by Diane Noble
Then it came to me. The train. The splintering timbers. The screams. The plunge into darkness. I put my head on my arm and closed my eyes, trying to think what to do next. Rain poured over my head, and I moved my face to the side of the puddle that had formed beneath it.
Later, much later, I woke again. In the distance I heard the shouts of rescuers. The men called out each time they discovered a body or found another of the injured. They yelled to each other up and down the river as they moved, trying to reach those still trapped underwater.
The rain had stopped, and the cries of the injured carried on the wind from upstream. I tried to sit but realized I was too weak. Then rolling to one side, I inched my way toward the brush at the riverbank.
My right arm was swollen and useless with pain. Holding it close with my left hand, I tried to stand, but I could not. Trembling, I tried again and staggered to my feet. Hobbling slowly, I made my way to the cover of the willows. I sat, lightheaded. I needed help. I needed to be seen so the rescuers would come for me. Judging by the sounds of voices upstream, I figured I’d been swept about a hundred yards from the bridge. Likely the search was focused on where the train had plunged into the water—just beneath the bridge.
I stood again. If I could just walk a few more yards, I would be heard when I called for help. My knees felt like water, and I collapsed on the wet sand once more. I curled, holding my face in my hand. It had begun raining again, and I inched back into the shelter of the willows. Exhausted, I fell on my left side, holding my right arm tight.
I woke again sometime in the night to the racket of crickets and frogsong. A round moon had risen, and a light summer’s breeze carried across the still-rushing river. Standing with more strength this time, I realized how thirsty I was. The river still carried the heavy scent of mud and debris, so I moved deeper into the willows onshore until I found a shallow pool of rainwater on a broad rock. I cupped my left hand and scooped the sweet water into my mouth.
I tried to remember how far the train was from Dover Town when it derailed, but my memory was foggy. I wondered if I had the strength to walk any; I needed to get word to Zeb that I was alive.
My jaw dropped at the thought.
Would Zeb believe me dead? Had he learned of the accident? I stood and limped to the river’s edge. The moon reflected on the rushing surface, dancing like a million fireflies across the chopping waters.
What if I let him believe it?
I argued with myself. I couldn’t do that. It was wrong to deceive another person in such a tragic way. I thought of those who died in the wreck. What their families would give to have them back. But Zeb … would he care?
I couldn’t help but think he would be relieved. I would be out of the way, I thought bitterly. He could marry Jeannie, the love of his life. Hobbling toward the bridge, I pondered the question, turning it over and over.
Slowly moving up the riverbank, I considered every detail. Zeb had spotted me on the train. Tupper would verify my ticket purchase to Dover Town—the fact that I was on the wrecked train.
When all the bodies were accounted for and all the injured rescued, I would be missing. I shuddered thinking about the twisted metal at the bottom of the river. They might never find all those who died when the train plunged into the waters. Zeb and all the others would think I had gone to my death under that water.
Quick tears filled my eyes as I thought about the girl sitting next to me—Tansy MacFie. I prayed she was one of those rescued.
I reached the bridge and walked among the broken timbers, then raised my eyes. The dark twisted trestle, with its gaping hole where the track should have been, looked like a gallows glistening in the moonlight.
Death might bring me a new beginning. My heart trembled with both fear and hope.
Of course, I must still get to California first. Time must pass before I could go back to Blackberry Mountain. I had to make certain Zeb was satisfied that I had died in the river.
Could I indeed try something so daring? My mind spun with the possibilities. Finally, dizzy with fatigue and pain, I lay down between two trestles on the smooth, damp sand. Sleep came quickly, deep and dark.
The next morning a group of men arrived driving four empty wagons. I shrank back into the cover of brush. All four had solemn slopes to their shoulders as they began their search. After a half-hour or so, a younger man said he thought he might try a dive to examine the contents of the cars at the bottom.
“Can’t do it till the water dies down,” a graying man called back. He seemed to be their leader. “The river’ll take whoever goes down right now. I say let the dead rest if they’re down there. Let ‘em rest in peace.”
The other two agreed, but the younger man looked disappointed. They looked around, picking up muddy bundles, valises, and clothing. The graying man found a doll, and for a moment none of them spoke. They just stared at the china face without speaking, each seeming lost in sorrowful thoughts. Not much later, they gathered up some of the articles they’d found, loaded them into the backs of the wagons, and drove off.
I walked out to the beach where the men had been standing. My broken dulcimer, wrapped in Poppy’s counterpane … I stared into the murky depths of the river. It too was lost. Almost of its own accord, my hand fluttered to the soggy pouch still hanging from my neck. With trembling fingers I pulled the pouch loose and opened it. The tuning keys were tangled in the shreds of soggy paper. I unfolded one wet lump first and my spirits plunged. Poppy’s note from the bank was blank. Only faint smudges of ink remained.
I fell to the ground as new weariness overtook me and unfolded the second soggy paper. It was fragile, and split into pieces. Then I smiled. Poppy’s stubby pencil marks had survived the river. If I arranged the pieces just right, his drawings showed me how to make a dulcimer.
I hobbled back to where I’d found the granite pool of rainwater the night before. I brushed aside the willows and walked toward the large flat stone and bent to scoop water with my left hand.
As I did, from the corner of my eye I spotted a small faded bit of color—the hue of Poppy’s counterpane—hidden under a pile of twigs and twisted metal. I knelt beside the ragged, damp cloth, recognizing it as Poppy’s counterpane. I moved a forked branch, threw it to one side, and brushed off a layer of wet leaves. Then I gathered the old quilt close to my face, remembering Poppy.
Even before I unwound the tangled wad, I knew my dulcimer was lost. There was not a splinter of it caught in the quilt. I shook it out and gave it a hard look. If I was to start my life over again, I decided, it wouldn’t be with a wet and tattered quilt being dragged along behind like a lassie with her cherished baby blanket.
For the first time since the wreck, I smiled. Then I laughed, a new freedom filling my soul. Feeling at once stronger of body and spirit, I headed up the bank and away from the wreckage.
I hobbled, limped, rested, then hobbled and limped again. All the while I paid little mind to my injuries, so busy was I seeing the world afresh, thinking about being alive. The sun was out now, and the colors of the river and the sky, the touch of the breeze on my face—all took on new meaning.
As I walked I pondered what I would leave behind should I decide to remain dead. It truly was not a hard decision since I had already begun my journey away from Zeb and Oak Hill.
But to allow people to grieve for me, knowing I had deceived them? This was a new thought, a new turn of my heart. Unbidden, Poppy’s words came to me, words from long ago when I asked him to bless my marriage to Zeb.
“There’s a new brittle cover to yer heart,” he’d said. “Like frost on the edge of a pond. Ye know what is right … and surely ye’re going to do what ye will.”
I knew what I wanted this minute, and frost on the edge of my heart or not, I aimed to see it through. I wanted to remain dead to Zeb and everyone else in Oak Hill. To never be found. To begin life afresh.
Poppy always told me, “Ye canna run from yer troubles, Fairy lass.”
For certa
in, I was planning to do just that. I decided to ignore the memory of his words. Poppy hadn’t known what sorrows might befall me.
I walked on, the sun beating hard in my face. Dead I was. And dead I would remain.
Eighteen
I walked all day, keeping off the road, eating blackberries when I found them. Along the way I found a field of new corn and picked four ears, one to eat and three to take with me.
Sometimes I lost myself in the tangle of vines and undergrowth, and new scratches joined the still-swollen cut on my leg. The shade of the woods kept me cool as I crept along, and I found three springs of fresh water to quench my near unbearable thirst.
A cloud of mosquitoes kept me company, hovering around my face. Soon welts as big as the centers of black-eyed Susans grew on my arms and neck.
I could see my Smokies now, rising up pale lavender and blue against the sky. By sunset they had darkened to shadows, and soon bright stars spangled the indigo skies behind. They called to me in a voice so strong I could almost hear it.
The following day I would reach Dover Town. At least that was my hope. I spent the night in a cornfield, shivering in the damp soil, more from the fright of my experience than from the cold. I ate more corn in the morning, then was sick in the row of corn beside me.
I knelt to the ground then, clutching my stomach as a dull aching pain bent me double. I thought of my suspicions about being with child, and promptly dismissed them. It couldn’t be. Not now.
I started walked again, slowly and unsteadily, keeping to the side of the road lest I be seen. My glorious mountains were my guide, and I followed them west. By midday, I walked to an outcropping at the top of a gentle rise and saw Dover Town lying serene in the distance.
When darkness fell, the glow of lights in the windows of the houses told me I was almost there. Needing a place to sleep, and soon, I puzzled my choices, dressed as I was in ragged, dirty clothes. How could I walk into town—especially to convince the banker that I was Fairwyn March—unless I could find clean clothes and a bath?
Tired and hungry again, I sat heavily on a stump near a clear stream, and let my face fall into my hands. The water rolled and bubbled along its bed, and I stared at it, knowing what I needed to do.
I’d read about the travelers who’d headed west on wagon trains. They had little more than I did now. I looked down at my skirt, then examined my shirtwaist, my smile widening. Before I lost my nerve, I quickly removed everything but my chemise, waded deep into the stream and scrubbed my shirtwaist and skirt with sand. Then I ducked under and rinsed my hair in the dark liquid depths.
I was refreshed when I rose from the water, and I quickly hung my garments on a maple branch, praying it wouldn’t rain. Exhausted, I fell on a grassy patch of the riverbank and slept until dawn.
The next morning, the sun shone bright on my little patch of land. My clothes had dried, and I pressed hard to smooth their wrinkles with my hands. After realizing the attempt was futile, I quickly stepped into my skirt and fastened the multitude of buttons at the back of my shirtwaist. I brushed my hair with my fingers and let it cascade to my shoulders.
An hour later, I entered the First Savings and Trust of Dover Town. Trembling, I stepped to the teller’s window.
A bald man with a green visor looked up and nodded amiably. “How can I help you?”
“My granddaddy opened a savings here years back. He did it as a gift to me. Last I knew there was ninety-one dollars and thirty-six cents.”
“Your name?”
“Fairwyn March.”
A flicker of something akin to recognition lit his eyes. “And the date of deposit?”
“I don’t have the date. When my granddaddy—Angus March—died, he left his savings to me.”
“You have the transaction paper?”
I pulled out the blank, still-damp paper and handed it to him. “I have it, as you can see, though it met with an unfortunate accident.”
He frowned, fingered the paper with distaste, and handed it back to me. “You have proof of who you are?”
I shook my head. “No. Not with me.”
He smiled. “Then you’ll have to get it and come back. Then we can see about your money.”
Fatigue and hunger were making me lightheaded. “Please, sir,” I whispered, leaning against the counter. “I can’t get it, not now. It’s a long distance away, you see. Too far to go back.”
“I’m sorry. These are our rules.”
I hung my head, puzzling what I might do.
Then behind me a woman’s voice spoke. “This here’s Fairwyn March, Nab Quarrie. Don’t ye know a March by jes’ lookin’? Why, they family jes’ about owns these hills. Scattered all over ‘em, they are.”
Before I could turn, the teller smiled at the woman behind me.
“She’s the spittin’ of her grandpappy, the lassie is.”
I turned then, to see Selah Jones waving a cane toward Nab Quarrie. Standing beside her was her grinning friend Lettie Jameson. Selah was so withered and wiry it was a wonder she still could stand upright.
For a moment I didn’t speak, just stared at the two women, my mouth gaping.
“Well, Fairy lass, ain’t ye gonna say hello?” Selah said, hobbling closer and peering into my face. “See there, Lettie,” she said with a frown, “I told ye it was our Fairwyn March. Didn’t I tell ye so? Purty as ever, she is. Purty as ever. Jes’ look at that yeller hair.”
I stared at Selah, wanting to gather the tiny woman into my arms, though I knew she’d have no part of it. Her embraces were few and far between. The last I remembered was the day I found out Poppy died. “Oh, Selah,” I said quietly, “just the sight of ye blesses my heart.”
She grinned up at me with her nearly toothless smile. “I missed ye, lass.”
Before I could answer, the teller cleared his throat. “I guess we’ve established that you’re who you say you are.”
I turned to give him a triumphant smile, only to see his worried frown.
“There’s another problem,” he said, looking down at his ledger. “I see in my records that your husband, a Mr. Zebulon Deforest the Third, came here a year or so ago. According to law, you know, your property—real and otherwise—belongs to him. He changed the name on your account to both your names—Mr. and Mrs. Zebulon Deforest the Third.”
I stepped closer to the counter and gripped it hard. “D-did he take the money?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“No, no. He didn’t.”
I let out a small sigh of relief. “I must have my money,” I said, my voice low. “You must give it to me. My name is on the account, both as Fairwyn March and Mrs. Zebulon Deforest the Third.”
By now, Selah was standing on one side of me, Lettie on the other. “I can vouch fer the lass,” Selah said.
“Amen,” said Lettie. They moved in close as if to keep me from falling.
The teller nodded finally, then smiled at the two women. “I know of no better souls around than these two women. If they vouch for you, then the money is yours.”
Selah looked proud.
“It’s made interest,” Nab Quarrie said as he counted out the bills. “Some of it’s been here for more than a decade.”
I gasped when I saw the stack. “Do you have something I can carry it in? A valise … anything?”
He laughed. “With this you can buy a whole haberdashery.” But he tucked the money into a thick envelope-folder and tied it with twine.
I started to turn to leave, then hesitated. “The bridge that washed out—”
“Oh yes, a tragedy.” He shook his head. “A terrible tragedy.”
“Is there a list posted of the dead? Somewhere here in town?”
“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing official yet. I hear they’re still searching for bodies.”
“One more thing …”
He nodded.
“Is there another way to take a train out of town?”
“Oh yes. There are tracks leading north
, south, and west—just can’t go east because of the bridge.”
Selah Jones and Lettie Jameson did their banking, and I waited to walk with them to the hitching post where they’d left their mules. We left the bank and made our way down the street.
“Since last year the road goes near all the way to Blackberry Mountain,” Lettie said. “Still have to go the rest by mule though.” She shrugged. “ ‘Bout the onliest good thing the mine company’s done fer us.”
“Are ye comin’ home agin now? Back to Blackberry Mountain?” Lettie said. “Is that why ye’re here?”
Selah’s eyes were bright. “I’ve missed ye somethin’ fierce, Fairy lass.”
“I was coming back, but my friend Welsie True has written that she needs me.”
Selah looked stricken. “That so, child?”
“I only received the letter yesterday.”
“So ye’re heading to Californy?” Selah said softly. “To see yer Welsie True at long last.”
I nodded. “On the first train west.”
“Welsie True …” she began, her eyes bright with tears. “So she’s sent for ye.”
“She wants to tell me my family history. Says she wants to see me face to face when I hear it.”
“That would be her way,” Selah said. She stopped in front of two swaybacked mules. She studied my face as if memorizing it. “You tell Welsie True fer me that I think on her. More’n she knows, I do.”
“I’ll tell her.”
“You tell her for me, there’s not a day goes by what I don’t pray for her.” She swallowed hard. “And love her. You tell her for me.”
I tilted my head, surprised. “You never said you knew her well. Only that you knew her.”
“She’s blood kin,” Selah said. “My own true sister I love.” Before I could answer, she climbed onto her mule. Looking down at me, she added. “God’s got ye in his hands, lass. Don’t ever be forgettin’ it.”
The slant of the sun hit my face, and I shaded my eyes, still looking up at her. She smiled then and tipped her hat. “Don’t forget to tell Welsie True.” Then, side by side, the two mules ambled slowly down the street, Lettie and Selah with their heads held high.