Sojourner

Sojourner

Copyright ©2009 Maria Rachel Hooley

Cover by Justine Oglehed

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

Dedication

To Britney.  There is always magic.  You just have to look for it.  And for Robert Rheinlander who really is with angels.

Chapter One

Five minutes ago, I died…again.  In another moment, I’ll stop screaming.  Right now the screaming and the rocking are all that keep me from fleeing into the blue-black night.  Tears stream down my face, and I grab a pillow to wipe them away.  I’ve had the same dream for as long as I can remember.   

I can still hear the mad gallop of horses amid a winter’s thrall on snow-blanketed plains.  It’s not a home I’d recognize in waking, not considering the buffalo hide stretched taut over smooth wooden poles to form the lodges I walk among.

On my way to gather wood for the fires, I see other girls in deer-skin dresses like mine, dresses with uneven hems that form an alternating pattern of fringed v’s.  I see that some share my labor, scrounging at the edge of the camp, looking for anything to burn.  Others stoke dying fires, preparing meals for children who have had little because when winter comes, the game all but vanishes.

As I walk, my breath escapes in steamy wisps and lingers, then dissipates.  In this dream, I hear a driving drum beat, and my hand sways and pats my leg as I walk farther from the teepees.  It’s then I see the sea of horses erupt from tall, withered grass, spurred by white men in long blue coats, all brandishing rifles.  For an instant, everything stops and they’re looking at me.  I’m barely more than a girl—-unarmed, terrified, and rooted to the spot.

The lead horse stamps its foot, whining.  He tosses his head, moisture dripping from his mouth and nose.  The rider jams the spurs against the animal’s flanks and immediately it lurches forward.  The other horses follow, their massive hooves kicking snow plumes into the air.

The drumming continues, ever louder, faster, and that drumming is my heart.  The world seems to slow.  At first, the riders press on, past me, toward the camp, and I wonder at this miracle.  Perhaps I’m just a girl, not threatening enough to worry about, but it’s an illusion.  I know because as the riders drive into the center of camp, their rifles echoing across the plains like thunder at the heart of a storm, one rider breaks off, aims his rifle and fires, a gout of flame blazing from the muzzle.  The pain hits.  My knees buckle, and I fall, my blood spattering into snow not firm enough to pack.  The world tilts, and the last horses rush past.  There are screams from the camp, rushing feet, the squalling of babies.  Dirty snow sprays my body.  The soldier who fired the bullet stays, watching.  Behind him is another dressed not in blue but brown.  There are no stripes on his sleeves, no crossed rifles on his breast.  His blond hair sparkles amid the snowfall.  He stands stone-faced, waiting.  I blink and my faltering breath spurts steam.

The blue man rides on.  The blond moves toward me, his arms outstretched.  His feet, I note with no little wonder, leave no prints.  His blue eyes stare, and I see myself in them.  They’re not the same shade as the officer’s uniform.  They’re a deeper, more penetrating oceanic blue, like the color of the sea at dusk.  His mouth twitches, his expression breaking for just a second.  He reaches to gather me to him, and I cry without tears. 

That’s my nightly dream and it terrifies me.  I shake uncontrollably amid the twisted knot of the bedclothes and glance at the nightstand where I have set a framed picture of my mom and dad holding me when I was a toddler.  Even then my bronze skin made my mother look like an albino.  Yet next to my father I’m a lot lighter, the mark of being the “half-breed” some have called me.  My short, spiky hair is the same glossy black as my father’s.  My dark eyes match his, too..  Next to that photo is one of me and Jimmie Abram, my guardian, taken five years ago at a zoo—long after the family I’d known as a child was gone.

“Lizzie, you’d better get a move on or you’re gonna be late!” Jimmie yells from downstairs.  He’s probably just gotten off his shift or the screaming would have brought him up here in a hurry. 

“Argh,” I mutter, looking at the clock.  7:15.  I jump out of bed and slide into a pair of jeans and a black sweater.  I grab a clip and wind my hair into it, turning to my reflection.  The dark shadows beneath my eyes make me look sick.  The hair piled atop my head tumbles in black waves as I jerk the clip free.  No sense calling any more attention to my sleep disorder than necessary.  Besides, with any luck, everyone will assume it’s from being nervous about transferring schools. 

“Lizzie?” Jimmie says, lightly knocking.  “You even awake?”

“Yeah,” I yell, a little more loudly than I’d intended.

“Breakfast?”

“No time.”  I grab my handbag and open the door.  As I’d expected, he’s still wearing his uniform.  His security job pays a little over minimum wage, but it’s all he could find in this spit little town he didn’t want to move back to.  It was the town he and Dad grew up in.  The town Jimmie says took his best friend.  There’s been no proof, of course; after all, Indians run off all the time, right?  Jimmie never believed it.  In the years since, he’s tried to take care of me like I was his daughter.

I sling my handbag over my shoulder and troop down the stairs.

“Lizzie,” he yells, still watching from the top of the stairs.  “Be careful.”   One hand grips the rail, the other holds his hat.

“I will.  Promise.”

I grab my keys from the hook over the phone, slip on my jacket, and fly out the door.  The cold air slams me, and I gasp.  Above, an endless gray canopy, heavy with snow, shuts out the sun.  I trudge down the drive and climb into my Jeep.  Okay, it’s not the best vehicle for this place, considering that in winter, the cold condenses more on the inside than outside, something Jimmie has promised to fix.  This morning, I just hope the CJ5’s defroster works better than I remember.  Jimmie’s often commented about getting me a new car, but I love this one, even with its flaws.  They’re what gives it character.

“And me a cardiac arrest,” he’d once muttered, shaking his head while looking at the paint job, something else needing to be redone.  “I promised your parents I’d look after you.  I never should have let you talk me into getting you this thing.”

“I like this thing!” I retorted, patting the hood.  “She’s perfect.”

“If you say so,” Jimmie replied, folding his arms across his chest. 

As if to prove her worth, the Jeep defrosts in about ten minutes.  Rather than going inside and listening to Jimmie worry, I shiver inside the Jeep.  Once the windshield has cleared, I push the clutch and ease the gas pedal.  The Jeep lurches forward unexpectedly.  I sigh.  Six months of driving it, and I still haven’t totally acclimated myself to its weird little quirks.  Maybe I never will, I muse while driving the two miles to an old brick building nestled next to the cemetery where a mist falls across the landscape.  It suggests this area is lower than the surroundings. Who in his right mind puts a school next to a cemetery?

Taking a deep breath, I edge into a lot filled with vehicles spread far and wide across the economic spectrum.  Most are like mine, old hand-me-down cars which have definitely seen better days.  There are also what appear to be a handful of construction trucks and vans.  Students mill around the parking lot, congregating as they talk about their weekends.  The minute I step out of the Jeep, I feel eyes on me.  From what I can see, I am the only Indian.  Another big surprise.  I’d been the new girl before, but it hadn’t happened in such a small school that seems to close in around me.  I am used to having five hundred in my class, not fifty.  Then again, this is Hauser’s Landing, a town with a booming population of 5,321. 

Talk about an exciting place.  Probably this weekend, they’ll all gather at the one stoplight in town and watch it change, then maybe lunch and tossing burning hay bales from the back of somebody’s pickup.  And then?  They’ll roll up the sidewalks and it’ll be like Salem’s Lot around here.  Small-town way to kill a vampire?  Bore it to death.

Dodging eye contact, I grasp the only notebook I’ve brought and step toward the school, which appears to be two vastly different buildings joined at the ends, kind of like a chimera.  The front end seems much newer, the bricks more appealing than the rust-colored half.  Some windows are so old, peering through the glass distorts whatever is on the other side.  Charming.  I crane my neck to take in more of the building and quickly realize there is construction going on near the back. 

A tall, blonde girl with too many teeth strides beside me as I head to the entrance.  I feel her silently watching.  Her friends also stare, noting my every move.  Should I break into a dance and start making noises like everybody sees in the movies?  Do they want to play Cowboys and Indians already?  I grit my teeth and grab the front door, wishing my shadow would leave.

“You’re Elizabeth Moon, aren’t you?”

“Yep,” I mutter, walking faster. 
Where is the office?

“I’m Shelly Roberts.”  She must have caught my lost expression because she points down the hall. “There’s the office just ahead.”