Long Hidden: Speculative Fiction from the Margins of History (58 page)

“Not if you don’t steal my keys again.”

Adelaide brought down a lamp near the stove and lit it. She scanned his right arm, his head and back. “I’ve seen her do worse,” Adelaide said.

She dressed his wounds and set him on her bed to sleep the last of the night away. As she cleaned the cabin she felt strangely relieved. She didn’t know what Matthew would do with what he’d seen tonight. Spread the news around his camp and be dismissed as a drunk? Wrangle up his uncle and try to kill her sister? Matthew would have to bring a lot of cowboys if he hoped to hurt Elizabeth. She doubted there were enough in all of Montana.

While he lay in the bed, eyelids half closed and eyes swimming, Adelaide spoke.

“The first time I saw my sister I was two years old. I don’t remember it but my mother told me. I snuck out of the farmhouse and wandered into the barn. I heard all this noise. She was inside tearing apart a chicken. My mother finally realized I was gone and ran out to the barn, but she said she found me right there on my sister’s back, yanking her ears. And Elizabeth was laughing. Or, at least, she hadn’t killed me. I started sneaking out there all the time.”

Adelaide felt good. She’d never spoken of her sister to any stranger. Now, for once, she told it all. Was it silly to find comfort, relief, in sharing? Her family had taught her to barricade herself from the rest of the world. For the safety of all sides it was better to be silent, live in solitude. She’d accepted this for decades. If she needed to just
speak
of it all for one night – with a young man who was practically delirious – then surely she’d earned the right. Matthew babbled in a hazy sleep and Adelaide gave this woozy priest her confession.

Matthew Kirby recuperated in her cabin for a week. When he left, Adelaide helped him stow his rifle and gear. She even filled his pack with food and water. They spoke only in willful pleasantries. What more was there to say? As he turned his horse Adelaide felt sure she’d never see that man again.

After he was long gone, Adelaide busied herself with the business of survival. She put on her boots and heavy coat and brought two buckets to the nearest coulee and filled them both with snow. They were still far from a true Montana winter. The fact that she could march to the coulee and back on foot served as proof.

Once back with the snow she took stock of her soft coal. The supply was nearly exhausted.. She needed wood. When the temperature dropped lower, a few handfuls of coal in the stove wouldn’t keep her alive. Maybe Grace knew a place to find firewood.

Adelaide washed the bed sheets that had collected Matthew’s blood. Between the washing and collecting snow, the short day was done.

In the night she felt a new cold, ten degrees chillier at least. Adelaide wondered if her sister felt the cold, if she was just as vulnerable – in that way, at least. She remembered looking down into that face, seeing them both holding back tears. Weren’t their eyes the same shade and shape?

Adelaide flipped back her covers and knelt before the steamer trunk. She wore the padlock keys around her neck now, looped through a length of string. She undid the locks and lifted the lid. Her sister slept inside.

Adelaide stepped back and returned to bed. She watched the trunk and waited. Her sister stirred when a burst of cold air came down under the roof and scoured the cabin. The grey, scaled skin rippled with an electric thrill. A yelp of surprise, even fear. Maybe her sister thought it was Matthew Kirby, scavenging again, but this time she held herself in check. It was easier to stay inside the trunk than be disciplined by Adelaide again.

Adelaide watched her sister with a farmer’s patience. In all her life she’d never tried to let her sister
out
.

“Elizabeth,” Adelaide whispered. She had no idea what she should say.

That first night Elizabeth lifted her head out of the trunk, but nothing more. She watched Adelaide closely. Adelaide returned the gaze. Neither sister slept. Both shivered from the Montana cold. They needed that wood, no question.

At dawn Adelaide pulled left the trunk open, the padlocks in a pile on the floor. She dressed and set out for Grace Price’s home. She had no horse. She’d be going on foot.

After walking an hour Adelaide felt she might have to crawl. The wind just wouldn’t let her keep her balance. She stopped to adjust her wool scarf, cover her mouth and nose. She unwrapped it and before she could loop the wool back around her face the wind pulled it away like a strong-arm robbery. She watched as the green scarf rose into the sky. The wind just took it. She started again but she looked west now and then to see the scarf fluttering to the earth and then lifting again, off into the long distances.

Another hour and it hardly seemed like she’d left her cabin behind. So tough to judge scale and distance out here. Did she have two more miles to go or ten? She’d brought water and pilot bread, what her father would’ve dismissed as “dog biscuits.” She crouched down to eat and drink so the wind wouldn’t steal her meal too.

By the third hour she felt nearly delirious. The cold turned her exposed face and neck raw. She couldn’t feel her nose or her lips. She should’ve invested in a horse as soon as she’d arrived. But there were always people coming by with one for her to ride. The folly of this march was evident. Walking 15 miles to get firewood? Why not just wait until Grace came by for her next visit? Was it really that she’d just wanted to get out of that cabin, leave behind the conflicted feelings now stirring for her sister? What a silly reason to risk one’s life.

This line of thinking turned into a kind of long-form harangue. She had done so many things wrong, so many times, and in so many ways. Simply showing up in Montana being one of the biggest. But there was also that night when her parents called to her from their bedroom. Had she known what they were going to do when she saw them lead Elizabeth into the farmhouse, both her parents carrying pistols? If they’d succeeded wouldn’t it have meant that, finally, at 31, Adelaide would’ve been free? Is that why, when they began to scream Adelaide’s name, she didn’t come running right away? Her deepest secret, her worst sin, was that she’d stayed outside the farmhouse praying that her parents would succeed. Then when it became clear they were being mutilated, destroyed, consumed, she’d decided not to save them because, in a sense, they would now be released. It had almost seemed like loving kindness to finally let her mother and father go, with all their guilt and self-blame.

She’d stood by as her parents tried to kill her sister.

She’d abandoned her parents to suffer violent deaths.

There it was. The truth of it. There it was. Three hours on her feet and she went to her knees in the snow. For all this she could never be forgiven.

For the first time since she’d arrived in Montana the winds died down until the world went quiet. The snow under Adelaide’s knees squeaked as she looked backward to her cabin, too far off to see anymore. Sunlight reflected off the snow and burned the horizon.

If she fell here, in all this nowhere, who would find Elizabeth? What might they do to her when they did?

Adelaide got back to her feet.

She walked another four hours before she reached Grace Price’s place.

There were two small cabins, side by side, both 10×10. An outhouse with two stalls right behind that. Nearby, a horse shed with a corral. No horses. What if Grace had gone off for a visit? What if, right now, she and Stan were at Adelaide’s place?

By now Adelaide had developed a limp in her right leg. Her foot hurt badly and she felt nothing but a constant burning on her cheeks and forehead. Burning was better than numbness. Numbness meant death.

Adelaide had finished her water and pilot bread two hours before. She hoped to find Grace and Stan sitting down for dinner. She fantasized about the meal. Maybe they’d even have meat. She hadn’t eaten any since coming to Montana.

Adelaide did find Grace at home. Curled up on the floor of one cabin. Stained with blood.

“Oh, Grace!” Adelaide shouted as she stumbled into the shack.

Grace Price had fallen into a kind of trance, breathing faintly and fast. Adelaide’s voice didn’t even register. It was only once Adelaide got down and touched Grace’s head that the sharp breaths ceased. The eyes fluttered but finally focused. She looked at Adelaide. Her face had gone pale with loss of blood; it was whiter than the lace curtains on Adelaide’s windows.

“What did she do?” Adelaide said. Had this all been some trick on Elizabeth’s part? Lull Adelaide into loving kindness just so she could slip out and attack others? Grace’s blood spread across the cabin floor just as Matthew’s had done.

“Stanley,” Grace whispered. “Find him for me.”

Adelaide looked around the cabin. The oven had been tipped over. Pots and pans tossed everywhere. There were two beds, one for a child and one for an adult, both flipped over. Two of the cabin’s windows were shattered, fragments of glass sprinkled inside the cabin.

“She broke in,” Adelaide said.

“Get Stanley,” Grace said. “They threw him in the root cellar.”

Grace had her right hand pulled tightly against her belly. Her blouse had soaked up so much blood. Adelaide, in shock, crawled on the floor and across the threshold. Only as she stood up outside did she look back to Grace.

“
They?
”

But Grace ignored her. Back to the short, sharp breathing. Back to that meditative state.

Adelaide scrambled to the root cellar. When she opened the door she saw a pair of small feet there at the bottom of the short stairway, the rest of the body lost in the shadows.

“Stan,” Adelaide said as she came down.

His feet, bare and nearly blue, shook at the sound of her voice. From the darkness came a cry, shrill and terrified.

“It’s Adelaide. It’s Adelaide.”

When she reached him she found his hands tied behind his back and a pillowcase thrown over his head. He’d thrown up inside it. She wiped at his face with the hem of her dress. He lay against Adelaide.

“That boy took my shoes,” he said quietly.

“Mudges.”

Grace said the name as if it was a poison.

It was fully nighttime now. When Adelaide brought Stan back into the cabin Grace wept with relief. The sight of her son gave her strength. She couldn’t very well lie there and let her son witness it. To protect him she composed herself. She let Adelaide help her up and dress her wound.

“Shot me right through my hand,” Grace said.

Grace’s limp right hand lay in Adelaide’s lap. The loss of blood had been bad but all the broken bones would be worse in the long term. The hand was bloated and almost purple. Adelaide tore apart a pillowcase and used the strips to wrap the palm. Stan sat next to his mother, his face pressed against her left shoulder.

“Why would they shoot you in the hand of all places?” Adelaide asked.

“He meant to get me in the head, I think,” Grace said. “But the shooter was a damn six-year-old.”

Elizabeth hadn’t done all this. Was it wrong to feel relief?

“I’m surprised a blind boy could even hit you in the hand.”

Stan pulled away from his mother. “Those boys can’t see?”

“They found my horses sure enough,” Grace said. “That woman came knocking at my door like she was just over for a visit. Meanwhile her children were in the corral.”

Adelaide stayed and cooked for them, cleaned up, tended to the property with Stan as her helper and, just as often, her teacher. Stan explained, as best he could, why there were two cabins side by side. “Mother Price” had come to the territories with Grace and Stan. Grace and Stan lived in one cabin while Mother Price had her own. One afternoon Adelaide asked where Mother Price was now. Had she gone back home to Washington?

“She’s behind the corral,” Stan said. And that was all.

Mrs. Glover rode over on the second day. Her regular visit turned into a rescue operation. Mrs. Glover’s property lay 10 miles west, and as soon as she was apprised of the situation she rode off again. By midday she returned with reinforcements. Six more lone women. Adelaide had seen some of these women at the dance but other faces were new. They cooked and cleaned and made repairs around Grace’s home.

On the third day Mrs. Glover pulled Adelaide aside. “Grace has asked me to lend you my gelding. But come next week you and I will ride into Sumatra and file for a loan so you can purchase your own. And we might as well get your equipment ordered then. If you wait until the spring you won’t get it soon enough.”

Mrs. Glover said all this casually, but Adelaide felt nearly crushed by the kindness. By the care into which she’d stumbled here among the lone women. She accepted the gelding gratefully and rode back to her cabin. She tied the horse up and when she went inside she crouched by the steamer trunk.

“Come out, Elizabeth. You don’t have to stay in there anymore.”

It took Elizabeth half the night to accept the invitation. By then Adelaide had fallen asleep in the great chair. She woke after midnight when she felt pressure on her thighs. Her sister was sprawled across the cabin floor, her enormous head cradled in Adelaide’s lap.

Adelaide became quite used to her sister spread out across the floor. Elizabeth liked to lie on her back and scritch herself side to side, grinding her scales against the wooden floorboards. The floor already showed scuffmarks. Letting her sister out was going to lead to more repairs. The wicker rocking chair was all but dust by now. Elizabeth liked to clamp her teeth down on it then thrash her head like she was bringing the chair down for a kill.

Funny how quickly this kind of thing became normal, or at least typical. Adelaide now let Elizabeth out night and day as long as they were alone. But where would it end? That was the question. Sooner or later her sister would want to go outside.

Adelaide was worrying over this point as she ate dinner. She’d tried giving her sister scraps from her plate, but root vegetables made Elizabeth vomit and she sniffed disdainfully at beans.

Adelaide was halfway through
The Tenant of Windfell Hall
for the second time. As she sat in the great chair with the book in her lap she watched her sister creep over to the spot on the floor where Matthew Kirby had almost lost his life. Where his blood still stained the boards. Elizabeth opened her mouth, unfurled her slick, gray tongue and lapped at the spot like a cat at milk. The tongue scratched on the boards again and Elizabeth purred so warmly it sounded sensual.