When Mountains Move

by Julie Cantrell

  Eventually, Isabel falls asleep, and I put the book away to focus on supper. I also use the time to clean the windows and wipe the sills, sweep the floors and pull laundry from the line, iron our shirts and water the garden. The hours pass quickly, and before I know it, everyone is coming in for supper.

  Bump kisses me and asks, “Where’s Isabel?”

  “Can you believe she’s still sleeping?” I ask. “I’m getting worried, actually. I thought she was just worn out from playing in the sun, but it’s long past her regular nap time.” I go back to her crib, the tenth time I’ve checked on her.

  “Bump?” I call, trying not to sound alarmed. “Bump, can you come?”

  He hurries. “What’s wrong?”

  “Feel her. She’s burning up.”

  Isabel is covered in sweat and her thin cotton gown is soaked through. She lets out a weak cry. Bump pulls her to him, presses his lips to her face, and says, “Fever’s high, 102. 103 maybe.”

  “She was fine before I put her down,” I say. “All morning she was playing, laughing. She never acted sick for a minute.” I trace back through the day and can’t remember a single sign that anything was wrong. Now, she’s too weak to support her own head, too feverish to even give a full cry. “What can we do?” I look to my husband for answers and hope he knows how to make this better.

  Bump looks into Isabel’s mouth and says, “It’s red. She’s got an infection.” Then he examines her for a rash. We find nothing. I change her diaper. Bump moves into the kitchen to fix a cold wet cloth. I follow, and he washes Isabel down, hoping to cool her. Then Bump adds powdered aspirin to a pureed mush of beans. I hold Isabel and bring a small spoon to her mouth, urging her to take a bite. Isabel twists in my lap and refuses the bitter food. She cries, and my muscles tighten with angst. “I don’t know what to do,” I admit to everyone.

  “I might have something,” Fortner says. He leaves the house, and Oka follows. It angers me that I don’t have the skills to heal my own child. Isabel struggles in my arms. Her dark locks, a wet mess atop her head; her eyes, glossy and blank. Don’t cry, Millie. It won’t help anything. Finally, Fortner and Oka return, and I meet them at the door.

  “Pink root,” Oka says. “Good medicine but strong power. Not time yet.”

  “You’ll have it if she gets worse,” Fortner adds, “but I need to weaken it.”

  “Is it dangerous?” I sure don’t want to give Isabel anything that could hurt her.

  “It’s important to get the dose right.” Fortner draws a ladle from the drinking bucket and fills a glass with water. Then he pours a few drops of the pink root mixture from a brown bottle. “Sugar?”

  Bump passes the sugar bowl, and Oka says, “Just enough to sweet it.”

  “I’ll leave this fixed for you.” Fortner says, pushing the mixture to the corner where it won’t spill. I look at Bump with wide eyes, suddenly remembering he’s supposed to head out in two days to cross the Divide. Bump reads my mind. “Let’s see how she is in the morning. Got five buyers wantin’ that stallion. If I don’t show up on time, he’s likely to sell to the first guy with cash in hand.”

  I don’t respond. Of course I want Bump to stay home until Isabel is better, but I know what’s on the line if we don’t get this stallion.

  “Supper?” Oka asks, trying to keep a normal routine. She fills four bowls with stew and places them on the table. Fortner helps her, filling our glasses with water from the scoop. I bring Isabel to the table and hold her in my lap while everyone is seated. Then I lead the prayer, asking, begging, for God to keep her safe.

  I haven’t slept at all in two nights and neither has Bump. We have kept Isabel in bed with us, trying not to let the heat of our bodies raise her temperature but too afraid to put her in her crib. “I need to hear her breathing,” I explain. Bump agrees. She’s still running a fever, refusing to eat. I’ve tried nursing her, but she no longer wants my milk. She won’t drink anything at all.

  The slightest thought of losing Isabel makes it hard for me to breathe. She coughs a wet, gravelly cough, and my bones grind from the sound of it. I watch her weakening body, feel her rising fever, and fear overwhelms me. “I wish I could take away her pain,” I tell Bump. “What if she can’t beat this?”

  “Shh.” Bump kisses me and says, “She’s got a little infection, Millie. She’ll be fine. I promise.”

  Her skin is hot to the touch, and her cry is hoarse. It breaks into tiny short bursts, and all I can do is hold her and pray silently. “Dear God, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I ever asked You to take Isabel away. I want to be her mother, more than anything. I love this child. And I am grateful for her. Please, please, help her get well.”

  Bump heads to the kitchen where Oka is already brewing coffee. I sing to Isabel, tenderly stroking her soft skin. I change the words to build happy endings. “Rock-a-bye baby, in the tree top. When the wind blows, the cradle will rock. But the bough will be sturdy and strong. And safe will be baby, all the day long.”

  What a cruel and beautiful mystery, this mothering. The ache, the love. It’s all too much. And I’m betting no mother comes out unchanged. Not just physically, but spiritually. Stretch marks of the soul.

  Bump still plans to leave today for the western slope. He made the calls from town and arranged everything with the owner of the stallion. There’s a short window of time to make it all work because the rancher has given us two weeks. No excuses.

  “We have to seal this deal,” Bump says. It’s the hinge to his business strategy. The one important piece that will keep everything else working as planned. “I can’t mess this up.”

  I try to ease Bump’s guilt about leaving while Isabel is sick. “So many wives have sent their husbands overseas to the battlefields. I’m lucky to have you here at all. You need to go.”

  “Sorry,” Bump says. He holds my gaze, and I know he means it.

  Fortner jumps in. “Let me go without you,” he suggests to Bump. “You stay here with Millie and Isabel.”

  Bump has been wrestling with this idea all night. He’s talked it over with me and explained all the reasons why this won’t work. In order to stay here, he’d have to rely on Fortner to handle not only Mr. Tucker’s mares, but the prized stallion as well. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Fortner; he’s trusted him from the start. But if anything goes wrong, it won’t be Fortner who has to account for it. It’ll be Bump. And me.

  “I can do this,” I assure them. “Oka will help me with the jobs. Isabel will be fine. I promise. I won’t let anything happen to her.” I try to sound convincing, but I’m struggling to believe my own words.

  After breakfast, Fortner heads out to prepare the horses, and Bump puts on his boots to follow.

  “Bump?” I ask. He leans, kisses me, and waits for me to finish my thought. “You haven’t had any sleep. What if you get sick while you’re out there? Isabel may be contagious. You’ll be too far out to get help.”

  “Never been sick. Not once in my life,” Bump says. “And I can catch up on my rest tonight. I always did dream well next to a campfire. It’ll probably be the best sleep I’ve had since Isabel was born.” He laughs. I don’t. It’s no time to joke.

  He senses my concern. “We’ll cut back through town, and I’ll ask Doc to come check on Isabel. Maybe he’ll know what to do.”

  “Thanks,” I say, kissing him one last time.

  Bump pulls himself into the saddle. “You know how to manage the strangles, right?”

  “Drain the abscesses, dry the wounds.”

  “Keep ’em clean, if you can. Check the temp four times a day. And remember not to contaminate anything. We’re lucky it hasn’t spread. Need to keep it that way.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Bump is counting on me now, more than ever. I can’t let him down.

  With that, Bump signals Fortner to follow. Before I know it, they are heading west. Bump
rides Scout, and Fortner trails on his black gelding behind the mares. I fight tears as I watch them ride away.

  Chapter 24

  Oka presses her lips to Isabel’s forehead. No doubt, she’s as worried as I am. Neither of us says what weighs heaviest on our minds. That Oka’s young daughter died of a fever. While she never has put a name to the illness, we both know Isabel’s condition could have the same result.

  I spend the day handling the chores with Oka. We take turns caring for Isabel and managing the ranch. Oka collects eggs, milks the goats, and refills feed and water bins in the time it takes me to drain the wounds of the sick draft horse. The smell of infection gets to me, and I think of the illness raging inside Isabel’s tiny body. She’s so fragile. Any little thing could take her from us.

  I’m topping the haystacks in the pasture and making rounds when Oka finds me. She holds Isabel and walks near a group of horses, something she would never have done a few months back. I remember her initial reaction in Firefly’s stall the week she first arrived. “You could run this place by yourself,” I say.

  Oka shrugs. “Not hard.”

  I latch the last gate and take Isabel from Oka just as Doc Henley arrives. I race to meet him.

  “Bump sent me,” Doc says.

  “Thanks for coming,” I greet him. “We don’t know what’s wrong with Isabel. She’s so weak, she can hardly hold her head up.” I hold her limp body against my chest and look down at her as if to say, “See?”

  The doctor takes her from me and moves inside. Oka and I follow.

  “Her fever’s been getting worse. It started two nights ago,” I explain. “And she won’t eat.”

  Doc listens to her heart, her lungs, pinches her skin, lifts her eyelids, looks into her ears, then her throat. “It’s rare to see this in a child so young,” he says, taking another look into her throat, “but these blisters in her mouth make me think it’s bacterial.”

  “So what can we do?” I want answers.

  He places a thermometer in her mouth and watches the mercury rise. “103.8,” he says.

  I’m shocked. “That’s the highest it’s been.”

  Oka eyes the doctor carefully, and I get the sense she doesn’t trust him.

  “I have a feeling we’re looking at strep. Usually works itself out in time. But her fever is exceptionally high. The bacteria could have spread. Could lead to rheumatic fever.”

  His words stop my breath cold. “What’s that mean?”

  “Probably nothing. Worst case, might attack her heart.”

  Oka sits on the bed and pulls her hands together. She exhales a breath so long and so loud, I imagine her lungs have completely deflated. I pull Isabel to me and try not to cry. I refuse to believe my child might die. I don’t care what Doc says. Isabel will be okay. She will.

  Doc Henley packs his things and prepares to leave. “I don’t want to worry you. As I said, I’ve never seen strep in a child so young. I could be wrong. Either way, I’m certain she’ll be fine. She’s already survived more than most.”

  “She sure has,” I say. If he only knew the half of it.

  “Be sure to give her lots of fresh air, and keep trying to nourish her. Don’t let her get dehydrated. Some folks chew licorice root to ease the pain, but she’s too young for that.”

  I pass Isabel to Oka and follow Doc out to his car where he holds up two glass quarts. “It’s nearly impossible to find oranges anymore, but I’ve got this.” Orange juice. “Packed with vitamins. Might strengthen her system, but it won’t feel good on her throat. I honestly don’t know what more you can do.”

  I take both bottles and thank the doctor. He gets into his car but sits for a minute on the shiny black seat. Then he gets right back out and says. “You know, Millie, there may be a better option.”

  Hope. My whole body reacts with a lift. “I’ll do anything. Anything!”

  “Over in Longmont. They’ve converted the sugar beet factory to a POW camp. Got Germans and Italians housed there. Maybe some Japs, too. You might have seen them. Working the fields since we’re so short on labor.”

  I shake my head. I haven’t noticed.

  “Well, some arrive sick or injured, as you can imagine.”

  I nod, anxious to hear how this relates to helping Isabel.

  “I’ve been reading about a new kind of drug for the last few years. Penicillin. They’ve been using it in the military for a while now, and I heard they just shipped a batch over to Longmont. Not available on the general market yet, with a few exceptions, but so far, it’s shown to be very effective.”

  “How can we get it?” I am desperate.

  “Might be tricky,” Doc warns. “But I’ll head there straightaway. I’ll do everything I can, Millie.”

  With that, he sits again, cranks the engine, and heads down our lane. Oka waits with Isabel on the porch, so I hand her the juice bottles in exchange for my child. I walk Isabel around the pasture, taking our time to watch Firefly, the woodpeckers. I dip her fingers in the cool spring and wet her lips with fresh water. She no longer cries or coughs, just lies in my arms with her mouth open, struggling to breathe.

  By dark, Oka and I come together again for supper. I find her at the stove, already cooking. “Your specialty,” I smile. Tiny white moons blossom above the skillet of hot oil, releasing a smell that brings hunger. “You know I love your fry bread.”

  Oka puts her arm around my waist and says, “And you know I love you.”

  I fight again to get Isabel to swallow aspirin powder, this time in a serving of applesauce, her favorite. Her tiny body is covered in chills, and I go back and forth between cooling her off and wrapping her in blankets. “Just a bite,” I beg, urging her to swallow.

  After dinner and dishes, I carry Isabel outside again. I hold her in my arms and walk her all around the ranch. As we roam, I label everything. “Garden, horses, barn, river.” I name the flowers, moon, mountains, stars. Leaf, stick, tree, grass. I show her the many wonders of this wonderful world, proving she has much to live for. “Fight, Isabel. Your mother needs you here.” I tell her she is loved. Hofanti. Cherished. Protected. I tell her she is a promise from God.

  We find Firefly circled with her herd. I whistle, and she meets me at the fence. A few of her friends follow, and she nudges Isabel’s blanket. “You’ve settled into quite a peaceful life here, haven’t you, girl?” I rub below her jaw and am relieved to find her lymph nodes are not swollen. She’s now a pasture mare, no longer worked, but part of me thinks she misses the training as much as I do. “You’ll be a mother soon too,” I tell Firefly. “Then you’ll understand how I feel.” Bump’s decided it’s time to let her have a foal since there are no expectations for us to compete again. She’ll be bred when the new stallion arrives. Our trick-riding days are over. I’m a mother now. I just want Isabel to be okay.

  All through the night, Oka sits up with me. We take turns carrying Isabel outside for fresh air. We rock her into the wee hours of the morn, and we try everything to get her to swallow liquids, but she pushes her tongue, using what little energy she has left to twist and turn away from anything we try to give her. She barely nurses, and my breasts have become full and painful. Hours drag, and as the stars give way to sun, Isabel’s fever still burns. The exhaustion and the worry finally defeat me. I cry.

  The photo of Oka’s three children sits on my dresser. Oka takes it now and tells me more about her daughter, the one stolen by fever when she was a child.

  “She look like you.” Oka says, touching my shoulder and handing me the photo. She has never spoken her name.

  I take a closer look at the portrait. Oka’s right. Her daughter does look like me. Like Isabel.

  “You choose your secret name, Millicent?”

  “Not yet,” I answer. Not one single name has come to mind.

  “It not too late.” Oka takes Isabel into her arms now
. She sings softly and kisses her forehead. “She choose her own name someday, Millicent,” Oka says. “Wait and see.”

  “I can’t accept anything less,” I confess.

  “Time for you to have Chahta name too.” I assume she means the name my loved ones give me once they know my personality, my skills.

  “You have something in mind?” I try to let Oka take my mind away from fear.

  Oka puts her hand on my heart and says, “Ihanko.”

  “Ihanko?”

  “Yes, Ihanko. Strong. You strong, Millie. Strong mind. Strong heart. Strong spirit. Ihankot tanna. Woven strong.”

  “Most of the time, I don’t feel strong at all.” Tears still sting my eyes. I don’t tell Oka about the old gypsy Babushka who gave me the name Krasnaya and told me I was strong, red, beautiful. I don’t tell her about River explaining that Millicent is an old English word that means strength. Instead, I thank her, and try to convince myself I am really as strong as everyone seems to think. That I can help my child overcome this illness, my husband succeed with this ranch, my family survive all these dangers.

  “Know your truth, Ihanko. Live your truth,” Oka says. “Then you will know great peace.”

  When the sun rises, I find the bottle of pink root on the counter. “Should we try it?”

  Oka shrugs and says, “Risk with baby. Might work. Might make worse.”

  I leave the bottle on the counter as a last resort. Instead of taking my chances on pink root, I take my chances on God. I spend most of the day on my knees, a place I’ve spent a lot of time since Isabel was born. In between prayers, I tackle the indoor chores, mending clothes, cleaning the house, scraping ashes from the stove’s firebox, anything that will keep me within arm’s length of Isabel. I go outside only to tend the sick horse. Her lymph nodes have ruptured now, oozing thick green pus from crater-sores bigger than quarters, and I have to clean them several times a day. Between tending the horse and Isabel, watching them both in so much pain, I feel frustrated by my own limitations. I want to make each of them better, take away their suffering. But all I can do is love them. And care for them. And pray. And hope that’s enough.