Wildwood

by Elinor Florence

  I sank into the chair — I couldn’t do anything else — and dropped my face into my hands in a desperate attempt to maintain consciousness. Through my fingers I caught a glimpse of Bridget’s white socks, now soaked with red, and squeezed my eyes shut.

  I must have blacked out for a few minutes because when I raised my head again, feeling sick and groggy, both girls were standing beside the pump. Bridget was holding a folded tea towel soaked in cold water over her mouth with both hands. “Hold it tight! Real tight!” I had never heard Wynona sound so authoritative.

  Wynona turned to me. “She must have fallen and hit her mouth. She cut the inside of her lip. She held her mouth shut and it filled up with blood.”

  “Should I take her to the hospital?” I asked in a faint voice. I looked beseechingly at Wynona, as if a twelve-year-old girl knew what to do.

  “Nah. It’s a bad cut, but I’ve seen worse. My brother Winston fell off his quad once and put his teeth through his bottom lip, and it healed fine. She’s going to have a sore mouth for a while, that’s all.”

  I forced myself to look at Bridget. She had stopped screaming although she was still hiccupping with sobs. Her eyes gazing at me over the dishtowel were swollen, but she was standing quite still and pressing the towel to her mouth. Even she seemed to be reassured by Wynona’s attitude.

  “My father had to go to emergency and get a tetanus shot when he stepped on a rusty nail,” Wynona said. “Are Bridget’s shots up to date?”

  I nodded weakly. I had made sure that Bridget was inoculated for everything imaginable before we left Arizona.

  “You guys go into the other room while I clean this place up.” Wynona was already soaking a dishcloth at the pump. “Both of you!”

  I managed to rise to my feet, averting my eyes from the red pool on the floor, and took Bridget’s hand. Together we tottered off to the next room and sank onto the bed.

  “What happened, Bridget?” I leaned against the pillows with my eyes closed.

  “I was running into the bedroom, and I fell down and hit my mouth on the edge of the night table,” she said, her voice muffled with the towel. “It sure bled a lot, didn’t it? The blood was just pouring out of me like a bottle of ketchup!”

  “Please, let’s not talk about it anymore.”

  February 17, 1925

  We have had a very close brush with death, one that has utterly shaken my confidence. George, usually so careful, slipped on the ice and gashed his calf badly with the axe. He came staggering into the house with his lower leg simply spurting blood.

  Fortunately, helping father in his clinic accustomed me to the sight of blood. I washed and bandaged it carefully and applied salt to the wound as a disinfectant. Poor George retired to bed in much pain.

  The next morning when I unwrapped the bandage, I was horrified to see the area looking very red and swollen, and warm to the touch. I greatly feared that blood poisoning had set in as a result of the dirty axe blade.

  We had an anxious day and a sleepless night. I kept the lamp burning so that I could observe George’s leg at intervals. Even in the midst of his suffering, he complained bitterly about the waste of oil! In the lamplight I could see the redness creeping higher and higher on his leg like a red serpent. The temperature outside forbade any attempt to seek help, but I knew the only treatment was amputation of the poisoned limb. Without that drastic measure, death was inevitable.

  Our salvation arrived in the person of Annie Bearspaw. She took one look at George’s leg and pulled out a deerskin pouch hanging around her neck next to her skin. Inside the pouch was an assortment of plants and other items. She mixed a poultice of herbs with boiling water and applied it to George’s leg, then said: “I come tomorrow.”

  When she arrived next morning, the swelling had gone down considerably although my poor husband was still in agony. Annie boiled up a pot of tea using strips of dried willow bark. George made some terrible faces as the broth was so bitter, but he got most of it down and then fell into a deep sleep.

  By the end of the week the gash had closed and he was sitting up in bed complaining of boredom.

  Oh, Annie, my blessed angel of mercy! Never again will I suspect you of Indian witchcraft!

  When my patient was out of danger, I asked Annie to explain her methods, and took the following notes. Four plants are used by her tribe to heal injuries and illness.

  Sage. A silvery-looking plant with long, pointed leaves. Pick during summer when it’s green, leaving the roots behind. Make a bundle, tie the ends together and hang it to dry. Burning the leaves creates smoke that the Indians use to cleanse themselves symbolically before an important ceremony. It contributes to healing by driving away evil spirits. I often smell this pleasant odour on Annie’s clothing.

  Rat root, a funny-looking twisted twig. Simply break off a small piece and chew it. I tried some, and it has a very sharp flavour, but it is known to cure sore throats and the common cold as it has a numbing effect on the skin.

  Cedar. Pick a small branch and boil it in water. Use the solution for bathing, or massage it directly into the skin to ease pain. It smells like pine needles.

  Birch: Skim off the slightest surface of a branch with a sharp knife, and directly underneath is an orange substance. Boil this in water, and drink it. It’s a smooth drink, not at all foul-tasting. Annie said the men use this to treat their aching bones and sore joints from working on the traplines in cold weather.

  She said there are other herbal remedies, too many to explain, and some of them secret. After her success with George’s leg, I am now utterly convinced she does have knowledge not available to the white man.

  Days remaining: 170. We were halfway there.

  20

  March

  The northern sun now rose before eight o’clock and set after six, but the longer daylight hours brought little warmth. A three-day blizzard blotted out the sky as if it were drenched with charcoal paint. Bridget came into the kitchen on the last day of February and announced that her mouth was still sore. “Good thing you don’t like talking very much,” I said jokingly.

  Usually I didn’t mention her reluctance to speak in front of other people. I looked sideways at her, wondering how she would react.

  She giggled. “Ow! That hurt my mouth! Mama, don’t make me laugh!”

  “I guess I won’t tickle you then.”

  “If you do, you’ll be in big trouble, and I mean big.”

  “Let me take another look at that cut.” Gingerly, I bent and pulled down her bottom lip. It was healing nicely, with nothing but a red mark left. To my surprise, I found I could look at it without wincing.

  I went to the frying pan on the stove, cut a small wedge of cheese omelette, and spread jam on a piece of dry toast. That was the last egg in the house. The pantry contained nothing but canned food and bulk staples. Tonight we would have meat loaf again, made with tomato soup. Bridget liked that. In fact, she liked everything now. I hadn’t heard any complaints for weeks. She ate hungrily, mopping up the last crumbs with her crust.

  “Would you like some more, Bridge?”

  “Not yet, Mama. I’ll wait until my stomach dies down.”

  Tomorrow was our monthly trip to Juniper. After the dishes were washed, I bundled up and shuffled outside to check the condition of the driveway. I clumped along to the sound of crunching snow. The stiff breeze threw up shards of ice like broken glass that stuck to my balaclava and sunglasses.

  The driveway had vanished under a sea of rock-hard snowdrifts, sculpted into the shape of waves upon the ocean. When I walked over them, my heavy boots left no impression. It was like walking across an uneven marble floor. There was no way to ram through these frozen drifts with the truck. Town Day would have to wait.

  Riley bravely trotted beside me but ran ahead when I turned back toward the yard. Through the bare trees, the house looked like a wooden ship sailing on a frozen sea.

  Our plain diet now became even plainer. For breakfast, oatmeal and raisin
s and evaporated milk. For lunch, tuna sandwiches with homemade bread. For supper, noodles with canned spaghetti sauce, or rice mixed with canned beans. I made corned beef hash and stretched it out for three days. I viewed my dwindling food supply with mounting anxiety, feeling like Mother Hubbard.

  When Wynona showed up with a big package of homemade deer sausages, I almost fell on her neck with gratitude.

  “Colin McKay came by the school today and dropped this off for you.” She hesitated. “Oops. I forgot that he said not to tell you where it came from.”

  I wanted to make the grand gesture and feed them to Riley, but I told myself not to be a fool. I fried them with onions, and they were delicious.

  On the fifteenth of March I gloomily poured the last cup of coffee from the tin pot. I could survive without fresh fruit and vegetables, but coffee was another story. I took a cautious sip, holding it in my mouth, wanting it to last.

  After rinsing my cup in the sink, I pulled on my overcoat and ran upstairs to the attic. I needed a scrap of fabric so I could patch the knees on Bridget’s corduroy overalls. She had the habit of sliding across the wooden dining room floor on her knees when she was playing with Fizzy, and she had worn them right through.

  At the very bottom of the sewing trunk was a soft package about the size of a book, wrapped in a length of black velvet. I unwrapped it to find an inner layer of white silk. Inside that was a leather pouch, beautifully decorated with the traditional blue-dyed porcupine quills. It was closed with a fringed flap, fastened with a strip of hide and a piece of bone. I wanted to peek inside, but it was too cold to examine the contents up here. I blew on my fingers to warm them, found a remnant of heavy cotton for Bridget’s overalls, and dashed back downstairs.

  An hour later, Wynona staggered into the house half-frozen. I made her a cup of cocoa, and she sat by the stove until she stopped shivering. Bridget helpfully placed the cat on her lap for extra warmth.

  “Wynona, I found something interesting, and I want you to look at it with me. I haven’t opened it yet.” I spread a clean towel on the kitchen table, and took the package from the kitchen cupboard. All three of us sat down while I unwrapped the velvet and then the silk.

  “It’s a medicine bag!” Wynona’s usually flat voice sounded shocked. “Where did you find this?”

  “In the attic.” I started to open the bone button on the flap, but Wynona put her hand on my wrist.

  “It’s secret. Nobody is supposed to see what’s inside a medicine bag but the owner — unless the owner gives permission.”

  “I’m the owner now. So I hereby give you two girls permission to see what’s inside. I’m certain that it belonged to your great-grandmother.”

  “Annie Bearspaw must have given it to your great-auntie for a very important reason.” Wynona’s voice was solemn. “She was a healer. Your great-aunt must have needed healing.”

  “I wonder why. It must have worked since she lived to be one hundred and four years old.”

  We sat silently for a moment, staring at the medicine bag until Wynona spoke again. “Why did your great-aunt leave it here, anyways? A medicine bag is supposed to be buried with you when you die.”

  “I’m sure she cherished it. You can see by the way it was wrapped so carefully. But my great-aunt was already losing her memory when she left the house for the last time. She must have forgotten it was here. Let’s open it and see what’s inside.”

  I opened the flap and pulled out a perfectly round black stone, probably worn smooth by the creek bottom. It looked like a worry stone. “It’s round because it represents the sun and the moon and the earth,” Wynona said. “Everything in life is shaped like a circle.”

  “I’m impressed that you know so much about medicine bags, Wynona.”

  “I know some.” She ducked her head modestly.

  The next item was a flint arrowhead, sharp as a razor, the tiny flaking strokes clearly visible. “That’s what my ancestors used for hunting,” Wynona explained. Bridget sat very still, her eyes solemn as she followed the items from my hand to the table.

  Next came an animal claw, yellow and curved, six inches long. “Probably from a grizzly,” Wynona said.

  I shuddered. It looked prehistoric. Perhaps it was prehistoric.

  There was a single perfect eagle feather. “The eagle is really sacred. That’s why eagle feathers are used for all kinds of ceremonies. It stands for power.”

  One by one, I pulled out several bunches of plants. A tuft of grass, tied with a leather thong, gave off a fragrant, earthy odour.

  “That’s sage,” said Wynona.

  Another smelled like the wooden chest at the foot of our bed. “That’s cedar.”

  Three strands of light green grass were braided together and tied with a leather thong. “That’s sweetgrass,” said Wynona. “You burn it and wave it around your body and your head and it purifies you.”

  A tiny leather pouch tied with a drawstring held a handful of tobacco leaves. The fragrance rose like a palpable mist from the past. It reminded me of my great-uncle’s pipe.

  Next there was a funny little twisted twig.

  “Rat root!” I exclaimed.

  Wynona looked at me in surprise. “How do you know about rat root?”

  “I read about it in my great-aunt’s diary.”

  Next I drew out a small metal disk. It was a Canadian quarter. One side had an engraving of a bearded king wearing a crown with a Latin inscription running around the edge. The other side bore a wreath of maple leaves tied with a ribbon, and the words “25 Cents Canada 1928.”

  “That must be the year the bag was put together. That was only four years after my great-aunt moved into this house.” I turned the quarter over, wondering about the significance of the year 1928.

  I set the quarter aside, and pulled out the final item. It was a tiny baby’s bonnet, trimmed with the finest handmade lace. I fingered the lace. Did my great-aunt want to have a baby? Perhaps she was barren, and that was why she needed healing. Her diary mentioned that she was hoping to have children.

  Wynona was gazing at the medicine bag reverently, as if it contained the holy bones of a saint.

  “Wynona, I want you to have this.”

  “Really? Are you sure?” Her dark eyes looked into mine, a rare occurrence.

  “I’m sure that Annie made this bag with her own hands, and it carries her spirit power. I’m absolutely convinced that she would want you to have it.”

  Without a word, Wynona went to the basin and washed her hands. Then she returned to the table and carefully replaced the contents of the bag. She slipped the string over her head so the pouch nestled against her body. She pressed it to her breast with both hands, and bowed her head as if in prayer.

  That night after Wynona had gone home, we sat in the rocking chair while I read Jerry Muskrat. “We must tell Grandfather Frog all about the danger and ask his advice, for he is very old and very wise and remembers when the world was young.”

  Bridget interrupted me. “Mama, why don’t I have a grandfather?”

  The words pierced my heart. I had been dreading this. Slowly I closed the book, keeping my finger between the pages.

  “My mother and father — your grandmother and grandfather — don’t live on this earth any longer. They went to heaven before you were born.”

  “What did they look like?”

  I hesitated for a moment. I didn’t want to tell her that I couldn’t remember. I squeezed my eyes shut and concentrated. Suddenly they appeared in my mind’s eye as distinctly as if they had stepped out from around the corner.

  “My father was tall, and he had dark, curly hair, just like yours and mine. And blue eyes. His eyes would scrunch up when he smiled, and he smiled all the time. And he loved to whistle! He was always whistling!”

  I was talking to myself now. “And my mother, well, she was very beautiful. She had long, thick, blond hair that she wore in a ponytail. And she had a tiny mole right here, under her chin, just like the one t
hat you have! And she always wore pale pink lipstick, called Desert Rose. And she liked licorice … it was her favourite flavour!”

  I bit my lip to hold back the tears, but they were tears of joy. It was as if an old faded photograph had been retouched, brought into focus, the scratches erased, the colours enhanced. “I’m so sorry that you can’t meet them,” I said in an unsteady voice.

  “But I’ll see them in heaven, won’t I?”

  “Yes, I believe you will.”

  Bridget snuggled closer. “That’s good, Mama. I’m sure they’ll like me. Now, go on reading.” I opened the book again and continued the story.

  After she had gone to sleep, I returned to the rocking chair and remembered my father’s sunny personality, his gentle strength. I hugged my arms round my knees. Bridget would miss so much by not having a grandfather, not to mention a father.

  I wanted to raise her to be a courageous, self-confident woman, without any of my treacherous weaknesses. It was a daunting task and one for which I felt completely unsuited. I could barely be a good mother to Bridget, let alone a father. A masculine father figure would surely help her become a stronger person.

  On the other hand, the disappearance of Bridget’s biological father was a blessing in disguise. I thought of Chase and his complete indifference to anyone but himself. Surely his absence was the lesser of two evils.

  I knew Bridget would ask me soon about her father, and I would have to make up a story. Someday she might even want to find him, and when that day came I would help her. But hopefully that day was a long way off.

  Chase hadn’t wanted to be a father. He “wasn’t ready.” In vain he pleaded with me to terminate the pregnancy. When he finally realized that I was going to have the baby in spite of his powers of persuasion, he moved permanently to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, outside the reach of the Department of Arizona Child Support Enforcement.