The Hunger

  She bit back the anger that wanted to lash out and transform itself into sobs. How could Jory be so thoughtless, so unaware? She needed something to hold on to right now. George Donner would be her anchor.

  “I know what I’m doing, Jory. My mind is made up. Now, let’s talk no more about it,” she said, pulling the cloak tighter around her. She moved along the wagon’s bench, so that their legs were no longer touching, and felt the chill where his heat had been.

  Jory took her at her word. There was no more discussion the rest of the way to Donner’s farm.

  * * *

  • • •

  THE TIN ROOF on the Donners’ farmhouse gleamed silver in the morning sun. George Donner owned a big house, twice as big as Jory’s. Unlike Jory’s, it was freshly whitewashed, scrubbed, and well-tended. A stoneware jug filled with a great clutch of wild asters stood by the front steps, a welcoming note. This lifted Tamsen’s spirits somewhat, as did the way the guests all glanced sideways at her, admiration and envy in their eyes.

  Jory helped the children down from the wagon while Tamsen stood to the side, suddenly hesitant. Sounds drifted through the open windows, men’s and women’s voices, muffled knocks and bangs as chairs were being set up in the front parlor for the ceremony. George’s cook would be preparing the wedding breakfast, frying up bacon and eggs, putting a pan of biscuits into the oven to bake. Plump apple pies, George’s favorite, would be cooling in the larder.

  The door opened suddenly and out stepped George Donner. Such a big man, he looked constrained in some way by his somber black suit. His eyes blinked in surprise or amazement as he looked in her direction. He had a kind face and kind eyes. She reminded herself that she had made the right choice.

  “My dear—you are a vision.” Donner’s words were just like what Jory had said to her earlier, and yet they seemed to fall, lifeless, through the air. His lips trembled as he kissed her hand. “How have I been so blessed, that you have agreed to be my wife?”

  His young daughters Elitha and Leanne stood behind him. They had been babies when their mother died and now Tamsen was to be not even their first stepmother but their second. No wonder their eyes were guarded; mothers were transitory creatures. It didn’t pay to become too attached.

  Elitha, the oldest, stepped forward and held out a clutch of flowers, stems tied together with a broad satin ribbon. “For you, ma’am,” she said, her voice as faint as a whisper. It was an odd assortment; flowers, yes, but a bit of everything else, too: herbs, grasses, even weeds. A strange offering for a wedding day.

  “They gathered it themselves,” George said when he saw the confused look on Tamsen’s face. “Because of your interest in botany. Remember, you told me that you wanted to write a book one day about the flora in this area, on medicinal plants? When Elitha and Leanne heard this, they gathered an example of every kind of plant they could find on the property and made this bouquet for you.”

  Tamsen had forgotten that she’d told him that. He hadn’t laughed at the idea of a woman writing a scientific book like some of the men she’d told back in Cullowhee. George had remembered and what’s more, he had shared the idea with his daughters. That meant more to her than the offer to buy her a fancy dress.

  Suddenly, his kindness made her want to cry. Instead, she bit it back and smiled at him first, then at his daughters. “Thank you, girls. I’m touched by your thoughtfulness.” She took the arm George had extended to her. It was solid and strong, and still, she felt like she was floating on air—or becoming air. Disappearing.

  She risked a glance toward Jory, but he was looking after the children and did not catch her eye. At that moment, something within her shattered. It was a kind of knowing.

  Love was not meant for everyone.

  She held on to George’s arm to steady herself and took a deep breath. “Shall we go in, Mr. Donner? I believe it’s time to start the ceremony.”

  JANUARY 1847

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  They had all gone. She’d agreed to it—safety in numbers, they figured. In daylight, they had packed only what they could carry and made in the direction of Truckee Lake.

  George, of course, would not make it.

  So Tamsen had stayed behind. It hadn’t been a thought, so much as an instinct, a need.

  Tamsen laid out the last of the dried beef. Three strips, each the size of her index finger. Was there a way to make it stretch, last a bit longer? Perhaps boil it, make broth with it?

  She sat next to her husband and dabbed his forehead with a wet cloth. He was unconscious most of the time now and she was under no illusions that he would recover. She thought of the irony: how his injury and subsequent infection had protected him from having to witness the worst. His foolish, bumbling pride had, in a way, sheltered the softness of his character.

  Still, she wouldn’t quit. She knew now that this was not a weakness but a form of compassion, and though any hope of affection had long since fled her, Tamsen felt that perhaps, when it came down to it, it had been her life’s calling all along to witness his slow decline, and to feel the gradual, resilient loss of a person she had not allowed herself to love, or even to know.

  She had the idea that George’s death would mean something—that he would hold out for her sake a little longer—and that his last act of kindness, though not at all intentional, had been to give her a purpose, a reason to keep living.

  Outside, the bonfires, blazing in broad daylight, deformed the sun behind a veil of smoke. Even now she could hear the whisper of soft footfalls: Walt Herron, one of the teamsters, had died last week and, perhaps sensing her defenselessness, the pack had grown bolder.

  She’d used a blanket to drag Herron’s body into the woods for them. It would, she hoped, buy her a little time. She envied George his unconsciousness. She had had to listen through the night as they feasted on Herron’s body: the crack of bones, the wet smack of their hideous tongues, the animal grunts of their pleasure.

  When she woke him to get him to eat, George refused her. “I told you already, you shouldn’t waste food on me,” he mumbled, his mouth barely moving.

  “You need to hang on just a little longer,” she’d said, the words floating out of her now by rote.

  “I’m not afraid to die.” He closed his eyes. “You should take the others to the camp at Truckee Lake.”

  He didn’t know everyone else had already gone ahead, along with the five hundred dollars from their savings that she had tucked into her daughters’ hands. She was terrified to give her daughters over—but even more terrified of what would happen if she didn’t. At least this way they would have a chance.

  But Tamsen had stopped telling George what was happening weeks ago. He certainly didn’t know that Herron was dead or that the girls had left—and half the time, he still asked for James Reed or for Charles Stanton, apparently having forgotten they had split from the group weeks ago.

  “I’m not going to leave you,” was all she said now.

  She tried to press him to take some broth, but he refused it.

  “Why did you stay? You could have saved yourself.” His voice faltered. “It isn’t because you love me.” He said it calmly, with acceptance. Then he closed his eyes, as if the words had exhausted him. “I haven’t given you much to love, perhaps.”

  For so long she had wanted nothing more than to be rid of him. And yet now, given the chance, she couldn’t leave him—it felt physically impossible.

  “You’re my husband, George.” It was by no means an explanation, but she knew it would be enough for him. To her surprise, she found she was on the verge of tears. She had thought she was long past crying. “Now drink.”

  He died later that night, slipping away in his sleep.

  Maybe it was her imagination, but as she sat there, next to his cooling, lifeless body, she thought she could hear the rustle of the pack sniffing closer to her tent. Scenting
her loneliness.

  She held the rifle to her chest all night.

  In the morning, she built up the fire again, noting the strange, scrabble-footed tracks at the periphery of camp. She fished a shovel out of the wagon, determined to bury George deep so the monsters wouldn’t be able to get his body. But the ground was frozen hard. Her arms shook. She nearly fainted with the effort of it and was forced to give up.

  So, using the blanket like a sled, she dragged him out to the bonfire pit instead. She stoked the fire higher, watched the column of smoke thickening to a pillar, then rolled the body of her husband into the flames and turned away from the choking smell.

  She had to move quickly.

  She would carry nothing but the rifle and ammunition, and a small satchel of herbs. Their remaining savings, thousands of dollars, she would hide in a hollow tree in the woods. If she lived, she’d come back for it later. She cut away strips from the hide hanging in the entrance to make her last meal, choking it down by telling herself there would be food waiting for her at the other camps. Bacon and biscuits and an orange, like Christmas. Huckleberry jam and hot tea with rose hips.

  She stayed up for a second night in a row, hugging the rifle to her chest. Dozed off occasionally in her chair. Around midnight she was pretty sure she heard the beasts scratching around the burnt-out funeral pyre, looking for scraps. She fired a few rounds in that direction, hoping to scatter them.

  In the morning, she wrapped herself in the best blanket, slung the rifle over her shoulder, and started along the creek.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  The sun had started its descent by the time Tamsen arrived at the far side of the lake. It was a scene of eerie stillness, so quiet that her first thought was maybe everyone had left or died.

  The silence gave her a bad feeling.

  Even from this distance she could see the huge blackened pits indicating old bonfires, just like at Alder Creek. The remaining wagons looked nearly abandoned; the canopies were torn, destroyed by exposure to the elements. The place had the feel of a ghost town—a hostile ghost town, as if within the silence was an echo of an angry voice. Had she made a mistake?

  She could smell the stink of rot; it made her dizzy and sick. She was weak, and had to lean on a thin tree for a bit to fight down the urge to throw up. Where were all the people? If they were dead, where were the bodies?

  She reached the first cabin, separated from the other cluster of lean-tos by a patch of trees. Inside, it was a mess, clothing and blankets scattered over the dirt floor, trunks emptied and overturned, filthy clothes alive with flies. She expected to find someone inside, a sick child or two waiting for a parent out fetching wood or water. She picked up a pocket Bible lying in the rubble. To Eleanor love Aunt Minnie, it read on the endpaper. May this be your comfort.

  Then she saw it: Keseberg’s rifle. It was unmistakably his—she’d seen it in his hands many times, the way he carried it around casually as if to remind the others to keep their distance. Her heart rate picked up as she scavenged through the other belongings in the cabin. Had Keseberg done something to the others? Was that why it was so quiet? She felt sick again but swallowed her nausea, moving methodically through his things. Maybe she’d at least find something to eat—stolen rations from the others, dried meat, anything. She was shaking and cold and acting out of an instinct to survive. She’d pillage whatever he had, then be gone, search for signs of life in the other lean-tos, search for signs of her daughters.

  But she didn’t find anything to eat. She found instead, beneath a pile of sticks—as if intentionally hidden—a stack of papers tied together with a thin strip of leather. She knew she should hurry, should leave, but a horrible feeling of suspicion rooted her to the spot. It was dim inside the cabin with the sun setting outside, but she squinted, her hands trembling as she lifted the papers and saw what they were. Letters.

  Letter after letter after letter, all of them from Edwin Bryant, addressed to Charles Stanton. How long had they been hidden? Her eyes were bleary in the darkness and she feared that she might be hallucinating all of this, but something compelled her to open them, one by one.

  They began as urgent warnings about the hazards of the trail—turn around, avoid the Hastings Cutoff—and then became more rambling, describing rumors of spirits and creatures that fed on human flesh.

  Tamsen shivered. Bryant knew. He knew about them.

  The truth sent a shock through her fingertips—it was just as Tamsen herself had suspected, but seeing it written out felt like a new weight had fallen inside her stomach.

  She read on. In his later letters, he referred to the creatures as diseased men. He talked about a kind of contagion.

  She thought back on everything that had happened. Halloran had been acting funny ever since his dog bit Keseberg. Had even Halloran caught the disease, that early on the trail?

  Keseberg.

  Lewis Keseberg knew, too.

  He’d kept the letters, hidden them from the others.

  But why? She’d never liked Keseberg, knew he wasn’t trustworthy—but what could he possibly stand to gain from keeping the truth about this disease from the rest of the group?

  It was then that she heard the creak in the old wooden door, and swiveled around.

  She gasped, dropping the letters, and nearly fell backward against the wall. Keseberg stood in the doorway. She’d thought that after weeks stranded at Alder Creek, she would be overjoyed to see another person, anyone from the wagon party again, even Peggy Breen. Anyone but him.

  The last of the evening’s light fell on his shoulders, and from where Tamsen was crouched in the corner of the cabin, he seemed even bigger than she had remembered.

  In his hand was an ax. He’d been chopping wood somewhere, then—for the fires, maybe. Maybe the others were still alive. Maybe, maybe . . . Her pulse raced and her mind refused to form a clear thought.

  “Well, well, Mrs. Donner. You came back,” he said, with a smile.

  She scrabbled away until her back was up against the far wall, but she was still only a few feet from him in the small space.

  “I suppose you know my secret, then,” he said, with a nod toward the letters. “Suppose it was sentimental but I couldn’t bring myself to burn ’em. Didn’t know how long I’d be able to keep those safe from prying eyes, but attacks from wild, bloodthirsty creatures do tend to distract a crowd.”

  Her stomach twisted and she fought the urge to retch.

  “What—what have you done to the others?” she demanded. “Where are they?”

  Keseberg sighed. “Your girls are all right. You know I like the pretty ones.”

  She was tempted to dive at him, scratch his face, but was too afraid.

  “The Breens,” he went on, listing methodically. “A few of the kids and both parents. Doris. There’re a handful of us yet, near forty.”

  “But the camp is so quiet.”

  “They know to keep inside. It’s what we agreed. To keep ’em safe.”

  “To keep them safe,” she repeated dumbly. From the creatures, of course. That’s what he meant.

  Cautious relief began to course through her—they were alive. He’d said they were alive. Keseberg was a liar and a cheat—but why would he lie about that?

  They were just around the bend in the lake. So close by. She could holler and they would hear. In a moment, her girls would be in her arms again.

  “So you—you’ve kept away the awful . . . things,” she said cautiously. “How?”

  “Fires,” he said. “I was just about to start up tonight’s.”

  She nodded slowly, and began to stand. “I ought to be seeing the girls, then.”

  She tried to slip past him, pushing back out into the brisk cold, where moonlight now hit the snow and sent up a faint blue glow from every surface.

  She was about to use the last of her energy to dash th
e few hundred yards toward the other huts, when something—she couldn’t say what, but it was a kind of knowing, deep in her bones—made her turn around again.

  Keseberg was still standing there, watching her. She looked at his face, really looked at him in the moonlight. There was that leering quality that had always unnerved her but something else in his expression, too, that she couldn’t quite name. She might have said it was loneliness. That was when she understood what was bothering her: He didn’t look hungry. He didn’t look as if he’d lost weight, as if he’d suffered much at all.

  Then she glanced down again at the ax. Its blade was covered in blood.

  “I—I . . .” She backed away.

  But his voice came out calmly across the cold air. “Tamsen, wait.”

  She turned and tried to run, pushed through a low scrub of trees, but then tripped on something and fell to her knees. It was a large, heavy stick strewn in the snow.

  No. A human bone.

  She gasped and began to cry—hot tears that immediately froze to her cheeks in the cold.

  She had seen too much. Had come too far.

  “It’s not what you think,” Keseberg said, a note of warning ringing out in his voice.

  She looked around her. She had stumbled not far from a pile of what she thought had been snow, but now saw was something else entirely. It was a pile of corpses, all frozen, swollen, and blue.

  At the base of the pile lay a thin woman, mangled, her body in an unnatural position. Dead, like the others. There was a deep gash in her forehead but she wasn’t bleeding.

  Tamsen forced herself to look at the body. It was Elizabeth Graves, hideous with death, her eyes staring sightlessly at the sky.

  The world wobbled underneath her. She willed herself not to faint. Suddenly, Keseberg was kneeling beside her.