To the Bright Edge of the World

I have no idea what she was talking about, and offered that Mr Pruitt found me tiresome instead. Evelyn waved it off, eager to share her gossip.

  “Mr Pruitt was at Elk Creek.”

  The place name meant nothing to me. Evelyn was disbelieving. How could I not know? She was more than willing to educate me.

  It is a terrible, terrible affair. Hundreds of Indians, mostly women and children guarded by a few warriors, slain on a winter’s night. Most were killed before they left their teepees.

  “The rest were hunted through the snow, like deer,” Evelyn said. “Do you know what they do, when the soldiers bear down on them? The squaws rip open their clothes to show their breasts, in hopes that they will be spared, but these men were not so particular.”

  The commander is a known drunkard, according to Evelyn, who filled the soldiers with whiskey the night before, and rallied them to the unspeakable once the killing was begun.

  She insists she has overheard many such stories and does not believe them to be exaggerated. Her uncle was among those who argued for the men to be disciplined, while even at the same time politicians in Washington, D.C., were calling for them to be decorated with medals. In the end, the soldiers were neither punished nor rewarded.

  And did Mr Pruitt truly have a hand in this? Evelyn could not say for certain, but she said there is no doubt that he was with the company.

  All of this, Evelyn relayed in a breathless, excited manner, and in it, I saw an unfortunate cruelty. If she had been born a man, I wonder if she might have been clever and daring, if not somewhat wild. Instead she is confined to gossip and idleness, and the boredom of it all does her character ill.

  As for Mr Pruitt, I hardly know what to think. No matter his part in the battle, it must darken his mind. I can only hope Allen has chosen his men well.

  April 24

  I spend too much time with this map, as if I could somehow divine your whereabouts if I only studied it diligently. There is so little to go by: the jagged margins of the coast, a thin line marked “Wolverine River,” yet I know all too well that its route is only conjecture.

  You must be through the icy canyon by now, and into that wild country so little known.

  It is all well and good for me to write such things from the warmth of my bed, but I am sure I would rather be at your side at this very moment, suffering whatever cold and hunger you endure, than to sit here with all the comforts of the world, alone and unknowing.

  April 25

  I was in need of such a day as this! To take in the fresh air, to observe a dozen species of birds, and to have an interesting encounter, all without leaving the back yard.

  The weather was pleasant, and Charlotte brought my chair so that I might sit for a while out of doors. I had everything I needed — a lap robe, a stool to rest my feet upon, a cup of warm tea, my field glasses, and notebook.

  As I was sitting here, a man came up the lane and then along the side of the house without noticing my presence.

  Up close, he cut a somewhat menacing figure. He is near to seventy years old, I would guess, but he is yet broad chested and marked as a soldier — deep scars on his face cause such a downcast to his eye and scowl to his mouth that he looked quite angry, and I hesitated to speak to him at all. However, I screwed up my courage, and called a greeting.

  I am afraid I must have startled him. He was on his way to my yard, I am certain, but finding me sitting there, he seemed to consider turning away as if he had not seen or heard me.

  “You are welcome,” I called to him and waved.

  He looked down at his boots, adjusted his sagging cavalry hat, and at last shuffled my way.

  “Good afternoon ma’am. Just checking on the fruit trees. I’m the one looks after them.”

  “Oh, yes, there are several apple trees just over there, but I suppose you know that,” I said, and then I realized how strange and rude I must appear, sitting there with my feet propped.

  “I am not usually so helpless,” I chattered on senselessly, “but you see, I’m . . . I’m expecting . . .”

  And here he waited for me to finish my sentence, as if I might say I’m expecting a package, or a visitor.

  “A child. I’m with child.”

  Why on earth did I say all this to the poor man? It must have made him dreadfully uncomfortable.

  “Well, then, that’s good news I suppose,” he said at last.

  “Yes, of the best sort!”

  The man removed his hat then, out of politeness, and I noticed several fingers missing on his right hand, but I averted my gaze so as not to cause him embarrassment. An awkward silence descended upon us, and I wished Charlotte would come out.

  “Oh, please excuse me, I haven’t properly introduced myself. I am Sophie Forrester.”

  “MacGillivray,” he said.

  “Oh, a grand name!” I exclaimed, for I could not help my enthusiasm. “The MacGillivray’s warbler — do you know its call, Mr MacGillivray? I believe it is similar to the mourning warbler.”

  I did my poor imitation — “churry churry chorry cho.”

  I feared the man was becoming annoyed with me, for his face contorted in the oddest way, but then he laughed out loud.

  “Is that what I sound like then?” he said.

  “No, no, not you, just your namesake.”

  At last, there was some ease between us and I asked him some about the work he does.

  “General’s put me out to pasture, so to speak, which suits me well enough. Always have preferred the company of trees.”

  Since he knows the landscape so well, I asked if I might have any hope of seeing the elk or grizzly bears for which this wild country is so famous.

  “Not likely at all,” he said. “This fort’s been occupied by hungry men for half a century. They’ve fairly scoured the land for any bite of meat. Now and then a cougar or black bear might wander down off the mountains, but only two or three times that I can remember.”

  And what of humming birds?

  “Yes ma’am,” he said, “they do buzz about in the summer.”

  I explained that I would very much like to observe their nesting behavior this summer, but I suspected I would have to venture up the hill away from the barracks.

  “I’d advise against that,” he said. “There are some hellacious brambles up there.”

  I assured him that I am in possession of both stout boots and a stout heart. To which he said nothing, and we were again at an awkward impasse.

  I wondered aloud, then, if the humming birds here are much like those back East. In Vermont, the ruby-throated humming bird often builds its nests near fresh water, I said, in the branch of an oak or maple tree. Certainly there are different species of trees here, but perhaps the Rufous share these same preferences.

  He was, I think, taken aback that I should be knowledgeable and curious in such a way.

  “Well, that being the case, a body might try following the creek down past there.” He pointed toward the northeast and said that if I followed the creek up the hill, it would lead to a marsh where I might “poke about” and find something.

  “But you best wait until you are well, and your Colonel returns,” he said. “I don’t need him chasing me down for neglect.”

  I told him there is no need for concern — for now, I am very much confined by circumstance.

  Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester

  April 28, 1885

  Even with Sgt. Tillman & Lieut. Pruitt as witnesses, I resist putting this down. How do we account for such an occurrence? We are hungry, it is true, but I have been nearer starvation & not suffered such hallucinations. Is it possible we have encountered a natural intoxicant? I can think of nothing unusual we have ingested. We have not even eaten the salmon we received from the Midnooskies, as we were saving it for more desperate times.

  I have no way to account for it, only truth as I have perceived it & which I will try to relay here.

  Before dawn, Tillman, Pruitt, & I set
out for the marshland to hunt the Canada geese we have seen fly overhead. Boyd & Samuelson were to travel up a nearby valley — they continue to look for precious metals in these mountains.

  Our hope was to reach the marsh as the sun was rising, so as to find the geese before they took wing. The morning was clear & cold. We walked up the river valley for a mile or so. As we neared the marsh, through the willows we heard a cacophony.

   — Geese? Tillman mouthed silently.

  I was not sure. At first, it sounded much like waterfowl — restless honks & the occasional flap of wing & splash. Then my ear would catch something else, a laugh or word.

  We crept through the brush, emerged at the edge of the wetland. We faced directly into first light as it broke through the mountains. Frost & brittle ice had formed during the cold night, but a small stream ran open among the hummocks of dead grass. Although not much wider than a stride, the stream was clear & shoulder deep.

  Not far off, near a stand of large cottonwood trees, at least two dozen women gathered. Some sat on the grass, others waded & swam. Their hair shone long & black in the sun. They wore hide tunics similar to those favored by Alaska Indians, but these skins were of a paler shade, a near white, & without adornments.

  Tillman stumbled out of the brush at this inopportune moment, grabbed at the willows as he tripped. Pruitt put a finger to lips, but it was too late for the commotion had startled the women. Several looked in our direction, shrieked at the sight of us.

  Soon all were shouting & fleeing. As they scattered, they splashed through the water and it caught the glare of the rising sun. It was a blinding scene. In that same instant, countless wild geese took flight from the very midst of the women, so that wing & black hair, scream & strangled honk were indistinguishable from one another.

  None of us would shoot in the direction of the women, so we were stalled. Then, from perilously near, we heard the sound of arrows in flight. We all crouched, raised our rifles, but their aim was not us. The Midnooskies had come with the same intention to hunt geese.

  Arrows struck several of the birds before they could gain altitude. The geese fell, flopped in the marsh. The Indians continued to send their arrows.

   — They’ll hit the women, Tillman said.

  Indeed, it was true. Pruitt pointed towards the cottonwoods, where one of the women flailed against a tree.

  The Indians lowered their bows. Those geese that had not been killed were now airborne & out of reach. The women had vanished, all but the one who had been struck.

  We walked upstream to her, with several Midnooskies trailing us.

  At first I thought the arrow pierced her, but as we neared, I saw that it passed harmlessly through the skin shift at her side & pinned her to the trunk of the tree.

  The woman became still at our approach, watched us through strange eyes — so gleaming & black that they appeared to have no center. Her skin was neither white like ours nor brown like the Indians, but instead a translucent gray. Her lips were dull black, as if coated with charcoal, & broad bands of white, like paint, ran down either of her cheeks. Her skin, her hair, her pale tunic, were all speckled with beads of water.

  The Midnoosky stood beside the woman, gestured from her to me.

   — I don’t know, but I think he’s asking if you want her, Tillman said.

  I reached to pull the arrow from the tree, but the woman seized my wrist. Her grasp was wet & leathery. I then saw that a slick membrane webbed her fingers. Her nails were black, slender & sharp. She turned her head slightly to look at me through one of her peculiar eyes. She blinked — so quickly that surely I am mistaken — but it seemed her eyelid flickered from bottom to top in an uncanny way.

  She lowered her head & hissed at me, a frightful sound like a cornered snake.

  Overhead, the flock of geese circled, cried.

   — Oh, Jesus, Tillman said. — You’re not taking her, are you?

  With my other hand, I pulled the arrow from the tree. I hoped she would escape, but she was not quick enough. The Indian grabbed her waist, bound her hands with leather thong, led her away. Throughout the marsh, the other Indians gathered the dead geese & stray arrows.

  We walked empty-handed back to our camp with little talk except Tillman’s occasional mutterings — All my life, never seen anything like it.

  I am curious to hear Samuelson’s interpretation of these events when he returns to camp.

   — No goose for supper, then?

  Such was the trapper’s response.

  I explained how we had come upon the flock & the women at the marsh, the two mingled so that one could not tell them apart. I told him of the strange woman who was pinned by an arrow.

   — A real hell-cat, Tillman offered. — I thought the Colonel had lost all sense, when it seemed like he was taking her in.

  Samuelson lit his pipe.

   — A shame, he said. — Had my mouth set for goose. Bit tired of hare & thin broth.

  I asked again if he had ever seen anything like it.

   — Nope, he said around his pipe. — I’ve heard it told, though, that’s how they first got their women.

  When the world was small & mostly water, he said, women were geese. If a man wanted one, he had to go & catch her before she changed back & flew off.

   — Course, then he’s got the trouble of bringing her home & trying to tame her.

  Samuelson chuckled, as if this was surely the hardest part to believe.

  Tillman paced about with some nervousness.

   — You’re saying that’s what we saw, out there in the marsh today?

   — I’m just passing along a story I heard told. Make of it what you will.

   — It’s ridiculous! Pruitt said.

  It all amused the trapper.

   — So, he said, — a woman from a rib you’ll have, but not from a goose?

  A small number of Mednovtsy Indians have accepted the Orthodox faith, but their nomadic life and distance from the Konstantin redoubt, as well as their casual attitude toward their new religion, means that they very rarely participate in religious ceremonies, and many have even forgotten that they are Christians.

   — From Captain P. N. Golovin’s Last Report,

  1862 (translated from the Russian)

  Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester

  April 30, 1885

  With the snow rapidly disappearing, we are able to walk easily along the river shore. It is sparse country indeed, though majestic in its span. The mountains to the northeast are wrapped in clouds & what we make for plumes of volcanic steam. The peaks are of such luminous white as to look unearthly.

  Pruitt estimates we have gained no more than 15 miles in the past two days. Our travel is slowed by our fatigue & need to search for food. We have seen no more waterfowl. Samuelson caught a few hares during the nights, but they are not enough.

   — I’m sick to death of these d —— d rabbits, but I’d swallow a dozen of them if they were on hand, Tillman said.

  We are beginning to understand how the natives can be so gluttonous, consuming vast amounts of food in one sitting. It seems the lean meat of this land is not enough to keep up with the physical demands it places on one’s body.

  We have crossed paths with two other small groups of Midnooskies. Other times we have sensed that the Indians are near but they conceal themselves. So far, they show no sign of the ferocity or cannibalistic nature of which we had heard. They are guarded, watchful, somewhat suspicious of our intentions. The women & children run, hide among the nearby bushes when we approach. We can feel their eyes on us as we talk with their men.

  Mostly, though, these people share our hunger. They have no food to trade, say they bide their time until the salmon return. They hunt game in nearby valleys but with little success. Samuelson explained that because of their poor hunting implements the Indians must rely on deep snow to slow their prey.

  Their langua
ge is related to those of the lower river but has a distinct accented quality. The men’s noses & ears are pierced with ornaments made of sinew & hammered copper; the women only their ears. Unlike some of their coastal neighbors, they do not adorn themselves with tattoos, but some of the women & children wear red dye on their faces.

  Their belongings are meager — spoons formed of animal horn, vessels made of birch bark & stitched with roots. They hunt primarily with spear, bow, & arrow. There is some sign, however, that they have not gone untouched by the outside world. One woman proudly used a bronze kettle to heat water for us on their fire. She said she had been given it by her mother, who met the Russians on the lower river many years ago. An elderly Midnoosky wore a tarnished silver cross with the ornate design of Russian Orthodoxy, but when asked to explain its significance, he remained silent.

  One man treated me with clear disdain when he learned that I was the leader of our party. He did not stand to greet me, looked me up & down. Samuelson explained that it is because I carry a pack as large as those of my men. Among these nomadic Indians, it is a sign of status & wealth to carry nothing. Much of the work falls to the women, who travel with heavy loads on their backs even as they care for children and manage the half-wild dogs they use for packing.

  As we visited one of the camps, a Midnoosky woman appeared from the forest. Her back was bent beneath a pile of firewood, bound together with hide straps. It was only as she neared that I noticed an unexpected detail — atop this heap of sticks was a swaddled infant, strapped in like any other piece of wood, & contentedly asleep.

  May 1

  This afternoon as we traveled up the river, Samuelson stopped & nodded towards the far side.

   — Look there, he said. — I do believe that’s our missing company.

  Coming down the steep bank was the Indian woman Nat’aaggi & the dog.

  When the ice washed out of the Wolverine canyon, I was quite certain we had seen the last of the two of them. If by some unexpected mercy they survived, I thought it likely the woman would return to her own people on the coast.