The House Near the River

by Barbara Bartholomew

  “But your farm . . .” She didn’t get a chance to say it was twenty miles away and he could hardly manage both jobs.

  “It’s just until we get started. Within a couple of years we’ll build out on our farm.”

  “But, Matthew,” Clemmie protested.

  “We’ll miss you, Uncle Matthew,” Sharon said, looking as though she were about to cry. “You and Ange,” she corrected, smiling shyly at her about to be aunt.

  “We’ll see a lot of each other,” he promised. “Christmas this year at my house. Next time out here.”

  He’d really thought this through, Angie thought with surprise. He was trying to plan a workable life for all of them. And he was right, she felt sure, they couldn’t all make a living from this farm. And there would be more opportunities for her to find her own way in north Texas. Angie was fairly sure she didn’t personally want a career in farming, no matter how much Matthew loved that lifestyle.

  She closed her eyes, thinking she was getting ahead of herself, but she supposed most newlyweds—that was what she and Matthew would be tomorrow—dreamed of their future.

  She had one big stumbling block ahead though and that was finding out why she and then Matthew had disappeared, and apparently not at the same time or together. He’d vanished, Clemmie said, because he’d given up hope of finding her. She couldn’t imagine Matthew giving up on her.

  That was a disaster she had to prevent.

  “Ange,” Sharon’s soft voice reached through her thoughts, pulling her back to reality. “Are you all right?”

  She opened her eyes to find them all looking her.

  “She’s only tired,” Clemmie said. “We’ve had some busy days getting ready for the wedding.”

  Angie used that as an excuse to retire early, leaving as soon as the dishes were cleared to go back to her room. On a winter night like this, darkness came early. Back in her cold, unlighted room it felt more like the middle of the night.

  She slipped on the night dress Clemmie had given her and crawled between cold blankets, drawing her feet up so that she was tucked in a ball under the deep covers and soon became to grow warmer.

  The pastor of the little church the family attended was due out early in the morning. The dress Clemmie had worn for her own wedding hung in the closet, waiting for her wedding day. The black jersey with white braid trim didn’t fit any ideas Angie had of a wedding dress, but it was plain yet elegant and becoming to her slender form.

  From what Clemmie told her, formal white wedding gowns and elaborate weddings played almost no part in wedding celebrations for farm girls and women through pioneer days, the hard years of the thirties, or even during the war and this first year after. They didn’t expect that kind of wedding.

  They married in their own homes or by dropping by the parsonage and were pleased to have this much normalcy.

  She fell asleep thinking of Matthew and of tomorrow and sank into dreamless slumber that carried her deep into the night. When she awakened with a start, it was to find the house still and quiet, the only sound within that of the old clock in the dining room. The ticking was like footsteps walking through the house, coming closer to her with each tick.

  Her pulse raced as a sense of apprehension grew within her, her heart seeming to beat with each sound made by the clock.

  Finally, realizing she was close to having a panic attack, she threw back the covers and climbed from the bed, switching on the bare overhead light. The light bulb cast too bright a light in the room, glaring around her.

  She felt the walls pushing in on her and then the tightening of her skin. Cold winter night or not, she had to get out of the house. Hurriedly she pulled on her underclothes and stockings, got into the dress she’d worn during the day, then put on the warm winter coat Matthew had bought for her.

  Just a few minutes out breathing the cold air, free from the encompassing house and she would be all right again.

  She unlatched the door out of the kitchen, stepped outside and almost screamed to find a man standing there.

  “Ange?” the questioning voice relieved her fears.

  “Matthew.” She went into his arms. He smelled of smoke. She would have to help him get rid of that habit, but of course his generation didn’t know how dangerous cigarettes would prove to be. “What are you doing out here?”

  “Couldn’t sleep.” She felt snug within his arm. “Guess we’ve got pre-wedding jitters.”

  “No such thing. At least not for me. I’ve not got a single doubt.”

  She laughed softly. “Then why are you out here in the dark in the middle of the night?”

  “Too excited and happy to sleep. I just keep thinking about tomorrow. What about you?”

  She hated to confess the truth that she was terrified that something was going to go wrong. She had no right to dampen his enthusiasm. “About the same, I guess. Thought a little walk might help me sleep.”

  “Let’s walk then.” Still protected by his arm, she strolled with him down the porch steps and out on to the ground. No grassy lawns here, just a packed dirt yard. They walked past the barnyard where a sleepy cow mooed reproachfully at the disturbance.

  Angie made a back of the brain observance that she wasn’t seeing opening and closing portals tonight. The darkness was disturbed by no lightning flashes and only the dim moon cast light on them.

  They walked past the barn and out to the pasture beyond. She saw the white-painted wooden fence that edged Luiza Barry’s grave and shivered. If this house and property was as tainted by past and future as she thought, then somehow that woman’s grave was the very center of it all.

  She wanted to protest, wanted to refuse to take a step forward, but Matthew hummed a little tune she didn’t recognize as he led her forward and she seemed unable to exert any control over either her body or her voice.

  She stumbled and looked down at the ground and just at that moment when her gaze was averted, she heard his low cry of surprise.

  She looked up to find the figure of a woman silhouetted in the open gate that led to the grave.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  The logical thought that it had to be Clemmie, the only other woman on the place, only rested for an instant in Matthew’s thoughts. Even in the darkness, this woman looked nothing like his sister.

  She seemed unaware of their presence, lost in thought as she looked down at the grave. “Rest well,” she said into the air.

  Matthew coughed slightly to announce their intrusion. “Hello,” he said gently.

  The woman turned. In the moonlight, he could see the high cheekbones, the dark eyes of an Indian woman. She was dressed in skins and moccasins, her long hair in braids. She was not young, but seemed almost ageless.

  Her eyes rested on his face, seemed to take in all she saw, and then she turned to Ange.

  “Greetings, granddaughter of my heart.”

  Ange seemed mesmerized. “You know who I am?”

  The woman gave the slightest of nods and as she did so the world shimmered around them, edged with silent lightning, and for the first time in his life, Matthew had some idea of what it was to be Ange as they shifted in time.

  Instead of standing beside the grave out in the pasture, they stood on a bluff above a river. It was not his river, the north fork of the Red. He knew every bend and turn of that branch of the river that ran close to his home.

  And though it was still winter, it was a much harsher winter for a foot of snow lay on the ground and falling flakes swirled around them, obscuring their view, but not quite rendering him unable to see the village of teepees that lay a little east of them.

  The village was silent in sleep except that the sound of voices drifted from one of the teepees, though not loud enough for the words to be distinguishable.

  He had a feeling of time suspended as though something of great significance was being deci
ded here. He saw the woman’s face as she gazed over the village with an expression of deep sorrow.

  He wanted to speak, wanted even more to put his arm back around Ange, but something inside him told him that he was here only as witness. A million questions passed through his mind, but he knew this was between Ange and the Indian woman.

  “We have little time,” the woman said. “The decision has been made and I have spoken in opposition. I, Medicine Woman of the Cheyenne have told my husband, that we should not wait until morning, that we should have moved our village long since. “But the men say it is late and cold and the children will suffer if we move them now. And so we stay and await the disaster that will come at dawn.”

  The name of the woman pierced Matthew’s heart. Any child of this part of western Oklahoma could guess at her story even from the small amount of information she had imparted.

  Black Kettle and his village. Medicine Woman was his wife. And like Cassandra in the old myths, she had delivered the warning of disaster that was not believed.

  He supposed Ange might not be familiar with the story. She had left to move with her family to Texas at a young enough age to miss out on some of the local history. She might not know the story of what had happened a county north of his native county on a November morning in 1868.

  He realized that he stood now just hours before that fatal dawn, drawn here not by any ability of his own, but by the two women who stood beside him.

  “We have met before,” Ange finally spoke, “Medicine Woman of the Cheyenne. You have been in my dreams.”

  “We have,” the low voice agreed.

  “You sent me to save Matthew.”

  He was greatly puzzled by this statement. Was this something else, like his engagement, that hadn’t happened yet?

  “You found your way yourself. You had only to persist in the path set before you.”

  Matthew could smell wood smoke drifting from the camp into the snow laden air. He hoped Ange’s new coat provided enough warmth against the cold.

  “You called yourself my grandmother?” Ange said.

  “Not by blood. You are born this night to a daughter of our camps, half in one world and half in another, but though you are not yet arrived on this birthday night, I have met you on future trails and know that you are the inheritor of my knowledge. You are truly my granddaughter.”

  “But I’m not Cheyenne. And the name of my mother on my birth certificate is Luiza Barry.”

  “The name is real. She has the name of her white father, but the gifts of her Cheyenne mother. And t is on this night that your mother meets her end.”

  “She dies?”

  A quick nod acknowledged the question. “She will not survive your birth. That is evident as we watch her struggles now.”

  “She dies. I’m born.”

  “On this November night in the year 1868. And with the morn, the village is attacked by soldiers and many of us die. This is my last chance to give you guidance as you will use your gift, my time walker granddaughter.”

  “Time walker,” the words were spoken so softly that Matthew could barely hear them.

  “Small moments change lives and worlds. We play the role, we serve our people. And for you, this boon, to save the life of the man you love.”

  “It’s all mixed up, all happening out of order. Clemmie says he will vanish not long after we’re married, when we’re expecting a baby, and she fears we will never see him again.”

  The silence of the village lay deep around them. Matthew half expected to hear the cries of a laboring woman, but did not. Even the consultations of the chiefs seemed to have ceased.

  “As soon as you are born, I will carry you into time to deliver you to the woman who will act as your grandmother and to the parents who will love and care for you. I do this to save you from the fate of my village.”

  “You could save yourself as well,” Matthew finally spoke.

  She looked sadly at him. “Since I cannot save my village, I will remain with them and with my husband.”

  She closed her eyes. “The babe is about to come into the world. We must go.”

  Abruptly the winter night, though cold, was less so and the ground was bare of snow.

  “Who sleeps here then?” Matthew asked, looking at the lonely grave.

  “Angie’s mother Luiza Barry, as it says. She will rest beside the place where her daughter will begin her life and where the time ways are thin and easily penetrated.” She reached out one hand to lightly touch Ange’s shoulder. “Remember my daughter, you must begin at the beginning and then the way will be straightened.”

  Then she turned and was gone.

  Matthew put his arm around Ange and drew her close.

  She looked at him, her face bleak. “I’m not so good at Oklahoma history though I can tell you all about the Alamo. What happened to the Cheyenne village?”

  He didn’t want to tell her, but he had no choice. “On a morning in November, 1868, a band of soldiers led by George Armstrong Custer attacked the winter encampment of Chief Black Kettle on the Washita River near Cheyenne. Some folks call it a massacre. Medicine Woman and Black Kettle were both killed.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  If they’d had the opportunity for a professional photograph, Angie supposed they would have looked like any other bridal couple from the 40s. She wore Clemmie’s trim black and white dress with high heeled shoes and a little hat. Clemmie styled her brown hair in waves with a pompadour in front. Matthew looked handsome in the black suit he usually wore to funerals.

  They were married in the seldom used living room with all the family, even Tobe, present, though it was a school day. They had a bridal breakfast afterward of ham and eggs with hot biscuits, finishing with the wedding cake Clemmie had made.

  The pastor left first and then Matthew packed their belongings into the Nash and before they said goodbye, Angie ran out to the grave for another farewell. Her biological mother had died many ago, but to her it had been just last night. Even more acutely she felt the loss of her mentor and guide, Medicine Woman, who had tried so futilely to save her people and who had managed only to help one newborn child to escape.

  She had so many questions to ask Medicine Woman and now they would never receive answers. She still had to live with the fear she and Matthew would lose each other more lastingly and the last words the Cheyenne woman had spoken to her seemed unfathomable.

  She wished she had flowers to put on her mother’s grave, but of course there were no flowers at this time of year, not even for a bride.

  She kissed each of the children, even Danny who squirmed uncomfortably at the attention, said goodbye to Tobe who gave her his good wishes, then shook hands with Matthew. She hugged and kissed Clemmie and then stood back while her new sister-in-law said goodbye to her brother.

  “Come back soon,” her voice floated after them. “Call and let me know how you’re doing. Reverse the charges.”

  The drive home was one of those lovely, uneventful times when she snuggled close to his side and they talked or were silent as the mood took them, simply enjoying their time together.

  They spent the first night of their married life in the shack on the farm, prizing privacy more than comfort as they began to learn how to love each other. Most of the next day passed in the same way until, voting in favor of a bath and real food, they got in the Nash to drive down to the cottage that was to be their home.

  Angie met jovial John Henderson along with his daughter and grandson. She might have hated Salina on the spot out of sheer jealousy, but that she knew the other woman was engaged to be married. That and the fact that Matthew couldn’t keep his eyes off his new wife.

  Theirs was not exactly a traditional honeymoon because Matthew started right in on both his work at home and his job for John. Angie spent her days playing at housekeeping in the little house,
showing off her skills at cooking and baking for her husband. Her nights were filled with new delights and she couldn’t help thinking that the physical side of marriage could never have been so lovely if she and Matthew were teenagers or even in their early twenties.

  They had an acceptance, an understanding of each other, that came with a certain level of maturity, and an appreciation that follows the real risk that this happy ending might never take place.

  Sometimes she wondered how Matthew could farm all day and make love with her for half a night without serious bodily harm, but he was, as he liked to tell her, holding up real well.

  At Christmas as promised Clemmie, Tobe and the kids came down for the one night and a day that was all the county office could spare their sheriff.

  Matthew cut down a cedar tree from his farm and they made homemade decorations by stringing popcorn and berries. Clemmie brought them a gift of half a dozen of the celluloid decorations she’d acquired during the war to start their collection. Any cash money either of them had was saved for food and for little gifts for the children.

  Matthew gave Angie a small carving he’d made himself of a Christmas star. She put it on the kitchen table where, since there was no dining room in the little house, they were to eat their holiday dinner.

  Having no money and little in the way of crafting skills, she made his favorite chocolate cake for Christmas dinner. They had the wild turkey he had shot, roasted brown, with mashed potatoes, gravy, mashed turnips, and the canned corn Clemmie had put up herself.

  Clemmie made delicious hot rolls and had brought, as well, three homemade pies and a jar of pickled peaches that went especially well with the chocolate cake.

  They ate to repletion. The women did the dishes while Tobe drove up to the farm with Matthew to see to the livestock, then both came back to oversee the evening chores on the Henderson farms.

  John Henderson dropped by that evening for a little conversation, bringing a bottle of wine as a gift to the celebration. Angie suppressed a grin as Clemmie tried to hide her reaction to the idea of spirits being brought into her brother’s home.