The Outlander (16 page)

And here she was again. The same solemn procession through wilderness into
an unknown future, only now she was widowed, childless, abandoned by her lover, ghostly
thin in her clothes and stolen boots, following a stranger. Together, they stepped their
mounts over windfallen trees, with the river to their left and far ahead, the balding
rock faces cut deep by the river that had forged the pass. Presently she saw signs of
human society: they passed trails of desiccated horse turds only a few days old and
mined already by burrowing insects. She saw the impressions of shoeless hooves, several
trails through the grass where previous riders had gone, and finally the gnawed corpse
of a ground squirrel flung in the dirt by some dog and forgotten.

People. The widow pulled the mare up and sat among these signs,
worrying.

Then she saw to her right a stand of beech trees, ghostly against the dark
alpine forest. And there among the trees, as white as if they were made of bark
themselves, a loose congregation of teepees. Muted forms walked in and out of the
shade cast by the tents. A pack of dogs milled about, yipping.
Wild lines ran through the grass away from the encampment, like spokes from a hub. The
widow could discern footpaths and wider trails where carts could be dragged. Most led to
the river where it tucked in close before swinging away again toward the mountain
valley.

“Stay here,” her companion said.

“No, I'll come with you.”

“I said, stay here.” He dismounted and brought his saddlebags
over to her and laid them by the mare's hooves. The mare bent to puff at the flap
as he dug into them and removed another lump of hard bread. This he handed to her as her
horse craned and sidestepped, hoping to get some too.

“You see where those dogs are?”

“Yes.”

“You don't go any closer than that.”

“Well, why in the world not?” He didn't answer but
mounted and swung his horse round.

“What's wrong with you?” she huffed. She dismounted,
slithering weakly to the ground with bowed and trembling legs, and watched as he rode
quickly to the river and walked his horse through the shallows, soaking it to the knees.
Then he turned the horse and, together, they exploded toward the village in a fan of
water, thundering a wide berth around her. She stood with the reins in her hand, holding
her breath with alarm.

She understood then that he considered her to be terrible luck. Clearly,
he had washed his horse's hooves in the river before entering the camp as a
gesture against contagion.

The wind ran visibly over the grass, the hand of some indifferent force
passing through her and her little story
without opinion. Bad luck,
or something else? She thought of her father who, even when he was no longer a minister,
would nonetheless let his hand linger in the shallow, lukewarm bird bath that stood in
the side chapel of any church and that held water he himself said was not holy.

“Why do you do that, then, if it's not holy?” she had
asked.

“Habit,” he had said and grinned at her so that she knew he
had lied. But there was indeed something deep-rooted in it. His hand stole out and
slipped into the water almost lovingly, hesitating to withdraw. He had imbued this
gesture with something more than its Episcopal purpose, though what exactly it was, she
could not guess. Her grandmother had no trouble guessing.

“You're hedging your bets,” she'd said, “in
case you've been wrong — which you have been. You hope you're
lucky.”

Her father had just laughed. “Nonsense,” he had said.
“Luck is the entertainment of gamblers and mystical old ladies.”

“Mystical, am I? Because I don't follow your miserable view of
things? All right, that's fine.”

Her grandmother thought there was nothing so alluring as the unknown, a
world revealed in seances, in art, and in the inscrutable code of the palm. It was
written in tea leaves and cards — all of it infused with Christian hope, because
these things belonged to God, and He could always be appealed to. Her father, however,
felt the mistake lay in the asking, in the infantile need for answers when there were
none.

Mary hadn't known who was right then, and she didn't know now.
Everyone had been inclined to think her father's complaints were too much, his
pain out of proportion to his
injury. But now, as she stood alone
among the long grasses, attending the sorrow in her own heart, she wondered.

Eventually, the widow saw a figure coming toward her, an Indian girl in
short dress and pants, walking in a slow, indirect path. Wind blew her hair about her
face and she chose her steps carefully. Her face was round and her skin smooth, and on
her feet she wore soft leather wrappings embroidered with beads and other small, shiny
things. She stood regarding the widow for a moment in undisguised critique. Then she
began to talk. She put her hand out, gesturing. When the widow did not respond, the girl
stepped forward and touched the dusty fabric of her black suit. She spoke again,
earnestly. The widow listened, understanding nothing. Finally the girl began to tug at
the ratty clothing until the widow shrieked and clutched her collar and let go the
reins. The mare immediately moved away, cropping grass as if repelled by natural
magnetism from its owner. The two women stared uncertainly at each other, neither
speaking. The Indian girl's face slowly drained of intention; whatever the plan
had been, it had failed. Nothing could be done.

By noon, the widow was asleep in the sedge at the river's bank. The
girl sat at a small distance, up to her shoulders in the long grasses, bored, a
languorous curve to her neck, and her back not quite turned to her charge.

A little while later, the widow was awakened by a gentle whisper far above
her head. It seemed to come from memory, a matriarchal tone of authority in it. She
opened her eyes — and recoiled to see a white woman gazing down at her. She was
suddenly aware of herself, lying moist and tangled in her funeral suit. The woman had a
square, handsome face.
She was covered from head to toe in what
appeared to be deerhide, and carried in her hand a bundle of something wrapped in white
cloth. A strand of blond hair escaped its leather binding and flew about her head in the
breeze.

“Hello,” the woman said. “I'm Helen, Henry's
wife.” The widow scrambled up and straightened her clothes.

“Henry?” the widow stammered.

“He brought you here. Didn't he tell you his name?”

“No.”

“Oh, hell! He is the
most
suspicious man. Never tell anyone
your name. Never keep all your money in one place. Never sit under a dead pine. The list
goes on.” She smiled at the widow. “What's your name?”

“Justine,” she lied.

“Are you hungry?”

“He . . . Henry, gave me some bread. But I've been a while in
those mountains.”

“So he said. I didn't believe him. But looking at you now, I
guess I do. How long did it take you?”

“I . . . I think I lost count of time.”

“Sure, you would. With no idea how to feed yourself. No idea where
you were going. Am I right?” The widow nodded. For it was true. Take away William
Moreland, take away the dream of him, and she knew she would not be alive.

“Were you running away?” the woman's voice was soft.

“Yes,” the widow said, suffering the bright-eyed scrutiny of
her interrogator.

Helen took in her dark widow's clothing and did not inquire further.
They might have been of a piece, these two women in rough-stitched clothing. But one was
not like the other, and both knew it.

“Well,” said Helen, rousing herself, “here's a
little food. It isn't much, but I guess you'll choke it down.” They
sat together in the grass and Helen unwrapped what the widow could now see was the kind
of bonnet maids often wore to do their chores. A simple white cap, now used only as a
rag. Inside were chunks of apple, smoked meat, more bread, and a handful of tiny dried
berries. The meat was so tough it required the widow to tug and saw at it with her
teeth, like a dog, until it tore away. It had a habit of sticking to her teeth like old
taffy. Together they ate, passing food between them.

“Are you married?” Helen asked.

“I was.”

“I'm sorry, ” she shook her head sadly.
“You're all alone now.”

Helen had beautiful golden skin and long fingers. Across the joint of one
finger was a thick white scar. She chewed loudly and smacked her lips. The widow was
absurdly affronted by this fact. She decided that her benefactor had lost her
civilization. “Where are you from?” the widow asked.

“Baltimore, originally. My father was a breeder. Well,” Helen
laughed, “he
is
a breeder. I don't guess he's dead
yet.”

“Is that where you met Henry?”

“Yes. I fancied myself a real horsewoman, and he came onto the
ranch, and he had the most peachy horse. I'd never seen the like.”

“That old bay?” the widow said dubiously.

“Oh, no! You'd have noticed this horse if you'd seen
her. She was stolen two years ago. I was in a state about it.” Helen fiddled with
some grass and sucked her teeth rudely. “Henry knows where she is, but it would be
. . . unwise to steal her back.”

The widow swallowed with difficulty, sighed, “This is
delicious!” and immediately set upon the food again.

Helen tried not to smile. “Well now, if you don't mind, can I
give you a piece of advice?”

The widow was still working earnestly on a mouthful of pulpy bread. She
raised her eyebrows.

“If you're going to Frank, to the town? When you get there,
make a beeline for Mr. Bonnycastle. They call him the Reverend, or if they're
being cute, they call him Bonny. He's a minister of some sort, among other things.
He's the only man in that vile town you can trust. It is not a nice place, Frank.
I was there only a little while. Henry was away, and I was not very . . . it was tough
for me because of his sister, who was angry about me. His mother was no enthusiast,
either. In any case, that's all I know about Frank.”

The widow nodded. “Bonnycastle,” she said, committing the name
to memory. She had eaten by far the most of the bread and meat. “Why did you come
out here in the first place?” she asked her companion.

“Because God wanted me to be here.”

This statement confounded the widow. It was as if some important bit of
meaning had been withheld from her and she had no hope of understanding anything without
it. Her face must have registered her bewilderment, because Helen tried again.

“I loved him right away,” she said. “Almost on sight.
Some things are so obvious when you look at them. And when that happens there
isn't any choice. Babies, for instance. You can't help wanting to hold a
baby, can you?”

“No,” said the widow. Her throat constricted. Dried berries
ran round and round in her mouth in a sweet paste. She
hadn't
known how to hold her own baby, the boy wrinkled and fusty, raging feebly. The midwife
had watched balefully as she tried to breastfeed. “You're bad at
that,” the woman had said but offered nothing further. She merely sat scowling as
the infant's thin cries pierced the air like knives.

The widow's companion chattered happily on. “You know what I
mean; it was simply undeniable. Like the weather, or a cut, or . . . or rain,”
Helen continued. “You can't pretend it's not raining.”

The widow nodded. She had spent nights tucked round a pine's narrow
trunk, trying to ignore the drippings and hissing of rain through millions of needles,
the damp earth seeping through her clothes. No, out here you knew it was raining. There
was no escaping it. No chesterfield before a roaring fire. No baked stone slipped
between linen sheets to warm your feet at bedtime. Her grandmother had refused to let
anyone take a bath during a lightning storm, or wash dishes, or touch doorknobs, or
polish silver, in case water or metal should conduct. It had seemed to Mary then that
anything she wanted to do was forbidden, and for her own good. She and her father would
complain of boredom.

“Go to bed,” the old woman would say, thinking herself
clever.

“I would,” her father retorted, “but there are metal
springs
in my bed!” Finally, her grandmother would relent and ask
someone to go make her some tea — but please stand
back
from the stove.
How little anyone really knew about the elements then. Standing at a rain-smeared window
watching the massive oaks toss their heads. Drawing a fire to rid the room of dampness.
Girls complaining: See how unruly my hair gets?

And now here she was, cross-legged in long grass with the sun overhead, a
strange woman regarding her with undisguised curiosity. It occurred to the widow that
she may have spoken out loud. Talked to herself! Perhaps her memory had leaked out, as
conversation does through an open window. And yet Helen seemed as comfortable with the
widow as she would be with a playing child, babbling to itself. Her smile was genuine,
devoid of anything except curiosity when she asked, “And how did you meet your
husband, if you don't mind my asking?”

Here was something the widow could answer, for it seemed like a story she
had heard — as if John had been a different man, and she a different girl, which
perhaps was truer than it sounded. And so she told this other girl's story, a tale
no more than two years old. Her dark hair whipped about her face and Helen's about
hers, as if the two women were underwater plants waving in a river's anxious
current.

MARY HAD MET
John at a party she had attended with her
grandmother. The irony was that neither she nor John had really been part of the
gathering. Other girls stood on the lawn and threw horseshoes while the boys jeered or
shouted advice. Meanwhile, Mary hid indoors and tried to make herself invisible. Her
grandmother had ordered her outside, away from the clutch of spinsters and grannies, and
when the directive had been ignored long enough, she had dragged her into the hall and
hissed in her face, “You get your little self out there and mingle with those
young people!”