(no subject)

[papagena]

"'Their own home is in the town on the road. Their parents, and brothers, and sisters, will be glad to see them again; and so will the little girl and boy to see them. The... the..."

Henrietta watched her pupil, Louis, a little scamp with a swath of dark hair from the room downstairs, stare hard at the next word in the story. His tongue slid over his lower lip in frustration.

"S-stage...." Louis muttered. "Stage-coach... The stage-coach which only brings d-dust to you and me, as it rolls along, brings joyful faces --"

There was a clatter from the entryway and Louis stopped. Henrietta held his place with a finger, glancing up, as her brother Charles strode into the room. He flashed a wide smile while whisking off his hat, looking briefly at Louis before fixing onto Henrietta.  Something in his eyes begged to speak. 

"Mr. Clarke!" Louis burst out before Charles got a word in. 

"Hello there, young mister. Did Miss Henrietta teach you just as well as I do?" He ruffled the boy's hair and grinned over his head.

"Louis did a wonderful job today," Henrietta said as she gathered the boy's schoolwork from their table and gently closed the book. "On account of my tutoring, I'm sure."

"Say hello to your mother." Charles led Louis to the front door of their tiny apartment and shut the door behind him. Henrietta stood, watching from the doorway of the Clarke's sitting room. 

"How was your meeting?" Henrietta asked after Charles turned around. His cheerful veneer had melted somewhat, revealing a few more lines on his face that she had not noticed before.

"The plans are apparently set in stone. This confirms it." Charles reached into his coat and produced a paper, which he handed to Henrietta. Her eyes scanned the flowery language. 

"To Oregon?" she repeated the words on the paper, throat dry. "Indians? Charles--"

"I've already been in contact with a man about the journey... a Mr. Boyd from Nauvoo. I saw his name in the newspaper and thought it would be wise to write him for more information, in the event I was re-assigned."

He stood at the window, watching the muddy city street below. Rain had been pattering at the glass much of the day, and while Henrietta enjoyed the change that predicted a showery spring to follow the snowy winter, now she felt that it matched her mood appropriately. Grey and gloomy. Henrietta sighed, pushing the paper away on the table. 

"Etta, you don't have to accompany me," Charles said, turning suddenly to face her with a pained expression, as though everything around him were about to disappear. "I'm bound to be foolish and make a lot of mistakes. I don't know anything other than city people... and they want me to minister to the Indians?" He sucked in a breath. "Have you heard of the massacre of the Whitmans?"

Henrietta held her tongue for a minute as she gazed about the room. They had large bookshelves filled with every genre imaginable, fine pieces of furniture passed down to them from their deceased parents, a comfortable warmth emanating from the fireplace. The rain was kept outside where it belonged. Everything was just so - it had taken them two or three years to finally settle and become comfortable in their apartment. Having come from a fine large home when their parents were alive, it was a struggle. 

"You can't... refuse?" Henrietta hesitantly asked, predicting his answer.

"I signed the paper. Even though they knew I've only worked with immigrants mostly, they were so persuasive -- most of the cost of transport is paid by the mission board -- and who am I to refuse if it's from the Lord?" Charles didn't sound entirely convinced though. "As I said, just because I'm leaving doesn't mean you must accompany me --"

"Charles, what else would I do? I am nearly 26 years old, without any prospects of a suitor - " the words tumbled easily from her lips; she'd grown used to saying them, which saddened her. But something about the prospect of a journey instead of a suitor was making her heart beat a little faster. "I take in very little money by being a seamstress. Besides, who would mend your clothes on the way there?" 

He just quirked an eyebrow at her. 

"It wouldn't do to have you do this by yourself." 

"I had hoped I wouldn't be. I'm thinking of asking John to come along."

"John!" Henrietta couldn't help but snort out a laugh. "John Smith! He'd sooner disappear with your oxen than help you over a mountain. Even more reason why I should come along. He's shiftless, shady..."

"And joining us for supper tonight." Charles loosened his neck tie, eyes aside.

"Oh. Shall I ask for a room up for him too? Will he start paying rent?" Henrietta replied, rolling her eyes. The man had weaseled his way into their life enough, taken advantage of Charles' hospitality, as far as she was concerned. Ministering to the poor is how Charles would call it, and he even one time said that his association with Mr. Smith had given him access to other groups of people - but in Henrietta's sight, Charles was amused by this Mr. Smith and his tales of Romania or England or wherever he originated from, and all his strange customs and habits. "The man is a stubborn atheist." 

"First of all, you know he hardly eats anything - "

"- An insult to Mrs. Shriver." Henrietta said, referring to their landlady who cooked suppers for her tenants.

"And," Charles plowed ahead, "If he's an atheist, he ought to receive a warm supper every now and then, for I imagine little else warms his soul."

"Well, I can't argue with that." Henrietta took another glance about the room, as though fixing it, the way it was, in her mind one final time. "I'll let Mrs. Shriver know. And... when will we leave?"

"Next week."

Comments

[pearl_smithers]

“That’s the last of the books.”

“Thank you Mr Drew.” Pearl reached down and hefted the stack of dusty leather volumes, stealing a quick glance at the topmost titles, and yearning to be out the door and beyond the censorious eye of Mr Drew. Local schoolmaster, and self proclaimed scholar and gentleman. “Give Miss Bishop my thanks.”

“Miss Smithers!” Halfway to the schoolroom door, she halted in her tracks.

“Y-yes sir?” She turned, forcing herself to remain calm.

“Miss Smithers,” The schoolmaster regarded her sharply, floorboards creaking as he approached. “I remember—a couple of years ago, you remarked to Miss Bishop that you admired her little school so much, with its noble goal at attempting to bring some truth and light to the savages, that you would like to set one up yourself. “ He paused, coming to stand so close over her she felt as if the broad brim of his high top hat was casting a shade over both of them, despite the cool, shadowless dim of the school room. “While I applaud any who strive to set themselves to doing the handiwork of the Lord, I would hope that you have no intention of embarking upon such a dangerous, and quite possibly fatal venture alone. As high as my regard for Miss Bishop might be, I am surprised each time I see her, that her spirit and body have not yet been sundered from each other by the red man’s tomahawk.“

“Mr Drew—thank you, but—I have no wish to do anything so—fatal, as you would say—“ She turned to go.

“Miss Smithers.” His fingers wrapped around her arm.

“Miss Goldilocks?” A voice came from the entrance, both turned to see a figure with long black hair, wearing a red jacket, and deerskin leggings, leaning in the doorframe.

“John!” She cried, calling the young Dakota by the name the local villagers had given him. Pearl managed to wrench her arm free and joined her friend in the doorway, dropping a couple of books as she stumbled outside, releasing a shuddering breath.

The young Dakota warrior gathered up the books she dropped, and joined her as she hastened down the dusty road in the direction of home.

“I am glad you came,” Now she spoke in Dakota, “I didn’t expect he would give me so much trouble. He’s never liked either of us, but—“

“I didn’t know you had trouble, “John glanced over his shoulder, “why is he so upset now, when you are almost leaving?”

“He disapproves of me, and what I want to do.” She hugged the books a little tighter.

“Because he is a fool.” As they walked along, she noted the red of his jacket was like that of the Canadian soldiers to the north. She wondered briefly how he had come by it. A gift, something traded south. A spoil of war? But she did not ask, her people were at peace with his people, and others matters were no concern of hers.

“When are you leaving? You said you were going with two others?” He flipped some hair over his shoulder and glanced at her, brow furrowing a bit as if in worry.

“Two other families yes, the Vandenbergs and the Bradys, but the Vandenbergs are the ones who hired me, to help with the children.”

“They’ll need the help.” He chuckled. Both knew the family, whose five children, the youngest still a babe in arms, kept the homestead in a constant uproar of laughter, chaos, and broken dishes. “When do you all depart?”

“In a couple more days, I nearly finished packing.”

“You’re taking these books.”

“Yes.” He knew her too well, “I’ve packed near everything. I’m taking father’s old pistol, the one with the silver, and the music box, the quilts, my new bloomer dresses…” She rambled on as they trudged on, finally coming within sight of her sister’s house. She stopped. Tomorrow might be the last time she would ever see the little brown and white shuttered affair. Every season, men coming back East spoke of how many had died on the trail. Some due to foolishness, or quarrels with the Indians, she was certain most of these could be avoided—but there was always the chance.

Several yards ahead of her, John stopped and looked back. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” She pressed on and drew abreast of him. “What do you know about the West?”

“As I have told you, little—I have only been there a few times, first it’s much scrub, then it flattens out, nothing but tall waving grass—taller than a horses’ chest.”

“The sea of grass.” She murmured softly in English, she switched back to Dakota. “Is there anything else?”

“Be careful.” He stopped, they had reached her sister’s house, “And never trust the Pawnee.”

“Never?” She bit back a giggle.

“Never—“ He leaned forward and dropped his voice, “not many speak of it now, not even the white soldiers, but until my father’s time, they slew any young maids they could capture, binding them up and shooting them full of arrows. My father said there was a cousin of mine who was taken—and we sent men to save her—but she had bled to death already.”

She shivered a little, feeling the sweat spring up everywhere from her neck to her fingertips, and wiped a hand on her dress to keep from messing the books. “Thank you. I know the soldiers trust the Pawnee but—“

“Because all the other tribes hate them, and so they have sold themselves to the soldiers.” John’s voice possessed a distaste she had rarely heard. He glanced from the books in his hands to her sister’s house. “We should say goodbye.”

“Yes.” She sighed and took the books from him. Both had more occasion than they could ever have wished to hear her sister express displeasure at inviting “reeking savages” into house.

“But before you go, I wanted to give you something.” He reached into his coat pocket and produced a bundle, which he placed atop the stack of books.

She thanked him and bidding farewell, staggered into the house.

It was not until after supper that she had occasion to peruse the books. To her astonishment, in the first stack alone she found a copy of The Scarlet Letter, Jane Eyre, and sundry novels by Maria Edgeworth and Anne Radcliffe, along with some volumes collecting the translated tales of foreign authors, and a compilation of the stories of Washington Irving and many others that would provide amusement enough for months on the trail. She packed as many as she could carefully away in her trunk, with the exception of a few containing ornate engravings of equally flowery poems, that seemed more suited to her sister’s taste.

Lastly, she turned her attention to the bundle John had given her, unfolding the rough cloth revealed a length of smooth, supple leather, wide at one end, narrow at the tip. A rifle case.
She spread it out on the bed and smoothed it carefully. Dainty, gleaming beads dangled from the tassels at both ends. Upon the case itself was an elegant design in quillwork, lines of green from which blossomed flowers with sharp petals, most a rich shade of pink. Pearl smiled as she traced the design, her favorite color, they had remembered.

She rewrapped the case, and gently placed it in the trunk, which she shut and locked. Then placing her boots beside it, and putting out the lamp, she abandoned herself to dreams till morning.