Disappointment must have visited my face for Peter asked in gentle tones, “What of the children of this Lukwsh’s husband? Do you wish to find them?”
“Wren was one; she belonged to both of them. And there were two sons, his sons. The one living is named Stink Bug. And I have no wish to find him.” Disgust rose in my voice and I softened it. “Unless he could help me find his mother.”
“And the other?” Peter asked, exhaling his pipe smoke.
“He died the year the earth quaked, the year I came to Sherar’s Bridge. They called him Shard.”
Peter was quiet for a time. “I know of no Stink Bug,” he said, then took another puff on his pipe. “And if the Shard you speak of died, then … this cannot be him. But there is a man. Works at the mill, at the agency. I have seen him when Mr. Sherar and I rode there to order lumber for the flour mill on the White River. He fixes things.” He sucked on his pipe, held the smoke, and then exhaled. “His name is Johnson. His first name, though, is Shard.”
“He is an Indian?” I asked, my voice as quiet as a secret hope. “Not the blacksmith from the Malheur agency or the one who makes leg irons for prisoners. Or one who cuts them off?”
Peter shook his head yes in answer to my most important question. “He is Paiute,” he said. “Caused some unhappiness when he said he could repair the sawmill that broke down. And he could. He may know about your Lukwsh and the others, again?”
“Wren. And Wuzzie.”
“I go to the agency. Maybe tomorrow. You could ride along.”
“It is a good plan,” I said.
But in the night, another plan formed, a safer one.
I worried that the millwright would have no answers and my search would need a larger circle into Nevada, Idaho, places east, and my hopefulness would drain. And I shuddered at the thought, carrying with it a mix of whim and worry, that it might be Shard: a fear he might not wish to see me, a longing that he would.
“Mr. Johnson may not wish the bother of a woman’s visit,” I told Peter in the morning. “But it would please me if you could ask him if he knows the women named Lukwsh, Wren, and Wuzzie.” And then I added, “And maybe, ask also of Asiam.”
“You did not mention this Asiam.” Peter lifted one eyebrow as he turned from checking the cinch of his saddle. At my silence he took the stirrup onto his horse. “Nor Alice M.”
“And if he remembers her,” I said, politely stepping over Peter’s words, “please ask if he would wish to see this Asiam again, to help the healing of another.”
I wait, that is what I do now.
I steamed the breakfast dishes, helped chop nuts and whip cream for the lunch salad, gathered carrots from the garden. My feet took me to the calf barns. I walked beside Father Sherar, who moved with a cane but whose plans and ideas still flowed from him as if his body were inhabited by a younger man. We spoke of lambs and fleece prices, not letting the “depression,” as he called it, get us down; of someone named Edison; of toll collections at the bridge and how much money his roads could eat. I was present in these conversations, added and listened too, but most of me stayed distant, waited to hear the hoofbeat of a horse.
Mother Sherar chattered comfortably over tea and biscuits taken at the dining table after supper. Soft moccasins sat lined beside the door, a range of various sizes for passengers to wear.
“Ann works here now—”
“Sunmiet’s daughter,” interrupted Joseph stirring his tea.
“She knows that,” to him. To me, “She has children of her own already.”
“Off at a funeral this week.”
“In Washington.”
“Yakima, to be correct.”
“Now don’t be spoiling my telling, Joseph Sherar.”
He cast meek eyes at her, yet wore a look so full of adoration that I ached in envy, dropped my eyes to not intrude.
Mother Sherar was unaware of his look of love, continued talking as though on a moving train. “An older auntie died. Peter owns land there, did you know that? Anne still hopes to see her father someday. Maybe she will in Yakima. Seeing him again would please us all, really, though what we dream about is usually quite different if it ever really happens.” She was thoughtful, and I wondered if she spoke for me. “Funny, how even ornery people are missed when they’re gone. They leave an empty space. No one to bounce off of, clarify what you’re really thinking. Ornery people do that for you.” She sighed. “Makes me think of my mother.”
“I think her ornery spirit lives in you, Janie,” Joseph said with a twinkle in his eye that attracted a biscuit from her hand.
“Will you stay now, Alice?” Mother Sherar asked me. “It would please us. Spirit’s right at home here, liked being left after Thomas’s death. The room is yours for as long as you’d like, you know.”
“We’ve missed ye, girl,” Father Sherar said. He leaned to pat my hand.
“When I first came, I did not know when I would leave. It is like that now. Something inside will tell me, if I listen.”
“Know that feeling, don’t we, Mother?” Joseph said, stretching to stand. “Some things just call ye and ye have to pay attention or all your life ye wish ye had and never feel filled up.”
“It’s how we got here,” Mother Sherar said to me. “In what some would say is a God-forsaken canyon. But I claim it as my own, what Sunmiet says is my place of belonging. And so it is, since I was just a child. Feel God’s presence here more than any other place on earth. Not once since we moved here have I wondered if we did the right thing. Not that it’s been easy. But I’ve never wished to leave. God has given us everything we needed, right here, hasn’t he, Joseph?”
“Aye. That he has,” he said, smiling at his wife, pulling her up.
“I wait for Peter,” I told them, “and learn from him where I am going next.”
“How old were you then, Alice? When you first came here in what, ’72? I guessed about eleven or twelve.”
“I had fourteen years then, or maybe more. The knots I keep in memory tell me it must have been some time like that.”
“Fourteen,” she said, her voice wistful as though remembering with pleasure another time. “Lots can happen to a fourteen-year-old girl.” She cast her eyes to her husband, who held her gaze.
“Enough to last a lifetime,” he added and wrapped her in a hug.
I spent a sleepless night; each waking spurred a prayer. The moon rose full, a harvest moon. It cast its glow on all the plantings, tending, taking time needed to bring a seed to fruit.
Toward midafternoon of the second day, I lifted the split Tonkin cane rod from the rack and walked to Eagle Creek, upriver, pleased I thought to pack the rod. My mind had been of no use, my fingers, neither.
A part of me wished I had gone with Peter so I would know my next step, make plans to leave for Nevada or back to the asylum. Another part thought I should leave, now.
I did leave Spirit sleeping on the porch, envied his restful mind, hoped fishing would ease mine.
Eagle Creek rushed over rocks and willow roots, the water making sounds like rainwater pitchered over my hair, flowing into buckets I bent over. I cast the silk line and not the lure, watched the water take it to itself, embrace it. I could almost feel Thomas Crickett’s hands on mine. He held this rod so often, loved its balance and its sureness, not believing its expense was an extravagance but a necessity, needed to blend fisherman and rod as one.
The fly sunk below the surface; the riffles took it, made it disappear. The gurgling of river over rocks reminded me of the sounds of Home Creek, the Silvies River, and the Malheur, a hundred knots of memories, listening, seeing fish leap, a glistening black dog sending ducks to nets. My moccasins hugged the wet rocks; toes grabbed tight like fingers.
A tug on the floating silk. I set the hook to secure the pink-sided trout, felt it pull against me as it identified its error. The fish arched in the air, splashed itself and water across a canvas of choke cherry trees and cinnamon rocks. It plunged back into river, pul
ling deep, deeper, taking line through water then into air again, never quitting, never too afraid to leap or dive in deep, whatever it might take to free itself. I followed it along the rocky shore, wishing for the waders I had seen men wear to take them closer to the fish, let them be one with the river.
I had none but stepped into the icy water, held the line taut against the arcing cane, felt the surge of water swirl linen heavy against my legs, so strong I almost lost my balance, felt the line pull against my arms. I made small adjustments, watched the fish take line upstream, then down.
The effort consumed me, as I hoped. The fish and river seized all I had and gave to me a tiredness in my arms and legs, wind and cool spray on my face, the scent of rabbit brush in bloom. The effort ended in a satisfaction as I stepped backward onto shore.
And when I reeled him in, we were both gasping. The fish lay, his one eye staring, body heaving. His tail still flapped. He lurched, one last hope to take him back to water.
“Such a fighter! You deserve a second chance,” I told him, squatting to remove the hook, my fingers slippery with his sleekness. “We all do. Even if we don’t get it.”
I held the thick body in the palm of my hand, felt the fish gain strength again as I pressed him gently under water. I dropped my hand beneath him, spread my fingers until I felt him come to life, buoyant in the water. He swiveled off. I watched him dive and disappear. My hand made a shade for my eyes.
“Maybe our paths will cross again sometime,” I said, almost shouted to the disappearing catch. “Remember me then as the one who set you free!”
“You speak to fish in words I hope you say to me.”
I was startled by the voice, though I had prepared to hear it from the moment those years ago when I turned to see him watch me go, felt his eyes follow me well into the distance; from the time I heard him speak to me in dreams out of the pillowed brilliance of the nighttime arc; from the instant I heard Dr. Adams read his name from fragile paper and I believed he might still live.
Prepared, and yet I carried only a seed of hope, only a tiny mustard seed of faith. Prepared, and yet I stood overwhelmed by the depth of feelings that washed over me, the sense of being opened, like a wada seed that waited, then unfolded to a world of water and warming sun.
“It pleases me to hear you,” I whispered and turned slowly toward the words.
I was aware I shivered, only partly from the wet moccasins and drenched skirt the fish left me, the cooling breeze of dusk.
He dismounted a big bay, tethered it to a willow as I watched. His body spoke experience in his wider chest. He wore jeans and leather boots and a white shirt with thin blue stripes. The starched collar pulled against his throat as he swallowed, which he did as he started toward me, eyes never leaving mine.
He was taller than I remembered, though not by much. His hair was short, like Peter’s, but long enough to rest against the collar of the long suit coat he wore like someone accustomed to it. A small feather braided into shiny strands fluttered from behind his ear. Instead of a red band circling his forehead there was a mark, and he held in his hands the wide-brimmed hat that made it. Little scratches, like spider webs, eased out from his obsidian eyes, but his face was otherwise as smooth as a well-worn saddle.
Shard’s mouth melted into smile. “I look for pussytoes, couldn’t find them. You will accept this instead?”
He offered me his hand to help me step over the boulders and time that separated us. He set his hat down on a nearby rock and reached for me.
I gave him first the Tonkin rod.
“It is a fine piece,” he said, and I wondered if he, too, was surprised by my hesitation. He turned the rod over in his hands and rubbed the silk lacings.
“You made a good catch,” he said, nodding his chin to the river, “even without a spear or dog.”
“It belonged to my husband,” I said.
He nodded. “The man called Indian Peter tells me of the widow Alice M, the woman who searches. Then as he speaks of you, of how long he knows you, the marking on your face, even before he speaks the name of Asiam, I know.” There was a catch to his voice, and he paused to clear his throat before saying: “I am pierced,” he put his fist to his chest, “like an arrow with the knowing.” He looked away from me, across the creek as though taking in some strength. “The woman, Mrs. Sherar, tells me I can find you here.”
He held his hand out to me again, the rod gripped tightly in the other. “Come. You have gathered far and stayed out long enough.”
My fingers slipped then into his grip, firm and strong from arms strengthened by carrying heavy iron, from finding satisfaction in his work. His calluses closed gently against my fingers as he gave balance to my steps. And after all the years of waiting, wishing, bearing secret hopes, his touch felt almost painful, weakening, like the slicing of obsidian, clean and keen and sure.
And then I stood before him, and he folded me to his chest. We stood against the sunset, close, as one, the Tonkin rod a gentle pressure in his hands across my back. His chin rested gently on my head, and I could hear his heart beat, smell his sun-dried shirt. Water pooled behind my eyes, and I was taken by a shaking and a rush of sweetness that spread through me like a plunge into the deepest lake, filling me to my very soul.
He spoke, his voice vibrating in his chest like a drum against my ear, and it sounded so like music that at first I did not notice what he said. When I did, I felt confused, for he told me what I carried in my mind but claimed the thoughts as his.
“It has been a long time to live with what I did not do for you,” he said. “A long time to wait to ask forgiveness. But I am grateful the moment comes at all.”
I had nothing to forgive him for.
“The shame is mine,” I told him, my voice spoken into his shirt.
“What shame do you carry?” he said, moving me gently back from his chest.
“You stood in my place, for my foolishness. I wanted to just be a part of you and instead …” I looked up at him, noticed a scar along his neck. “You wore pain for me. I believed you dead. Only a miracle lets you stand before me now.”
“Who tells you this?”
“I heard Stink Bug. He said it to Salmon Eyes the night they searched for me to bring me back. Stink Bug said that if they did not find me, you would die instead. That you had made an offer Wuzzie accepted.”
He was very quiet. “You heard them say this?”
“I lay, frightened, hiding in a cottonwood log, not moving even when the spiders crawled up my legs.” I shivered with the memory. “My shame is that I did not leave the log to save you. Instead, I ran. It is my dishonor that I found happiness in my life while believing I caused the death of someone else.”
I could tell by his silence, the tighter grip with which he held me, that an unbeckoned memory had come into his mind. But he said instead, “It was good you allowed yourself joy, Asiam. Grieving should not take away your hope, only be a pause to remember what was good.” He was quiet as though thinking. “There was no plan for me to die,” he said softly.
“Why did Stink Bug say that?”
“They must have known you were there, hiding in the log. What greater torture for you to live and to think I died.” He shook his head. “They came back to tell me you had. So each could mourn deaths that lived only in Stink Bug’s curved mind.” Anguish laced his words. “I accepted what that one said. He did not come back for several days, told us your bones were seen, scattered by mountain lions. Salmon Eyes confirmed the story. Even described what your treasure basket carried. Lukwsh said the things she put there. He must have found it. Told all he left it there for your spirit to take with you when it would.”
“If I had only come back with them—”
“You were a child! More than me.”
“Not in how I felt for you before I left,” I said, “though I lacked the courage of a woman.”
“Oh, Asiam.” He folded me into his chest, the sound of my name on his tongue as sweet as rose hip
candy, overpowering the torment of his words. “I was not strong enough to disagree with Wuzzie. I should have stood beside you.”
He looked out over the stream, and I saw we were two people caught within a charming circle inside fences of our own making.
“Stink Bug created a lie. He thought it would last a lifetime,” I said.
“Took his secret to his grave. More powerful than Wuzzie in this, in sending you away.” He sighed as though he did not understand the ways of powerful ones. “And those who loved you learned to live without you. Even Flake disappeared. Wren said he had gone to be with you.”
“He did.”
“Flake found you? So you did not travel alone?”
“Until the earth quaked. We traveled at night. Slept together in the days until we reached John Day’s river. We traveled well together. I thought someone sent him, he wore the knots.… But he died.”
“We felt the quake. Big boulders tumbled from the ridge cap near Home Creek. Only for a moment. Enough to make us listen more closely to Wuzzie. The rains came then. The antelope let themselves be charmed, and it went well with us, for a time. But nothing stays the same.” He led me to a large rock where we could sit beside each other. He laid the fishing rod on the ground beside us. He noticed me shake.
“You are cold,” he said, and bent to squeeze the river from the hem of my split skirt, made a cup of his hands to massage the water from my hide-covered feet. A meadowlark warbled behind us, perched on sage.
“If it does not hurt you,” I said, “I would know more of that time, of what happened.”
He sighed and sat beside me, tossed some stones toward the water. “Then there were more raids, and we lost warriors. Some of us went back to work for the white ranchers, but even if we did not raid, we were targets. Soon we were like taut bows looking for arrows of our own.”
“I read some of that in news sheets.”
“The army came. Said safety waited for us at the Malheur Reserve. Johnson worked there. And a man named Parrish, who people said could be trusted. We needed papers to leave, papers that said we were not raiders.” He patted his suit coat pocket. “I carry them now. They said we could learn to feed our families without taking cattle from others, arguing over lands. In the end, many went.