With Endless Sight

by Allison Pittman

  Laurent stuffed the blanket, food sack, and a rope into a worn leather pack and slung it across his back. He walked over to the cot where Phoebe slept and stood there for the briefest moment, watching her. She fidgeted just once under his gaze, snored, and turned over on her side. When a thin lock of hair fell forward to rest on her nose, she brought one hand up as if to bat it away, but it was a useless, listless gesture. Laurent knelt down and gingerly, like a man afraid to rouse a dormant bear, reached out to smooth the hair off Phoebe’s face.

  “Be careful,” I said.

  Startled, he stood and repositioned his pack. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “I meant be careful while you’re gone. We’ll be waiting for you.”

  “Yep.” He adjusted the straps on his pack and headed for the door.

  “And your brother?” I said, following right behind.

  Laurent turned around in the doorway. “What about him?”

  “You don’t think there’s a chance he’ll come here while you’re gone?”

  He turned his hat over and over in his hands, studying it before answering. “I don’t know. If he does, sit tight. Won’t be more’n a day.”

  After he left, I went into the little pantry behind the house to scout out what I could find for supper. There were three sacks of dried beans, so I took one scoop out of an open one and set them to soak for the rest of the afternoon. Laurent had done all the cooking since we arrived, with Phoebe, I noticed, taking some part in assisting him, but I’d paid little attention. I looked at a sack of cornmeal, knowing that it, with a little water and molasses, would make a batch of johnnycakes, but the exact portions and technique remained a mystery. A bit of rooting around brought forth a jar of pickled vegetables—carrots and radishes—and a tin of crackers. That would do for me, and I could only hope that Phoebe would experience the same lack of appetite I had. If nothing else, there was plenty of tea, and I might be able to add a little milk, if she had the presence of mind to show me how to open the can.

  I brought my fare into the cabin and checked on my patient, who was just beginning to rouse herself from sleep.

  “How are you feeling?”

  She spewed forth a cough in response.

  “Would you like me to fix you some tea?”

  She shook her head. “Water.”

  I got her a drink, then helped her out of her dress and dropped the same shirt over her fevered shoulders that I’d worn the entire time I was sick. It wasn’t nearly as long on her as it was on me—coming just to her knees—and this time when she laid back down, I made sure she was under the covers with an extra blanket folded on her feet.

  “Comfortable, isn’t it?”

  “Men are so lucky.” She snuggled in. “Where’s Laurent?”

  “He went to look for the horses. He promised to be back by tomorrow evening.”

  She leaned up on her elbows. “He left us?”

  “Just for tonight.” I wiped her brow with a cool cloth once she’d lain down again. “Now, get some rest.”

  The rest of the afternoon was lonely. I puttered around, while Phoebe flitting between bouts of coughing and sleep. I ventured to the stream twice to bring back water to fill the water barrel after using what was left to wash up the cornbread pan and coffee cups from this morning. Laurent had strung a clothesline between one side of the cabin and a post set in the ground, and I hung Phoebe’s dress there to air. It occurred to me from time to time that I ought to be afraid, stranded in this mountain cabin, but that thought was chased away by something far stronger. I remembered how my father reassured Mother when she expressed her doubts about this journey, saying that God had not given us a spirit of fear but that His strength was our strength. I stood in that little cabin, stirring the first pot of beans I’d ever cooked—the first of anything I’d ever cooked—and found myself utterly at home. I knew every inch of this room. For this night, every bit of it was at my disposal. I was the caretaker; I was the authority. For this night, at least, this was my home, and the satisfaction of that thought thrilled me to my toes.

  Unfortunately, the first culinary product of my independence was not as thrilling. Apparently Laurent had a secret source of seasoning I was not privy to, so the beans ended up bland and crunchy. Phoebe smiled, though, and bravely worked her way through a bite or two before declaring that she simply wasn’t up to eating anything.

  It wasn’t until the evening’s business was done—everything washed up and put into place, the final trip out to the tree line taken—that the thought of a long, dark night alone brought with it a sense of fear. I tucked Phoebe in, then settled myself into my own bed. The fire in the stove had all but burned down, so we had the slightest flame to keep the cabin from being plunged into total blackness.

  “Phoebe,” I whispered across the room, “can I come over and say my prayers with you?”

  She made a sound that I assumed to be affirmative, so I hopped out of my bed and trotted across to hers. Kneeling, I took her hands in mine and bowed my head over them.

  “Dear Lord, thank you for another blessed day. Thank you for the food and the fresh water and this warm place to sleep. Please help Phoebe to feel well again, and guide me as I take care of her. And please keep Laurent safe as he looks for the horses. Amen.”

  I squeezed Phoebe’s hand and scuttled back to my cot, feeling a little better already. I had settled in and could feel the first tendrils of sleep when Phoebe let forth a string of rich, wet coughing, followed by a small whimper.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “It hurts to cough.”

  “I know.”

  “Belinda?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you pray for him to find the horses?”

  17

  Laurent wasn’t back the next morning. Or the next afternoon. As the evening shadows fell, I sat on the fallen stump in the clearing in front of the cabin, straining to catch a glimpse of him in the darkness of the surrounding trees. Until Phoebe called me inside.

  “I’m sure he’s fine,” she said, her voice noticeably weaker than it was yesterday.

  “Of course he is.” I forced a chipper note into my voice as I added another piece of wood to the stove. “Tonight, we keep the fire going as long as we want. It’s freezing out there.”

  Indeed, the night was bitter cold, and I couldn’t imagine how any man could survive out in it.

  “Maybe you should keep the fire burning outside too,” Phoebe said, “to help him find us.”

  “He’d risk the cold before he’d take the chance of hiking up in the dark.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I can’t,” I said. “It’s just a feeling.”

  I’d fared better with tonight’s supper, having followed Phoebe’s instructions to make a decent batch of fried mush drizzled with molasses. The beans benefited from a day’s reheating, and Phoebe declared me the third best cook in the house.

  “Third?” I said. “I don’t recall you doing much cooking.”

  “But when I do,” she said, “I know I’ll be better than you.”

  We had steaming cups of tea, to which I added the final drops from the last open can of milk and just a tiny bit of the white sugar I’d found in a small wooden box. Her fever had subsided, though her skin had taken on a clamminess that worried me. But her spirits were up, and our conversation helped allay my fears.

  “So.” I motioned her to move closer to the wall to make room for me to sit on the edge of the cot with her. “Where do we think Laurent is? Maybe he—”

  “He’s made camp not a hundred yards from here. When the sun comes up, he’s going to look over his shoulder, see this place, and feel like a complete idiot.”

  “And so will we for worrying.”

  We shared a few minutes of comfortable silence sipping our tea, listening to the wind whistle around the corners of the cabin.

  “Then what about this?” I said. “How do you think Del got his limp?”

&
nbsp; “Frostbite,” Phoebe said.

  “Come now; it’s not that cold in here. The stove—”

  “No. I mean it was frostbite. Half of his foot is gone.”

  I stared at her with gape-mouthed surprised as she calmly took another sip of her tea.

  “How do you know this?”

  “I asked.”

  “You asked Del?”

  “No, silly. I asked that cook, Marty, while you and Romeo were off picking plums.”

  “Tell me!”

  Hearing something new and truthful about Del seemed almost as exciting as seeing him again, but Phoebe made me wait until she drained the last of her tea and had given me the cup to take back to the table before saying another word.

  “It’s not very exciting,” she began once I’d settled in beside her again. “He was taking a load of mail out … somewhere. California I guess. He got caught in a snowstorm, rode as far as he could, but then had to stop out in the middle of nowhere and wait for it to stop.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “That’s not very exciting.”

  “Apparently he didn’t have any shelter, and he had to hunker down and use his horse as a wind block for three solid days.”

  “Is this part true? Or are you embellishing?”

  She held up her hand as if taking an oath. “This is everything Marty told me. Now, do you know the biggest danger for a horse in a snowstorm?”

  “Freezing to death?”

  “Suffocating. Their snot freezes over their nostrils, and they can’t breath. Well, it seems Del took off his boot and strapped it onto the horse’s muzzle.”

  “For the entire three days?”

  “For as long as it took. When the storm stopped, he gauged that he was only about two miles from his last stop, but instead of going back there, he went on another twenty to the next one. By the time he got there, it was too late.”

  Phoebe finished the story with considerable effort, and while I was eager to talk more, I could tell she was exhausted. I stood up and fluffed her covers, enjoying her smile as the blanket settled around her, then moved to the foot of the bed to be sure her feet were covered.

  “Why did you tell me this now?”

  She shrugged. “I wanted to tell you before he did.”

  “Do you have any other secrets to tell me?”

  She closed her eyes, and I knew she was remembering what it felt like to be held in Chester’s arms. I was about to tell her that I had a secret of my own, that I had seen everything that night, but before I could she said, “No.”

  “Liar.”

  “I’m not lying, Belinda. There’s a difference between a secret and a treasure.”

  It was dark as pitch and bordering on unbearably cold when Phoebe’s voice roused me out of a warm, pleasant sleep.

  “Do you see this? Belinda! Do you see this?”

  “Just a minute.”

  I took a deep, bracing breath before hopping out of bed. My teeth started to chatter the minute my feet hit the floor, and the chill spread throughout my body, causing my hands to shake; I didn’t think I’d ever get the lamp lit. Once I did, I opened the stove where the fire had been reduced to just a few embers. There was little left in the wood box, but enough for me to build up a small blaze.

  “Belinda, do you see?”

  I brought the lamp with me to Phoebe’s bedside, hoping to better see what had excited her so, but it was her own appearance that shocked me. Her skin looked to be covered in a thin layer of pale wax as her eyes darted around the room in near madness. Leaning forward, I heard a faint, irregular wheezing, and each breath of hers seemed to be a miniature battle fought and won.

  “Phoebe! How long have you felt like this?”

  “I can’t see them with the light so near.”

  “Maybe if you sat up a little, it might help you breathe easier.”

  I set the lamp on the floor and helped raise Phoebe up. We had no pillows, so I took one of the blankets off my cot and wadded it up behind her.

  “Turn down the light, Belinda. I want you to see them.”

  “You’re not making any sense, Phoebe.” I touched her head. “And no wonder, you’re burning up again. Let me get a cloth.”

  I fetched a cloth from the shelf and dampened it. I expected Phoebe to recoil when I held the cold cloth against her face, but she didn’t flinch. All the while as I dabbed her forehead, her cheeks, even her neck and shoulders, she remained perfectly still while her eyes continued their relentless roving.

  “Turn down the light.”

  “In a minute.”

  “I want you to see.”

  “I will, Phoebe, I will.”

  “They’re angels, Belinda. Turn down the light.”

  “Oh, Phoebe, you’re imagining things. It’s the fever.”

  “They’re outside. All around us. Millions of them.”

  “Of course there are angels.” I adopted my most soothing, authoritative voice. “God sends His angels to protect us. But we can’t see them, Phoebe.”

  “I do. Flying, all around.” Each sentence was punctuated with a tortured breath. “Turn out the light.”

  “All right,” I said, “but first I need to build up the fire.”

  Cut wood was stacked outside the door, which I opened just enough to lean out and grab the top few logs. The sting of the night air hit me full in the face the minute I peeked out. The wind had died down, but in its stead was a new bite. Crisper. And wet. I looked up and saw that the dark blanket that usually draped over our little clearing had transformed to an eyelet lace as soft white flakes—millions of them—danced and fell to the ground.

  True to my word, I stoked the fire and blew out the lamp. I made my way to Phoebe’s cot and once again settled myself beside her.

  “Do you see them now?”

  “Yes.” The single square window above my cot was a mass of swirling white. “But they’re not angels, Phoebe dear. It’s snowing.”

  “You don’t know, Belinda,” she said, and I couldn’t very well argue.

  Although the space was narrow, there was enough room for me to stretch fully out and lay beside her. The heat emanating from her fevered body warmed me, and I felt a little guilty for taking advantage of its source. No other element of her illness brought the slightest comfort. Her breaths were wet and shallow, and the occasional fit of coughing still came upon her. But they too, had grown to something fierce, bringing with them a thick mucus, which she spat into a rag.

  “Does it hurt to breathe?” I asked over my shoulder.

  “It hurts worse to talk.”

  “Then don’t.” I smiled into the darkness. “You talk too much, anyway.”

  I closed my eyes but did not go to sleep. Phoebe might see the protection of angels in the snow, but to me, each white flake drifted with a new fear. Please, God, I prayed, but my requests seemed as numerous as the crystals in the sky, and my heart was too heavy to list them. Father God, take care of us.

  He must have come and gone with the stealth of a mouse, because I opened my eyes to the smell of brewing coffee and the sight of an empty cabin. But his sack was on the table, and wet footprints tracked the floor.

  Behind me, Phoebe’s breathing had been reduced to shallow panting. I sat up and turned to look at her in the morning light. What I saw nearly stopped my heart. There was the faintest blue tinge to her skin, which remained feverish and clammy to the touch. She appeared to be sleeping, though her eyes fluttered at times, and her mouth gaped open slightly, with traces of white gathered in the corners of her thin, chapped lips.

  “Oh, Phoebe.”

  I grabbed her hand, and she returned the faintest squeeze.

  “He’s back,” she said.

  “I know he is, but you’re too sick to go anywhere right now.”

  “I never want to leave this place.”

  “We can stay here as long as you like.” I gripped her tighter. I wanted to infuse her with promises, with life and breath and blood.

  “It�
��s beautiful here. Did you see the snow?”

  “Not this morning.”

  “Go look.”

  I slipped my feet into my boots and stepped outside. The world had been transformed to something pure, a whiteness that clung to tree branches and covered the ground completely, save for a narrow, broken path leading up to the door and around the corner.

  “Laurent?”

  The cold muffled my words, seeming to carry them no farther than the little puff of steam they produced. Even so, he appeared, the collar on his jacket turned up, the brim of his hat pulled down, and his arms laden with foodstuffs from the lean-to. His only greeting was to look into my eyes, and I stepped out of the doorway to let him in. He dropped the food on the table and hung his hat and coat on the peg by the door.

  I’d stepped back inside and was pouring Laurent a cup of coffee when I sensed him standing close behind me.

  “How long has she been like this?” He was bent low, whispering into my ear.

  “Since right after you left,” I whispered back, not turning around. “But probably before that. She didn’t want us to know.”

  “It’s bad.”

  “I know. Did you find the horses?”

  “Nope.” He took his coffee and walked outside.

  I dragged one of the chairs to Phoebe’s bedside and settled down. I couldn’t entice her to eat anything, but she did drink some water and promised to try something a little later now that a decent cook had returned.

  Laurent came inside just long enough to add wood to the fire, start a pot of beans, and look at Phoebe before heading back out. Hours later, when Phoebe was sleeping once again, I laced up my boots, put my coat on, and went outside. Much of the snow had melted in the afternoon sun, but there were a few small drifts in the shade of the cabin. Laurent had worn paths with his pacing, turning the clearing into a mess of mud and snow. I followed one set of footprints and found him looking off toward the lake.

  “It’s cold out here,” I said.

  “Not yet. It’ll get colder.”

  I pulled my coat tighter around me. “What can we do for her?”

  His hands were plunged deep in his coat pockets, and he seemed to be punching the fabric within. “Nothin’ I know of. Never took care of a sick person before.”