The Devil Between Us

by S. C. Wilson

  The sun was sinking low in the sky. She studied her surroundings, hoping to find a safe place to rest for the night. Spotting a small opening in the rocks above her, she continued on until her shaky legs could go no further. With what little energy she had left, she pulled herself onto a breath of a ledge, and crawled into a small cave. Once again she curled into a ball. She fell asleep instantly, too exhausted to be scared of the unfamiliar sounds as darkness swallowed her

  A tiny droplet of water condensed on the ceiling of the cave. Its silent splash against Jessica’s dirty cheek eased her awake. She stretched her legs. They were stiff and cold from sleeping with them tucked up to her chest. It had been a long night filled with dreams of fire and flopping fish, and what she wanted more than anything that morning was to wake up to the smell of her mother’s cooking. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes as she realized they were gone from her forever.

  If only I had been brave enough to warn Father. She couldn’t help feeling the death of her family was somehow her fault. She’d been paralyzed with fear, unable to do anything at all to help. Frozen. Useless.

  She shivered, the crisp air raising goosebumps under her raggedy dress as she made her way out of the damp cave. The heat of the sun’s glaring rays felt good on her skin. She stood on the small ledge, basking in the warmth, hugging herself as if to hold onto the heat.

  Anxiety settled in as she took in her surroundings. She was completely lost with no idea where to go or even which direction would lead to help. The baby of the family never had to make decisions before. Now, every choice was hers alone. Jessica’s stomach growled, loud and painful. Her body, at least, knew what she needed to do.

  She climbed until she reached an area where she could get off the rock wall. Surveying her surroundings from this new vantage point, Jessica was extremely disappointed. All she could see was more trees. She stepped into the unfamiliar forest. After wandering for what felt like an eternity, Jessica searched for something edible, anything to lessen the pain in her gut. She found a cluster of mushrooms growing at the base of a tree. Her mouth watered as she stared at the fungi. She could almost taste them.

  They weren’t worth the risk. She didn’t know if they were poisonous. Father would know. She wiped more tears away as she abandoned the potential meal. An uneasy feeling came over her. She stopped and scanned the dense forest. A growl shattered the silence, and she spun around.

  Jessica found herself facing a large grizzly bear. Only thirty yards away and muzzle up, the bear sniffed the air. The girl would make a good, full meal for the hungry animal. Winter was coming and it would soon be time to hibernate. The beast needed its fill.

  Inexperience and terror took over. Jessica ran as the bear gave chase. Her short legs were no match for the ravenous carnivore. The distance between predator and prey narrowed. Jessica tripped and fell. Her head smacked against a large rock sticking out of the ground. She rolled over, stunned, confused, and disoriented. The last thing she saw before her world went dark was the bear lifting its enormous paw, claws spread.

  Chapter Seven

  Smell was the first sensation to tickle Jessica from unconsciousness. Aroused by the persistent gnawing in her stomach, she smelled something and it smelled delicious. The mouthwatering aroma reminded her of her mother’s cooking and for a fleeting moment she thought it had all been a horrible nightmare.

  Was it just a bad dream? Are they all sitting around the table waiting for me?

  The moment she opened her eyes, Jessica knew the nightmare was real. This was not her home. She was warm and dry, and immediately thankful to be in a comfortable bed, not curled up in some rotten tree or damp cave, but she didn’t know where she was. Her eyes adjusted to the light of a fireplace as she looked around.

  The bed was against a wall in a small cabin. She could tell right away it was only one room. From her vantage point, she could see the whole place except what was in the loft above her. Even in the poor lighting, it was clear the place hadn’t seen a good cleaning in quite some time.

  Tiny, hand-hewn log tables flanked the bed. Floor-to-loft shelving lined the walls, each shelf crowded with old rusted tins and jars of various shapes and sizes. Some were clear and full of bizarre substances. Others were so covered in layers of dust she could only imagine what might be hidden within.

  Next to the shelves was the large stone fireplace, the only source of light in the cabin. A few inches above the mantle hung a familiar looking rifle. Her father had owned the same model. For a second she thought maybe he’d rescued her, and brought her to this place. Then she remembered watching his body fall.

  Her eyes welled up. Her father taught her to shoot using that very gun. Although she had never killed anything with it, she had managed to hit a few old bottles he had placed on the fence as targets.

  A large cast iron pot glistened in the flickering light. It must hold the food, its aroma still tickling her nose. Her stomach growled again in protest. In front of the fireplace sat two weathered rocking chairs made from twisted branches. Again, she remembered her father, sitting on his lap in a similar chair, sharing stories or being read to. She pushed the thought from her mind.

  In the center of the room sat an old, scuffed-up table with four wooden chairs pushed in around it. Opposite the fireplace was a large, plank door. Next to it was a long, waist-high cabinet with a window above it. Shutters covered the lone window, but it was obvious from the strands of cobwebs they hadn’t been opened in quite some time. The wall directly across from the bed had traps and tools hanging on it. Another reminder of home—they’d had similar instruments in the barn.

  The floor was so filthy it was hard for her to tell if it was made of wood or simply hard-packed soil. Unfamiliar plants hung drying in bundles from the ceiling. Small, wooden statues rested throughout the cabin. They varied in size, and their likeness to toys intrigued her. They were carved with great detail: horses, cows, pigs, and even figurines of people. She found it odd toys would be in such a strange and peculiar place.

  Who lives here? Jessica wondered with a mix of fear and curiosity. As if in answer, the latch clicked and the door flung open.

  “Are you finally up, youngin’?” the woman asked as she puffed on a soapstone pipe. Plumes of smoke followed behind her as she walked toward the fireplace.

  Although the voice seemed kind, Jessica was wary. She watched as the woman made her way to the pot hanging above the fire and gave it a quick stir. It reminded Jessica of a witch stirring a brewing cauldron, but for some reason she wasn’t frightened. The woman was older than her mother and dressed much differently. She wore a dirty shirt and an old pair of pants. The ensemble was topped off with a black hat with a large eagle feather sticking up from the band.

  Before Jessica could respond to the question, the woman said, “You’ve got to be starving child! The name is Frieda McGinnis. What might yours be?” She tapped her pipe on a stone, knocking the burnt tobacco into the fire before placing the pipe on the mantle. She turned to face the young girl.

  “Jess…Jessica Pratt,” she said. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

  Frieda grabbed a wooden bowl from a shelf and opened one of the old tin containers. She sprinkled some of its contents into the bowl, added a small ladle of water, and gave it a stir. She set the bowl on the rickety log table next to Jessica, and took a seat on the edge of the bed.

  Jessica peeked into the bowl. She could tell by the sight and smell there was no way she was going to eat it, no matter how hungry she was. Frieda pulled a handkerchief from her raggedy pants pocket. She snapped it in the air a couple times and dipped it in the bowl. Gently and carefully, she cleaned Jessica’s cuts with the damp cloth.

  “Child, you look like you got into a fight with a briar patch and lost.” She used her finger to wipe away a lone tear that slid down the girl’s cheek.

  Jessica stayed silent. As Frieda tended to Jessica’s wounds, she hummed softly, hoping to calm the young girl’s nerves. She went back to the f
ireplace and returned with a bowl full of delicious soup. Jessica took the steaming bowl and dished spoonful after spoonful into her mouth. She was too grateful to speak; too hungry to care it burnt her tongue.

  “Slow down, girl. There’s plenty more if you’re wanting it,” Frieda said. “You’ll make yourself sick, keeping up like that.”

  Jessica’s belly filled up quickly, having shrunk from going so long without food. When she finished, she slid back down on the old straw mattress, burrowed under the blanket, and fell asleep almost instantly.

  Dreams of screams and fire filled her restless sleep. Jessica woke herself by calling out for her mother. In her left hand was one of the carvings she had noticed earlier, a small wooden horse. Frieda sat holding her other hand.

  She squeezed Jessica’s small hand and told her, “I’m here and I promise you’re safe.”

  Frieda had no idea what this little girl had gone through, but she knew whatever it was, it had been bad. She was shocked the little girl had managed to make it across the Devil’s Fork. No one crossed it, let alone a child.

  Frieda knew Jessica was in a fragile state, but she was desperate for information. In the gentlest voice possible, she asked, “Want to tell me how a little girl like you managed to get on the mountain?”

  “I fell in the river,” she said, whimpering.

  “I have to say, you’re lucky to be alive. Never heard of anyone making it across.”

  “Well, how did you get here? Did you fall in, too?” asked Jessica.

  “No child, I crossed years ago. There was a bridge on the other side of the mountain. Washed away in a flood before you were even born. Your parents must be worried sick. For all they know you drowned.”

  “My parents are gone. I don’t have anyone. Not anymore.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Who’s been lookin’ after you? They have to be worried about you.”

  “You don’t understand. Men came to our house and killed them. Father, Mother, Daniel, Jamie and Toby are all dead.” Jessica broke down and sobbed.

  “Oh, Jessica. I am so sorry.”

  “My brother told me to hide in the barn underneath the hay. I saw the men kill all of them. I didn’t know what to do.” The words spilled out of her. “I just ran. It’s all my fault. If I had only called out and warned Father they were in the house…”

  “Child, I’m sure as I’m sitting here, there was nothing you could have done. If they saw you they would have hurt you, too. You did the right thing, running away.”

  “I didn’t even run to town for help. I got lost in the woods and fell in the river.” Jessica pushed her face into the pillow, ashamed, as her tears soaked the cover.

  “Someone has to be worried about you. You got other kin?”

  “No. I don’t have anyone.”

  “Well, child, that’s not true. You got me.” Frieda placed a reassuring hand on the young girl’s back. “Why don’t you get some more rest? You’ve been through hell. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

  Jessica curled up under the blanket and closed her eyes. Beneath her lids, she could still see the fear on Jamie’s face, the filthy man on top of her. Eventually the screams echoing in her head were replaced by the sound of Frieda’s voice. She sat holding Jessica’s hand, singing a soothing melody, until the girl fell asleep.

  There really was no way to comfort someone after an ordeal such as that. Loss was something Frieda knew about all too well.

  Frieda hadn’t always lived in the isolated cabin on Mount Perish. Before being blessed with a head full of white hairs, her life had been much different. Nathaniel, her husband, had gotten it into his head they should head west. He told her repeatedly the lands there would be more bountiful. Pennsylvania had been over trapped and it was damn near impossible to make a living there anymore. Nathaniel felt that Illinois, a newer state, had much more to offer and could be the beginning of a new, prosperous life for them. Frieda was finally persuaded to leave her home.

  In 1835, they loaded a few possessions and their only child, Patrick, into their wagon. Frieda felt a little melancholy at having to leave so many things behind, but there wasn’t room for anything nonessential. The load had to be light and manageable for their team of mules to pull.

  It was a difficult trip and everyday there seemed to be a new hardship. The weather wreaked havoc on the old dirt paths they followed. When the rains poured they became a treacherous, muddy mess. They were thrilled if they made it fifteen miles in a day.

  After traveling west for three and a half weeks, life changed suddenly and forever for Frieda and Nathaniel. They were somewhere in northern Indiana when Nathaniel came down with influenza. Frieda spent that night and the following day tending to him in the back of their covered wagon, trying to cool his burning fever. He became delirious, speaking gibberish. He was in dire need of help.

  With no other choice, Frieda made the fateful decision to have Patrick take over the reins and drive the team. They would have a better chance of getting to help if they were moving. Staying put meant waiting for death in the middle of nowhere. Even though Patrick was only twelve and had never driven the team before, Frieda decided to push on through the darkness, hoping to find help before it was too late.

  The wagon moved along while Frieda tended to Nathaniel. Later that night, either from fatigue or distraction, Patrick dropped one of the reins. He bent down to reach for the swinging leather strap, lost his balance, and fell headfirst from the wagon. Frieda would never forget the sickening sound and feel of the wagon’s wheel crushing her child.

  She managed to stop the mules. Frieda jumped from the wagon and ran to Patrick as fast as she could. She sat there on the ground, holding him tight against her chest, and let out a blood-curdling wail that could be heard echoing across the land. She held him close, rocking him back and forth as if he were still her baby.

  God knows how long she stayed that way. In such a state of shock, she lost the ability to cry. She rocked back and forth, devoid of spirit, completely devastated by her loss. The world around her lost all meaning.

  Rapt with grief, she was oblivious to the approaching horses. So focused on her only child, she didn’t blink when a pair of buckskin moccasins stepped into view. Frieda sat, unafraid, of the men surrounding her, or anything else. One man bent down and tried to take Patrick from her arms, breaking her trance. She tightened her grip, clinging desperately to her son. The man mumbled a few words. She didn’t know what he said, but understood by his tone he meant her no harm. He wanted to help. He continued speaking, his tone soft, until at last it had its desired effect.

  With a faint moan of protest, Frieda let go of her lifeless son. The stranger took the boy. The hand of another man reached down to help her to her feet. His face was painted. The men were careful and respectful of her son as they placed him in the wagon next to her husband. One man jumped onto the driver’s seat and motioned for Frieda. She took the seat beside him.

  Lost under a haze of sorrow, time lost all meaning. Frieda had no idea, then or now, how long it took them to reach their home.

  She had never seen a native village before. A fire blazed in the middle of a field. Wigwams dotted the landscape. The small group of people that had been dancing around the fire stopped and watched as the wagon approached. The driver shouted orders. Three men approached and, still careful, still respectful, took Nathaniel from the wagon and into one of the wigwams.

  The women gathered round, reaching out to Frieda. They wanted her to follow them, and she did. In a warm wigwam next to the one Nathaniel had been taken into, the women huddled around Frieda, chanting softly. It was if they, too, were feeling her pain. All the women seemed to understand the devastating loss of a child.

  Once Frieda was out of sight, two men took Patrick’s body from the wagon and disappeared into the woods. They returned just before sunrise. The men waited outside of Frieda’s wigwam for the grieving woman to join them.

  Frieda couldn’t sleep. She stared
blankly at the women surrounding her. For a brief moment, she felt like a goat lying in the center of a lion cage. It was an irrational thought, an illusion brought by loss, and she knew it; this group of women had spent hours comforting her. Frieda knew in her gut they were kind people.

  Morning came. The village sprang to life around Frieda. She understood their intentions only through kind faces and gestures. She gratefully accepted water and a piece of dried corn cake, even though she wasn’t the least bit hungry.

  Grabbing her by the hand, the oldest woman in the group led Frieda outside where the two men were waiting for her. They motioned for Frieda to follow them into the woods. They brought her to an ancient oak tree. Beneath it was a pile of freshly placed rocks. She didn’t need to be told what was buried under the pile. What little strength she had left went out of her and she dropped to her knees. Seeing that pile of stones opened some kind of floodgate, and Frieda let her tears flow.

  One of the men placed a comforting hand on Frieda’s shoulder. He motioned at the sleeve of her dress, his intention obvious to Frieda. No longer caring about such petty things, she did as instructed and handed the man the torn sleeve. He tied the fabric to the end of a long stick. Jammed into the ground at the head of the small pile of rocks, it marked the small grave so the Great Spirit would know where to find him. The small group walked away silently, leaving Frieda the privacy to continue mourning the loss of her child.

  With some comfort in knowing the natives were caring for Nathaniel, Frieda spent the next few days sequestered inside of a wigwam in an inconsolable state. Periodically, a woman would bring her food and drink, but it would remain untouched. Frieda didn’t want to live anymore, and the toll of her deep heartache was starting to show.