by Win Blevins
When she was aware again, a hand held hers, yes, even so far down in the water here, a hand held hers. It was too warm, it raised her temperature. In an odd way she liked it, but it made her hotter still.
Now she remembered again what, in her half consciousness, her mind had been reaching for. Somewhere outside this bright area, the water was cool. She remembered that, yes, she could bring it back into her mind, yes. Somewhere out there the bright columns grew fewer and fewer, and the cool darkness would bring blessed relief.
She would find it. Yes, she would find it. Things would be better. She wouldn’t be so hot, so intolerably hot.
She forced her body to swim. Somehow, even in the swimming, she felt the hand in hers. That was good, there was something good about the hand, she liked it, even if it was hot. Hot.
Swimming, though, swimming didn’t seem to work. She swam harder. She thrashed. She struggled.
And as she swam harder, the great columns grew brighter and hotter.
She doubled her efforts. Somehow, somewhere, if I can find the cool, dark waters …
She came to consciousness again. She realized, I am deeper, and the water is not so hot here. I am deeper. If I don’t try, if I let go …
She floated farther down. She lost consciousness. She drifted.
The next time her mind stirred faintly, she was aware of very little. The great columns of light and heat seemed well above her. She could see them, but they were remote, far away, too far to matter.
Now she was surrounded by a wonder. Half-moons floated in her seas, thousands of them, and they trailed light behind, like beautiful white hair. Her husband’s hair, she remembered, was also white. These thousands of half-moons were a glory. She remembered someone had told her about them, told her that these glories illuminated the depths of the sea.
She was much deeper, she knew that. The depth was cool, the depth was relieving her body of the terrible heat, and she was getting comfortable. She relaxed and drifted farther down.
Now she felt a river take hold of her, a river within the ocean. This river was coldly delicious, like the drink of lemon, sugar, water, and creek ice the rich Mexicans drank. Oh, delicious. And it was taking her somewhere new, somewhere of perfect cool, perfect deliciousness. It was not dark—it was bright with the glow of the white half-moons, half-moons everywhere now, like bubbles on the surface of a tumbling creek, a world of bubble moons.
The river felt strong, and she welcomed its strength. Oh, bear me along, you are cool, you are dark, you are good. Ride me to a new ocean, a good ocean, cool.
She hesitated in the river. One small matter held her back. The hand. The river would take her beyond the reach of the hand, she knew that. The hand, it was nice, it was loving, but the river, the new ocean, and the wondrous half-moons … She wanted to surrender, to ride this delicious river, to swim forever among these beautiful, luminous moons.
She gave the hand a little squeeze. Good-bye. Then she let go and gave herself to the strong hands of the undersea river and the glorious light of the moons.
Part Four
JOURNEY INTO NIGHT
Sixteen
The Unimaginable
Sam felt the squeeze of the hand. He knew. He knew.
He lay down next to Meadowlark and folded her in his arms. Now in the wee hours of the morning no one else was here to see, no one to tell him no. And it didn’t matter now.
He held her.
He held her, and slowly, he wept out all feeling, all feeling. With his tears flowed away all his love, all his life.
Not until the predawn light slipped into the room did he acknowledge that she was cold.
He lay still and held her.
Julia and Flat Dog came in. They said some things, did some things, he didn’t know what. Soon Flat Dog started unwinding Sam’s arms and legs, separating him from Meadowlark. He let it happen. He knew the world would never be the same again, but he let it happen.
He sat on a chair next to the bed, blind, deaf, and dumb. He sat there while the friar said his ritual words, whatever they were. He sat there while someone, strangers, took Meadowlark away.
Julia put his daughter in his arms.
A somnambulist in a nightmare, Sam handed her back to Julia.
He rose and walked as in profoundest sleep into the courtyard. There he sat on a bench. The fountain splashed. Birds twittered. The sun rose and made shadows. Coy lay beneath the bench and watched the world.
Sam knew none of it. Unendurable. Today, unendurable. Tomorrow, unimaginable.
He sat, stupefied. He stared into the day, blank.
Twice during that day he arose to go to the bathroom. For some reason he found these trips a humiliating experience, and shambled back to the courtyard as fast as a sleepwalker could.
At dark Flat Dog led him to the bedroom where Meadowlark had died. Sam refused to lie on the bed where she had been. He lay on the floor in a single blanket and bored his eyes into the darkness. For him it was the same as staring into the day.
On the second or third day Sam stood by a hole in the ground and watched them lower a plain pine box into it. With Flat Dog, Julia, Gideon, Angel, and Father Enrique as witnesses, he saw priests put Meadowlark into the hole. It was obscene, what they did, but he said nothing. He cared about nothing.
He motioned all, please, to leave. Coy looked questioningly at Sam, then padded to the edge of the hole and looked down. Sam stepped up beside him and looked down. Just looked, both of them. After a while Sam took the shovel left by the gravedigger and threw dirt on Meadowlark. Blade after blade, each one as full as he could get it, he dumped the dirt on her. He worked methodically, automatically, like a machine. When it was done, he hurled the spade, point first, into the mound of loose dirt and walked off.
As requested, he went to the room where the friars dined and sat with the group. He partook of food, indifferently. He watched his daughter nurse at the breast of an Indian woman, and he did not care. He walked back toward his room. He didn’t notice his companions, Julia, Flat Dog, and Coy. He was an automaton.
On the outside walkway a man waited for them.
Without thought, Sam sized him up. Young, handsomely turned out, swelled with the arrogance that the Mexican dons flaunted so dashingly. Now came the first feeling Sam had since his wife died—anger.
“Señorita,” said the man formally, addressing Julia.
“Señora,” she answered.
“Señora …” He mouthed the word ironically. “Señora Flat Dog, I believe.”
“Yes,” she said in English.
“A gentleman wishes to speak with you.” His eyes roamed over the trapper, the Indian, and the coyote. A hint of amusement touched his lips. He was speaking in Spanish now, and his voice changed, as though calling attention to the introduction of a higher language. Julia translated.
“And you are?” she asked.
“Agustin Montalban y Romero.”
“Who wants to speak with me?” she said.
“Joaquin Montalban y Alvarado. My father.”
“An old family friend,” she told Sam and Flat Dog.
“A friend who offers help in a time of need,” said Montalban.
“Where?”
“Outside.” He nodded to the wall of the courtyard and its gate.
But what waited outside was an open carriage, three riders, and an elderly driver. Sam saw Julia stiffen. They all knew what the carriage was for.
“Thank Señor Joaquin Montalban for his kind concern, and tell him I will receive him this evening at the mission.”
Montalban gave the three riders a look. They dismounted and flanked him. Sam suppressed a bitter smile. The gentleman was provided with ruffian bodyguards, just in case.
“You will come to him now,” said Montalban. “Your friends are welcome. However, if they wish not to come, we will understand that their bereavement …”
“Tell your father,” said Sam, “the lady and her husband await him here.” He was amazed
at the sound of his own voice, like boulders falling.
The gentleman inclined his head and said, “Not possible.” He put his hand on the handle of the pistol in his belt. “You are unarmed. Señorita Julia will attend my father …”
Flat Dog and Sam looked at each other, understanding.
The pistol barrel rose.
The bodyguard on the gentleman’s left reached out to take Julia by one shoulder.
“Coy,” said Sam, “attack.”
In one jump the coyote had the don’s crotch in his teeth.
Flat Dog knocked the man flat, and the pistol flew.
Sam popped the buffalo belt dagger out. He was insane with rage.
A knife flashed from his left. Instantly he seized the wrist and pivoted behind. With the dagger he ripped the ruffian’s throat from ear to ear. Blood sprayed like his rage.
Sam roared, “It is a good day to die!”
Flat Dog shouted, “It is a good day to die!”
As another bodyguard cocked his throwing hand, Coy leapt at him. The knife glanced off the throat-cut body and swished past Sam.
The dying legs in their spasms tangled with Sam’s legs. Both bodies went down. As Sam untangled himself, a boot caught him right on the nose.
Blood gushed, and with it a feeling boiled out, pure and wild. Sam got his feet under him. He saw a living bodyguard recover his knife. Sam launched himself, riding the wild feeling like a stampede.
He knocked the knife aside with his left hand and butted the fellow with his head. The man splatted to the ground. Sam leapt on him, but the fellow rolled away and got to his feet.
Coy bit the man’s knife hand. The ruffian bellowed and slung Coy away.
Sam slashed the man from shoulder to hip. Tunic and skin ripped. Sam bellowed, “Buffalo dagger!”
The ruffian looked gape-mouthed at his own blood, then at Sam.
Seeing the man still puzzled at a small belt buckle weapon, Sam laughed. It came out huge and crazy. Sam laughed wilder, thinking, If I heard me laugh, I’d run like hell.
He attacked. He used the buffalo dagger like a rapier. A cut straight across the forehead. A slash to the belly.
The ruffian’s knife rose. Before it touched Sam’s ribs, Sam’s hand darted. The ruffian’s wrist sprouted blood. The knife flew and rattled against the wall. The man stumbled after it.
As Sam turned to look at Flat Dog, a body from that direction knocked him over.
With a crazy glee he rolled and rolled. Getting his feet under him, he saw the crimson flood from his nose all over his body. He laughed. He yelled like a madman, “It is a good day to die!”
He dived to one side and kicked. This new bodyguard jumped on Sam’s feet and trapped them.
Sam bent and stabbed straight into the man’s throat. When Sam jerked the knife out, blood gushed.
Suddenly: wild stillness in the midst of melee.
Sam whipped the ornament out of his hair and flashed the blade out.
Montalban was hoisting Julia onto the carriage. Flat Dog grappled with him, and Coy bit his ass.
Sam got knocked down from behind. The ground whoofed the air out of him.
Reaching back, he sliced his attacker’s side with the hair ornament. The man screamed and rolled away.
Sam attacked furiously with both blades, his hands whirling dervishes. He saw the look of astonishment on his foe’s face and spewed laughter. Killed by a hair ornament and a belt buckle!
He kicked the man in the balls, pounced on him, and slit his belly until gut oozed out.
Springing to his feet, Sam dashed toward the carriage.
Montalban was trying to get his pistol pointed into Flat Dog’s face.
Flat Dog was choking Montalban.
Julia was wrestling with Montalban’s arm.
Coy was preventing the don from ever siring children.
Sam bellowed and crashed into the four of them.
The pistol exploded.
All four people rolled to the earth. No one was struggling any longer.
Rolling away, Sam saw.
Montalban’s head was a mass of blood.
Flat Dog’s was black with burnt powder, but he was laughing.
Julia was crying.
The elderly driver hopped down and ran.
Coy sat coolly and watched the driver flee.
Friars hurried out, their robes fluttering helplessly.
Very quickly, some things were sorted out.
Rosalita was sent for.
Father Enrique said last rites for Montalban, and offered the opinion, whether or not anyone cared, that the soul had not yet left the body.
To Sam’s surprise the friar then said last rites for the other attackers.
“You killed all three of them,” said Flat Dog.
Sam looked into the smoke-blackened face. He didn’t know whether the words were said in blame, in awe, or what. He didn’t give a damn.
Rosalita told the friar to stop saying words over the gut-slit attacker. “I’m sorry to say,” she told them, “that this one survives. I will sew him up.”
“I will have a man take him to the rancho in the carriage,” said Father Enrique, “with the body of Montalban.”
“Tell Don Joaquin,” Julia told the wounded man sharply, “that I decline his most gracious invitation.”
Sam and Flat Dog whooped.
Sam looked at his friend. They laughed louder, and Sam heard meanness in his own laugh. A thought whipped at him. Maybe, now that she’s gone, I will always be mean.
Coy nuzzled Sam’s leg. Rosalita inspected Sam’s nose. “Broken,” she said. “I must set it.”
Julia took Sam’s hand. “You killed two men for me. Gracias.”
Sam looked at her, rocked with strange feelings.
“Thank you,” she repeated.
He nodded.
“There is very little time,” the friar told Rosalita.
The comadrona tore pieces of cloth, rolled them, and forced them up Sam’s nostrils.
He bellowed, laughing at himself. Coy whined.
“Leave these in place for a week,” she instructed.
Sam started to protest.
“Breathe through your mouth! Leave the cloths!”
“I see what happened here,” said Father Enrique. He surveyed the scene again with regretful eyes. “Yes, I understand it. Yes. What you did, it was necessary.”
He looked from one to the other, Julia to Sam to Flat Dog.
“I must advise you to be gone quickly. Very, very quickly. Your horses are being brought.”
Julia and Flat Dog got their few belongings. Sam brought Paladin and the other horses around.
“I’m sending a man with you,” said Father Enrique. “He will show you where to stay tonight. Tomorrow I will send a wet nurse with your daughter.”
Sam shook himself. I damn near forgot about my own daughter.
They swung into their saddles.
“You feeling all right?” said Flat Dog, looking at Sam sharply.
“I don’t care about one damn thing,” said Sam.
Seventeen
Lost in the Wilderness
The ride back to the camp was emptiness.
First they hid in an outlying farmhouse. The wet nurse brought the baby. The farmer slaughtered a pig for a feast, and gave them the bladder as a substitute for a mother’s breast.
Sam hated the sight of the cussed thing. But Julia learned quickly to use it, and was pleased with herself. The farmer gave them a goat that was fresh to provide milk, a gift from the mission, he said.
Sam asked Julia to give the girl a name.
Julia offered Esperanza. “My mother’s name,” said Julia. “It means hope.”
“A good thing, hope,” said Flat Dog, looking at Sam.
Sam shrugged his shoulders.
Coy rubbed himself against Sam’s legs. The coyote stayed even closer to the man now.
After two days they set out. Sam’s nose ached, and having his nostr
ils blocked was a nuisance, but he was indifferent to everything, even to being back on Paladin. He blocked her foal out of his mind.
“Don Montalban is looking for us,” said Flat Dog.
Coy made friends with the goat, and it followed on a lead without trouble. Sam hated the goat. He half hoped Montalban’s men would find them. He wanted a good fight, one more damn good fight, an apocalypse.
The camp on the Peticutry River where the Appelaminy flowed in was empty.
They found a stake, and signs of digging. They knew what it would be. Buried beside the stake was a letter wrapped in deer hide. Sam looked at the piece of folded paper. “I can’t read,” he said, and held it out to Julia.
“I don’t read English,” she said. “I learned to speak but not read.”
All three started laughing. This was funny. The three of them were on the run together, a white man, an Indian man, a Mexican woman, and a mixed-blood child. Their companions had gone off, leaving a note to say where. And none of them could read the note.
Julia took the paper with her right hand. These days her left arm was occupied, constantly, by Esperanza. “It is written in English and Spanish,” Julia said.
Laplant, the translator, had anticipated the problem.
“I have taken the brigade north in hopes of finding a route to cross the mountain. If we have good fortune, we must say farewell. If not, we will come back here. In the hole is a bonus for work well done.”
It was signed, Jedediah Strong Smith.
Sam dug a little more and found gold pieces.
So they settled down to wait.
Julia spent her days on the baby. Flat Dog spent his wondering whether he would be stuck in California for years.
Sam spent his days on nothing. He stared a lot. Sometimes he looked at the mountains. They were full of spring snow, and most of these peaks would bear eternal snows. Didn’t look to him like any horse party could cross those mountains, not now. But he didn’t say that. He said nothing.
