Soul of a Crow

by Abbie Williams

  “Now, honey,” Tilson began, drawing the pipe from between his lips.

  “Elijah never crossed me a day in our marriage, and yet he would not be persuaded in this matter. I pleaded with him to stay home. I wanted my husband, not a soldier. I may not have been to battle, but memories plague me,” Rebecca said. “There are days I wish I had none. They could hurt me no more if I held both hands in the fire.”

  Compassion lifted Tilson’s brows and yet there was an edge of caution about his demeanor, as if he knew from experience that his words could yield anger. He said quietly, “Elijah believed he was doing his part for his country.”

  Rebecca’s chin jerked to the side, as if she wished to hide tears, but her voice emerged steadily as she whispered, “What of his part for his family? What of that?”

  “He believed he was serving his family the only way he could,” Tilson murmured, pausing to relight his pipe, shifting his focus and thereby allowing her a moment in which to compose herself.

  Boyd sat wordlessly, a tobacco roll caught between his teeth, and his eyes remained fixed upon Rebecca as she stirred with restless energy. I tried to gauge his current thoughts, and was unable. He was as stone-faced as I had ever seen him.

  “I begged him not to go,” Rebecca repeated, imploring Tilson, as though it had been his duty to prevent her husband from taking up arms and marching to fight. Her eyes shone wet with tear-shine. She choked, “He was killed before he ever saw Nathaniel. I haven’t even my husband’s body, nor so much as a grave to visit. I have nothing left but memories and promises unfulfilled.”

  “You have two fine sons,” Tilson reminded her.

  Rebecca closed her eyes and bent her head; the pale smoothness of the back of her neck resembled the delicate stalk of a flower in the faint light. Her nostrils flared as she released a breath and used her knuckles to scrape away her tears, but when she lifted her face, she had regained control. “You are right, of course, Uncle Edward.” She looked to me and whispered, “Forgive me for behaving this way, and before company. I am overcome.”

  I was just far enough from her that I could not reach and offer a comforting touch; I wanted to gather her close. Not simply so that I could pretend she was Deirdre, at long last acknowledging the fervency with which I’d begged absolution for her death since the night it happened, but because I truly cared for Rebecca. I understood her words, and the intensity behind them, as well as anyone could.

  I said, “There is not one thing to forgive.”

  Rebecca managed a ghost of a smile before whispering, “Thank you, Lorie. Uncle Edward, shall you help me with the boys?”

  “Of course I will, honey,” said Tilson, but Boyd rose first, stepping around the fire and to her side, gathering Cort into his arms with capable strength.

  “Show me where this little fella belongs,” he said to Rebecca.

  Malcolm stirred and sat up as Boyd followed Rebecca to the house, each of them toting a sleeping boy. Malcolm rubbed both eyes and then bent his arms about his knees, catching one wrist in the opposite hand; I had to smile at his posture, as Sawyer always positioned himself in the same fashion at the fire.

  “If it ain’t the birthday boy,” Tilson said, winking at Malcolm.

  “I don’t feel older,” Malcolm said. “I feel like I oughta feel older.”

  “What is today’s date?” I asked. “I just realized I have no idea.”

  “The seventeenth of July,” Tilson said obligingly.

  “We very nearly share a birthday,” I told Malcolm, pleased at this revelation. “Mine was only yesterday, though it has passed without my noticing.”

  “Lorie-Lorie!” Malcolm reprimanded. “You shoulda had another piece of cake,” and his dark eyes shone in the ember glow. He said, “We’s nearly twins, then.”

  “Nearly,” I agreed, scooting closer so that I could rest my cheek upon him. I held close Sawyer’s jacket and Malcolm wrapped one wiry arm around me, letting me snuggle to him this time, as Boyd rejoined us, ruffling Malcolm’s hair as he sat.

  “Many happy returns, boy,” he murmured to his little brother.

  “That was kind of you to help Becky,” Tilson commented.

  “Ain’t nothin’,” Boyd insisted politely. “We’s all tuckered.”

  “Today is Becky and Elijah’s wedding anniversary,” Tilson explained, low and soft, and Boyd’s hands fell still; he had been in the process of relighting his smoke. Tilson continued, “I weren’t present for their wedding, but Becky’s mama, my dear little sister, wrote of the account an’ mailed it to us back home.”

  A beat of quietude surrounded us as we absorbed this knowledge.

  “How long was they wed?” Boyd asked at last, and there was a husky quality to his voice that was not entirely from the smoke.

  “Well, they were joined in ’fifty-eight, an’ Elijah was killed in action the summer of ’sixty-three,” Tilson said. “So, a good five years. I cannot claim to have known Elijah, but my niece loved him dearly. Becky was carrying Nathaniel, you see, when his daddy was killed.”

  Boyd flinched, just slightly; I felt a similar lashing of pain at this information.

  Tilson said, “Don’t let on that I’ve said a thing, if you would. Becky can’t hardly speak Elijah’s name without shedding tears for him, an’ so I don’t mention the man if I can help it.”

  Boyd whispered hoarsely, “Killed in which engagement that summer?”

  Tilson knew exactly what Boyd indirectly asked, and replied, “Ain’t one that you boys was in, I can say with near certainty. Elijah died outside Vicksburg, in June of that year.”

  Boyd’s shoulders eased; he changed subjects abruptly, saying, “Lorie-girl, I made ready a pile of quilts for you in the wagon. An’ I set up our tent, boy.”

  “I ain’t tired,” Malcolm said, yawning wide enough to nearly crack his skull.

  “A quarter hour and you will be sound asleep,” I teased. “Thank you, Boyd.”

  “Ain’t nothin’,” he said again, and I longed to ask him what was on his mind—a penny for his thoughts, as Mama would have said.

  “Lorie-Lorie, let’s have a bet,” Malcolm encouraged, with enthusiasm. Sitting straighter, he elaborated, “I’ll bet you a penny I’ll still be awake in a quarter-hour.”

  Boyd snorted and said, “You ain’t got a penny to speak of.”

  “A gambler’s life is no easy path,” Tilson said, grinning at Malcolm. “You’s a bit young to be considering it.”

  “I ain’t gonna be a gambler,” Malcolm assured us. “Soon as I’m able, I’ll homestead an’ build me a cabin in them woods Uncle Jacob is so fond of writing about.”

  “I know life in Minnesota ain’t gonna be what we’s used to,” Boyd said, exhaling smoke from both nostrils. Resting his forearms on his bent knees, he murmured, “I scarce go a full day when home don’t cross my mind. But I aim to take my chances in the wilds north of here. I swore to myself that I would get us there.”

  “What’s wrong?” I asked Boyd, sensing the uneasiness in him whether he intended it or not; I thought not, as his brows drew inward.

  Boyd looked between the three of us, Tilson and Malcolm and me, his face somber and his eyes unreadable. At last he admitted, “It’s being in the North, in enemy territory. I know it ain’t the same as when we was fighting, but all a-these Yankees about. I feel they would see us harmed for being Southern. Tell us to go straight to hell.”

  “But the fighting’s all done,” Malcolm said quietly. “It’s over.”

  “Some things ain’t ever truly over, boy,” Boyd said, in an equally hushed voice. “There’s an open wound in our country yet, bubbling over an’ refusing to heal. I don’t know when it’ll heal over. An’ the scar will always be there, I feel it in my bones, boy.”

  I shivered at his words, which resonated with undeniable truth.

  Tilson said, “There’s truth to that. We ain’t to see its end, not in my lifetime. Perhaps in yours, boy.” He sighed, exhaling a thin cloud of smoke,
and concluded kindly, “But you get used to being in Yankee country. Took me a fair amount, an’ the winters are fearsome cold for a Tennessee boy, but there ain’t no life back home. Not for us, not these days. You’ll find your way, all of yous. Your good man, too, Mrs. Davis.”

  And I prayed that he was right.

  * * *

  I washed my hands and face as quickly as I was able, at the pump to the rear of the house, beneath which grew a thick patch of daisies; their soft white petals brushed against the material of my borrowed trousers. I shuddered at the icy water that snaked down my blouse while I scrubbed at my skin; my closed eyes felt like boiled eggs against my fingertips, and this observation caused another shudder to clutch at me. It was dark and cold, but I could hear Boyd and Malcolm murmuring to each other as they settled into their tent, just as they usually did on the trail, and this familiarity allowed for a sense of relief, however small. I smiled a little as I used the edge of my sleeve to dry my face, and then observed Rebecca coming across the darkened yard and towards me.

  “I came to offer you my bed,” she said. “I shall bunk in with my boys in the loft.”

  “Heavens, no,” I replied. “I have a bed in the wagon.”

  “But it is so cold out here, for a July night,” she protested, bundled into a shawl, her hair a long braid. Her feet were bare, and the ground was wet with dew. I imagined her hem was similarly damp. She looked almost like a little girl in the dimness. She whispered, “I am sorry for my behavior at the fire. Please do not think me discourteous.”

  “Of course I do not think such,” I said, gently scolding, thinking of that which Tilson had related at the fire, of this night being the anniversary of Rebecca’s marriage to Elijah. I clutched her arm and said, “I wish that I had words of comfort. But I know there are not any, not when your husband was taken from you.”

  “Come indoors, let me fetch you another quilt, at least,” Rebecca said, and led the way. The house was warm, and lit dimly by the fire in the potbelly of the woodstove; a chorus of snores met our ears, from the loft above. Outside, Tilson remained at the fire, stirring the embers with a long stick, meditatively smoking his pipe.

  “Your uncle told us some about your husband,” I admitted as Rebecca handed me a quilt from the trunk against the north wall. I found myself wanting to talk with her, hopeful that she would be willing.

  “Please, sit a moment, let us speak,” she whispered, as though sensing my thoughts. “That is, if you are not too exhausted…my manners are inexcusable…”

  I sat at the dinner table, folding the quilt over my arms, and Rebecca seated herself just opposite. The quiet darkness of the room inspired confidences, and I said, “You remind me a great deal of a girl I used to know. I felt it from the first moment I saw you.”

  “Malcolm said as much,” Rebecca acknowledged. “Dear Lorie. When Clint told me that day that you were missing, I was sick with worry. Far beyond that which is logical, as we had only just met, but it struck me soundly. I knew that I was to help you. I know it still.”

  “You risked yourself, Sawyer told me,” I whispered. “I cannot thank you enough.”

  “I did only that which I believed I should,” she said, her voice low and soft. “Your husband was ready to tear apart this town to find you. Clint is quite terrified of him, and of your brother, though he shan’t admit it. And I must tell you, your brother’s words…Mr. Carter’s, that is...moved me greatly. You see, Clint asked your husband was it possible that you had left Iowa City of your own accord, and before anyone could speak your brother responded with an impassioned answer the likes of which I have never heard. It was beautifully spoken, so very sincere. He understands the depth of love between you and your husband, Lorie, and more than that, he was unashamed in his opinions.” She whispered again, “It moved me greatly.”

  “He and Sawyer have been friends all their lives,” I whispered. The tone with which she spoke of Boyd told me far more than any thousand words. I acknowledged softly, “Boyd is a good man.”

  “I shall admit, the thought of harm befalling him, or any of you, troubles me greatly. When he and Mr. Davis rode after you, I was fearful that I may never see him again…I can scarcely fathom the strength of this sentiment, even now…I was fearful I would never see any of you again, and I find that unbearable, as irrational as that may be…”

  “It is not irrational,” I said. “It is not, Rebecca.”

  “What of your family? Your mother, your father? What of your other siblings?”

  I hesitated less than a second; after all, her brother and uncle knew the truth about my past. I asked, “May I tell you something?”

  “Of course you may,” Rebecca said.

  A log in the stove snapped, momentarily intensifying the reddish glow in the small room. Snores provided a background cadence both reassuring and oddly peaceful. I studied what I could see of Rebecca’s eyes, and whispered, “Boyd and Malcolm are not my brothers. And yet, I could not love them more. They are more brothers to me than were Jesse and Dalton, God rest their souls.”

  “I do not understand…”

  “I used to work in St. Louis for a woman named Ginny Hossiter. I had worked for her since I was fifteen years old. Sawyer and Boyd, and Malcolm, were traveling from Tennessee, had been on the trail since April, and they were accompanied then by a man named Angus Warfield. Angus knew my father, Rebecca, and he…he took me from Ginny’s place. That very night, he brought me with them…” I stuttered to a halt, unwittingly yanked amongst nightmarish memories. Not those of Angus taking me from Ginny’s; he had rescued me as surely as I still drew breath, but of the night he had been killed for his trouble.

  Rebecca whispered, “You will think me dense as a stump, but I still do not understand…”

  “I worked for her as a whore,” I said, without rancor or challenge. It was the simple truth, after all. “Since I was fifteen I worked as a whore.”

  There was a beat of silence; Rebecca’s gaze remained unwavering.

  “Oh, Lorie,” she whispered, and then reached across the table to grasp my hands; hers were small and delicate, but warm as they surrounded mine, which were chilled from the pump. Rebecca said, “Oh, my dear. But you are so very young…”

  “When you spoke earlier of memories…you see, I understand better than you could have known. I know what it means to lie awake, plagued by the past.” I threaded my fingers into hers and held tightly; she was the second woman in whom I had confided, Fannie Rawley being the first, and neither had been horrified, or summarily repulsed. I sensed only sympathy, and compassion.

  She whispered, “What of this Angus? Where is he now?”

  And so I told her.

  - 22 -

  In the morning I was anxious as a flea-bitten horse to ride into town and set eyes upon Sawyer.

  “But we done hauled water for you,” Malcolm complained, when I voiced this desire. “Just so’s you could take a bath. Why in tarnation you gotta wash again, Lorie-Lorie?”

  His query was delivered in such a manner to suggest true curiosity rather than overt exasperation, and I caught him by the elbow and kissed his cheek. I explained, “Because my scalp is itching.”

  Malcolm said, “You’s got longer fingernails than me. Just scratch it, an’ you’ll be right as rain.”

  Rebecca had prepared a breakfast of fried eggs and onions, and delicious corn grits; there was strong coffee, accompanied by fine white sugar in a porcelain bowl painted with daisies, and a jar of sticky-sweet blackberry preserves. Just these small luxuries were worth the cramped eating space, all of us again crowded at the table; I had grown so accustomed to taking meals out-of-doors, in the wide-openness provided by the endless prairies. After breakfast, I stole into the small bedroom at the back of the house, narrow and hardly large enough for the brass-framed bed pushed beneath the solitary window. Studying its neatly-made surface under the scattering of a fair morning’s light, I knew this was the same bed Rebecca had shared with Elijah.

&nbs
p; Last night she had spoken of him, in copious detail. From her descriptions, I pieced together a solid picture of a good-natured man to whom she was wed at age eighteen.

  “His eyes were blue as cornflowers, just like Nathaniel’s. Elijah never met his youngest son, and yet it is Nathaniel who most resembles him,” Rebecca had said. “Elijah never failed to speak dearly to me. He was the kindest soul alive, Lorie. I cannot tell you how greatly I long for the sound of his voice. If I could hear it once more before I die, I should be content. When I read the letters he wrote to me, I imagine his voice speaking the words.”

  Elijah had fought with a battalion for the state of Iowa, from ’sixty-two until his death; his only remaining relative, an older brother, had died prior to that, in March of the same year.

  “Uncle Edward never begrudged us for being Yankees,” Rebecca had explained. “Clint and I were raised in Illinois and Iowa, both—our papa was from Illinois—though I do believe a part of Mama’s heart always remained back home, in Tennessee. She and Papa met there, after all, when Papa was on a business trip with his own father, in the summer of ’thirty-nine. She and Papa fell in love and courted there, and later he brought Mama, Clint, and me to this very homestead, where Mama remained until she died.”

  In the relative privacy of Rebecca’s bedroom, I stripped to the skin, noting the blood that had congealed and scabbed over my wound, and proceeded to scrub scalp and body, hunkering in the tin washtub that Malcolm and the boys had dutifully filled with water from the pump; I had hoped it would warm a little during breakfast, but it was still shocking to my skin. At least it was wet, and cleansed away the dust and grime. Rebecca and I talked the night away, and this morning found me still so very tired; I indulged in a moment’s rest, even propped uncomfortably as I was in the washtub with its rim no more than two feet in diameter. The hard edge dug into my back, but I had positioned it near the sunlight spilling into the room, and closed my eyes to appreciate the warmth.