The fire and the ore, p.4
The Fire and the Ore, page 4
The driver eyed her with a sober expression.
She held up the patchwork bags so he could see them, how large and well-made they were. “I’ve got these bags to trade. They’re properly sturdy. You can carry a lot with them; we used them all along the trail from Winter Quarters.”
“Come now, miss. Put your bags away. I won’t take all you’ve got left in this world.”
Her face burned. Was it so obvious that she was in a desperate state? Mother would be ashamed if she knew the neighbors looked on her family with pity.
“I’ve got some carrots here,” the driver went on, “and a few apples. You can have whatever you can carry in your apron. I won’t take a thing in trade; I won’t hear of it. Wouldn’t be Christian, I say.”
Jane dropped her bags in the dirt and held up her apron. The man filled it with carrots, small red apples, and a few onions. He even lowered a large cabbage atop the load. Jane nearly lost her grip under the weight, for her hands were still shaking with hunger or excitement. She managed to keep hold of what the man had given her.
“Thank you,” she said breathlessly. “Oh, thank you so very much.”
He touched the brim of his hat. “Don’t mention it.” The man picked up his reins again, then hesitated, glancing down the slope toward Centerville. “You might . . . er . . . you might seek Mrs. Ricks down at the village, if you chance to find yourself there. Tabitha Ricks. She’s a real good healer, and the closest thing we have to a doctor this far out of Salt Lake City. She’s mighty knacky with herbs and the like. Mrs. Ricks can tell you what all you can eat right here in the canyon—if you ever find yourself inclined to go foraging.”
Jane stepped back so the man could drive on. Then she hurried home with her treasures.
After she’d stored the vegetables in the coolest corner of the house, she cut up some of the carrots, sliced a few leaves of the cabbage, and stirred them into the soup she’d left to simmer on the hearth fire. There’d been nothing to put into the soup except the bones of a grouse, which Elijah had killed the day before. Sarah Ann was singing to baby William on the girls’ bed while Mother slept in her own bed against the opposite wall.
Jane hurried back to the canyon to fetch the bags she’d dropped—goodness knew when they might come in handy again—then perched on an empty crate beside the fire, stitching her patchwork as best she could through her blurred vision, watching as the light in the cracks of the shutters mellowed from the pale blue of morning to the gold of afternoon. The soup smelled rich and wholesome by now, the carrots having mingled with the pickings on the grouse bones. When Mother began to shift and murmur, Jane laid aside her work and dipped a bowl of broth from the kettle. She made sure to ladle up a few nice pieces of carrot and cabbage, too.
“My goodness.” Mother pushed herself up on trembling arms and leaned against the headboard. “What have you been cooking? It smells delicious.”
“Only a soup I made from the grouse we ate yesterday.”
Jane proffered the bowl, but when she saw how weak Mother looked, she thought better and held the bowl herself. She tipped it carefully as Mother sipped from the rim.
“How do you feel today?” Jane asked.
“Better, I think. I’m hungry, and that’s a change.”
She drank more broth while Jane did her best not to fret. The fact that she had an appetite was encouraging. Most days, Jane had to coax her to eat a few paltry crumbs. But the circles around her eyes were growing darker by the day, and there was an alarming thinness to her face, a sharpness to all her features. Whatever sickness plagued her, it was making itself known—demanding, I’m here. You can’t pretend you don’t see me.
Jane sat and talked for a spell, raising the bowl now and then to feed Mother a little more broth. Sarah Ann brought the baby over, and the two younger children cuddled up against their mother, William drifting off to sleep in the crook of her arm while Sarah Ann rested her head on her shoulder. Mother told stories of her childhood in Virginia—the same tales Jane had heard a hundred times before, but she listened now with something sharp and poignant in her chest. The peace inside the cabin both comforted Jane and unsettled her. Her mother seemed regretful and distant today. Jane almost felt as if she were saying farewell.
As the afternoon deepened, Elijah came in, stamping his boots and brushing sawdust from his sleeves. He’d found work with one of the building companies, after all. Mother greeted him, and he turned to her with his mouth open as if to speak. But when he saw her face—when he saw her there with the children gathered around—he said nothing.
A tension of words unspoken hung in the air. At length, Jane asked, “Have you found a goat for William?”
Elijah blinked. He glanced at Jane as if surprised she had spoken. Then he stared at Mother again, and without a word, he turned and left the cabin.
“Let him go,” Mother said faintly. “Let him be alone with his thoughts.”
Jane had no intention of leaving her stepfather to his thoughts. Now more than ever before, she felt the urgency of their situation—a winter in the mountains bearing down, with no food in their pantry and little hope of getting more. She sprang from the bed, chasing Elijah out into the copper light of evening.
He had wandered several yards down the slope. The cabin and the great immovable wall of the mountains stood at his back. And Jane was at his back, and Mother. He was staring out over the narrow strip of valley, the small town with its banners of woodsmoke just beginning to rise, the glaring expanse of the lake—water bluer than cornflowers under a cloudless sky, stretches of pale violet to mark the salt pans where nothing would grow.
Jane stumbled to a halt some paces away. He must have heard her approaching, but he didn’t turn.
“Elijah,” she said. “Did you get a goat for William, or not?”
His shoulders rose and fell—a deep breath or a sob. Jane crept another step closer, in awe that a man could do such an astonishing thing as this—crying.
“Elijah?”
He turned then and looked at Jane directly. His face was hard, his eyes bitter. Jane flinched, heart lurching painfully in her chest. Her stepfather had never looked at her that way before—angry, hurt, ready to lash out.
“She’s dying,” Elijah said.
The words struck Jane like a blow. She staggered back, clutching at her stomach. Elijah walked away—not to the cabin, nor down toward the settlement, but to the road, which he followed up into the dark mouth of Parrish Canyon.
She watched him till the underbrush and the slanted shadows consumed him. She seemed incapable of movement, incapable of thought, transfixed by the feel of the sun on her back and the sight of the teeming shade between the canyon walls—the busy leaves of willow and sage moving, moving, the dapples of light and dark where moments before her stepfather had been. It couldn’t be true. Mother, dying? Surely she hadn’t traveled all this way only to die on the trail, just as Jane’s father had done.
There must be something I can do.
There was always something Jane could do, some work to occupy her hands and head.
What had that man in the wagon said about a doctor in the village?
Mrs. Ricks. Tabitha Ricks. I’ll go and find her. She’ll cure whatever has been ailing Mother.
She didn’t tell her mother or Sarah Ann where she was going. Nor did she wait for Elijah to return. She fetched the mule’s bridle from the old shed and wrestled it onto the stubborn creature’s head, then climbed up the corral fence so she could swing a leg over the animal’s back. Soon she was riding down the long road to Centerville with her skirts pushed up, the afternoon sun hot on her unaccustomed knees.
It took the better part of an hour to ride to Centerville. By the time Jane arrived, the market was finished and the farmers who’d come from far-flung places were loading up their unsold wares, preparing to drive back home before night set in. She didn’t see the man who’d given her the carrots and apples that morning, but she called out to everyone she passed.
“Pardon me, sir. Pardon me, ma’am. Where can I find Tabitha Ricks?”
Someone directed her toward a large whitewashed house on the northern edge of town. Centerville was a good deal smaller than Winter Quarters had been, and Jane found herself outside the healer’s front gate with merciful speed. There was no one to be seen, save for a young boy digging with a sharpened stick at the far end of the garden, near a corner of the house.
Jane slid from the mule’s back and tied its rein to the fence, then made for the front door, picking her way between beds of herbs and strange flowers. Her skirt brushed against the unfamiliar plants, which released their scents—sharply camphoraceous or sweet like lemons and licorice. Bees hummed above the beds and blundered, pollen drunk, across the path.
Jane had gone only halfway to the door when a head appeared above a row of purple coneflowers. The figure had straightened suddenly from where she’d been stooped, but she was so small, her eyes and her large black sunbonnet were all that could be seen above the flowers. Startled, Jane tipped her head so she could see the figure clearly. At first, she thought it was a girl but soon she realized she was looking at a grown woman. The lady in the black bonnet stood no taller than Jane—in fact, she might have been shorter. But though she was undoubtedly young, there was nothing girlish about her keen eyes or the sober line of her mouth. The tiny young woman watched Jane with grim expectation.
“Do you know where I might find Mrs. Ricks?” Jane asked.
“You’ve found her,” the other answered.
Jane felt the ground moving slowly out from beneath her. Little by little, she was slipping into a pit of despair. She had imagined—had hoped—Mrs. Ricks would be a mature, matronly woman, gray-haired with a wise countenance. She’d come looking for a thoroughly experienced woman well versed in the ways of illness and sensible enough to cure any affliction. This slip of a girl couldn’t be Centerville’s only healer.
“I—I need a doctor,” Jane stammered.
“I’ll have to do, I’m afraid.”
“Tabitha Ricks. I’m looking for Mrs. Tabitha Ricks. Is she your mother?”
The woman gave a wry chuckle. The bees that circled her dark bonnet seemed to swarm with greater vigor, as if they, too, were amused. “Child, my mother died in Kentucky when I was but five years old. Tell me what the matter is. I’ll help if I can—and odds are good that I can. I’m not much to look on, but I do know my business.”
Jane told what she could of her mother’s illness—how she seemed to grow weaker by the day, and now could scarcely eat. How her face was changing as if death were trying to break free from inside.
“It came on suddenly,” she concluded, “or at least it got worse since we stepped off the trail for the season.”
Tabitha listened in perfect silence, her sharp eyes narrowed and trained on Jane’s face. If Jane’s wandering eye gave her a turn, she was gracious enough not to show it. When Jane had said everything, Tabitha called to the boy who’d been digging near the end of the garden.
“Charles Kimball, go and saddle my horse. I’m riding up to Parrish Canyon. Be quick, boy; there’s no time to lose.”
Jane had thought her heart couldn’t beat any harder, but when she heard the urgency in Tabitha’s voice, it gave a terrified lurch.
“Don’t faint,” Tabitha said.
“I’m not about to.”
“You are; I know the look. Sit on the ground if you must, but do not faint. I must rely on you to lead me to your mother. Go get on your mule once your head stops spinning. I’ll fetch my herb bag. We’ll ride as soon as Charles brings my horse.”
They rode from Centerville to the mouth of the canyon in near silence, Jane bareback on the rawboned mule and Tabitha on a spotted, unrefined mare—an Indian pony, which despite its diminutive size still looked too big for the small woman. Whenever Jane stole a glance at Tabitha, she found the healer watching the road with a hard intensity. Jane had no stomach for asking questions about her mother’s condition. Tabitha’s focus was all Jane could bear, for the healer’s stark resolve spoke plainly enough in a language beyond words.
The best Jane could offer by way of conversation was to blurt out, halfway through their ride, “My stepfather thinks Mother is dying.”
“She may well be, at that,” Tabitha answered. “I won’t put honey on the truth. You must be brave, for we know not the hour. But your stepfather could be wrong. I’ll know for certain when I see her with my own eyes.”
They arrived at the cabin just as the sun was setting, throwing a golden blanket over the valley and the lake beyond. The canyon was a deep slash of purple shadow, and between the imposing shoulders of the mountains, the stars had begun to show themselves in a dusky sky. Sarah Ann, wrapped in one of Mother’s shawls, was wandering the rows of the new garden with William in her arms. She was pointing to the sprouts at her feet, trying to interest the baby, though he squirmed and whined and reached up his hands for Jane.
“Has Elijah come home?” Jane asked her sister.
“He’s inside with Mother. He told me to take William out of doors. Said he wanted to talk with her alone.”
Sarah Ann looked at the healer.
“I’ve brought someone up from the settlement,” Jane said, “to help make Mother well again. Her name is Mrs. Ricks. Say hello, Sarah Ann.”
Sarah Ann said nothing. She only stared, half curious and half afraid, as Tabitha slid from her pony and took the leather satchel from the horn of her saddle.
Jane dismounted, too, and took Tabitha’s rein. “I’ll see to your horse. Go on inside, Mrs. Ricks. Sarah Ann, you stay out here with me.”
Sarah Ann followed Jane to the creek. While the horse and mule were drinking, she peppered Jane with more questions than could ever be answered. Jane mostly kept her silence. She could do almost any task, and do it well, but how could anyone explain to a child—to a soul as tender and trusting as Sarah Ann—that Mother might be dying? They might soon find themselves orphans, both their parents torn away by the damnable trail. There was little Jane could do about it. Certainly, there was nothing she could say.
When the animals had drunk their fill, Jane took the baby from Sarah Ann and allowed the girl to lead Elijah’s mule back to its corral. Jane kept hold of William with one arm and led the healer’s spotted pony with the other hand, moving slowly through the blue veils of the coming night. There was a bite to the air, a smell of frost. Only a few crickets still bothered to sing in the grass.
Jane remained on the slope outside the cabin as night came on. The chill made her shiver, for she’d brought no shawl when she’d ridden to town. The cold didn’t matter. All that mattered was this terrible, cramped agony of waiting. Through her fog of dread, a curious, distant appreciation crept in—for the moon coming up over the distant mountains, for its shining whiteness on the surface of the lake. Even blurred, the sight struck her as something holy, something she must remember all her life.
This is the way the moon looked the night I found out Mother was dying. It was beautiful, and bright, while everything around me was dark and sad.
Sarah Ann brought blankets from the cabin. The girls wrapped themselves together, their arms around one another and the baby. Jane told stories to pass the time, though she didn’t know what stories she told. Her mouth moved and the words came out—familiar words, one of the fairy tales Sarah Ann had always loved—but Jane never heard a word herself. She kept her eyes on the rising moon till she heard the cabin door open and close behind her.
Tabitha stepped out, her leather bag slung over one shoulder, the black bonnet in her hand. Her mousy hair was disheveled, wisps pulling out of her braid and catching the moonlight in a silvery halo.
“Take the baby inside,” Tabitha said to Sarah Ann, “and see if you can’t interest your mother in some bread or soup. I’ve given her a dose of medicine to soothe her stomach. Her appetite will be good in another hour or so.”
After Sarah Ann had gone, Jane asked, “You’ve given her medicine? She’ll be well now?”
The healer sighed. She looked down at her long skirt brushing the grass. “It’s as your stepfather feared. I’m sorry, girl. Your mother is dying.”
“Jane,” she answered faintly. “My name is Jane.”
“Of course. I’m sorry.”
Silence stretched between them again—not the strained, expectant silence of their ride but a different sort of quiet, heavy with acceptance.
At length, Tabitha said, “I’ve seen afflictions like this before—usually caused by a growth of some kind inside the body. I couldn’t feel any such growth in your mother, but nevertheless, the signs are clear.”
“Isn’t there anything to be done?”
Jane had to ask the question, though she knew the answer already.
“Not even the best doctors in Salt Lake City can save a person who has sickened so far and in this way. The best we can do now is to ease her pain till God calls her home.”
“How?” Jane had begun to weep. She only realized it when she heard that word coming from her throat, strangled by a sob. “How can I take away her pain or make her comfortable when I know . . . when I know she’ll be . . .”
“There are medicines for it. I’ll teach you how to use them. I’ll teach you other things, too—how to talk to her, how to ease her into God’s arms. How to make her feel certain that you and your sister and your baby brother will be strong enough to survive without her. That will allow her to pass more readily into the world beyond. I’m known for such things, in Centerville and elsewhere.”
“I thought you were a healer,” Jane said. “They told me . . . that man told me . . . you were as good as a doctor.”
“I can heal common maladies,” Tabitha said patiently. “And there’s no better midwife between here and Winter Quarters. I’m proud of that work, Jane, but those aren’t my only gifts. God also fitted me to help souls cross from this life to the next. Your mother is suffering now, but you can take away some of that suffering and give her ease.”
