Wildwood Creek (12 page)

Mr. Hardwick manages to move the oxen off, and I close my eyes and wipe the moisture from my hair, pushing away the memory of the Comanche children drownin’ in the river. I cannot let myself relive that time. Bonnie Rose O’Brien is gone now, and her memories must go with her.

Overhead, the sky darkens. Thunder rumbles, and a mist of water spits down, threatenin’ to bring rain and leave us trapped, half on each side of the river. The men heighten their speed, and the boat crosses even more heavily laden.

It returns again, and it’s the sorrel mules, along with whiskey boxes and kegs of gunpowder next to go. Mr. Hardwick decides it is time for Essie Jane, Maggie, and me to make the trip. We walk down the shore like prisoners heading to the gallows. Essie Jane is frightened beyond her wits and snivelin’, poor thing. Her whole body trembles. I sit her next to a barrel that isn’t heavy, and pull her hands to the ropes lashed ’round it. “If anything should happen, you hold to this. It will float in the water. Kick your feet hard like you’re chasing at flies, and try to make shore.”

“Yes’m,” she whispers, leaning against the barrel and closing her eyes. Tears seep under her dark lashes.

“Don’t worry, now,” I tell her. “We’ll be landin’ on the
other side before you know it.” I move to Maggie then, and do the same with her, settling her in next to three barrels that have been bound together.

The wind comes up, whistlin’ over the water, rocking the raft hard as we set off. Maggie sits upon her knees and casts a worried look my way, and Essie Jane tucks her head low, whimpering into the shoulder of her dress. Nearby, Big Neb holds the mules. They are an older pair that has made this trip many a time. They’re not expected to offer trouble.

Beneath us, the decking of the raft rocks and sways as we leave the landin’ behind. The wind pulls crests from the waves, splashing over the boat, and the mules stagger on the water-soaked logs. Their small, sharp hooves clatter and slide as the boat rocks and sways. I stretch my arms ’round the barrel, gripping Maggie May’s hands on the other side. Her fingers, in turn, clutch my sleeves, and we hold on. Maggie whispers the Lord’s Prayer.
Is our Lord hearing it now?
I wonder.
Is He watchin’ over the river?

A wave shoves hard against the raft. The mules stagger back left. “Hold them steady!” Mr. Hardwick yells above the wind and the storm. “Hold them steady, or I will split your worthless hide!” At the rail, Big Neb struggles to keep the mules from bolting forward. The storm’s got them sorely frightened. Mr. Hardwick attempts to brace his feet and lean against the reins, but his boots only slide. He slips on the deck as if it were ice, and he hits hard against the railing, off his feet. The mules sit back on their haunches, giving to the sudden weight of a man against the bridle reins. They throw their heads, the iron bits cutting into their mouths. One goes down on his haunches, and the harness pulls the other mule so he’s scrambling wild as Mr. Hardwick tries to get his own feet.

“Turn ’em loose!” Big Neb yells above the din. “Turn ’em
loose, sah. I holds ’em!” His groan splits the air as he struggles to pull the mule back to its feet again. The side rail cracks and bows against the burden. The heavens open overhead, and rain rushes down, so thick I can’t see. Of a sudden, the load begins shifting, tipping the boat into the current. The water grabs it, and I feel the logs rise beneath me.

“Hold tight, Maggie May!” I dig my fingers in, determined that I won’t let her go. Our bundle slides, then stops, hanging by a rope tied fast. The raft tips far enough that I feel the bottom of the keg lifting off the floor.

I wonder,
After everything, this is the way we die?
Never havin’ reached Wildwood at all? Our bodies down below with the bones of men and animals whose crossin’s were upended? Who never saw the other shore?

Essie Jane’s scream rends the air. I feel something slide past, catching my dress a moment, pullin’ hard, then tearin’ loose. Through the downpour, I’ve a glimpse of the girl’s face—a single, frozen moment—all eyes and open mouth, terror-filled. I turn loose of Maggie and reach for Essie’s Jane’s hand, but she’s too far. All I can catch is the end of the rope trailin’ by, and it slips through my fingers, wet and slick. Essie Jane is scramblin’ now, trying to get loose of the barrel. She slips sideways ’neath the railing and goes off into the water, screamin’ out the death wail.

“No!” The wind cuts my voice away. Something strikes the raft. I see it dark against the rain, an upended tree, the roots sticking out like fingers. It pushes the boat up, forces the low end above the water. Big Neb pulls the mules to their feet in the instant it gives us.

The ferry rights itself, and the ferryman yells, “Hold them mules still!”

Through the rain, I see Mr. Hardwick over the railing, in the water, clinging to the barrel and Essie Jane.

Next I know I’m scramblin’ across the deck, my skirt catching under my knees, splinters of wet wood pushing through my gloves. I hook the toes of my boots between logs, and stretch until I’m lying on my belly across the raft, trying to grab for Mr. Hardwick. In the water, Essie Jane is flailin’ all over him, panicked to keep her head above water.

Mr. Hardwick struggles to cut the barrel free of her, and when he finally slices it loose, he brings his hand back and strikes her hard across the face, and then she’s limp. I grab for her as he struggles to hand her up, and I pull her back across the deck. Mr. Hardwick drags himself from the water and falls on board, coughing up the contents of the river.

The water quiets as we’re nearing the shore. The mules tremble where they stand, and overhead the wind retreats into the trees. But for the look of us—and the barrel floating off down the river—no one would know we’d struggled with the crossin’.

When we’re safely onshore, Mr. Hardwick demands to know why Essie Jane was lashed to the barrel. I take the blame for it, though it was none of my doing. It’ll go easier for me than for her, I suppose, but it must’ve been she who tied herself there as we were departing the shore. Mr. Hardwick is in a wicked humor about the loss of the gunpowder. I assure him I’ll stand the cost of it when I begin receiving my wages.

We speak no more of it, as the last of the crossings is accomplished with neither loss of man nor beast.

When the loads are put in place again and the teams harnessed up, we move on from the river, wet and cold and sufferin’. It’s a quiet evening in camp that night, all of us realizing the difficulties of the journey are near an end now. Wildwood is just days overland. The final river as we reach the town is an easy ford this time of year, according to Mr. Hardwick.

In the night, I dream of the crossin’, and then I’m flying
over the river like a bird on the wing, far, far upwater to where the
New Ila
steams along, her stern wheel turning peacefully. And then I’m standing on deck with Captain Engle.
James.
His blue eyes smile at me.

If you need me, Bonnie Rose, I’ll come for you,
he whispers.

In the morn’, it’s his name on my lips, but Mr. Hardwick’s face hovering over my camp bed. I don’t know if he’s come to wake me, or if he’s been there a time. I rise without speakin’ and tend to the morning business. We make a meal of only hardtack and water, and soon we’re on the trail.

It’s a bright fair day for travelin’, and the men are of a fine spirit, each knowing we will reach Wildwood soon.

The sun is low on the horizon on the fourth day when finally we see the place with our own eyes. The coyotes come out, howling like a chorus of demons as we top the final hill and move along the bluffs toward the river ford. The smell of woodsmoke salts the air, and we see the fires of Wildwood below. A cheer goes up among us. Even with the fading light, we can accomplish the crossin’ of the ford.

We’ve reached our journey’s end now, at Wildwood.

A
LLIE
K
IRKLAND
M
AY
, P
RESENT
D
AY

B
y the time I turned off I-35, south of Temple, I wished I’d broken the rules and taken Kim with me on the trip to the set. She probably would’ve agreed to hide in the floorboard of my loaner vehicle, just to get a look at the place. In fact, she probably would’ve insisted on it. Which was exactly why I hadn’t called before I struck out. It would be just my luck that we’d get caught.

The farther from the interstate I traveled, the more rugged and deserted the territory became. A company pickup truck is a far cry from a horse-drawn prairie schooner, but a lonely, uncertain feeling closed in as civilization faded in the rearview mirror. I couldn’t help imagining what the journey must have been like for those early-day pioneers whose shoes our cast members would soon try to fill. The idea that the people in our costume diaries and biographical journals had traveled these very paths was both awe-inspiring and disquieting. The sensation stayed with me as I wandered along ribbons of two-lane highway, snaking through limestone hills and slipping under the branches of massive live oaks that must’ve shaded wagons in days of old.

Along the roadsides, vibrant sprays of wildflowers painted foamy colors amid seas of green: the yellow and crimson of Indian paintbrush, the soft pinks and whites of primrose, the bold yellow blooms atop prickly pear cactus, the deep purple of wine-cups, the azure of fading bluebonnets, the lavender of wild phlox.

The names sifted from the corners of my mind, a pleasant residue from Grandma Rita’s habitual Sunday drives into the country. Each year when I arrived at the beginning of the summer, we bonded over wild lantana, Indian paintbrush, and the Seven Sisters roses that grew near what had once been pioneer homesteads. Grandma Rita taught me so many things, but above all else, she taught me to respect the dreams that bubble from the wellsprings of the heart.
Those dreams that find you in the quiet of yourself, those are the truest of all, Allie,
she’d told me.
Making a hope come true takes faith and smarts, and hard work. Follow your dreams, but always take your brain with you.

A tingle of excitement crackled as I topped the final hill and saw the glistening waters of Moses Lake in the valley below. Nestled among seemingly endless folds of spring green, dusty sage, and the milky flesh of limestone, the lake was breathtakingly beautiful, a fathomless deep blue, the water capturing the early afternoon light in shattered pieces. Here and there, boats skimmed the surface and sun-drenched docks bobbed in the current, providing shade for the lazy paddling of mallard ducks.

A squirrel dashed across a live oak branch overhead, then stopped and stood on its hind feet, seeming to wave a greeting as I passed a weathered sign at the edge of town. Comprised of ancient-looking rock pillars supporting a few rustic strips of board, it read,
Welcome to Moses Lake! If you’re lucky enough to be at the lake, you’re lucky enough.

Moses Lake seemed like the kind of town where people might come to get away from it all, to bring the family for a woodsy, watery vacation and happily let the world pass by. Billboards here and there offered everything from fishing guide service to cabin rentals to canoe trips down the river. I followed the signs to the Waterbird Bait and Grocery, searching for somewhere to buy gas and grab lunch. Situated on a patch of gravel uphill from the lake, the rambling tin building didn’t look like much, but as I pulled up to the gas pumps and stepped out, something definitely smelled good. The aroma of fried food was thick in the air. Downhill near the docks, a pair of fishermen was headed toward the store, one carrying a gas can in hand. When they reached the parking lot, they were deeply engaged in a conversation about fat bass and lures.

“I’m tellin’ you, Burt, it’s the green fire tail worms in the spring, and the red fire tails in the fall. That’s what I caught that lunker bass on last year down by Caney Cove.”

“Nester, as I recall, you didn’t catch that supposed lunker a’tall. It ain’t caught till it’s in the boat. There’s no proof you ever had you a lunker on the hook in the first place.”

“Don’t you even start up with me, Burt Lacey. It ain’t a figment of my imagination. You saw the broke pole that thing left behind. . . .” Nester looked my way and held up the gas can. “Pumps out, down the hill.”

“This one seems fine.” Actually the numbers on the dial were moving faster than a Vegas slot machine. Now I understood why Kim never had any money and why she was in such a hurry to sell her pickup truck. Fortunately, a company credit card for gasoline had come with the loaner pickup.

Nester set down his gas can, craning to get a look at the jumble of boxes and assorted antique tools in the back of my truck—things I’d been instructed to drop off at a warehouse
outside of town, where the set designers could pick them up as needed. “My daddy had a old hand billows like that one. Haven’t seen nothin’ like that in years.” He leaned over to examine the tools.

Burt abandoned the pump opposite mine and came over to take a look. “Well, that old saddle is sure a dandy. I don’t think I’d be ridin’ that one, worn as the leather is, but it’s somethin’ to see. That a family heirloom? Got any idea how long ago it was made?”

“Pre–Civil War, is my understanding. It’s just a prop. Nobody’s going to be riding on it.”

Bert and Nester eyed each other, then Nester eyed me. “Yer one of them movie folks. Shoulda known it by the plain white truck with the number on the side. It’s a rental, ain’t it?”

“It belongs to the production company. I’m not sure if it’s a rental or not. Actually, this is my first time to the location. Do you know how long it takes to get there from here?”

Burt and Nester shared a bit of silent eye conversation, and I wondered what that meant. They looked like two kids who’d been caught selling bubble gum on the playground at recess. “We’ve been sworn to secrecy, ma’am,” Burt finally answered. “But if I
did
know where that filmin’ set was, exactly, I’d tell you it’s closer to get there crossin’ the lake than it is to go overland. To drive it in a truck, you got a good hour of hills and dirt roads waitin’ on you. You know how to operate the four-wheel drive in this thing? It full time, or you gotta lock it in?”

No doubt my cluelessness showed. The pump had just clicked off, and I was staring at the seventy-dollar gas bill in complete shock.
Seventy dollars for gas?
All at one time?
“Four-wheel drive . . . huh . . .”

Nester
tsk-tsk
ed under his brushy gray moustache. “Oh, darlin’, you don’t want to be like that other bunch that come
high falutin’ out here from Hollywood. Tow truck had to go pull them out
after
they spent the night in the woods and scared theirselves half to death. Fools got two cars and a minivan high-centered at Bee Cave crossin’. That was back in the spring, when they started construction on the town site out there. They quit the minivans and started sendin’ trucks after that. Now, if they would’ve asked us local folk, we coulda told them that in the first place. You don’t want to be takin’ chances on them roads up in Chinquapin Peaks. Can’t always get cell phone service up there, either. Comes and goes, dependin’ where you’re at.”

“Oh . . .” My glittery sense of excitement and adventure melted quickly into the uncomfortable squiggle of fear and trepidation. Maybe I needed food and extra water . . . just in case I found myself stuck in the mountains like one of those tourists who takes a wrong turn during the off-season and ends up fighting for survival. Maybe Tova had sent me up here on purpose—a clever way of finally getting rid of me.

Nester’s gray mustache twitched upward. “Let me give it a closer look and make sure you’re all set for the roads in Chinquapin. Now, you do know that the Wildwood town site is on fifteen thousand acres of private land owned by the power company, right? You got a key to get in that place? Because otherwise, you’ll be slap outta luck. The construction crew already finished everythin’ and left yesterday. I hear the movie folks changed the locks soon as the crews left, so no one could get back in. They’re keepin’ that place a Class-A secret.” He smiled and winked at me. “’Course, I guess they never thought about the fact that
if
the fella has a boat and
knows
his way to the cove along Wildwood Creek, it ain’t hard to get there by water.”

Bert elbowed Nester in the stomach, and Nester let out a soft
oof.
“Nester, you’re gonna get us arrested. How would
that look? Former principal of Moses Lake High School and the head mechanic at the bus barn, thrown in jail?”

Nester waved off the concern. “I’m tryin’ to save this young lady from driving all the way up there for nothin’. If she don’t have the key, we could call Mart McClendon and have him let her in. Game warden has the key to the old electric company gate next to the new one. He could get her on the place.”

I quickly assured them that the combination had been given to me along with my traveling instructions for the day. An analysis of the truck and a rudimentary lesson in four-wheel-drive operation followed, and then I went inside to grab a soda, a chicken finger basket to go, and a precautionary six-pack of bottled water. Nester and Burt accompanied me in—apparently I was the most interesting thing happening in Moses Lake at the moment—and while I waited for my food, Pop Dorsey, the owner of the place, encouraged me to sign the Wall of Wisdom. Offering a Sharpie, he indicated the rear area of the store, where visitors had been leaving signatures and favorite bits of wisdom since the store’s inception in the 1950s.

“It’s good luck to sign the wall,” Nester urged. “Means you’ll always come back to Moses Lake.”

Since I needed all the luck I could get, and I did want to come back to Moses Lake—both today and at the end of the summer on my way home—I felt obliged to add my two cents. After thinking for a minute, I decided to leave that bit of wisdom from Grandma Rita.

Follow your heart, but always take your brain with you.

I signed it with both of our names.
Allie Kirkland and Rita Lane Kirkland.

Now we were officially part of the Moses Lake Wall of Wisdom, along with such clever quotes as
Early to bed, early
to rise, fish all day, tell big lies.
And
Never test the depth of the water with both feet.

After I was finished, my new friends showed me the way to a massive old cotton barn the production company had rented to house props and construction materials. The barn lay along the lakeshore, behind a massive Greek revival house that had been converted into a bed-and-breakfast. The property owner there, Blaine Underhill, unloaded the boxes and tools into the barn, where buggies, wagons, buckets, tin pots, huge iron kettles, and all manner of other antique materials waited.

I stood in the doorway, admiring the sheer magnitude of the collection, my blood quickening with the whispers in the dusty air. The stories these things could tell . . .

If these were just the props, I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to see, for the first time, Wildwood itself.