To the Bright Edge of the World

by Eowyn Ivey

  I concurred. I advised we would give him some tea if he would tell us how to find our way there.

  Still the Eyak offered nothing. Samuelson said he wasn’t sure of the exact location but that we should be able to follow a nearby dry creek bed to find it. He suspected that some of the Indians we met near Point Blake were already making their way to the village over land to warn them of our coming.

  As we prepared to leave, the old man sat beside the supplies. I ordered that he was to have no tea, since he offered no guidance.

   — We can’t leave him here. He’ll rob us blind, Pruitt said.

   — He says he is old & slow so he’ll make his own way, Samuelson said.

  I would waste no more time on the matter, so we left him. For two hours we walked, crawled, beat our way through the willows. Pruitt took a branch to the face that narrowly missed his eye.

  The dry creek bed petered out to leave us in a thicket. A graying dusk made passage more difficult. At times we considered we had made no progress at all, but at last we broke out of the willows & stumbled into the village, which is nothing more than a few hovels made of sticks & hides.

  There, waiting for us, rested as if he had arrived hours before, was the old man. He crouched with a sly grin beside a heap of firewood.

   — The devil! Tillman said.

  Tillman seemed more amused than angry, but Pruitt wanted to search him for any of our supplies. The old man dodged his efforts.

  Now, inside this overcrowded, poorly ventilated shelter, the troublemaker continues his pestering. We don’t need Samuelson to translate. The old man stands in the middle of the shelter, hops around the campfire & talks in his sing-song chortles. He waves his arms, gestures towards us, takes exaggerated steps like a clumsy hunter stalking his prey, then he spins in circles like a dizzy child. The Indians all look at us & laugh.

   — Glad we could provide the evening entertainment, Tillman grumbled.

  I continue to try to write here in my journal. When the old man forces my attention, I do not smile but nod politely.

  Just now the old man knelt in front of me, reached into a pouch at his neck to pull out his prize.

   — Chocolate! He has stolen chocolate from us! Tillman shouted & jumped to his feet, as much as he was able in this squat shelter. — I’ll be eating pea soup, while this scoundrel feasts on chocolate.

  Even Tillman proved too worn out for a fight, however. He has returned to his bed, rolled on his side to face the wall.

  Despite the rowdy laughter of the Indians, I will try to sleep now as well.

  March 28

  I had hoped for five strong men. Instead I’m given three reluctant Indians, the young woman who claims to have skinned out her husband, & a dog.

  The Indians resisted being employed, except the woman. She is not much more than a girl, yet despite her youth & small frame, I am wary of her. At best she is slightly mad, at worst capable of slitting a man’s throat as he sleeps. It did not increase my trust to know that she was amongst those who went ahead of us to warn these Indians of our approach.

  Samuelson, however, argued for employing her.

   — I’d wager she’ll be more help than the rest of them put together. Their women are hardworking. When a village moves, the women carry all the heavy loads. They fetch the wood, water, pack up the hides. To top it off, this one can hunt. She’ll earn her way.

  I am doubtful, but I conceded to Samuelson’s greater knowledge of these people. Still we were in need of several men. Contrary to my conscience, I again followed Samuelson’s advice.

   — They love a game of chance. If they think joining our party is a lucky win, they’ll want in.

  We announced they could draw sticks. Only those who won would be permitted to join us. To my surprise, a dozen Indians volunteered. However, the five selected lost much enthusiasm when they were told we would be leaving this morning, that they would be towing sleds full of supplies as far up the river as we could manage. Two flat out refused to be conscripted, so we are left with three.

  When the old man indicated his desire to travel along with us as well, I said that we have no more need for his services. Samuelson translated my message, to which the old man gave a sly look & tipped his black hat as if to bid us adieu.

  The dog, a burly husky-wolf much larger than most of the Indians’ dogs, seems to have been offered in trade for tobacco & sugar already acquired from our stores without our knowledge. I suspect that, like the Indian woman, the skittish animal will be more trouble than it is worth.

  Sophie Forrester

  Vancouver Barracks

  January 17, 1885

  Such an unwieldy title. “The ABC of Modern Photography . . . Comprising Practical Instructions in Working Gelatine Dry Plates.” That alone should have deterred me.

  Allen brought the book home to me last night, sent by Mr Pruitt along with an offer to further explain the camera’s mechanism during our ship ride north. He must have reconsidered his earlier brusqueness, and I am grateful, particularly because I will need every bit of help if I am to understand any of this. An entire chapter devoted to chemicals! Neutral oxalate of potash. Sulphate of iron. Hypo-sulphite of soda. Methylated spirit. Bi-chloride of mercury. My brain spins.

  From a distance, it seemed such a simple and nearly magical art. A black cloth. A mahogany box. Glass plates. Darkness and light. Yet in truth it is both more material and more complex than I could have imagined.

  Books have always been my most reliable teacher, but Allen is correct that some skills are better understood in practice, by hands and eyes. He says we should purchase a camera if it interests me so. I have no idea of the expense, and certainly there is not enough time to seek one before our journey north, but if I can learn a bit from Mr Pruitt aboard the steamer and continue to study the manuals over the next months, is it possible that I could learn to make my own photographs?

  Well of course, Allen said, and he wouldn’t spend too much time fretting over those cursed hand books, either. “You just have to do it and figure it out for yourself,” he said, “and I have no doubt that you will.”

  It is something I love very much about him. He goes not in search of obstacles, only the paths around them. Anything seems possible.

  Yet for all my keenness, I see now that I have a great deal to learn.

  January 21

  It is well after midnight, yet I cannot sleep a wink! Today it was confirmed that we will board the mail steamer “Idaho” on its February 3rd stopover in Portland. Though it is still some time away, being in possession of a firm date and the precise name of our ship has beset me with worries and excitement. Are the women right that I will suffer seasickness? Mrs Connor mentioned a bromide remedy. I will have to ask at a pharmacy. Oh, I do hope I am so fortunate as to see the puffin bird. Are the illustrations I have seen accurate? Does it possess such a sweet and comical expression? As for the Wolverine River tribes and their frightening reputation, I should not let myself fret. . . . and on and on trail my thoughts.

  I have given up on sleep all together and have come to the kitchen table with my diary so that my candlelight might not disturb Allen as he sleeps. I have put on a kettle for chamomile tea and wrapped myself in a blanket in hopes of settling my nerves.

  To be awake at such an odd hour, the windows dark and the house quiet, with a daring voyage on the horizon, causes me to miss Father more than I have in some time. If he were still alive, I would be writing to him just now. He would have been so glad for me, for he was always one to favor adventure and the promise of something extraordinary.

  I remember that when I was quite young, I overheard him talking of flying mice, how he had seen them swoop and dive across the night sky. If he was in a fervor with a new sculpture, once the form began to come alive in the marble, he would bring lanterns to the forest and work long into the night, and it was then that he had seen them. He said they flew silently, like furry shadows.

&n
bsp; For days I could think of nothing but these winged mice. I gleaned every small detail I could find in Mother’s schoolhouse book about the animals of North America, and at any opportunity, I pleaded with Father to take me with him at night.

  “They are only bats, nothing more,” Mother said.

  Father whispered to me alone, “These are no ordinary bats. These are mice who swim with the stars.”

  Loud enough for Mother to hear, though, he added that they appear only when the sun goes down, when children are to be tucked into bed. (It was not like him to be concerned about arbitrary rules such as bedtimes, but I eventually discovered that it was the subject of his statue that made him wary. He was working on his Mary Magdalene, with her unbound curls falling around her naked torso. Needless to say, Mother would not have approved, so he kept the sculpture hidden far into the forest.)

  Finally, despite her objections, he allowed me to join him one evening after supper. As we walked into the trees, I was made to promise not to tell Mother of the sculpture.

  That first night I lay bundled in Father’s big coat and stared up into the darkening sky, but eventually I fell asleep to the sound of his chisel. I awoke to him putting me to bed — I had slept even as he carried me home.

  “Did I miss them?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “But they’ll come again.”

  He allowed me to go with him again the next night and the night after, and I forbade myself from giving in to sleep. I pinched my arms and hopped up and down while Father worked at his sculpture, but the bats did not appear. And then at last it happened — just after sunset on the third night, a dark spot flitted through the trees, so quick and small that I doubted my eyes, but then it came again, and dozens more with it.

  Thinking on it now, I am surprised I was not somewhat disappointed, for there was little to observe. In the dusk, especially to my inexperienced eyes, the bats could have been barn swallows or oversized moths. Yet for all that, it was marvelous — the nights of anticipation and then, in the sky above me, the fleeting silhouettes of their wings.

  That is the excitement. We catch only glimpses, a burst of movement, a flap of wings, yet it is life itself beating at shadow’s edge. It is the unfolding of potential; all of what we might experience and see and learn awaits us.

  January 22

  Too little sleep is not good for my constitution, and I think I may be coming down with a cold or some other illness, I feel so poorly. I could not bear the thought of lying in bed all day, so although it was blustery, I went for a walk on the wagon road behind the officers’ homes. I tired more quickly than I would have liked, however, and have returned after only an hour or so.

  January 23

  Still I cope with this queasiness and general malaise. I had hoped that exercise and fresh air would chase it away, but again it comes upon me unexpectedly. These past days I have not cared to draw attention to it. Allen, however, insists I visit the barracks hospital tomorrow to see Dr Randall. He says it will not do for me to board the ship if I am coming down with some sickness.

  I am loath to go — I’ve always had the irrational thought that if one consults a physician, it only confirms an illness that might otherwise be ignored away — but I will go nonetheless.

  Boston Herald, Sept. 10, 1884

  A WEDDING PARTY

  FOR SON OF GEN. FORRESTER

  Lieut.-Col. Allen Walton Forrester, son of Gen. James Forrester, and Miss Sophie Ada Swanson, daughter of Mrs. Helen Swanson, were married at 12 o’clock yesterday at the Grace Presbyterian Church in a quiet ceremony. The bride and groom were attended at the altar by Miss Swanson’s mother and Mr. George Forrester, brother to the groom. The ceremony was officiated by the Rev. Dr. Daniel Rodgers. The bride wore a dress of heavy white satin and a tulle veil, and carried a bouquet of pale pink Bennett roses.

  The newlywed couple was then escorted to the nearby Forrester estate by the elderly Gen. and Mrs. James Forrester. Despite the small size of the wedding party, the reception was an impressive affair, with numerous gifts and distinguished guests. In light of Gen. Forrester’s stature in the Boston community, it does not come as a surprise that his son’s wedding would attract such attention. The event was attended by the likes of Gen. Joseph Lovell, Lieut.-Col. Robert Jones, Sen. Henry Dawes, and Augustus Flagg.

  The newly wedded couple leaves next week for Vancouver Barracks in the remote Washington Territory where the Colonel is to be stationed.

  Dear Mr. Forrester,

  I was surprised when the boxes of documents came to my office last week. As I said during our telephone conversation, we probably aren’t the best institution to receive this collection. I think you misunderstood me. I’m sure they are historically important. Unfortunately, we just don’t have enough staffing or resources to properly archive them. Our funding was cut this past year, and we are now relying almost entirely on volunteers. I am sure the university or one of the larger museums in Anchorage would be happy to take this donation.

  Having said all that, I did read through some of the colonel’s diaries. It isn’t easy to translate his shorthand, even with the key of abbreviations you’ve included, and some of the pages are so water-damaged and faded, it’s hard to make out the writing, but they are really incredible. My interest isn’t just as a museum curator. I am a member of the Wolverine River tribe through my mother’s side. I know many of the places the colonel describes. Our family still keeps a fish wheel on the river to catch sockeye salmon each summer.

  I am curious about the black leather journal that you included. It’s not identified in any way, but I can tell it’s not your great-uncle’s handwriting. It is mostly filled with mapping and weather data, but there are also more personal entries — sketches and poetry. Do you know who this belonged to?

  I’d like to talk with you more about the documents and the artifacts you describe. Maybe I can do some research and help you find a home for the collection. Do you have an email address?

  I’ll drop this letter in the mail and wait for your reply.

  Best wishes,

  Josh Sloan

  Alpine Historical Museum

  Alpine, Alaska

  60°26’ N

  145°11’ W

  33°F, exposed bulb

  27°F, wet bulb

  Barometer: 29.15

  Sleet in morning. Wind ESE, steady & cold. Clear by nightfall, allowing for navigational readings.

  We calculate unseen horizon by mercury pool, pace off distances between our point and theirs, measure the wind and the speed by which the river flows, count the very droplets in the atmosphere. If we can measure, we are sure we can grasp and claim as our own. What then of the six-winged Seraph and Cherubim with sleepless eye? No such celestials dwell here. The Midnooskies have not met our God. Their own fearsome beasts fly through these skies. Will we find them with our civilized eyes? Will they flap out of glacier crevasse and over black river valley, while we crawl, scrabble up their mountains?

  The hymns do have their siren call. I hear them as I row. “Feeble, trembling, fainting, dying, Lord! I cast myself on thee; Tarry with me through the darkness.” O we tremble — man and child alike. None of us so different from the clear-fleshed jellyfish that wash up on salty rocks. Cnidaria. Scyphozoa. We name. Dry. Pickle. Exhibit with pins and tabs and stoppered vials. Yet there is no how or why in that taxonomy. Just the Latin tongue. Incantation of cold science. Between Science’s measuring and my God’s condemning, I find no room for the Soul. No room for my feathered lungs to expand. I would gasp and gasp, only wanting the cold fingers to release their hold.

  Otter Tracks

  Of touching, — the female standing. This mode is advantageous in every respect. The parts of the female are in their natural position, and the physician cannot be mistaken . . . if the os tincae be open, the end of the finger is carefully introduced, to judge how much it is shortened, and thus to determine the period of pregnancy.

  �
�— From Midwifery Illustrated, Jacques Pierre Maygrier, 1822

  Sophie Forrester

  Vancouver Barracks

  January 24, 1885

  Can it be so, after these months of failure? We had thought to wait until Allen’s return from the expedition to seek out a physician who might advise us, yet it seems that our wish has been granted sooner than we dared to hope. A child!

  I feel like a fool that I did not make it out myself, yet the post surgeon seems nearly certain. Such unexpected good tidings! Dear Allen is beside himself with joy. He was ready to announce it to all who would listen from the barracks to Boston, but I suggested that would be neither proper nor wise. It is still much too early, and until the surgeon detects a heartbeat or I feel the quickening, it cannot be certain.

  I then had to tell him my one great disappointment. I will not go to Alaska. Dr Randall has forbidden it. I was incredulous at first — have women throughout history not traveled and lived their normal lives with no ill effect to their unborn children? What could be so particularly dangerous about riding on a steamer ship for a few weeks?

  It vexed me the way Dr Randall ignored my questions but instead stood for some time at his shelf with his back to me. He thumbed through his books, mumbled to himself, all as if I were not in the room. At one point he even shushed me. That was too much! I am not a simpleton to be treated with such disregard. (I fear I am sometimes too quick with my words.) When I regained my composure, I proposed that on the ship I would have regular food and rest, and could even sit in a deck chair to watch the glaciers calve, if need be.

  That is when he stated it plainly. Under no circumstances am I to go aboard the steamer, and I will need to take great care throughout the pregnancy. When I asked why, if there was something in his examination that gave him concern, he said I am not to worry myself with it, and unceremoniously sent me away.