Stranded

by Matthew P. Mayo

  I found it hanging, neat as you please, a few inches above the water on a stub of branch that bobbed in the slow current. The pretty painted blue flowers caught my eye. I nearly slipped into the water retrieving it, but I didn’t care. It means the world to me and I hold it gently in my filthy hands and look at it whenever I am not writing in this diary. I am holding it now.

  I even sniff it, as if I can smell the flowers. No, not the flowers so much as the kitchen back in Missouri. I close my eyes and there we all are, Mama and Papa and William and Thomas. I smell wood smoke and cinnamon and a bubbling stew and the warmth of fresh bread and the little bit of burned smell of Papa’s coffee simmering on the back of the stove.

  It is all so lovely, though I can never quite see myself among them. That does not stop me from trying.

  Now that it is once more possible to leave this place for the first time since October, I do not believe I have the strength. I spend effort writing these words, but this is easier than grubbing for food. I found a clot of roots that tasted awful. I could not keep them down.

  As the snow melts, more of Bib’s and Bub’s carcasses become exposed. I snapped some of the ribs and dug out whatever marrow I could from inside. As to the rest, there is little left save for a few clumps of hair. Even the hides have been dragged off somewhere. The wolves and other critters left little for me.

  As in September, I am once more uncertain about what to do. Leave this place, walk toward Oregon, foraging as I go? Stay here, in the only place I know? It seems I have not changed much since September. I still cannot make up my mind.

  MARCH OR APRIL, 1850

  * * *

  There are two pinches of cornmeal left in the sack. Then I am done.

  APRIL, 1850

  * * *

  It has been nearly a week since I wrote in these pages. I had expected to be dead by now, but something happened.

  The day after I last wrote, I was sitting on the wagon seat, as has been my custom. I held the shard of teacup to my nose and closed my eyes. I pretended I was once again back with my family, all well and alive and smiling. I still could not see myself among them.

  I do not know how long I sat with my eyes closed, but a slight, far-off sound startled me. I opened my eyes and the sudden light made me blink. Everything was fuzzy. I heard that soft noise again, and squinted. Deer, I thought, eyeing the rolling land. And me with no way to kill them, nor fire to roast them. But it was not deer.

  I held up a hand like a hat brim over my eyes and saw several people on horseback.

  They saw me, I had no doubt, for they rode toward me. I suspected this was a trick of my mind. Then I knew it was, for the riders disappeared from sight. It was not until they reappeared, closer, slowly rising from the earth, that I realized they had walked down a dip in the valley floor, then up out of it again.

  They took several minutes to reach me and I waited to see how long it would be before they disappeared for good. My long hair blew every way over my hand and face.

  Perhaps it was Papa and the boys. That was the first time in ages I thought of them as still alive. Yes, I reasoned, that is it, they had gotten turned around and had to wait until spring to search for me. But then the riders drew closer and I saw they were Indians. Five of them.

  I watched them. They were ten feet away when they stopped. They were not real. They stared at me. One horse snorted and stamped a foot. Another shook its head. Still the men stared at me. I felt certain that as soon as I breathed or moved my hand from my eyes they would vanish.

  The closest spoke.

  “You here . . .” He held up his hands, spread them apart as wide as his chest. “Long time?”

  Even hearing his voice, I knew he was not real. I kept looking at him, at the rest of them. Of the five, four led packhorses laden with animal skins and blanket-wrapped bundles tied with rope.

  “You speak?” Again he held up a hand, this time at his mouth, moved his brown fingers away from his lips as if blowing seeds from a dandelion flower.

  I nodded, though there was no one there.

  He looked at the others, then back to me. They spoke low and quickly amongst themselves, words I had never heard. They looked around this infernal valley, pointed at the bones of Bub and Bib, nodded toward the wagon, all that was left of my family’s journey.

  Then they stopped talking and looked at me again. The man who had spoken slid down from his horse. There was no saddle, but a red-and-black-striped blanket that stayed in place.

  He looked at me, motioned to a bare patch of dirt by his feet, on which he wore handsome moccasins. He crouched down, poking a finger, making a circle in the dirt. “We now.” He motioned around him, at the valley. “We go.” His finger dragged toward the west, leaving a ragged line. “Trade at fort of white man.” He stood, his hand rose up toward the mountains, then down again. He did this twice, three times, moving his hand like a slow-hopping rabbit.

  “Long journey, many moon.” He nodded at me. “You come. You white, you go there. No stay here,” he said, shaking his head as if the thought of it was wrong to him. He looked once more at me, at the wagon, the stumps of trees I had chopped. “No more days.”

  Only then did I lower my hand. Maybe they were real people after all. I was not certain how to feel. I looked down at the bit of Mama’s teacup in my dirty, scarred hands, at the one finger that froze some months back, and no longer moves. At my stained dress, once of a tiny red flower pattern, at my ragwrapped feet I hadn’t looked at in a month or more.

  I suppose I should have cried. It was a long time before I looked up again, certain they would have vanished. But they were still there, watching me.

  I opened my mouth, but nothing happened. I licked my lips, and tried again. “I . . . am Janette. Janette Riker.”

  APRIL, 1850

  * * *

  They made camp that night, and it took coaxing before I finally climbed down from the wagon. The one who spoke English held up a hand to help. I hesitated. How long had it been since I had touched another person? Since that morning when Papa hugged me before he left. I put my hand in that man’s, and my breath caught short. He did not exactly smile with his mouth, but his eyes did. Kind eyes.

  They shared food, good, hot, cooked food, venison and nuts and berries, the sweetness hurt my mouth. He told me to eat but a little. I wanted all of their food and then some. You will be sick he said, patting his belly. I did not want to hear that, but he was right.

  APRIL, 1850

  * * *

  They are very kind to me and have shifted their load so I might ride on a packhorse. The route we are taking is a pretty one and I can’t help but think Papa and the boys would have marveled at its beauty.

  I pay careful attention to every tree, every rock, every sound the Indians make, the way the horses walk on the trail, all of it. Much of the time I spend convincing myself I have lived.

  The morning after they found me we rode from the valley. I did not look back until it was almost too late. The wagon stood as always, so sad and alone. I tried to picture myself in it, but could not.

  As we rode between a cleft in the great rock walls, I glanced once toward that southwesterly ridge, a folly on my part. There was no long-legged man with wispy gray hair and big hands, striding forward and smiling. He was not followed by two younger likenesses of himself, shoving one another and rushing to keep up. They were not shouting and waving to me, and never will again.

  I would give anything to know what it was Thomas shouted to me that day from the ridge, the last words spoken to me by any of them. That abiding vision has stayed with me. Some might call it a memory best forgotten. I choose to think otherwise.

  One day I will find them, my family, in a pretty green Oregon valley, tending a fine little farm. I will join them there, and we will have ourselves a grand time.

  Soon, my little mountain valley pinched from my sight. I turned and faced west.

  APRIL, 1850

  * * *

  We have be
en on the trail for nearly a week. The Indians are kindly toward me, though seldom speak. Parts of my body still pain me, my cut leg (though it is healing), my frostbit right ear, and various toes and fingers. If these are my worst woes, I count myself fortunate.

  Last night at the campfire, as is my custom, I wrote in this diary. The man who speaks English, though I do not know his name, I think of him as Kind Eyes, watched me writing and motioned toward my diary. I could not bear the thought that someone else might hold this dear little book, a gift from both Mama and Papa. I closed it and held it tight to my chest, my eyes wide and staring at him.

  He held up his hands, palms toward me. “No take,” he said, but looked at the diary once more. Then he unrolled a skinwrapped bundle and held up a small, beaded sack. He slid his hand in, then out, pointed at the diary, then at the pretty sack. He handed it to me and nodded. It was a gift.

  I touched it, so very pretty in the firelight, the tiny beads all colors, and in a pattern like flowers. I am afraid I cried. He looked worried.

  “Thank you.” It was all I could think to say. I am a foolish girl. Such a fine and pretty gift and all I can do is cry and say thank you.

  Kind Eyes smiled with his eyes and nodded, then sat down once more with his friends. They were quiet, and did not look at me as I sat there weeping and holding the pretty gift. This weeping is annoying, but I cannot control it.

  I vow if anyone in my presence ever refers to Indians as “red savages,” I will clout them.

  NOVEMBER 12, 1850

  * * *

  It has been six months since I wrote in this, my dear little diary. And as there are few blank pages left, I fear my entries will be even sparser in future.

  As to what has happened since I last wrote, I will endeavor to fill the gap with words.

  It took us several weeks to reach the white man’s settlement called Fort Nez Percés. It is operated by the famous Hudson’s Bay Company, and is a bustling center for fur trade here in Oregon Territory, along the Columbia River.

  On our arrival, I recall whispering, “So this is the land of milk and honey so many people yearn to see.” I find my taste for milk and honey has soured.

  I waved to the Indians as they left later the same day we arrived. At the last moment, Kind Eyes turned and nodded once, smiling with his eyes as he had before. It was enough. I will never forget him.

  Shortly after my arrival I was taken in by a widow with three children. Mrs. Albemarle is a forthright woman who proposed an agreement with me. Once I regained good health she wished to hire me to assist in educating her offspring and keeping them out of mischief (largely the latter, I soon found). In exchange I would receive room and board. I agreed and it has been an amicable arrangement. The children are a challenge and remind me of Thomas. Needless to say I am busy.

  I am told the Indians who found me are of the Salish tribe, though I do not know if my spelling is correct. I also learned they found me at the end of the month of April. That made seven months I was alone. I find it curious that I prefer to keep company with my own thoughts these days, though I have had no urge to write in a diary. I also have not gained much in the way of weight. I eat enough to function, and leave the table thinking I could do with more. I do not care to dwell on the reason behind it.

  All in all, I am as I once was, though I do walk with a limp, much as I try otherwise. It seems frost damaged two toes on my right foot such that I cannot feel them. It is the same with my dead finger. I massage it and no matter my efforts, it will not revive.

  A doctor who passed through on a wagon train in June examined my hand, my leg, and my feet and told me I should count myself lucky, for any worse and the finger and those toes would have required amputation. I cannot abide that thought. I did lose part of my left ear to the cold, though as I can still hear out of it, it is of little consequence.

  I will turn sixteen years of age in ten days. I do not know how I feel about that. I should consider it a boon, given that I never imagined surviving to see another birthday.

  The summer and autumn have been busy here at the fort, with increasing numbers of travelers passing through, their countenances weary but relieved to have come this far. I cannot help but regard each person’s face, listen in on every bit of conversation I am able, knowing it is a fool’s errand. My family is gone and will not come back to me.

  These fresh faces have largely blurred together in my mind. They roll in, resupply to suit their needs, then venture onward once more to lives of promise and hope in the land they longed to see, the unseen place of their heart’s desire.

  Not but a month ago, in early October, two ragged, late-season wagons arrived, all the way from Ohio. Among the company was a young man named Johan Sorenson. He was taken in as an orphan and raised as a farmhand. As soon as he was of age, he bid goodbye to all he knew and joined a wagon train bound for the west.

  He is tall and strong, with messy hair the color of sun on ripe wheat in a field. His blue eyes spark and dance when he speaks of his future.

  We have talked and walked for weeks now. In truth, Johan does most of the talking. In spring, he will settle a claim for 160 acres of good land. His conviction is hypnotizing and I find myself nodding and nearly smiling, so excited does he become about his plans.

  Then he will stop so suddenly I have to look at him to make sure he has not bitten off his tongue. He reddens, and asks me some polite question about myself. I wish he would not.

  I find it difficult to go on at length about much of anything. But I have begun to talk, to tell him of Mama, Papa, William, and Thomas. Yesterday I told him I lost them on our trip out here. Johan did not seem surprised. I suspect some chatty soul at the fort told him my story, what little they know of it, anyway.

  I chanced a look at him, and he at me. Then he gripped my hand in his, gave it a squeeze, and did not let go.

  EPILOGUE

  * * *

  Janey Pendergast closed the tatty old diary and sat with it on her lap. The attic had grown cold and dark beyond the oil lamp’s low flame, now nearly out. No wind gusted the house, no rain pelted down. The storm had passed. Through the window she saw night had come.

  “Oh no!” She stiffened and stood, clutching the diary to her chest. “No, no, no!” Janey grabbed the lamp and rushed down the stairs, nearly tripping twice. The entire short journey she kept thinking, I’ve ignored her all day. Mama is right. I am selfish, so selfish.

  She halted outside the old woman’s room. It was dark, cold, and quiet. Janey whispered, “Grandmother?” She heard no reply.

  She crept in, set the dim lamp on a low table, and laid the diary on the bed. The old woman was there, as Janey had left her so many hours before. Not daring to breathe, Janey reached for the thin hand, felt it beneath hers. It was as cold as stone.

  The sudden horrible weight of what she had done dropped on Janey. She had neglected her great-grandmother, and now because of Janey, this woman, this amazing woman, was dead.

  She buried her face in the quilt, knotting it in her fists. “Oh, God, please forgive me, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

  She felt a soft hand lightly stroke her hair.

  “You read it, then.”

  Janey sat up. “You’re alive! Oh, Grandmother, I am sorr y, so sorry for earlier . . . all day.”

  “Hush now,” said the old woman. “I am fine. I am old, old as sin, but I am fine.” She took the weeping girl’s hands in hers. “The question is, are you?”

  “I . . .” The girl looked down, her voice quiet. “I read it. Your secret diary.”

  “Good. I hoped you would.” The old woman ran a finger along the book’s worn cover, the edge of the crumpled beaded bag beneath.

  Neither spoke for a few moments, then the old woman said, “I am sorry about your father, Janey. Losing him is something you will carry always.” The old woman reached, slid open the drawer of her bedside stand. Her long fingers rustled inside, then stopped. “Hold out your hand.”

  Janey
did and the old woman put something in her palm.

  When Janey looked, she saw a shard of pottery, and jutting from it the delicate loop of a teacup handle decorated with tiny blue flowers.

  “For when you miss him the most.”

  Janey looked at her great-grandmother and closed her eyes and held the little shard close to her nose. She breathed deeply and smiled.

  They both did.

  HISTORICAL NOTE: THE REAL

  JANETTE RIKER

  * * *

  Though Stranded is a novel of historical fiction, there really was a young woman named Janette Riker. Very little is known of her life, save for a few brief paragraphs in a book from 1877, Woman on the American Frontier, by William W. Fowler. In it, we learn that in 1849, Miss Janette Riker, age unknown, traveled from an unknown location toward Oregon Territory with her father and two brothers (names and ages unknown).

  The family made it to the foot of the Rockies in late September, and rested in a little grassed valley in present-day Montana, intending to stay but two or three days. On the second day following their arrival, Miss Riker’s father and two brothers left camp early to hunt buffalo. They never returned.

  Janette waited too long for them, and early snows trapped her in the little valley. Struggling to push aside her growing despair, she built a crude shelter and killed and butchered their fattest ox, preserving the meat to the best of her ability. The harrowing winter brought repeated attempts by mountain lions and wolves to dislodge and devour her. In April, spring flooding wiped out her shelter and she nearly drowned.