Beyond the Mapped Stars

by Rosalyn Eves

  But the room feels odd, as though it has shrunk or I have grown, as though no matter how familiar, it is no longer entirely mine. I’ve outgrown this space, I realize, though part of me will always be drawn back to these hills, this house, these people. Finding a new place for myself does not mean I have to abandon all the places that have claim on my heart: there is room for old and new.

  And, I think again.

  A thin wail interrupts my thoughts. The fighting at the table stops, as everyone turns to the noise. Rachel sees me first, erupting from her chair to hurl her arms around my knees. Emily and Mary crowd in behind her to hug me. Mary, contrary child that she is, actually has tears in her eyes.

  Henry blows in through the front door, shouting about something. He’s followed by John and David Charles, who all mob me at once.

  Six weeks ago, I would have felt overwhelmed by the noise and bodies. Now it feels comforting, like a blanket I can pull over myself at night to ward off the chill but set aside in the morning when I do not need it. Families are like that, though sometimes you might need them more than others.

  Albert is still crying, and I disentangle myself from the others and head to the darkened back room. A shape lies, unmoving, on the bed. Mama.

  I lift the baby from the crib. He’s warm and flushed in my arms, and blinks watery eyes up at me and struggles to get away. He’s bigger than I remember, and he does not seem to recognize me at all, pulling toward Mama as soon as he spies her.

  “Mama?” I ask softly.

  She doesn’t move.

  “Mama?” I say again. “It’s Elizabeth. I’ve come home.”

  That seems to reach her. She rolls over and blinks up at me. “Elizabeth? You’re back, are ye?” She struggles to sit upright, then begins unbuttoning the top of her nightdress. She holds out her arms for Albert, and I hand him over. “Well? And was your selfishness rewarded?”

  The low hum of satisfaction that has followed me home from Denver stills. Mama might as well have slapped me. “I wasn’t being selfish, Mama.” Well, perhaps I was, but it was more than that.

  “Ye left Rebekka to manage a small baby alone, ran off to Denver, and didn’t come back though ye were told we needed ye home. What else do ye call that besides selfishness?”

  Discovery, I think. “I went with Rebekka’s blessing. I had to go, Mama. I needed to understand what I’d be giving up if I stayed in Monroe all my life. I needed to see the eclipse, to know if I was capable of being an astronomer.”

  “And what of your family’s needs? My needs? They are nowt so exciting as a new city, but do they matter?”

  I sit gingerly on the end of her bed. “Of course they matter, Mama. That’s why I came home. I’ll help as much as I can while I’m home—but I mean to go to school, Mama. In the fall.”

  “And will your stars save ye?”

  Maybe. “Knowledge is important too, Mama. I can’t say exactly how my life will look, but I believe this is what I’m supposed to do.”

  “Then I’ve failed ye.” The anger in her face fades, replaced by a yawning despair. She leans her head against the headboard of the bed, her eyes sliding closed. She looks old, wrinkles gathering about her eyes, gray threading through her hair.

  “No,” I say. “You taught me that it was important to listen to your heart, to the whispering of the spirit. You listened to your heart and left behind everything you knew to come to Utah. What I’m doing now, it’s the same thing. It doesn’t mean that what you did, what you’ve sacrificed, to raise our family is wrong. Or that what I’m doing now is wrong. They’re just two different paths.”

  Mama is quiet for so long I begin to think maybe she’s gone back to sleep. The only noise in the room is Albert, sucking greedily. Then she opens her eyes and looks at me. “You always did love the stars, even as a small girl. Will this make you happy?”

  “I don’t know if I’ll always be happy. But I think I’ll be filled.”

  * * *

  * * *

  When Far comes in for dinner, he folds me in a hug. Hyrum hovers behind him, a shy smile reserved just for me. Over bacon rashers, fried potatoes, and berry pie, I tell my family about my adventures—about the robbery on the train and meeting Mr. Edison, about Rebekka’s baby, about the Stevens family and Miss Mitchell.

  About the eclipse from Pikes Peak.

  The younger children listen, rapt, and when I finish my story, they make me tell it over again, especially the part about the man who burst into Edison’s room with a gun, and watching the eclipse shadow thunder like a train across the valley. Even Mama has emerged from the bedroom in time to hear my story. She smiles at me, both bemused and a little sad.

  “You seem different,” Far says. “More sure of yourself, somehow.”

  I take a deep breath, and tell them all of my plans, how I mean to write away to schools and discover what I need to enroll, then take any classes I might be missing at the Brigham Young Academy in Provo before going away to college.

  Far blinks. “College? What of home? A girl doesn’t need so much.”

  I try to smile at him across the tightness in my gut. I want my family to support me in this—but I will do it regardless. “God gave me a mind as well as a heart, and I mean to use it.”

  “We can’t help you pay,” Far says.

  “I’ll find work to support myself. I can do it, Far.”

  Far blows out his breath. “I don’t like it,” he says.

  But he doesn’t say no.

  * * *

  * * *

  After dinner, Hyrum and I slip outside, to walk along the creek beneath the stars. They’re the same here as they were in Denver.

  “So you’re leaving again,” Hyrum says. His voice sounds small, and I stop walking to lean over and hug him. After a surprised moment, he hugs me back.

  “It won’t be forever,” I say. “And I’ll take some of this place, some of you, with me wherever I go.” I pause. “You could come with me.”

  Hyrum shakes his head. “I like it here in the valley. I like the slow pace, the familiarity of everything. I like working with Far, seeing Mama every night, and the children. I’m not like you. I’ve never been hungry for everything in the world.” He eyes me sidelong, smiles. “Far was right. You seem different.”

  “I’m still me. I don’t think I became someone new, exactly—I just figured out who I wanted to be, outside of all the voices telling me who I should be. I thought that because I didn’t see someone like what I wanted to be in Monroe, what I wanted to be was wrong. Turns out I just wasn’t thinking big enough.”

  I find a log and sit down. Hyrum settles beside me. I continue, “I thought maybe God wanted me to be small and narrow—but our father and mother in heaven aren’t small at all. How could they want that for us?” I look up, tracing a line from Polaris to Vega of the Lyre and back again.

  Hyrum leans back beside me. He doesn’t look at me, but I can hear the tightness in his voice. “And for me?”

  I turn to face him. “For you above all.”

  He doesn’t quite meet my eyes. “Much as I love this valley, this church, I don’t always fit neatly.”

  “I don’t either,” I say, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “But if you’re asking if there’s a place for you here—always. Our church community may help us worship God, but your faith is your own. Whatever you worship, however you worship, you don’t do it for anyone but yourself.”

  It’s not a perfect answer, but Hyrum seems pleased with it, humming softly to himself as I point out constellation after constellation. I like to think of us as stars: From a distance, we humans look much the same. It’s only when you get close, when you observe carefully, that you mark the traits that make us individual. That you learn to really love.

  * * *

  * * *

  There’s still one thing that I have to do.<
br />
  I put it off until after dinner the next day, after I’ve helped bake bread and scoured the stove and darned the boys’ socks. I find I don’t mind the chores so much after taking a break from them, knowing that this won’t be all of my life.

  But after the last of the dishes are cleared up and the food is put away, I tell Mama I’ve business in town.

  She lifts her gaze from her spot at the end of the table, where she’s been going over a recipe book. She’s been up today, but is weaker than I like, so she sits a lot. “Borrowing more books from that teacher lady? Are you tired of us so soon?”

  “No,” I say, though I should go see Miss Wheeler before too long. She’ll have good advice for me on applying to school—and I still have to tell her about selling Mrs. Somerville’s book and ruining the other. I hope she’ll understand. My face heats, and I press my lips together in annoyance. “I thought I’d go see Samuel Willard. Did you know he was in Denver too?”

  Her face lights. “Was he now? Nice boy, that one.”

  “Yes,” I agree, my face burning hotter.

  Mama gives me a shrewd look. “Don’t ye go chasing him. Boys don’t like that.”

  In truth, I’m not sure what boys do or don’t like—I’ve never paid much mind to that. But I do know Samuel. At least, I think I do. Don’t choke on your pride. If I want to fix things between us, I’ve got to sacrifice some of that pride.

  “You should put on your blue cotton dress,” Mama says. “It’s prettier than that old thing you’re wearing.”

  Samuel has seen me first thing in the morning, with mussed hair and bad breath—I don’t think he’ll care about my dress. Though of course I don’t tell Mama that.

  And I do change into the blue dress.

  The Little Green Valley is full of golden light when I reach the Willard cabin. Vilate Ann opens the door at my knock.

  “Elizabeth! You’re back! Oh, tell me everything. Samuel says he saw you in Denver, but he won’t say anything more than that.”

  I shift uncomfortably. “Actually, I was hoping to speak with Samuel. I’ll tell you everything later, I promise.”

  Vilate Ann pouts. “You mean you haven’t come to see me?” Her expression trembles, and she bursts out laughing, pushing a strand of blond hair from her eyes. “I knew it! I knew you liked him.”

  “Vilate Ann—” I reproach her.

  Still hooting, she skips past me down the stairs, into the field beyond the house, calling for Samuel.

  I grip my hands together. Maybe this is foolish. I should just go home—

  I’m already down the steps when Samuel appears in the yard before me. He’s in his shirtsleeves, brushing wood dust from his trousers, holding his hat in his hands. The sight of him dries my throat.

  “Elizabeth?” He approaches slowly, as if he’s not certain he’s glad to see me. Or perhaps he fears I’ll bite. “Have you been home long?”

  “Yesterday,” I say. “And you?”

  “Some four, five days ago. It’s good to be back. And how was the eclipse?”

  “It was marvelous. Everything I’d hoped for.”

  “And Miss Mitchell’s party?”

  “Oh—” I forgot that Samuel didn’t know what happened after he left. I’d gotten so used to him knowing everything about my life in Denver. “I’ll tell you all about it, but that’s not really why I’ve come. Will you walk with me?”

  Samuel nods, then fits his hat onto his head and follows me into the golden street. The wide brim of his hat casts a shadow across his eyes so I can’t rightly see him. I wish I could—it would make what I’m about to do easier.

  But I haven’t made any of this easy for Samuel, so why should it be easy for me now?

  We fall into pace beside one another, heading south toward my house, toward the narrow canyon whose stream feeds the mill. I tell Samuel about Miss Mitchell and going up Pikes Peak with Alice and Will. Samuel listens, but he doesn’t offer up much on his own. When I run out of my story, silence settles between us. It’s not a comfortable silence, though: it prickles and nips at me.

  I don’t like this new distance between us.

  “I owe you an apology, Samuel Willard.”

  He doesn’t say anything. I take a deep breath. This is harder than I expected. “Before you left, you asked if you could court me. I told you no.”

  Is it my imagination, or have his shoulders gone stiff? “This is an odd kind of apology, Miss Bertelsen.”

  “I’m getting there. You were angry because I assumed I knew what you wanted, without asking you. And you were right. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you or ask you what you wanted. I’m asking now.”

  We’ve come up level with the grist mill, but I don’t stop there. Without really thinking about it, I lead Samuel away from the road, up the canyon trail toward my favorite rocky perch above the valley. “I’d like to be with you. If—if you still want that.”

  Samuel doesn’t answer for a minute, and I wonder if he’s changed his mind about me, now that he’s had time to think about it. I clamber up the side of the foothill and settle onto my rock, still warm from the summer sun, and curl my arms around my knees. Samuel joins me, but there’s enough room between us for half my siblings.

  Looking down at the valley rather than at me, Samuel says, “I still want that, if you’re open to it. I think I started to love you the day I saw you, ridiculous and drenched, coming out of the hot springs and trying to hold on to your dignity.”

  I choke on something that might be a laugh or a cry. “I don’t know yet if I love you—but I like you an awful lot. I missed you when you left. I imagine I’ll miss you again when I go away for school.”

  “So you are going. I thought maybe your apology meant you’d decided to stay.” Samuel sighs and takes his hat off. There’s a line across his forehead from where it sat. “I guess I don’t understand what we’re talking about, then. You already told me you can’t be an astronomer and have a family. If that hasn’t changed, why are we here?”

  “Because I was wrong,” I tell Samuel, scooting closer to him. “I don’t have to make that choice, unless I want to. And I don’t want to. I still want to be an astronomer, but I’d like you to be part of that future too.”

  “Would you now?” Samuel’s eyes light up, even more luminous than the miles spread out below us. He closes the gap between us, and slips a hand around my waist, another hand coming up to cup the back of my neck.

  I rest my hands on his shoulders and lean in, bridging the remaining distance between us.

  Fire spreads from our joined mouths, sparking through my veins, igniting deep in my stomach, threatening to undo my joints and melt my bones. Why did no one tell me kissing could be like this?

  By the time we break apart, the light has mostly bled from the valley. The moon is waxing gibbous. Samuel says he is willing to wait for me, while I study. Or we can marry, and he will find work while I go to school. For now, I choose to wait, because the idea of saying yes to both school and Samuel is still new to me.

  That voice inside me is singing again: and, and, and.

  The valley looks different in the moonlight from how it did in the fading glow of the sun. I think of the eclipse, how the shifting light and shadows made the familiar world utterly strange and new. I think of how a kiss can utterly unmake everything I thought I knew, can change the shape of my future.

  I think of trying to be a scientist and a wife, an astronomer and a mother. I don’t know what that world will look like.

  There’s so much I don’t know. But for once that ignorance doesn’t seem like a trap—it seems like an opportunity.

  I don’t know what I’ll find. Maybe what we see and understand now is like the mountain during an eclipse, and all we can see around us are shadows. Where we can only guess at what’s real because we see it not by direct light, but
by the indirect glow of the corona. Maybe someday we’ll emerge from the moon’s shadow and see things as they really are. Meantime, both faith and science try to provide answers, and we try to live by whatever light we have.

  Overhead, the constellations dance across the sky. We follow their movements as best we can, forever reaching beyond the mapped stars.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  * * *

  This has been the hardest novel I have written to date—largely because it is also the most personal. Elizabeth Bertelsen was inspired by a real-life Elizabeth Bertelsen: my great-great-grandmother, who was eighteen in the summer of 1878 when the eclipse swept across the West. The first seeds of this story were planted listening to an NPR broadcast about the 1878 eclipse, focusing on those who came west to witness it. I started wondering what the eclipse might have looked like to those already living in the West, particularly to Mormons, like my ancestors.

  To my knowledge, the real Elizabeth never left Utah, but the circumstances of my character’s life are drawn from historical accounts of Elizabeth’s: her father owned a grist mill in Monroe, Utah; her mother was a second wife; her father left the LDS Church because of his experience with the United Order. Samuel Willard is similarly inspired by my great-great-grandfather (Samuel Willard Collings). However, the plot of the story and the personalities of the characters are largely invented (I did give Samuel my grandfather’s—his grandson’s—sense of humor). As my great-great-grandmother only lived to twenty-four, I like to think this book grants her adventures she was never able to have.

  I don’t know if Elizabeth’s mother, Hannah, had depression (such things were not often recorded), but it was not uncommon among frontier women, and depression has been widespread in more recent generations of that branch of my family.