Beacon of Light, page 22
When Clara did not come in from the barn at lunchtime, May went in search of her, leaving little Eliezer on his stomach, grabbing at any available toy placed on the blanket. She was not in the forebay or in any of the stalls. Horses whinnied, shook their heads up and down, pawed at the straw, but there was no Clara in sight.
Where could she have gone?
Perhaps to the pasture in search of something. Or in the haymow. She had turned to leave, her thoughts on Eliezer, when she heard a low moan, a sound that sent a stab of fear to her chest. She clutched at her unbuttoned coat, raced back to the area the sound came from, slid the wooden latch on the gate, before taking stock of the animal that stood with his head tossed, a fiery look in his eye.
The stallion.
And then she caught a glimpse of red.
The sight of capable Clara thrown into a corner, as if someone had taken a rag doll and pitched it violently, was so unexpected and so terrifying that May opened her mouth and screamed.
The stallion tossed its head and stomped his foot in agitation as raw fear paralyzed May, but only for a few moments. The dire situation was imprinted on her mind, and she was stung into action. Keeping one eye on the stallion, she kept to the opposite wall, reached Clara, and called her name, loudly, over and over, before reaching under both armpits and moving backward.
Only a few feet, and May could tug no farther.
The stallion’s nostrils quivered as he let out a ringing blast of sound, a primal call of conquest, but one that lent superhuman effort to May’s slight form. She bent to the inert Clara with a renewed energy that bordered on panic, and moved backward another short length before trying again.
The stallion took a step forward, then another, his ears turning back with the equine hostility May recognized instantly.
She straightened, looked into his eyes, and with what she hoped was a command, said loudly, “Whoa.”
The stallion’s ears flicked forward. He stopped.
May moved Clara another short length. She looked behind her, then at the stallion, before beginning another desperate struggle. Breathing hard, she straightened before catching her breath.
“Clara. Clara. Wake up,” she called urgently.
The only response was another low moan.
The stallion walked over. His face was inches away from May’s head. He was a huge gray and white horse, wide in the chest, with a long well-built form. She had always admired him from a distance, but now, in this enclosed area, he was gigantic, a threat to both of them.
May reached out a trembling hand. The stallion raised his head, moving the halter away from her reach, then pivoted, exactly what she had feared. He was turning his rump to lash out with both hind feet at the unwelcome intruders invading his space.
There was nothing else to do but call out a firm “Whoa.” She repeated this, trying at least to distract the horse as she began drawing Clara through the straw and manure yet again. One desperate lunge and she reached the gate and broke through. The last few feet she simply rolled Clara out of the gate’s way, before closing it with trembling hands. She turned to Clara, called her name over and over, with no response.
Was she dying, here on the cold floor of the barn?
She had to check on Eliezer. She dashed through the cold, ran up the steps, heard his mournful cries as she yanked at the door.
“Poor baby,” she crooned, as she caught him up in her arms. “Shh. Shh.”
What to do? She had to get to Clara. She bundled Eliezer into his little coat and bonnet, grabbed a quilt from the crib, and hurried out to the barn, the blanket drawn well over his face.
The gloom of the barn disoriented her after the cold sunshine outside, so it took a few moments before she could discern the fact that Clara was not where she had left her. Clutching Eliezer, her heart pounding, she called out.
“Here.”
Weak and trembling, but it was Clara, lying by a pile of hay, having pulled herself to an odd position as she tried to get up.
“Clara! I’m here. Are you all right?”
“No. Why would I be?” Her voice was like barbed wire.
“Let me help you.”
“It’s my leg.”
Quickly, May put Eliezer on a soft mound of hay, then gasped at the odd angle of Clara’s foot.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Go get someone who can get me to a doctor. He turned and it was like a gunshot on the side of my leg. He got me good. Must have kicked out with both legs, I don’t know.”
“I’ll take Eliezer.”
“Guess you’ll have to. I’m not much good lying here.”
May picked him up, went through the door, and assessed her situation. Simon Weaver’s farm was a good half mile, but it was the closest Amish neighbor. There was a small white house closer, but she remembered hearing that the young couple there was away visiting relatives.
She started resolutely across the corn-stubbled fields, her small shoe print creating a trail through the cold, moist soil. She shifted Eliezer from side to side, her arms numb with the effort, her legs trembling from exhaustion as she pushed herself on. She climbed a wooden fence, crossed a pasture, and let herself through a gate before arriving at the back of a huge white barn. Shyness overtook her, and she hesitated, then moved past the barn, up to the yard gate.
The door opened, and Simon Weaver came out to meet her.
“Here, here. What brings you out on this cold weather? Bring the child inside quickly.”
He held out his arms, and May gladly deposited the heavy bundle into his arms.
“It’s Clara. She was kicked by her stallion,” she gasped.
Simon strode into the house, calling for Kettie in stentorian shouts, with the poor wife appearing at the door of the washhouse with soap clinging to her hands.
“Here. Clara was kicked. You watch Eliezer, and I’ll take May.”
“Oh! Yes, of course. Here. Give him here.” She reached for the baby, glad to settle on the creaking hickory rocker with a little one to care for. Simon wasted no time getting his team ready, and May hopped up gratefully, Clara the only thing on her mind.
The doctor was called, and soon the leg was set and put in a clumsy plaster cast. Clara was given a pair of crutches and told to stay off that foot for six weeks, at least.
Clara just glared at the doctor, as if he was responsible for the whole incident. May found herself speaking up to thank the doctor, and then Simon, since Clara was clearly not in a mood to say anything pleasant. She made sure Clara was settled comfortably with a blanket and a cup of tea before she went back to retrieve Eliezer, wondering how on earth they would manage the horses with Clara unable to walk.
CHAPTER 18
HE TOOK THE DOGS BY HIMSELF THAT DAY.
He packed a few strips of dried meat, his rifle, an axe, and a couple extra traps he would install in strategic areas. Jonas wasn’t feeling well, his arthritis flaring up in his shoulder. He told Oba to be careful, especially along the river where the ice would appear solid but was not, it being too early in the winter season.
It was exhilarating standing on the back of the sled with the seven dogs strung out in front of him, straining into the harnesses, their feet like a whisper as they hit the new snow, creating a sort of chorus, their heads bobbing as they ran. They loved to run, and it showed in the tireless lope that carried them along the riverbank. On either side, the fir trees stood sentry, guardians of the meandering river filled to the brim, ice beginning to form like islands of lace. Along the banks, the ice appeared to be substantial, but Oba remembered Jonas’s warning.
He kept to level terrain as much as he could to take it easier on the dogs, but when he came to deeper forest, there were more rugged turns steep inclines that seemed to come out of nowhere. He breathed in the sharp air, rife with cold and the scent of pine and hemlock. He set the traps where he thought the area might contain a few arctic fox, or snowshoe hares, the huge white rabbits that left their clumsy footprints in soft snow.
He had never spied a wolverine, the voracious killers who fearlessly attacked much larger animals, tireless in the chase of prey, stronger than a wolf in spite of their smaller size.
He refused to let his mind dwell on grizzly bears or the smaller brown bears. He had never overcome his deep-seated fear of being mauled by one, but he felt safer as early winter blanketed the land, knowing they would be hibernating.
He stopped the dogs for a rest on top of a hill where the trees had thinned to stands of young spruce trees, dotting a greasy field with a full panoramic view of the mountain range directly ahead. He wondered why they were named the Pink Mountains, which made no sense except for the pink glow a setting sun would cast over them. He never tired of the ever-changing views of this awesome land, never tired of his forays into uncharted territory.
It was Sam who had taught him all the lore of her ancestors. They had spent hours together, hours of learning the skills of a good provider. He missed not having her with him, but knew it was best to go without her, give her time to spend days with her family, wondering where he was, why he did not show up. Or perhaps she didn’t care and didn’t miss him at all.
Oba was tired of the miserable existence called falling in love. What other ailment could cause someone to moon around the cabin wanting to be with another person every single hour of the day, until his life was nothing but wishing and wanting? He spent all his time dreaming up ways and excuses to run on over to her cabin, a distance that required a few hours of travel on foot. Often she would welcome him with gladness, then treat him like a little brother, or like her mother or father. He finally admitted to himself that she did not experience any of the dry-mouthed heart palpitations he did. In fact, she acted as if it spited her to quit whatever it was she was working on when he showed up at their cabin.
Once, she had been skinning a rabbit, and she went right on with her work as if he hadn’t appeared at all, leaving him standing beside her as she expertly plied the long, curved hunting knife, holding it in her teeth when she needed both hands to draw the skin away from the carcass.
Her mother had made a rabbit stew, with dumplings simmered on top, full of rich gravy and savory onion and carrot. He had never eaten a better meal, he told them. Oba and Sam had walked together that evening, skipping round, flat rocks on the river, without saying much of anything. He was completely happy, a sense of lightness, a feeling of finding a lasting home. He’d watched the curtain of dark hair swinging as her strong arm pitched an expert underhand throw, sending the flat rock skipping across the slow eddies of the river.
Today he stood on the edge of a steep incline, the mountains ahead of him, the enormous blue of the sky shrinking him to a pinhead of existence. So unimportant, so small and insignificant.
Who cared about him? Who knew he was gone, remembered him?
May. Surely May wondered about him.
To leave this great country to resume his search for her was so pointless, but staying here pining after Sam wasn’t much different. One was as fruitless as the other.
He thought of Rain and her preaching about God, about Jesus. Well, that was okay for her, but he was ashamed of Jesus. His name made him uncomfortable, so uneasy, in fact, that he didn’t like to hear it at all. Who could ever know for sure that He even lived and died on a cross? That whole deal was completely uncivilized in his opinion, but then he guessed thousands of years ago, people were barbarians, putting someone on the cross for thinking differently than the mainstream, for healing people and all that weird stuff.
Rain had brought out his shameful emotion, though, the way he’d cried like a baby, something he wished he hadn’t done.
But still. He had felt a little better inside, as if some of the cobwebs had been swept, the darkness and hatred of Melvin Amstutz no longer as powerful, maybe.
Perhaps you could deny God all you wanted, and he’d never stop trying to win you over, sending people like Rain to make you see that you weren’t the only one living with pain and a searing hatred.
Suddenly the dogs burst into a frenzied barking, leaping to their feet as they all turned in one direction.
Oba froze.
Slowly, he turned, watched across the young spruce trees, the snow-covered valley of grass and saplings that sprouted from the earth. He reached for his rifle, clicked the safety off, desperately searching for the object of the dogs’ frenzy.
A huge bruin moved steadily through the spruce trees, his wide head with a snout like a pig, small eyes like those of a swine, a lumbering, rolling gait with massive paws turned in, like a pigeon-toed person, his enormous shoulders jostling the loose skin so that his whole body seemed to roll.
On instinct, he called to the dogs, his only sensible thought to leave the area as fast as possible. Here was the approach of his greatest fear, a full-grown grizzly, who had foregone hibernation for reasons no one would ever know. Oba swallowed bile, felt waves of nausea accompany a powerful urge to throw up. His fear controlled every aspect of his thinking, his body responding with heat and icy chills, a heartbeat that hammered erratically, dizziness, and loss of vision. Almost, he fell sideways, but caught himself on the curved wood handle of the sled.
The dogs were going crazy. Eb was actually dragging the remainder of the dogs, tilting the sled as he leaped forward, baying, creating a terrible ruckus. Oba knew he should loosen them from their traces but could not find the strength to do it.
The great bruin stopped, lifting its large golden snout. Oba watched through vision blurred by his fear and anxiety. When the bear resumed his walk, his great head swung back and forth, his eyes focused on the dogs, who were leaping, falling over each other in their urge to attack.
Oba was trembling all over, his teeth chattering like castanets. He realized then, he felt the same thing he had so many times in Arkansas, waiting, watching Melvin approach with the whip, his large calloused hand curled around it, containing the stinging length to the handle.
A spurt of adrenaline brought a searing urge to do something, change something. He didn’t know what he was supposed to accomplish, but in reality, he knew he did not need to stand alone and take this.
This time, he could defend himself, or die trying.
To compare the wild grizzly to Melvin Amstutz brought a new level of focus, a sharp instinct for his own survival. The bear lumbered on, stopped, swung its massive head in irritation, then rose slowly, ominously, on two hind feet, creating an unearthly roar that reverberated across the valley.
Oba saw Melvin. He saw him lift the whip, his face splotched with purple marks, heard the roar that came from the grizzly’s mouth.
He felt the first slash, the one that always took his breath away, and he screamed and screamed. His screams rattled in a hoarse throat, before a great and terrifying calm spread across his chest. He lifted the rifle, drew a perfect bead, thought of Sam’s words—high in the shoulder, the neck, or between the eyes.
Melvin. The whip. Cowering, whimpering, begging for mercy, and still the knotted end of rawhide repeatedly broke the skin on his back.
The bear would move on up the slope, his canine teeth puncture his skull, crush the bones like dry twigs, his claws rake his skin like the end of Melvin’s whip.
He pulled the trigger, then again. The bear jumped, dropped to all fours and dashed to the left, rolled on one side, tried to get up, but Oba drew another shot, placed on his skull, and the bear rolled completely, his legs buckled beneath him, and he was still.
Oba babbled incoherently. He cried and sobbed and hiccoughed as he waited to see if the beast would rise to his feet once more.
He felt as if he had faced down his greatest fear, the image of his past, the deep hurt that kept him in its jaws, lived in his body, snaked between healthy muscle and bone, cartilage and blood vessels, slowly taking him down like a degenerative disease. Breathing heavily, he wiped his eyes on his sleeve, then his nose, and laid the rifle across the handles of the sled as he went to quiet the dogs.
Eb understood and laid down, but whined with impatience, his light blue eyes watching every move. The other dogs followed his lead, and silence hung over the pristine land, a silence ruffled only by the chirping of a few juncos high in the spruce trees.
Oba cried long after he’d taken his rifle and approached the bear. He tried to contain his free-falling tears, then gave up when he realized no one was there to hear or see. He stood above the fallen grizzly, knew he had aimed well, knew he had accomplished a heroic shot, knew he would be accepted as a true man of the Northwest Territory, especially in Jonas’s eyes.
He also knew, in ways he could not fathom, he had shot down his greatest adversary. He might never know what became of Melvin, but somehow, he realized, the rest of his life was up to him, whether he chose to hang on to old atrocities or whether he chose to move on, even if it meant doing so imperfectly. He would always struggle, but only at times, and those times would lessen with years.
And he said, “Thank you, God.”
THE COMING HOME was phenomenal, Jonas in disbelief, then unrivaled elation. They had to get to the downed grizzly before predators did, so they took the boat to the Zusacks’ homestead, their sled dogs and oversized sled, knives, meat packs, and whatever the family thought they might need in case of a night’s stay.
Oba was flushed with pride, too happy to care whether he was being foolish to accept all the fuss. He led the way into the deep forest, then out to the open field of spruce, just before darkness fell across the land.
Guided by the light of the moon and burning torches, the bear was skinned, cut into pieces, and packed in canvas packs. A huge fire kept predators away from the fresh meat, but they could hear snarls and the barking of foxes, wolves, and perhaps wolverines as they took to the offal thrown a good distance away.
“Them wolverines is pretty shy, but I can guarantee if there’s one of ’em at the guts, there ain’t nothing else. They’ll kill a wolf, given the chance,” Brad said, as he sat in the firelight after washing his hands in the hot water from the pot that had been hanging from the tripod.
