A Clearing in the Wild (33 page)

Instead, their eyes moved to the tarp. “Oh, please don’t want that, please,” I pleaded. If they took my tarp, this would all be for nothing!

One said something to the other. “I need it,” I said, wishing I knew Chinook or Chehalis or Shoalwater or whatever language they spoke. Words could be such bridges, but the lack of them built walls.

They moved toward the tarp and I wailed. “
Nein
, please!” They squatted at the tarp, each at one end, and they lifted.
They are taking my tarp!
But instead of walking off with it, they lifted the tarp rolled around the log, and the two of them hoisted it up over the top, then let it finish rolling over the other side. I heard my long branch drop with a thud on the soft ground. One of the men held the tarp near the leaning
poles to keep it from being pulled up and over. It was just as I’d imagined it would work.

The taller of the two men said something to the other, who disappeared into the trees for a time, then returned with long strands of some kind of vine that he’d cut with a knife he carried at his waist. I hadn’t noticed the knife before.
Sometimes it’s good to be blinded by fear
.

Then they did something I wouldn’t have thought to do: they lifted one of the leaning logs up onto the roof the length of the tarp. With the vines, they lashed the tarp to the edges of the outside rafters and used the log to secure the length of the tarp. It would prevent the wind from lifting it up, and it hadn’t occurred to me to do that—not that I could have by myself. They repeated their effort on the other side, and I stood back when they finished, amazed at this gift in the middle of nowhere. I didn’t mind in the least that I hadn’t done it all by myself.

“How can I ever thank you?” I said, smiling, bowing, hoping my actions told them how grateful I was, how embarrassed that I’d thought they were thieves. “
Kloss
,” I remembered. “Good.
Danke
. I’ll fix tea for you,
ja?
” I motioned with my hands as though to drink, and they looked at each other and the taller one shook his head. They both had round faces, their woven hats arched out to keep rain from their eyes.

I wanted to know how to make those hats. I’d have to ask Sarah Woodard, who knew so much about this landscape and its people.

They wouldn’t let me prepare tea or anything else for them. Instead, they grunted as though satisfied with their work and then moved into the trees.

I stepped inside and felt the dryness, the slight darkness with a tarp now over our heads. We were in a cave of our making, and I did a little dance, swirling around, singing to Andy. “We have a roof over our heads, we have a roof over our heads. We entertained angels unaware as Scripture tells us.”

“Mama,” Andy said when I danced dizzily past him. I was too lightheaded from the lack of strong food to dance for long.

“What?” I said, catching myself before I fell.

“Look.”

One of the Indians stood in the doorway; he was naked from his shoulders to his waist.

“Did you want tea after all?”

He stared at me, then stepped aside while his friend hung the coat-like skin cape he’d worn over the door opening, darkening our log cave further. The fur side faced in. Elk hair moved in the breeze that seeped in through the openings between the side logs. The jagged cut of the elk skin was long enough; it nearly reached the bottom of the doorway. I could stitch a piece of hide to it, maybe even take Andy’s board apart to completely cover the opening. Once caulked, this house would be snug as a mouse in a wheat barrel.

Then the other Chehalis man stepped inside. The sight of this bare-chested man standing in the cold brought me to my senses. “No,” I said. “You will be sick if you give us this.” I made a motion of being cold, flapping my arms, then pointing to him. “You take,” I said, stepping around him to touch the hide. The fur felt so heavy and soft and smelled of smoked wood.

He struck his hand against his chest and said a word that might have meant “strong” or “a gift, don’t reject it” or “we’re going.” At least I hoped that was what he was saying. He stood close to me. Did he want something in payment for the hide?

Before I could do anything else, he pushed the hide aside and stepped out, letting it flap behind him. I squinted through the logs and watched as the one man pulled his cedar bark cape over his shoulder, and the two men left, moving at a steady trot past the cabin, back toward the river until they disappeared.

Our leader had told us colonists long ago that we must not only live the Golden Rule, of doing unto others as we would have them do unto us, but to go further, to live with the Diamond Rule, where we gave so that another’s life wasn’t just like ours but was better. To give in this way was the mark of true Christian love. This was the first time I’d really understood.

It felt like heaven to be out of the rain and the wind, to have places dry enough to sit without globs of mud attaching themselves like ticks to my skirt and Andy’s pants. The ground remained wet, but piles of moss provided a soft carpet. The elk hide deterred wind at the doorway, even though it blew in through the wide cracks of the walls. The hide looked so heavy and warm I considered taking it down and wrapping us up in it, hanging our blanket over the doorway instead. But by the time the fire merely glowed as an ember, I felt warmer than I’d been in weeks, and I trusted it was due to the gift of the roof and the draft-stopping hide.

I used the boughs that had once filled the doorway to make a kind of lean-to for the goat and tethered her outside, at least for part of the day. Eventually, her bleating became so constant I returned her inside. She wasn’t a dog, but she served as good company for Andy, I decided, and we’d seen nothing of Charlie, the seagull. Opal’s body heat warmed up our house.
Our house
. As I milked her, I felt a twinge of guilt that I’d deprived the men of this white gold, not acting the Diamond Rule at all.

It had been four days since we’d left, and I confess I expected my husband long before this. He could have been at the Woodards’ in but a short hike, discovered I wasn’t there, then surely he’d know I was here. Where else might I go?
Will he think I tried to make my way back to Fort Steilacoom?
I hadn’t thought of that before. He’d be outraged if he
arrived back at the fort after several days only to find I wasn’t there either to greet him. No, that trip from the Fort had been troubling in summer; he’d know I’d never attempt it in the winter. I circled my fingers and thumbs, trying to rub away some of that uncertainty.

I would do what I could do. I would make a caulking and secure this cabin even tighter.

Finding mud was no problem, but what to mix with it to make it strong and harden, that was a question. I’d known of houses caulked with mud and straw, but we had no straw here.

But we had forest duff, needles and vines and small dead branches and moss, lots of moss, for the taking. I put Andy in the board, though he cried to be set free, and put him on my back. I donned my mother’s cape and set out for the woods, returning with an apron full of small twigs and forest discards and moss. I dug a hole, let it fill partway with rain, broke the side walls of dirt into it, adding forest duff, wet grasses, brambles, and branches. Then I stirred, hoping the twigs and such would be enough to thicken it. I had no idea what men used to do this. I kept stirring and adding until my mixture felt thick as cold pea soup and my stirring stick stood upright in the goop. Then I spread the mixture on the lowest log wall, stacking it between the logs, filling in the missing spaces, slapping moss onto the wet glob. I let Andy help with the stirring. We worked the day and rested in the night, warmed by a small fire I made inside, letting the smoke drift out through the top layers of logs. The fire offered small light in the darkness.

In the morning we began again. It would take many days at this rate, but the work filled a hole growing in my heart. It kept me from thinking of what I would do when we ran out of flour and jerky; from imagining Christian’s first words when he found me. The effort held at bay the worrisome thoughts of what my life might be like from now on, pushed back the fear that my husband might not seek me at all.

“Last times” take on new meaning once we admit they exist. I remember the last time I wrapped my arms around my mother. I cherish the memory of the last time my father lifted his eyebrow to wink at me before we headed west; the last time Jonathan ran along the boardwalk chasing a ring with a stick while Sheppie barked behind him; the last night I slept with my sisters; the last warm kisses from my two youngest brothers. They are bittersweet memories claimed as markers of my life.

Last times began to cloud my days. Rain poured down in sheets as I tried to remember the last time I’d slept totally warmed, wrapped up against my husband, not worrying over a small cut in a canvas that unless I repaired it soon would force rain inside this finally dried-out place.

This day was a marker, too, as Andy and I ate the last of the jerky I’d brought with us. “We can live on Opal’s milk for quite a long time,” I told Andy. “But then I guess I’ll have to take the axe to club those fish and hope that I can land one or two.” I didn’t say out loud that I might have to return to face my husband’s wrath. Or lack of it. Perhaps I was so insignificant against the mission of his life that he hadn’t noticed yet I’d gone.

Today was the last day I could put off clubbing a fish, the last time I dared tell myself that Christian would find me, that he’d want to find us. By my counting, I’d been here nearly three weeks, listening to the
rain, trying to stay out from under the holes in the canvas, bringing the goat in from her grazing, reworking my caulking recipe, adding mosses with the hope they one day would harden to snug these walls into a home.

The last time. I hadn’t thought that the last time I’d kissed Christian good-bye that it might truly be the last time.

I had to toss that thought, or I’d fall into a morass of misery more engulfing than the mud.

Instead, I considered my monthly flow. I’d completed it, though it was barely noticeable.
My last flow? No more chance of a child?

I needed to eat more. I’d have to try hitting those fish if I could see them in the water … if I could get close enough to the river to see. The Indians I’d watched doing this actually stood in the water, the harsh current pushing against them so hard they sometimes lost their balance, though they laughed as they splashed, something I was sure I wouldn’t do. The thought of that rush against my legs while I struck a fish in such a way as to throw it onto the bank tired more than frightened me. But I had to eat more to keep Andy alive; Andy had to eat more too. We needed fat from the fish. The Lord had provided a stream and the abundance of fish, but that stream, rolling and swift … I swallowed back nausea just thinking of it.

I entertained the thought of going back. Such a groveling that would be, admitting that I needed help in surviving, though didn’t we all? Worse would be telling myself the truth that preparing this colony truly was the most important thing in my husband’s life, more important than locating his family, making sure they were safe. He would do anything to serve, but it looked to me that he served the colony over anyone else.

That was sacrilege, I was sure. Fortunately, our leader couldn’t see inside my head, and he lived several thousand miles away, so even his
dark eyes weren’t here to accuse.
The last time he accused me …
I drove away that thought too.

“Mama, look,” Andy said.

I wondered what my son saw now, annoyed that he hadn’t found any new words to share with me. “Mama, look” greeted my every moment or so it seemed. Or maybe I felt put upon because he’d been waddling behind me poking the caulking with a stick all morning, saying “Mama, look!” showing me a bug or a twisted root or stopping to look and giggle when his slender belly made gurgling sounds.

“I’ll look later,” I told him.

I’d gone too far this last time with Christian. Perhaps I should have stayed with him longer while I prodded him to be a leader who tended to the needs of his men and still found a way to be a husband aware of his wife. But I had tried. Hans had asked that I try to make Christian see the men’s need for rest. And I had. Even coming here had been a part of that effort; that was all it really was. I’d manipulated for the last time when I’d talked my way into coming along, when I’d kept our son a secret for a time. I might not always make the best choices, but they weren’t meant to deceive or get my way, only to be of help.

“Trial,” I said out loud. “A word with two meanings. Someone being judged and someone being challenged. As you are at this moment, poking at my hard labor and telling me that my caulking is inferior.” I patted Andy’s head, then returned to my work.

I’d had no more dreams about my soul awaking or going to sleep. Now my dreams were of food, luscious roasts and steamed yams and corn boiled and spread with fresh butter. When was the last time I’d eaten that well?

But in daylight, my soul did sleep. I couldn’t find a way to reach within me, to recall the Scripture verses that might have brought me ease, or to concentrate long enough to read from Catherine’s Bible. Our
leader rarely emphasized hopeful verses; my mother told me of them, words that promised help in times of trial. I tried to remember some of those. Christian would be angry with me if he knew how weak my faith was, how I struggled to find meaning in this effort.