by T C Donivan
“But it’s the only conclusion,” I said.
“You’re talking about faith. Think about it in these terms; do you accept the miracles of the Bible, or discount them because science cannot explain them?” She asked.
“I’m not very religious. You’ve quoted chapter and verse before. What do you think?” I asked her.
“I told you that my grandfather proselytized for John Wesley?”
“Yes.”
“My mother was devout, but my father had been raised half wild. He was a good, kind man, but you couldn’t get him inside a meeting house. Though he never spoke a word against it, I think he wore down mother’s faith over the years. I saw the desperation in her eyes when she lay dying after she’d lost the baby. She had my sister Kelly and I read the Lord’s Prayer for her, but she was terrified. I think the wilderness had devoured her faith.” She shook her head wearily. “How could she feel anything else? We had no doctor, the four of us alone in that hellish place, watching her bleed to death. How can faith overcome that?”
“You didn’t say what you believed.”
She stirred the fire, not looking at me. I could tell I had pushed too far again. “You’re always the story hound. You need to know. You didn’t say exactly what you believed either. Is that your faith Clayton, or your obsession – needing to know how the story comes out?
I felt injured by the sharpness of her tone and could not answer her for fear of replying in kind. An awkward silence fell between us.
After a while she spoke, reciting James Chapter 2, Verse 17, "So also faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead. I have no works Clayton."
"By faith we understand that the universe was created by the word of God, so that what is seen was not made out of things that are visible," I replied feeling a bit too proud of my cleverness.
“Hebrews 11:3. We can both quote chapter and verse, but it brings no comfort to the dead. I saw Rachel done by those savage Crows as we did that elk,” she said.
“And I saw her spirit dancing atop her grave.”
“Who knows what you saw Clayton.”
I had come to believe in my heart it was the spirit of poor, dead Rachel, but did not argue the point afraid of further alienating her. Instead I chose another tact. “I’ve shared some of what Mozart told me, but not all of it for fear you’d think us all lunatics. Mozart believes you can access different points in our reality, the past, present, future, through a magical compass he claims to be able to navigate.” I chuckled. “It sounds even more ridiculous when spoken out loud doesn’t it?”
“Do you believe it?” She asked.
Though she spoke plaintively, I imagined derision in her words and became agitated. “I don’t know. Not at first, but after what I saw and the things Mozart predicted…”
Annie smiled gently. “I’m not doubting you, or him Clayton. I don’t know what I believe. I only want to know what you think.”
“Tree Owl believes Mozart to be a Cheyenne trickster-spirit. That makes as much sense as anything the little darkie says. And Tree Owl claims to have had the same dream as I did about the owls and the doves.” I puffed myself up in imitation of my native friend. “We shall have a great adventure together Clay-ton.”
“You can be cruel in your mockery,” Annie said.
“No more than you mimicking Hawker,” I replied.
Her face fell. “I didn’t mean to sound that way. I respect the man too much.”
“Nothing I say tonight comes out right,” I complained.
“You and I both dreamed of the library. I know that was significant to me,” Annie said.
“As if we were linked by invisible bonds before we even met,” I said.
She began to recite:
“He dropped the reins appalled, the steeds aware
Of the slacked hand and rein, burst through the air
Through unknown regions, stars, and pathless sky,
Now sinking near to earth, now soaring high”
“What is that from?” I asked.
“Ovid. He was a Roman poet around the time of Christ. David had a book of his poems in his traveling library.”
“I’ve never heard it before, but I know it. It’s like he was talking about my Pathless Sky.” She looked at me oddly. “You’ll make me sleep in the snow if I keep talking like this,” I said.
She shook her head. “It’s no more fantastic than Moses parting the Red Sea, or Jesus feeding the multitude with a handful of loaves and fishes. If you can accept one myth, then why not another? How can you call one divine and the other lunacy?”
“Half of faith is based on unexplainable mysteries,” I said.
“I’ve come terribly close to dismissing them all, but I find myself wishing we had a Bible. It makes me feel close to my mother when I remember the times we read from it together.”
“I wish I’d known. They might have had one at the fort,” I said
She laughed at the notion. “You can buy whisky and squaws at Fort Laramie, but you won’t find God among the dry goods.” She looked at me softly.
“What?” I asked.
“I never told you how we came to Fort Laramie this year. We usually go to Bent’s Fort about four hundred miles south to trade our pelts. It’s closer to where we make our summer camp and the prices are usually better, but last year Hawker got into an argument with the Bent Brothers and told them to go to hell because he thought they were trying to cheat him. It was the only time I’ve seen him act foolishly.”
“We would never have met,” I said.
“I think we would have. There’s something in you Clayton that draws me to you.”
“I’m glad.”
We took off our clothes and slipped beneath the furs. The storm moved slowly, burying us in snow. Except to check and feed the horses, we barely stirred from the shelter for five days. Though we had made love many times before, we drank more deeply of each other during those days than we ever did before or after, craving one another more with each bacchanalian tryst.
As we wrestled one night near to climax, Annie’s fingers bore into my arms and she begged me, “If I’m dying Clayton, read some sweet words to me if you can, Byron, or Coleridge. I need the sound of your voice.”
As my seed spilled into her and we shivered. I held her, whispering softly in her ear:
“You stood before me like a thought,
A dream remembered in a dream.
But when those meek eyes first did seem
To tell me, Love within you wrought--
O Annie, dear domestic stream!”
She covered my mouth with hers and we kissed for what seemed an eternity. I dreamed that night of a verdant summer scene whose sylvan forest was carpeted with trees as close to one another as blades of grass. A cerulean lake sparkled at its epicenter and towering mountain peaks surrounded it like citadel walls. Two nameless creatures prowled its Byzantine paths, wordlessly making love, eating and sleeping by the shores of the lake, existing in perfect peace and harmony. I discovered the next morning that Annie had had the same dream. We came to it again and again while we lived on the mountain.
On a day, in what was likely mid-February, I dreamed of Spencer. He was adrift on a black sea of peril beneath a forbidding gray sky, beset on all sides by demons, his mind slipping away into madness. I struggled, fighting off the horde, but could not reach him. He battled against his tormenters valiantly, then called to me and fell beneath their insurmountable number. I awoke in a cold sweat. Annie touched my face comforting me.
“I dreamed about Spencer.”
“I did too,” she said.
“We have to go back.”
Chapter 25 – The Hermit
It was not yet March, but the snows had begun to melt in the lower passes of the Rockies. It was an ugly, muddy world compared to the wonderland we had left. We were filled with nostalgia, both of us knowing that even if we stayed together a lifetime, we would never again find such peace as we had on our mountain.
“How long have you been back?” I asked trying to catch my breath after his invigorating embrace.
“Two days. I knew when you would return. The little sparrows told me. They said you had a fine winter.”
“We did and what about you?” I asked him.
“I have great news. I have found my mother’s ancestors. They live in a city of stone in the mountains of the Mexican country. I traveled the Great North Road to their home and they knew my name when they saw me.”
“That’s wonderful,” I said not at all sure what any of it meant.
“We shall go there together soon. You will need many writing sticks to remember all you will see there,” Tree Owl said.
Having discovered the joys of life with Annie, I had little enthusiasm now for such an adventure, but Tree Owl’s delight was such I could not turn him down outright.
“It sounds intriguing,” I said. I turned to Mozart. “How is Spencer, have you seen him lately?” I asked, fearful of the answer.
“Not for two weeks. The weather has been bad. Tree Owl and I were just getting ready to go out and see him. Will you come with us?” He asked.
“It’s why we’re here,” I explained.
“You’ve been dreaming about him too?” Mozart asked.
“Yes, both Annie and I. He isn’t well is he?”
“No.”
“How is Sebastian? He was sick when we left.”
“He died a month ago. He’s buried by the river,” Mozart said quietly.
I was thunderstruck by the news. “Christ no.” I covered my face with my hands. Annie put her arms around me and lay her head on my shoulder. “The last time I saw him…” I composed myself. “Where is Zenobia?”
“Here at the fort. He has nowhere to go,” Mozart said.
“We invite him to dinner and he tries to be happy, but he can’t,” Sosanna said.
I looked at the girl. She still appeared little more than a child, but she had acquired a degree of maturity over the winter. Living with the odd African had done that I supposed. The thought that she was all that remained of the Hanisch family made me sad.
“Come and smoke with us and eat. In the morning we will gather our friend and bring him back to us. Then we can begin our journey,” Tree Owl said.
There was a confidence about the Indian that was comforting. I hoped our companionship might revive Spencer. Certainly he had mourned long enough.
“Oh, there’s one more bit of sad news,” Mozart said.
“What’s that?” I asked with trepidation.
“News came just last week that the pioneer expedition that was led by Kingfish was caught in one of the passes of the Sierra Nevadas in California by the snows. By the time they found them, they were all dead,” he told us.
“My God!” I exclaimed.
“And worse yet, it appears they resorted to cannibalism at the end.” My jaw dropped remembering Spencer’s prediction. Mozart stared at me with his unearthly gaze, “Yes, it happened as Spencer divined it in his dreams.”
****
We found Zenobia the next morning camped outside the fort beside the battered wagon that had carried our supplies from Independence. It seemed a desolate thing. Sebastian’s deathbed and personal items were still inside the wagon as he had left them. In his grief, Zenobia had been unable to bring himself to dispose of them.
He was glad to see us and we asked him to join us. We made up a company of four as we began, what I hoped would be, our final journey to the misbegotten place of Spencer’s self-confinement. Annie chose to stay with Sosanna at the fort for fear her presence would provoke a reaction in Spencer, should he still harbor a grudge toward her from the Kingfish business.
The doctor seemed little changed on the surface. I attributed it to his military and medical experience, loss being a natural part of both professions. I asked him about Sebastian, but he said little, choosing instead to pepper me with questions about life in the mountains.
“I think I shall go to California. I should like to see the Rockies,” he said.
“Annie and I were thinking the same,” I told him.
“We might travel together,” he proposed.
The notion was not unpleasant, as the doctor provided good, undemanding company and another gun should we run into trouble. I became hopeful. If we could convince Spencer to return with us, we might reconstitute most of our old traveling fellowship. Though I admired Tree Owl immensely, I gave no serious thought to actually going into the Mexican territory to socialize with his distant cousins. Though the Sioux had proven friendly enough, our experience with the other, wild tribes of the Plains had left me wary of the attentions of most of his race.
The winter had wrought havoc with the countryside and I found the landscape virtually unrecognizable from when I’d last seen it. We arrived at the place after dark, the days being short and travel difficult in the snow and mud. There was no sign of life. I could just discern Rachel’s grave beneath the rocky outcropping in the afterglow of the twilight. So bleak a place to rest I thought. Mozart walked his pony up the hillside.
“Spencer – are you here?” He called out.
I heard a sound like the noise of a raven clearing its throat in the brush. Mozart got down from his horse and went to it. I walked Elijah to the spot, but did not get down lest some wild beast leap out at us. The bushes trembled. Mozart advanced cautiously, reaching out a hand.
“Spencer,” he said.
A ghastly wraith appeared; face little more than a skull, dressed in ragged clothes, the once leonine mane of hair thin and streaked with white. His eyes shone like a madman’s, his limbs atremble. Mordecai, in little better shape, came slinking out behind him. I audibly gasped at the sight as did Zenobia. We got down from our horses and went to him.
I was angry with Mozart. “How could you let him go like this?” I demanded.
“He is not mine or any man’s to command,” he told me.
I could not argue the logic of self-determination, but was not ready to give up my indignation that easily. I put my arm around my old comrade while the others crowded around us. He felt frail as an old man beneath his threadbare coat.
“Spencer, it’s me, Clayton.”
His too bright eyes dimmed slightly as he considered the statement. “Clayton?” The voice that emanated from the sad hulk of a man was hoarse and hollow. “Clayton,” he repeated, then put his arms around me and lay his head on my shoulder like a lost child. He whispered in my ear, “I’ve seen her Clayton. She’s told me where to find her.”
Though I knew them to be the words of a lunatic, they chilled me just the same because of the conviction with which he spoke them. We sat him down and built a campfire and filled him with hot coffee. He nibbled at the cold jerky we offered. He stared at Zenobia and Tree Owl without recognition.
“We’ve come to take you back,” I said.
He nodded vigorously. “Find Blue, he’s a good horse and we have miles to cover. We will traverse your path in the sky Clayton. I’ve seen it.”
Tree Owl leaned across the fire. “We have all seen the vision now. The time has come for us to make the journey.”
“Prepare your mind. Do you know what you’re truly searching for Spencer?” Mozart asked. He nodded absently.
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
Mozart turned to me. “He begs me to take him to her in the Compass. I’ve told him it’s not so easy.” The young African peered into my face. “Have you heard the legend of the man who went into
Hell to rescue his friend?”
“I’ve heard the Greek and Northern myths, Orpheus and Eurydice, Baldur and Odin,” I said.
“The story is older than either of those, but you must understand, it is not myth, but a true record of the journey one man made to return another from the dead. You know the conclusion.”
I still did not believe any of what he said, but played along for the sake of understanding his state of mind. “And if this will end the same, why undertake the journey?”
Mozart gave a small shrug. “The complexities of the labyrinth are such that it cannot be predicted with any degree of accuracy. It is not Hell they descended into, but the Compass of Eternity, the place I’ve told you about.”
“Do you know the outcome of all things before they happen?” I asked intrigued by the subtext of what he said.
He spoke clearly and concisely without the hint of a slave accent, “You will live to the age of 74 Clayton, unless you choose to ride Elijah off a mountainside. We retain freedom of will, but few exercise that option as it is too difficult. Rachel might have slashed her throat with a sharp stone rather than submit to hours of torture when the Indians seized her, but she clung to the hope of life. Please understand that I do not criticize her. It is the choice nearly all of us make, no matter how terrible the moment we live in. It is the animal instinct; that which refuses to embrace the possibility of eternity and clings to the final human breath, no matter how miserable.”
“Is the soul immortal then?” I asked, caught up in his words as I supposed the disciples of both Biblical prophets and charlatans are. I noticed Zenobia sat with rapt attention as well, while Tree Owl beamed at us knowingly.
“We wish to believe so. Certainly, a part of us has lived before and shall live again, in one form, or another. But what that may be, even I do not know.” He held his arms out in front of him. “It is a great conceit to believe that we shall continue forever as we are now. To believe that this weak vessel is the pinnacle of creation is the ultimate human contrivance. The Indians, both of this continent and the one Zenobia visited, are not far wrong. The spirit of intelligence resides in all living things; trees, animals, human beings. Pieces of us splinter off into them and reform in new configurations with amazing rapidity. The stronger ones retain much of themselves, but even they do not reconstitute as they were.”