The Springsweet

by Saundra Mitchell

  Finally, he rode off. In his wake, a piece of once-white lace fluttered weakly, a bird with a broken wing.

  Though I suppose I could have, and might have been entitled, I didn't sit down and cry. Nor did I stand there waiting for rescue. I picked through the remains of my baggage, for cotton could be washed and lace could be mended.

  Throwing a few sodden pieces over my arm, I turned to follow the coach's tracks. I'd survived much worse: my mother was right. I was alive—not the dreamy, rescued sort of survival I'd experienced at the fountain in Baltimore. This was a real and deliberate reclamation; I had rescued myself.

  For the first time in a year, I felt alive, and I was glad of it.

  ***

  When night came, cold came with it.

  Putting my head down, I trudged on. Though the wagon path was clear enough—for it was the narrow stream of mud lined by prairie grasses on each side—I'd passed no sign for West Glory in my hours of walking. And I'd seen no evidence that these plains were inhabited by anything but an abundance of jackrabbits.

  In a way, the cold relieved me. It distracted me from the growing fear that I might never make it to town at all. Surely if I'd walked that long in Maryland, I would have found something—a house, a traveler, the shore.

  But Oklahoma Territory yielded nothing but a scrubby, never-ending plain. I wondered if the coach had arrived yet. If it hadn't, no one could know I'd gone missing. That meant no one would be looking for me.

  Alone, I shivered.

  The skies cleared, clouds parting like stage curtains to reveal a pure, black night. The stars went on and on, endless diamonds on the field above me. And though I saw my breath and felt my innards clench in hunger, I stopped to admire the constellations.

  In that moment, I alone existed.

  And then, with the rattle of wagon wheels, that moment ended.

  Turning toward the sound, I squinted into the dark. A lantern danced in the distance, a firefly darting in the fields. It trundled toward me, and when I made out the shape of a wagon, I called out to it.

  "You, there! Hello!"

  I heard no answer, but the light shifted, turning toward me more directly. Giddiness bubbled in me, but I quashed it when I realized it could be the highwaymen come back to finish me. For a moment, I considered hiding.

  But then I felt a tremor across my skin, as if I had rubbed some amber with silk. It raced through the earth beneath my feet, and though I couldn't place the source of it, it calmed me.

  I waved my bit of lace again. "Hello! Over here!"

  Finally, the wagon became more than a dark impression. It was a buckboard, not much more than four wheels and a spring-mounted seat, drawn by one chestnut horse. The driver stopped and lifted his lantern to better see me.

  "What are you doing out here, miss?" he asked. His voice was warm as a summer afternoon.

  Drawn to it, I wrapped my arms around my filthy bundle and came closer. "My coach was robbed on the way to West Glory. They left me here, and then it rained. I may be lost..."

  He smiled faintly. "You may be lost."

  "I might not be," I insisted. "I don't know for sure."

  Tying the reins to the buckboard, he picked up something long from his seat and jumped down with the lantern. When he approached, I realized it was a rifle. The dark bar rel gleamed in the moonlight, a long, certain threat that he carried comfortably.

  Seeded with doubt, I stepped back. "Just tell me if I'm on the right path. I can keep walking."

  "There are wolves out here," he said. He waved the gun and nodded at the expanse around us. "Bears and bobcats, too."

  All the wildlife I'd experienced had been found at the circus with Papa. Though he preferred marveling at the tricks and stunts, he indulged me with a walk through the menagerie. That oiled tent had smelled feral, and the air dangerous, but those beasts were kept in cages. Most of them napped during my visit—the flies were more ferocious than the lions. I was big enough to admit I didn't care to meet any without steel between us.

  I erased my step back and asked, "Is it far to town?"

  "Yep." He bent his knees and held out a hand, waiting for me to take it.

  It took me a moment to realize he meant for me to step on him—that he would be my block to climb into the buckboard. Though it made utilitarian sense, I blushed when I took his hand and raised my foot to do so.

  "You're certain?" I asked.

  He raised his face, my first real glimpse of him. He was young, his skin unlined, though berry brown from the sun. Because of the low light, I couldn't be certain of his eyes, but they seemed very golden under his thick brows. Squinting at me, he gave another mysterious smile and said, "Very."

  Stepping on him, as if I were Marie Antoinette of the Plains, I hurried to tuck in my skirts. The wet pile of my laundry made for a poor blanket, but I was too grateful to be off my feet to care.

  "Name's Emerson Birch," he said, climbing in on the other side. The buckboard tilted with his weight, and I swayed toward him.

  Our shoulders nearly brushed, but I righted myself straightaway. I could only imagine what my Aunt Birdie would think, to have me come into town with a young man and no chaperone. I didn't dare let it come across more unseemly than it was.

  And when he propped the rifle between us, it was quite easy to maintain my side of the seat. The gun smelled of fresh black powder, and my throat tightened. I stared stalwartly forward, and I willed my thoughts toward any pleasant subject, to think on games of forfeit, or stars, or even a home-cooked meal.

  But the rich, burnt scent of a gun recently fired demanded my attention—commanded my memory. I would, without my leave, see Thomas fall again and again, until I closed my eyes and forced out a reply.

  My voice was thin as chalk, and I clutched the rail tightly. "Zora Stewart. A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

  "I see you heard the rumors about my driving," he said. Unwinding the reins, he offered them to me. "I can point the way if you'd rather. Epona's easy enough." He nodded toward the horse, his gaze still on me.

  Shaking my head, I pressed my hand to my chest. The dance card I'd stuffed into my blouse was stiff, and it comforted me. "You're kind to offer, but thank you, no."

  He urged the horse forward, and soon we glided across the prairie, the buckboard a boat on a smooth lake. The ride jolted me too much to sleep, though I wished for it.

  So, instead, I took in the strange new night all around me. The air smelt of fresh earth and green grasses—cleaner than the city, unencumbered by the closeness of neighbors upon neighbors.

  The length of the day weighed me down. I wondered if my aunt would be angry or relieved to have me turn up in this condition. And, selfishly, I wondered if she might not have put back a bit of dinner, hoping to see me arrive. I caught myself so completely in these wonderings that I barely noticed when the wagon stopped.

  When I looked up, I saw no town. Just a small cabin and, beside it, a lean-to big enough for one horse. Confused, I turned to Emerson and asked, "Where are we?"

  "Home," he said. He tied the reins again and turned to me. "West Glory's another hour's drive. I'll take you in the morning."

  "I can't possibly impose on your family," I said. Wound tight, I touched my bedraggled hair, my filthy collar. I did have a measure of pride, and it flared in horror at the thought of barging in unannounced, at my most unappealing.

  Emerson handed me the lantern, and hopped from the bench. "You won't be. It's just me."

  I stared. "I can't spend the night with you!"

  "All right, then. Take that rifle there, orient yourself north, and start walking." He pulled a brace of rabbits from behind his seat. "It's twenty-five miles yet, I imagine."

  Measuring his profile, I sat in dazed silence. He was alone in the Territories—but he couldn't have been any older than I was. It didn't make sense.

  When he rounded the back of the wagon, I told him, "I don't handle arms."

  "Is that so?"

  "It is!"<
br />
  Coming to my side, he peered up at me. His lips curled in a maddening smile, and he said, not unkindly, "Go home, Zora Stewart. You're not gonna make it out here."

  Then he tipped his hat to me, took his lantern, and went inside.

  Four

  I've always preferred my dramatics on the stage.

  So I admit I rolled my eyes as I pushed my sodden dresses aside. Marie Antoinette no more, I hefted myself to the ground, clinging to the buckboard's iron rail until my feet touched the earth.

  Though the prairie rose high and dark around me, I pushed down my nerves and put myself to unhitching Epona from the gig. She was sleek and smooth, casting off heat from her long drive.

  Pulling straps to free her from the buckboard's shafts, I murmured apologetically when she bucked her muzzle against my hand. My pockets were decidedly empty of anything she might consider a treat.

  As I freed her, a yellow slice of light fell on me. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Emerson silhouetted in the door. Tall and lean, he seemed fixed in place-—watching me, I supposed. Then he broke free and started in my direction.

  "What do you think you're doing?"

  Though I felt it quite obvious, I said, "You ran this poor creature for miles, then flounced off to make a statement. I'm minding her the way you should have."

  Emerson took the reins. "I didn't flounce."

  "Oh, you're quibbling." I stepped away and took my turn watching him. It was only fair, and I was rewarded.

  Every motion he made was sure, rippling across his broad shoulders. His suspenders cut the strong line of his back in an X and pulled his breeches tight against his narrow hips.

  My face went hot, and I turned away. Shame on me for considering any of it; shame on me twice for brazenly admiring a stranger, regardless of the dark. I retrieved my filthy laundry and retreated into the house, uninvited.

  It was as small inside as it had seemed without. There were no rooms proper—there was simply a room. A potbelly stove sat against the back wall, marking the cabin in half.

  To its right sat a table and a single chair, rough-hewn and golden—the dining room, kitchen, and parlor in one. The brace of rabbits waited there for cleaning, illuminated by a tin lantern. Their glassy eyes shone in the light, unjudging.

  I turned from them and found myself staring at Emerson's bedroom. He'd left his narrow rope bed unmade, straw jutting from the ticking at odd angles. The quilt was worn, its flags of brown and green calico faded.

  Heat stroked the back of my neck. Standing alone in a young man's boudoir could lead to ruin, but then, wasn't I already ruined? My heart fluttered in my chest and set to aching when I wondered what Thomas would think of all this.

  The door opened, and I smoothed myself over. Clasping my hands together, I offered Emerson a whitewashed smile. "You built all this yourself?"

  "I did." He barred the door, then hung his rifle on hooks above it. A bag swung from his other hand, and as he moved through the small space, the air stirred. The rough, sweated scent of his skin filled the cabin, mingling with gunpowder and leather.

  Turning eyes to me, he asked, "Are you hungry?"

  A strange trembling moved through me. Folding my skirts, I pressed my back against the wall. "Yes. My lunch pail left with the coach."

  He spilled the contents of the sack onto the table—a handful of scrubby onions and potatoes. Without thought, I picked up the rabbits and took his hunting knife in hand.

  I leaned down, taking account of the tin buckets beneath his table. One was stained black around the rim, and I chose that one to put between my feet to clean the rabbits. His was a good knife, and I heard Mama in my head rhapsodizing about the right tool for the right job.

  "What do you think you're doing?"

  Glancing up from my work, I said, "It's not my kitchen. I haven't the first idea where your well is. Or if you've got any grease or flour, or whether you've got pots set back. I'm afraid you'll have to do the cooking, Mr. Birch."

  "It's just Emerson," he said.

  He stood there a moment, then shook his head at me. As if I were some confounding creature, and perhaps I was. Nevertheless, he made himself busy as well. Soon enough, we had a pot of rabbit stew bubbling away.

  Emerson led me outside so we could wash our hands. The well was a simple affair, a wooden lid covering a hole he'd dug in the ground. He lowered the bucket down, bringing up barely a cup of clear water. Frowning, he offered it to me first. "It was fine in the spring."

  "It's in the wrong place," I told him.

  I don't know why I said it; what did I know of wells? But the meager water I poured over my hands smelled of rain, not the earth. There was a greenness to it, distance in it—cool only because it had collected in the shade, not because it had sprung up from the depths.

  "Then where would you suggest, Miss Stewart?" he asked. It was clear he didn't expect an answer. In fact, he came across quite snide, and some old measure of pride leapt up in me.

  Lifting my chin, I said, "Give me a moment."

  The prairie spread out wide around me, and I drew my gaze across it slowly. Something had planed this land flat-—it was smooth as a looking glass, except for a few dark trees so far in the distance I could hardly tell if they were saplings or grown.

  But I walked toward them in the star-speckled dark; with the cabin behind me and the horse's soft whickers nearby, I felt quite safe. My heart insisted it could find water, though my mind disagreed. I would make a fool of myself for bragging, I thought—but my heart beat and a strange coolness came over me.

  I closed my eyes and breathed in deep-—until I smelled water, fresh and clear. I felt it pulsing like a heartbeat, drawing me toward it. My bones ached, as if I'd jumped into a winter sea. It was very like the peace I'd felt when my skirts dragged me into the fountain—I wasn't frightened at all; it was an embrace.

  When I opened my eyes, a faint glimmer snaked across the plains. Silvery, ghostly streams marked the land, as if the water that moved beneath the earth had revealed itself to me.

  My deep breath sustained me through the shock. Presented with a wonder, with a marvel, I disbelieved it at first. But the light did not fade at my doubt—no, it seemed to call me. It sang, not with music but with sensation, a siren that lured me into motion.

  Unsteady, I stumbled toward the brightest, nearest spot. When I came to stand on top of it, a bright intoxication filled me. It was magic—real magic, and though I'd seen my cousin Amelia give a hundred fortunes, though I had seen so many of them come to pass—some part of me had yet resisted belief. There was still a rational thread in me that said no magic could be true.

  But in that moment, it broke.

  Turning slowly over the silver of my vision, I knelt down to flatten my palm against the ground. My heart beat in time with the rhythm beneath me. The earth was alive, running with pure, clear water—I had no doubt of it whatsoever.

  I struggled to find my voice, and when I did, it came out as a spare whisper. "Right here. Dig your well here."

  Speaking broke the moment. All the glimmering rivers drained into the dark. I made a soft sound of disappointment. How strange it was to be newly habituated to a marvel, so much that I missed it as soon as it was gone. I saw only night and felt a bit foolish.

  But when I raised my head, Emerson Birch stood over me. His smirk had faded. Offering me his hand, he said, "First thing tomorrow."

  "See you do," I blustered, standing without his help.

  Realizing the cool of the night, I bundled myself in my arms again, starting inside. Papa used to joke that we came from a long line of charlatans and dowsers, and that's why taking up the law was so natural to him. Now it seemed I carried on the family legacy, entirely by accident.

  Emerson and I shared dinner in quiet. He didn't try to make conversation, and I, in my newly magicked state, couldn't find words that mattered enough to voice.

  Truly, I'd spent a summer extolling Amelia's miraculous sunset visions—I had pushed her
and praised her—and now, it seemed, I emulated her. It was an impossible thing suddenly possible, and my heart thrummed in odd rhythms.

  How peculiar that I should oppose her element, that she would be fire and now I imagined myself water. I could only take it to mean that the madness of my grief lingered, just in another shape.

  "Take my bed," Emerson said.

  His voice interrupted my thoughts but not my daze. I should have argued. I should have been the one to wrap myself in a quilt by the stove and sleep on the floor.

  But I wasn't, and I was punished for it with a long night of distraction. The linens smelled of him, and I felt the pulse of water outside. When I sank down to dreams, they were troubled and odd.

  This was not the first day in the West I had expected, and I had a most unsettling sense that none of the others would be either.

  ***

  West Glory jutted up from the prairie like a single ship in a sea of grass. As Emerson steered the buckboard closer to the one street that ran through it, I found myself disappointed.

  Frontier stories were among my favorites; when I was small, Papa would read Buffalo Bill's dispatches from the Territories at bedtime, instead of fairy tales or parables.

  So in all my planning to come to the rugged West, I'd expected to see long-coated gunslingers swaggering along. Certainly, there should have been ladies of questionable repute wearing nothing but petticoats and corsets as they called to passersby. Dirty miners, cowboys running cattle through the street, and Indians in buckskins watching it all suspiciously from a distance—I truly believed I should see them all there.

  I had built the West into a foreign world in my mind, and it was. Simply not the one I'd imagined.

  West Glory boasted a whitewashed church and wooden sidewalks—those, at least, came as I expected. But the false fronts of the stores were painted in gay colors, bright sparks among the gold of the prairie and the gray of the dust.

  Though it seemed most of the women wore loose corsets or none at all, their blouses and full skirts were entirely familiar to me—exactly what my mother wore to work in the kitchen; what I would have worn if I had gone to clerk in my father's office.