Soul of a Crow

by Abbie Williams

  Sawyer said, “Thank you kindly, but I’ll have a taste of Lorie’s instead.”

  “Thank you, sweetheart,” I told Malcolm and gamely took a lick. It was sarsaparilla flavored, sticky-sweet on my tongue; I nearly drooled. I informed Sawyer, “I did intend to share with you.”

  Sawyer leaned over to collect, using his teeth to anchor the stick and then sitting straight. He crunched a loud bite and subsequently broke off over half the candy. He said, “Much obliged.”

  “Give it back!” I ordered, laughing as he ducked away from my reaching hands.

  “Oh, no,” he teased, his words distorted by the mouthful. He added, “Sweet Jesus, it’s been a long time since I’ve tasted rock candy.”

  “You ain’t being no gentleman!” Malcolm yelped, but these words had scarcely been uttered before he heeled Aces, too excited to ride at a steady pace for long. Over his shoulder, he called, “Hurry along, you twos!”

  Sawyer pulled the stick from his mouth and said, “I know exactly, now that I think of it. Fourth of July, 1858, ten years ago this summer. Just a boy of fourteen years I was.”

  “It’s been every bit as long for me,” I nagged, reclaiming the treat and tucking it into my cheek, reminded of the way men plugged their lower lips with tobacco.

  “You eat it, darlin’,” Sawyer said, with teasing magnanimity. “I’ll content myself with your kisses, which are far sweeter.”

  “Flatterer,” I muttered, elbowing his side again, though I truly loved the way he complimented me; I had never known that words could cause my stomach to feel so buoyant, as a flower petal carried on a gentle evening breeze.

  The wagon rumbled into town, which was predictably quiet on a cloudless weekday; likely most of the people within many miles farmed for their living. We saw horses tethered to hitching posts and several buckboards, whose drivers lifted hands in what seemed to be friendly greetings. Still, I shifted uncomfortably on the hard wooden seat, my tension increasing as we passed two small saloons to our right. Despite their peaceful outward appearance, I recalled all too well what occurred behind those batwing-style doors and up a flight of stairs. Sawyer’s observant gaze noted the proximity of these places and he intertwined our fingers, reassuring me.

  In Missouri, when Angus was still alive, we agreed it would make the most sense to let people believe that Boyd and Malcolm were my brothers; this arrangement would allow a respectable, reasonable explanation for why an unmarried woman was traveling with four single men. Angus rightly assumed that rumors would abound at even the slightest notion of the truth (that of my former existence as a whore), and so concocted this relationship between Boyd, Malcolm, and me; we decided before reaching Iowa that we would continue relying upon this fabrication until Sawyer and I could be properly married.

  “There’s Boyd,” Sawyer said, nodding towards the hitching rail before the dry-goods store. Fortune was tethered there, appearing to doze in the sun; Boyd was surely inside, making purchases. The words National Union Republican Candidates caught my eye, from a large red and blue campaign poster tacked near the window frame, along with the images of General Grant and his stern-faced running mate, Schuyler Colfax. It would be the first election in which former Confederates would be allowed, conditionally, to vote. I had overheard many such discussions, even during my time at Ginny’s; after all, it had been scarcely two months since Johnson’s near-impeachment in May and the autumn election was on everyone’s mind.

  “Do you think Grant will become President?” I asked, nodding at the poster.

  Sawyer followed my gaze and fell momentarily still; conversely, I sensed the fast-moving flow of his thoughts, as a springtime creek over rocks, deceptively smooth beneath the surface—one wrong step, and a sharp, hidden edge could open a gash deep and painful, blood to tint the clear water red. As such were his memories of the War, most of which he had not yet spoken, and I understood well the urge, however futile, to bury away the darkness.

  “It is likely,” he said. “He has restored the Union. I cannot speak from experience, but I understand he is a commanding presence, and a strong leader. This country could benefit from both qualities.”

  “You do not believe a new Congress will join forces against him, as they did with Johnson?” I asked, thinking of the daily circular in St. Louis, The Missouri Democrat, a copy of which was often tucked behind the bar at Ginny’s.

  “I believe Congress would welcome Grant,” Sawyer said. “And as much as it pains me to say, I am ever more grateful to be leaving behind Tennessee altogether.”

  “I have not been there in almost three years,” I acknowledged, on a sigh.

  “Someday we will return there together, Lorie-love. We will bring our grandchildren, and show them where we began.”

  I leaned my cheek again upon his upper arm.

  A few dozen yards down the dusty road, I could see Malcolm on Aces, leaning forward over the saddle horn and talking to a boy close to his own age, who stood on the ground in front of a small wooden building with a jutting overhang; hooks anchored to its underside were burdened with hanging baskets of blooming flowers, and I was charmed.

  Sawyer parked the wagon in the small alleyway between buildings and said, “Let us see what they have in the way of heavy material, fit for the cold.”

  “My clothing is not well-provisioned for winter,” I agreed. We had many times marveled at the descriptions of the winter months in the Northern states that Jacob Miller included in his letters. Though Tennessee was often cold, the winter of 1863 into 1864 being the coldest in the last decade, there was never significant snowfall in the county in which we had been raised. Jacob wrote of crafting snowshoes, of sleighs with runners and long, dark nights, their cabin insulated by thick, blanketing drifts of snow. I thought of something else lacking in my wardrobe, and said, “And a corset. I am not well-provisioned in that regard, either.”

  Sawyer squeezed my hand, held in his. He said, “I have grown so used to you wearing trousers.”

  “Truly, I am not anxious to be strapped again within one,” I said, but it was improper to appear in public lacking appropriate undergarments, well I knew. And propriety was something to which I found a great deal of joy in adhering, after so long neglecting the notion. I admitted, “I like wearing trousers, as you know. And corsets are terribly uncomfortable.”

  “And all that lacing along the back is a hindrance,” Sawyer said, eyes glinting with teasing devilment, and I could not help but blush, this time succeeding in my endeavor to pinch him.

  The sun crept over the town and was angling decidedly westward by the time I found myself in the small bathhouse, certainly a luxury I would do well to appreciate now; chilly creek baths were the norm, and would continue to be so in the foreseeable future. Sawyer, Boyd, and I spent the day listening to advice concerning what garments and supplies would be necessary in the forests of the Northland; we lingered unexpectedly over a pleasant conversation in the modest hotel abreast of the post office, as the owners were both friendly and informative. Their son was the boy with whom Malcolm had been chatting earlier, and his mother made a gift of a delectable spice cake and subsequently the tin pan in which she had baked it, telling me to make plentiful use of the pan; it was now wrapped in a linen and tucked carefully into the wagon bed.

  In the narrow wooden tub in the quiet, damp, musky-scented bathhouse, I washed my hair and scrubbed my body with a cake of lilac-scented soap, exploring tentatively between my legs with gentle fingertips. I could discern no further damage, and no longer felt as tender there, or within my abdomen. My skin was moon-pale beneath the water. I submerged entirely, keeping my eyes open and letting my hair drift around me in the water, like a slow-moving creature intent upon touching my face. I remained there until my lungs burned, lifting slowly back to air and then inhaling deeply. I was so very thankful to be alive.

  The warm, soaking water felt good against my limbs, such a contrast to the usual rushing chill and muddy shallows of the river; I smoothed my hand
s upwards over my belly and breasts, full and still achingly tender. As often occurred when I was naked, my thoughts inadvertently coiled back around to my time at Ginny’s, when I bared my body repeatedly, for stranger and regular customer alike, learning swiftly to bury the accompanying shame. Sawyer had refrained from asking me directly about my time there, allowing me to offer information as I chose instead, though I knew him well enough to understand that he would listen to whatever I revealed. I thought of what he had spoken in Missouri, about husbands and wives keeping no secrets from one another; though I agreed, I knew it would be a long time before I would be strong enough to reveal all of the horrors I kept hidden away.

  Deirdre, I thought at last, holding my old friend in my mind, as carefully as I would have cupped a baby bird. How I wish I could still see you, even from time to time. I would be content with that. You were one of the few people who knew what it meant to live as a prisoner there.

  What about that fellow called Slim? I heard her ask, in my memory, and she giggled relating the story. He’s awfully proud of his pecker, and it’s nothing to brag about, let me tell you. All of them are so proud of the damn things, as though we should be privileged to take them into ourselves. Men are either the most deluded, arrogant lot in existence, or the stupidest.

  At Ginny’s, I had grown accustomed to the finger-shaped bruises on my thighs from the continuous assault of gripping hands, night after long night. My insides would ache if I forgot to ease the way with butter; by contrast, the morning’s potash always stung. Most all men reeked of tobacco and whiskey, unwashed hair and sweat. Some were heavyset and fumbling, others lean as bullwhips and just as unkind. Men with bristling, graying whiskers, older than my father. There was the young man who spilled his seed before I even took him into my body, so nervous was he at the prospect of being with a woman. There had been the regular who preferred to bind my wrists to the bed posts before he lay with me; though he never physically hurt me, I had been so frightened, so vulnerable in that position, that bile would rise as he went about his business. I’d clenched my jaw in order not to vomit. Thankfully, like most of them, he never lasted long.

  With sincere effort, I sent those memories scattering and focused upon the image of my dear friend Deirdre that always appeared first, she with her dark hair hanging soft and loose, clad in her pale-yellow dressing gown, delicate face free of any artificial adornments. I had known her face in many guises in the years we lived at Hossiter’s, but always in my memory I saw her as I had the afternoon of our first meeting. She had been widowed prior to her time as a whore, young, and as dear to me as any sister; her husband had been killed in the War, like so many other good men, leaving her abandoned and with no resource other than that of earning money the one way always available to women, rich or poor, in sickness and in health. Instead of forsaking all others, we forsook no one in our old profession.

  I found meager comfort in addressing her, choosing to believe that she was able to hear me, wherever it was that her soul now lingered, and thought, Deirdre, I pray that you have found your Joshua in the Beyond. I miss you so. And do you know what, dear one? I am going to be married. His name is Sawyer Davis. All those nights you and I sat on the side balcony staring up at the stars and hearing the coyotes yipping, he was moving towards me. I hope you know this. I pray it. I love him so, Deirdre, I could never explain in words.

  Though in my mind Deirdre seemed to smile at me, a gentle and familiar expression that brightened her dark eyes, a sudden seizure of need to see Sawyer rose in my body, insistent as a late-winter wind, as though something may have caused him harm as I lingered in this wooden tub. I sat in haste, water sloshing over the sides, scrubbing damp strands of hair back from my forehead with both hands. Wet, it hung nearly to my waist, heavy and inhibiting as a woolen cloak.

  Don’t fret, I told myself, though my heart was erratic as I hurried to dress and braid my hair, my unease as pointed as a needle. Sawyer is safe, he’s close and he’s safe, just at the wagon. He is more than able to take care of himself.

  Still, last night’s dream sought a handhold in my mind, and I shivered. My hair was damp as I all but ran from the bathhouse, into the gathering grays of twilight in the small Iowa town; at once I saw Sawyer, heading my way from where the wagon was parked at the side of the dusty street. Relief flowed as palpably through my body as blood, displacing the chill. He sensed that something was amiss, perhaps my posture or just a feeling, as he jogged the last few strides to meet me, catching me against him. I held fast, possessively gripping the material of his shirt and cradling my cheek to his heartbeat. Death had come so close to picking me utterly clean of those I loved.

  “I’m here,” he whispered, understanding without words. “Come, Lorie-love, let us go. Boyd has promised something to eat, back at camp.”

  Once free of the town the light subtly shifted, reaching us with no manmade structures to block its radiance, and promptly I felt restored; upon the open ground of the prairie the sun shone with soft yellow tones, beaming long and low from the west to touch us as we rode the short distance south to our camp. Sawyer drove the wagon, Whistler following alongside, as she had this morning, and I turned to look back at her. In the sunset light, her hide gleamed rust-red and cream. Her intelligent brown eyes acknowledged my attention as much as her quiet whicker.

  “We’ll ride tomorrow, how’s that?” Sawyer said to our horse, and she snorted as though in agreement. There were times, as now, when I was certain she truly understood our words.

  “Whistler,” I murmured. “You good girl. You kept him safe in the War, didn’t you? You brought Sawyer to me.”

  Sawyer said, “She loves you, too, you know. She raced to get to you. We knew you were in danger, and she ran as she never has before.”

  Boyd had a side of beef grilling over the fire, the rich aroma causing saliva to dart into my mouth. Malcolm whooped at the sight of us, springing up from where he sat polishing his saddle in the last of the light, and deep within I felt a sense of coming home, strange as it might seem to feel such stirrings for a place with no permanent structure, a camp we would vacate at dawn. Sawyer drew the wagon near before surrendering me to Malcolm’s enthusiasm; immediately the boy asked, “You wanna play some marbles, Lorie-Lorie? I smoothed me out a big circle in the dust, yonder.”

  “Of course I do,” I said happily, and reflected for the countless time how fortunate I was to have this family, my Sawyer and Boyd, my sweet little Malcolm, to call my own.

  - 3 -

  The four of us lingered for a long time around the fire that evening, in our usual places. The sky was clear and without end, the stars cold and glittering, somewhere far distant from us. Boyd brought his fiddle from the wagon and bowed out notes here and there, quietly, in keeping with the mood of the night. I studied the orange flames as they licked the wood, drifting somewhere between wakefulness and sleep; I let my eyes close, and Malcolm whispered, “Lorie’s sleeping.”

  “Don’t fall asleep yet, I still have your present,” Sawyer murmured into my ear, and then to Boyd and Malcolm, “I believe we’ll retire, you two. Good-night.”

  “’Night, Sawyer, ’night, Lorie-Lorie,” Malcolm said, kissing my cheek as I reached to hug him.

  Boyd played us Byerley’s Waltz as Sawyer helped me to my feet and into our tent. The music was so sweet that I shivered, as Sawyer hung our lantern upon its hook, staked into the ground close to our bedding. When I reached to unbraid my hair, he stilled my motions, requesting, “Let me.”

  Without a word, I nodded; his gentle touch sent immediate shivers fluttering down my spine. I pressed both palms lightly to my belly as he worked efficiently and tenderly, freeing the last twist so that my clean hair fell loose in a heavy sweep, which he entwined in his fingers.

  “My beautiful woman,” he murmured. His strong, supple hands moved to my waist and drew me closer as I tried to recall how to breathe, heat flowing freely from his skin to mine. He studied my eyes, his own somber, before bending
to one knee. Reaching into the leather bag tied to his trousers, the small one in which he kept coins, he extracted something that he held between his index finger and thumb. His eyes were steadfast upon mine as he procured the fingertips of my left hand, kissed my knuckles, and then slipped a ring upon my third finger.

  With quiet satisfaction he said, “I knew it would fit.” His joyous eyes lifted to mine, alight with anticipation and joy. “I bought it while you were bathing. I wanted you to have a betrothal ring and this one was so delicate and lovely, just like you. I know it is not fancy—”

  “I could not love it more,” I whispered, bringing my hand near to examine the ring in the lantern light. It was a smooth golden band, detailed with engravings of roses, and it fit snugly at the base of my finger. I knelt as well, so that I could get my arms about him. We had come so close to losing one another forever, and I held him as hard as I could. I whispered against his warm skin, “Thank you.”

  He whispered, “You are so very welcome.” He kissed the side of my forehead and said, “I looked for a journal, but there were none to be found. I would that you were able to write your thoughts. I know well the comfort of that, as I wrote to my parents often during the War.”

  These letters were kept treasured in a small leather trunk bearing his surname; when we had been forced from each other in Missouri, I took from this trunk several of the letters written in his hand, and his picture, the framed tintype made just days before he left Suttonville as a soldier, back in 1862.

  Although he already knew it, I whispered, “I read those letters nearly to pieces. I felt I had a part of you still with me, and not just in my memory.”

  “Lorie,” he whispered. “It hurt so unbearably to be apart from you.”

  “I would have kept your picture for always,” I said. “I would have cradled it to my heart, every night.”