Dollybird (11 page)

“Here?” I was incredulous. “But we've no shelter, no fire.”

“No outhouse,” he said and his eyes went wide, like he wanted to suck the words back in with his breath.

The urge to protest evaporated. “No outhouse,” I smiled.

Casey called to us then and we both moved toward him. Dillan lifted him from the wagon, and I reached down and lightly rubbed his back as he gazed at me with sleepy eyes. “It's all right. We'll get you warmed up and find something to eat now.” It seemed a surprisingly natural thing to do. Dillan was watching; his face relaxed into the barest hint of relief. Maybe this was all he wanted from me.

CHAPTER 15

i
i
i

After we'd eaten
and fed Casey, Dillan finally coaxed Mule across the water with oats from the feed bag in the wagon. The trail finally smoothed out and the swaying wagon lulled Casey to sleep. I felt myself nod off, but kept one half-open eye on Dillan. The fingers of his right hand relaxed on the reins, and he massaged the muscles at the back of his neck. But his eyes were worried, passing back and forth over the unchanging landscape: dead grass with a hint of spring green, blue sky lightly ribboned with clouds stretched to the horizon.

A short distance ahead a graveyard loomed, in it a huge white crypt, probably eight feet long and six feet wide, and standing three feet high. Around this monstrous thing were small headstones, the lesser of the family relegated to the underground. Dillan had started to fidget, leaning forward, his mouth open.

“It's a mausoleum,” I offered with a yawn.

“What?”

“A mausoleum. You know, like the Greek ruler who built a permanent shrine to himself. My father figures he was just afraid of the dark. Maybe that was this poor soul's problem.” I yawned again and then dismissed my own words with a wave of my hand. “He was probably just afraid he'd be forgotten out here once everything grassed. That he'd be just like everyone else.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That tomb we just passed. Didn't you see it?”

“Yeah, two miles west and we'll be home.” He was sitting straight, shaking a little. He caught my surprise at the word home and turned away still smiling. “What were you saying?”

“Never mind.”

Mule plodded in silence while Dillan perched at the edge of his seat. I scoured the land around us, but could see nothing to indicate any change, no distinctive feature from this side of the wagon to that.

“We're looking for a stick then,” he offered. “Just a small piece of cut lumber to show us the edge of the homestead.”

Casey woke up. “You're almost home,” I whispered in his ear. He giggled. I nodded and said to Dillan, “It will be good for him I think.”

“Yeah.”

We peered into the distance, Dillan hunched further forward in an undeclared contest to be the first to see the marker. He was so excited. I wanted to let him be first. But competition is hard to ignore, and soon I was gazing as intensely as he. I saw the stick. Casey and I stood, balancing against the seat, and I pointed toward it, hollering.

“There it is. Don't you see it? There.” Jabbing again, and waving my arms as though this would help his vision. “Right there.”

And then he saw it, a smile creasing his face. He took a huge breath, his chest swelling visibly. He whooped and laughed like a fool, like the surveyors' stick marked more than just the corner of a piece of land. Casey's eyes were wide and he started to squirm, his father's excitement contagious. Dillan dropped the reins, took Casey and swung him into the air. “We're here, boy. We're home.”

“Home,” the boy said quietly. It was the first word I'd heard him speak.

As we passed the stick, I sat down again and Dillan put Casey between us. Glancing from one side of the trail to the other, I searched, but everything – the near, the far – was exactly the same: flat, barren and treeless. We'd worked ourselves up for this. A laugh came out in a snort.

“It's not that bad.”

“I'm sorry. It's just that...well...if I don't laugh...” I was surprised at the lump in my throat. “I might...”

“Oh Jesus,” he said.

Despair, too, is contagious and the muscles around his mouth started to twitch, his nose flared. If only there were more trees, a creek, something. Nothing was distinguishable except the stick. Mule had slowed and was barely moving.

Dillan whipped the reins across the animal's back. “Get up there.” He set his face, refusing to let my disappointment ruin his moment.

My stomach curled into a knot, and I tried to smother my fear. He was right. This was real and we had much to do in order to survive. I would have to keep my fears hidden.

“We'll set up the tent,” he said. “Get the boy settled. Find some water. There's only enough in the barrels there for a few days.” He motioned behind us in the wagon.

I straightened up. “Maybe we should just let Mule find us a bog.” I tried to grin.

He smiled back, grateful I think. Ahead, a lone elm tree spread its old worn branches, stretching up as though to beseech the heavens.

“There, that old tree. It's a sign.” He pointed. “We'll set up there.”

Small birds with white bellies flitted in front of us on the trail and finally flew up to scold us from the tree. A fox, bushy red tail flowing out behind him, ran a short distance, looked back and smelled the air, then ran again. Dillan stopped Mule and helped me down. Under the tree was a large rock and beside it, tucked under its sheltering face, were tiny purple flowers just starting to open, their petals covered in soft down.

“Crocuses, I think.” I breathed the words out. “In town, they were talking about crocus season.”

“Well, I think they're a good sign too,” Dillan said. “We'll set up here for now. At least the tree will give us a little shade in the afternoon once it leafs out.”

It was midday and the still-bare branches threw a criss-crossed pattern of shade. The air was deliciously warm, the cool morning dew burned off in the new heat of a cocky spring sun. A meadowlark trilled its scale in thirds on the way up, quick and chromatic on the descent. The sound burst through the silence. Dillan closed his eyes and breathed deeply as though he were purging winter, or something worse, from his lungs.

“What are you doing?” I tried not to laugh.

“Don't you feel it?”

“The wind?”

“Well that too, but...well...the newness. Spring, I guess. The air is so clean. It's like everything just woke up and washed.”

I wanted to understand, but if there was beauty, it was blanketed in isolation. I stood there, breathing it in, and smiled. Maybe I felt it a little, smelled what he smelled. I waved my hand at the emptiness around us. “It's just so big.”

He turned to unhitch Mule. The wind was picking up, the dead grasses rustling. “We better get that tent up before it gets too windy.” He busied himself. “There's an old man in town. Told me about winds kicking up dust so thick you can't breathe.”

I didn't want to hear the terrible musings of some crony and went to the wagon to let him enjoy what he appeared to think might be his last peaceful moment. Among the provisions I found bread and some soup I'd made in the boarding-house kitchen. We ate a little and unloaded the wagon. I felt strong helping in that way, as much as I could, with no expectation that he be chivalrous, just two people doing what needed doing. It reminded me of how it felt to work side by side with my father, a kind of freedom in having no awkward assignment of roles. Casey toddled circles around us, tripping over small hazards, happy to be out of the wagon.

Dillan pulled the tent out from the rest of our things and sized it up, trying to hold down one section of the canvas while puzzling over another. By the time we figured out front and back and where the posts should be positioned, the wind had grown, threatening to rip the tent out of his hands. I tried to help, but soon felt like a flag waving at the end of its pole, hair flying wildly around my face.

“This won't work,” he said. “We'll have to do it in the morning when the wind is down.”

“And what until then?”

“Sleep on the ground I guess.”

“Oh Lord.” He watched me, trying not to react as I let go a huge sigh.

Dearest Aileen,

Today I sense a freedom I haven't felt in months. Maybe silence is liberating. No, not silence, for I hear crickets chirping like an insect symphony, the crackle of our small fire providing an inconsistent percussion and the wind blowing like reed instruments in the background. Always the wind. It is not silence, but an absence of sound, of people, in the space out here.

I am lying under the wagon on a bed of blankets with a lantern beside me. I have Casey with me. He is Flaherty's small son. I hear him sigh quietly from time to time. It is a rather peaceful scene, if bizarre. Bizarre, but at least not terrible...

i i i

Casey whimpered in his sleep, found his ever-willing thumb. The wagon offered at least a primitive shelter from the elements, a small protection from the dark world. I felt an affinity for the boy, sent out into a world where he appeared to have survived more by sheer grit than good care.

He was an unnaturally quiet child. When I helped to change his clothes he didn't fuss, though his pale, thin body was quickly covered in goosebumps, and he shivered long after he was dressed. And he never gave any indication of hunger, yet he gobbled down the potatoes I boiled and mashed with a little water and salt. The newborns I'd helped deliver made more noise in their first few hours than Casey made all day. I couldn't help wondering if he was normal. His light blue eyes were bright enough and inquisitive about the new face I presented. The calm knowing in his gaze was unnerving. It made me wonder what he'd seen.

I looked across the fire at Dillan spreading his blankets for a bed. It was a comfort he was there, distant enough I needn't worry about his intentions, close enough to protect us if necessary. He was a mystery, darting about, looking for all the world like a willing idiot who hadn't an idea what to do next. I feared if someone were to yell
run
, he would, without a clue as to his destination.

But he appeared tough and athletic, jet-black hair in fast-growing curls, the permanent shadow of stubble adding darkness
to an already swarthy complexion. His face was thin, with a
long, bony nose and high cheekbones. It was his eyes that really
drew attention, slate grey, set far apart and huge, with unnaturally long lashes for a man. They forced a person to look into them, like you might see something about the world in those eyes. Maybe that's what his wife had seen.

The next day would be our first in the tent. Dillan said it would be our home until a house could be built. He said it was very large, leaving me to wonder if it would be large enough, the air around us crowded with tension, the huge expanse of land and sky reduced to a pinpoint.

Dillan pulled off his boots as I watched, then lay down and covered himself. It seemed intimate even from a distance. I wondered what he was thinking, if his mind was reeling with questions and secrets, as mine was. A coyote sang in the distance. Another answered not far away to the east, and soon a chorus of yipping laughter filled the cool night air and sent a tingle up my spine. Casey's eyes were wide, listening to the song. Pulling him closer, I tucked the blankets around us.

“You all right then?” Dillan called softly from across the fire.

“We're fine. I think he'll go back to sleep.”

“Okay then.” There was a long pause. Dillan must have fallen asleep just like that. “Good night, my sweet boy.”

For a moment I wasn't sure I'd heard it, but I had, the soft voice of a father. The outline of Dillan's body glowed red through the flames.

From under the wagon I could see stars filling the sky from one horizon to the other. Earlier the sunset had been achingly beautiful, and just as it became a pink memory, a brilliant orange moon emerged, glowing huge against the night. As it rose it grew smaller, fading into regular moon colours again.

People in Ibsen had told me the prairie was harsh and unforgiving, and I'd be lucky to last the winter. But perhaps it was instead a kindred spirit of sorts, its obvious failures pocking the surface for the world to see: the slough dried up before the ducks could hatch their eggs, the would-be trees stunted into shrubs, the fledgling grasses destined always to wait for the sun. My failures simply blended in.

CHAPTER 16

i
i
i

I woke to shouting
and kicked at the twisted blankets, scrambling out from under the wagon and banging my head on the sideboard. Casey wasn't there. Dear God, I'd lost him already. The sudden awakening tilted the world and my eyes blurred, but finally I spotted the boy beside Dillan at the fire. They were scooping oatmeal straight from the pot. Dillan must have seen me sleeping. I might have been drooling or snoring – Aileen always claimed I kept her up nights with my snoring. Mortified, I smoothed my hair and straightened my skirt.

“Well hello, Silas,” said Dillan. “Want some breakfast then?”

Silas? I came around the wagon to see him tying his horse to the tree.

“Not if you cooked it.”

They both laughed, and relief quickly released the tightened muscles of my bladder, sending me scrambling for a place to go.

“Damn.” The profanity surprised me as much as the men. “Don't look.”

“Moira?” Silas's look was incredulous before he turned away.

Squatting beside the far wagon wheel, I hoped the long grass would hide me as much as possible. What was he doing here? I emerged to find their backs toward me, shaking with laughter. So now I was the butt of their jokes. My heart sank even as anger welled.

“Mules. Sometimes I think it's not being able to breed has made them stubborn. I mean, wouldn't it make you ornery if you never got screwed?” Silas's face turned crimson when he saw me. “I'm sorry, Moira.”

“I've heard worse. My father had a mule once. Said it was hopelessly handicapped by sterility.” I laughed, then blushed, Dillan's eyes like the silent, confused eyes of the villagers at home when they failed to understand what was said. I looked at Silas. “What are you doing here?”

“You two know each other?” Dillan asked.

“Yes, we've already met,” said Silas. “And it's you who's come to help this young bastard out of his woes is it?” He looked at me hard. Dillan snorted and went to get the tent.

“Yes, I'm a dollybird.” I said it quietly. “I've agreed to help Dillan with Casey for the time being.”

“I had no idea you were that...”

“Hey old man,” Dillan interrupted. “Why don't you help me get this tent up?” He had the poles out of the wagon and spread the canvas over the ground. “Hard to tell which end is up.”

“That could be said for a lot of things.” Silas glanced my way.

We busied ourselves for the rest of the morning. The men pounded four posts into the ground, wrapping the tent taut around them. I chose a spot for the firepit, strung rope for a clothesline, chased Casey back to our small camp when he strayed too far. The shouts of the two men bounced through the air as they hollered instructions back and forth. Silas laughed when the wind whipped the tent out of his hands. Dillan cursed when an errant hammer hit his thumb. There had been no such friendly give-and-take in my mother's house, the seriousness with which one worked taken as measure of character and godliness.

Finally I sat on the ground and leaned against the wheel of the wagon, Casey drooping against me, exhausted by the free rein he'd had to explore his new home. Silas was tying the tent tightly to the posts, his movement fluid and sure, wiry frame leaping lithely from one task to the next. He wore a cowboy hat, and a fringe of dark hair poked out from beneath the band secured tightly around his head. The distortion of his thick glasses made his eyes sharp points of blue, and it was difficult to see whether he was looking at me or beyond. He caught me watching and came to sit down.

“You should rest. We'll get this done. Then you can have that tick.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the wagon. “And a proper place to nap.”

“Oh, but that's not my bed.” I didn't want him to know how little I owned in the world.

“Well it is now.”

Wondering how Dillan would feel about that, I smiled at him. The wind gusted and I spit strands of hair out of my mouth and sighed.

“You'll get used to the wind,” he said.

“I thought maybe I was. But then I catch myself gritting my teeth.” I rubbed my aching jaw. “And my shoulders are tensed up around my ears all the time.”

“It's because there's no shelter. Nothing to break its path.”

“Like my mother's oration on the merits of the church. You only wish for a moment's peace.”

“Ha.” Silas shook with laughter, his face open and turned to the sky, while the wind threatened to dislodge his hat. He was a man of great intensity.

We finished the tent and moved our things in. Turning around, I bumped into Dillan. We both mumbled excuse me, turned around and bumped again, strangers in a slow dance, unsure of the steps. I tried to anticipate where his feet would be in order to avoid stepping on them. In spite of ourselves everything was finally arranged.

“I'm going to see where there's water on this place,” said Dillan with a look at Casey, who'd fallen into a stupor on the tick. “You'll be all right?”

“Yes.” I said it more quickly than I'd meant to, relieved to have him away.

Silas looked in after Dillan was gone. “This will be comfortable for now, eh?”

“Yes, thank you.” Wiping my hands on my skirt, I followed
him outside. He was tacking his horse, and suddenly I didn't want to be alone, the thought almost paralyzing. “I hope he finds water,” I chattered.

“Can't believe Walter didn't tell him where it is. If there is any.”

“Dillan didn't ask?”

“He was in a hurry,” said Silas.

“I'm beginning to wonder. He seems so excited to own this piece of dirt, but he hasn't mentioned anything about the actual farming.” In the distance Dillan rode away on Mule, bouncing in time to the animal's slow trot. “Maybe he doesn't think a simple woman would be interested.”

“Well, I think you're anything but simple.” His eyes searched my face. “I imagine you're a different sort of bird than what Dillan expected.” His face wrinkled as he grinned. “Sorry.”

“I've been wondering about that. Dollybird. It must have been coined by a man; they want a dolly, perfect and beautiful, without a blemish or a past.” My fists clenched. “Something to toy with and then discard, something that doesn't demand anything from them.”

“And the bird part?”

“An Englishman, I'm sure, assuming anyone who chooses to do this must be peculiar.” We both laughed. “Although I could see where a person might be inclined to think that.”

He paused a moment. “Some people will think the worst. I suppose I'm surprised myself.”

“No more surprised than I,” I said hotly. “But did I have another choice, given the circumstances?”

“It's none of my business really.”

“No, it's not.”

He finished tightening the cinch on his saddle, swung his leg up to the stirrup and mounted in one fluid motion. I'd never known anyone so at ease in his body. “I'm sure you'll do just fine,” he said. “You'll need patience to handle him though.”

“Casey?”

“Dillan.” He tipped his hat. “I'll be by to check on you in a couple of days if that's okay.”

“Of course.”

I was alone now except for Casey. I looked around at the tent, at my few belongings still scattered on the grass, so small any significance they'd once had was lost. They were like footnotes in a book, the landscape like an empty page I was about to mark with my story. It would have to be a big story to have any meaning at all in this expanse. If the thought was daunting, it was also liberating. The only person in charge of writing it was me.