CAN West 04 - When Hope Springs New (5 page)
BOOK: CAN West 04 - When Hope Springs New
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SIX
Blueberry Pie
The odor preceded us into the village. I heard children shouting the Indian word for skunk and then saw them run toward their cabins even before I came into the settlement. The women, too, left what they were doing and went indoors.
With a red face and a hurried step, I hastened toward my own cabin with the smelly Kip tightly in tow.
When we reached the cabin I tethered Kip outside and put my pot beside the door. Then I leaned down and removed my shoes, stepped just inside the door and removed my heavy skirt, reaching around the door to toss it back out onto the path. After that I removed the rest of my clothes and scrubbed with soap and water until I had my skin red and chafed. Still I smelled like a skunk!
I was forced to put clean garments on a still odorous body; then with a tub of hot sudsy water I attacked my clothes. I washed them as best as I could and hung them on my outside line. I could still smell them. I next took Kip and scrubbed him in the water. His wet fur seemed to smell worse, not better.
I saw many curious looks directed my way. Little clusters of Indian children stared without reservation, and the women gathered in whispery little groups, trying not to be as obvious as the children, but not succeeding very well.
I clamped my jaw and scrubbed harder on Kip. He whined and tried to pull away from me, but I scolded him mildly and scrubbed on. After all, he was the one who had gotten us into the mess!
In spite of all my efforts, when Wynn returned that night he was greeted by the strong smell of skunk.
“What do I do about it?” I moaned.
“Not much that you can do,” Wynn answered.
“You mean nothing will help it?”
“Only time, as far as I know,” responded Wynn.
I moaned again. “Time” always seemed so slow when you needed it to pass quickly.
“You could try filling the pot with dirt and burying your clothes,” Wynn said. “Some seem to think that the earth takes some of the odor away.”
“Kip is the worst,” I insisted.
“Bury him, too, if you like,” said Wynn, but he smiled to let me know he was teasing.
I did bury my clothes. I also buried the pot. The Indians watched me, hiding their eyes and their comments behind work-stained hands.
I did not leave my clothes buried for long. I could not take the chance of the moist ground causing rot. The clothing I had was scarce enough at best and to lose an outfit simply would not do, even if I did reek each time I wore it. I dug it up carefully and washed it with soap and water again and hung it on the line.
The soil
did
seem to help my cooking pot. I scoured it thoroughly again and set it out in the sun.
did
seem to help my cooking pot. I scoured it thoroughly again and set it out in the sun.
Kip didn’t seemed to mind being left outside—except at night. Then he would whine to come in. His whining wasn’t as objectionable as his barking. He seemed to bark at every night sound. Wynn and I had supposed that we were used to the sound of barking dogs, but we found that Kip kept awakening us night after night with his fussing.
Undaunted, I was still determined to have a blueberry pie, so the next week I took Kip and again headed for the west and some berry patches. This time I did not remove Kip’s leash when we got to the patch. Instead, I tied him to a small sapling and went about picking the berries to fill my pot.
Kip fussed and whined the whole time. To make it up to him, when I had picked my container full, I took him to the stream and let him loose so he could play in the water. We had a lively game of chase-the-stick. When I felt that he had had enough exercise, I slipped on his leash again, picked up my full pot of berries and headed for home.
The Indian people watched me enter the village again. I smiled and spoke to those who were near the path, but they turned their backs and pretended not to notice me. I tried not to let it bother me, but it did.
“Well, anyway,” I said to Kip, who seemed to be the only one willing to listen to me, “I have my berries for pie.”
When Wynn arrived home that night he was welcomed by a new aroma. The smell was nearly gone from Kip, my garments, and the cooking pot. Instead, the wonderful smell of fresh blueberry pie wafted throughout the cabin. I was pleased with myself. I had found the patch, I had persevered, I had baked my pie.
“Great!” said Wynn with an appreciative pat on my arm as he pushed back from the table after a second helping. His short, emphatic comment was enough to make it all worthwhile.
SEVEN
Winter
More determined than even my pursuit of berries was my search for new friends. Daily I took Kip for his walks, and each time I met or passed the Indian ladies I smiled and called out a greeting to them. They still chose to ignore me but even that did not stop me.
I made up my mind then to concentrate on the children. I was sure the children would be more responsive—after all, the children at Beaver River had learned to love both Kip and me.
I chose the paths where I heard children playing and smiled warmly and greeted them in their own tongue whenever I was near enough to be heard.
They lifted their heads and stared at me, but they refused to answer any of my questions. They did not even respond to the wild tail-wagging of Kip. They looked at us until their curiosity was satisfied, and then they either turned back to their play or else ran off, leaving us standing looking after them.
I even tried a little friendly “blackmail.” I took some of my most colorful and fascinating books and held them out to them, showing them the pretty pictures as I let the pages flip slowly by. They stared at the strange new thing, but they did not draw closer or reach for it. In disappointment, I took my books and went back to my lonely cabin.
I stopped sharing my experiences with Wynn. It only pained him to hear of my loneliness. Instead I asked him all about his day. For the most part it was simply routine. He inspected boundaries, checked on trappers, distributed a small amount of medicine, settled a few local disputes, pulled a few teeth, delivered a few babies, and bandaged ever so many knife wounds, axe cuts, accidentally fish-hooked fingers, and sprained ankles.
I went to the trading post only when it was absolutely necessary. I did not feel comfortable with the dark-eyed trader, who watched me so closely as I looked around his crowded quarters trying to find the item I wanted.
He never moved from his spot behind his makeshift counter to assist me in any way. Squinting his eyes, puffing on his ever-present cigarette, he scowled at me as though I were an intruder rather than a customer.
Matches—or rather the lack of them—one day drove me from the safe confines of my cabin to the trading post. Wynn had asked me to get them, as our supply was low, and he would not be back from his patrol in time to visit the store.
I certainly couldn’t tell Wynn I’d rather not go to the post simply because I did not like the man, so I said nothing. Midmorning, I freshened up, closed the door on Kip and ventured forth.
On the path I again met women from the village. I smiled and nodded, giving the customary greeting. They would not look at me anyway.
I found the trading post the same as always, dark, stale and clouded with cigarette smoke. The trader stood behind his little barrier and scowled as two Indian women made their selections. I did not merit even a nod from any of them.
I stood back, patiently waiting until the women had finished their business and left by the low door. Then I quickly purchased the matches and left the store.
As I ducked out the door I heard voices just around the corner. The two Indian ladies were chatting. Surprised they had not already left the area, I stopped short. I knew they were right there on the path. I would need to pass by them. Would they answer me if I stopped and greeted them? I took a deep breath and determined to try it. And then some of their discussion reached me.
“Why she go there?”
“Don’t know.”
“Who?” A third woman must have joined them.
“The pale-faced one with the dog child.”
The “dog child”? Why would they say that? Pale face, I could understand. It did not bother me to be referred to in such a way. But dog child? What did they ever mean by that?
And then I remembered Kip. The Indian women saw me often with Kip. They saw Kip fluffed and brushed. They had watched me bathe him and dry him with an old towel. They had seen me take him with me while others left their dogs tethered at home. They saw Kip enter our small cabin, while their dogs spent the days and nights, rain or shine, out-of-doors. They knew me to be a married woman, but they had never seen children at our home. The conclusion was that I had substituted a dog for the child I did not have.
Had I? Could the Indian women actually think that Kip, as much as I loved him, could take the place of the child I longed for? Never! If only they knew, I thought. If only they could understand my pain.
I turned and went around the trading post in the opposite direction so I would not need to confront the Indian women. It was a long detour, but I needed the long walk. I had to have time to think, to sort things out, to recover from the hurt.
I walked briskly while the tears streamed down my cheeks, praying as I walked. I had never thought it possible to be so lonely, so shut off from one’s world.
At length I was able to get a firm hold on my emotions. I decided I would not engage in self-pity even though the days ahead did look bleak.
I have my Lord,
I told myself.
He has promised to be with me even to the end of the world.
For a few moments I felt that I must indeed be very near to the end of the world, my world, but I jacked up my courage and lifted my chin a little higher. God had promised He would never leave me nor forsake me. That held true on a city street, in a rural teacherage, or in a remote part of the North.
I have my Lord,
I told myself.
He has promised to be with me even to the end of the world.
For a few moments I felt that I must indeed be very near to the end of the world, my world, but I jacked up my courage and lifted my chin a little higher. God had promised He would never leave me nor forsake me. That held true on a city street, in a rural teacherage, or in a remote part of the North.
Besides, I had Wynn. Though his job took him away during the day and often into the night, still it was a comfort to know that he would be back and that he loved me and understood my needs and my longings.
And I had my “dog child.” I smiled to myself. Kip might not be the companion I desired, but at least he was
someone.
I could talk to him, walk with him, and appreciate the fact that I was not entirely alone. Yes, I was thankful for Kip. It seemed he might be the only friend I would have in this settlement.
someone.
I could talk to him, walk with him, and appreciate the fact that I was not entirely alone. Yes, I was thankful for Kip. It seemed he might be the only friend I would have in this settlement.
When I reached home, Kip met me at the door. His tongue teased at my hand and his curly tail waved a welcome flag. I patted his soft head.
“You won’t understand a word of this,” I said softly, “but in the village they think that you are my pampered ‘child.’ Well, you’re not the child that I wanted, but at least you are a friend. Thanks for that. It looks like it might be just you and me here.” I stopped to brush away some unbidden tears. “So—somehow we’ve got to make it on our own. It’s not going to be easy—but I think we can do it.”
Kip looked into my face and whined. He seemed to sense that I was troubled.
Then I made conscious effort to push the hurt from me so that I would be able to have a cheerful face for Wynn’s return. I did not want him to be burdened with the pain I was feeling. When Wynn entered our cabin I nodded toward the new supply of matches.
“Good,” he said. “I was hoping you wouldn’t forget. My supply pack is getting low, and I have a feeling that winter might be arriving any day now.”
Wynn was right. In just two days’ time, a north wind blew in a storm. It came howling around us with the wrath of the Indians’ storm gods. In a few short hours, our settlement was covered with ten inches of snow.
From then on we lived with the cold and the wind. Each day more snow seemed to add to our discomfort. I kept busier now, and I guess that it was good for me. Bundled against the elements, I was constantly working just to keep our water supplied, our fires fed, and our clothes clean.
Kip and I still found time for walks—by the frozen stream to the frozen lake over frozen ground. I took the snowshoes and he plunged ahead breaking trail. We always came home refreshed from our outing and ready to stretch out before the open fire and let its warmth thaw our frost-stung bodies.
At night, when the supper was cleared away and Wynn sat at the crowded little table to do reports, I pestered him with all of the details of his day. He never rebuked me for my chatter—indeed, he encouraged it. Perhaps he knew he was the only one I had to talk to. At any rate, I enjoyed hearing each detail and felt that at least in a secondhand way I was getting acquainted with some of the area residents through Wynn.
Christmas came and went. I determined that I would not be lonely—well, lonely maybe, but not homesick. Homesickness was a miserable feeling and profited nothing.
And so, by taking one day at a time, I was managing to get through the long winter days. With the spring would come new activities. I would find some way to have a small garden and Kip and I would continue our exploration of the countryside. Perhaps I would even be able to take a trip or two with Wynn. Until then I would be patient, keep myself as busy as possible, and endeavor to keep my spirits up. As I had it figured, there would be only three more such years—at the most.
BOOK: CAN West 04 - When Hope Springs New
13.98Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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