Spirit Pouch

by Vaterlaus, Stanford

  “Mom helped,” she replies with half a smile.

  “Well, you both did a great job,” I say, taking a big bite of buttered cornbread.

  “Are we going to take soup in the wagon on the way to Utah?” Joseph blurts out between spoonfuls.

  “Of course,” Annie whispers, poking an elbow into Joseph. “We’ve gotta eat.”

  “We will probably make soup,” Elizabeth smiles, “if you hunters bring back enough meat.”

  “Father’s been teaching me how to hunt and shoot,” Thomas reminds us. “I think we will have plenty of meat.”

  Dinner is over all too soon and Annie is summoned into the kitchen to help with dishes. William’s grandparents walk outside and sit on the front porch to enjoy the cool evening breeze.

  “They just like a little quiet time,” William whispers as he walks past me.

  I smile and sit down on the floor with my back against the wall. Tomorrow, I think, putting my head back and closing my eyes. Tomorrow, if I can get a spirit pouch ready, I will try to go home. My mind fills with images of my house, my mother, and of Lyn. They must be worried sick, I reason. I’ve been gone three days. Then I smile, maybe no one has noticed. I hope someone has noticed. Maybe I can’t go back, I think. I can feel my heart race as the implications of being stuck in 1866 force panic to swell up inside my chest. Maybe the spirit pouch only works one way. Maybe it only works once!

  “I have two marbles,” Joseph says, plunking himself down next to me on the floor. “Do you want to see ‘em?” His eyes beg for me to say ‘yes’.

  “You bet,” I reply. Actually, anything is better than contemplating how marooned I might be in 1866 Colorado.

  Joseph digs around in his over stuffed pockets until he finally pulls his hand out in triumph. “Here they are.” He sets them on the floor in front of me. “They are both chipped,” he announces sadly. Then he smiles, “That’s why people give them to me.”

  “Because they are chipped?” I ask.

  “Yep,” he says. “Sometimes they don’t roll very straight. Then you don’t win.”

  I pick up the closest marble and examined it. It is not perfectly round and has a good sized chip out of one side. “I can see why it might not roll straight,” I say. “This one looks like a bumblebee.”

  “Yeah, It’s my favorite,” he smiles. “You want to shoot it?” he invites.

  “Sure!”

  Joseph sets his other marble onto the floor. “You just flick it with your thumb,” he instructs. “Watch me.” He grabs the bumblebee

  [66] and flicks it almost in a straight line.

  “Okay,” I say. “It’s my turn.” I hold out my hand and Joseph plops the bumblebee into it.

  “No keepsies,” he announces, just to be sure he gets it back.

  I get up on my knees and sight down the wooden floor. Lining up my arm, I squint with one eye. Maybe if I knew geometry, I think, I could predict where this marble will go. I flick my thumb. The marble taw

  [67] swerves over the uneven floor and turns wildly as it rolls across the chipped surface, missing the duck by several inches.

  “I was closer,” Joseph chimes in.

  “Close doesn’t matter,” Annie states authoritatively as she pokes her nose out of the kitchen. “You have to knock it hard enough to make it go out of the circle.”

  “I know,” Joseph says defensively. “But I was still closest.”

  “Okay, my turn again,” I say.

  Joseph hands over the bumblebee. We trade taking turns three more times and not once does the yellow and black taw smack the other marble. On the third try, Joseph grazes the edge of the duck. “I hit it,” he yells. I’m the champion. I hit it.”

  Annie comes in and slides to a sitting stop on the floor. “I want to play,” she begs. “Only we have to play a real game. Not just target practice.” She glares at Joseph as only an older sister can do.

  “All right,” Joseph consents.

  “Joseph and Annie,” Elizabeth interrupts, “You will have to play marbles tomorrow. It is bed time, and the sun comes up early.”

  “Ah, Mom. Jared is leaving soon. Can’t we play just one game?” Joseph whines.

  “Not tonight,” she says firmly. “Jared has chores in the morning and then has some bricks to make. He is going to need his sleep.”

  She’s right about that, I agree silently. One of the things I really like, besides food, is sleep.

  “Jared,” Joseph says sadly. “I’m going to miss you when you leave.”

  “I will miss you, too …” A lump swells up in my throat. I fake a big smile and continue, “… cuz you’re going to Utah!”

  “Jared,” Joseph speaks seriously, “I want you to keep my bumblebee.” He holds out his hand with the marble in his fingers. “Maybe you can play marbles in Arizona."

  “Thank you, Joseph,” I say as the marble settles cold and hard in my hand. I can feel that lump coming back. I swallow hard, but still my eyes feel immersed in a watery pool. “I will remember you every time I play with this marble.”

  Annie disappears, but returns again in just a short moment. “You said that you need a bag for your things to help you get home. Well, here’s one.” She holds out an old marble bag.

  I can tell from the tiny cracks that the leather is old and weathered. “Thank you,” I say, forcing a smile through glistening eyes. “Both of you. You are better than any brother or sister I could ever wish for.” I just nod my head and blink to keep back the flood of water that is trying to escape the sides of my eyes.

  “Off to bed, Joseph … Annie,” Elizabeth commands. I know that tone of voice, too. It implies, ‘Do it now or there will be consequences’. Joseph darts toward his bed and Annie scampers away close behind him.

  I reach for my blankets and begin to spread them out as everyone heads toward their beds under indirect orders from Mom.

  I slip my new boots off and stow them right next to my bed of blankets, then my pants next to my boots. I pull a blanket over me and silently pray. Thanks for my boots and for this family that would open their home to a stranger, a lost boy in the night. And Ty …Will I ever see him again? A feeling of peace settles over me and in my heart I know that I will.

  Chapter Nine

  The Vial

  As my head settles onto the hard blanket I feel my body relax and sink into that split second of twilight, halfway between sleep and awake, where every muscle melts and every care washes away into total tranquility.

  “It’s your turn,” Joseph yells across the circle. “Use the secret weapon!”

  “What?” I sit up. “What secret weapon?” I am sure that I have missed the briefing. I do not know anything about a secret weapon.

  “You know, the Bumblebee,” Joseph gives me that look that meant, ‘duh’. I look again at the circle on the ground as marbles fly by me so fast they are only colored streaks of red, green and blue.

  “It’s your turn,” a new, but familiar, voice says as a marble whizzes past my ear. “I took my turn.”

  “Ty?” I query as I roll the Bumblebee between two fingers. “Are you playing?”

  “No,” says Ty. “I’m watching. And I’m not getting baptized even if you win!”

  “Flick it with your thumb,” Joseph yells, pushing my arm toward the circle. “It’s our only …”

  The tournament vanishes and someone says, “It’s your turn.”

  My eyelids peel open slowly as if they have been glued shut with rubber cement. William is looking at me and grinning.

  “It’s my turn for what?” I say, grabbing my pants and slipping them on. It seems like I had just barely taken them off. “And why are you waking me up in the middle of the night?”

  “It’s morning,” he says smiling. “Mom already tried waking you. She said you just asked if Ty was playing.”

  “Oh, … yeah so, it’s my turn …,” I say yawning, “… to …?”

  “To chop wood, of course. A few logs are all we need. I’m going to get Spot
.”

  “I’m right behind you,” I whisper as I tie the laces of my second boot and scamper out the front door.

  “So, who is Ty?” William asks, still smirking at my animated sleeping habits.

  “Ty,” I say, pausing to gather my thoughts that were still a little bit foggy. “Ty is my friend back in Arizona. We go to school together. I am hoping he will get baptized some day, but he has no desire to do so.”

  “Me, too,” William says stepping over the wooden corral. “I mean, I hope that I get a chance to be baptized.”

  “You will get the chance,” I say with confidence, but I am worried about Ty.”

  “Sounds like he needs the Holy Spirit to testify to him of the truth. Then he will be begging for a chance to be baptized … like I am.”

  “Yeah, I think you are right,” I reply, lifting the ax and turning toward the wood pile. Thinking about Ty and about home makes the morning chores go by fast and I hardly notice breakfast and the ride to the brickyard.

  “Jared?” Mr. Roworth says.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I see you have new boots.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say smiling.

  “You’re going to be our edger today. William will show you how to use the clapper. After that you will be carrying clay from the pug.”

  “Thank you Mr. Roworth,” I smile. At least I’m not working in the pit all day. I follow William to the bricks that we formed last Saturday and left to dry. “These will take about two weeks to dry,” he says. “But they are hard enough to finish shaping them today. See how they dry kind of crooked?”

  I nod my head.

  William picks up a tool and slides it across the brick as he talks. “Your job will be to use the clapper tool to straighten the sides of each brick and to smooth out the surface.” He holds up the finished brick for me to see.

  “I can do that,” I say.

  “When you finish a brick, put it over here,” William instructs. “I will take the bricks and stack them to dry.”

  “If you stack them, how will they dry?” I ask with a perplexed look on my face.

  “I will lean them against each other so that air can pass around them. You will see in a few minutes.”

  [68]

  It takes me over three hours to shape Saturday’s bricks and by then I am ready to carry some clay. After several hours of carrying buckets of clay, I am worn out and thankful when the five o’clock quitting time at last comes.

  “I am sure I earned my two dollars, today,” I whine wearily to William as I turn toward Central City.

  “Hey, Jared. Is your sense of direction mixed up? Home is this way.” William points toward the direction behind them.

  “No,” I reply, a little surprised. “I am going into town to buy a couple of little things.”

  William pulls a face that pretty much says that he does not think it is a good idea. “We shouldn’t go into town tonight. Mother will be expecting us.”

  “Oh,” I say, figuring it out. “It is because tonight is Family Home Evening.”

  William stares at me for a moment. I know that look. In fact, I am kind of getting used to it. It means that I have said something that he does not understand. Maybe they do not do Family Home Evening in their family or maybe they hold it on Thursdays.

  [69]

  “No,” he says with a slight shake of his head. “We’ve got chores to do.”

  “I know that,” I say. I have actually forgotten all about chores, but I try not to let that fact show on my face. “I figure that we can be in and out of the store in fifteen minutes.”

  William scrunches up his face again. “No, you go if you must. I am going to save myself a lot of trouble by being home on time. And I think you should too.”

  “You’re probably right, William,” I say. “But I’ve got to get one thing for my trip to Arizona. So, I’m going to run fast and if you beat me home tell your mother that I will be there in a few short minutes.”

  “Mother will be angry!” I hear him call as I turn toward Central City at a fast cross-country pace.

  It is only three blocks to the general store on Main Street and I arrive there fairly winded. Ah-hah, I conclude breathing deeply as I enter the store. It’s the altitude. The air is thinner. That’s why such a short jog makes me winded. I found the store owner right away. He is just finishing up another customer.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hello,” he answers cordially. “You’re the young man staying with Henry Cottle, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” I say perplexed. “How did you know?”

  “Oh, word gets around,” he says smiling, “especially when the boy is a hard worker. Everyone looks for good, strong help these days. What can I get for you today?”

  “I would like to buy a small glass container with a lid,” I hold up my fingers about an inch apart to indicate the size.

  The store owner frowns and shakes his head. “Noooo, I don’t have anything that small, and certainly not made of glass. I sell mostly dry goods here. No need for glass. Your best bet is the apothecary down the street on Eureka.”

  “The what?”

  “The pharmacy store,” he says, pointing. “Go down to the end of this street. That is Eureka. Turn left, cross the street, and it is the second or third building.”

  “Great! Thank you,” I say. I need to hurry so I quickly leave the store and jog down to Eureka. I’ve seen the pharmacy

  [70] on the way to Mr. Jenkins’ store last week, I think as I round the corner. So it ought to be right … Here it is. I step inside.

  “I probably have exactly what you need,” the clerk in the pharmacy says as soon as I describe it to him. “Let me show it to you.” He disappears around a corner.

  On the wall opposite from the window stands a bookcase with several used books. One is entitled, ‘Modern Medicine, - Preparation and Use.’ And next to it in bold letters the spine says, ‘Elixirs, Tinctures and Remedies.’ On the next wall a row of flasks line one shelf. Each flask is partially filled with liquid, some brown, some red and some cyan in color.

  Before I can read the labels the clerk interrupts my inspection. “Here it is,” the clerk smiles coming around the corner. “I knew we had some.”

  I inspect the tiny vial. It is clear glass, and I can tell that the thickness is not uniform, but it has a small snug cork stopper that ought to hold a little water.

  The pharmacy store clerk continues, “As you know, glass is somewhat rare up here in Central City. So, if you are still interested, I have to charge a high, but fair price.”

  I give the clerk a worried look that in my mind says, ‘I only have two dollars and I cannot spend all of that.’ “How much?” I choke out.

  “Fifty-five cents,” the clerk replies.

  “Fifty-five cents?” I reply, quite relieved. I can do fifty-five cents, I think.

  “Look, I can let it go for fifty cents even,” the clerk says. “But no less.”

  “I’ll take it,” I say quickly, digging a dollar out of my pocket and handing it to the clerk. The clerk gives me my change and puts the dollar into his drawer. With a small piece of paper he wraps the vial carefully as if packing it for a long journey in a large moving van. “May I ask what need you have for a small glass vial?” the clerk asks politely as he hands me the package.

  “Yes, sir.” I say, pushing the front door open. “I’m going to Arizona tomorrow and I need it to hold water.”

  The clerk looks at me in a strange way as I slide out the door and start toward Dogtown at a steady mile-eating cross-country pace. I find Nevadaville Road and start up the gentle incline.

  “Whew!” I sputter, slowing to a walk and raising my arms over my head trying to suck in more of the thin oxygen. I bend over for a moment, close my eyes and breathe heavily. When I re-open my eyes, directly in front of my boots lay a perfectly white stone. I pluck it up from the road and inspect it carefully. It is rough and jagged, but it is totally white. I slip it into my pocket. At leas
t no one will accuse me of stealing gold, I think. In fact, I am so deep in thought about how white symbolizes purity or repentance, that I have not noticed the horse and wagon that has caught up to me on the road. It is Mr. Taylor. Instead of riding in his wagon, he and three other men are walking. Mr. Taylor is leading his horse by the reins. I fall in with these men as we trudge up the steep incline leaving Central City. As we walk I inspect the horse on the left and then on the right with my inexperienced city-boy eyes. The horse does not appear to be lame in any way. I check out all four wagon wheels. They seem to be functioning properly, also.

  “Why is Mr. Taylor walking?” I finally ask one of the men in a subdued voice. “Wouldn’t he rather ride up this steep hill?”

  The man laughs. “Yes, son, we would all like to ride up this hill.” Then he laughs again.

  I hold my question with my eyes.

  After a moment he becomes serious. “A horse will serve you well for many years if you take good care of him,” the man explains. “It is extremely hard work to pull this wagon up this hill, let alone with four additional men. There are some men who would drive their wagons fully loaded up this hill. But Mr. Taylor is a very caring man and would not abuse his horse in that way.”

  Just then we reach the top of the incline and Mr. Taylor stops. “Jump in,” he says. “Let’s be on our way.”

  I hurriedly stash the small glass vial, still wrapped in paper, into my other front pocket that does not have the white stone, and then follow the four men onto the wagon. I sit down on the rough wooden floor just as the wagon jerks to a start.

  “Well, boys,” one of the men says as we bounce along the road to Dogtown. “Over at Johnson’s place we seem to be doing a whole lot of digging and very little finding. You’re working a sluice box, aren’t you, Bob? How’s that working out?”

  “It seems the gold is running dry,” he says. “We find some every now and then, but not like we used to.”