it stopped beside Pierre. The woman lifted a hand, her eyes downcast, her face expressionless, Pierre set the bundle of tea into her palm, nodded briskly, formally, and the woman turned the pony and rode back to take up her position behind the man. Then Sophie saw that on her back an infant slept, strapped into a carrying case.
They sat that way for a moment longer, no one speaking, until a gust of wind came up. Pierre had to lift a hand to hold onto his hat, Sophie shivered, spring, yes, but not yet hot, and would have taken up her shawl around her shoulders, but thought it better not to move. When she had seen the woman’s face near hers, the way the child, perhaps two years, had glanced into her face and quickly down again, the wonder, the light of intelligence in his eyes, she had lost her fear. Now she waited, as Pierre was doing. The Indian nodded, the same brisk, formal nod Pierre had given the woman, his horse beginning to move. “Au revoir,” Pierre said, saluting, touching the near oxen’s back with his whip, that his clever brother Alexandre had made for him, and the Indian turned to ride north, the pony with its load following, calling back one deep-chested word that had the sound of farewell, and soon were gone into the landscape.
All the rest of that first long day they saw not another human. Pierre fired one shot to frighten off a wolf he saw skulking in the distance, antelope came by in large numbers, running, always running, skimming the hillsides, their white rumps shining, disappearing on the far side of whatever hill they were first seen on. No shortage of meat, Pierre told her, pleased. He would have shot one, he said, but where would they put it? They would get first to the land, then he would hunt for their meat. Birds soared overhead, shrieking, or calling in different tones, the hawks rising on updrafts, circling, driving downward, doing it again. They saw even an eagle, Pierre following it with his eyes, an omen, he said, for the good. The wind came and went, the sun shone down with too little warmth and too much brightness, clouds came, scattered, melted away. The wagon bounced, swayed and rattled, their goods clanking, thudding, pinging, the oxen’s harness squeaking. Sometimes it was hard to stay awake, their wagon a raft on this sea of grass.
On they went stopping only for Pierre to gauge their position, triumphant when yet another section marker reared up through the grass, recognizable by its height and the mound of earth in which it sat. They stopped three times to eat, only once making a fire. At last, as the final light of day faded away, he pronounced that they were there, “home,” he said, and they looked at each other, grinning again despite their exhaustion, “or nearly there,” he added, it being too dark to go on searching for quarter section markers hidden in the grass.
Sophie was so tired that when she tried to climb down from the wagon, she fell, landing in a heap on the earth, and lay there smelling the dry soil, the stiff, dusty grass, and something else, recognizing, only feet from where she lay, the serrated small leaves and prickly stems of the wild rose bushes, already beginning to bloom. Lifting her head, she looked again, and then again, to see that they grew in the low spots all around them. It was the first moment when she was reminded of home – that surprising, unforgettable fragrance of wild roses perfuming the dry air.
Chapter Four
Sanctuary
C losing the cabin door behind her, she stepped out onto the prairie and began to walk toward the buggy and its driver. She didn’t recognize him, but he was continuing on a straight line toward her and her cabin and the dugout barn and the half-cut crop. She made another effort to compose herself, smoothing back her hair with both hands, capturing a blowing strand, tucking it in, straightening her apron, then turned and walked back toward the closed door of her house in as leisurely a manner as she could manage.
They sat that way for a moment longer, no one speaking, until a gust of wind came up. Pierre had to lift a hand to hold onto his hat, Sophie shivered, spring, yes, but not yet hot, and would have taken up her shawl around her shoulders, but thought it better not to move. When she had seen the woman’s face near hers, the way the child, perhaps two years, had glanced into her face and quickly down again, the wonder, the light of intelligence in his eyes, she had lost her fear. Now she waited, as Pierre was doing. The Indian nodded, the same brisk, formal nod Pierre had given the woman, his horse beginning to move. “Au revoir,” Pierre said, saluting, touching the near oxen’s back with his whip, that his clever brother Alexandre had made for him, and the Indian turned to ride north, the pony with its load following, calling back one deep-chested word that had the sound of farewell, and soon were gone into the landscape.
All the rest of that first long day they saw not another human. Pierre fired one shot to frighten off a wolf he saw skulking in the distance, antelope came by in large numbers, running, always running, skimming the hillsides, their white rumps shining, disappearing on the far side of whatever hill they were first seen on. No shortage of meat, Pierre told her, pleased. He would have shot one, he said, but where would they put it? They would get first to the land, then he would hunt for their meat. Birds soared overhead, shrieking, or calling in different tones, the hawks rising on updrafts, circling, driving downward, doing it again. They saw even an eagle, Pierre following it with his eyes, an omen, he said, for the good. The wind came and went, the sun shone down with too little warmth and too much brightness, clouds came, scattered, melted away. The wagon bounced, swayed and rattled, their goods clanking, thudding, pinging, the oxen’s harness squeaking. Sometimes it was hard to stay awake, their wagon a raft on this sea of grass.
On they went stopping only for Pierre to gauge their position, triumphant when yet another section marker reared up through the grass, recognizable by its height and the mound of earth in which it sat. They stopped three times to eat, only once making a fire. At last, as the final light of day faded away, he pronounced that they were there, “home,” he said, and they looked at each other, grinning again despite their exhaustion, “or nearly there,” he added, it being too dark to go on searching for quarter section markers hidden in the grass.
Sophie was so tired that when she tried to climb down from the wagon, she fell, landing in a heap on the earth, and lay there smelling the dry soil, the stiff, dusty grass, and something else, recognizing, only feet from where she lay, the serrated small leaves and prickly stems of the wild rose bushes, already beginning to bloom. Lifting her head, she looked again, and then again, to see that they grew in the low spots all around them. It was the first moment when she was reminded of home – that surprising, unforgettable fragrance of wild roses perfuming the dry air.
Chapter Four
Sanctuary
C losing the cabin door behind her, she stepped out onto the prairie and began to walk toward the buggy and its driver. She didn’t recognize him, but he was continuing on a straight line toward her and her cabin and the dugout barn and the half-cut crop. She made another effort to compose herself, smoothing back her hair with both hands, capturing a blowing strand, tucking it in, straightening her apron, then turned and walked back toward the closed door of her house in as leisurely a manner as she could manage.
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