The Darkness You Fear Page 8

  There is another advantage to following my husband’s path. We do not encounter nearly as many graves as when following the old trails. There are hundreds of these graves along the trail, but most were dug in the early years. By now, there are fewer natural hazards, except disease, which is the most dangerous thing of all. The more of us who travel this route, the more cholera and other human-caused diseases plague us.

  June 4, 1845

  I have spoken too soon. Yesterday we came across a fresh grave, and I anxiously read the name of the person carved on the wooden cross, hoping I would not recognize it. I had another reason to examine the gravesite. I wished to learn the cause of death, whether accident or disease or one of the natural tragedies of life.

  The grave gave no clue, but I choose to believe that this woman’s passing came from natural causes. As hard as it is to follow the less-traveled trails that my husband leads us on, I have come to prefer it. The water is less fouled, the air less dusty. I believe it is a healthier, if harder, route.

  But there is a reason that most of us choose to stick to the tried and true trails. The Indians tend to stay away from them, for they understand the dangers of disease and nervous men.

  When next it was Jonathan’s turn to lead, he took us father away from the others than ever before. At first I was glad for it, for the land was flat and without ruts, and there was plenty of food for the animals. The children ran alongside the wagon and piled wood into the back. When we came to a stream, it was unspoiled. No cattle had trampled away the bank; the water was clear and fresh, and tasted like ambrosia.

  Jonathan was driving the lead wagon, and I was walking beside him, thankful that we were not eating the dust of the other wagons. There was a flicker of movement on the rocky hillside to the left and the flash of a white-tailed deer.

  “Jed!” Jonathan cried, pointing at the retreating animal.

  Jed appeared from the other side of the wagon, unslinging his rifle. Without hesitation, he took aim and fired.

  The deer tumbled end over end, slammed into a large boulder, and lay there unmoving. “Woo-hoo!” Jed cried.

  Jonathan was laughing, a welcome sound. We had stopped moving forward, and Gus Catledge and Bart Parsons joined us and slapped Jed on the back. Jonathan jumped off our wagon, handing the reins to me. Then the men went toward the deer, with Jed proudly at the center of the group. After a moment, Edwin followed. But when Cager and Becky—who are always together now—tried to join them, they were waved back.

  Jonathan was just reaching the deer’s side when three Indians came around the boulder. Both parties looked surprised. The men of our group reacted first. Only Jonathan and Bart were armed. Jed still carried his rifle, but he had not reloaded. Jonathan and Bart raised their rifles while two of the Indians retreated behind the rocks, but the third stood with his hands stretched outward.

  He pointed to the dead deer and then back to himself. Jonathan was shaking his head vigorously. It appeared that Gus was trying to calm him. I saw Edwin glance back at me, and I waved to him furiously to return. But he was looking to his older brother, who was standing stalwartly at his stepfather’s side.

  Jonathan suddenly raised his rifle and shot into the air.

  It shocked everyone. The Indian bolted into the maze of boulders on the hillside. Jed furiously began to reload his rifle. Gus and Bart looked ready to run back to the wagons. Jonathan shouted at them, and they took hold of the deer’s legs, lifted it, and stumbled back to us.

  They hoisted the carcass into the back of our wagon, and by unspoken agreement, we went on, out of sight of the small hills we had been traveling through, until we reached a wide, flat spot between the curves of the river, so that we were surrounded on three sides by water. We circled the wagons on the unprotected side and brought all the animals inside the circle.

  “Keep an eye out, Edwin,” Jonathan said as he pulled the deer onto the ground and dragged it to the lone tree within our enclosure big enough to hang it from. I almost said something, and my husband saw it, so he added, “Stay inside the circle of wagons, but keep a watch.”

  Later, the men started a fire, and we gathered around it. I looked back at the deer, hanging there in the tree. There was a wound in its neck, but there was also one in its hindquarters. Jonathan had jerked the arrow out of the neck wound, but not before I’d seen it.

  Jed had hit the deer in the rump, but the Indians had struck the killing blow. By rights, the deer was theirs. Not only that, but I had noticed that all three Indians had been emaciated, with jutting ribs.

  But I did not say anything then.

  The men were jubilant now that the danger was past, even Gus Catledge, who was normally the most peaceful of men. Jed and Edwin were so excited that they could barely contain themselves. The women were quieter, and I sensed that I was not the only one troubled by the unfairness of what we had done.

  The whiskey flowed freely that night, and it was left to Jed and Edwin to keep watch. I went to bed early. When Jonathan finally joined me, he was too drunk to be amorous for once, for which I was thankful. I waited until he was quiet before I spoke.

  “Jonathan,” I whispered. “Don’t you think we could have shared?”

  “What are you talking about?” he grumbled. I should have heard the warning in his voice.

  “I think those poor savages were starving,” I said.

  He rose up on one elbow. His free hand shot out and took me by the throat, and he squeezed until I could barely breathe. He put his face just inches from mine, his foul breath flowing down on me. “Don’t you question me, woman,” he growled. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re sorry you married me. You wish you still had that worthless husband of yours who kept you in rags.”

  He shoved me away. I fell backward, and my head struck the tent post. I felt the blood flowing from where I bit my tongue and cut my lip.

  “You aren’t the only one with regrets,” he said. “You seem capable of only producing girls and boys who might as well be girls, for all the good they do. Now leave me alone. Be glad I’m here to protect you.”

  He rolled over and went to sleep immediately, snoring loudly, as he usually did when he was drinking. But I didn’t sleep at all that night. My mind searched for an escape, but there has never been a woman more at the mercy of her man than I, so far from civilization. I have nowhere to run, no one to protect me. The other families will stay out of it; it isn’t their business. Jed would probably blame me rather than his stepfather. Edwin might be tempted to try to save me, and I fear what Jonathan would do to him.

  For this reason, I have decided that I must never tell anyone.

  June 5, 1845

  This morning, it was as if Jonathan couldn’t remember what he had done. He stumbled out of the tent and didn’t come back to my side until darkness had fallen. As we cooked breakfast, the other women were quiet, and I saw them looking at my cut lip. I told them I had stumbled into the tent post upon rising in the night, but I could tell they didn’t believe me.

  As we set out on today’s journey, the Catledges realized that they were missing the small pony that Becky sometimes rode. The little creature had been inside our protective circle along with the other animals—along with us.

  Edwin and Jed said they hadn’t seen anything, but they looked abashed. I suspect that they fell asleep while on watch.

  I thank God that the Indians did not seek retribution, but only what was fair.

  June 7, 1845

  I know not how to speak of this, but I must. Sarah has gone to her heavenly reward. May God give her the happiness she never found here on Earth. A fever overcame her in the night. It was quick, so quick that it still hasn’t sunk in. Jonathan is silent, brooding. The others in our party try to comfort him, but it is as if he doesn’t know they are there. I tried to comfort him as well, but he shook me off angrily, staying by Sarah’s side to the end.

  She spoke in a fever, but what she said chilled me. “Where’s Mama?” she asked.

/>   Jonathan tried to shush her, to put his gnarled fingers against her lips. “Rest, daughter,” he murmured.

  “Papa?” Her little voice rose. “Where’s Mama? Why do you hurt her?”

  Jonathan froze for a moment, then said, “Mama is at peace, Sarah. She is waiting for you.”

  The others had given us privacy. No one else overheard Sarah’s words.

  I turned away, tears in my eyes. But beneath the sorrow, I felt a strange foreboding come over me. Why do you hurt her?

  Sarah didn’t speak again, but simply stopped breathing. We will bury her in the morning. Jed is by the campfire, carving her name into a wooden cross. Edwin has gone to the Catledge camp, led there by Becky. Nan and Mattie are silent.

  I fear that things will change now. Jonathan always showed kindness to Sarah. He was always careful not to upset her.

  Now I fear that there is no one he cares about.

  June 9, 1845

  Jonathan refuses to bury his daughter. He has wrapped her in canvas and commanded that I sew it tight.

  “But, Jonathan,” I began, but he glared at me with such venom that I fell silent. I set to work. He placed her gently in the back of the wagon. The others of the company are watching in disbelief, but thus far no one has said anything.

  June 11, 1845

  Gus Catledge and Bart Parsons have confronted my husband about Sarah. The odor has become unbearable. The weather is unseasonably warm, and her canvas shroud is not keeping foul-smelling liquid from escaping. I fear our wagon will be unusable before long.

  “It’s unclean!” Bart shouted when Jonathan turned his back on him.

  Jonathan whirled, his voice low and mean. “I promised Sarah I would take her to Oregon, and I’m going to fulfill that promise.”

  “That’s crazy talk,” Gus said.

  Jonathan wouldn’t listen. He climbed into the back of the wagon and closed the flap, and no one dared follow.

  June 12, 1845

  Jonathan is in a rage. I’m afraid he will hurt someone.

  In the night, someone took Sarah’s body away. No one will confess to the deed, and everyone is avoiding Jonathan, so in his eyes, we are all guilty. I noticed—and thankfully Jonathan did not—that Becky returned his gaze defiantly. I also noticed that the small marker that Edwin had carved Sarah’s name into is missing from the back of the wagon.

  I am secretly relieved that she is gone, though I don’t dare say so to Jonathan.

  Chapter Nine

  Journal of Tad Marshall

  I do not know what day this is. I write this in darkness, filling the pages copiously, for there is no need to save blank pages for the future. Here at the end, I’ve found a strange peace, an acceptance of my fate. I’m calm enough to actually think about these horrible events without fear.

  I will write this down as if it is happening now, for my memory is clear, here at the end. The pain and the fear are still in my mind, but I find I can write about them dispassionately. I will relive the last day of my life.

  ***

  The scribble-scrabble of tiny feet on bare rock wakes me up. Something licks my cheek. I try to slap away the rough tongue, but it moves to my other cheek and then down my neck. Small, sharp teeth gnaw into my skin.

  My guttural cry echoes down long corridors of blackness.

  Awareness of who I am and where I am finally comes to me.

  Gold. I am in the Blue Bucket Mine, and my friends are somewhere up above. Surely they heard me fall and are coming to rescue me.

  Or are they? The doubt grows, and suddenly I am certain they aren’t coming. Without me, there is more gold for each of them. They will tell themselves it isn’t their fault. They will make the convenient assumption that the fall has killed me.

  “Help!” I shout as loud as I can.

  The sound seems to bounce right back, unlike the scrabbling sounds of the small animal, which echoed for a long distance. Strange. It is as if someone is holding a blanket overhead, muffling my voice.

  “Help!” I try to cry again.

  This, time no sound emerges at all. I feel my throat, and there is a hole where my voice box should be. It is big enough to put a finger into and rough around the edges. I cough at the sensation, and a fear that is greater than the pain takes over my consciousness.

  No one is going to save me. I am going to have to save myself.

  I try to rise, but one leg has no feeling in it at all, and I tumble onto my face. I reach down and touch the jagged shard jutting out of my thigh. There is no pain at first, only a numb sensation of something wrong, as if this is happening to someone else. As I run my fingers over the shard, a dim realization comes to me that it is my bone.

  Then the pain strikes, a jolt running up my leg and into my chest, exploding into my head. I don’t think after that, I just scream.

  Again I wake to tiny feet. They are walking up my chest. Liquid is flowing down my neck and over my shoulders. The pain in my leg is now a heavy throb, as if my leg is buried under rock. When I try sitting up, the leg is jarred and the pain jolts me again, and I scream but somehow remain conscious. My fear of the creature eating me is greater than the pain.

  I grab at the small weight on my chest, but it moves too quickly. The scribbling sound moves away and behind me. After a time, I hear it approach again.

  I lay back, waiting, feeling helpless.

  A light appears above me, and at first I am certain my mind is creating it out of fear and pain. Then the face of a young man appears, deep eyes staring down at me impassively. It is the same ghost I saw in the corridor above, the one who startled me, who sent me tumbling down the rocky slope.

  The rat scurries away at the sight of the ghostly light. Other lights appear, floating up out of the darkness, until there are three apparitions. This time I can’t see their faces, but I can see the outlines of arms and legs, and something makes me believe they don’t mean me harm, that they are sad for me. There is a small boy and a small girl. The first ghost is bigger than the others. He floats above me protectively.

  I’m sure I’m imagining them, but their presence comforts me, so I choose to believe they are real. Their concern only intensifies the guilt that overcomes me at this moment. I have been a fool. I have left the woman I love for a fool’s errand.

  Why did I let Virgil talk me into this? I was happy enough back in Portland. I had a good job at the docks; I had friends. Most of all, I had Jenny. I was in love with her, and I was pretty sure she was falling in love with me. The future seemed bright.

  A deep feeling of loss comes over me. I look up and see the girl ghost staring down at me again, I sense out of pity. If only I’d stayed with Jenny instead of running off with my friends. Even while I was courting Jenny, I’d spent many a night drinking until the wee hours with Jake and Virgil. Now I regret every moment away from her.

  It was the gold. From the moment I heard of the gold strikes in California, I wanted to board a boat headed south. But something, I didn’t know what, kept me from making the final decision for a long time.

  I now understand what it was that kept me back.

  Fear.

  I’m not a brave man, never have been. I’ve always been willing to settle for what I can get without striving or risking too much. Just surviving is good enough for me.

  But when Virgil challenged me, when he implied I was a coward for not wanting to go along, it was easier just to join him. I didn’t figure we’d actually find any gold. It was going to be a little adventure with friendly companions, perhaps the only real adventure in my life. I thought I’d return to Jenny and probably never leave the docks again until they carried my cold, lifeless body away.

  It would have been good enough for me.

  The remorse I feel at this moment is stronger even than the pain. I will try to get back to Jenny, no matter the cost.

  I tug at my belt, sliding it off. I reach down gingerly; I feel the bone. I wonder if I have the courage to reset it. I loop the belt around my leg and bone
, every small motion sending waves of pain up my body. Before I can question my course of action, I pull the belt tight. My leg feels as if it is falling away, and my vision disappears into the pain. A muffled scream bursts from my ragged throat. I lose consciousness again.

  ***

  I awake to claws scratching at my forehead and tugging at my hair as the creature leverages its tiny body to bite into my cheek. I try to slap the animal away. My fingers brush something round and soft lying on my cheek. My mind goes blank in gibbering horror at the realization of what it is. I reach up and touch the edge of the hole where my eye is supposed to be.

  In the darkness, I can’t tell I am blind. The pain in my head is dull compared to my broken leg, but the thought of my detached eyeball is even more horrifying. I gurgle my protest, a primal, gibbering stutter of breath.

  Where are my protective spirits? Why have they abandoned me?

  I push the eyeball back into its socket, knowing it is useless but unable to endure the thought of it gone. I breathe deep breaths, and slowly my thoughts come back to me.

  The knowledge that I am a dead man lodges in my chest, and yet my mind still rebels against the thought. I reach down tentatively to feel my leg. Miraculously, the bone has slid into place. I push myself up, the pain in my neck and leg sharpening, and stars appear in the darkness where my vision should be. Perhaps I have reached some kind of limit, for I don’t pass out.

  My fall was a tumbling one, not a straight drop. If I can crawl upward, if I can reach the corridor above, it will be but a short distance to the mine’s entrance. If my friends see or hear me, they will have to help me or acknowledge their guilt. Jake and Virgil are greedy men, but I don’t believe they are murderers.