“Me? Good?” He was startled. “Far from it.”
“Are you feeling bad about yourself because you’re standing here wanting to go in and having trouble keeping yourself from it?”
“There are better ways to spend my time.”
“Most men wouldn’t think twice, you know that, don’t you? Instead, here you are, listening to all that laughter, hearing the clink of glasses and the happy sound of the music, and probably knowing exactly how smooth the whiskey would go down—and yet I’ve been standing there in the shadows, watching your face, seeing you struggle these past fifteen minutes. Most men would be into their second bottle by now. And I got a feeling the battle you’re fighting ain’t all about whether or not to go inside. What’s wrong? You look like you got a war going on inside of you, and I’m itching to find out what it is.”
“Sorry, but you wouldn’t understand, and it’s my concern, not yours.”
“Oh, I beg to differ with you on that,” Delia said. “You’re one of Robert’s best axe men. That is very much my concern. I need to know if you’re going to be able to work this fall or if I need to find someone to replace you when the lumber camp starts up again.”
“I can still swing an axe. Don’t worry about that.”
Delia took a stance in front of him and looked him full in the face as though trying to read it.
“You just got back a few weeks ago from taking Moon Song and Ayasha back to the Keweenaw, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I hear the two of you got stranded for a while along with another passenger of that poor ship Belle Fortune.”
“We did.” He really didn’t want to be having this conversation with her. It was his own private misery, fighting to forget about his love for Moon Song, wondering what he was going to do with the rest of his life . . . without her.
“Robert told me Moon Song saved your life.”
“She did.”
“Along with that artist woman who lost her mind and tried to steal Moon Song’s baby?”
“Is there anything you don’t know about, Delia?”
“Not much. That’s my job.” Again that close, appraising look. “You miss her bad, don’t you?”
“Who?” He glanced away.
“The beautiful Indian girl who hovered over you half the winter taking care of you after the accident.”
“We became good friends,” he said defensively. “Of course I miss her.”
“Then you’re a fool if you don’t go up there and find her again. She is a prize and so is Ayasha. That little boy is going to make some man a fine son with Moon Song as a mother.”
“She told me not to follow her. What if she doesn’t want me, and what would I do for work? They aren’t timbering all that much up there yet. Not like around here.”
“Do you remember how our Katie got here?” Delia asked.
“She rode the train as far as it would go, praying for a job all the way.”
“And the Lord opened the door for the exact job she needed.”
“True.”
“I’ve heard you’re a praying man, Skypilot,” she said. “Is that true?”
“It is.” It embarrassed him that she asked this question when he was standing outside the saloon wrestling with whether or not to go in. “Most of the time.”
“Then for heaven’s sake, hop on the next boat north and start praying.”
“I can’t. I’m telling you, she does not want me to come find her.”
“You must be as stupid as you look, son,” she huffed. “You need to trust me on this. I’ve spent time with that girl. I know her. I’ve known a lot of women, and if you have any sense at all, you’ll go after her. Marry her!”
Delia’s voice usually had a light, mocking edge to it, even if she was talking about the weather, but now her voice tightened down into such intensity she was nearly shaking from the emotion of it.
“You can learn to fish or weave baskets or whatever it is you have to do to make a living up there.”
“I’m telling you, she won’t have me.”
“And why not?”
“Because she believes that I’ll eventually abandon her when I get tired of living there, like her father abandoned her mother and other white men have abandoned their Indian wives. She seems to think we’re all alike.”
“Her father was white?”
“Yes. Some rich man from Boston. Dumped her on her grandmother, from what I can tell, after her mother died, and he never came back. A lot of people up there think white men won’t stick it out. I even had a Jesuit priest telling me to leave her alone so I wouldn’t break her heart.”
“A priest was giving you advice on marriage?”
“Yes.”
“And you listened to him?”
“He’s lived there a long time and he knows a lot about Moon Song and her people.”
“All right. So here’s the big question. Do you love her?”
“More than life.”
He wasn’t sure but he thought he heard Delia sigh a little when he said that. Could the old woman possibly have a romantic streak after all she’d been through?
“Then the answer,” Delia said, “is as simple as the nose on your face.”
“What is it?”
Delia hesitated. “You’ll think I’m a meddling old woman.”
“Go ahead and meddle.”
“Don’t leave her.” She snapped her fingers. “Ever. It’s that simple.”
“I can promise her a thousand times that I’ll do that, but she won’t believe me.”
“Of course she will. Go up there. Find work. Tell her you love her. And . . . just stay. Prove that you will never leave, that you’ll never give up. Women love stuff like that.”
“You think she’ll have me?”
“No. Not right away. But if you prove that you can live on the Keweenaw without going stir-crazy or heading back south, I think you got a good shot. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but you need to know that every time your name came up in conversation, her face would light up. She cares about you.”
He couldn’t help the sloppy grin he got on his face. He was starting to feel some hope, and see a future. Except for one thing.
“We come from two very different religions, Delia,” he said. “It’s a worry to me.”
“Oh honey.” Delia sighed. “Just go love the girl and continue to be the good man you already are. Let God take care of the rest.” She gave him a little shove. “Now go and forget about this place. Nothing here to come back to anyway. Show the girl you ain’t never gonna forsake her or desert that sweet baby.”
He grabbed Delia by both arms and planted a kiss on top of her head.
“What was that for?” She stood in the middle of the street with her hand on top of her head where he’d kissed her.
“For being a meddling old woman!” Skypilot shouted as he ran down the street. “And thanks!”
“First time that ever happened!” he heard Delia mutter right before he turned the corner.
The thought of getting drunk was now the furthest thing from his mind. He needed to go back to his boardinghouse, find some writing materials, and scratch out a polite but firm reply to Penelope. The woman needed to know that he was not coming back so she could get on with her life.
Tomorrow he would make his good-byes to Robert, Katie, and the children. He would use his dwindling funds to purchase another ticket on a steamboat going north. Hopefully, it would not blow up and he would find his way back to Moon Song. She might reject him. She might accept him. He had no idea, but he was going to try.
19
He had written many letters in his mind to Penelope in the past few years. Long letters that would have filled pages and pages with hurt, and anger, and in some cases, longing. The one he now wrote bore no relationship to any of those imaginary letters.
Bay City, Michigan
Dear Penelope,
I am honored by your kind invitation, and I regret to he
ar about the state into which your father’s plantation has fallen. However, you need to know that the man you say you once loved no longer exists.
He stared at the paper for a few moments, debating whether or not to include the next sentence that his mind had begun to compose. Finally he put pen to paper and finished the letter.
I have fallen in love with this North country of Michigan as well as its inhabitants. I doubt that I shall ever have an occasion to visit Richmond again.
Kind regards,
Isaac Ross
He knew she would consider the abruptness of the letter to be rude, but he simply did not know what else to say. Twenty minutes later, he was on his way back from the post office, feeling nothing but relief. The way he figured it, if Penelope had truly loved him, she would not have waited so many years to tell him so.
Whether it was the occasional swallow of broth she had managed to get down Fallen Arrow or her and little Standing Bear’s presence, her grandmother seemed to have gained a small amount of strength since they’d been living with her.
Fort Wilkins had not carried many delicacies, but it had carried some. Those it had carried, Skypilot had purchased in abundance.
One of the things he had packed was a small jar of orange marmalade. This would be a new adventure for her grandmother. Moon Song had never tasted marmalade until she had eaten in Katie’s kitchen at the lumber camp. She well remembered late one night after finishing cleaning up a large supper, she and Katie had sat down and eaten a piece of Katie’s good bread with a smear of marmalade and a cup of tea. It had been cozy and intimate and one of her fondest memories of her months in the lumber camp.
“I think you will like it, Grandmother,” Moon Song said as she gave her a taste of it.
Fallen Arrow had always possessed a great sweet tooth, as did the entire tribe. These were not a people who used salt or any other condiment. Their main flavoring, whether it was on meat, rice, or cornmeal, was always the maple syrup and maple sugar they loved so much.
Grandmother’s eyes opened wide. “What is that strange flavor?”
“It is from a yellow fruit that comes from far away. The white people call it an orange.”
Fallen Arrow poked a finger in the jar and licked it off. “It has a strong flavor,” she said. “But it is very good.”
“Yes, Grandmother,” Moon Song said. “It has strong flavor and it will help make you strong too.”
She felt her eyes fill up with tears, and it surprised her because she had not cried since she’d come home. She must be more tired than she realized. Quickly, she dashed the tears away before her grandmother saw them.
Fallen Arrow sat up for the first time that night after eating the entire jar of marmalade, started asking questions, and listened with her full attention about Moon Song’s time in lower Michigan.
Late that night, as Grandmother slept, and as she lay beside the newly named little Standing Bear, Moon Song felt such gratitude in her heart for having two of the people she most cared for in the world beside her.
She wished Skypilot was near so that she could tell him about her grandmother’s improvement since she’d arrived and Ayasha’s new, strong name. She tried hard to convince herself that her world was complete without the big timberman.
Perhaps, if she were lucky, in time his image would fade.
Skypilot passed the painted rocks in daylight as he went north along the shore in the Temperance, a brand-new steamship. With astonishing ease, they steamed right past the agonizing trail that he and Moon Song and Isabella had trudged.
The town of Marquette came up on the left, and the Temperance stopped for two hours to drop off supplies and to take on passengers. It had been several weeks since he’d seen Father Slovic, and he wanted to stop and see if there was any word on how Isabella was faring. With any luck, the priest might also have word of Moon Song.
He wasn’t sure that Father Slovic would be there, but when he arrived, he was greeted with great joy by Mrs. Veachy, who said that Father Slovic had been desirous of seeing him again. He was home and did indeed have news for Skypilot.
She led him into the study, where Slovic was bent over several books open in front him. His quill was working furiously.
“Studying for Sunday’s sermon?” Skypilot asked.
“Skypilot!” Father Slovic stood up from his chair and shook his hand. “I had hoped to see you again. You are an answer to my prayers.”
“I’m glad to see you too, although I’m pretty certain I’ve seldom been the answer to anyone’s prayers.”
“As all good men of God should feel,” Slovic said. “Those men who believe themselves to be God’s gift to mankind are usually anything but. Please have a seat. I have word of Isabella that will interest you.”
“How is she faring?”
“She told me that she was concerned the illness that overtook her during your journey might return. At my suggestion, she chose to spend some time with the Sisters of Charity in Detroit. They run an establishment there that cares for people who have various forms of . . . insanity, both mild and severe.”
“Do you know if it is helping?”
“I know that they are taking good care of her. There is a new doctor there. His method with Isabella is basically to make certain she has drawing material and plenty of it. I stayed a few days on some church business, and when I went to check on her, her room was covered in the most extraordinary drawings. She seemed much calmer in spirit and says she believes she is making good progress.”
Father Slovic walked over to a chest of drawers and pulled out a long tube wrapped in oilcloth. “I asked Isabella for this, and she was gracious enough to give it to me. I showed it to a friend of mine in Detroit while I was there who is an avid collector of art. He wanted to purchase it, but when I refused, he said that I should put it away carefully and keep it safe.”
“What is it?”
Slovic unrolled the scroll of canvas on a table near a window. “Come look.”
It was an oil painting done in sepia tones. It was of Moon Song bending gracefully over Skypilot, offering him a folded birch bark cup of tea. The expression of longing and love as he looked up at her, caught in the shadows of light from the campfire playing across his face, was staggering. Isabella had somehow captured exactly what had been in his heart at that moment.
If there had been any doubt left in his mind that he was head-over-heels in love with Moon Song—and there was none—that picture would have erased it.
“It’s a perfect depiction of where we were, and yet it is done so simply.”
“I know,” Slovic said. “My friend confirmed my suspicions, which is that this woman is a rare talent.”
“Will she ever be able to be sure of her sanity again?”
“I’m not entirely certain she was ever insane,” Slovic said. “Sometimes I think that a true artist, the kind through whom our Lord allows his great creation to be interpreted, is not like the rest of us. We see only with our eyes and we experience life through somewhat duller senses. A true artist, one like Isabella, sees the world with an entirely different set of eyes, and it affects their heart and mind. I’m not sure but what there isn’t always an element of madness in the greatest artists. Isabella did not have the ability to absorb the death of her husband and child and go on. Her mind retreated into that madness and she created an alternate world in which she could live, a world where Moon Song had stolen her baby and all she had to do was reach out and take him back.”
“You mean she rewrote the script of her life? Like some theatrical play?”
“It’s a theory the doctor and I discussed.”
“Did she agree to that theory when you were there?” Skypilot asked.
“No,” Slovic said. “I didn’t even bring it up. I think simply keeping her in artist materials is the best course for now.”
Slovic rolled up the oilcloth and carefully placed it in a drawer.
“My friend says that I should put this away and keep it
for my old age. He says that there is a very good chance that Isabella’s works will be worth quite a lot of money someday.”
“Is that what you intend to do with it? Sell it?”
“Of course not.” Slovic laughed. “I am a Jesuit, remember? The Lord will take care of my needs, which are small. This, I will use at the right time to help my parishioners.”
As interesting as this conversation was, Skypilot had limited time, and there was something he wanted to know much more than anything else.
“Have you heard anything of Moon Song?”
“Yes.”
Skypilot felt his pulse quicken. “Please tell me.”
“Ah.” Father Slovic lifted a finger into the air. “You have discovered that you cannot live without her. You must have her at all costs.”
He had never heard Slovic sound sarcastic before, but the man was certainly skirting along the edge of it.
“Yes, actually, I have. I need to know if she and the baby are well. Did they make it to her grandmother’s? Do you know where she is?”
“They are fine,” Slovic said. “But before I tell you how to find her, please tell me—do you ever plan to preach again?”
“I have no ambition in that direction at the present.” Skypilot was puzzled. “But what does that have to do with finding Moon Song?”
“It has a great deal to do with finding Moon Song. I have been working in this country for a long time and have grown weary of some of my own people’s foolishness.” Slovic gave a great sigh. “I like you, Skypilot, but I had great hopes that you would go away and stay away from my country.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Why on earth would you say that?”
“Because I think you have no idea how much power you could have were you to start preaching again, and these native people are already plenty inundated and confused by our various forms of gospel.”
“What do you mean?”
“In the last mining town I visited over on the Keweenaw, there was already a Methodist church, an Episcopalian church, and a Catholic church to minister to a very small town at war with itself.”
Under a Blackberry Moon Page 19