ACT OF LOVE
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, the barn waited for Hope.
She limped toward it, inching through the tall grass, ignoring the buzzing insects and careful not to scrape her wounded leg bandaged with cloth. Panting, she heaved past the open barn door, her long skirt and petticoats dirty and torn, and tendrils escaping from the blonde neck bun. 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 looked 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 the 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 groaned.
"Can you walk?" he said, surprising her by his lack of an 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 she'd faint, but the Indian's patient waitng spurred her on. 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 to rest in a cave behind a copse of oaks.
The Indian smiled. "I've already eaten."
She reached for the remaining blackberries and hesitated. It didn't seem right--eating alone.
"You need nouishment," 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 sensous 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, she thought, 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. 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 frighened 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 again. "Let me see your wound. I can help." He motioned for her to lift her petticoats.
She flushed and straightened her 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 with leather thongs tied to his back, 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 smong themselves. It was the first time she'd felt this peaceful since that awful man came into her shop. She leaned against the tree. She'd almost forgottten how tired she was. Her 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 on the grass was a geasy 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 srength."
"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 the tall, graceful body, trying not to imagine it against her, trying not to imagine his arms about her, and instead 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 the couple paused behind the thick shrubbery. At dusk, they encamped 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," she said.
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...Aunt Tula, my mother's sister, 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 a while. Then the reservation near Pemberton." He gazed at the fire crackling with sparks. Hope smiled for him to continue. He shrugged. "You need rest. We'll talk more tomorrow."
Hope nodded and fell asleep immediately under the animal pelt, dreaming that she and Vincent started talking and held hands. She awoke at dawn, startled to see him bent over roastng meat, but staring at her.
"You're beautiful..." He turned away as if embarrassd.
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 a forest, then fields of tall grass and shrubbery, and then more forest, stopping only to eat and rest until, a week later, they finally reached the small town of 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 high cheekbones and straight black hair like an Indian, hanging in plaits like Vincent's, but her dark eyes were deepset 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 Hope's wound with clean cloth.
Smiling, she said, "Rest as 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 from the trunk 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 in reprimand, she rose and opened the trunk. Vincent probably preferred Indian women. Hope's 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 hot corn and 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 and nodded. 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's only his spirit, but it should rest."
Hope trembled, wondering if Aunt Tula were sane, but her small dark eyes gazed with serenity and pity at Hope's disbelief. Finally, Hope whispered, "How...did he...die?"
Aunt Tula nodded. "When white folks set my barn 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 wrapped in darkness, and she reproached herself: She shouldn't want something she could never have.
Hope 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 one afternoon over her sewing. "You're still young and pretty. You could easily find a husband to take care of you."
"I don't want anyone 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 her sewing basket. "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 ran 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 in frustration. "I won't give you any trouble."
He politely led her to the wagon outside pulled by a horse. Hope embraced Aunt Tula and climbed onto the front seat, beside the sheriff.
"I'll visit you," the older woman said, and scowled at the grim-faced sheriff who ignored her and tugged at the horse's reins.
During the journey, Hope scanned the countryside, hoping that Vincent would again help her. If only she could talk with him, just for a moment, jail wouldn't seem so bad.
Resigned to her solitude, she spent her first night lying on the hard cell bed and staring at the barred window. Suddenly she heard the same strange noise that she'd heard in the barn. She jumped up and looked outside the window. Vincent stood there, a finger hovering across his lips indicating she should remain quiet. She nodded and waited. Soon afterwards, she heard a thud against the floor. Vincent suddenly stood before her jail cell. He turned a key noiselessly in the lock and motioned her outside. They hurried past the sheriff sprawled on the floor, his eyes closed.
"You'll be safe with my relatives at the reservation," Vincent said.
Hope looked directly at him and noticed now the eerie glow im his pale brown eyes. Sharing confidences around the campfires, she'd assumed it was only a reflection from firelight. She should have realised...Maybe she hadn't wanted to...She shuddered then, knowing that 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 beauiful. 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 had vanished. No one, no even Aun 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 outside, her heavy arms shielding her eyes. She shouted, "Running Eagle, tell us what happened to her!" She cupped her hands around her mouth to increase the loudness, and 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 the floorboards, encircled by a honey blonde curl.
--The End--