The Hunger(7)

The idea had amazed her.

“It isn’t the Indians I’m afraid of,” Elitha said. She was working quickly and kept her eyes trained on her hands, refusing to look up. She obviously didn’t intend to be there a second longer than she had to.

“She’s afraid of ghosts,” Harriet said with a sigh. “She thinks this place is haunted.”

“I never said that,” Elitha shot back. “I never said they were ghosts.” She hesitated, looking from Harriet to Mary. “Mr. Bryant says—”

Harriet snorted. “Is that what’s bothering you? One of Mr. Bryant’s stories? Honestly, you should know better than to listen to the man.”

“That’s not fair,” Elitha said. “He’s smart. You said so yourself. He came out here to write a book about the Indians. Says they told him there are spirits out here, spirits of the forests and the hills and the rivers.”

“Oh, Elitha, don’t mind Mr. Bryant and his talk,” Mary said. She wasn’t sure how she felt about Mr. Bryant. He was very knowledgeable. That was obvious. And he’d proven himself capable enough when he set Billy Murphy’s leg after he broke it getting bucked off his horse. But there was something disconcerting about the way he seemed to wander around with his attention fixated elsewhere, as though he were always listening to a voice only he could hear.

“But I’ve heard them.” Elitha’s brow furrowed. “At night, I’ve heard them calling to me. Haven’t you?”

“Calling you?” Mary asked.

“She’s highly suggestible. Her stepmother lets her read novels. All those stories have left her giddy,” Harriet said to Mary over Elitha’s head.

Mary felt a twinge of irritation. She’d known plenty of women like Harriet over the years, women who looked as if their faces had been slowly compressed between the pages of a Bible, all pinched and narrow.

Mary reached over to pat Elitha’s hand. “I’m sure it was nothing. Perhaps you overheard people talking in the next tent over.”

“It didn’t sound like two people talking. It didn’t sound like that at all.” Elitha bit her lower lip. “It sounded like . . . someone was whispering in a high voice, only it was very weak, like the wind was carrying it in from far away. It was strange, and sad. It was the scariest thing I ever heard.”

A shiver went down Mary’s spine. She, too, had heard strange things at night since they’d started following the North Platte, but each time she’d told herself that it was her imagination. The cry of some animal she’d never seen before or wind whistling down a hollow canyon. Sounds carried differently over wide-open spaces.

“Now you’re just letting your imagination run away with you,” Harriet said. “I think you should be careful going around talking about spirits and the Indians and such. People might start thinking that you have heathen inclinations, like Mr. Bryant.”

“Oh, Harriet, really,” Mary said.

Harriet was undeterred. “Why, there might be a man in this wagon train with his eye on you already—but he won’t want to marry you if he thinks that you’re a silly, scared girl.”

Mary gave her last item an extra-hard twist, imagining instead that it was Harriet’s neck, then dropped it in her washtub to carry back to the wagon. “She’s only thirteen,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. “That’s a bit young to be worrying about marriage, don’t you think?”

Harriet looked insulted. “I do not. I was fourteen when I got married.” Then she turned a cold smile on Mary. “And what about you? Have you ever had a sweetheart? It seems strange to me that you’re not married yet.”

“I was engaged not too long ago,” Mary said shortly, rinsing her hands in the water. “But he died unexpectedly before we could be wed.”

“How sad for you,” Elitha murmured.

“Fate can be fickle,” Mary said, as cheerfully as she could. “You never know what life has in store for you.”

Harriet drew herself up again, looking down her long nose at them. “I’m surprised at you, Mary. You’re a good Christian. God decides what happens in our lives, all in accordance with his plan. He must’ve had a reason for taking this man away from you.”

The words didn’t bother Mary, but Elitha gasped. “You can’t mean that, Harriet. God wouldn’t be so cruel to Mary.”

“I’m not saying it’s Mary’s fault,” Harriet said, though her tone seemed to disagree. “I’m saying that these things aren’t random. God was telling Mary that the marriage simply wasn’t meant to be.”

Mary bit her tongue. Harriet was enjoying being cruel, but she was correct in one respect. Mary would never admit it to anyone, certainly not her parents, but she’d known in her heart that she wasn’t ready to be married. Her sister Sarah had been happy to wed Jay Fosdick at nineteen—but Mary wasn’t like her older sister, a fact that became more apparent every passing day. When her father announced that they would be moving to California, she’d secretly been elated. She was tired of the small town she’d lived in since birth, where everyone knew about her family’s humble beginnings, that the family burned cow dung for warmth so that they could sell their firewood for money, until the plantings took hold and the harvests got better. People would always expect her to be exactly as they thought she was and would never let her be anything more. It was like trying to walk forward and finding that your head had been yoked in place.