Book of the Little Axe

by Lauren Francis-Sharma

  I walked halfway down the dirt path fore she left the porch. I took off my hat and let her have a look at the hair I cut without a lookin glass and at my vaquero cowhide boots that Señor Meleanos had gave me. There was suspicion in her eyes as she set her sight on me but there was somethin else too. Somethin in the brightness of her glance and in her barely there smile like maybe she was expectin me all along.

  VIII

  Kullyspell, Oregon Country

  1

  1830

  Ma disappeared inside a dwelling of cedar logs. A “post,” she called this structure that sat south of the western trail they’d traveled up alongside the Clark Fork River, past mountains specked with trees and brush and grasses in blinding colors of gold and bronze, sage and evergreen, like a display of fall squashes. To the west, across a lake as vast as Victor imagined the ocean, stood seven snow-covered peaks that disappeared behind another hill that curved to the north, resembling the chimney on the post now before him. A bearded man lay on the face of the peak to the east, a round tip next to this one, and just across from the post sat a green mountain like a sweeping butterfly.

  Ma called the area Kullyspell.

  It was late afternoon when Ma helped Victor cross the splintered plank at the threshold. She sat him on a stool next to the door, between four solid, riveted walls. The place smelled of pine needles and the bitterness of burnt rosemary and cured skins. Crisscrossing pine slabs boarded two windows, one north facing, the other west facing. Across from him, propped against a raised and flushed fireplace inlaid with stone, sat a small square table, which Victor presumed would have to be moved before the fire was kindled. Atop this table was a coverless Spanish Bible, appearing as if someone had not so much neglected it as thrown it. Upon a plank shelf to his right were three cups, three plates, and one wooden spoon with a curved handle. The floors, fashioned from cedar split logs, round side down, were smooth, save for three large boles that lay blackened and jagged, as if a fire had once nearly razed the place.

  Ma returned outside to Martinique. She, with the last of their water, wiped down the tired mare while Victor watched through the open door as Ma’s chest heaved in a sigh like a great wind. He felt he should call to her, comfort her in some way, but knew that doing so would make him feel things both violent and useless.

  When Ma reentered, she escorted Victor through the first room where lay a second room. Ma set him upon a thing she called a “bed,” large enough for two adults and two children, which sank beneath him like a nest of plumes. Next to him, Ma slid aside a hemp curtain, revealing four shelves bearing hides, hemp sheets, and two cedar bark baskets. She removed a pot from the top shelf—an odd-looking thing with flanges like turkey wings—and placed it beside the bed. It was clear then that she’d been there before.

  “Are we finally where we need to be?” he whispered.

  Ma examined Victor, patting his flesh with feathery fingertips. He had several broken ribs, she said, and a shattered leg. She bound him with strips of cloth that looked permanently stained with another’s blood.

  “Do you think we will be safe here?”

  Ma looked to Victor as if to say, Are we ever safe? and if Victor did not know better, he might have said Ma was aquiver, might have said she was thinking of what could have been, what might still be, for Victor himself had not stopped thinking about any of those things.

  When he woke it was nightfall. Ma had removed the boards and thrown open the window. A cool, rich breeze whispered over them, and Victor found the moon in the middle of the window’s square, as though someone had plugged a wall around it. Next to him, Ma slept on the ladder-back chair; the light of a dying candle shone on the skin of her jowls that fell slack toward her ears, the fine bones in her hands stitched together like too-tight tunnels. Victor watched her for some time, wondering if she could still smell her Frenchman the way he smelled his, wondering if she thought of Like-Wind the way he did.

  Many nights after that first night, Victor lay awake considering all that had happened. He had wanted to question Ma about so many things—Was Like-Wind sent by the elders? Could the girl have survived? Where was the man they were to meet?—but had refrained because he wished his silence to be her balm. Wished his silence to be his balm.

  One night, a week or so after they’d arrived, Victor reached for the candlestick, determined to relieve himself in private. On their first day there, Ma had taught him how to use the chamber pot, and though he had twisted his face with disgust, declaring outdoors to be the proper place for such things, he’d since grown fond of the contraption, happy not to have to drag his shattered body into a darkness whose shadows he had yet to meet. Until then, however, Victor had relieved himself only with Ma’s assistance, but that evening he couldn’t wait long enough for Ma to wake and clear her eyes.

  The pain was wicked as he contorted himself to avoid mess making. As he began sliding the pot back beneath the bed, he knocked over his water pouch and, in his effort to retrieve it, lost his balance and planted his right hand squarely in his urine. Disgusted but a tad amused, Victor thought of Like-Wind, who would have never stopped laughing had he been there; Like-Wind, who would’ve balled his knees into his chest and clutched his chuckling belly. And Victor began to cry. For no matter the memory of Like-Wind—and most were good—there would always be Like-Wind alone on that sooty earth with his young chest split open. Victor had asked Ma before they left those woodlands if she could wrap Like-Wind in hide, set him upright into the branches of that majestic fir. But Ma said she didn’t know what to make of Like-Wind keeping company with those men, and she told Victor that if she set Like-Wind in the arms of that tree and if his body was ever found, Bluegrass would know for certain that Apsáalooke had killed his son.

  Victor rinsed his hand and cast the light about the floor, hoping to see how much spillage he’d caused. Ma would have words for him in the morning, he knew. For now, however, she remained asleep, her left foot beneath the right, her legs pinched together like a flower’s bloom on a chilled night, and as Victor drew back the candle, he noticed something—a shadow of a thing—beneath the bed. He bent toward it, raised the candle, tilting it left and right to get the light just so. What Victor discovered, suspended by a crispy vine rope, was a diary.

  2

  It was Creadon Rampley’s diary.

  Victor read the pages as if it were his first taste of sweet. When the candle died and Ma didn’t wake, he read by the dawn’s light. He read slowly, the man’s poor handwriting—English words about Creadon’s father and his meeting with David Thompson. Who was this man? How did Ma come to know him?

  Ma woke, as she often did, in a start, bolting upright, eyes glazed and terrified. Victor slipped the book beneath his shoulder before her eyes cleared. He didn’t want to share it, not yet; didn’t want to be told not to read it, not yet.

  “How long have I been sleeping? Let me help you with the chamber pot. I’m sure—”

  “I managed.” Victor forced a yawn. “Can I rest longer?”

  Ma straightened her shoulders, pushed out her chest. Her tunic was stained, her hair littered with tiny chips of wood, making Victor feel shamed, for there was proof before him that since they’d arrived, Ma had been thinking only of him.

  “I found a well,” she said. “It won’t take me long to get water.”

  He wondered why anyone needed a well with a lake only steps from the post. “You didn’t know there was a well?” he asked instead.

  Ma squinted as if the question were nonsensical, then took up the chamber pot and left.

  The wooden door crackled like a dying fire and Victor began to read again. He continued each day when Ma went for water or food or air, and each night when Ma slept in the chair beside him. As Ma waited the many weeks for Victor to heal, he thwarted such healing by living for nights, straining his eyes to make sense of the smudged words—words in an English Ma had taught him to speak and to read over many nights by the light of a torch—letters in a fading
ink that seemed to be holding on just long enough for Victor to taste and feel and breathe them. During those weeks, Creadon lived in Victor’s head, in his heart. Creadon’s adventures became Victor’s adventures; his fears, Victor’s fears; his story, part of Victor’s story.

  CREADON RAMPLEY

  Isle of Trinidad

  1812

  She was goddamn lovely. Lovely in that way you cant grasp the moment you see it. Cause you aint seent nothin like it.

  She met me fore I could make it to the front door. She spoke Spanish and I understood much of what she said. Her name was Eve Rendón and if I was lost she could help me find my way. I smiled and she blushed, thinkin I aint understand her, then lifted her finger like to ask me to wait.

  “My Papá,” she said.

  I prolly wasnt supposed to but I followed her. I barely noticed the windin path I walked down or the handsome stable she walked into just as she started speakin real fast in French to someone I couldnt see. “Where is Papá? How long will he be gone?”

  “Non!” I figured that was the voice of a brother.

  Eve looked shamefaced when she peeked out from the barn. She held her hands steady in the air, like to tell me to wait then I heard her and the boy firin off. Voices risin. A long sigh. Somethin slammin. Then she come back out, leadin a strange-lookin girl dressed like a strange-lookin boy toward me.

  “Sir, I am Eve’s sister. Is my Papá expecting you?” The girl who maybe I should call a woman cause I found out later she was twenty-five and Eve was twenty-seven, spoke to me in a near perfect English, lookin me over like she seent better.

  I shoulda told em then and there that I spoke French just fine. All Hudson’s Bay trappers did. But I was too busy tryna make sensa how them two coulda been sisters. They looked so different.

  “Mr. Abbott called me,” I said in English. “I mean, Mr. Abbott sent me.”

  The woman smirked at my misspeak.

  “My machete.” I pointed to the broke handle in my pack. “I need a blacksmith.”

  The woman translated for Eve who looked embarrassed that she hadnt already reasoned out why I was there.

  “Papá will return soon, sir,” the woman said. “Please wait.”

  Their father was a tall, lean-muscled man with an open face. He had burnt hands, one with only four fingers, and dark eyes that looked like they was memberin every pain they seent. After I told him I couldnt pay him nothin but a word a thanks, he made himself clear. “I cannot help you, sir.” His English landed not so good as the woman’s but good enough for me to understand no.

  I followed him back round the stable tryna explain how I got to the island. Told him how I aint asked nothin from nobody since I got there. Seemed like he figured I aint know nobody who could hurt him cause then he turned and talked to me like I wasnt no decent man. “Then what will you do?” He was holdin a bundle of hay in his arms like he was fittin to throw it at me. “Tell me. Once I fix this cutlass of yours, what will you do? Hack away at the trees, rape the land of its soil to find a few specks of yellow dust? Why again should I offer you this charity?”

  I wasnt so much embarrassed as cross. To be spoke to like a child by an African in English? “I dont much like your tone,” I said.

  “I am certain Mr. Abbott did not tell you that I am a man without pride. I am sorry if my tone offended you, sir, but youve come to my home requesting much and offering nutting.” He tipped his hat. “I must get back to work.”

  “I can work,” I said suddenly. “Here. For you.”

  He set down one bundle and moved to a nother, pickin em up between long breaths. “You plenty desperate to find this gold, eh? Well, we dont need your help here.”

  I took the bundle and refused to take no for an answer. I had nothin else. No other way.

  “Sir, if you please.” He pulled the hay from me.

  “I insulted you. Imma find a nother way to fix my cutlass. But lemme do this.”

  He let me work. And truth is I felt good about it too. He seemed like a good man, which come clear when I seent the way him and his two daughters was together. This way of bein where it seemed each was a piece of a whole. They moved their hands the same, the two girls smiled the same, him and Eve even frowned the same. They was real people. A real family.

  At lunchtime, Demas Rendón led me up to the timber-frame house and in through a double door. There was true to life furnishins inside! I aint knowed what it would take to dream that one day I might have a home with puncheon floorin and a sturdy roof of logs lined with animal pelts. My dreams wasnt that big. There was unlit candles against the walls like they was happy waitin for dark, and a basin of water near the table where me and Demas washed our faces and hands fore takin a sit.

  Demas sat at the head and I sat next to him, cross from Eve, who was seated beside the woman whose name I learnt was Rosa. Eve put down the plate for Demas first, then the rest of ours. Cool water was in my cup and I drank it thirstily then stabbed my fork into the glistenin roast fowl about the size of my fist fore realizin the three of em had paused for grace to a God I hadnt given no thought to.

  “And dear God, bless the strangers among us,” Eve added.

  That Eve Rendón was somethin special! She had thoughts on Europe and South America, on abolitionists and the Union. She aint knowed English but she peppered me with so many questions that I finished only half my plate by the time her father leant back in his chair, satisfied.

  “She wishes to know about your family.” Demas was translatin for Eve. “Your mudda and fadda, any bruddas and sistas?”

  “My Pa raised me but I aint got nobody left,” I said, dippin somethin they called breadfruit into a tangy brown sauce that made my farhead sweat.

  “Your mother was not English, sir, was she?” That Rosa had a sharp way about her. Like she was made a corners and was tryna catch my lies on em.

  The afternoon sun streamed in like it was mad at somethin, hittin the side of my face where Rosa had her eyes set. “Naw she wasnt.”

  “Indian?”

  I nodded though I aint sure why then and not ever before. Suddenly Rosa seemed to be lookin at me with new eyes.

  “I aint knowed my mother,” I said.

  “But you call yourself English?”

  Demas shook his head and tapped Eve who then elbowed Rosa.

  “Was your mother a slave? An Indian slave?” Rosa said.

  Demas glared at Rosa then said to me, “My apologies. Rosa is only curious. She and Eve lost their mudda eight years now.”

  Been the same since I lost Pa.

  It got quiet then. The kinda quiet that made me feel shame for havin caused it. “Señora Eve, this was about the most delicious meal I ever ate.” I said this though I was still hungry. “Thank you much.”

  Eve smiled then Demas said, “If we ever invite you for Rosa’s cooking,” he chuckled, “you’ll know we wish for you never to return.”

  Rosa laughed like the joke had legs that could walk cross lifetimes. She tossed her bonnet at her father, who caught it with his four-fingered hand, and when he chuckled even more, her face lit up the whole place.

  Lunch was long over and after helpin Demas fix a crushed gatepost, I readied myself to leave. I aint knowed where I was goin. I only knowed that if I made it there I could survive on the way to someplace else.

  “Stay for tea,” Demas said.

  Birds twilled and the sunlight spiraled down tween branches as we set up on the porch. Demas told me a lil about Trinidad. That it was a Crown colony and that that meant everything was controlled in England. That bekre negres, coloreds, like his wife’s family, made up most of the free people on the island. That that wasnt true on other English-held islands. And that was a major reason England aint want no self-governin in Trinidad. He told me that cause there wasnt as many slaves, Trinidad aint turn profits like Barbados or Jamaica or Antigua and that, at least for now, wealthy planters on them other islands didnt want Trinidad as competition cause the land there was virgin and fertil
e and they knowed theyd be outdone.

  “A man can make his way here if he is willing to work,” Demas said.

  “Papá t’inks work can change everyt’ing.” Eve laughed. “Work and your foot will heal. Work and a husband will soon come. Work and youll live to be old.”

  “It is true!” Demas laughed then said to me, “You have stories, Señor Rampley?”

  It was a test though I aint knowed it then. Him and Eve was on the rockers under a cowbell and Rosa, payin me no mind, sat on the steps slurpin up a tea-soaked biscuit.

  I started with Pa, leavin out the parts bout his drunkenness and foul-mouthed ways in favor of how funny and clever he was. Then I told em bout meetin David Thompson. “It was summer but there was still icicles in the lakes and whirlpools in the river.” Demas said my words to Eve in Spanish and I watched her brow furrow. “But the most prettiest thing youll ever see is when the ice on a lake freezes over and the vapor makes ice flowers. Some small like pearls. And when the sun shines on em, they get so bright with the colors of a rainbow, they can actually blind a man. Blind him, for real.

  “We built a nice place—Kullyspell, we called it. Most beautiful place I ever seent. A different kinda beauty than here.” I stared over quaverin treetops past the Rendón land to a sky of orange and rose. Looked like the horizon was berry stained. “Seems your own homeland always feels better in your heart even if the beauty is bout the same as where you standin.” I thought about the lands I seent fore arrivin there. Creamy snows, grasses in shades of green and tan and red, trees whose trunks was interrupted only by sky. There shoulda been more words to describe what I seent in my lifetime. And maybe there was. But I aint have em. “I never wanted the kinda life where you couldnt stay long enough to learn it. But then again, maybe there aint never enough time to learn life.”