Wildwood Creek (22 page)

Now the Irish children sit on one side of the schoolhouse, and the German on the other. There’s no mixin’ of the wee ones nor the grown folk. Only worry, suspicion, and whispering. The number of Mr. Delevan’s men grows by the day in Wildwood. They patrol the town and the countryside with guns—to keep the peace, he says.

Little Brady Riley’s sister, Catherine, elbows the boy hard. “Shhh!” She hisses, lookin’ at me, fearful.

Young Brady is rebellious this morn’, though. He’s seeking answers to questions his seven-year-old mind can’t comprehend. Yesterday Helma was playing in the grass outside and today she is gone, with no trace left. “My da milked their cow this mornin’, no sense it goin’ to waste. Not a thing’s been took from their place but the mule, Da says. Could be the river people drug it under too. Could be they drowned it and made a meal of it and hid the bones.”

The children are watching me now, to see what I’ll say about this, to see how I will respond to the news. They watch as if they half expect blood and sinew clinging in my teeth.

“There’s not such a thing as river people, Brady Riley. They’re nothing but a made-up tale, like wood fairies and
sprites. A boy who sits in church on Sunday ought to know that much. If folks are leaving Wildwood, they’re leaving of their own accord and on their two feet, not carried off by creatures that live in the make-believe.”

But even as I’m saying it, I’m wonderin’: Why would a family go without so much as taking a bit of canvas off the roof to carry along for shelter, a pot to cook in, food to sustain them on the trail, a skin to carry water? There’s no sense in it. I’m seeing little Helma’s face in my mind, and my stomach weaves knots.

“Or the Irish got her,” one of the other children murmurs as I turn away.

“We’ll have none of that,” I scold and pass a stern look back. They freeze and fall silent as pillars of stone. In front, Maggie folds herself lower in her seat. I’ve moved her closer to me to stop all the tormenting. If they’ve decided that I am one of the river people, then they’ve named her one as well.

I try not to think of it as we move through the business of the day, but my hands shake mercilessly. There is little point to any of the teaching now, and my mind won’t settle. I release the children early, and they run from the school like rabbits from the lion’s den, not a one of them looking back. It is just as well. I’m planning to walk out to the shanty where little Helma lived, and it’s best that none of them see.

“You keep yourself in the room and set the bar in the bracket,” I tell Maggie May. “I have an errand to be about. If anyone should rap at the door, don’t answer. Pretend you’re sleepin’ and haven’t heard.” I hurry to be off. It’s nearly time for Mrs. Delevan to send her biddings for afternoon tea. Last night’s dream presses my mind. Maggie, rouged and dressed in false finery. “Remember what I’ve said. If anyone should come ’round the door, don’t answer.”

Maggie asks to go along with me, but she doesn’t argue
when I tell her no. I’m down the path to the spring creek when I see Essie Jane walking from the big house. She’s come to bring me for tea.

“Tell her you haven’t found me,” I plead, and I know she’ll do it. “Tell her I’ve gone off after one of the students who was away from class today, to take the lessons out.” I consider now that I haven’t brought a book with me, and I should’ve thought of it, but I can’t take the chance of going back.

“Yes’m,” There’s a small gash healin’ beside Essie Jane’s eye. I reached toward it, and she pulls away. “The massah be home dis evening ’fo dark-time. Asmae say he bringin’ mo’ men to chase off dem river people dat been draggin’ folk away in the night.” A shudder runs underneath her starched gray dress. Even she seems uncertain of me now, afraid to come close.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll find out what is happening here in Wildwood. There is some way of explaining it, and it’s not involving any river people.”

I rush away into the trees, not catching a breath until I’ve left the sounds of town behind, and there’s not a thing ’round me but the quiet of the wood.

I don’t know what I’m expecting to find at the Kalb shanty—what answers I’m thinking will be there—but when I reach the place, there’s little to tell the tale. The cow is trapped in the pen, the chickens shut up in their coop. The place is still as a picture, not a thing movin’ but the canvas stretched over the roof beams of the little shelter dug against a rock hill.

I move closer, calling out to the family, telling them why I’ve chosen to visit. “It’s only Miss Rose,” I say. “I’ve come to ask after Helma, to bring her lessons to her.”

The door hangs askew a bit. Through the gaps in it, there’s not a thing but darkness. When I touch the latch, the wood shrinks away, the leather hinges foldin’ in. It’s all as young
Brady Riley said—everything in place as it should be, from the blankets on the bed to the kettle by the fire pit. A schoolbook even waits beside the pillow on little Helma’s pallet, the covers mussed as if she might’ve been readin’ by the lamplight before she vanished. The larger bed above hers is still made up.

A coldness slides over my body as I stand looking. I can’t bring myself to walk into the place. What’s gone on here? What terrible thing?

The brayin’ of a mule outside stands me up straight. If anyone should find me here, they’ll only spread more rumors that this is somehow my doing. Were it not for the favor of the Delevans, for the number of times I’m called up to their home for tea, there would’ve been a witching party after me already, to be certain. I can’t be seen near the home of those who’ve gone missing.

I press the heels of my hands to my forehead and try to think what I should do. Where I should go. Where I can run or hide.

The deep sound of a man’s voice comes through the trees, and I recognize it. That’s Big Neb, and in a moment, I see him leading the mule through the wood. My heart stills its wild fluttering, but I step behind the shanty and don’t show myself until it’s certain there’s no one but him and the mule.

“Dis here mule been foun’ wanderin’.” Big Neb indicates the animal, standing tuck-tailed just now. There’s a trail of bleeding scratches over its flank, as if a mountain cat or a black bear’s been after it in the wood. “He Mis’a Kalb mule. I put a shoe on ’im las’ week. Look like he been on da bad end’a somp’tin las’ night. I salve it up a bit befo’ I bring ’im back.”

“There’s no one here,” I tell him, but his face shows that it’s dawnin’ on him already. His gaze darts about the shadows, fearful now, and I understand the fear. “They’ve left the place. The cow wasn’t milked this morning, and Helma
was gone from school. Not a sign of them. Nor a word of where they might be.”

Big Neb marks the cross over his broad chest and backs away a step, his eyes white rimmed. “Dis a bad place, miss. Dis a bad, bad place.”

I lay a hand over my stomach and try to calm myself, to reason it out, but the panic wells up, tellin’ me to bolt, take Maggie and run away. How would we do it? Where would we go? Whom can we trust?

Is there anyone?

Big Neb twists the lead rope in his hands, looking down at it. There’s something inside him struggling to come out.

“Not a soul is nearby but the two of us,” I say. “I suspect that Essie Jane has told you things of me. Things of my . . . person, discovered by her onboard the
New Ila
.” There were no secrets between Essie Jane and me as she nursed me through my sickness. She’s seen the scars, but we’ve not spoken of it. “Things not known to all in Wildwood.”

His downcast eyes say that, indeed, he is aware. Merciful heaven can only say what the two of them have made of it in their minds. Likely anythin’ but the truth.

It matters little now. “If you’ve something to say, Neb, you must say it now.” I wait, watching his courage gather like a storm brewing under his dark skin, straightening his body to its full height, tearing the bonds of restraint. I believe he’ll snap the lead line any moment. Even the mule goes skittish, snorting and backing to the end of the rope.

“Dis family with da Gonefolk now, ain’t dey?”

My stomach rises, and I swallow hard, nodding. “I fear the worst. Little Helma’s too weak to have made a trip overland on foot. Her parents would’ve known that, and they loved her very much.”

He nods grimly before regarding me with a directness I’ve
not known from him before. “Cap’n say I’z to be watchin’ aft’a you. He mighty feared when we lef’ off da
New Ila
. He give you to my care, miss. Say I’z to get a message out wit’ da freighter, dere be a need.” He pauses then, cocks an ear toward a rustle that’s caught the mule’s attention. Only when it’s passed does he continue. “I been prayin’ ever’ night. Seekin’ da Way. Missus, maybe it be too late already, but you give me a message for Cap’n, and I get on dis mule right now, and I catch dat ox freighter ’fo he get far pas’ da river ford.”

“You’d be risking yourself.” It drums in my mind, the terrible reality of what he’s offerin’. I’m beset by pictures of what can happen to a slave who’s thought to be running away. “If you’re caught . . . Mr. Delevan’s soldiers patrol in the wood, especially along the river.”

He seems unafraid now, surprisingly so. “I gots me a way to go up Wildwood Crick. Be back fo’ night come. Nobody know nothin’, but dat I’z gone lookin’ afta dis mule,” he says, as if to persuade the both of us. “Cap’n, he a good man. He come.”

“I fear there won’t be time for it.” It is difficult now to imagine that there could be. Whatever is afoot in this place, it grows by the day. Still, I slip the captain’s letter from my pocket and turn toward the shanty. Inside, the darkness seeps over me like the soil of a grave. The only thing I find for writing is a bit of twig burnt off in the fire.

I lay open James’s letter atop little Helma’s schoolbook, kneel by her bed, and smell her scents—the mattress stuffed with leaves and sprigs of rosemary, the faint lingering of soil and summer grass, the scents of a child living close to the ground, knowin’ all the tiny things the others don’t see. A sheen of water covers my eyes as I turn over the letter and scratch carefully on the back of a page,
Come for us, James. Please.
Bonnie Rose

I bring the paper to my lips, then kiss it softly and close my eyes, praying it may not be too late. I pray for the body and the soul of the child who lay only a day ago wrapped in this bed, and for all the others.

I pray that the Kalb family is safe.

In God’s hands, either way.

A
LLIE
K
IRKLAND
J
UNE
, P
RESENT
D
AY

H
e was out there again. I rolled over, searched for the glow of my iPhone dock, then realized it wouldn’t be there. No artificially lit digital display to tell me what hour of the night it was. Only darkness, moon shadows around the room, and grainy eyes proving I’d finally fallen asleep for a while.

I looked toward the window. Outside, the morning sun hadn’t even begun to fade the stars. For the past three days since he’d moved into the quarters next to mine, he’d kept the strangest hours. By extension, I had too. Between wondering about Blake Fulton next door, listening to coyotes howl, the scampering of tiny critters
inside
my room, and the schoolhouse creaking and groaning at will, the lack of a good night’s rest was slowly driving me crazy.

Right now the wooden latch on Blake Fulton’s back door was tapping against the frame.
Tap, tap-tap, tap-tap-tap,
the night breeze teasing it. He never closed it all the way when he went out there in the dark. With the walls so thin, I’d come to know his habits exactly—up, down, pacing the room, the ropes under his mattress moaning and squeaking as he tossed around, seeking sleep.

Every night since
Wildwood
Creek
had swung into full go-live, he’d ended up outside like this. The man either had a sleep disorder or a guilty conscience.

I wanted to ignore the urge to get up and peek out the window. I really did. But even without looking I could picture him. He’d be standing in the open air, mopping off with a damp rag from the water barrel on the porch. One good thing since he’d moved in—I didn’t have to haul water to the barrel anymore. It magically filled itself every morning . . . with the help of my mysterious neighbor.

Why did I feel so compelled to figure him out? To discover who he really was and what kept him up wandering at night? His business here really wasn’t any of my business. I guess it just bothered me that every time I subtly nosed around for details, he sidestepped the questions and changed the subject. The man wasn’t one for offering straight truth.

Well, I’m just on hold for the time being
was the closest thing I’d gotten to an answer. That was after I’d mentioned the schedule for the daily go-live of the cameras in my room. Everyone had a shooting schedule—a period of time when the cameras came on to record our struggles with the daily challenges of pioneer life and allow us to log video diaries, musing on how we felt about this whole experience so far.

I’d asked Blake what his shooting schedule looked like. He’d told me he was “on hold
.
” I hadn’t met anyone else who was
on hold
. In the village, shopkeepers worked to adapt to shop life, claim seekers waited in line at the land office and bought needed supplies at the Unger Store, the blacksmith sharpened pick axes, plows, and garden tools, would-be miners made their way into the woods to seek out gold-laden pieces of the promised land. Everyone here had a job. Everyone worked hard. Sunup to sundown, literally.

Yet Blake Fulton was “on hold.” He’d circumvented all the
normal costuming rigamarole and skipped the entire training class, but he did seem rather adept at this pioneer-living thing. He was cheerful about it, even. After wandering around all night, he’d be at his little cooking fire behind the schoolhouse in the mornings, happily stoking the coals, and by the time I was up and dressed, he’d be gone. Generally, I wouldn’t see him again all day long.

He was in some way connected to Rav Singh—I’d figured out that much. I’d glimpsed the two of them from afar as I walked the kids up the street to turn them over to the production assistant who would shepherd them back to their various living places. Rav and Blake were standing just across what was referred to as
the blue line,
a row of stones that marked the edge of the on-camera area. No one out of costume was allowed across the blue line. Even production assistants, technical personnel, camera crew members, and Rav Singh himself dressed the part when coming into the village, so as not to break the continuity of a shot, should they be caught by one of the remote cameras.

When I saw Rav and Blake together, they were pointing and discussing. They seemed comfortable with each other.

That bothered me a little. Well . . . maybe more than a little. Something about Blake Fulton still didn’t add up.

And then again, there was the revolving question of why I cared. What I really needed wasn’t
answers
but more
sleep
. The biggest shock of full-time pioneer life wasn’t the lack of any one modern convenience, but how physically difficult it was every single day. I’d never been so weary by nighttime and so reluctant to crawl out of bed in the morning. I’d only become a frontier schoolteacher three days ago, and already I was wondering how in the world I would fill Bonnie Rose’s shoes for two and a half months.

The wind picked up a little, the door tapping its frame
until all I could think about was the noise. Finally I tossed off the quilt, stretched my legs over the side, and unfolded myself with a low moan before crossing the room. Outside the glass, the moon glowed above the cloth screen.

Standing back from the window, I checked Blake’s location. He wasn’t close by, so I leaned close to get a broader view.

Tonight he was sitting on the steps wearing his brown trousers but no shoes. His shirt fluttered in the breeze, unbuttoned around his midsection as his body hunched forward. Hands clutched into his hair, he seemed . . . in pain, almost. Such a contrast to his personality during the daytime, when he slipped into this whole immersion experience with ease, as if it were all perfectly natural. But something tormented him in the dark of midnight, that was clear enough. His fingers tightened around his scalp, and he seemed to collapse in on himself, a picture of suffering, of human misery.

I saw my own hand touching the glass above the screen, my fingertips landing soundlessly against the barrier that separated me from whatever plagued the dreams of Blake Fulton. Here behind the window, it felt safe to reach toward him.

I wasn’t certain how long I stood transfixed. Finally he rose, his face tipped back, his eyes closed, the breeze off the bluffs sifting through his hair and pulling the shirt away from his skin. Slowly, he lifted his arms, held them up, his hands rising as if he were trying to catch the moonlight. I shifted behind the glass again, pressed close to take in his profile, saw his lips moving.

Who was he talking to out there? Himself? The shadows? God?

I watched, mesmerized and guilty all at once, conscious that I was intruding on a private moment, something that was, once again, none of my business.

Abruptly, he lowered his hands, turned around, and walked
back to his room. I scrambled away from the window, tiptoed across the floor, and slid under my blanket as silently as possible.

In the morning, I awoke wondering whether I’d dreamed that vision of him. I’d barely gotten out of bed, pulled the hanging quilt across my little dressing corner, and wiggled my way into stratums of costuming, before there was a knock at the glass. When I went to the window, the familiar face of Blake Fulton was smiling and looking ridiculously chipper for so early in the morning. This version of him didn’t mesh with the one who wandered the floors at night. It made me wonder, once again, what he was hiding and why.

Be careful,
the little voice in my head warned.
This guy isn’t who he seems.

Then again, maybe Kim was right. She’d had a completely different take on the Blake Fulton matter after our dinner together at the big hog roast.
If you had even half a brain, Allie, you’d see that he’s into you. Girlfriend, if I didn’t have Jake waiting back home, I wouldn’t be holding back, that’s all I can say.

I looked at Blake outside my window, smiling and holding up, of all things, two coffee cups this morning. An invitation? For me?

Kim’s last words to me ran through my mind,
Stop being so careful. Let your guard down a little. What’ve you got to lose?

I raised the window and lifted out the cheesecloth frame.

“Coffee?” he offered. “Figured I’d brew some up while I was bringing the water in.” He motioned toward the barrel on the porch, undoubtedly full. My first chore for the day, already taken care of again. Making coffee was my second, and he had done that too.

“Thanks.” I yawned behind my hand, waiting for the usual
morning grog to wear off. Thank goodness I’d already deployed my forbidden toothbrush and tube of Aquafresh this morning. Frontier breath could be gnarly, and I hadn’t even thought about hair yet. He was probably looking at Little Orphan Annie right now. After being up half the night I felt like I’d been run over by a truck. Wasn’t he exhausted this morning?

“Don’t forget to put the brace in the window,” he said, grinning.

“Never.” I couldn’t help smiling back while I placed the bar.

He handed me one of the cups and I wrapped my hands around it, smelling the aroma before I took a sip. The liquid inside was thick, and black, slightly gritty with coffee grounds. “It’s good.”

“No it’s not.”

A little chuckle ruffled the liquid just as the cup touched my lips again. Coffee splashed onto my nose. I wiped it away and let the mug rest on the windowsill. “You’re right. It’s bad. But it’s better than mine.” I’d lit a fire in my stove and attempted coffee in my tin pot yesterday, and it was terrible. Aside from that, the stove had made the room unbearably hot all day, even after I’d closed the dampers and tried to smother the cook fire.

He took another sip, shuddered a little, and then sat down on the kindling box outside the window. This was something different. Apparently, he wasn’t in a hurry to be off to anywhere today.

Inside, I pulled up one of my little chairs and sat down, resting my head against the sash. “So . . . who are you, Blake Fulton?” The directness of the question surprised me, but frontier life has a way of whittling away the superfluous.

Hooking a finger through the handle of his cup, he shrugged. “Well, pretty much like I told you the other day, I’m on—”

“Yes, I know you’re
on hold
, but I mean who
are
you? Where did you come from before this? Where did you grow up—that kind of thing? We all had lives before Wildwood, right?”

He lifted his cup again, his lips resting on the rim as he blew on the hot liquid. A smile danced in his hazel eyes. “We’re not supposed to talk about those things, remember? It breaks continuity.” He sipped, swallowed, and wiped a drip with his thumb. “Didn’t you pay attention in the training classes?”

“You weren’t even
in
the training classes.” At least not when I was there.

“Maybe I’ve heard it all before.”

“So, you work for Razor Point Productions, then?” Now we were getting somewhere. It all made sense—his coming in late, his association with Rav Singh. He was crew of some sort, not cast.

“Continuity,” he reminded, then winked.

“There’s no camera on right now. I don’t have go-live until after Wren shows up for the morning domestic routine.”

A wide white grin answered, and he rubbed two fingers alongside an eyebrow, seeming to think. Then, as easily as if he hadn’t been playing cagey all this time, he spun a picture. The all-American kind. Grew up in a small town in west Texas. Played football and baseball and all the other sports. His parents were ranchers. They raised and showed quarter horses and Black Angus cattle. The whole family still lived in his little hometown—mother, father, two brothers, one sister, grandparents, and so forth. From what I could discern, he was related to half of the community.

“What about you?” was the natural end to his tale. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

The question made me laugh, but it also made me wary. He was so polished at this. Did he do it often—move from
production to production and romance the cast members here and there? “Trying to survive so far, I think,” I admitted. “I’m a film major at UT, so that’s how I got involved.” Which was enough background to offer up.

In contrast to his storybook small-town history, I was a nerd who’d navigated the fringes of a giant high school with my head in a book, mostly trying to pass unseen. The Drama Department and the consumer sciences classroom were my refuges. I’ve never attended a single football game, but if there was a play, a choir performance, or anything involving a stage, costumes, and an audience, I was there painting, sewing, or rewriting dialog for actors.

It wasn’t too impressive next to being the local football star, so I purposely turned the conversation back to him. We talked about his family a bit more, and then favorite movies. We were both
Star Wars
fans—go figure. I was living next door to a football star with a geeky side. He could actually quote lines from some of my favorite science fiction movies. He’d even seen one of my father’s films. He was impressed when I shared that the film was part of my father’s legacy.

“So, you’re following in the family business,” he assessed.

“Trying . . . sort of, I guess.” It felt good to hear somebody mention it without sounding like it was an unfortunate affliction. “Although having one of us go into film wasn’t in my mom and stepdad’s game plan, so it’s taken me longer than most. You can’t run off and do internships when you’re working to pay for your next semester . . . except this internship, that is. This is a great opportunity, if I can hack if for two and a half months.”

“One thing you learn from football is that you need to play your own game.” A crashing noise from the street caught his ear, and he leaned forward, sending a look of concern around the corner. “You’ll get beaten up, playing someone else’s.”

“I guess that’s a good point.” I hadn’t ever thought of it that way, but he was right. I couldn’t let my family or anyone else choose my game for me. It wasn’t my job to become something that pleased them; it was my job to become who I was meant to be.