his pastoral talks with members of his flock.

Everything in his manner suggested Dr. Full was simply her minister, solicitous as ever about her spiritual well-being.

Nevertheless, she told herself.

She thought back to when she had first met him, she thirteen years old, he sixteen. He had always had this air of concern. It was expectation—demand—in the guise of concern. Impossible expectation. Meant to be impossible. He was her brother—even if he never admitted it—but the one thing she was sure of was that she would never be able to please him. She wondered for the millionth time what he wanted from her.

Nevertheless.

“Dr. Full, it is my decision that I must set myself back on the right road with my brothers and sisters here, and with God. I have come to state my willingness to do whatever is necessary.” She nearly choked on the words.

Nevertheless, she told herself. In five years today wouldn’t matter.

He considered, nodded his head a couple of times, finally asked mildly, “What do you suggest?”

“I want to confess publicly and ask God’s forgiveness.” She wished she could put more contrition into her tone, be more placating. But it was enough that she was willing to do it. And she was. Whatever was necessary. It was that or give up everything.

He looked at her for a long moment, studying her. At last his face softened. He stepped forward and put his hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry you’ve suffered so. The decision to shun you was painful, and not one of the deacons liked it. With great personal pleasure I will meet with them this noon and tell them of your change of heart.”

He stepped back. Looked at her fondly, or his version of fondly. “Miss Jewel, I hope for your sake that your change of heart, which I thank God for, will be enough.”

Good Christ, what else? No, he was just talking. And…
nevertheless
.

“Please be here at noon. When I’ve prepared them, they may want to hear your repentance in your own words.”

She inclined her head submissively.

Flare woke late in the lean-to, after first light, and Sima’s borrowed blankets were empty. His gun and horse were gone. Back to Maggie’s, probably.

Flare rolled out, sat, looked around. Fog lay gentle on the wide grasses of French Prairie.

He felt a great void in his chest. No wife, no son.

He wanted Sima, and he wanted him now. Or, goddamnit, he wanted to be rejected like the ass he was and be done with it. As Maggie had rejected him.

Goddamnit!

But Sima was surely at Maggie’s, and Flare didn’t want to see her again. Not yet, anyway. Too much heartache.

He would go to the river and bathe. He liked to dunk himself in freezing rivers for as long as he could stand it and then give a banshee cry to relieve the tension and stay a bit longer and then go charging out and run around on the bank naked and roar like a grizzly. Satisfying, that was.

There would be time enough to talk to Sima a little later. Maggie wouldn’t tell him.

Sima was packed and headed out. He had no pack-mule, but few belongings. He could ride downstream with Flare and the horse herders, but he thought he’d go alone.

He was damn mad. Furious. That stupid woman hating Shoshones, more prejudiced than a white person. Old man McDougal, so near dead he didn’t remember what love felt like.

If he left right now, he’d beat the McDougals to Vancouver, and see Lisbeth there.

He’d see Flare later, at Vancouver. And then his great adventure—Montreal, and his father.

Surely on the way to Montreal they’d stop at the Red River settlements.

He wasn’t taking any food away from the mission. He’d stop at French Prairie and ask Nicolelle for a little. One of the other Indian boys ran off home a month ago, and the mission folk called taking a little food along for sustenance stealing.

White people had a way. Or mission people had a way.

He had his foot in the stirrup when he thought. He had to say good-bye to Dr. Full. Surely he’d learned that much good manners from his grandmother. Regardless of how Sima felt now, the man had brought Sima to his village as a guest.

Dr. Full paced, furious.

“It doesn’t make any sense!” he shouted at Sima. “Hang out with Frenchies, who are bad as…? Roam the wilderness? What for?”

Sima had told Dr. Full he was going to Vancouver to join a brigade, no more.

He was sitting on a stump in front of Dr. Full’s cabin. He did not want to debate religion with Dr. Full. Sima’s mind wasn’t closed to white-man medicine. But he was beginning to think that while white men knew a lot
about
God—theology, they called it—they didn’t know God, directly, personally, intimately. They didn’t even have spirit helpers, like Owl.

Dr. Full half squatted, put his hands on Sima’s shoulders, looked into the boy’s eyes, and said, “Don’t you see you can’t give up the progress you’ve made?”

The boy just looked down at his knees. Dr. Full didn’t talk, he railed at you.

Dr. Full turned away and went onto one knee. O Lord, he prayed silently, I’ve made mistakes. But I value this Indian boy. I value his soul. He’s heading away from redemption and into everlasting hell. Lord, he is only an Indian. Give him Your strength and light so that he sees
now
.

Dr. Full got up, paced, didn’t look at Sima. He had to think. That damned McLoughlin. Unlike the other Christians, Dr. Full had thought him generous. Now Dr. Full knew better. McLoughlin secretly promised Sima a job in the spring. The offer dangling, all winter, tempting the boy. The man was an enemy of God and deserved unrelenting opposition, may God damn him to hell.

Suddenly Samuel Full brought himself up short. He was skilled at listening to hidden meanings. Weren’t there some here?

He turned gently to Sima. “Why else are you going? Aside from the job?”

Sima hesitated. So there was more.

“The brigade is going to the Red River settlements. From there I can go to Montreal.”

“And why do you want to go to Montreal?”

“I want to see the big world of white men,” said Sima.

Dr. Full heard more hidden meanings. “Why else?”

Sima shrugged.

Dr. Full stared at him, demanding.

“To find out who my father is,” said Sima. “The HBC has records there, Dr. McLoughlin says. They will tell.”

Dr. Full considered.

“Sima, have you enjoyed your time with us?”

Sima considered and decided to say yes. Anything else would be rude. “Yes.”

“Will you come back to live with us?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What do you think of our understanding of God?”

“Your great stories from the Bible are very beautiful,” Sima said.

“Do you believe in God?”

“I see Spirit everywhere in the world, in everything.”

Dr. Full heard well, and knew what the boy was not saying. “What do you
not
like about us?”

Sima hesitated. Hesitated some more. “You make each other unhappy,” he said. “Much”—he banged his fists together like the word wasn’t enough—“fight.”

“My friend, that comes not from our religion but from a lack of grace,” said Dr. Full.

Sima gave a maybe-so shrug.

“Sima, don’t you see it’s your
heavenly
father you need to find?”

Maybe-so shrug.

Dr. Full changed his tack. “My young friend, I can make you a better offer. As I said, we’ll send you East. Free. Place to live, free. Food, free. We’ll have someone check the Hudson’s Bay archives for you. Please.”

Sima stared downward. He shook his head slightly. No.

Damn it! Dr. Full considered most seriously. His last ammunition. All right, here goes.

“Sima, I know who your father is.”

Sima felt his chest rise.

Dr. Full eyed him strangely, but Sima had not time for Dr. Full’s strangeness.

“I have known all along.” Emphasizing the words now.
“He made me promise not to tell.”

Was this bastard telling the truth?

“He didn’t want you to know.”

Suddenly Sima knew. Over a high, whining scream out of the land of dream, he knew who his father was.

Why, Flare? Why? Why?

Sima waited, trembling.

“The records will show that the Hudson’s Bay man who lived with your people in the winter of 1818 was Mr. O’Flaherty.”

It was true. It was true. Why? Why?

“If you feel unsure, ask Mr. O’Flaherty to show you his toes.” Dr. Full pointed at Sima’s moccasins and smiled.

Toes…goddamn web feet…from his father. Sima wanted to vomit.

He backed away. He started running.

“Ask yourself what kind of man wouldn’t want his son to know,” called Dr. Full.

Sima heard nothing but the scream inside his head.

Miss Jewel had never been so anxious. Sitting on one of Dr. Full’s stumps, anxious, she’d wrung a handkerchief wet, and on a cool April day, soaked the armpits of her dress.

It was Parky who finally came out of the meeting of deacons. He stumbled toward her like a man who’s lost a friend. “They want you,” he said curtly. He led her in with a tender hand on her elbow.

It was Sheppers Smith, not Dr. Full, who asked the questions, like a lawyer at a hearing. He got to his feet and looked at the deacons like a jury. “The people have watched you close your heart to God, and to them. Why do you want to come back now?”

She had her discipline in place. “I’ve had a change of heart,” she said with feeling.

“How are we to see your change of heart?”

“I want to open myself to the congregation. I want to confess before all that I sinned with Billy Wells.” To sin in your heart is the same as sinning outwardly, she reminded herself. In her heart she had sinned with Billy Wells. “I want to ask God’s forgiveness, and then live an open life before man and God.”

Sheppers looked at the other deacons. They leaned forward, exchanging knowing glances, pleased. Miss Jewel was ashamed of herself.

“Miss Jewel,” he went forward, “we have considered this most carefully. I’m personally touched by your repentance. The deacons are gladdened by it. We’re sure the congregation will be as accepting as we are, and we welcome you back in Christian love.”

“Thank you, Mr. Smith. I am afraid. I pray for God’s help.”

God help me. The words are all true. Their meanings are lies.

“But your acceptance as a member of a Christian community is not the only issue before us today.”

What now? She felt herself going numb.

“You came here as teacher of the lost children we are sent to save. The deacons of this church have suspended you from that position, and we have composed a letter to the mission board which certified you explaining our action.”

He turned and looked down at her with an unreadable expression. “The truth is, we are not satisfied that you are the person for that responsibility. For reasons that have nothing to do with weakness of the flesh. I wonder whether we can also take care of this matter now.”

She waited. There was nothing else to do.

Had she lost all?

Sheppers looked at Dr. Full with suppressed…what? This is what it means, she thought, that phrase “dancing on my grave.”

“Our concern is that you are a poor example for the children you teach. Teachers imbue an understanding of life less by precept than by example.”

He turned. He drew himself up. She saw he would hand down his verdict now. “It is the decision of this board of deacons that to reattain your position you must show a change of heart more substantial, and more difficult for you, than a confession of momentary straying.” He hesitated, apparently searching for words. “I’m sorry to say it, but you are willful, headstrong. You suffer from pride of intellect and will. Every Christian must cultivate submissiveness to God’s will. He must lose himself, that he may be found.”

He came to her and looked down pointedly. “This is particularly true of a woman. God made woman to submit to man. We find you…lacking in submissiveness. Some of us would put it more strongly.”

He whirled away from her, preaching now to the deacons. “Ordinarily, this would be a matter only for you, your husband”—here he paused and fixed her with an eye—“and the Lord God. Not a concern for this board.

“However, we think you will unconsciously, and all too effectively, communicate your attitude of insubordination to the children. And that is unacceptable.

“Do you have anything to say on your own behalf?” He kept his back turned to her.

She asked softly, “What can I do to show you that it isn’t true?”

Sheppers looked up and down the line of seated deacons, and lingeringly at Dr. Full. He turned back to Miss Jewel, and she was amazed at the look on his face. A man springing the trap. “Dr. Full is your pastor. You should counsel with him about that, and then pray about it.”