The Snake River (30 page)

Chapter Thirty-four

Susan Johnson and Mrs. Jick arrived five minutes after Miss Jewel got to the cabin, sent by Dr. Full to help her get dressed. She wondered if they’d stopped by earlier and found her missing, and wondered where the bride-to-be was before breakfast. The idea tickled her.

She loved the way her body felt this morning—tired and used, so that she moved slowly and deliberately, but alive and sensual and sassy, all mixed up together.

Time to get started. She had known from the time her ma died that no one would ever give her a proper wedding, so when the time came, she would have to stand up in whatever she had. She had collected some things bit by bit over the years. She got out the silk dress she had kept for nearly seven years and never worn. It was empire style, saffron, with a gay canary and tangerine sash, a sensible woman’s one gesture of flamboyance. Mrs. Jick set to ironing it.

Then Miss Jewel and Susan oohed and aahed over the dainty pair of silk shoes she’d saved for the occasion, and the elegant little hat. It was all a little colorful for a Methodist minister’s bride, but you didn’t get married twice.

“You’re going to look scrumptious,” said Susan several times. She acted delighted by the fancy display they were going to make of the bride. Thank heaven she wasn’t Old Sobersides. Miss Jewel wondered if Susan could smell carnality on her, a grand, fecund pungency.

Miss Jewel thought the congregation would be truly surprised by how fine she could look when she wanted to. And taken aback by her lack of sobriety. Which was just how she wanted it.

She had no cosmetics, she was no painted woman. She saw a certain grandeur in plainness.

Miss Jewel was glad for tradition. Dr. Full wouldn’t see her until she appeared at the altar. So he would just have to let her make as big a show as she wanted to.

At about a quarter to twelve the mountainmen began to collect outside the church.

Parky wasn’t surprised. They’d come from French Prairie before for a funeral or two. And Mr. O’Flaherty was a friend of Miss Jewel and Dr. Full, and would naturally come to their wedding and bring his friends. Well, maybe Parky was surprised so many mountain men came.

They made a fine sight in their brightly colored blanket coats, which they wore on this cool spring day, with calico shirts, knives in their belts, hair slicked back. And they brandished their smiles like flashing blades. Something about a mountain man was always a strut.

Parky was talking with the members of his congregation, who were far from mountain men. They dressed somberly and comported themselves soberly. They shone forth their sense of high purpose—they were not in the wilderness for adventure, or frivolity, or self-gratification, like the Frenchies. Parky thought they could use a little more frivolity. Nowhere was it written that life should not be enjoyable.

On his way into the church he stopped to howdy Yves, and Jacques, and Baptiste. He wanted to make them feel welcome, mostly Catholics, as they were, in what they saw as a house of heresy. Not that they were really Catholics. What they had was more superstition than religion, and it was pagan as much as Christian.

He spoke in passing to Old Young and Black Mac. He didn’t even know if they were Protestant or Catholic.

He howdied Mr. O’Flaherty, Mr. Skye, and the Indian boy Sima, standing together silently and watching everyone, and passed inside. He looked around the sanctuary. That was Parky’s favorite word for it, sanctuary. He always found it a place of quiet, peace, and communion.

Back home there would be plans to be made, ceremonies to be observed. Out here you just rough-and-ready married them. And they just rough-and-ready started keeping house together and went back to work the next morning, getting on with the business of pushing the wilderness back and raising high the light of the Gospel.

Parky thought that was fine. But he missed the small graces that made a real society. One day there would be a real society here, and it would be gracious because he and his kind prepared the way.

The pianist struck up the music, and Parky began to feel good. To him the piano was more than an indulgence. The human heart raised itself to God, he thought, through music. It had come all the way from the East Coast in the hold of a ship, and to Parky the expense was worth it.

The mountain men were standing around the sides of the church. Restless fellows, they always were, roving eyes and shifting feet, never content to sit, especially not in a chair, and perhaps nervous here in this Christian building.

Miss Jewel came from the back of the church, down the little aisle toward the altar. She looked splendid, under the circumstances. Mr. O’Flaherty was escorting her, and would evidently give her away. That was irregular, but the wilderness made everything irregular.

Parky felt dubious about this uniting of Miss Jewel and Dr. Full in marriage, but she had asked him personally to administer the vows, so he consented.

Dr. Full stepped to the altar from the side of the church, a fine figure of a man with his black frock coat, erect carriage, leonine head, and air of authority. Parky did not always think Dr. Full wise in the way of the human heart, but God had given the man great gifts, and he would grow as a man of the cloth. This morning he simply radiated that overawing energy of his.

When everyone was in place and the music paused, Parky began. “Brothers and sisters, we are gathered together in His sight today to see these two joined together as man and wife.”

Dr. Full interrupted in a stage whisper. “Miss Jewel has something to say first.”

Of course. Parky knew and nearly forgot. Again irregular, but the bride and groom insisted.

“To bring herself before man and God as she chooses, Miss Jewel has a few words to say.”

She turned and faced the congregation.

She began, “I come before you to make a confession.”

She drew herself to her full height, conscious of the hair piled high so it would make her taller, and looked into the eyes of the congregation.

“I have sinned,” she told them, her voice low, intimate, as though she were opening her heart to each one.

“Yes, we all have sinned, but I have sinned particularly, and grievously. Now I want to start fresh with each of you, and with God, by unburdening my heart.”

Dr. Full felt as vigorous as he’d ever felt in his life. He stood beside Miss Jewel and looked on his congregation in raging pride. They all saw. They all understood. They all felt his triumph.

“The sin I committed was fornication.”

Though everyone knew, when she said the word, murmurs flickered through the congregation. Dr. Full smiled broadly.

“The word of God,” Miss Jewel went on, “tells us that sexual communication is reserved for a man and woman who love each other, and who are man and wife. I sought gratification outside those boundaries. Gratification of the body.

“It’s true I’ve denied this sin to this congregation for weeks. I’ve refused to confess, I’ve proclaimed my innocence.

“But I stand here this morning to confess my guilt, to ask your forgiveness, and to ask the forgiveness of God.”

Dr. Full started to turn back to Parky. It was time now for the saying of the vows. He was mildly surprised when Miss Jewel went on.

“I must make my confession more particular.” She could not have described the flood tide of emotion rising in her, overflowing into the next words.

“I committed this sin repeatedly, but with only one man, and only on one night.

“Last night.

“With the man who stands next to me.”

Pause. “Michael Devin O’Flaherty.”

She turned full to Flare.

“It is you I love, and you I will now marry.”

They permitted themselves a moment to look into each other’s eyes in joy.

Over the gasps and mutterings of outrage Flare heard Dr. Full emit a loud, animal groan, as from a gut-shot animal.

A lot of people started to rise out of their seats. Dr. Full grabbed for Miss Jewel. Everyone stopped, frozen, when Mr. Skye grabbed Dr. Full from behind and bellowed, “Belay that, mates!”

His hand had Dr. Full’s hair, and his pistol was jamming the minister’s head far enough back to sprain his neck.

The mountain men had spread down the side aisles. Pistols and blanket guns were out from underneath their blanket coats, held muzzles to the ceiling, at the ready. Flare looked ready for a fight, and fiercely happy.

In the icy silence Maggie spoke to Parky. “Reverend Smith,” she said with an immense grin, “will you please administer the vows to me and Mr. O’Flaherty? I think maybe quickly?”

Flare thought Parky actually chuckled before he intoned the first words.

And over the vows, solemn and joyful, came the exuberant voice of Sima. He sang his father and his new mother a song of blessing, a song calling all the powers of the four winds to bring a benediction to this union:

Hiyo koma wey, Hiyo koma wey

Hiyo koma wey sheni yo

Hiyotsoavitch, Hiyo tsaovitch

Hiyo tosavitch sheni yo.

Chapter Thirty-five

Flare’s watchword was, “Keep an eye on your back trail.” The newlyweds, Sima, Mr. Skye, and several Frenchies went a couple of hours down the Willamette toward Vancouver. Then, while the mountain men went on downstream, left a conspicuous trail, and made camp, Flare, Maggie, and Sima slipped over a divide to the east, driving their dozen California horses. That bunch of preachers couldn’t read a trail, wouldn’t know which tracks were mounted men and which a loose herd. If Dr. Full came skulking around looking for a lucky shot, the mountain men would take care of him.

Just the same, Flare, Maggie, and Sima would skip Vancouver, go down to the Columbia an unusual way, and head straight for Walla Walla. And just the same again, they would keep a move on. The wedding night Flare gave Maggie was dozing in her saddle and stretching out exhausted for an hour or two while he and Sima took turns on watch.

By the second night they’d covered a lot of ground, too much for a bunch of preachers, and their back trail was clear. They made a proper camp, and Flare put up his canvas lean-to for the newlyweds and made a bed out of blankets and buffalo robes. He told Sima to stand watch out of earshot, which gave the boy a kick.

At first Flare thought Maggie was about to cry. She’d joined herself to a pagan and a madman, and he’d gotten her into trouble and run her half to death the first two days. What a marriage.

He fed her pemmican out of a parfleche. She made a brave attempt to eat it.

He put her head in his lap and rubbed the scalp under her long, pipestone-colored hair. It was beautiful hair. She was a beautiful woman. He loved her until it ached.

Now that he’d done it, would he be able to take care of her? Now that she’d cast her lot with him, could he make her dreams come true?

Yes, boyo, a grand romantic gesture. A long chance she’s taking, truly. Are you thinking yet that it’s a long chance for you as well? You’re both mad, perhaps.

Nay. I say love is enough. I say love is all there is.

Long chance this way, no chance other ways.

He rubbed for a long time without a word, and she uttered nothing but an occasional sigh. He saw a tear trickle down her cheek.

She thought she was crazy. She didn’t understand herself. Without understanding, she had the damnedest conviction that for once in her life she’d done right, absolutely right.

She felt wild, mad, exhilarated with freedom.

Scared as hell, too.

What of everything she’d lived for?

She would always love God. She’d changed her mind about which human beings walked His way.

She’d always want to teach Indian children.

She’d always want to live with a certain snap and sass.

Maybe she was ready to go adventuring and see where it took her.

Maybe? She’d put herself into the hands rubbing her scalp and neck and shoulders. Utterly. She was out of choices now.

“Well, lass,” he said at last, “what will it be? Shall we go to Missouri and be Indian agents? Go to Californy?”

She cut him off. “Let’s go talk to Sima.”

Flare’s suggestions were Missouri, California, and Taos. He described Californy as grand, a wonderful country where it’s always spring or summer. Taos as a place of peculiar beauty where a breed boy would get along. Missouri as a most sensible choice.

“We’ll want to visit Sima’s people first, wherever we go,” he said. “And I expect you’re strong for stopping in at the Red River settlements.” Sima braved a smile at this idea. “Lots of travelin’ ahead.”

They looked at Sima.

He spoke hesitantly, but with a new confidence. “I want to go to my people for a while,” he said. “And take the horses.”

Flare nodded approvingly.

“I have a task to undertake. Four days. June would be the right month.”

Flare understood. His son wanted to go on a quest for vision, for medicine. First he wanted one of his own people to prepare him properly.

“I don’t know where I’ll go after that,” Sima said.

Indeed he didn’t, Flare thought. You never knew where the force of life would take you.

Sima grinned. “Maybe wherever you go.”

They went back to the lean-to. He asked her where she wanted to go. “The world is wide to us, lass,” he said.

There’s a lame sort of joke, Michael Devin O’Flaherty, she thought. She said, “Shut up and rub me.”

He rubbed. She wiggled sometimes, and moaned softly. She was half out with fatigue.

Finally she sat up. She pushed him down on his belly. She rubbed his neck and shoulders. Her hands felt strong, and she kneaded firmly.

Finally she turned him over onto his back. She kissed him lightly on the lips. She looked at him, and touched his nose with a forefinger.

“I don’t know where we’ll head, Michael Devin O’Flaherty.” She looked into his eyes to see what world was there. “Where we’ll go, really, is adventuring.” Scared again. Tremulous.

“I want you to fill my belly full of babies, and we’ll spend our days raising them up.”

She looked into herself for a moment. She saw high seas and no landfall.

Then she slipped on top of him. Wiggled all over.

“I’d like to get started on that part right now.”