Citizens Creek

by Lalita Tademy

  There were twelve of them, men, women, children, babies, ranch hand, and Rose lost any sense of where they might be. The world had become dim gray sky above and mile after mile of spongy mud below. Wet grass slapped against her face and chilled air forced its way inside the woven blanket around her shoulders, and her ears filled with the steady footbeats of the others. Every step took them farther away from Twin.

  At one point, they were forced to a narrow single file, and Elizabeth finally dropped Rose’s hand. From then, Rose kept Elizabeth directly in front of her, or carried her, Elizabeth’s arms in a sprawl around her torso. Rose was a good walker, but she was tired, and hungry, and feared they would never stop, but she trudged on, as did everyone else.

  Just before nightfall, when the light was weak but they could still see, Grampa Cow Tom led them out of the pastureland and down an embankment to a stream. The water slipped over the rocks near the shore, frigid-looking and frothy.

  “We cross here so they can’t follow in the night.”

  The stream was at least as wide as two full lengths of the corral back on their ranch. There was no telling how deep. Rose could swim, if need be, but what about the baby? What about their supplies? What about Granny Sarah and Elizabeth?

  Her grandfather handed his rifle to her grandmother and splashed into the water first, testing the bottom, and walked until the water reached his waist. He was less than halfway across. He inched his way carefully, his body disappearing a bit at a time until, midway, he was almost completely submerged, the water up to his neck. Still he pushed on, and with the next few tentative steps, he began to reappear. First his shoulders, then his chest, then his waist, and finally, he was whole again on the other side of the stream. The light was close to fading completely.

  “Maggie, Malinda, Amy,” he called on the other side. “Supplies first. Keep the guns and blankets dry.”

  He plunged back into the water toward the larger group on the opposite shore, taking up a waiting station at the deepest part of the stream. Five waded in and staggered positions, holding guns and food and blankets over their heads, handing them daisy chain as they went back for more. Once there was a pile of reasonably dry items on the other side of the stream, they ferried the children across, one by one, and floated the cradleboard with the baby to safety, passing from hand to hand.

  “I don’t want to,” whispered Elizabeth to Rose as they waited their turn, and Rose stayed with her as Cousin Emmaline and Cousin Lulu, her precious beaded doll clutched tight in one hand, forded the stream. Each time Rose thought Elizabeth ready, the girl panicked, and she let someone else take their place until they were the last two on the shore.

  The night was almost fully upon them, the gloom settling in among the shadows. Rose thought of the Confederates in the woods. With darkness, they’d make their attack on the ranch house, and when they found it empty, they might well come after them. There was no going back.

  “You’ve been brave,” Rose said. “Pretend we’re warriors.”

  Elizabeth remained unconvinced. “Where we going, Rose?” she asked.

  Rose looked at her sister. Her small face was caked with grime, her hair tangled, wild, and filthy. Rose assumed she looked the same.

  “Fort Gibson so the Confederates can’t get us. They have soldiers there.”

  “I want to go home.”

  Rose shut her eyes tight, fighting the panic. She wasn’t so much afraid of the water as of crossing a divide where Twin couldn’t follow. They had always communed in the graveyard, and only there, but she tried summoning him wordlessly now. She needed him by her side. One minute passed, and then two, but he didn’t come. She couldn’t feel him at all.

  “We can’t go home,” she whispered to Elizabeth. “It isn’t safe at the ranch anymore.”

  “I want to go home now.”

  “We can’t,” Rose repeated. They could see the others on the other side, wet and cold, wrapping blankets around themselves.

  In the weak light, Grampa Cow Tom signaled the two girls to the edge of the stream.

  Elizabeth looked as if she would cry. “I dropped Dolly.”

  The corncob figure was no longer in her sister’s limp hand, and as drained as Rose was, the sight of her sister threatened to undo her. “Elizabeth, you have to be a big girl now. Just a little longer. We cross the stream and when we get to Fort Gibson I’ll make you a new Dolly. And we’ll go back home once Union soldiers beat the Confederates.”

  Rose knew better, but promised anyway. She’d seen the look of finality settled into Gramma Amy’s features when she joined them by the gristmill. There was no home to go back to.

  Elizabeth didn’t answer, but the willfulness abandoned her sister’s face.

  “You first, and I’ll be right behind,” said Rose. “Go to Grampa.”

  Elizabeth took a few tentative steps, shrinking back as soon as her foot touched the cold water, but Grampa Cow Tom grabbed her by the waist and pulled her toward him and swung her over his head. To her credit, Elizabeth didn’t cry out as she passed hand to hand, and once Rose saw her sister transported safe and mostly dry to the other bank, she rushed straight into the stream herself, wading out as far as she dared. She’d seen her grandfather’s tremble as he’d lifted Elizabeth. Even in the poor light, she’d seen the bluish tint to his skin and the rigidity of the muscles at his jaw, the involuntary chattering of his teeth and the beginnings of glazed eyes. He’d been in the cold water too long.

  The iciness of the water penetrated Rose’s moccasins and her bare thighs under her trousers, and then the shock of cold threatened to numb her brain as well as her limbs, but she was determined not to make her grandfather fetch her. He moved slowly toward her, and she began to paddle like a dog, furiously, keeping her head above the water. Her grandfather grabbed her arms to pull her toward the center of the stream, and she tried to help by kicking harder. She was last to cross over, and her grandfather didn’t hand her to the next, but stayed beside her all the way to the other side. By the time she came out of the water, Ma’am had a blanket waiting for her.

  Gramma Amy unwrapped the blanket from around her shoulders and bundled Grampa Cow Tom in it, wiping him dry. She ran her finger round the ridge of his nubbed ear, and he tilted toward her, laying his head on her breast for a moment before straightening again. Rose’s blanket was damp, but warmed her nonetheless, and for a few moments, she was lost, unable to move or think, her nonresponsive body attempting to adjust to the freezing night air.

  “Elizabeth?” Rose finally managed.

  Gramma Amy brought her sister to her, eyes dull, her manner listless. Rose roused herself, and opened her blanket, bringing the girl closer, wrapping them back up together, folding her limbs around her sister.

  “I’m hungry, Rose,” said Elizabeth. “And cold.”

  “Me too,” said Rose. “Lean into me.”

  Elizabeth collapsed into Rose, and fell immediately into sleep. By the light of the quarter moon, Rose took in the wet, bedraggled group around her. The adults had already begun to shake off the effects of the icy water, reconstituting themselves slowly into a group away from the children and whispering among themselves. For Rose’s part, she wanted nothing more than to sit around a blazing fire, to have a proper meal and not take another step in any direction. She wanted to sleep, like Elizabeth, whose warm breath and clammy skin both comforted and alarmed her. Near the elm tree, Gramma Amy began to distribute shares of puska, enough to cut the pangs of hunger but not enough to satisfy. Rose shook Elizabeth awake and forced the girl to eat. Elizabeth chewed listlessly, as if from habit rather than hunger. She tucked herself into Rose and fell asleep again.

  “We walk the stream tonight,” Grampa Cow Tom announced.

  Rose understood at once. The Confederates were on horseback, and if they followed them to this side of the river tomorrow, their tracks would be too easy to follow. But how
could this group continue on throughout the night without sleep, in the dark, wet and cold?

  Gramma Amy moved first. She picked through the supplies, assessing as best she could in the dim moonlight what was salvageable and what wasn’t, and when she finished, she strapped her own pouch on her back before redistributing the supplies to carry among the tired refugees. Rose woke Elizabeth again. The girl looked at Rose, her eyes flat, but she stood when Rose stood, and accepted the blanket around her tiny shoulders when Rose enfolded her in it. She tried to grip the assigned skillet she’d carried so far already, but the pan fell from her cold hands and dropped to the ground, and Elizabeth stared at her feet, confused. Rose picked the skillet up and added it to her own items.

  “Hold to me,” she said to Elizabeth, and her sister grabbed onto the damp deerskin of Rose’s tunic. When the group, with Grampa Cow Tom in the lead, started north, Rose kept up as best she could, and Elizabeth followed behind her, hand on tunic, even when they moved into the water near the shore in single file, their feet so cold they could barely feel them. They didn’t walk fast, sometimes sloshing through the stream shin high, sometimes leaping from the exposed tops of rocks partially submerged in the water, but they walked steadily in the near dark, hour after hour, until her grandfather was satisfied they had put enough distance between themselves and the Confederates at the ranch. They filled their gourds with water and left the bank of the stream, and the road became darker than ever, without the water’s surface to serve as reflector for the disappearing sliver of moon.

  Rose was barely conscious of walking anymore. She followed single-mindedly, without expectation or thought. The air was too cold for her damp tunic to dry, and the stiff material clung to her with a sickening clamminess that made the piercing chill worse. She abandoned carrying Elizabeth, now in Ma’am’s arms. Rose’s feet were so tender each step pained and her limbs felt like dead weights. But still she trudged on.

  At last a thin band of pink appeared along the horizon, so gradual Rose didn’t identify dawn at first, but suddenly she was aware of more than the dark, hypnotic movement of shapes directly ahead, aware that she used her eyes to see as much as her muscles to move and her heart to pump. She forced herself to look forward and backward, craning her neck, luxuriating in the alien movement. The group was spread out in a ragged line, and she was almost at the tail end, the old cowpuncher up near the front, Gramma Amy, Ma’am, Elizabeth, and Granny Sarah just steps behind. She didn’t see Grampa Cow Tom anywhere. Her knees buckled, and she stumbled, falling face forward into the prairie grass. Gramma Amy was by her side in moments, turning her over onto her back, whistling low for the line to stop.

  “Can you get up?” Her Gramma Amy’s voice.

  Rose made her legs work, and stood, ashamed she had fallen.

  At that moment, Cow Tom came from the east, his rifle slung over one shoulder, his bowlegged walk recognizable even through his new limp. Gramma Amy left her to meet him.

  “They can’t keep going,” Amy said to him. She didn’t pull him aside, or whisper, but merely claimed the fact.

  Aunt Maggie sat cross-legged on the muddy ground hugging her baby to her chest. Cousin Emmaline’s and Cousin Lulu’s eyes were glazed. Many of the women had taken their moccasins off and were tending to their feet, wrapping and rewrapping strips of cloth striped with red.

  “I found us a hiding place,” said Cow Tom. “Not far. We rest until nightfall.”

  Chapter 32

  THEY PACKED UP supplies and followed once more into the face of the awakening dawn, limping, wincing with blister pain, shaking from the cold or fever. Those more able helped those less, and all moved forward. Cow Tom led them out of the tall prairie grass into a forested area, where tightly spaced oak trees formed a natural camp, dark and damp.

  The group didn’t so much settle in their campsite as collapse where they stood. The small warmth from the rising sun didn’t reach under the trees, but lighting a fire was too risky. They worked out a watch schedule, and Ma’am and Aunt Maggie produced puska and dried deer strips. The meat helped push away the knifelike gnawing at Rose’s belly. Gramma Amy pulled out her mortar and pestle and mixed up a medicinal concoction, her movements slow.

  Rose’s eyes were so heavy and her body ached so deeply, she sat on the cold ground and stared at nothing. She wanted Twin, and recited his name over and over in her mind, but he didn’t come. Elizabeth laid her head in Rose’s lap and dozed, her stiff hair icy to the touch. Rose covered her sister’s ears with the edge of the blanket. The next thing Rose knew, Gramma Amy was forcing her awake to drink down a potion, and she struggled to swallow the bitter-tasting brew before falling back into dreamless sleep. She missed all the morning and some of the afternoon. Elizabeth shook her awake, eyes bright with panic. Rose did her best to keep Elizabeth calm, tearing off a piece of deer strip she’d saved and giving it to her sister. Elizabeth devoured all of it.

  They lay in their blankets together.

  “Are they going to catch us?” Elizabeth asked again, as she had last night before they crossed the stream. Rose watched the chilled puff her words left in the air.

  “No. Everything’s better at Fort Gibson. We’ll light a big fire and roast a whole pig.”

  Rose promised Elizabeth any number of impossible things. When she ran out of words, she sang softly to Elizabeth, snatches of lullabies and ceremonial chants, stroking Elizabeth’s back, and Elizabeth fell off to sleep again, wheezing slightly. Rose dozed too.

  Her grandfather finally returned, and led them out of the copse through close vegetation in the woods until they came to a narrow trail. Tonight, there was no stream to cross, but the moon sliver barely lit their way, and they were careful of every step, staying close to one another so as not to wander off alone into the dark. Once again, they walked all night, the pace not as punishing as the night before. They walked into the dawn, and waited in the dangerous sunlight hours. Amy caught a prairie rabbit, but everyone else stayed huddled close. Her grandfather came back to them in the full light of day, with as pleased a look as he ever displayed.

  “Found it,” he said.

  He led them up a craggy hill and cleared away shrubs from the face of the ridge. On the other side was a cave, the fissure-crack so narrow each had to stoop as they entered single file. But despite the small crevice, the inside opened into a broader expanse, enough for all of them, though a tight fit. They pulled the shrub behind them to disguise the entrance, and posted a sentry. Here, they lit a small fire and cooked the rabbit, and the women produced a thin stew.

  Gramma Amy treated the sick and the weary, which was just about everyone, and individuals tended themselves as well, rewrapping their feet, airing their clothes, smearing fat on their faces to stop the cold’s penetration. Two had fevers, but other than tender and blistered feet, there were no more serious ailments among them. They listened to the wind howl and periodic bouts of rain, but with hot food in her stomach and the reminder of a fire’s warmth, Rose began to believe they really would make it to Fort Gibson.

  They rested in the cave for a full day and night, and until the next evening. When Cow Tom led them back into the prairie, their pace quickened. Tired though they were, they trudged through the mud without complaint. There was enough distance between themselves and the ranch to feel they were no longer in danger from the Confederates back there, but they worried about other roving bands.

  By the fourth night’s walking, Aunt Maggie’s milk dried up, and the baby, who had remained so quiet, refused comforting. Elizabeth went from limp to hobble and had to be carried. Granny Sarah only walked at a turtle’s pace. They tried night hunting, with poor results. Despite foraging nuts and berries along the way, their food store was low, and they cut back to half rations.

  But the night finally came to an end. Rose spotted the thread of light announcing the sun’s rise. The day was warmer than in all the time they’d been walking, almost lik
e spring after a long, hard winter. They waited in the tall grass for her grandfather’s return and pronouncement of the day’s hiding place. When Elizabeth pulled at Rose’s tunic, demanding attention, Rose had to stop herself from slapping her. She wanted a moment to herself, just a moment to relish the daylight and the prospect of sleep and quiet. She closed her eyes to better feel the warming sun on her face, and for an instant, she thought Twin had come, but the feeling slid away.

  When Grampa Cow Tom returned, they followed him to a flat patch of land sheltered by trees, not far from a stream. He was more talkative than he had been for days. He had seen small groups of Indians of different tribes moving north toward Fort Gibson, some in wagons, some on horseback, but most walking, as they were. He had even seen two Union soldiers on their horses in the distance, scouring the landscape, protecting the territory from Confederates. He announced that after a rest, they would walk in the daylight, and arrive at Fort Gibson before nightfall.

  Her grandmother came round, checking everyone. She got to them last, and Elizabeth was already asleep. Her grandmother brushed back some of the sleeping girl’s hair with her hand, feeling for temperature. Permanent wrinkles grooved Gramma Amy’s forehead and around her eyes, baked in by years of sun and wind and hard work. Gramma Amy lay herself down on the ground beside the girl, closed her eyes, and slept.

  Now that they were close, Rose wondered what the fort might be like. She imagined an enormous structure with thick log walls, filled with soldiers and guns and horses, and vast storerooms of food of all kinds, dried meat, cornmeal, preserves like they stored in their own pantry at the ranch. She could almost feel the heat from a tall community fire, spitting sparks, and pictured herself with the other women in a circle, preparing warm meals with the fresh game and the fresh fish the men would catch. She would welcome seeing other Upper Creeks, listening to their stories of where they came from, what they left behind. She would welcome falling asleep at night instead of walking, without dreams of Confederates finding her crouched behind a bush and dragging her out by the ankle to her death. Maybe Twin would come to her once they settled.