by Eowyn Ivey
— She says, I told you, I told you I shouldn’t come. Pretty soon, we got to starving, so that we were scrounging for any bit of something. We stewed straps of moose rawhide, tried chewing on that. We were sleeping too much, couldn’t even find the strength to fire up the woodstove. I figured we were going to die in each other’s arms.
Boyd spoke his next words with much difficulty.
— Two days ago she left me. God help me, but I was too weak to follow her. Now she’s gone. She told me she’s going over the mountains somewhere I can’t ever find her. What she said is crazy, that she & the fog are one & the same, that there can’t be one without the other. She says she leaves me because she loves me, that I’ll be better off. I don’t see that she can be right.
— For a woman? Christ Almighty! Samuelson said. — You lose your head over a woman so you nearly kill yourself? I’d have thought better of you.
Tillman seems equally disgusted at the display, yet Boyd has my sympathies. He wept like a child at his kitchen table. I was grateful to have this journal to take my eyes away from his suffering.
April 12
We woke this morning to a welcomed sight. As we heated water, prepared breakfast, a camp robber called. The noisy chatter went on as we ate. Tillman threatened to search out the annoyance & bring it down with a rock. When the squawks did not cease, I stepped out of the cabin to see if I could scare it off.
Instead I found sunlight breaking through the mountains to the east. Blue sky stretched overhead. Upriver, along our intended route, I spied the last of the fog as it crept up the narrow valleys to the northwest. I could not help but think of Boyd’s Indian wife traveling over those mountains, taking her mist with her.
The camp robber set to calling again. It flew past, landed in a tree just down from the cabin. My eyes followed it, down to the riverbed — out on the snowy plain, there were dozens of caribou!
Boyd is still too weak, but the rest of us grabbed rifles, sprinted down the hillside.
Without much cover on the open riverbed, it was no easy task to stalk the animals. The Indians scattered upriver from us. Samuelson warned us to stay low, quiet as we approached the herd.
— Once they stir, they’ll be gone over those hills before you can blink.
We crouched as we ran, ducked behind willow shrubs. Each time one of us raised a rifle to shoot, Samuelson waved us down, gestured for us to get closer.
The animals twitched their ears. Those that had been bedded down got to their feet.
— I’ve got that one in my sights, Tillman whispered & put his finger to his trigger.
Samuelson nodded approval.
Tillman shot & the caribou’s legs buckled. Shots went off all around us. The animals leapt & ran.
We continued to load & shoot, except Pruitt, whose rifle had misfired.
The caribou were like a flock of birds, suddenly across the river, gone into the trees. In our haste we all missed our targets. We were left with only Tillman’s kill.
As we approached the dead caribou, we were pleased to see that the Indians had downed one nearby as well. We had meat!
Samuelson set to disemboweling the animal. He directed Pruitt to hold back a hind hoof so as to expose the pale-gray fur of the belly. As they worked, several camp robbers found their way to our kill. They hopped about in the bloody snow, heads cocked, black eyes watching. The Indians skinned their animal & tossed bits of meat to their open beaks.
Tillman asked why they threw scraps to the birds.
— They’re saying their thanks, Samuelson said.
— To a camp robber?
Samuelson looked up from his work, grinned.
— Let me ask you this. How did our Colonel first spot the herd?
I recalled the camp robber that squawked outside the cabin.
— Not the first time, the trapper said. — Not by a long shot.
When the work was done, all of our hands frozen in blood, Pruitt & I each picked up two caribou legs, carried one over each shoulder. Tillman took on the rib cage. Samuelson wrapped heart, liver, kidney in burlap he had thought to bring.
We left the entrails to the camp robbers & a raven that flew in just as we packed up.
Most of the day was gone by the time we returned to the cabin. We cooked pieces of meat on the woodstove. It is good, tough but flavorful, improved I am sure by our intense hunger.
We could use the meat of several more animals. I asked if there was any chance we’d see the herd again.
— Hard to say, Samuelson said. — But I shouldn’t count on it.
We will remain at Boyd’s cabin in hopes that the caribou return.
60°53’ N
144°41’ W
25°F, exposed bulb
19°F, wet bulb
Clear. Night cold. Aurora Borealis.
The fog and blood have left us, yet I cannot wipe them from my eyes. They seep from me, the remains of massacres. The shots echo in the valley still. If only I could shed tears as pure and clear as those of this solitary prospector who mourns his lost love, Love for God’s sake mourned, at his rough-hewn table. If I could shed tears like those, then perhaps my grief would not sicken me so. Bathed in such tears, I would have the strength to cut out my own half-frozen heart, dripping in the blood of a caribou, & hand it to the Lord, if there was such a Lord and He would have such a heart.
Easter Day, Christ’s Ascension, come and gone without notice, faith so frail it is eroded by cold wilds. What if, beyond the echo of those shots, I could hear the sound of Heaven? The crackle of electric current through colored glass. Thunder vibrating through steel. Would the angels cry out?
I once thought to kill myself so that I would no longer wander through a fog such as this. How could it be any greater crime than that which I have already faced, committed, failed to undo? Yet I am a coward. I have written the truth on this page. Cowardice, sickly yellow thing, I found you like worms writhing beneath an overturned rock — I peeled back my self and beheld you at my core where a shining soul should have been.
I have lost no lover, yet I grieve, the days before: clean blue sky; dry dust of the earth on my skin so that I could recall Man’s very Creation; my brain afire with the printed pages of curiosity, I could not have enough of it.
That is my love lost. Curiosity, Purity, my Soul.
Caribou Tracks
Sophie Forrester
Vancouver Barracks
February 21, 1885
A heartbeat!
“There, there it is,” Dr Randall said after some time of searching with his stethoscope, and I do believe he almost smiled. After I begged, he even allowed me to try to listen, but I could hear nothing but the gurgling of my own stomach. He said one must have a “trained ear” but he assures me that the heartbeat is strong and regular.
I told him I have been feeling well, eating the healthful foods he recommends, but that I am in desperate need of more fresh air. He was persuaded to permit me longer walks, but only on days of fair weather, and still I should keep mostly indoors. When I asked if I might venture up the hill behind the house, however, his stern irritation resumed.
“What would be the sense in that?”
It is no matter — I am content to roam the barracks grounds. My field notebooks have been too long ignored, and I look forward to seeing what new wild birds March brings to this place.
(When the surgeon came to the house, I thought to hide away his book, and he made no mention of missing it. Yet I almost wish I had given it back while I had the opportunity.)
February 27
Miss Evelyn has planted an ugly seed in my thoughts. She has suggested that Mrs Connor allows me to employ Charlotte only so that she might wheedle gossip out of the girl. I scoffed at the mention of it. “You’re telling me that shy, mousy child is a spy?” I asked.
Evelyn raised an eyebrow and shrugged.
“All I know is that Mrs Connor is no good Samari
tan. She is a nosy gabble mouth. You keep too quiet and frustrate her, so she has come up with this scheme.”
I confess, as trivial as it all is, I am bothered. I would prefer to keep my own house and, with it, my privacy, yet I am afraid I cannot do without Charlotte’s assistance. What would I have done when the water wagon came today? Dr Randall said I must not lift anything heavier than a small sack of sugar. Charlotte, however, put quick work to filling the barrels and jugs. She is much stronger than she appears.
I am embarrassed by how little I can do, and so earlier in the week confessed to Charlotte my condition and apologized for requiring her to do nearly everything. At times I wonder if she isn’t a little slow, for she only stared at me and said nothing.
March 3
I should have trusted my intuition and declined the invitation, and would have done so if Evelyn had allowed it. “You absolutely must come, Sophie. I insist. Everyone will be there. They’ve shipped in pineapples, and the cook is making Peking Duck just for the occasion, and Uncle has invited an Indian chief, so that we might converse with him! Lieutenant Harvey has even promised he will attend.”
And so went my entire evening at the General’s house: I would be engaged in an awkward and grating conversation, and then politely excuse myself so as to stand in some quiet corner of the parlor, only to be drawn back into the crowd. (And I am afraid I am not so fond of Evelyn’s Lieutenant Harvey. He is handsome, but I have always been wary of men so at ease with their own swagger and boast.)
After an hour or so, I quietly told Evelyn that I would leave soon, as I wasn’t feeling well. Here she turned to her entourage of young officers and women in gowns and said, “Oh yes, Mrs Forrester is very tired, and we must all know what that means!” and gave her affected giggle. Everyone laughed, though they had no idea why, and I blushed furiously. What could they take from those words!
As much as I dreaded the evening, I did not expect to feel such discomfort with the appearance of the Indian chief. He is a stately, gracious man, and I came to understand that he and several other chiefs are traveling East to convene with the newly elected President Cleveland, yet the women treated him like a performing monkey, clapping and sighing when he properly used his silverware and exchanged pleasantries. Even as the chief rose from the table to give a small speech thanking his hosts, I overheard two men discussing the so-called Dreamer Religion of Columbia River Indians and how they plot to rid the country of all white people.
“I remember the days when Indians were jailed in the guard house, rather than invited to the General’s table,” one man said with undeniable nostalgia.
The worst part of the evening, however, came when the little Chinese boy was stocking the fireplace in the parlor after dinner. A woman, who I suspect had imbibed more than her share of the General’s wine, stepped backward, tripped over her own gown, and nearly fell over the boy. When she saw that she had drawn the attention of many in the room, she accused the boy, and began slapping at him, even booted him.
“I keep telling Uncle to get rid of him,” Evelyn whispered to me just then.
I pointed out that she had stepped on him; there was nothing he could have done.
“Oh, I don’t care about that. They just make me squeamish, the way they scurry about and never meet your eye. I’d rather have an Irish girl like you have.”
Why do I find it impossible to speak my mind in these instances? I am always hopeful that I have misheard or misunderstood, and then I am held by anger and indecision — if I say anything at all, I fear a torrent of emotion will burst forth that will cause embarrassment. I worry too much about offending or rousing conflict.
I suspect, however, that any words would have been wasted. Evelyn would admonish me for being self-righteous. I cannot understand how a woman so bright and engaging can express such ignorance. It makes our friendship a challenge.
Now that I have been brought home by carriage and climbed into my bed, my fury has burned out, and I am left cold and tired. Why do we insist on inflicting more suffering on a world that is already fraught with it? It is here that I must part ways with Father’s romantic spirit, for I suspect that it is a curse of nature, some original instinct that we have failed to shed. And I am no better than others, for in the face of it, I would keep quiet and retreat.
March 8
I am disappointed with Charlotte, for it seems that Evelyn was right about her spying. She doesn’t utter a word in my company, but as soon as she has Mrs Connor’s ear, it seems she must let everything spill.
Newly armed with the knowledge of my maternity, Mrs Connor led the women into my sitting room like an invading force.
You poor dear, facing this all alone. How far along are you? Why, you’re hardly showing at all! Is Dr Randall absolutely certain, because sometimes a woman only imagines it? Do you feel that draft? Yes, yes, I feel it too. Hardly suitable lodging for a newborn. My goodness, how old the child will be when your husband returns from Alaska! Are you drinking enough water? You must drink plenty of water every day. I tell you, my sister’s children are all brats, and it’s because she didn’t let them cry when they were babies — you mustn’t indulge them when they fuss. Osler’s Powder, it is absolutely the best for diaper rash. Oh, I can’t abide by Osler’s Powder.
They set themselves down in my sitting room and commenced to telling me every dull and horrifying consideration of child bearing and child rearing, as if they did me favor to counter my vast inexperience. Oh, I wish I possessed more gratitude and patience. I know they are well intentioned, but I detest being told that I will surely feel this way or that I must always or never do such-and-such or suffer the consequences. It makes me very contrary, so that I want to say, “Well, I don’t think I will use diapers at all. Instead my baby will crawl naked in the yard” or “Water! I never drink water, but only whiskey and coffee.”
There was something diminishing about the conversation, too, as if suddenly we had become only, collectively, and forever Mothers, with no room for an entire individual. I would have much rather heard about Mrs Whithers’s efforts to learn how to play the flute, or Mrs Burton’s recent trip to San Francisco. Did she see the traveling opera production as she had hoped?
When at last they all left and I had my house to myself again, I asked Charlotte to please come into the kitchen and sit down with me. I was certain I had made it perfectly clear to her that my condition was one to be kept to ourselves until I saw fit to share it, that I am by nature a private person, and it is my right. “Yes ma’am,” she said. Always “Yes ma’am” but no apology or explanation, and the child would not even meet my eyes. It was only with great effort that I controlled my temper.
March 14
It is not fair that all the women of Vancouver Barracks know, yet poor Mother does not, and so I have written to her at last. She need not worry about traveling all the way here, as I am well cared for, and once the baby is born and Allen has returned, we will go East and pay her a visit. I doubt she would come if I asked it of her. The journey to Boston for the wedding was trying for her, let alone the three thousand miles and week-long train journey across all that wild country. It is better for both of us, as unkind as those words might be.
It occurs to me that there are wives here at the barracks with husbands not unlike Mother. A peculiar observation, but it is true. Some of these poor women are asked to account for every minute of the day and are reprimanded if it is not spent as their husbands see fit. If they turn their time to embroidery and gossip, they are condemned as frivolous. If they attempt to organize a literature club or a discussion of women having the vote, they are mocked for taking themselves too seriously. Mrs Whithers is not even allowed to choose the fabric for her own dresses. She says she is not bothered by it, as her husband has suitable taste. (Oh Allen — what would you pick out for me? I fear it would be duck canvas soaked in linseed oil, so that my dress could serve also as rain coat or tent.)
I make light of it, but in truth it would
smother me.
And so that day not long after our wedding, dear Allen, when you returned and asked how I had spent my hours, and I admitted I had done nothing all day except wander Nantasket Beach to seek out the laughing gulls and black-bellied plovers, that your parents had invited me to their club but I declined their company to remain alone at the seaside with my notebook, and you did not scorn or chide me, but rather said we should take off our shoes and let the waves wash over our feet — that day I was filled with more love than I ever could have imagined. And when my hands grew cold, you didn’t say we should leave the beach, but instead took them in your own and kissed each of my fingertips, and I was warmed by your breath.
You have been gone from me six weeks. Oh Allen, I miss you more than I can bear.
March 16
More and more I regret my taking the doctor’s book on obstetrics, yet I cannot bring myself to return it and confront his disapproval. A guilty conscience has never sat well with me, and it causes me to worry. Does Dr Randall already know and judge me harshly? Will my mischief cause some embarrassment for Allen?
Yet it is more. I do not like to admit to it, but as Dr Randall predicted, the book upsets me. Even the entries on normal pregnancy and labor are gruesome. The sketches are particularly chilling, the organs flayed and pinned, so that one cannot help but conjure the corpses from which they were taken. Heart, cranium, umbilicus, womb, fetus, all dissected and coldly drawn. I know it is the necessary way of science, this partnership with the macabre, yet it repulses me.
I am always so quick to blame my poor drawing skills, which is true enough, yet even if I had the skill, it seems I lack the constitution for true science. I recall how much I looked forward to visiting the natural history museum while in normal school, and I asked to be shown the ornithology display. Should I have expected anything different? Yet to find myself in a room full of dead birds, staring blankly with their glass eyes, and trays of pinned wings and breasts, and jars of preserved organs. I lost all spirit for the endeavor.