The Springsweet

by Saundra Mitchell

  Uneasy, I said, "Birdie?"

  Finally, she replied. "Show me."

  ***

  Arms crossed tight against her chest, Birdie peered into the prairie. "Petty had to dig us three wells. The first one came up dry. The second one collected water but didn't fill up the way it should. We're using the third one now."

  I felt as though someone had tightened a hot ribbon around my throat. "I see."

  "Go on, Zora." Birdie's eyes pierced me. There was a hunger to them, an edge that reminded me she'd had ever so many more thin and cold meals than I had. "If you can dowse proper, everything changes for us. Show me. Where's my second well?"

  Trembling against the sharpness of her hunger, I took a single step and looked into the fields. Gold chased green, an endless ripple of grasses until the horizon. With the day near-ended, dust hung in the air. It separated us from the other homesteads, rubbing away any hint that we were anything but alone on the prairie.

  Uncertain, I closed my eyes and listened to the wind. To the whisper of bowing grain and the hum of bees wandering nearby. Beneath that, the crackle of dry earth, the sudden hiss of dust thrown against the soddy's walls, there was water.

  It came to me like a drumbeat, like a rhythm sustained. It was perfect, reverberating on my skin, ringing in my ears. And when I dared to look again, I saw a silver veil. It was delicate as dew and just as apt to dissipate. The brightest beads marked our everyday well, the one that ran pure and clean.

  Turning from that, I followed the fainter strands. I moved, so suddenly that Birdie gasped, but I didn't stop to reassure her. I had no idea how long this connection would last; how certain my affinity could be. For a few paces, I walked, but then I hurried.

  There was a spot quite near, one with a dull glimmer to it. I tasted brackish water, the way I'd tasted the rainwater in Emerson's well just by standing near it. Soon, my skirts cut through the grasses. The cotton snapped and whipped, my boots kicking still more dust into the already hazy air.

  "Here!" I called, as the silver faded.

  I pointed to a depression in the ground, rocks jutting through a layer of earth that was bald of any greenery.

  Birdie stopped and bit her lower lip in silence. She wasn't worried; her brow was smooth. But her dark lashes fluttered, her eyes flickered: something was at work inside her head.

  Softly, I said, "I'm right, aren't I?"

  Clearing her throat, Birdie twisted to look at me. Instead of answering, she asked, "And you can do this anytime you like?"

  "I don't know—yes, probably." I swallowed hard. "But how many wells do you need?"

  It was a foolish question; Emerson Birch needed only one. Birdie Neal needed only one. But West Glory—and I'd discover soon, Jubilee—needed many, many more. Every homesteader needed water for survival.

  That's what Birdie meant when she said everything would change. She saw only the possibility, only the promise of a better life in a desolate land. But standing there, over a dead well that I had ascertained by magic alone, she couldn't fathom just how much would change.

  I could, but I let it happen anyway.

  Eight

  Birdie woke me early, coaxing me carefully out of bed to keep from waking Louella.

  Bleary, I followed her outside. The sky was still dark, just beginning to glow in the east. Cool without my shawl, I wrapped my arms around myself and followed her to the back. We hadn't discussed my gift since I'd proved it the day before; I wondered if she'd blocked it out entirely.

  Especially when she produced two buckets I'd never seen, blackened on the inside and graying on the out. I took the one she handed to me, peering down into it. "Did you want me to fetch water?"

  "I've got some. Stuff the bottom of that with some straw, and don't lose the stopper."

  Her instructions seemed like nonsense, and though I did as I was told, I had to ask, "What is this for?"

  "Soaping," she said.

  As the morning grew steadily brighter, my fog cleared. "I could go to town and fetch soap if you forgot it."

  With a snort, Birdie said, "I'm not made of money, duck."

  The little bag that she cut open puffed, as if it were full of smoke. But when she came closer, I realized it was full of ashes. My nose twitched when Birdie dumped it on top of the straw. Then she reached in after it, stirring it until pale, powdery tendrils rose up to be caught by the wind.

  My ignorance must have shown, because Birdie took one look at me and said, "I'm not about to pay fifty cents for a pound of store-bought soap when I can get lard for a penny and wood ash for free."

  What came after that was the most hideous chore I'd ever had the displeasure to complete. Making soap, I discovered, started with making lye.

  Pulling the stopper from the ash bucket, Birdie told me to fill it with rainwater, slowly. I did, but the process seemed entirely useless—what could we possibly do with this?

  But by some scientific miracle, the ash turned plain water to acid. It was foul stuff. It burned just to breathe its vapors, and though the cloudy liquid looked harmless enough, the slightest splash ate through cotton and flesh alike.

  If I didn't know better, I would have believed Birdie picked soaping to both punish me for having Emerson on her land and to offer a contrast. Next to soaping, a ride with the devil would have been a delight. A ride with Theo de la Croix could only be ecstasy.

  Late in the afternoon, Theo and his phaeton appeared in the distance to test that theory.

  While I hurried to climb back into my corset, Birdie chatted with him in the yard. Her laughter rang through the oilpaper, bright and sweet. I laced myself breathless, listening to an impression of conversation. I heard no words at all, only voices. They rose and fell, fluidly matched. And there was a high color in Birdie's cheeks when I finally came out of the soddy.

  "There she is," she sang, hefting Louella onto her hip.

  I didn't meet Birdie's gaze, for I thought looking at her right then might spark my irritation again. To Theo, I said, "I apologize for keeping you."

  "All is forgiven," Theo said, offering me his hand.

  Handsome as ever, he wore a new suit. This one was shades of brown, with a frock coat cut to his knees and a cream silk ascot at his throat. He'd dispensed with the ribbon for his hair, so dark waves framed his face and carelessly brushed his shoulders. He would have been preciously fashionable in Baltimore. In Oklahoma Territory, he was too fine by half.

  Louella strained at Birdie's arms. She reached for me—well, for the buggy. "I go?"

  Leaning down for her, I was surprised when Birdie stepped back. Her nose brushed Louella's temple, and her eyes held mine as she said, "Next time, pet. This is a ride for big boys and girls."

  "Shall we?" Theo asked as he settled beside me.

  As I had no choice in the matter, I started to nod. Then it occurred to me—I would take the ride regardless of my wishes, but I alone could decide whether to enjoy it. So I smiled at Theo and at all the things this drive was: an escape from drudgery, a chance to talk to someone besides a toddler. "Let's do."

  Newly bright, Theo snapped the reins and we took off. When I turned back to wave, Birdie had already hurried inside—she must have sprinted to disappear so quickly. I could make no sense of her, so I put her from my mind and didn't try at all.

  ***

  I was amazed anew at how close the wilderness was. We'd driven barely ten minutes and yet found ourselves surrounded by open prairie and cloudless skies. The sun began its slow descent, making longer the plainness of the horizon.

  Until then, we'd been quiet but for pleasantries. There was much to admire from the high seat of the phaeton, but as twilight settled, I forged our conversation so I could choose its direction. Hands laced together in my lap, I nodded toward the exquisite black mare and asked, "What's her name?"

  Theo laughed sheepishly. Cutting a glance in my direction, he admitted, "Annabel Lee."

  "So you are a fan of Mr. Poe's," I said.

  With a toss
of his head, he pretended indifference. "He is but one among many poets I admire. It's an exquisite calling, don't you think?"

  "Writing verse?" I had never considered it, but it would've been rude to say that. Instead, I rearranged my shawl. "Since it drives men mad, it must be so. I've never heard of anyone wasting away on the sweet agony of figuring sums."

  Theo startled me when he exclaimed, "Exactly! My father couldn't understand that. He thought I should dedicate myself to keeping the inventory for his company."

  The slightest bit curious, I looked to him. "And what does your father do?"

  "Shipping," Theo said. Just saying the word turned Theo's face sour, and he urged Annabel Lee to go a bit faster.

  "You don't care for it?"

  The wind pulled at Theo's hair, and he showed no signs of slowing. "It's tedious, Miss Stewart. There are manifests forever going out, forever coming in. I couldn't care less about counting a thousand cases of olives or fifteen tons of coal or thirty-seven French hats with plumes."

  "That does sound dull," I said. A particular lightness dared to flutter up in my chest-—a faint tickle of relief. He'd come all this way to get from under his father's thumb, not to court me. "But won't you be taking it over someday? If I had shown the slightest inclination toward the law, my father would have made me partner straightaway."

  With a distant smile, Theo shook his head. "I'm the second son, I'm afraid."

  "My apologies," I said awkwardly.

  "It's for the best. Here in the Territories, I can pen my own verses at night, and by day, it will be a pleasure to teach." Theo sounded quite genuine, as if he truly relished the opportunity to preside over a schoolroom instead of a boardroom. And then he doused my small lightness by saying, "And I should think this is a much more likely distance from which to catch your eye."

  Dash propriety and manners; I twisted in the seat and looked up at him. "Tell me the truth, Mr. de la Croix. You didn't really come all this way to court me, did you?"

  "You could call me Theo," he said.

  When I didn't reply, he pulled the reins smoothly to stop the horse. Suddenly still among the swaying grasses, the phaeton grew dreadfully quiet. But with more aplomb than I could have managed, Theo wound the reins round his hand and turned to me.

  "The truth, Miss Stewart, is that I was leaving Baltimore regardless. Your flight simply encouraged my direction."

  "And if I had stayed?"

  Charming again, Theo waved a hand airily. "I would have written pathetic doggerel about your eyes and your mystery from an attic in Paris."

  That made me smile, and I relaxed into the red velvet seat. "I tender my regrets to Calliope and all the muses for depriving them of your contributions."

  "No doubt it weeps." He returned my smile, then added, "And I apologize for the unfortunate impression I may have left on your friend Miss Corey. She was eager to have me call until she realized I came to ask about you."

  Ah, Mattie. I could imagine the smooth expression she must have effected; play-acting for suitors was one of her gifts. Straightening my skirts, I said, "Don't trouble yourself over it. You were but one dance, and she has Baltimore entirely to herself now."

  We were, for a moment, comfortably quiet. And then Theo broke it by turning his gaze to the west. Red streaks of light played on his face, teasing through his hair. It darkened his lips, and his voice sank low when he murmured, "Have you ever seen such beautiful lights, Miss Stewart?"

  Gently, to dissuade any romantic notion he might have about the moment, I said, "I'm afraid I don't care for sunsets anymore." It was the truth; a prophecy in the vespers had taken my Thomas from me.

  But that was hardly Theo's fault, so I touched his shoulder lightly to turn his attention. "Do you think we could race a bit? I was enjoying it."

  "It would be my pleasure," he replied. And in an instant, we were flying—away from the setting sun instead of toward it, into the welcoming velvet of night.

  When I slept that night, I dreamt of sailing a measureless expanse of sea, the wind in my hair and light on my skin. But pity poor Mr. de la Croix, for in my dream I sailed with Emerson Birch at my side.

  ***

  As I had only driven it, I hadn't realized how long a walk it was to town. Starting early, with the morning still blooming, it was a pleasant trip. The stars flickered out one by one, swallowed when a pink sunrise chased away the night.

  Louella actually slept in the basket of a little wagon that Birdie and I took turns pulling. If I'd known about the wagon, we probably would have made it to the wading creek. Then again, if we'd made it to wading, we might not have had prairie chicken and eggs, so it was a fair enough trade.

  "I'm going to put up a notice at the general, and the restaurant. You can post your letters and put one up there."

  I nodded, and patted the bundle I had tucked into my pocket. The bundle of letters home warmed me, something to take my mind off the new torment that was my old corset.

  As much as I had wished for it back, I was glad that Birdie hadn't insisted on lacing it tight. Even let out, the corset's bones bit my skin. The calluses-—mental or physical-—that I'd once possessed had softened.

  I still ached from wearing the thing the night before, and now its stricture irritated me doubly. I had the unenviable sense that I would be left wanting whether I wore it or not.

  "And don't forget," Birdie continued, as if running down a mental list. "It's two dollars to have you come, period. They're paying for your appearance, not for the water."

  My papa would have enjoyed that bit of wordplay, and I didn't argue. I could promise no one a running well or a good spring. I could only tell them what I saw, and it was best if that came with no positive guarantee.

  Nevertheless, my heart beat an odd pattern, my nerves wearing with the unknown. I knew how easily a benign gift could turn malignant. Taking the wagon over for Birdie, I tried to put those thoughts aside as West Glory finally came into view.

  With sunrise behind it, it was a darling little town. Morning light painted it in fresh hues of pink and gold. It even gilded the dust. So far, I liked mornings best of all in the Territories.

  "Leave the cart here," Birdie said. She leaned down to wake Louella, making her unfold her jelly arms and legs to wrap around her. She nodded down the street. "The post office is down a ways. You'll pass the-—"

  Pleased with myself, I told her, "I know where it is. That's how I found your homestead."

  "Good girl," Birdie said. She shifted Louella onto her hip. "When you're done, cross over to the restaurant and wait for me. I shouldn't take long at all."

  The walk to the post office was short, but I admit, I dawdled. I looked through plate glass windows into a feed store, which seemed nothing more than a floor filled with overflowing barrels of grain.

  Then I peeked into the barber's, which was a mistake. A man in a white coat was busy pulling out a tooth with tongs so barbaric that I thought I might have nightmares.

  Hurrying along, I got a look into the saloon, though I smelled it first. Papa only occasionally indulged, but the thick, hoppy scent of beer wafting out made me homesick nonetheless. A woman scrubbed at the bar—hard labor to polish all that wood.

  These slices of a different kind of life in the West teased my imagination. It was a bit more like what I'd expected, though hardly the anarchy that papers back home had described. And it was paler than I'd anticipated.

  Baltimore was a rainbow of nationalities, a port to the world. Save the Indian woman I'd seen on the first day, West Glory was peopled with third-generation English and Irish alone.

  You can always leave, I told myself.

  I pushed open the post office door and marveled that I'd thought that at all. That I would spend the rest of my life in service here had been immutable to me just the month before. Was this progress? And if it was, was I happy with it?

  If I had been, it ended the moment I took a breath. The air smelled of burnt black powder. The plastered walls bore dark
pits, round as cherries, and I stared at them helplessly. In my mind alone, I saw a flash of fire, and blood. So much blood. An uncanny temperature, somehow hot and cold at once, gripped me.

  "You all right, miss?"

  The unfamiliar voice jerked me back from the past, and I was grateful for it. It belonged to a young man, who moved to hold the door for me so I could come the rest of the way in. His sun-bleached hair and bright eyes were kind, burning away the remnants of my dark memory.

  "I'm fine, thank you," I murmured.

  With a snort, the clerk broke in. "Quit sniffing at her, Royal. You can tell looking at her that she's too good for you. Now, as for me..."

  Rolling his eyes, Royal stepped aside and gave me his place at the counter. "Pay him no mind," he told me; it was good advice. The clerk still wore his leer, and I did my best to avoid his gaze.

  "I've got several to post," I told the counter, and pulled my bundle from my pocket. A letter for my friends back home to share, and several for Mama. Birdie said she hadn't wired home about my arrival by fire, so I'd written it in pages instead.

  I'd done my best to make it sound like a merry diversion—how amusing to be there for a stagecoach robbery!—and the time I'd spent with Emerson directly thereafter was edited for propriety. In Mama's version of the story, he picked me up and took me straight to Aunt Birdie's.

  The newspapers weren't the only ones who creatively shaped the story of the West for back-home readers.

  "May I post a bill?" I asked, gesturing toward the wall.

  The clerk handed me a nail from behind the counter. "Whatever makes you happy, girlie. Just pound that in with the rock."

  And indeed, there was a rock sitting in the corner, just for nailing in posters, apparently. It was so absurd, I actually smiled. Taking it up, I skimmed the wall, trying to find a good place for mine. Not next to Emmett and Bob Dalton, wanted for murder and train robbery, for certain.

  Bypassing the malcontents, I found the more ordinary notices-—things for sale, services on offer. One stopped me, and I read a little tragedy in its terse presentation: