The Memory Weaver

by Jane Kirkpatrick

  “Does it?”

  “Oh, Eliza, if you only knew how much I need you. And I do respect what you have to say, more than ever since we’ve been here. Something changed.” He scraped his hand through his thick hair.

  “It did. I think it’s been finding a way to make it on my own, not blaming Father—or you—so much. That’s why I believe we need to make this move. Sell, now. Even if Father resists it. If I’m right, we can rebuild the herd when the weather is better. We can start again. But if we wait, we could lose it all, not be able to restart.”

  “I . . . Let me think on it.”

  We lay awake side by side that night, a hot breeze blowing. They’d brought the herd in closer and would take the cows upriver seeking untouched grass. They bellowed their discontent. “You really think we should quit?”

  “I believe their cries will only get worse.”

  I’d almost found sleep when he said, “All right. We’ll sell. Move back. You win.”

  I wanted to correct him, say this wasn’t a competition, but I didn’t. “You will?”

  “Yes. I’ve been trying to think what to do. I can see them skinny as rails, some of them. The grass isn’t feeding them like it did, even when there seems to be a lot of it. And wandering so far for feed takes pounds off them too. I . . . wanted to talk with you about it, but I . . . was ashamed.”

  I blinked. “What on earth do you think is shaming?”

  “Bringing you here only to have to turn back.”

  “We made the decision to come here together. At least, we both wanted it. In the end.”

  “But then how can we turn our back on it?”

  “We have new information. There’s nothing to be ashamed of in changing one’s mind in a thoughtful, prayerful way. We’re doing that. I haven’t ‘won’ anything, Andrew.” I stroked his whiskered face.

  But I had won something. I’d won a way to speak clearly what I wanted without cajoling him or threatening him or making him feel worse. I’d put out my wishes and I suspect it was that clarity of purpose shown with respect that “won” that day when we decided we would leave.

  The Diary of Eliza Spalding

  1850, DECEMBER

  Before leaving the States to answer the Nimíipuu call to bring the Book of Heaven, we had ruminated about whether to travel with the Whitmans. How we whispered in our shared tent, S and I, deciding together as good marriage partners do. We had buried our first child before leaving, a grief that joined us rather than caused a split; I carried with me the pain of that child’s loss. It rode beside my joy in having a shared life with S.

  I rode sidesaddle across the continent with only one major mishap. My horse startled at a snake or hornets nested in the ground and I was thrown except my foot hung up in the stirrup. I remember Mr. S shouting to a marksman to shoot the horse while my back scraped against rocks and vines and mountain shrubs, dust clogged my throat and I thought I would die and then I lay still when my foot broke free. I thanked God that I didn’t hear the marksman. Couldn’t have, because the horse was caught and rescued. As was I. But ever after that, my back pained me. And for just a short time, I believed I should return with a trapping party heading east, for I had lost another child. I feared my health would interfere with God’s call. S would have nothing of it. He promised to remain with me for as long as needed and the Whitmans too. I was forever grateful, as going back would have been the hardest journey I would ever have had to make. It would have been a disappointment, but turning back doesn’t mean one has failed, does it? It can be a needed new direction.

  26

  Grateful I Am

  We chose a new direction. It’s not easy turning back. We heard of people on the wagon trains who changed their minds. I doubt my parents ever had to make such a choice. I remembered the Exodus of the Bible and how those people wanted to turn back because things got hard. And oh what horror there would have been if they had done so, gone back into bondage, into slavery. But we were not merely selling out; we were starting over even though we’d been in Touchet country less than two years. It takes courage to risk, to quit on one’s own terms, taking what you have as the humus for new growth.

  “May I go back with you?”

  Millie cornered me after I’d told my father we were selling out, taking the herd to market to get what we could get. He was welcome to put his cattle in with ours. He declined.

  “I don’t think Father will let you.”

  “I’m nearly sixteen. I can make up my own mind about things.”

  “I won’t pamper you the way Father does.”

  “Pamper me? I’m doing the cooking and cleaning and laundry and—”

  “I’ve seen Rachel doing laundry. And every second time I come to visit, you’re off riding Nellie, so I know you have some time not spent in slavery.”

  “There’s no future here for me. I want to be where people are. I heard a war has started between North and South. It could come here and I’d have lived my short little life without ever knowing true love or true trials or true hope for the future.”

  She was being dramatic, but then, she always was. Still, I could see how she longed for something more.

  “If Father allows it, I’ll agree too.”

  Of course, he didn’t. “I need her here. Besides, you’ve talked Warren into this crazy decision to sell out when you’ve barely gotten here, so I don’t think I trust your judgment. We had hard winters in Lapwai too. We got by. The Lord always provided.”

  “I fully accept manna from heaven. But he also admonished us to learn what this means. And what this means is that we need to sell and make alternate plans.”

  “Well, do that without us. Millie included.”

  I’d packed the wagon yet again, this time secure that I could manage it with the girls, knowing that Mr. Warren would be not far ahead. We had decided to replicate our journey of two years previous. We’d travel together leaving this Touchet country as far as The Dalles. I’d board the steamboat into Portland with the girls. Mr. Warren would sell what he could there, then he and the drovers would head south through the Warm Springs reservation, maybe selling beef to the Indian agency, then through the meadow and across the Cascades coming into the Willamette Valley just east of Brownsville.

  We separated at The Dalles and Mr. Warren kissed me beside the wagon before we parted. “Pray the market’s better in the Valley.”

  “I’ll pray for a safe journey. For both of us.” I kept my anxieties wrapped in prayer.

  “See you in a few weeks.” Then, “Oh, I have something for you.” He pulled a small box from his pocket. “I noticed awhile back that you took off the wedding ring I gave you. I didn’t blame you, after my, well, my lapse.” He cleared his throat. “These two years in Touchet with you, I’ve felt more married than I ever did before.” He took out a gold ring and slipped it on my finger.

  “Can we afford—?”

  “It’s less than the price of a cow, darlin’, and you deserve it.”

  “It’s lovely. I really didn’t remove the other one. I lost it. In the manger the night the O’Donnell brothers brought you home.”

  “Fortuitous.”

  I punched his shoulder. “You and your big words. Oh, I have a gift for you too.”

  “You do?”

  “I planned to give it to you on your birthday but so much happened in August. Mama had an August birthday too.” My mind wandered. “Wait. It’s in the trunk.”

  I handed him a leather belt tooled with his initials in it. AJW. “To go with our brand,” I said. I’d worked the leather myself in those long hours when Andrew was away. He rubbed his thumbs over the raised letters.

  “It’s a good gift, ’Liza. No more suspenders.” He smiled. “We’re not turning back, darlin’. We’re startin’ everything new. Even how I hold up my pants.”

  The next morning I headed west on the trail so many other immigrants were taking west, bone weary from their journeys as they embarked on one last section of the trip. Wagons
could take the Barlow Trail, a roadway made in 1845, with each new traveler gradually chopping out the overgrowth of trees and shrubs, paying a toll at the other end. A terrible mountain crossing called Laurel Hill took three hours per wagon to lower with ropes down over the rocky ridge. We would take the boat, portage as we needed, then I’d drive the oxen the four days it would take to pull up in front of our old home. I felt strong, stronger than I ever had. The thundering falls of The Dalles a backdrop to my confidence.

  “Sister! Pull up!”

  I turned and squinted. Millie? What was she doing here? And did Father know?

  “Millie? What’s happened? Are Father and Rachel all right?”

  “They’re fine. I’m going back to Brownsville with you.”

  “Father allowed it?”

  “Never.” She leaned forward, patted her animal’s sweaty neck. “Please don’t send me back. In the end, he’ll know I found you. We’ll write him a letter.”

  She didn’t look disheveled even after what had to have been a two-day hard ride. The horse looked winded though. “You slept out alone?”

  “I stayed far enough behind you that you couldn’t see but I knew where you were. ‘Just find Eliza and you’ll be fine.’ That’s what I told my horse.” She smiled. “And Timothy rode with me for a ways so I was safe. He headed back several miles ago.”

  It was all a game to her. I envied her.

  “And here we are. I looove adventure.” She dismounted and whisked Lizzie into her arms, snuggling her toddler neck.

  “Auntie Millie!” America Jane scampered from around the wagon, hugged my sister. Yaka trotted up then, distracted by a rabbit, I guessed.

  “You brought Father’s dog too?”

  “He followed me.” Millie shrugged.

  My hands gripped the goad used to keep the oxen on a steady trail and I squinted at her. I’d given myself the task of making my way alone with my girls, to test myself. Her presence interrupted it. I had to decide if the responsible thing to do was to make her go back, take her back, or let her come with us. I weighed the options.

  “You’ll write him a letter.” I couldn’t take the time to go back.

  “I will. But don’t you think it’s providential that I caught up with you?”

  “Providential? I was just thinking it was an inconvenience having to decide whether to send you back or take you back.”

  “And you’ve decided well.” She grinned, dimples deepening. “Sometimes providential masquerades as inconvenience, but it all works out in the end.”

  Millie proved to be an expert with the animals as well as with the children. The oxen were like pets to her, standing on the barge we took down the Columbia, letting her hobble them each evening so we wouldn’t have to chase them in the morning. And her chatter made the miles go easier as she filled me in on news of life in Brownsville after we had left. “And John Brown, the one who directed you to your Indian driver, he’s very nice to me. He remembers I like hard candies and always gives me one when I come into the store.”

  “He’s a bit older than you are.”

  “Boys my age don’t interest me. John likes nice things and he has money to get them.”

  “And Father’s aware of your interest in Mr. Brown?”

  “I never told him, of course. I saw what happened with Martha and Bill. No, I just keep it to myself.”

  He’d be furious with her for leaving Touchet. I looked back several times expecting him to be riding on a raft behind us. He’d have words for me whenever he did catch up and I knew he would. He’d never let his favorite be away from him for long.

  Pulling up in front of our old cabin, grateful I was that it had never sold. Grass had grown up around the steps and a portion of the porch roof looked like an old man needing a cane. America Jane jumped down and Lizzie, two and a half, squirmed until I lifted her down to Millie already standing beside the wagon.

  “No one’s been here for a while.”

  Inside, the only thing left was the wood cookstove. It had waited for me, that metaphor of my marriage. Solid, holding heat when tended.

  I didn’t even mind that Mr. Warren had taken another route and wasn’t yet home. I could make it on my own, be a partner to him. I didn’t just respond to what he presented; I could initiate and we could work together. Our time in Touchet brought me that. A certain scent told me there was a packrat somewhere near, and when I bent down to close the open oven door I saw the nest. Such flotsam would have sent me railing before Touchet. Now, it seemed perfectly understandable. Ignore what matters and scratchy things take over.

  “Eew,” Millie said. She’d just bent to the oven.

  “We’ll have cleaning to do before we do much else. Go get the broom from the wagon. We’ll unload that first.” She groaned. “And I guess you were right, Millie.” I was as cheerful as she’d been when she caught up with me in The Dalles. “Your chasing us and inconveniencing me was definitely providential.”

  Mr. Warren sold the cattle. We saw old friends those first weeks back and it was a bit like a honeymoon with my being less demanding of my husband and him being home and attentive with his daughters. I saw Nancy and congratulated her and Andrew Kees on their marriage. From travelers, I picked up news about the widening war back East. Things seemed calm enough in Brownsville, the weather mild. I took new interest in my mother’s seeds and drove for cuttings at my father’s old house. It had not sold either, so I made a point of keeping it swept of spiders. They might come back one day. I planted the lilac starts at the corners of our cabin. Mr. Warren purchased pigs we butchered and hung in the old smokehouse, the scent of cedar strong to my nose. He bought a couple of sheep for me, to replace the others we’d left with father and Rachel. And we had plenty of beef jerked and kept a few animals should we wish one day to start another herd. I couldn’t imagine that, but Mr. Warren was insistent and it was an easy compromise for me.

  It was November and the chill mixed with the season’s steady drizzle. I’d just returned from a visit with the doctor telling me what I already knew, that we’d have a baby in the summer. We’d be closer to medical care even if Millie could midwife.

  As I entered the cabin I heard my name shouted from behind me. I pulled my coat around me against the wind and turned. “There’s been an accident. Millie asked I come get you.” It was John Brown. He wasn’t riding really fast, but he did say there’d been an accident.

  “Did you ride to the doctor first?”

  “No, she said come here. She’s just down your lane.”

  I shouted to Mr. Warren what had happened and for him to get the doctor. “Put the children in the buggy.”

  “Best bring a wagon if you got it,” John said. “She’s in a terrible pain and isn’t getting up.”

  “Bring the wagon instead,” I directed. I thought about having America Jane look after her sister but decided against it. “Bring a quilt for the girls.”

  I ran down the lane behind him. The wind had turned and snow threatened. In the distance, I saw my sister’s form on the ground, her horse standing beside her.

  “What happened?” I knelt beside her, wiped mud and rain from her face.

  “It’s not the horse’s fault. Nor John’s. It’s not. She stepped in a mole hole and threw me, then rolled over on me, trying to get her balance.” Her face was white as oyster shells. “I can’t feel my legs. I can’t feel my legs, ’Liza.” She grabbed at my arms.

  “Just be still.” I threw my coat over her as she began to shake. Ice pelted down, turning to snow. “Mr. Warren will be along any minute.” I wanted to send John for the doctor but thought we’d need him to lift Millie into the wagon. To John I said, “What happened here?”

  “It’s like she said. We were riding along, well, racing along, and her horse tripped and tossed her, then stumbled right over her. Poor little thing.” He looked at the horse, not my sister, when he said that. Then back at Millie.

  “Do you have a slicker you can tent over her? She’s getting soak
ed.”

  “Oh. Sure enough.” He unrolled a slicker from behind his saddle and ambled over to us as though he headed toward a bill collector rather than a crisis. “This is sure awful. I had an aunt once who was laid up for life after a horse fall. She never walked again, poor thing.”

  “I’m not sure we need to hear about that right this minute. Can you hold that slicker wider? She’s getting soaked. She’ll go into shock.”

  He maneuvered himself to be more helpful. Asked Millie how she was doing.

  “Not so good.”

  “Sure hope Warren gets here fast. My arms are getting tired holding this up.”

  “Well, poor you,” I snapped. “My sister’s lying here injured and all you can think about is your aching arms?”

  “Don’t, Eliza. He’s helping.”

  She was right. We were all doing the best we could.

  The wagon came into sight and Andrew had thought to put a loose board into the back. He pulled it out and as gentle as we could we rolled Millie to her side, trying not to hear her sobs. We pushed the board under her. I saw no blood, but her scream of pain when we touched her back told me more than I wanted to know. The three of us lifted her into the wagon bed. John tied his horse to the rig, then climbed in and continued to hold the slicker over us. The girls were huddled inside quilts at the front of the wagon. They looked like baby birds sticking their heads out from a nest. Andrew pulled his hat down against the sticking snow and drove into Brownsville.

  I prayed over my sister then, for her recovery, for this injury to not be as bad as it looked, for it not to be permanent. And I prayed for myself. For when I’d have to tell my father that once again one of his daughters had come unto harm while under my tender care.

  That storm began the worst winter we’d known since living on this side of the mountains. By mid-December nearly three feet of snow blanketed the Brownsville ground. One morning the sun shone and a thaw melted the top, but the next night, the temperature dropped below zero, leaving a sheet of hard ice covering everything like a frozen lake. We axed trails to the privy, chopped wood twice a day to keep the woodstove burning, sawed through ice at the spring to get water. The temperature plummeted to below zero and then stayed there for more than forty days. It had never happened before.