He longs to find the miraculous waters of the Buenaventura, which none have seen. He told me of his grand family hacienda south of Albuquerque, where his sister, of whom he is quite fond, lives. She is learning the ways of the Navaho there, and he ascribes them great powers. Truly, Rodriguez just seems anxious for familiar lands. He is eager to be away from McMarrow, whom he openly despises.
Today the Major took my sabre without asking, and used it to carve up some buffalo steaks. He said it was his as I had lost so badly at cards. After he fell asleep I retrieved it. He will not remember.
It is dark now. The Milky Way, Hera’s river of Ambrosia, cleaves the southern sky. I wish that I could bottle that restorative elixir and bring it home to you, to heal your sickness. I am anxious to make Santa Fe as there is a post there. Though you’ve long delayed, I know in my heart some missive will be waiting for me. I have humbly included a sonnet in mine, dedicated to you. Please accept for yourself the bottomless, unchangeable feeling that resides in my heart and courses through every vein in my body: an affection of the man who justly adores all your virtues and who loves you as men have rarely loved.
Your Destiny made Manifest, Zadock
FAM. BOVIDAE
GEN. BISON
12.8.43, 13:45, 75 deg., 25 knots, 6/10ths cloud coverage
Open grassy fields, Texian Territory
Bison, adult male. Very dark brown coat, almost black about the face and legs. At least 6 foot to the shoulder. Have seen these grand behemoths for days now, but today we lunched long enough for me to complete a sketch. They are far more imposing than I had imagined, but in temper gentle and cow-like. They stand as shaggy masters of these open fields. Curiously, both sexes have the horns, but the male’s are much larger. Their young move about them much as calves do cattle, and sport a rusty reddish brown coat as opposed to the darker adults. It is magnificent to see them run, and the many times we’ve ridden up alongside the herds it is as though their speed adds to ours. When the men shoot them, it seems a great shame to me.
Eliza, there is some pleasure in assembling this thread on the Thomas bloodline for you. For instance, can you imagine Zadock’s excitement upon his arrival in Westport in 1843? This juncture of the Missouri and the Konzas River was the main outfitting point for the Santa Fe Trail. The great migration had begun, and settlers high on Manifest Destiny flocked to the Oregon Trail.
I cannot help but to compare it to my journey to Texas. At moments I find myself haunted by a similar sense of fate.
The idea of the West was always aspirational. In the 1840s exaggerated advertisements for a newly discovered Garden of Eden appeared. The expeditions of John Frémont and Kit Carson produced quixotic tales of the western lands, as well as maps allowing settlers to seek their private utopias.
Falsities abounded. The Buenaventura River that Zadock speaks of here is a ghost river. It appeared on many maps of the era, yet no such waterway ever existed. It was a myth.
Stories aside, I find the desire of these early settlers to venture past the bounds of their civilization compelling. Homesteaders would be beyond the reach of any government, in unexplored and dangerous land. Farther, perhaps, than any colonizing enterprise had attempted to go, with the notable exception of the long journeys across the Atlantic. To maintain a belief that the wilderness could be subdued and the brambles turned to civilization required an astonishing faith.
Just when I think I am done with the Historian’s duties, some new moment or person piques my interest. The Santa Fe Trail had been opened by Missouri traders carrying wholesale goods to Santa Fe to be sold in Mexico. Eventually, wealthy New Mexican families wanted a share of the booming economic trade. By 1843 Mexican traders, like Rodriguez, from New Mexico and Chihuahua comprised the vast majority of the overland traffic. These departing caravans needed considerable supplies and services, and could pay. This fueled Westport and the frenzy of commerce that Zadock accurately notes.
Unlike the Oregon Trail, the Santa Fe Trail had to be guarded from unfriendly American Indian tribes and, later, detachments from the Republic of Texas. Comanche and Apache were not keen on trespassers. Both conducted raids on caravans, often stealing goods and livestock, more rarely killing.
Conventional wisdom held that there was safety in numbers, especially if those numbers included soldiers. In Zadock’s caravan they were replaced by Indians, which seems nearly unbelievable to me. That Mexican and Missourian merchants would accept such an escort speaks to either McMarrow’s charm or his belligerence, I’m not sure which.
Zadock’s anxiety to deliver the letter and complete the task it represented is palpable. Another parallel. Funny that I came to Texas in search of perhaps the very same letter. But the tram makes my journey much easier.
For Zadock, the Santa Fe Trail was a difficult undertaking: more than nine hundred miles of desolate landscape composed chiefly of arid plains and desert. Despite the great rains of 1843, water would prove a challenge, especially because the party took the lower branch of the trail, the Cimarron Crossing. The Cimarron River, though full, would have been the only source of water in what increasingly became a desert landscape as they moved west. This terrain was new and strange to Zadock, and his excitement is evident in the many drawings of desert creatures he produced while on the trail.
Despite my difficulties, if my mission here had some semblance of progress I would be far less anxious.
Zeke has not answered my note. I resolved to go and see him, and knock on your door, as risky as that seemed. As I approached your unit, you came out, dressed for work. I ducked behind a watchpost, afraid you’d spotted me. To see you made my heart ache. You have grown into a beautiful woman. You look self-assured and graceful like your mother, and at the same time entirely like your seven-year-old self. I was overwhelmed.
I will have to think of another way. These letters, this thread I am preparing—I have begun to think you need to see it sooner than I had planned. I cannot simply leave it in your inheritance bundle. There is not time to wait until after I’m gone.
Defying the ban on our communication is very dangerous. The punishment would be harsh if either of us were caught with a thread like this one. I had sometimes thought of myself as a harmless historical symbiont riding the back of the government’s stored knowledge, taking what I need. Now I have begun to leech away that lifeblood and adopt the attitude of a malignant parasite. My relationship with this government has always been strained. On the one hand they ruined my life, and on the other saved it.
Your mother was beautiful. Sometimes I’m glad her sickness took her before the rest occurred. I cared for her, but we weren’t in love. How could I be? I am Queer.
It was something I had long known, but it had been impossible for me to tell anyone. After the Collapse, the lifephase system was initiated out of the dire necessity to reproduce. The population had dwindled to a range we had previously used for animals on the verge of extinction. A key part of reestablishing civilization was procreation.
The Queers were left out, then ostracized, then persecuted. One of the first watchposts in Salt-Lake recorded an illicit affair I was having with a man. The punishment at that time was to be thrown out into the rot. After the Collapse, there was very little patience or tolerance for diversity. Folks were scared.
Many Queers that were my friends had been thrown over. I suspected they were out there, banding together. I wonder if I’d have taken the risk to join them if it weren’t for you.
You made me a special case. Being Queer, I didn’t fit the lifephase system and therefore neither did you. The Lawmen would have thrown me over and declared you an orphan. Instead one Senator struck a compromise. You would take the Gray name and leave my bad bloodline behind. The Law agreed it would give you a fresh start. I was allowed to live but forbidden to ever contact you again. I was given a post in the new government, under the Master of Records, by the Senator who had advocated for my life, Zacharyh Thomas.
I’ve thought about you eve
ry day since. I’ve celebrated every birthday of yours. I wonder if you even know when that is.
When I think of our reunion, it always looks like the day we were torn apart. The judgment had come down quickly, and I was sent to Chicago-Land immediately. I brought you with me to the tram terminal to say goodbye.
I can picture that afternoon perfectly. Long lashes of sunlight coming through the tall windows, the terminal empty with charged air. The oiled gears of the tram, the newness of the white upholstery coloring the air with a clean bright smell.
I said goodbye, that I didn’t know when I’d see you again. What else could I say? You were seven.
To you, my explanations were flimsy. What was true was the pain. Your chin trembled, confusion flickered in your eyes. You didn’t know what was happening, but you knew it was bad.
It’s been so long. I can only imagine that your hurt and anger have compounded over the years. How could you ever forgive me, when I can’t explain why it had to be this way? I have lived in secrecy and shame all these years. I reject this society’s bigotry, but I am still afraid. Senator Thomas later campaigned for acceptance. And my sexuality is no longer a crime. But neither is it equal. Most of my fellows have been relegated to Atlantas.
I sympathize with the Deserters in this city-state. The Republic has bred mistrust. I wish our societies were governed according to human nature. The lines drawn between nations and states exist only in the imaginations of men. Our government has forgotten that. I would have them study America’s nascent stage, to discover the valuable lessons contained in history’s tragedies. The American Indians, for example, had no boundaries. Their minds, previously free, were circumscribed by foreign conceptions of flags and maps and then decimated by foreign disease and violence.
The foreigners visited violence upon themselves as well. The land grab for unclaimed territory in the middle part of the century is unmatched in world history. As the U.S. took on more territories and ratified them as states, some of them tried to break away, nearly resulting in a split of the whole country. The American Civil War was fought against the Southern states a few short decades later. Bigotry again, in its worst form.
During those years, the Texas territory held by a thread. It rightfully belonged to Mexico, but the Texans, in their long, open rebellion, were having some success forming a republic. Mexico was not organized enough to control the territory.
Texas wrote a constitution, set up a government, and began printing currency. The war, however, dragged on, and caused disruption in the trade routes and political relations with the neighboring countries. The U.S. worried from the sidelines. Some wanted to annex Texas and be done with it. This might cause a war with Mexico, but they weren’t opposed to a fight. Some even advocated for the occupation and acquisition of the entirety of Mexico, but the U.S. government did not want responsibility for that many non-Anglo citizens. The issue of whether Texas would be admitted as a free state or a slave state hung over the question of annexation.
The nation hesitated. Major social upheaval caused by wars and shifting boundaries inevitably leads to death and the ripping apart of families. A stable civilization is necessary for the maintenance of family ties and bloodlines. So they say.
As much as I want to, I can’t speak to you. I’m afraid you’ll hate me. In order to avoid another run-in, I looked at your file and learned your daily routines. It was here I discovered that your namestamps are all over the murder thread that has plagued this city-state.
I wish you had not taken the thread on. One Corrector can always tell the work of another, and every file that relates to the murders has been heavily corrected. Someone is manipulating the thread. Major Daxon keeps tight reins on the Vault, and I don’t think he can be trusted. I don’t know how to warn you of all of this without revealing myself.
I am determined to fix what I have made wrong in your lives. I regret that I reported the letter missing. I will go to Zeke. The Sisters Gray makes it clear that this letter is an important family record. I will warn him of the danger you both are in.
Take care. You were always a clever girl. And a funny one. I remember your tricks well, your teasing “Bye forever” that would stop my heart every time. A dark prophecy, that was.
I’m keeping an eye on Daxon’s files. And, of course, yours, but only out of love and fear for your safety. There is no worry like that of a father for his daughter.
MR. GRAY HAS A NIGHTMARE.
Aunt Anne roused Mr. Gray. He had taken to sleeping on the leather sofa in the museum room ever since Mrs. Gray had died. Aunt Anne often found him here, and roused him to make him retire to his proper bed.
Mr. Gray woke slowly, sitting with great effort and trying to smooth his hair back in place. ‘I was dreaming of my daughters.’
‘Is that so?’ Aunt Anne always listened to others’ dreams with curiosity. Mr. Gray took it for politeness.
‘A mad general had come to me to tell me that both their suitors had been killed in battle and that they should never marry. They were up in the trees, the tops of them were all tied together with rope, the forest was a giant net. Elswyth was sick again and I could not break the news to her as she was being bled quite horribly. She lay in a giant nest, as a wounded bird, whilst Louisa flittered all about her on the wings of a moth. It was maddening. I tried to catch her hem but could not bring her out of the air.’
‘My premonitions about the girls have also been dark of late. Unless they lie with the men they are fated to, it bodes ill.’
‘As I told you, Mr. Thomas was needed for my task. He is the only one who can deliver the letter.’
‘And the one who can marry the Thomas and Gray blood.’
‘I don’t believe in all your blood alchemy. I told Elswyth she should find another. Mr. Thomas belongs in Texas. If the war does not end, what will future generations matter?’
‘It is the future generations that will bring it to a stop.’
‘Zadock cannot be the only man in the Thomas bloodline. Couldn’t you find someone for Louisa when her time comes to marry? Doesn’t Mr. Thomas have a brother?’
‘Yes, and Seth is queer.’
Mr. Gray stood, and wobbled. The last few years, the financial strain of the museum added to the trouble at the mill had exacted a toll. ‘I don’t understand why this Thomas bloodline is so desired. He behaves like a twit half of the time. You and your weird Sisters are too concerned with the marriages of others. Was my wife so prescriptive about her daughters’ fate?’
‘She wrote the book on it. You have read The City-State. The future demands the bloodlines meet. She foresaw it. Unless this happens, nothing can be true. Stop fretting over your little errand or your little war. Your concern should be for what happens here, with your daughters.’ Aunt Anne took his arm with her crippled hand and they walked slowly from the darkened room. ‘Louisa needs discipline, if she is the one to be married. She is in danger, even now. I sense a change within her. If Elswyth does not find a suitable husband, there is always the Auspicium. Our walls are meant for protection from the outside world, to keep in what is sacred. Our texts, our rituals, everything about our way of life must be secured. The world is full of murderers and beasts.’
‘I understand, but I’m afraid my elder daughter shares her mother’s aversion to structured life and the direction of others.’
Aunt Anne sat him on the kitchen stool and busied herself with the kettle. ‘I’ll brew you something to aid your sleep.’ She pulled a carmine feather from the pocket of her sleeve, ground it into a fine dust, and sprinkled it into an empty teacup.
‘Elsie would balk at being confined to the company of women-folk. Especially if it seemed I simply couldn’t afford a wedding.’
‘Her speech, along with your new specimens, will be more than enough to sway the gala patrons to open their pocketbooks.’
‘Subscribing to Mr. Audubon’s entire series was too costly. To finish the Birds of America folio, the girls will have to be wedded to wealt
h. The fates have resolved to keep me penniless.’
‘You are their father. I’m sure your solution will be considered,’ Aunt Anne said. She patted his arm. He flinched at the touch of her withered claw. ‘Take your tea upstairs. I’ve already turned down the bed and seen to the fireplace.’
FAM. LEPORIDAE
GEN. TEMPERAMENTALUS
24.8.43, 16:15, 100 deg., 5 knots, no clouds
Raton Pass, Texas. Rocky desert country. Small dry brush
Jack-a-lope. Large hare quite similar to the Jackrabbit, but featuring small antlers, like that of a young antelope. Fearsome personality. I imagine resources are scant in these climes, and the necessity of preserving territorial boundaries has made for fierce fighting headwear on an otherwise peaceful animal. Nature is a most thoughtful giver of gifts!
ELSWYTH RECEIVES A SONNET. LOUISA IS ILL. HER SECRET IS REVEALED.
eeping a holy silence, Elswyth had risen early that day and opened all the windows to reveal a dark gathering of rain clouds. She had spent the better part of the morning working on her novel of manners. She had been composing it for months, mostly in her head, and it was high time to get a few things down on paper. Louisa would need the advice—Elswyth had struggled mightily in society without a name to recommend her.
She should instead be writing her speech for the Museum of Flying’s annual gala. It was imperative to the survival of her father’s venture and thus happiness, but she was too cross with him at the moment to feel like he deserved an act of kindness.
Bats of the Republic Page 11