ACT OF LOVE
Bernadette Miller
The old barn, a distance from the road, was nearly hidden by spreading oaks and overgrown grass. At the end of the civil war, the land had belonged to an Indian
woman, but the main house had been stripped of valuables and burned. Now only the barn remained with missing shingles and rusty door hinges, and smelling of rotting wood and faintly of goats, although the hayloft was intact. That spring, dappled with afternoon shadows, it waited for Hope.
She limped toward it, inching through the tall grass, ignoring the buzzing insects, careful not to scrape her wounded leg bandaged with cloth. Panting, she heaved
inside the open barn door, her long skirt and petticoats dirty and torn, tendrils escaping from the blonde neckbun. Trying to catch her breath, she listened to the
shouts of the men seeking her, their heavy boots clumping through the grass. She shrank against the wall and sucked in her breath as the voices approached, sounding as if they’d soon reach her. But just as suddenly the voices receded; the men had passed the path leading to the barn and were heading toward the woods beyond the old farm.
Holding her injured leg, she hobbled to the door. She heard only the beating wings of insects, and blue jays flying past. As she returned to the wall, she heard a
strange noise, and glanced up fearfully toward the dim hayloft.
A man was watching her.
Terrified, she cowered against the wall, wondering if she should try to escape.
Using broken boards like a ladder, the man descended from the hayloft, a rifle strapped to his back. He was a half-breed Indian, wearing leggings, a fringed leather shirt, and a headband. Two reddish plaits hung over his shoulders, one entwined with a single red feather. His eyes were pale brown. Standing motionless, he watched her.
“Help me, please,” she said weakly, sinking to the ground.
“Come with me.” He motioned for her to rise.
She felt too weak. He again motioned and she forced herself to stand. Pain pierced her leg; she winced.
“Can you walk?” he said, surprising her by his lack of accent.
“I think so.”
“Good. Let’s go then.”
They walked slowly out of the barn and through the tall grass toward the woods, where they followed a worn path. Sometimes she felt so weak she was afraid of fainting, but the Indian’s patient waiting spurred her. Overhanging tree limbs swept aside, scattering birds that chirped warnings to each other in the forest’s cool mustiness.
An hour later the pair left the woods and headed through open fields of grass and shrubbery. It took another hour to reach the mountains. Along the way, her companion pointed out food, and she filled her skirt with blackberries, cattail roots that tasted like celery, wild carrots that were surprisingly white, acorns and black walnuts.
“You’re not going to eat?” she asked when they stopped for her to rest in a cave behind a copse of oaks.
She reached for the remaining blackberries and hesitated. It didn’t seem right--eating alone.
“You need nourishment,” the Indian said.
Swallowing the berries that dyed her hands brownish red, she studied him as he squatted nearby. He was handsome with Indian features: high cheekbones, clean shaven, and full sensuous lips, his shoulders broad and his waist narrow. He probably came from the reservation near Pemberton. She blushed, and reproached herself for studying his body. He was just an Indian being kind to a white woman.
“I’m glad you liked the food,” he said when she finished, “but you need meat. I’ll hunt for rabbit.”
“What’s your name?”
“Vincent MacDonald.”
Well, some of his folks came from Scotland--same as hers! “What were you doing in the barn?”
He smiled, a forlorn sad smile. “Did I ask you that question?”
“I’m sorry.” She looked away, her blush deepening.
“I’ll take you to Pemberton,” he said. “My aunt lives there. She’ll heal your leg wound.”
“I’m a fugitive,” Hope blurted out. She bit her lip. She shouldn’t confide in strangers. And if she frightened him off, he wouldn’t help her.
He simply nodded.
“A man came into my sewing shop in Centerville. I...didn’t want to...He had a gun...He twisted my arm...Then the gun was in my hand and he fell...”
He nodded. “Let me see your wound.” Stooping, he motioned for her to lift her petticoats.
She flushed and straightened the skirts. “It’s just grazed.”
He smiled then, a beautiful wide smile with strong white teeth.
Hope smiled back, regretting she hadn’t trusted him.
“Can you make it to Pemberton?” he said finally. It’s only a few miles from here.”
She nodded.
“We’ll leave soon,” he said and disappeared into the rear of the damp cave, the cracks lined with mosses and lichen. After awhile he reappeared, a sack tied to his back with leather thongs, along with the rifle. “Come, we must leave.”
She stood, wobbling, and reached toward him to steady herself, but refrained from touching him when she flushed at his nearness.
Leaving the cave, they walked along the mountainside for two hours and reached another forest. There, under a broad oak, she rested. Beyond the clearing, the meadow was filled with wildflowers and humming insects. Hope smiled to herself. She felt like just sitting, smelling the sweet air and watching the birds chattering among themselves. It was the first time she’d felt like this since that awful man came into her shop. She leaned against the tree. She’d almost forgotten how tired she was. Eyes closed, she felt a pelt spread over her.
“Rest now,” the Indian said.
Feeling strangely comforted, she stretched out on the cool grass and slept soundly without dreaming.
The smell of cooking flesh awakened her. Beside her was a greasy tin platter and she ate with her fingers. Rabbit had never tasted so good.
He smiled. “It’s important to eat meat. You’ll recover your strength.”
“Don’t you ever eat?” she said, wishing he wasn’t so good looking, and nice. She didn’t want to fall in love with an Indian, a man from another race. She had enough trouble dodging the Sheriff. She wiped her hands with tree leaves.
“I ate while you slept,” he said. “Can you walk more?”
Nodding, she rose, and followed his tall, graceful body, trying not to imagine it against her, trying not to imagine his arms about her, focusing her attention on his broad back as she followed him slowly through the forest path that paralleled a main road. Occasionally riders on horseback cantered past, and they paused behind the thick shrubbery. At dusk they camped deeper within the forest, and he made a crackling fire.
“Tell me about your family,” she said, her body propped on elbows. The brushwood catching fire showered sparks; his eyes glowed against the flames.
“Please tell me.”
He studied her. “My father was a white attorney, my mother Comanche... I was born and raised in Connecticut.” He stared at the fire and it suddenly blazed.
“Tell me more,” Hope said, wanting him to confide in her.
“After my mother died...my Aunt Tula lived with us and taught me Indian ways. Then...my father died, and Aunt Tula married a white man and they bought that farm...where you and I met...” He paused. “Would you like some coffee?”
She shook her head. “Please keep on.”
“I lived with Aunt Tula for awhile. Then...the reservation near Pemberton.” He gazed at the fire. Hope smiled for him to continue. He shrugged. “You need rest.
We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
She nodded and fell asleep immediately under the pelt, dreaming that she and Vincent started talking and then held hands. She awoke at dawn, startled to see him bent over roasting meat, but staring at her.
“You’re beautiful--” He turned as if embarrassed.
She sighed. He was so different from most men, treating her with respect as if he valued her.
The next day, they began walking again through forest, fields of tall grass and shrubbery, and more forest, stopping only to eat and rest until, a week later, they finally reached Pemberton.
Waiting until dark to traverse the deserted streets, he led her to a small clapboard house near the town’s edge. “Aunt Tula will help you,” he whispered and disappeared into the dusk.
His Aunt Tula, tall and very fat, opened the door with a smile of surprise at Hope’s explanation, and ushered her inside. Aunt Tula had the high cheekbones and straight black hair of an Indian, hanging in plaits like Vincent, but her dark eyes were deep-set above plump cheeks. Wearing a voluminous leather skirt and fringed shirt, she led Hope upstairs to an attic bedroom where she helped her guest remove her tattered clothes. Then, she washed and sterilized the leg gash with wine, and rewrapped the wound with clean cloth.
Smiling, she said, “Rest long as you want. I cook dinner now and wash your clothes.” She gestured toward a steamer trunk at the bed’s foot. “Put on my cousin’s clean dress when you’re ready.”
“Thank you,” Hope said, and watched Aunt Tula lumber down the narrow stairway. In the small room with its homemade pine furniture, she gazed at the yellowing dresser photograph of an adorable baby with reddish hair who vaguely resembled Vincent. Exhausted, she lay under the soft quilts and fell asleep. Vincent’s arms embraced her but as he bent for a kiss she awakened.
It had seemed so real, she could hardly believe it was only a dream. Shaking her head, she rose and opened the trunk. Vincent probably preferred Indian women. Her blue eyes widened with pleasure as she lifted the long leather skirt and fringed tunic that had lain folded atop the clothes. They seemed made for her slender body.
Descending the narrow stairway, she saw Aunt Tula setting bowls of corn and hot biscuits beside a plate of baked meat. The older woman waved a heavy arm for Hope to sit. “So, my young cousin’s clothes fit.”
Hope smiled. “Yes.” She glanced about. “Where’s your nephew? I thought he’d be here for dinner.”
Aunt Tula sighed deeply. “Running Eagle, Vincent, died four years ago. In that barn at Centerville. He visits me sometimes, though you’re the first person he ever brought with him. I love him very much, but it’s no good his spirit can’t find peace.”
Shocked, Hope stared at Aunt Tula. “That can’t be! I was with him for many days, he told me about himself--”
Aunt Tula smiled, a sad little smile like Vincent’s, as if she, too, wished she didn’t have to explain. “It is only his spirit, but it should rest.”
Hope trembled, wondering if Aunt Tula were sane, but the small dark eyes gazed with serenity and pity at Hope’s disbelief. Finally, Hope whispered, “How...did he... die?”
“When white folks set my farm on fire, he tried to save my goats in the barn, but got trapped.
“Ohhh...” Hope stared through the window at the general store across the street, and reproached herself; she shouldn’t want something she could never have.
She stayed in Pemberton for two months, helping Aunt Tula by sewing poke bonnets to sell in the general store. Once, Vincent suddenly stood beside her reflection in the bedroom mirror. Gasping, she turned to touch him and he was gone. Had he really been there? Or had she wanted him there so badly she only imagined his presence?
“Forget Running Eagle,” Aunt Tula said over her sewing. “You’re still young and pretty. You could find a husband to take care of you.”
“I don’t want someone else,” Hope replied, her gaze fastened on the lace she added to a bonnet.
Aunt Tula sighed. “No good mooning over a dead man--like chasing a dream.” She put down the sewing basket and rose. “Come, I’ll show you his grave. Then you’ll see that it’s better to forget him.”
“All right,” Hope said, reluctantly, and heard a knocking at the door. Maybe it was Vincent! She flew to open it and recognized the gray-haired, mustached sheriff from Centerville.
“Ma’am, I’m here to arrest you for murder,” he told Hope who stared at him dumbly. “Will you come peacefully or do I need these?” He dangled handcuffs.
She bit her lip. “I won’t give you any trouble.”
He politely led her to the wagon outside. Before climbing in, she embraced Aunt Tula.
“I’ll visit you,” the older woman said, and scowled at the grim-faced sheriff tugging at the horses’ reins after Hope settled beside him on the front seat.
During the journey, she scanned the countryside, hoping Vincent would again help her. If only she could talk with him, just for a moment, jail wouldn’t seem so hard.
Resigned to her solitude, she spent her first night lying on the cell bed and staring at the barred window. Suddenly she heard the same strange noise that she’d heard in the barn. She quickly rose and looked outside. Vincent stood there, a finger hovering across his lips. She nodded and waited. Soon afterwards, she heard a thud against the floor. Vincent suddenly stood at her jail cell. He turned the key noiselessly in the lock and motioned her outside. They hurried past the sheriff sprawled on the floor.
“You’ll be safe with my relatives at the reservation,” Vincent said.
She looked directly at him and noticed now the eerie glow in his pale brown eyes. Sharing confidences around the campfires, she’d thought it was only a reflection from firelight. She should have realized... Maybe she hadn’t wanted to... She shuddered then, knowing she’d fallen in love with a being beyond understanding, perhaps a devil from hell...
She swallowed hard and fought her fears. “I want to go with you.”
He shook his head. “You would become a spirit, like me, no longer a person.”
“I don’t care,” she whispered, and tried to embrace him, but her hands touched only mist.
“Close your eyes,” he said, and she felt a gentle kiss on her neck that made her tingle and feel that anything was possible.
“Hope...Hope...Hope...” He repeated her name as though he couldn’t believe they were together. “You can’t come with me, I can’t ask this of you.”
“Do you want me?” she whispered.
“Should I lie and say no?”
“Then please let me go with you.”
He hesitated. “It’s wrong. You’re alive and beautiful. There are other men...”
“I love you,” she said and closed her eyes again. She clung to the sweetness of his kiss on her lips. She’d follow him anywhere, no matter what he was.
After the jail break, Hope Elizabeth Murdock vanished and no one, not even Aunt Tula, knew what happened to her. Because Vincent stopped visiting, the heavy-set woman searched his cave. One evening she visited the old barn she’d once owned,
knowing that her nephew’s spirit often stayed there. The barn, slanted with twilight shadows, rose against the gray sky. Aunt Tula looked up in the tall grass, her heavy arms shading her eyes.
She shouted, “Running Eagle, tell us what happened to her!” Cupping her hands around her mouth to increase the loudness, she repeated the question four times as was the Indian custom.
There was only silence.
She scanned the barn’s interior, then awkwardly climbed the broken boards, gasping to catch her breath. Reaching the hayloft, she sat heavily for a moment and rested, glancing about. Suddenly she smiled. Near the wall, a red feather protruded between floorboards, encircled by a honey-blonde curl.
