The Morning River Read online

  Richard remained standing. From the way his long fingers crumpled his stained black trousers, panic was fraying the last of his composure.

  "Now then," Phillip began. "I have here a list of expenditures accumulated for the last four months at the university. If I do say so, you have already spent more than enough time at Harvard." He glanced up over the rims of his spectacles. "Not to mention money."

  Richard wet his lips. "Father, I have more studies. I must continue my education!"

  "Why, Richard?" Phillip asked woodenly. "I see no progress in your work. I pointedly refer to progress in useful studies .. . those which will prepare you to deal with our modern world. At this point you have all the education required of a gentleman. You know the Classics, speak Latin and Greek as well as French, German, and a smattering of Portuguese. What more does a gentleman need?" Phillip spread his hands. "To what earthly use will you put this 'philosophy' of yours?"

  "To become a professor, Father." He knotted his thin white fingers into bony fists.

  "A professor? When I sent you to the university, it was to learn about the world so that you could take a position here, with me. I can't run the company forever, Richard. You have responsibilities to me, to society. And by that, I mean American society. I refuse to treat you like a child any longer." Phillip paused as he picked up a quill and rolled it between his fingers. 4 'Nevertheless, I shan't be accused of denying you a defense. Tell me . . . what have you learned?"

  "I—I've learned a lot. I just...just don't think you would . . . well. . . understand, sir. That's all."

  Phillip tightened the corners of his mouth. "I see. A matter of understanding. Very well, I confess to be a man of open mind. Tell me something of the nature of man. I've heard you use that term. Let me hear it. . . and how it will put bread and meat on your table. Let me hear how it will keep a roof over your head."

  Richard took a deep breath and locked his knees to keep from trembling. Did he act this way standing before Professor Ames? Were that the case, they should have thrown him out long ago.

  "From ... from what idea, if any, does the idea of... of chains ... I mean ..." Richard winced.

  "Chains?"

  "Rousseau, Father. I—I'm sure you've heard of him. Man was born free and everywhere he is in chains. It's . . . It's because man has fallen from the natural grace and virtue of his creation." The words began to flow. "Once we were all happy, living in a state of innocence. Unlike the scriptures, which blame the downfall of man on an apple, Rousseau blames the first man who enclosed a piece of ground and called it his. From there it was only a matter of time until inequality riddled society. Possessions, property, they are the root of envy and struggle. They condemn us ... the foundation of tyranny."

  Phillip's heart warmed. "You would tell me of tyranny? Your father, who stood at the foot of Breed's Hill?" He thrust a finger toward the old Charleville in the corner. "There, boy, is the only counter to tyranny—and you'll notice it's a 'possession,' the kind you so easily spurn."

  "But don't you see? Possessions have separated us from our natural instincts. In the beginning we were concerned with existence. The products of the earth fulfilled our needs—not the products of factories, or ... or of suppressed labor. To realize our true selves we must return to the land, recover our freedom by rediscovering our natural state. This drive for things has corrupted our souls, made us slaves of our society!"

  "And I take it you don't approve of our society."

  "No, Father, I don't." Richard shifted uneasily. "What have we become? Possessed by the demons of gold, silver, silk, and luxuries! What about your soul, Father? You're as bad as the rest. What about the uplifting investigation of higher ideals?"

  "I go to church three times a week."

  "I'm not talking about corrupted Anglican values. I mean true inquiry into the soul! The discovery of who you really are!"

  "And you think philosophy does this?"

  "Yes, Father!"

  "Boy, I happen to like this society we've begun to build. I began as a loyal subject of the Crown. I grumbled about the taxes and the—"

  "That has nothing to do with what I'm—"

  "Don't you dare interrupt an elder!"

  Richard winced and swallowed hard.

  "I can't believe I'm hearing this from you. By condemning American society—which I have struggled, fought, and bled to build—you're indicting every ideal I hold dear." Phillip threw his quill across the desk and rubbed his forehead. "This civilization you rail against has given you everything, Richard; your philosophy, your music and art. As for your scorn of possessions, I would remind you that you've eaten off the finest china, slept warm in the worst of storms, and enjoyed leisure to pursue your. . . studies. Assuming that you really despise such a life, the door is open. You may step out into the street and pursue nature and its benefits to your heart's content."

  There, the gauntlet had been cast. Phillip raised an eyebrow. Come on, boy, show me some backbone. Turn on your heel and stomp out of here.

  "I told you that you wouldn't understand." Richard's expression betrayed a growing panic.

  Phillip smacked his desk. "Tarnation! Very well, enlighten me. Where is the flaw in my argument? Hasn't civilization given you everything you now have? If life is so bad—and yes, I've heard about your Rousseau—you can bloody well go live with the savages beyond the frontier! Go, boy, nothing is stopping you!"

  "That's nothing more than the Socratic argument, Father. There's more to . .."

  But Phillip had lost the boy's words. The savages beyond the frontier? He glanced from the corner of his eye at the carpet bag that sat just to the side of his old musket.

  Richard raised his hands, the gesture that of desperation. "We owe something to ourselves, Father. Not just the state. Surely, if you've studied Rousseau, his arguments must have made you think, caused you to reconsider your own role in our hypocritical society. And what about the savages? What right do we have to inflict our society upon theirs? We're ruining them! Turning them into little copies of ourselves in an obscene foundry of civilized ideas. The ones that don't form just right, we break and toss in the rubbish! How can you call that morality!"

  Phillip's attention had fixed on the heavy grip. He muttered, "Rousseau was a fool, primarily because no one ever shot at him."

  Thirty thousand dollars. Enough to outfit an entire brigade for the Santa Fe trade. New Mexico was starved for goods, and they paid in silver. William Becknell had turned a two thousand percent profit. A man could still build a solid foundation in the far Western trade. A fortune could be made with the right Yankee mind at the helm.

  "What, sir?"

  "Hmm? Oh, nothing." Phillip took a deep breath and nodded to himself. "My son, I can see now that I've made a terrible error."

  "Then I can go back to my studies?" Relief began to shine in Richard's large eyes.

  "Absolutely not. No, Richard, I've had enough." The time has come, boy, to correct some of the mistakes.

  Richard blinked hard, then shook his head in disbelief.

  Phillip leaned back in his chair, plucked off his spectacles, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "As of this moment you may either leave this house ... or take up your duties, and be productive for once in your meaningless life."

  "But, I. . . You can't do this to me!"

  "Why not?"

  "Because I'm your son! It's your duty! You owe it to me!"

  "As long as you live out of my purse, I can make you do any damn thing I like!"

  A choked sound escaped from Richard's throat.

  Phillip sighed wearily. "I've made a lot of mistakes in my life, Richard. Many of them in raising you. I had no idea that your studies would take you so far from productive reality. Nevertheless, I shall make amends ... late though it may be. Boy, the world out there is not an abstraction, not as Messer Rousseau's fanciful treatise would have you believe. It's a very calculating place. One from which I have sheltered you. I'll not have any son of mine while away
his life as a professor of philosophy. Your mind has been ruined by these quacks and charlatans."

  "They're neither quacks nor—"

  "I will not have you perpetuate such absurdities on other susceptible young minds. Instead, Richard, you will assume the responsibilities that I have too long allowed you to avoid. That is all! The final word! So long as you live on my money, you are not going back to the university. Is that clear?"

  In a futile attempt to save himself some dignity, Richard looked up. "You don't understand."

  "I’ll send Jeffry over to Cambridge for your things. What's this? I'll not brook that pouting face. You look like a scolded little boy. You're twenty-two years old, for God's sake, and you can damned well act it! We'll talk more tonight at dinner. I have some arrangements to see to . . . some friends I must discuss this with." Phillip cocked his eyebrow again. "Or, you could just walk out that door downstairs and take responsibility for yourself."

  Richard gaped in stunned disbelief. "Responsibility . . . for myself?"

  Phillip's heart sank. "You may go. You'll find your room the way you left it. Jeffry will call you to supper. Please, make yourself presentable for the table."

  Richard slipped through the doorway as quietly as possible. Phillip slumped in the overstuffed chair. Was this the right thing? He reached behind him and pulled the bell cord.

  Within moments, Jeffry answered the tinkling summons, opened the door, and crossed the carpet to stand before the desk. Jeffry stood over six feet, whip-thin, posture as unforgiving as a ramrod's. His cropped hair had silvered, adding to his distinguished look. The white silk scarf at his throat contrasted with his dark-hued skin.

  Phillip stared at the desktop. "I've cut off his money. I would like you to go over to that hovel he's been living in and clean it out. He won't be going back."

  "Yes, sir." Jeffry studied him neutrally.

  "Can you believe it? Twenty-two years old, and I sent him to his room! I've failed him, Jeffry. I'm not sure how, or what I could have done differently, but I failed him."

  "He's young, sir."

  Phillip glanced up wearily. "At his age, I was lying in a hospital, biting on a bullet while the surgeon tried to make up his mind whether or not to cut off my leg. Fortunately, they were so busy with dying men I lay forgotten for a couple of days. Jeffry, I'm thinking, thinking of sending him west... to Saint Louis."

  "With the banknotes, sir?"

  Phillip stared into the past, seeing his wife's face, strong, beautiful. He could almost feel her cool hand against his cheek as she told him it was all right to leave, to take a year and sail to the major markets to set up accounts. That risks could be taken, that she'd be waiting when he returned...

  "Yes, Jeffry. He's got to learn to be a man. We didn't fight and die to make a nation of children. Imagine. He's twenty-two ... and doesn't even own a rifle! A Massachusetts man without a rifle!"

  Phillip reached over and laid his hand on the leather-bound Bible that rested on his desk like a silent guardian. Isn't there anything of me in him?

  TWO

  Mankind are so much the same, in all times and places, that history informs us of nothing new or strange in this particular. Its chief use is only to discover the constant and universal principles of human nature, by showing men in all varieties of circumstances and situations, and furnishing us with materials from which we may form our observations and become acquainted with the regular springs of human action and behavior.

  —David Hume, Of Liberty and Necessity

  Her name was Heals Like A Willow. She stood shivering, rubbing her half-frozen hands while the wind blew snow down over the cracked sandstone cap-rock. Misty white flakes swirled around her in a mocking dance. The tiny crystals pattered on her cold face and dusted the buffalo robe wrapped tightly around her.

  Her true people were the Dukurika, the Sheepeaters of the high mountains. The husband she was in the process of burying had been a man of the Ku 'chendikani, the Buffalo-eaters who traveled from basin to basin on horseback, hunting bison, fishing the rivers, and ambushing the elk. She had fallen prey to his flashing smile and warm humor. In the years since leaving her father's lodge, she had lived like the red-tailed hawk, rising high during times of plenty, only to plummet during those of hunger and warfare. Even in the direst of days, her husband had kept her happy with his reassuring smile and the twinkle in his dark eyes.

  With the birth of their son, their souls had grown together like tangled vines of nightshade. How much of herself had been torn away by death?

  You can't afford to feel. Not yet. Soon, she would. Life, by its very nature, would force her to find out how deeply that wound ran.

  Save that for the eternity stretching before her. Just live now. Finish this last responsibility.

  She braced herself awkwardly on the steep slope. Here, just under the rimrock, the footing was treacherous. Above her the red sandstone rose in a sheer face, the surface rounded by eons of wind and storm. Each step had to be placed with care. Snow had drifted in around the angular rocks that had tumbled down the slope. Old drifts, newly mantled, had crusted hard, broken here and there by branches of sage and bitterbrush, and chunky red stone. When she found a rock the right size, she kicked at it to break the frost's stubborn hold. When it finally broke free, she picked it up with mittened hands and stared upward at the long crack in the caprock. Most of the crevice had been carefully rocked in. Only one last hole remained, black and gaping—like the wound in her souls.

  She retraced her steps back through the wind-driven snow and studied the rocked-up crevice. Stretching, straining, she grunted as the stone wavered in her grip. As if for once Tarn Apo favored her, she slipped it into place, arms trembling from the effort. She teetered for a moment, caught her balance, and sighed as she rubbed her stained mittens on the heavy buffalo robe she wore.

  "That is the last. Rest well, my loved ones."

  The numbness lay heavily upon her souls, unbreachable even by tears. As she stared at the dull red cliff, small flakes of snow chased angrily past her and the wind ripped at tendrils of hair pulled loose from the hood of her buffalo coat. Above the red cliff the sky brooded with heavy clouds and the continued threat of snow.

  How did I have the strength to do this? Images, dreamlike, spun through her head.

  She had needed a juniper branch to wedge her husband's frozen body into the narrow crevice. Her son, so much smaller, had been laid in the packrat-tracked dust at his feet. She'd sung the prayers then, calling on Tarn Apo, "Our Father," the Creator, then upon Wolf, who had helped to fashion the world after the Creation. She'd pleaded that they would receive and cherish her loved ones, and that they would show them the trail to the Milky Way, the Backbone of the World, and hence to the Land of the Dead.

  Such prayers had to be sung to ensure that her loved ones would not lose their way on the journey across the sky. Should they do so, they might return to Tarn Sogobia, "Our Mother," the earth. Mugwa, ghosts who lost their way, no matter what their nature in life, harassed the living by appearing as whirlwinds and shooting sickness into people.

  She raised her eyes to the bitter sky, masked by sullen gray clouds. Snow blew down upon her, but she sang the mourning song again, fingers knotting in the thick leather of her mittens. The dead could find their way through clouds, couldn't they? Storms don't matter, she reassured herself.

  Willow closed her eyes against the sting of the wind. Enough trouble was loose on the land.

  They stared at her from the hollows of her memory: her husband's face, so strong and serious, trusting her to cure him; her little son, his round face sunken, his black eyes bright with fever.

  I failed you . .. both of you. Traitorous muscles sent shivers through her. She opened her eyes as the wind battered her robe, and studied the patterns of rock where she'd walled their corpses in. Her soul's eye could see into the darkness where they lay. Her husband's face had looked unnaturally pale, a juniper-bark mat covering his eyes and a leather band around
his mouth. To meet the gaze of the dead was to summon one's own death at best, and to court possession by evil at worst. Terrible things could issue from a dead man's mouth: corruption, disease, or soul loss.

  The injustice of it goaded her, and for a moment she glared upward into the stormy sky, angered that Tarn Apo could have created a world where such a loving and kind man as her husband could become so threatening after death.

  It's not him. He's gone. His souls are searching the way to the afterlife and its rewards. She turned her attention back to the rocked-up crevice; snow had begun to settle in the niches and hollows. They had planned so many things together. His eyes had sparkled as he played with their son. She had imagined them together, snug in warm winter lodges, walking arm in arm through green high-country meadows in summer, slicing hot meat from his kill on a frosty fall morning.

  Together, they would have watched their son take his first step. Hand in hand, they would have seen him earn his boyhood name. She would have smiled to herself as her husband taught the boy the intricacies of stoneworking, arrow making, and the rituals all hunters must know. And later, she would have marveled at her boy's first kill, that critical step toward manhood.

  Gone now, all of it.

  There, behind that stack of wedged rock, lay the empty death of dreams.

  I didn 't have the puha to save them. I couldn’t send my soul into the Land of the Dead to bring them back. But then, such things were omaihen, forbidden to a woman. Only the greatest of puhagan, the most powerful of medicine men, had that kind of puha. Such power was never granted to a woman.

  She lowered herself, back braced against the cold stone, and stared off across the valley. White wraiths of snow danced like capering ghosts, twirled by the wind as they settled onto the rounded junipers and the rangy limber pine dotting the slopes below. Sagebrush stippled the snow-choked canyon bottom, barely visible in the haze of flakes.