Follow Your Heart - Chapter 2A

            “See the horse?” Peter pointed at a cloud straight above.

            “Where?”  Kjristina looked hard at the sky.  The summer morning was accented by a deep blue sky sporting a jaunty collection of cotton fluff clouds scuttling across its face, moving to form one shape and then blowing on to leave a different shape in its wake.  Kjristina studied the formations, trying to make out the cloud Peter was referring to.

            Finally a cotton horse galloping across a backdrop of blue meadow transmuted out of the abstract before her eyes.

            “There it is!” she giggled.  She could feel the dampness from the morning dew pushing through the back of her white cambric blouse as she lay back into the grassy hillside. She turned to study Peter’s face, watching him searching the sky overhead.  His blue eyes sparkled and his five-year old cheeks still held onto stubborn pockets of baby fat, giving him a baby doll appearance.

            Impulsively Kjristina reached over and started tickling her younger brother who shrieked with laughter and wiggled away from her.

            “Come on, babes,” she said, pushing up from the ground and brushing off bits of grass and leaves clinging to her long skirt. “We’d better hurry.  Mum will be expecting us back before we’ve even left!”

            Peter chucked a pebble toward the stream running parallel to the trail, and then ran to catch up with Kjristina as she lifted her skirts and pushed forward up the path.  A cool morning breeze made the air come alive with the rustling of the green trees lining the stream. Wild flowers poked their heads through meadow grasses with splotches of bright reds, vivid oranges, and pale blues.  Kjristina stopped long enough to break off several stems, gathering them into a bouquet of blossoms which she tucked into the empty basket looped over her arm. 

            Now Peter took off ahead of her, and she had to run to catch up with him just as he rounded the bend.  As they crested the hill, the valley opened below, revealing a cluster of thatched roofs bowing below a tall gray cathedral commanding an open space in the center of town.  Rays from the early sun hit the ornate metal cross capping a tall center spire, casting a long shadow across the chimneys to its west.

            Grabbing Peter’s hand, Kjristina guided him down the trail into the village, slowing her pace as she made her way to the church.  Strains of organ music floated through the stained glass.  Kjristina smiled as she imagined Sanders Jenson, the church organist, with his snowy hair and watery eyes, hunched with shrunken shoulders over the great console and attacking the Bach melody with gnarled fingers.  In spite of his rheumatoid body, the music was sure and strong and added a breath of life to the still shadows outside. 

            In the cool shade near the back of the church was a quiet graveyard fenced in by tall black iron spears pointing skyward and cooled by the shade of aging poplars and shadows cast from the granite transept.  The gate creaked open under the pressure of Kjristina’s gentle hand.  As they entered, a somber mood settled over both of them like a heavy quilt.  Kjristina knew that always bothered Peter, but she was glad he came in spite of it.  On the days he accompanied her, she could be brave and smile and not cry.  And she didn’t want to cry today.  Not today.

            But try as she may, there was still a knot in her throat and she had to force herself to push back the guilt from her eyes when they located the small headstone that marked her younger sister’s final resting place.  Kjristina knelt and traced the engraved name with her fingers. The words Jennifer Anderson carved into the rough stone felt cold under her touch.  Below it was engraved B 18 June 1841   D 25 December 1844  - a simple stone marking the tiny grave that had been silent for so many years now.

            Peter stood by her side, quietly waiting.  Kjristina took her time here, stilling for a moment the gnawing list of errands she needed to take care of, and blocking out the thought of that other thing she wanted to do today, the thing she would not have even confided in a best friend, if she had one.  For this moment, all her energy was concentrated on paying homage to this tiny little mound that seemed so small in the center of the many larger mounds surrounding it.  A large sigh heaved from her breast as she fought tears rising again to the surface and her lower lip quivered ever so slightly.  She could never come here without the experience ripping out another small part of her heart.  Maybe she shouldn’t continue to come, she thought, but she knew that wasn’t the answer either.  She needed to be here.  Right here.  As often as she was sent on errands to town, she needed to stop here and remember.  No matter how bad it hurt, she needed to remember.

            Retrieving the blossoms from her basket, Kjristina pulled a blue ribbon from her hair and tied it around the stems of the bouquet.  Then, with daisy yellows and azure bluebells contrasting brightly against the gray stone marker, she carefully tucked the makeshift memorial into place. She pressed her fingers to her lips and using them, transferred her warm kiss to the cold stone.

            Standing next to her, Peter was patient.  He could not remember a time in his life when they did not come here on shopping day, and the routine of this experience was already graven in his soul as sure as the words were on the headstone.  So he waited while she bowed her head and prayed in silence.

            Finally, pulling herself up, Kjristina stood one minute more. 

            One more breath.  Then, “Ok, Peter, let’s get moving.”  She forced a smile as she ruffled his curly locks, and clasping his little hand once again, she guided him through the headstones, around the wide tree trunks, back through the heavy gate, around the side of the transept, and on out to the cobblestone avenue.

 

            Small shops lined both sides of the narrow road.  A few shared walls, but most stood alone, with tree branches and roses filling the small gaps between the buildings.  Shop keepers were about their business, sweeping away the dust that had settled through the night, opening shutters to allow entrance to sunbeams, preparing their markets to welcome the townspeople who would come on this day to fill their baskets.  Dust was already rising to greet the morning sun.  It would be another hot day.  A small child pushed past the two, skirts flying as she chased a calico cat across the road.   A couple of older women sat in the shade of a porch, heads nodding in agreement with what each was saying, and neither listening.  The town was coming to life with the music of the rising sun and the song of the bees buzzing trails from one fragrant bud to another.

            The visit to the cemetery always left Kjristina somber and it took a minute for her to shake the mood.  She now forced herself to tuck her memories back into that corner of her heart where she stored them every moment of every day, waiting, just under the surface - not so deep to forget, but deep enough to keep from breaking it.

            Squaring her shoulders, she now looked forward to the rest of her shopping trip.  She straightened her hair, and her heart lightened as hope rose within her breast at the thought of the errands ahead of her.  She found herself scanning the street, though she knew it was still early, hoping to see the large wooden wagon parked in front of the grocers.   But all she saw was one blue roan and a team of muscular Clydesdales, heads bent and tails switching at the gnats and flies already attacking them.

            Today was Tuesday.  On Tuesdays ‘he’ also came to town, bringing in the crops from his father’s farm nestled in a mountain valley up the hills on the other side of the small community.  Kjristina had never noticed “him” until one chilly morning a couple of months earlier.  She had become distracted by a particularly striking bolt of blue silk in the miller’s store window.  With her nose to the pane of glass, she imagined the dress she could make with the cloth, and as is common for young women to do, she lost herself in that bolt of fabric.  The real world surrounding her faded into the world of her mind, where she allowed her imagination to dress her in soft blue gathers falling gently from her slender hips and the bodice fitting snugly around her waist.  In her mind, she could feel the silk gliding against her arms; she could see how the color would look under the blond curls cascading over her shoulders, and how it would bring out the depth of her own blue eyes. 

            In her reverie, she did not notice the shadow cast by the young man with the square jaw who stopped behind her, distracted, himself, by the sight of her daydreaming at the window.  Knowing she had no way to purchase the fabric that day, or any other day for that matter, Kjristina sighed, and then turning quickly to return to her errands, she walked directly into his chest. 

            “Oh!” she exclaimed. Her face blushed warm with embarrassment and she quickly jumped back, only to catch her heel on a stone jutting from the ground which sent her falling off balance toward the window pane.  He grabbed for her hand to stop her fall, and steadied her.  Suddenly all Kjristina could see were his smiling blue eyes, and she became very aware of the warmth of his hand holding hers.   She pulled away, murmuring an apology.  She felt even more embarrassed for her clumsiness.

            This was so awkward. He told her not to worry, something about it being his fault for standing too close, and, tipping his hat, wished her a good day and turned away.  His long strides carried him quickly down the boardwalk to where his emptied cart waited.

            Kjristina stood paralyzed watching him as he drove his team away.  “Oh, my,” she thought.  Her feelings of chagrin and embarrassment and curiosity all rolled together into one huge knot in her chest.  She had no idea who the man was.  She didn’t remember ever seeing him before. But one thing was for sure, she would know if she ever saw him again.

            Kjristina did see him again.  She could not put thoughts of him out of her mind.  Tuesdays, she noted, he came to town.  Every Tuesday.  So she found excuses to do errands for her mother on that day of the week.  She would watch for him from afar as he went about his business, but she had yet to find the courage to place herself directly in his path, to find any reason whatsoever to speak to him, or even to learn his name.  If he looked her direction, she would quickly turn away with her heart pounding and chastise herself for being so forward.  If he didn’t look her way, she was disappointed.

            And so this Tuesday found her once more in town, seeking out the form of the tall young man she so desperately wanted to know, yet feeling overwhelmingly insecure about meeting him face-to-face.  This conundrum of feelings was confusing, distressing.  On one hand she could never forget the warmth of his hand clasping hers, the look of his gentle eyes smiling into her own and a burning desire to make his acquaintance; but on the other she could not set aside her fear of looking even more like the fool she was certain she must have appeared to be.  She thought she ought to just gather the items she had been sent for and hurry back over the hill, but then again…  The delusive mixture of desires and shame had instigated an unrealistic outlook on the entire situation, inflating it far out of proportion until it had become an obsession.

            “Oh, Kjristi, you idiot,” she scolded herself. 

            “Huh?”

            Kjristina looked down. Peter’s wide eyes questioned her in bewilderment, and it dawned on her she must have spoken her thoughts out loud.

            “Oh, um, noth..., nothing…” she shook her head, “… nothing at all…” and, tucking her empty basket under her arm, the two of them continued down the street to the grocer’s.

Follow Your Heart - Chapter 1

July 1850

           Awa stopped his pony at a pool left in the shadows of the creek bank.  “Pah to sho unt quint”, his People called this creek. Spring runoff from the towering mountains to the east would send brown rolling waters cascading out of its banks, but the summer sun always slowed the water to a bare trickle long before autumn winds brought cooling rains to fill it again.  Awa slipped to the ground and dipped his cupped hand into a stranded pool. It was warm but it was wet and quenched his parched mouth.  He let the pony drink deep.

Snatches of voices caught Awa’s ears.  He looked up but could see no one. As the sound carried through the sullen air, he could tell this was not of the People’s voice.  Somewhere up the creek bed, a man was speaking, and Awa could not understand the words.

            Another voice spoke now, joining the conversation. 

            Awa whispered a command to the pony’s ears to stay.  The horse stretched its short neck to nibble at some dried bunchgrass as Awa hunched down and crept forward silently through the sagebrush to identify the source of the voices.  The conversation grew louder.  As he rounded a bend, he stopped short and ducked low.  What he saw was strange to his dark eyes.

            Rumors of a people, not of his People, had been spoken around the evening fires.  A people of pale face, Awa had heard of.  Mountain Men, they called themselves, and dressed in animal skins like him.  But now there were rumors of a different people who wore clothing not of animal skins, clothing that fell in layers covering their arms and their legs even in the heat of the summer sun. A people with hair the color of the moon or of the flames of the fire, and eyes the color of the sky who had entered the valleys many moons earlier, and carried long sticks they called “Rie-fels” that boomed with fire to bring down the buck.  A people who built heavy homes made from large pines, a people who cut the soil and grew plants where before only the sage and the grasses grew.  The rumors had been carried on the wind, whispered about, laughed at, but now, as Awa saw the faces before him, he knew the rumors were spoken with truth.

The hot sun beating at his brown skin could not stop the shiver he felt start in his chest and spread to his toes.  He watched with caution.  A small group of eight men was gathered in animated discussion, their tall horses grazing not far from where they stood.  One pointed at the creek bed and shook his head as he spoke.  Another replied, pointing toward the silver lake shimmering in the distance.  One man carried tools that looked strange to Awa’s eyes -- three poles too short to be used as walking sticks, too blunt and fat to be used as weapons.  That man stepped away from the group and formed the poles into a small teepee-type frame on the ground.  He placed a silver tube on the top and, hunching over, put his eye to one end of the tube.

            Everything he watched was strange to Awa’s eyes, the sounds were strange to his ears, and the smells of the men were strange to his nose.

            “Jay cub!” he heard an older man exclaim to a younger one Awa suspected could not be many moons older than himself – he who had been twirling a short silver stick with a wooden handle around his finger, pushing the stick into an open leather pouch hanging from his side and then pulling it out again.  “Staw plae ing withatgun.  Yoregoan a indupshuteinsumbudees foot awf, andit prahbleewoantee-ven beeyore oan!”

The younger man laughed and said something back, but he pushed the stick into the pouch and left it alone.

            In spite of his curiosity, Awa knew the longer he stayed and watched the more he was placing himself in danger.  His heart was pounding a warning signal to him.  He needed to get back to his people and tell them what he saw.  The elders would want to know.  Sowiette would want to know.

            He crept backward in the same silence he had carried forward.  Finding his pony, he grabbed its mane and hoisted himself onto its back, taking off in a gallop, a lone eagle feather flying with his black braids. 

            Among the men, the only one to notice the cloud of dust drifting up from around the bend as Awa sped silently west was Jacob Whitlock.  He watched in silence and then turned back to the conversation with a grin on his face.

            Canute Peterson shook his head and wiped a bead of sweat from his brow.  It had been a long week, and after searching out other promising areas only to find claims already made, they had nothing more than this dried up creek bed to report back to President Young.  And there stood Jacob grinning ear to ear. Canute figured out long ago that the orphaned lad placed in his charge didn’t have a serious bone in his body.  But he had always hoped that as the boy grew toward adulthood, his careless and daredevil days would blend into a more controlled form of responsibility.

            It didn’t look like that was going to happen any time soon.

            Reading his mind, Jacob caught Canute’s eye.

“C’mon,” the young man coaxed.  “I’m just excited for the big adventure.  Aren’t you?  We’ve got this whole big world to claim fer ourselves!”

Jacob’s eyes lit up with mischievous sparkle.  “Just think,” he continued, “new land … fightin’ injuns, and, and… maybe there’s even gold and silver in these parts!”

Jacob liked the man Bishop Evans had sent him with.  Though older and definitely more serious than Jacob ever wanted to be, he had come to depend on Brother Canute’s stability.  Even now, though Jacob had reached maturity and could strike out on his own, he shadowed Canute, hungering for something from the big Scandinavian he couldn’t find on his own.

Canute cleared his throat.  “Jacob,” he reminded him in his thick Norwegian accent, “we’re not here to fight the Indians.  We’re not here to look for gold.  Sorry.  No adventure.  We’re just looking for another place to call home.  You know Bishop Evans will be arriving in the Valley in a few months, and with him will be others.  They’ll all need a place to stake claim.”

Jacob shrugged his shoulders and stepped away. 

Another man reached out and grabbed Jacob’s shoulder, turning him around.  Henry Royle looked into Jacob’s eyes in earnest.

“Don’t you see?  There are treasures more important than gold and silver.  After all we’ve been through, right now our biggest treasure would be a peaceful home for our families.  A place where we can settle down and grow old together, worship’n the Lord the way we’ve learned how.”

A dark shadow briefly passed through Jacob’s eyes, and his jaw set in firm defiance.  Canute had seen the look before. 

“There’s no question the other area was good land.” Canute said, changing the subject, “I wish we could’ve got there first.  Now …” he paused and looked over the land around him, “Now … I’m just not sure where to look.”

They had just come from exploring a creek flowing from the mouth of a canyon tucked in the northeast corner of the valley. Even this late in the season, water flowed in that creek.  But water and land claims had been staked, and it was already being settled.  The instructions had been specific – they were to find new land and create separate settlements.

Mr. Lemmon, who had been busy surveying, checking out the lay of the land, stepped forward.

“What about settling down right here?” he asked in his thick French accent.

“Now, you can’t be serious.” Henry argued, “Why, even I can see this land won’t support us.  There’s nothin’ here but sagebrush an’ more sagebrush!”

Others laughed, but they all agreed.  The trickle in the bottom of the creek was hardly enough to water their horses. There was no way it would provide enough water for their families.

 “Not so fast, brothers,” Canute cautioned.  “Monsieur Lemmon may be right.  Let’s not give up before we’ve even started.”

There was some murmuring, but Canute pointed to the south.  “Just take a look – at least there’s a big lake not many miles away.  And it has fresh water as well as fish and game.”

David Savage, who had been silent to this point, agreed.

Thinking it through, Henry indicated the grasses showed more water in the area than met the eye.  Someone else suggested digging wells as a possibility. 

“C’mon men,” Canute encouraged.  “We’ll dig wells and whatever else it takes.  I know the Lord’s gonna be right beside us in this.  Just like President Young said, ‘We’re going to make this desert flourish till it blossoms like a rose!’”

“Now isn’t that all bright and beautiful!” Jacob argued.  “But, Brother Peterson, what you’re talkin’ about is only a lot of hopes and dreams.”   He chuckled a little as he turned back and pointed at the dry creek bed. “And here in the real world, all we have is a lot of dirt with a very tiny trickle of water running through it.”

“That’s right, lad,” Canute replied softly.  “That’s all one can see.”

He searched Jacob’s stormy face. 

“But we’re not just lookin’ with our eyes, Jacob.”  Canute whispered. “We’re lookin’ with our hearts.”

Canute placed his arm over Jacob’s shoulder and raised an outstretched hand to encompass the land about them.  “Now take another look. Can you see it?  It’s all there.  Maybe for now it’s only hopes and dreams, but isn’t that where everything begins?”

There was a nod of assent among the others, and before long it was settled to at least stay and survey the land.  Someone dubbed the little stream “Dry Creek”; they made camp nearby and after a meal of dry biscuits and venison jerky, a few rode the two miles down to the lake to try to catch some fish.  Jacob, usually the first to join any fishing party, declined the offer, however.  His usually callous heart was churning this night.

“Lookin’ with our hearts,” he thought to himself as he watched Canute mount and ride off with the others.  “That’s easy for him to say.  But what’s here for me?  I ... I’m lookin’, but maybe my heart’s just blind, ‘cause I don’t see it.

“And where’s the peace I was supposed to feel here?  And the satisfaction?"

He shook his head.  “I am alone,” he whispered, pushing his hands deep into his pant pockets.  “Alone in a crowd of men.”

As the sun settled to dusk and stars started breaking out in the east, he saddled his horse and took off, following the setting sun to the west and the Indian trail of dust that still hung silently in his mind.  The others may not be interested, but the only reason he came west was for adventure and he was going to go find it.

FOLLOW YOUR HEART - Prologue

Dec. 24, 1844

A soft whistle of wind slipped through the glass panes, sounding like a cat sighing in the dark room.  It wasn=t a harsh sound, just enough to keep Kjristina from falling back to sleep. 

 Nestled next to her in the soft feather bed, Kjristina could feel Jenny=s tousled hair tickling her chin, her deep breaths warming Kjristina=s shoulder.  As she stared into the black of the Norwegian winter night, Kjristina wished she could sleep as soundly as her little sister, but growing inside her eight-year-old stomach was a knot of excitement.  She kept trying to push it down, but just as she=d find a comfortable spot under the heavy quilts, the knot would rise again, all the stronger.

AIs it almost time?@ she sighed to herself.  She listened for sounds of her mother stirring across the hall, but all she could hear was Jenny=s breathing, the whistle wind, and down the hall, the big Grandfather Clock tick-ticking away the silence.

Being careful not to bounce the mattress, Kjristina rolled over.  Every year it was the same.  The night before Christmas was always exciting. The night before Christmas had a magic in the air and it became all the more chimerical in the early morning hours when Mum slipped into the room to steal her away to the kitchen. She=d be there again this morning, helping her into the crisp white gown and placing a wreath of ribbons and candles over her long blond braids, transforming her into the mystical Santa Lucia, Bearer of Light.

If only morning would come more quickly.

The scab on her left knee itched.  Kjristina rolled again. Morning was never going to come.

*****

Across the world, his knees pulled up under his chin, a young man stared into the fireplace as it cast a flickering light across the empty room.  Dark was just beginning to shadow the thin winter sun as it settled to the west.  Jacob Whitlock had kept the fire burning through the day, and now, as evening began to close upon his world, he should be letting the flames settle into glowing embers.  But he, too, was listening.

Tomorrow all of Nauvoo would be celebrating Christmas, but in this small cabin on the outskirts of town there were no signs of the pending holiday - no popcorn chains, no ginger smell of cookies, no gifts wrapped in brown paper and tied with ribbon.  Only snatches of carols drifting through the crisp air reminded Jacob of the day to come. But that no longer mattered.  What mattered now was what was happening behind that curtain.

In the corner of the cabin, a quilt, worn thin with use, had been hung to give privacy to his mother=s bed.  From behind the make-shift curtain, Jacob could hear Sister Carrie=s voice crooning softly as she bathed his mom=s forehead with cold water.  Ma had taken fever three days earlier.  It should be breaking now, she should be getting better, but she was not.  Today she felt hotter than ever, and then, around noon, she slipped into a very deep sleep and she wouldn’t wake up.

Jacob swallowed the lump in his throat and pushed his hands hard against his eyes to keep the tears from welling up.  AGo away, go away, go away,@ he willed his mind to push out the fear washing over him.

AJust think happy things,@ he told himself.  AHappy things.  Think.@

He forced memories to the surface.  Tadpoles.  Fishing holes.  Playing stick pull with Pa.  The fresh smell of Ma=s apron when she pulled him out of bed early in the morning - the warm cooking smells of her apron at the end of a long day when she nestled him into her lap for a bedtime story.  Her twinkling blue eyes.  The love he saw in them.

His mind wandered back to a crisp autumn day, years earlier.  There was a warm golden cast to the damp gray sky, and campfire smoke trailed lazily upward.  It had been a hard day, and they were grateful to have finally arrived at the small settlement springing up around the mill on the creek.  It would be their new home and he liked the feel of it.

The canvas tent was up and the entire family was helping unpack the wagon.  He felt the tug of the heavy wooden crate in his young arms.  How he wanted to do his part, to be big like his older brother Andrew, strong like Pa. But the crate was too heavy and he couldn’t hold on.  Slipping from his grip, it crashed to the ground, spilling the contents across the mud.

He felt hot shame flush his face.  And then Ma was there, swooping down to rescue the cooking pans from the ground.  Her eyes met his, and suddenly she was smiling.

AThose pans seem to be in bigger hurry to get out of that old crate than we are to get them there,@ she laughed, reaching out to tussle his hair.  AMust think its time for supper!@

Then she paused, and added quietly, AThanks, my little Jake.  You=re really growing up.  Think you could take a break and start a fire while I get something ready to put in this old pot?@

He wanted to be grown up for her, to show her she could be proud of him.  He worked hard to start the fire the way Pa had taught him: begin with the little wood, and add the bigger pieces as the little wood began to burn.  His pa told him that was the way life was.  Begin with the little things. Then the big things come easy.

He was just coaxing the kindling into flame when he heard a scream from the tent.  He knew that scream.  He=d heard it before.  It was a special scream Ma saved only for snakes.  She loved animals, she tolerated bugs, but she absolutely, unequivocally despised snakes.

Jacob=s little legs ran as fast as they could to catch up with Pa and Andrew.  They reached the tent just as she came bursting through the canvas.  Fiery darts had chased away the usual twinkles in her eyes, and her hairs were standing on end. 

Jacob couldn=t help it.  He knew he shouldn=t laugh, Ma was seriously scared, but she looked so funny!  He tried to stifle the giggle rising in his throat, but it bubbled contagiously to the surface.  Andrew joined him, and a minute later all three were doubled over in laughter.

Ma stood away from the tent, waiting with her hands on her hips.

AWell?  You men just going to stand there splitting your sides, or is someone going to kindly go in and get rid of that snake?@ she demanded.

By the tone of her voice, Jacob knew what the answer better be.

He volunteered.

Inside the tent he poked around the crates without much success.  He knew she had to have seen something, but he sure couldn=t find any snake.  He searched through a stack of blankets.  Nothing there.  He checked between and under the boxes.  He was about to give up, figuring it had slipped back out the way it had come in, when he spied something in the ground.  Ma wasn=t going to like this.  They=d gone and pitched their tent right on top of a snake hole!

Jacob smiled now, as he remembered moving their entire camp about a quarter mile up the road, Ma scouting out a piece of land as smooth and as free of holes as possible in that part of the country.  They would build their home there.

But that never happened.  The next day ...

Jacob=s thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door as it opened with a rush of cold air.  He swung around to see Bishop Evans standing in the doorway.  He wasn=t a big man, but something in his manner always made him appear larger.  He stepped into the room and closed the door softly behind him.

AJacob,@ he asked, Ahow=s your mother?@

Jacob turned his face back toward the corner.  He couldn’t let the bishop see his red eyes. 

AFine,@ he mumbled.

ASure,@ the bishop said behind him, a hint of sarcasm lacing his concern, AI can see that.@

There was an uncomfortable pause.  All the fear and the tears Jacob had been trying to keep stifled, welled up and started to spill over.  He knew he shouldn’t lie, especially to the bishop.  Ma wouldn=t like that.  He fought his emotions. Part of him, the child part, wanted desperately to run into the bishop=s strong arms and let him take away all the pain and worry.  But the other part, the almost-a-man part, wanted the bishop to respect him, to know he was strong and could take care of his mother like the bishop had asked him to. 

AShe=s ... she=s not ... doin= too good,@ Jacob finally admitted, focusing on the chinks between the logs.

ABishop,@ Sister Carrie=s voice interrupted softly.  AShe=s going fast. I don=t think I can do much more for her.@

AYou=ve been wonderful,@ Jacob heard the bishop say.  AIt=s Christmas Eve, and you need to go home to your own family.@

AI=ll stay longer if I can do anything.@

Her voice lowered and Jacob only heard snatches of the remaining conversation before he felt the breeze from the open door again and she was gone.  The only word that made sense to him sent a chill to his bone.  Pneumonia.

*****

Awa  jerked his hand away from the nest just as the big bird=s talons dashed against it.  AOuch!@ he cried as he ducked his head to keep the eagle from catching his eyes in the next attack.  Just as he turned away, his hand slipped on the icy bark and he lost his hold, finding himself tumbling headlong to the frozen ground below.

AOomph!@ his lungs exhaled on impact.  The sky above him darkened and swirled as he gasped for air.  His chest felt like it would explode.  He rolled to the side and curled up, wrapping his arms around himself, gulping the cold air to catch his breath.  As he spun into unconsciousness he could hear the bird screeching high above him.  His world went black. On the frozen winter turf the small Ute boy slept, and as he slept, his clutched left hand relaxed, exposing the majestic eagle=s feather collected at such a high price.