Paint the Wind Page 10

  "Of course I remember them, Atticus. But that was different. When you're rich, everything is different. Rich men pamper their wives—poor ones just work them to death."

  "Fancy, child, cain't nobody decide where his heart gonna go. One day you meet somebody an' you know he got somethin' you need. 'Til dat day come, you cain't make no rules fo' yourself."

  "Oh, yes, I can, Atticus. Because if I don't, I could end up loving a poor man, and never, ever get back what's rightfully mine."

  "Onliest thing rightfully belongs to anybody is six feet a' earth, Fancy. God don't owe you nothin' more."

  "That's exactly my point, Atticus. If God's not going to give me what I want, I damn well better figure out how to get it for myself."

  After she'd left the tent, the old man sat quietly for a minute or two. She was tougher than she looked, but with a vulnerable center, angry at Fate and always questioning everything—a displaced person who had to find her way home. He could understand that need. Lately, he, too, had felt a longing to go home.

  Fancy and Atticus checked their belongings for the last time and looked at each other above the packhorse's overladen back. They'd been avoiding this awful moment of good-bye.

  "Guess we cain't put it off no mo', honey," he said, and she nodded, not trusting her own voice.

  Time to say good-bye to the people who had become their family and time to strike out on their own again after nearly five years of comfort, safety, and sharing. The troupe had officially disbanded; the wagons had been sold, the tent struck for the last time, the performers dispersed. Flute and Harp and their wives had been hired by P. T. Barnum, Horace and Minnie had taken the train farther west, the three Marcatos had headed for Texas, Melisande and her horse seemed content to stay in Fort Laramie.

  Wes had magnanimously permitted Edgar, the elephant boy, to purchase Genghis for a fraction of his real value and they, too, had found a circus anxious to employ them. Only Wes, Magda, and Gitalis remained behind to face their good-byes.

  " 'I have seen better faces in my time than stands on any shoulder that I see before me at this instant,' " she quoted from Lear as they stepped into the interior where her three friends waited. The man on the bed raised his upper body with difficulty.

  "It is encouraging, is it not, Gitalis, to see that the child has not been totally untouched by our teaching." Fancy leaned over to kiss him, and he could see the tears welling in her eyes.

  "No, no, dear child," Wes said, patting her. "You mustn't cry, for a light heart lives longest. We will never forget each other."

  "What will I do without you three?" she asked.

  "You will remember every word of what we've taught you," Gitalis answered. "You will live a life we would be proud of, and you will follow my advice to the letter."

  "And that is?"

  "Would you expect less Lear of me than you yourself have offered? 'Keep thy foot out of brothels, thy hand out of plackets, thy pen from lenders' books... and defy the Foul Fiend.' " He paused dramatically.

  "And one more thing. Be careful of men, my little flower. Remember that 'the Prince of Darkness is a gentleman.' "

  "I'll remember, dear Gitalis," Fancy said, kissing him. He clasped her close, tears falling unabashedly down his cheeks.

  "And you, Magda? You, who have taught me so much, what have you to say to me before I go?"

  "Remember all that the old man has taught you, Fancy, for he is close to God. When your own instincts fail you, listen for his voice within you... it will be there."

  "And your voice, too?"

  "My voice, too."

  "I'll miss you more than you could ever know," she said. "You are my family now."

  Magda stood outside the wagon, hugging herself for warmth, her wide skirt flapped in the chill wind as she watched the two departing figures and the packhorse they'd purchased fade into the surrounding landscape. Tears stung her eyes, for she knew too much not to fear for the man and girl, and too much to try to hold them back from their fate.

  Gitalis stood apart a little, watching, too. The Gypsy heard him mutter something beneath his breath as the little caravan slipped from view.

  " 'Maid of Athens, ere we part,' " he said softly. " 'Give, oh give me back my heart.' "

  Chapter 13

  Fancy tried not to think about the dead horse at the bottom of the gorge. His dying shrieks still clutched at her stomach and made her fear her own mortality. It must have been a snake hole he'd stepped in, twisting his leg beneath the weight of his body and all their belongings. Poor beast, broken and terrified at the foot of a gorge too deep for them to descend to put him out of his anguish. She shuddered in remembrance of his dying cries; the accident had happened just the night before.

  "We'll just do it the way we always did, Atticus," she'd said as they peered over the abyss. But it wasn't at all as it had been before—Atticus was an old man now, not up to the hardships of the trail. They'd both been softened by five years of sleeping warm on a cot, not cold in the woods; by safety and companionship and the communal security of the circus.

  Now there was this infernal cold and a threatening sky, to compound their troubles. Fancy gritted her teeth and glanced over her shoulder at Atticus; he looked grim and gray, but they were too far from the last town to turn back. If they kept up a good pace, they would reach safety by nightfall.

  The road banked sharply beneath them and fell away to the steep gorge that held the horse's remains and most of their provisions. She put the thought of their predicament from her mind; she could worry about replacements when she got them to safety. The temperature had dropped radically in the last hour and the presence of snow in the lowering sky was unmistakable. Fancy sniffed the frigid air, trying to sense the direction from which the storm would come; she saw Atticus do the same. They must find shelter before the first flakes fell; there were no landmarks to be seen in blizzards.

  Fancy saw Atticus falter and thought he'd stumbled. But as she retraced her steps he let his body sink to the ground, listlessly, like a doll whose stuffing had drifted loose.

  "Got to rest me a minute, Fancy," he said in a labored voice.

  "A storm's coming, Atticus. It won't do to get caught out here in a storm."

  "No, suh. Won't do, no way." He tried to smile, but the shadow of something unfamiliar crossed his face. As if a cue had been given, the first white crystals danced past the travelers' eyes. Fancy pulled her red coat nervously around her, and raised her head-shawl for protection.

  "Atticus, we've got to move on. This storm is trouble."

  "Cain't move nowhere jest now, sugah. You go on ahead and I'll ketch up."

  Only severe pain could make him say such a crazy thing— Fancy took a deep breath to calm herself. "We're only a few miles from town, Atticus. I'll help you get there."

  "Been havin' pains all day, child. Feels like old Genghis sittin' smack on my chest right now. Cain't hardly breathe at all." Atticus' cheeks, despite the sharpened cold, showed no color.

  Terror strangled Fancy's heart. The flakes were no longer scattered specks but a fine white sifting, dry as powder, already starting to cling to the barren landscape around them.

  "There's no foxglove here, Atticus," she whispered, struggling to keep her words controlled. It had to be his heart that had faltered; she should have seen it coming. The shortened breath, the flaccid skin, the pallor. Damnation! Why hadn't she stopped to notice...

  "Ain't no cure for dis, honey..."

  "Don't be ridiculous!" Fancy snapped. "There's a cure for everything in nature. You told me so yourself."

  Atticus knew she was crassest when frightened.

  "Ain't no cure for dyin', child," he answered.

  Fancy sank to her knees. "But I love you, Atticus," she whispered, "I don't think I could live without you."

  "I love you, too, child, but I'se goin' on...."

  "I won't let you, Atticus! I love you too much to let you go."

  The anguish in Fancy's voice wrenched hard at Attic
us, but the pain in his chest made all else insignificant. For a few paralyzed seconds Fancy stayed rooted beside her friend, unable to move or think. If she didn't get Atticus to shelter, he would surely die. She knew what to do to save him, why was the pounding in her head making function impossible? She gulped air into her lungs and rose to her feet, pressing back despair.

  "I'm going to save you, Atticus," she said aloud to convince herself. "I'm going to save us both." She glanced resolutely in all directions.

  A cave or a tight knot of underbrush could protect them; even a ledge would keep the worst of the storm away until she could build a fire. The wind whistled down the canyon like the lonely voice of God, and the swirling stung her face and blinded her as she searched the terrain for shelter.

  To trudge a scant hundred feet in any direction was nearly impossible. She staggered against the thrust of the storm and tried not to cry. What if he died while she was gone, freezing and alone? Fancy carefully retraced her steps; if there was no shelter to be found, she'd build a barrier of boughs and clothing to protect him. "Use what you kin find, honey," Atticus would have said. "Some-thin' better'n nothin'!"

  The old man's body was already covered with powder by the time she returned to him. His eyelids fluttered open at the touch of her trembling hand and he tried to smile.

  "If you leave me alone out here, I'll never forgive you, do you hear me?" Fancy told him with all the grit she could muster. Knowledge surfaced from some all-knowing place within her, at the grayish tinge that suffused his dear face... he would not last the night.

  She tugged at the bare bones of underbrush to build a baffle for the wind; tears wet her cheeks in freezing rivulets and the wind drove the stinging sleet into eyes and mouth and nose. The frozen branches battled her efforts to bend them into shelter. Her boots and petticoats, stiffened with ice, chafed at her numbing legs; her frozen fingers, clumsy as ice blocks, were useless for the delicate work of saving a life.

  There was no sky, no trees, no boulders, no canyon any longer; only the frenzied storm and the body of the dying old man.

  Fancy tried to coax the driest twigs to kindle into flame. The tinderbox slipped from her freezing fingers into the snow and she knew, at last, that her struggle was hopeless.

  Defeated, she crept beneath the branches and lay down beside the dying Atticus. "Forgive me," she whispered as she covered his body with her own. "I never meant to fail you."

  "Goin' home," he murmured as she kissed him.

  "Take me with you."

  He shook his head and she thought, in anguish, that he looked almost proud.

  "Don't leave me, Atticus... I'm so afraid..."

  Fancy sobbed into the shelter of his body; the cold seeped in to stiffen her limbs, but she didn't care anymore, she would lie there beside him and they would go together on one last journey...

  But she didn't die.

  Fancy awoke at first light to find she was still alive. Atticus' great heart no longer beat in the silent chest beneath her, and for one long, vanquished moment she sat beside him, listening to the howling wind that would carry his spirit home. He'd told her once of the stormbird that could breast any tempest and be borne home by the wind. But he has so very far to go to find his way....

  Rigid with pain, Fancy forced the burden of snow from her back and shoulders and wondered why she wasn't dead. The wet had trickled beneath her collar and soaked her clothes; the cold had numbed her so she could barely feel her limbs. Why had it not finished the job?

  Suddenly, rage pushed all the pain to some dark place within her. "Damn You!" she shrieked at God. "Must You take everything from me?" Only the fir boughs sighed above her in reply.

  "I will not die! Do You hear me? I will not die! "

  Atticus' soul had fled and she was quite alone on the mountain. She forced herself upright and pulled his banjo from his pack; she slipped the frozen cord over her shoulder. Then, clutching her coat and soaking head-shawl round her, Fancy thrust one foot, which she could no longer feel, out in front of her, then she forced the other one to follow.

  The snow had drifted while they lay together, so that walking meant wading into the drifts and pushing the encumbering whiteness to right and left ahead of her. Like a tiny plow, Fancy breasted the snow, hands clawing at the murderous white barrier that was trying to kill her.

  A boulder moved beneath her tread. A shoulder of snow-covered road gave way beneath her, and Fancy felt herself falling, falling...

  Cursing all the gods—Atticus' and her own that she had never trusted—she rolled into unconsciousness at the side of the old Indian trail that led to the top of Mosquito Mountain.

  PART II: FIRE IN THE WIND

  Hart and Chance 1862,

  Kansas East of Grannel Springs

  "Good luck is a lazy man's estimate of a worker's success."

  Bandana McBain

  Chapter 14

  Halle McAllister raised her hand to shade her eyes from the harsh prairie sunlight, and scanned the horizon for her sons and husband. The hand was rough and worn from the ruggedness of life in Kansas, but it was a graceful, small-boned hand that looked as if it might have known how to hold a teacup correctly when it wasn't clutching a rugbeater or a rifle.

  The dark-haired woman squinted hard and the fine lines at the edge of her blue-violet eyes deepened. There was character in her face, and strength despite a certain delicacy. The Kansas plain stretched flat and yellow-brown in all directions. Halle was about to give up her quest in disappointment, when the figures she sought materialized on the far horizon. As she watched they sorted themselves into a man and two boys. She smiled as the sight of her husband's familiar bigness filled her with the same sense of pride and desire it always had. Large of shoulder, small of hip; red-gold hair and beard glinting in the sunlight, Charles McAllister towered over his two fine sons, who were none too small for their ages of thirteen and fourteen.

  Chance, long, lean, and wiry, was on his father's left. He had a shock of jet-black hair that tended to fall in unruly curls over his forehead no matter how hard Halle tried to keep it in trim. His handsome head was turned toward his father and he walked with the jaunty, long-legged grace of a frisky colt. She could guess Chance was laughing and talking, for that was his merry way.

  Hart's stocky body was a younger duplication of his father's massiveness. Large head and wide shoulders, in contrast to the muscular leanness of the lower body; the fiery red hair of the father was softened into red chestnut in the son, but even at a distance the resemblance between the two was unmistakable. Just as she could intuit her older son's probable laughter, so Halle could almost sense the shy watchfulness in the younger boy. And the awestruck adoration of his father, who, as far as Matthew Hart McAllister was concerned, was only one step shy of God Almighty—and not a big step either.

  Halle hastily pushed back her flyaway hair toward its neat little bun at the nape of her neck. She stood on tiptoe to wave with one hand as she undid her apron with the other. Not that Charles hadn't seen her a million times in that apron, but she tried always to look pretty for her husband, at least as pretty as the harsh life of Kansas would allow.

  Charles and the boys had left the cabin long before sunup; there was a church social planned by the neighbors come Saturday and all members of the family had put extra pains into finishing chores so they'd be free to go. Halle smiled at the euphemism of calling people "neighbors" who lived anywhere from thirty to one hundred and fifty miles away.

  "Halle!" The deep voice calling from the distance excited her still, just as it had in the beginning. That it should still be the case after fifteen years of marriage and six babies seemed to her a miraculous gift.

  "We did it, Halle!" Charles's voice boomed the news across the intervening landscape. "These boys worked hard as bullocks to get that wheat bundled." She could see her two sons swell with pride.

  Charles McAllister smelled of tobacco and hard labor in the punishing sun as he picked his wife up by the waist and
swung her around in a big circle under the amused gaze of Chance and Hart, who were used to such exuberant displays of affection between their parents.

  The force of the swing knocked the last hairpins from Halle's hair and it fell free as a girl's, a lustrous dark cascade down her back. Something in the way their mother's and father's eyes met made Chance and Hart glance knowingly at each other. They were nearly men themselves now, after all, and they could tell when a man and woman were sweet on each other.

  "Come on, bro," Chance called to Hart. "I'll race you to the house so these two can do-si-do together."

  Hart looked at his father for signs of disapproval of his brother's flippancy, but he saw only amusement in the craggy face.

  He took off after Chance's flying departure and left his parents standing in the dust.

  "You three looked so fine striding over the field just now, Charles dear. I'll be the envy of every woman at the social, escorted by three such handsome men."

  "You're the one who's a sight for sore eyes, Halle. I swear you looked no older standing there in the sunlight than on the day I first laid eyes on you. And God knows, you're ten times more beautiful now than when you were a girl."

  She laughed and touched her husband's lined face with her hands. She'd given up much when she ran off from her Boston Brahmin family with this hardworking, decent man she loved so well, but Halle couldn't remember ever regretting it.

  Charles smiled as he draped his arm protectively around her shoulders; he had a proprietary way with those who belonged to him.

  "You'd have been real proud of your boys today, Halle," Charles told her, comfortable in the easy banter of a long, loving marriage. He had to duck to enter the small, immaculate house they'd built with their own hands. They'd started out with a sod house that was little better than a cave dug into the landscape, but Charles had seen the need in his wife for a home to cherish and had built her one of wood, a rarity on the Kansas prairie.