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Authors: Victoria McKernan

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BOOK: The Devil's Paintbox
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“Careful,” Aiden said. “Let's don't get sick.” But once they got started they couldn't help themselves. They moved
along the tables, eating pickles and radishes and more bread and butter and slices of ham.

“What's that?” Maddy pointed to a bowl of orange globes in syrup.

“Peaches!” Aiden whispered, unbelieving. “Do you remember peaches? We had ‘em once. Pa brought a tin from town one Christmas.”

“I don't remember. No.”

“Careful, they're real slippery.”

Maddy gingerly picked up a piece and took a little bite. Her lips shone with the sugary juice. “Oh, Aiden—it's like— I don't know what it's like!” Her eyes were enormous with delight. “It's like—like eating a cherub!”

“A cherub?”

“Those fat babies—from the Bible pictures!”

“What are you doing!” A high, sharp voice snapped beside them. Aiden looked up to see a girl, about his own age and almost as tall, in a very fine dress with pounds of ruffles. She wore a velvet ribbon at her throat and a fountain of curls on her shoulders.

“You're filthy!” the girl declared. “What are you doing here? Are you beggars? Look at them—” She spun around and squealed at her sister, equally dressed up in ribbons and bows, carrying a ruffled parasol.

“Shall I get Father?” the other girl said.

“We're with the wagon train.” Aiden put an arm around Maddy's shoulders and tried to stand like the confident Germans.

“Hmmph.” The girl tossed her curls imperiously. “Since when?”

“We just arrived,” Aiden said.

“Where's your wagon?”

“We don't have one,” he replied. “Um—we don't need one.”

“We're nomads,” Maddy broke in. “Like the Mongols from the steppes of Asia. Nomads sleep under the stars.”

The girl frowned uncertainly at her sister. “Well, we don't mind feeding beggars,” she said. “But you mustn't take the nice things. Not the peaches, not the cherries, certainly not the cake. There's plenty of beans and bread.”

“Oh, let them have an apple,” her sister said arrogantly. “There are some with spots.” They both laughed.

Suddenly there was a swish of skirts behind them and Aiden felt a light hand land on his shoulder.

“There you are, at last!” A woman bent and kissed Maddy on the cheek. Aiden caught a whiff of perfume. “Mr. Jackson said you would be coming today. I was so looking forward to meeting you!”

She was the most beautiful woman Aiden had ever seen, even in a magazine. She was small but not skinny. Not plump either. Aiden didn't know what to call it, just all round and soft-looking and beautiful in a way that made him strangely embarrassed to notice. She wore a dark green dress that looked finer than a regular dress but not show-off rich. She had sparkling blue eyes and thick brown hair that was caught up in a twist at the back of her head, from which little strands had escaped and curled around her face. She spoke with an accent he had never heard before.

“Forgive me,” she laughed, holding out one soft little hand. “I'm Mrs. Gabriel True; Marguerite True.” The silence hung just a little too long before Maddy spoke up.

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. True.” Maddy curtsied. “I'm
Madeline Lynch, called Maddy, and this is my brother Aiden.” She nudged him.

“Pleased to make—to meet you, ma'am,” Aiden stammered.

“The pleasure is mine.” Marguerite turned smoothly from the dumbstruck Aiden. “Annie, Polly.” She nodded at the two girls. “How nice you both look in your fine things! Let me introduce you to Miss Maddy Lynch and Mr. Aiden Lynch. They have come to join our wagon train.” She beamed at Maddy and stroked the girl's brittle hair. “You must be tired. Have you come a long way?”

“Yes, ma'am. From Madagascar,” Maddy said. Aiden kicked her ankle. The food had obviously restored her chatty ways. Marguerite blinked but barely missed a step.

“Yes. Well. Ah—and how is the weather there this time of year?”

“Torrid,” Maddy said earnestly. “Quite torrid.”

“Oh.” Marguerite smiled. “Well, then, you should like Washington Territory very much, I imagine, for the change.”

“Yes, that's why we're going.” Maddy smiled and Aiden saw that she too had fallen in love with Marguerite.

“Well, there you are!” A booming voice worked its way through a crowd of people and a giant of a man followed. He was six feet tall, broad-shouldered and handsome, with thick curly reddish brown hair. It was cut a little too long and slicked back with pomade in a way that didn't seem to go with his somber preacher's coat.

“Hello, girls.” He nodded at Polly and Annie. “You do look divine. May I have the pleasure of reserving a dance with you?”

“I don't believe preachers are supposed to dance.” Polly frowned.

“Only in front of golden calves they're not,” the man said easily. “Under the cottonwoods, they are certainly allowed.” He gave them a deep sweeping bow. “And who are your new friends, my dear?” He smiled at Marguerite, reached out and squeezed her little hand. Aiden saw her eyes brighten. It stabbed him in some queer place inside. He had seen his parents look at each other like that.

“Madeline and Aiden Lynch,” she purred. “This is my husband, the Reverend Gabriel True.”

“Pleased to meet you.” He shook Aiden's hand and bowed to Maddy.

“They've come a terribly long way,” Marguerite crooned in her lovely accent. “And now they're going west with us.”

“Well, that's grand!” If the Reverend True was confused as to why these urchin scarecrows were suddenly under his wife's wing, he didn't show it.

“Will you excuse us, girls?” Marguerite nodded at Annie and Polly. “I think our new friends will need a glass of lemonade after such a journey.” With a firm hand, she steered Aiden and Maddy away.

iden woke the next morning with the sour taste of vomit in his mouth, the hard ground beneath him and the rough scratch of a wool blanket against his skin. For a moment he had no idea where he was or what had happened to him; then reality came rushing in and he sat up with a jerk.

“Maddy?” The earth lurched beneath him and the sky swirled around so fast he toppled back to the ground, landing face-first in the damp grass. He had never felt so sick and weak in his life. “Maddy?”

He heard someone moving under the cottonwood tree nearby. A gray coat rustled and a man slowly unfolded himself from beneath its shelter.

“Shush,” he said hoarsely. “She's fine. Don't wake the entire camp.” Aiden leaned up on one elbow. The man stretched out a pair of long legs, rubbed his face and coughed.

“Where is she?”

“In the preacher's wagon. His little French wife is looking after her.”

“Marguerite?”

“Is that the one?”

“Yes. Don't you know her?”

“I've seen her.”

He was a foreign-looking man, though Aiden couldn't say
exactly what made him look different. He had very dark eyes and black hair, but his skin was no browner than a farmer's. He was taller than average, maybe six feet, but very thin. Aiden couldn't tell whether he was young or old. There were circles under his eyes and his hands trembled like an old man's, but his face was unlined and his hair had no gray. He wore blue wool pants from which a stripe on the leg had recently been torn.

“Are you a soldier?” Aiden asked.

“I'm a doctor.” The man reached into the pocket of his coat, pulled out a small brown medicine bottle, uncorked it and took a drink. One of his legs moved restlessly, the heel of his boot carving a little trench in the ground. Aiden didn't remember seeing him at the party, but all of the party felt like a dream right now. He remembered food and music, swirling dresses and Marguerite's blue eyes. He felt the coarse wool of the blanket against his legs and realized he was half-naked.

“Where are my pants?”

“There.” The stranger nodded toward the tree, where Aiden's trousers hung from a branch. “You had diarrhea every ten minutes, it was easier to leave them off.”

Aiden felt his face go hot. “Is Maddy all right?”

“Yes. She lost it all much quicker than you. People die this way, you know, eating too much after extreme starvation.”

“We were careful—about eating. I thought we were. I tried to be.”

“Careful for you would be a week of porridge and sweet tea, then maybe a potato and some broth,” the man said without emotion. He spoke perfect English, and with a Yankee accent. “How do you feel now?”

“Fine,” Aiden lied. He felt as if he had been turned inside out and dragged behind a horse. The man came over, squatted beside him and pressed his bony fingers to the inside of Aiden's wrist to check his pulse.

“Who are you?” Aiden asked. “Why are you tending me?”

“I told you, I'm a doctor. I had nothing else to do last night. I don't like parties. And you vomited on my boots.”

“I'm sorry.”

“My name is Carlos Javier Perez.” The man bowed his head slightly with an incongruous formality.

“I'm Aiden Lynch. Thank you for tending me. But I'm fine now.” Aiden struggled to get up.

“The sun has just come up, and it takes an hour to get all the wagons moving. You can rest.”

“I can't.”

“Why not?”

“Mr. Jackson won't take me if I'm not strong.”

“Mr. Jackson fully intends to take you. He offered me fifty cents to keep you alive.”

“What—damn! Sorry—”

“What's the matter? You think you're worth more?”

“No—”

“You don't want me to keep you alive?”

“No! I mean yes.”

“Then what's wrong?”

“He'll charge it to my account is what's wrong!”

Carlos laughed.

“It isn't funny!” Aiden staggered to his feet, pulling the blanket around him. He snatched his pants off the tree.

“No. I'm sorry, it isn't. But fifty cents—it's quite a fortune for one man's life.” Carlos wiped his eyes and sat back
down under the tree. He fished in the pocket of his coat and took out a copper penny.

“That is what it costs, lad.” He tossed the penny at Aiden's feet. “A penny's worth of shot and powder to kill one man dead.” He took another swallow from the medicine bottle. “I've seen a thousand men die at a penny apiece, so you're a fair bargain.” This time the medicine seemed to do him some good. His shoulders relaxed, he took a deep breath and his hands stopped twitching.

Aiden pulled his pants on and buttoned them up.

“Thank you, Doctor. I'm obliged. But I'll go now.” Doctor or not, this man was far too strange.

“I was serious about the porridge. Eat nothing else for a few days, maybe a bit of bread and honey. And rest. Ride in the wagon. I left some lemons with the preacher's wife, for you both have the scurvy as well.”

“What's that?”

“It's why your gums are bleeding.”

“Everyone bleeds by end of winter,” Aiden said. “Cress and purslane come up and that's the cure.” What kind of doctor was he if he didn't know a simple thing like that?

“Fine. I don't care if you do die.” Carlos closed his eyes. “But it's easy enough to stay alive now if you're not a complete idiot, so you might as well give it a try. Saves everyone the trouble of digging a grave.”

When he got to the group of wagons, Aiden realized he had no idea which one belonged to the Reverend Gabriel True. A couple of them he could rule out right away, as they looked far too rich to be a preacher's wagon, but the rest seemed pretty much the same. All around him Aiden saw
and heard the morning come to life. Babies wailed, a rooster crowed, mules stamped and snuffled. Children tumbled from wagons, bigger ones handing down the smaller ones.

The morning sun shone through the canvases, and he saw shadows of people inside, arms thin and spiderlike, made long by the slanted sun. He heard quiet murmurs, the rustle of clothing, the clomp of boots and the swish of oiled laces. The wagons were only feet apart, so every sound was heard. After living so long in isolation, Aiden found the closeness particularly strange. But for the next five or six months, this would be his world: all these people, a whole town on the march to a new world, with their chickens and children, pots and pans and clattering pails. Aiden felt a mix of thrill and horror.

Then he saw Jefferson J. Jackson heading toward the well. He walked with a slow, creaky shuffle that betrayed no specific ailment, just a lifetime of cold ground and numerous small woundings. His eyes were red and foggy, and Aiden suspected the liquor jug had not passed him by last night.

BOOK: The Devil's Paintbox
11.75Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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