Walks the Fire (22 page)

They came to her in the night.
For the first couple of hours, she slept fitfully, wondering in semi-consciousness why the sounds of a blizzard should cause her such alarm. The stomach cramps did not subside, and Jesse awoke in misery. Her breathing came in short gasps as she struggled to rise from her pallet. Groping about in the darkness she reached to light the lamp she had left on the floor. A gush of warm liquid revealed the cause of her discomfort.

“Oh, my Lord,” she whispered aloud, “my Lord—not tonight—not here—please, Lord.”

The answer to her prayer came in a new wave of contractions.
Yes, my child
—
tonight.
Jesse breathed deeply and readied herself for the next onslaught.

Yes, Jesse
—
here.
The answers were not audible, and yet her heart heard,
and I will be with you, just as I was with you when you walked the fire, just as I was there in the valley of death, just so, I will be here.

Jesse’s mind grew calmer. The contractions lessened and she thought clearly. She would need clean water, a knife, something to wrap the child in.

The child,
she thought in wonder. Tonight she would hold Rides the Wind’s child in her arms! A particularly strong contraction came and Jesse cried out—a low whimper that grew as the contraction intensified and ended in a shrill “oh.”

She bit her lips to silence herself, but it was too late. Canard had heard. He was standing uncertainly just on the other side of the ragged quilt he had hung for her privacy.

“Madame, what is it?” he asked anxiously. “You need help?” His voice was warm with concern.

Jesse took a deep breath. “I am fine,” she gasped. “I am to have my baby tonight, it seems.”

Canard stood on the other side of the partition, unwilling to move it without her permission.

“Do you know how to do this thing?”

Jesse waited through another contraction before answering. “This is not my first; years ago I had a son. He died—a baby—fell off the wagon. I have helped among the Lakota. I will be all right.” Another contraction cut short her reply. She moaned softly.

Canard asked again, “What can I do?”

Jesse silently called to the Lord for help. To Canard, she replied, “Water, a knife, paper, and s-s-s-some-thing-to-wrap-the-ba-by.” The last words came out in short gasps. She had expected a long labor. It was not to be.

Canard moved quickly. Beneath the hanging quilt she saw shadows dance as he, too, lit a lamp. The soddy door opened and closed. Two contractions later a pail of fresh water was slid under the quilt. Something was moved on a shelf, and neatly folded brown paper and a knife appeared. Finally, a bar of lye soap and a soft cloth were added to the row of things on the floor.
Thank you, Lord,
Jesse thought
, for supplying what I need even before I ask.

Two more contractions came, one upon the other. There was little respite after that. At one point, Canard peeked around the edge of the quilt. His face showed genuine concern, but Jesse rejected his help. Entirely consumed by her own body, engulfed at once by physical pain, longing for Rides the Wind’s presence and a desire to be elsewhere, Jesse clung to her privacy. “I-don’t-want-you-here!” she spat out between clenched teeth. Canard mumbled an apology and was gone. He paced violently up and down the length of the cabin, totally immersed in the miracle occurring just the other side of the tattered quilt.

She came at dawn. Howling immediately and waving her tiny fists, a girl was born in the sod cabin of Pierre Canard, the trapper. Shaking with fatigue and delight, Jesse whispered familiar words to the baby,
“Hoksicala wan icimani hi,
”
a baby traveler has arrived. Soaring Eagle, you have a sister.

She managed to cut the cord, clean herself, and wash the child before collapsing. Canard threw back the quilt that had walled him out, swooped upon the mother and child, and tended both. He produced a clean comforter for Jesse’s pallet and lifted her back onto it to rest. Jesse stirred and was amazed to see him deftly dressing the tiny infant in a gown. He tied a bonnet over the thick dark hair before wrapping her in a small quilt and handing her to her mother.

Jesse whispered her thanks and asked, “But where…?”

Canard did not let her finish. “I am not so old as I look, madame. These belonged to my wife, to Suzette. We dreamed together of a family, a home. Five more years of trapping, and we would return home to St. Louis. But my dreams, they die. Suzette—our baby.” His voice shook. He shrugged and ended his tale, “Still, I keep the trunk full of memories, full of dreams that have died. You take for this little one what she is needing. My Suzette, she love to sew. She make many baby things. Take, too, what is there from my Suzette. Whatever you need. She would be happy to know she helps. She always was busy that way—helping others.”

His voice failed him and Canard rushed outside, returning later to find Jesse and her daughter asleep.

When Jesse woke a few hours later, it was to the wails of a hungry baby and the smell of strong coffee. Canard bustled about the cabin cooking and cleaning as if readying his home for a royal guest. Hearing the baby cry, he approached the quilt and inquired, “Is Mama hungry too?” Jesse said yes, and quickly found herself presented with “enough flapjacks to choke a mule.” She smiled grimly at the memory that had resurrected the phrase from long ago. Homer had used it when he demanded his breakfast the morning after Jacob’s birth. Jesse had climbed out of bed and complied.

This birth, however, and the blizzard, had placed her at the mercy of Pierre Canard. He seemed bent on showering the mother and child in his care with all the attention he had stored up for his own wife and child and never used. But Jesse would have none of it.

“Nonsense,” she replied to Canard’s insistence that she rest. “The Lord has blessed me with health and strength. I will not be a burden to you. As soon as the storm is over, we must return to the people. My son will be looking for me.” Even as she said it, Jesse’s head swirled, and she found herself scooting back down under her comforter.

Canard said softly, “The Lord has blessed you, yes—and you must ask, too, to be humble, madame. Perhaps God has sent you to me, so that I can help you. What do you say to that?”

The blizzard raged, hurling so much snow against the soddy’s door that Canard was barely able to squeeze outside to tend the horses. Jesse realized that returning to the village anytime soon would be impossible.

When her baby was two days old, Jesse found the courage to sort through the trunk Canard had moved to her corner. It contained enough baby clothes to keep her child in clean linen for several days. Two calico dresses in good repair were hauled out and washed for Jesse. By letting out the waists, letting down the hems, and ignoring the too-short sleeves, Jesse partly regained her appearance as a white women. She left her hair braided, though, and refused Canard’s offer of a pair of his shoes when they discovered that Jesse’s feet could not be forced into Suzette’s tiny shoes.

“I hate them, anyway,” she reasoned. “Moccasins are so much more comfortable. Besides,” she added, “these were a gift from someone very dear.” Canard dropped the subject of shoes and returned to admiring the baby, whose grunts and sighs sounded from the crate he had fashioned into a cradle.

“And what is this lovely little girl’s name, eh?” He questioned.

“I haven’t a name… yet,” Jesse answered quickly. “She came too soon.”

The blizzard finally abated on the third day of her daughter’s life, and Jesse ventured outside. The world was a sea of brilliant white. From the corral she heard a familiar nicker. Red Star stood watching her, eyes and ears alert. The flood of emotion she felt at the sight and sound of her pony surprised Jesse. She buried her face in the red mane and sobbed. Canard peeked out the door and nodded. “Good,” he mumbled, “it is good—she cry, she feel better.”

Embarrassed by her emotional display, Jesse hesitated to return to the soddy, but a hungry wail precluded further privacy. Jesse hurried in, grabbed the baby, and retreated quickly to her corner. Canard pretended he had not seen her tears, and she offered no explanation.

As time passed and Jesse recovered physically, she grew restless. There seemed no way to leave the trapper’s soddy. The people would have moved to their spring camp. Soaring Eagle would search—but was there any chance he would find her? Canard was a gentleman, it seemed, but the thought of staying alone with him filled her with dread. With no idea what to do, Jesse stayed on and prayed for answers. It seemed she heard only silence. As the days passed, she lost all joy in her child. To look upon her dark eyes and hair was to look into the face of Soaring Eagle, who looked so like his father.

Canard cooed over the child, making himself ridiculous. He coaxed Jesse with suggestions for a name, but she would not decide. Jesse fed the baby and cared for her, but once the infant’s needs were met, she put her back into her cradle-crate and either sat in a chair near the window to stare outside or fled outside to spend fresh grief with Red Star. Her eyes searched the horizon for a sign of Soaring Eagle.

Canard waited for Jesse to recover, but recovery did not come. Instead, she sank into an ever-deepening mire of depression and indecision. She slept often, worked little, and did only what she had to to keep her child alive.

Lord where are you?
she
prayed.
I cannot help myself… why won’t you help me? Where is Soaring Eagle
—
why does he not come?
The words seemed to hit empty air and fall back to the cabin floor. She finally tired of sending them up.

Canard watched her downward spiral and grew increasingly desperate to force a change. He cooked well and tried to tempt Jesse with creative dishes. She ate whatever he made without relish and continued to lose weight. He sang and danced with the baby, but Jesse turned away.

At last, his patience spent, Canard grew angry, and by accident discovered a way to help Jesse recover. He began storming about the cabin, scolding Jesse. “You tell me you have a heavenly Father who will help you with the birth of this baby, eh? And where is he now, eh? He goes away now and leaves you to be so sad. Poor madame, eh? You have a baby, madame! You have a healthy baby, no? Oh, yes, the husband, he is gone… but
look
what he give you! My Suzette, when she leave, she take the baby with her! Pierre, he get
nothing!
Well, look, madame,” Canard rushed over to the trunk. He opened it and began tossing things out. “I tell you I will help you find these people—if that is what you wish. We will look until we find your band—your son. I tell you I will help you find a new life—if that is what you wish. But you sit and say nothing. Look here, madame. You want to die, Pierre has the coffin, just for you. See, here.” He measured its length, holding his arms apart as he approached Jesse. “You fit just fine. So you die, madame—you no care for baby anyway. I raise this child. I will love her.
You!”
he pushed Jesse back onto her cot, now piled with the contents of the trunk. “You go ahead. Die! Die now!”

Canard huffed over to the sleeping infant, picked her up, crate and all, and took her outside. Jesse paid no attention to him. Rather, she stared about her at the bits of cloth Pierre had scattered in his anger. Mechanically, she began picking them up. Some were cut into diamonds. Others were narrow strips. Then she found it. It was half hidden by a mended camisole, but she uncovered it.
A log cabin patch,
she thought,
just like my log cabin quilt back home… Home?
Her
brain shut out the painful memory. She began to sort the remnants around her.

Jesse rushed over to the trunk and rummaged about feverishly.
There! In the corner.
It was a bit rusty, but it was a needle.
Thread,
she thought.
I need thread.
She picked out the basting from the discarded camisole. The project consumed her. She sorted and folded, and sorted, and put away. And somewhere, in the work of sorting, God began his work of covering over her pain.

Hours later, when Pierre returned, he found Jesse seated by the window, stitching. He saw no trace of the trunk’s contents, except for the few piles of what Pierre called rags. They were sorted by color and shape, and they were the beginning of Jesse’s healing.

Bad weather continued. Spring was late that year, and Jesse was glad. It provided an excuse for the absence of a search party. It prevented her from having to make a decision about where she would go. She waited to be found. Pierre became a treasured friend. They haggled over baby names, drank gallons of coffee, and hummed lullabies.

Jesse pieced a quilt. It began as a log cabin, but then she ran out of logs and added a border and a row of the diamonds. Too soon she was out of the patches Suzette had cut. Pierre offered a few more precious bits of cloth so that Jesse could keep working. She added them to the quilt.

As the patchwork grew, Jesse’s spirits soared. She sang lullabies to the baby, beginning with the one she had learned from Rides the Wind.

a wa wa wa

Inila istin ma ma

a wa wa wa

Be still, sleep.

One crisp, cold morning, she went out to see Red Star and was surprised to realize that the mare’s greeting no longer caused her anguish. In its place there was a peaceful joy at the familiar sound. The memories rushed in, but Jesse smiled through them and stroked Red Star’s soft muzzle. “Red Star,” she said aloud, “Soaring Eagle has not come. I cannot find my way alone. Pierre tells me of the white greed for land. They battle the Lakota, which they call the Sioux. I wonder what it will bring to us.”

As her grief retreated, Jesse’s certainty grew that in the spring she would return to white society. Soaring Eagle had not come, and she began to believe that Howling Wolf had been the instrument God used to guide her into his will for the new baby. Jesse stitched, and cooked, and prayed for answers. They did not come all at once, but she no longer felt that her prayers went unheard.