Daughter of the Raven

by Cherime MacFarlane

  In the morning she felt much better. Anya realized she had underestimated how draining being wet all day could be. Rabbit meat and ptarmigan were a good meat source, but she needed fat. Getting it could be difficult. She would consider the problem as she traveled.

  It was time to be moving. She isolated some large coals from the fire. Blowing on them, she made sure they were still viable. Using two sticks, Anya transferred the coals to the nest inside the willow and moss basket. A thick plug of moss went on top. She pushed two sticks through the loose weave to hold the plug in. A strip of willow bark anchored the basket to her bedroll. Mid day she would stop to see if this was going to work.

  Charles walked along the promenade deck of the ocean liner. The sky was clear, the ocean a gray green. He remembered the first trip he had made with Anya. Neither of them had ever been across the Atlantic. It was an amazing time. The feeling of having your life ahead of you and the warmth of her arm in his had been wonderful. How very different this trip was.

  Major Tanner had been correct. He needed to evaluate his life and determine where it all had taken a turn for the worse. Charles had always been assured of the correctness of his father's view of life. Anything else was not just different, but fatally flawed. His mother had reinforced this attitude by never questioning his father. As long as he agreed with his parents, all was well.

  Charles recalled a few instances where he had disagreed with his father, or made a choice which his father did not agreed with. The old man never raised his voice, but simply looked down at Charles as if he had become foreign to him.

  Approval was granted when Charles fell into line and was a "good boy". It occurred to Keetering, everything he had done, entering college with a view toward politics, studying subjects which pleased the old man, all were geared toward being accepted by his father.

  Anya was the one area where he had made an attempt to please himself. He had wanted her, her freshness and lack of pretense appealed to him. What he had not counted on was falling back into the same old habit of doing whatever it took to get his father's approval. All the things he loved most about Anya, became things which needed to be changed in order to conform to his father's expectations.

  He had been his father's "good boy" and it had cost him more than he ever wanted to pay. The sea breeze was cool and he shivered slightly as it blew over him. Charles pulled the long topcoat more closely around his body. He did not recall it being this cool on the first trip. It was odd how being in love caused things to look so much better. The love he and Anya had shared had been like a fire, touching everything with its warm glow.

  The little overnight bag sat in his stateroom on the bed. The thought of it caused him to feel colder still. He hoped she had not suffered. Not knowing made him feel as if he were swimming in the gray sea, drowning and unable to raise his head into the fresh breeze.

  To him, the valise may as well be a casket, carrying her body home to be buried. He had a small trunk in which he had placed her jewelry and other effects. Those would go to her family. The valise was another matter. Charles had decided he would leave those arrangements to her family. He did not feel competent to decide much at all.

  The arrogant young man who had known exactly where he was going and how he was going to get there, was as foreign to him as the whole of Russia. Somehow he had to get a grip on himself. It was necessary to come to terms with what had happened.

  At the moment it was all he could do to keep a good grip on the day to day acts of getting up, washing and shaving. Anything else seemed beyond his strength.

  As he got closer to home, dread threatened to overwhelm him. How was he ever going to..., how could he even begin to meet with her family? He had failed to keep his marriage vows. Anya had not been loved, honored or cherished properly. Her father had given her to him, trusting Charles to do exactly that. It would be different if she had contracted a disease or had an accident. That would have been beyond his control.

  Regardless of the chill, Charles stayed at the rail until dinnertime. He ordered something, he was not sure what and ate some of it. There were others at the table. He thought someone might have attempted to speak to him, but he did not wish to reply.

  Back in his stateroom, the little bag sat so innocently on his bed. Charles lay down next to it fully clothed. Idly, he stroked the leather. The light faded, the porthole was dark. He did not bother to illuminate the stateroom, as darkness was preferable at the moment.

  Pull out of it, is what his father would probably tell him, get on with life, leave the past behind. Charles could only lay there in the darkness. If he were being morose, so be it. Right at this time and place in his life he could care less what either of his parents wanted. All he wanted was his wife back and he could not have her.

  On leaving the steamship, Keetering boarded the train, after sending a cable to his father and his father-in-law giving the expected time of his arrival. He planned to meet with Anya's family the day after his return.

  He was fairly sure he looked quite bedraggled when he boarded the train. Charles did not care. As day turned into night, Keetering found he was actually getting angry. He was angry with the person or persons responsible for Anya's disappearance and equally angry with himself.

  On the following day, the anger he felt expanded to include his father. By evening the anger had simmered to the point where he felt like a steam engine with a stuck relief valve. He was unable to sleep and wandered into the last car in the passenger section.

  Charles stared into the dark night flying past the train. Occasionally there were lights in the darkness. They were further out into the country now. He struggled to contain the destructive urge which threatened to overflow. He could get drunk, Charles supposed, that might blank it out for a while. But he feared it would come back even stronger, or manifest itself while he was not in control. So, he did nothing, but swelter under the heat of his own torment.

  This was not to be tolerated. He could not meet either of his parents or Anya's in this condition. God only knew what he might do. He was on a tight leash, one that was growing shorter daily. Run away to someplace, any place other than San Francisco. A small voice inside hissed. With a groan he pounded on the wall of the baggage car. He could not hide. No matter where he went, this was going to be with him until he died.

  Charles punched the wall of the baggage car. Repeatedly, he slammed his fist against the wood. The rhythm of the train kept time to the smack of his flesh against the unyielding wood.

  After a time, the pain slowly brought him back to reality. He thought he might have broken something in his hand. Thrusting it into his pocket, he walked back to the sleeping car. Later, he would have it looked at. Lying on the bunk and cradling his bloody hand, the young man tried to pray.

  All those hours in Sunday school, time spent listening to the pastor deliver sermons and he found he could not recall how to pray. Maybe he could just talk to God. Charles hoped God really was out there, that the Lord could hear him. Yet if he was out there, why was Anya gone?

  The story of Adam and Eve came to his mind. Eve had made a choice. Humans had a choice, they could do what God wanted or they could chose to do evil. He had chosen to do evil in the way he treated Anya. Someone had chosen to do evil by kidnapping and killing her. Charles began to pour out his misery to God, asking forgiveness for the manner in which he had treated his wife.

  In a daze, Keetering went to find the steward in the morning. The man found someone to treat his hand. Charles was not really sure exactly what took place, or of the instructions he was given. All he wanted to do was to go hide somewhere and continue his conversation with God.

  Talking to God had changed something, he was not exactly sure what, inside him. He wanted more of the peace which had eased the rage and horror. By the time the train reached San Francisco, Charles realized he was not going to go into politics, or back to his old ways. God was there. He had found Charles, or the other way around. However it worked, God was truly real
and nothing was going to take that away from him.

  His father met him at the station. The porter carried Anya's small trunk and his larger one out to the carriage. Charles held the valise in his good hand.

  "What happened to your hand son? Do you want to have it looked at by someone?"

  Charles forced himself to focus on his father. "No, it was treated on the train. I am fine."

  "You don't look fine. Have you eaten?"

  Charles thought for a moment. "I think so. I believe I had something for breakfast."

  His father tugged at his arm. "Here, let me take that."

  "No!" Charles pulled the valise back. "No. This is my duty. I am going to deliver it to Anya's family. I need to find out what they wish to do."

  "You should make the decisions here, Charles. After all, she was your wife."

  The young man shook his head. "True, Father! And I am going to let her family decide what is preferable here, what they wish. After all, had I listened to Count Bressoff, none of this would have taken place."

  "You do not know that!" The elder Keetering attempted to take control of the situation.

  Charles saw the old pattern emerging. His father thought the next thing that would happen was Charles would demure to his father's greater knowledge. Not this time.

  "Unfortunately, Father, I do know. A very wise gentleman advised me to be quite honest with myself. He told me to change in my life what needed changing."

  With his bandaged hand Charles gave his father a pat on the arm. "I have discussed this matter with God. I know what I have to do here."

  "What? Discussed it with God?" There was an odd tone to his father's voice.

  Thinking about those conversations brought a smile to Charles' face. "Certainly. Who else did I have, but God? And the best part," His smile got wider. "He listened to me! He is always there. Isn't that truly amazing?"

  The elder Keetering looked at his son as if the boy were someone he did not know, or care to know. He thought perhaps the boy's mind had snapped due to shock.

  Upon arriving at his home, Mr. Keetering took his wife to one side. "I need you to talk with the boy. He is claiming he discussed the matter with God."

  "Good, God will help him, I am sure." She responded forcefully.

  "What is the matter with you two? Is everyone in this house insane? What has God got to do with anything?"

  Charles heard his father shouting. He caught the last of his father's question. For the first time in his life he truly saw his mother. All these years she had been praying for the both of them, father and son.

  "He has a great deal to do with it, doesn't he mother?"

  Abigail Keetering walked over to take her son's good hand. "I am so glad you have found Him, son."

  The young man gave his mother a hug. "I am not sure who found who. But I understand a great deal more than I did. I am just so sorry, Anya had to suffer."

  Abigail hugged her son back. "Have faith Charles. Oh and I need to tell you, I received a message from Anya's family. They wish to meet with you at the Devins' home tomorrow at three in the afternoon."

  "Well then, as they wish. I hoped it might be sooner." Charles took his mother's arm "Walk me up stairs, Mother, it appears we have much to talk about."

  The elder Keetering stood alone in the vestibule, wondering what had just happened. Staring at his wife and son as they went upstairs, the old man shook his head.

  Stanislaus sat in Dmitri's garden. The children were off with Ilyia. Camille and Dmitri had offered to put him up for the night. Stanislaus declined their hospitality. He wanted to be alone. Aware that he was not good company, he had taken a room in the Palace Hotel.

  "So he will be at Devins' home tomorrow at three. I am not sure I should be there at all." Stanislaus opened both large hands, as he took a quick look at Dmitri from under his heavy brows. "It might be best if I stayed at the hotel and was not at the house for this...."

  Camille took one of his hands in hers. "You do not need to be where he can see you. Dmitri and I feel you need to hear this and not second hand."

  "I...I apologize Camille. That was my doing in Seattle." Stanislaus stumbled over the words.

  "Of course! How stupid of me to not realize you forced Dmitri to go drinking with you. He certainly could not have refused."

  Dmitri winced at the anger in her tone. "Please, let us off the hook. What is done is done."

  Stanislaus had turned a bright red. That particular matter was being very difficult to live down. He squirmed a little in the chair. "Madame ..."

  "O hang it, Stanislaus!" Camille exclaimed.

  Dmitri raised one eyebrow at her.

  "Let it lie! What is important, is we make a decision as to what is to take place from here. You are included. We all know how you felt about Anya." She squeezed his fingers.

  "Still feel!" He interrupted her. "And I may never stop feeling that way." His voice trailed off.

  Camille nodded. "That is the point. I still can not believe this is happening."

  Dmitri puffed on a cigar as he looked up into the cloudy sky above his head. "So you need to be there, Stanislaus. Do not argue with her. You can stand on the landing above the entrance hall. We picked Leontine's as we can meet him there and you can be out of sight. Since we are meeting in the hall, he has not been invited in to anyone's home."

  Stanislaus had not wanted to put his vow to Dmitri to the test, but it seemed he must. He would hold his temper and his tongue.

  Samuel had arranged two chairs in the entrance hall. Leontine and Camille sat in the chairs, Dmitri stood behind them. Samuel chose to stand to one side. Stanislaus was stationed just off the second floor landing where he could hear, but not be seen. Devins deliberately put himself in a position to be able to shove Keetering out of the door if necessary to forestall any trouble. The trip to Seattle was as fresh in his mind, as in everyone else's.

  The knock on the door came at exactly three o'clock. Samuel opened the door to Keetering. The elder Keetering was a step behind his son. Dmitri clamped down on his cigar so hard, he almost bit it in two. Charles carried the valise. He looked around at Samuel, then focused his attention on Leontine, Camille and Dmitri.

  "I am sorry! I am at fault, I am guilty of not living up to our wedding vows." Without preamble, the young man began his explanation.

  The elder Keetering stepped forward and reached for his son's arm. "Charles, admit nothing!"

  Charles shook off his father's hand. "Please wait outside, Father. I will join you in a moment."

  Devins opened the door and quietly closed it behind the elder Keetering.

  "You warned me. But I was so convinced I was right. We were Americans, nothing could happen to us. I made the greatest mistake of my life by ignoring you. I loved her, truly I did!"

  He raised his bandaged hand and waved toward the three seated before him.

  "Please try to forgive me some day. I know it will be hard, but if you can ever do so I would be grateful."

  Charles held the small valise out before him. "This is all I have. Please let me know what you decide to do. A funeral?" He choked on the word. "A memorial service. If you do not wish to allow me to participate, that is your choice."

  The young man stood there, holding out the small bag. It was Leontine who rose from her chair with difficulty. Near to her due date, she moved awkwardly. Taking the valise from him, she held it out to her husband. "This is difficult for us all. This is a hard loss to bear."

  She took his good hand in hers with a sigh. "We will let you know what is decided. I have prayed for you Charles."

  He nodded. "Thank you, I needed your prayers. I will wait on your decision."

  Keetering let himself out of the house. Dmitri stood with both hands on the back of Camille's chair. This was not what he had expected from the boy. So he had cared about Anya. At least that was something.

  Stanislaus leaned against the wall for a moment. He could not bear it one moment longer. Bolting down the stairs, he d
ashed out the front door. Dmitri let him go. Stanislaus must come to terms with it, as they all must, in their own time.

  Dmitri walked over to Leontine and kissed her cheek. "Thank you. I was not capable of..."

  "We are a family Dmitri." She replied softly. "And I think there has been too much distance between us for too long."

  The four of them took the valise out to the garden to open it.

  Time and distance were something Anya was not sure of. The days were long, but that would end, then the cold would come. Distance was a thing measured in how far she had walked. Had she come abreast of the wide turn in the river, or the huge boulder on the other bank? Where was she in relationship to the town?

  When would the riverboat go past her again? Should she hide from it? There were no real answers to the latter two questions. She only knew home was to the east and that was where she was going.

  She came to one stream, which was broader than the small feeder brooks she had encountered so far. It was wider and apparently deeper. How much deeper, she was not sure. The water was very clear at the mouth of the stream, which made estimating the depth difficult.

  Directly overhead, a black shape swooped down to the right. The raven settled in a birch tree whose roots had been partially eroded by the stream. The birch leaned out over a shaded pool.

  Fish! Her mind immediately turned to what she could use to catch them. There would be food for a while if she could get several of the fat fish swimming in the pool. Hunger caused her fingers to shake, as she quickly removed her pack before hurriedly tugging off her shoes.

  If she wanted those fish, she was going to have to go in after them. Anya removed her throwing stick from beneath the rope, which held the pack together, along with her two practice darts. She moaned slightly when she realized the ends of the darts were still blunt. Why hadn't she sharpened them?

  Too late now! The fish were feeding on insects flying just above the surface of the water in the shade of the tree. Who knew how long the fish would stay there. Carefully, she knocked one dart onto the throwing stick, the other was clutched in her free hand.