Under the Same Sky

by Genevieve Graham

  He let out his breath in a low whistle. Then he tore what was left of my world to shreds.

  “She’s gone, sweetheart.” He cleared his throat. “But we gave her a proper Christian burial.”

  My throat closed, crushed within a terrible fist. Fairy-like sparkles danced in front of my eyes, spinning faster and closer until I lurched toward the ground. I think the man jerked me upright and kept the horse moving, but in truth, I was unaware of anything around me. My mind filled with Ruth: her golden curls and trusting eyes, cherubic face and voice. She was gone, and I hadn’t been able to say good-bye.

  Air rushed unbidden into my lungs, and my senses returned in a flood of rage. Grief emptied my soul, and hatred gushed in. My fingers burned with the need to claw at the man behind me, to hurt, to kill. But even if I reached inside his chest and ripped out his still-beating heart, he wouldn’t have died. How can you kill someone who has no soul?

  Chapter 5

  At the River

  I knew where we were headed, and this knowledge helped me sit taller in the saddle.

  Blue Shirt had said, “Take them to the river.”

  Wolf had said, “I will be at the river for ye.”

  Somewhere beyond the trees, the river waited. The horses plodded through rough deer trails, where there was no breeze, no soothing touch of coolness, only whining bugs who didn’t mind sweat and dirt on their meal. My captor’s chest pressed against my back and I could smell his shirt, drenched with sweat like the withers of our horse.

  I wanted to sleep. The continuous steps lulled me, weighting my eyelids, but I forced them to stay open. We would reach the river soon. I wanted to be awake when we arrived.

  “Matheson!” someone called from behind us.

  My captor reined in and turned in his saddle.

  “What?” he yelled.

  “Get back here.”

  “Aw, come on, Richie. I got my hands full, don’t I?”

  “Come here, Matheson. And leave the girl there.”

  Matheson let out a resigned breath, glared at me, then grabbed my waist and dropped me to the ground. I landed with a thud on the earth. My hip struck a small rock, but after all I’d been through, I barely felt its edge.

  “Don’t move,” he growled. I didn’t argue. Where would I go? I could barely stand on my own. Besides, I could never leave Adelaide alone with these men.

  Matheson turned his horse toward the others and stomped into the trees behind us, swearing under his breath. Finally alone, finally motionless, I fell asleep.

  In my dreams I heard it first, then saw the hint of silver trickling through the trees, flowing downstream, as clear in my mind as it would be in reality. A wolf stood on the banks, tongue lolling from his muzzle, brown eyes searching for mine. When I looked again, the figure was no longer the animal, but the man. Wolf was almost camouflaged in a dark green wool that draped over his shoulder and around his waist. His eyes spoke of an aching sadness for me, but he offered a reassuring smile. There was hope ahead.

  Then he was close enough to touch. He took my face in his hands as tenderly as one might hold a baby bird fallen from the nest, and the depth of that simple contact joined me to him. This was how we were, he and I. We touched, we saw, we understood, but we never shared the same air. I knew his hands held my face, and yet they weren’t there.

  His fingers traced the lines of my face, and his calloused thumbs touched the dark patches beneath my eyes, the bruises on my cheeks. Then his eyes shifted and he glanced behind me, concern momentarily hardening their depths. His nostrils flared as if he were a beast of the forest, scenting the breeze for threat. I felt no fear. Nothing could harm me as long as I felt his nearness. He narrowed his gaze, then his face relaxed. He recognised whatever, or whoever, was approaching. When his eyes returned to mine, they were smiling. Tiny specks of gold floated in their depths, winking in the sunlight.

  My captor’s hands jerked me from my dream and hoisted me back into the saddle. Wolf was gone. I glanced behind me as the horses began to walk again, searching for Adelaide. Her limp body was still propped up against one of the men. She must still be alive. They wouldn’t have bothered carrying her body otherwise.

  I knew when we were close to the river. I could hear the liquid wall of sound. The forest thrived closer to the riverside, thick with saplings that reached through the decaying remains of their elders. The sticky musk of pine clogged the air. Birds flicked from branch to branch, and I caught the flicker of a red squirrel’s tail as he leaped from one tree to the next, always one step ahead of our group.

  We entered a clearing, a rough circle edged by pines and boulders. The cool, clear breeze from the river cut through the heat and I breathed it in, feeling my heart quicken. The river. Wolf would be here.

  The men slid from their saddles, groaning as their boots hit the dirt. They tugged the horses’ reins toward the water, but the animals needed no encouragement. They ambled into the shallow river, with Adelaide and me still on their backs, and splashed relief onto their bellies. The spray tickled my feet, and goose bumps lifted the hairs on my body. The men pulled off their boots and stood knee-deep in the current, bathing their feet. They plunged their hands into the water, drank deeply, and splashed their grimy faces.

  My throat was dry as dust. I thought perhaps my nose had been broken back at our house. I was having a lot of trouble breathing through it. Sweat tickled between my breasts and down my back.

  Leonard and another man finally pulled Adelaide and me from the saddles and carried us to the shore. They stood Adelaide up, but her legs collapsed and she dropped like a stone without uttering a sound. I don’t think Adelaide was aware she had fallen. Her eyes stared at nothing, as if her mind had been abandoned along with our little sister.

  Leonard caught my eye and gestured toward the stream. “Go wash up,” was all he said.

  I hobbled back to the river, braced myself, then dropped into the freezing water. The level was high enough to cool the undersides of my breasts, barely hidden within my torn dress. I splashed water over my face and body, rinsing mud and tears from my face and filth from beneath the remains of my skirt.

  Adelaide lay motionless at the edge of the water. Her face was horribly swollen, and her body was painted with thick strokes of blood and dirt. I forced myself to stand and shuffled through the river toward her, careful on the slippery pebbles beneath my feet. I lay beside her on the rocky shore and rolled onto my side to face her. She didn’t even blink. I pulled her head against my chest, holding her there when her body jerked instinctively away. She shrieked and flailed in blind panic, but I hugged her close so my mouth was at her ear.

  “It’s me, Addy. Shh. It’s Maggie.”

  I repeated myself over and over, rocking her against me until her sobs lessened into hiccups. Then I laid her back on the rocky shore and sat up.

  “I need to clean you, Addy. I’ll go slow. I promise.”

  I tore a strip from my wet skirt and gently dabbed at her purpled face, wanting to see the blue of her eyes. We were close enough to the water I could dip the rag in to rinse it. I squeezed out the dirt and the water bloomed with rusty clouds. I rinsed the cloth again and again until I finally saw the pale pink of her cheek. The length of her neck was blotched with bruises. One of her eyes was swelled shut.

  The other eye watched me closely. A single tear rose to its surface and rolled down her cheek, disappearing into the pillow of stones under her head. I put my hand behind her neck and raised her just enough that she could swallow the water I cupped in my hand. It trickled through her lips, and her tongue slipped forward to greet it. After a while, she began to make small whimpering noises, but no words.

  “Shhh, Addy,” I whispered. “It’s almost over. They’re taking us somewhere, and we’ll be done with them.”

  Her eye blinked.

  “It’s true,” I said, trying to convince us both. “They said we need to clean up before they take us to wherever we’re going. Someone will help us there
.”

  She sighed and closed her eye.

  “Sleep, Addy,” I whispered. “I’m going to clean you while you sleep. You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

  I didn’t think she could sleep, but at least she relaxed under my hand. The rag stroked her neck, her shoulders, the soft skin of breasts and belly. I lifted her skirt discreetly and moved the cloth over her bruised thighs and the place where they met.

  Exhausted as I was, I couldn’t stop cleaning her. I forced myself to move slowly and keep my hands gentle, fought the urge to scrub her entire body, to clean away everything they had done to her. But she would never be truly clean. There was nothing anyone could do to purge her deeper scars.

  I wondered if she knew about Ruth. How could I tell her? Not now. Not until she was more aware of herself and everything else that had happened. The thought of our baby sister made me dizzy, and I breathed in deeply, trying to clear my thoughts. I needed to be strong, to take care of us both. I couldn’t allow emotion to distract me.

  I could grieve later.

  The men led the horses from the water and tied them to the nearby trees, then lit a fire on the other side of the clearing. I smelled smoke and tried to remember what comfort a fire was supposed to bring.

  A while later, Blue Shirt rode into the clearing. He dismounted, grunted at the others, then walked toward Adelaide and me. He stopped a stone’s throw away and stooped to examine the hoof of a gray mare who stood dozing a few feet from us. The horse didn’t move when he picked at it and removed a stone. Apparently satisfied, he dropped the hoof and slapped her neck affectionately. He glanced our way, then turned back toward the other men.

  That was when one of his fellows made a noise like a crow, grabbed his throat, and fell face first into the fire. The men were suddenly on their feet, pistols aimed into the forest, eyes searching the shadows. A short thwick came from the trees and another man fell, clutching at his belly and howling in agony. The throat of a third man was pierced by an arrow and he collapsed, hitting the earth with a dull thud. The clearing filled with men’s screams and the hissing of arrows.

  I watched with dread as a moving wall of dark-haired men advanced into the clearing. Their faces were painted in black stripes, their hands swung axes and knives. Over their shoulders hung the fragile curves of bows. The shrieking noises they made sounded wild, like the forest around them. Indians.

  The horses near us stamped and snorted, yanking at the ropes. The gray mare tossed her head and Blue Shirt, eyes wide, sprung up from behind her. He lunged toward me, grabbing my arms and wrapping his rough sleeve around my neck.

  I made a garbled sound of protest, but his arm was tight. His voice was scratchy in my ear. “Godammit,” he muttered. “I ain’t leavin’ empty-handed.”

  He dragged me backwards into the trees, barking at me to be quiet. Adelaide still lay on the riverside, her open eye wide and liquid. I couldn’t let him separate us. I kicked at his shins and dug my shredded nails into his arms. The sound of thunking axes and dying men drove Blue Shirt forward and he tossed me, sack-like, over his shoulder. Adelaide disappeared from my view. The momentum knocked his hat off, and I saw he was mostly bald, save for a ring of curly red and silver hairs. He stumbled through the trees, swerving in and out of branches, following the winding path of the stream while I bumped against his back. I lifted my head to see what was happening, but the brush blinded me.

  I could hear, though. The air was alive with death.

  As much as I feared and hated our captors, I had been brought up to fear Indians more. The stories were always the same: Indians killed and tortured white people for entertainment. They dined upon their victims’ still-beating hearts. Indians were barbarians, barely more human than the animals with which they shared the forest. For those reasons I didn’t struggle as Blue Shirt carried me away. At least I understood this man and had some vague hope of survival with him.

  Eventually he stopped running and dumped me onto the ground. His pock-scarred face was streaked with sweat, his shirt a patchy blue. His hands shook, either from exertion or fear, and he panted so loudly I was sure the Indians would hear us. He staggered ten feet to the river’s edge, where he crouched and plunged his hands into the water, splashing his face and body. My mouth was so dry my tongue felt swollen. I longed to taste the water, but could barely move my legs. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, trying to ignore the thirst.

  Then something in the air changed. My legs, my tongue, the water—nothing mattered. It all disappeared with the realisation that Wolf was there, waiting for me. I opened my eyes and saw him standing halfway between Blue Shirt and me, more lucent than solid in the sunlight. His hair was tied back into a tail, exposing his cheekbones and his mouth, which was set in a tight line. He tilted his head, motioning me closer. I hadn’t been able to stand before. Now rising to my feet felt effortless, and I felt no pain. He filled me with his strength, and my fear melted into relief.

  I glanced toward the river’s edge, where Blue Shirt had collapsed onto his back, eyes closed, chest rising and falling in quick breaths. One of his hands dipped into the current, soaking one sleeve to the elbow. I could see the sweat on his cheeks, the lines of strain cutting across his forehead. Pale, almost invisible lashes rested on his cheeks.

  I stepped toward Wolf, walking easily, as if he held my hand. In fact, his hand was open, gesturing toward a large boulder beside him. On its surface lay a broad hunting knife, long forgotten by an anonymous hunter. Time had whitened its handle, rust had dotted its blade, but it was still sharp. When the breeze stirred the leaves overhead, the knife’s edge glinted in the sun, winking with encouragement.

  The knife offered both escape and vengeance. But at what price? I had never killed anyone—nothing beyond the small creatures we hunted for food. Could I do it? Could I kill this man whose band had ended the lives of both my mother and my sister? Who had left Adelaide and me forever scarred? I glanced toward Wolf, questions in my eyes, and he nodded. Yes, he thought I could. He pressed his lips tightly together, then gestured toward the knife again. I reached toward it and closed my fingers around the smooth wooden handle, staring at it with uncertainty. Wolf’s hands folded over mine, curling around my fingers, reassuring. I felt a sense of both losing myself and finding a strength I never knew existed.

  I could tell Blue Shirt didn’t see or hear me approach. If he had, he would have leaped to his feet and grabbed me. But he still battled for breath, still closed his eyes to the sun. He never saw the knife. In one swift motion I drew the blade deep across his exposed neck, pressing hard, allowing no room for error. Blood arced from a severed artery, shooting two feet away, and Blue Shirt’s eyes flew open in disbelief. His hands jerked to his ruined neck, one arm springing from the river, trailing a sparkling curtain of droplets in its rush. The wound widened swiftly, filling with blood. His breaths bubbled through the chasm in his neck. The dark red blood overflowed, looking almost black as it soaked into the faded blue fibres of his shirt.

  I backed a few feet away and squatted, watching him die, feeling a sort of detached fascination. Death didn’t take long. His hand splashed back into the water and began to ride the endless ripples, darkening the current with the liquid remains of his life.

  I inhaled a combination of smells: the metallic tang of blood, the sweet, soothing breath of surrounding pines, and the lingering scent of his panic. I held my breath, stretching my lungs until the ground beneath me wobbled. Every one of my muscles began to tremble at the shock of having killed a man.

  But while my body reacted, my mind felt nothing. No regret, no disgust, no horror. Nothing except perhaps a vague pulse of satisfaction. One day had changed everything about the person who had been me. Because of him, I had killed. Because of me, my life continued. Any evidence of this was stiffening on the grass beneath his neck.

  The wolf stood before me now, watching. I dug my fingers into the fur on his cheeks and gazed into his dark eyes, flecked with gold. I closed my eyes and
let him go, then summoned the faces of my mother and baby sister.

  “They’re gone,” I whispered into the breeze.

  I had to find Adelaide. The last time I had seen her, she was lying helpless by the shore. I turned toward the trees, holding the knife tightly against my body and trying to find the vague path Blue Shirt had followed. When I lost my way among thorny clumps of brush, I stopped and strained my ears for direction. That was when a raven sang out, calling me.

  I followed the bird’s voice without question, and it led me to the remains of the camp. I squatted behind a bush, listening to men talking in a strange, singsong language. I barely recognised the camp. The bodies of our captors lay scattered and motionless, blood-streaked in their filthy shirts. Indians had taken their place and were busy retrieving arrows and wandering the site.

  The courage that had carried the knife to Blue Shirt’s throat deserted me, though I still held the weapon. Adelaide lay on the other side of the bush, but I couldn’t call to her for fear of being heard. She seemed untouched, though in plain view of the Indians. I wanted to pull her away, drag her somewhere safe. I gripped my knife tighter and looked for a possible break in the bushes. Getting to her was going to be difficult. I tried to see a way around the Indians, but they seemed intertwined with the trees.

  Large hands grabbed my arms from behind, and I swallowed a shriek. The hands forced me to stand, urged me ahead, and sat me firmly on the ground beside my sister.

  I looked up into the face of an Indian and my stomach dropped, weighted by fear. He returned my gaze, wearing an expression of calm interest. Strong cheekbones framed a full mouth, and he had deep, dark eyes. His skin wasn’t red as we had been taught, but a kind of dark honey brown. He motioned with his hands that I should stay where I was and uttered some short words I couldn’t understand. He left us there and walked toward the fire, where the others had gathered. They glanced toward us, their expressions attentive, but not threatening. I took Adelaide’s cold hand in mine and she gave me a weak squeeze.