The Hunger Page 12

  But that night he played a reel so fast that his bow was a blur and dancers dropped to the ground, exhausted trying to keep up.

  “If this goes on, I’ll be able to move my things out of your wagon and go back to my mule,” Halloran said. “I won’t have to be a burden on your family no more.”

  “But don’t rush things,” Tamsen said. She was happy for his health—of course she was. But frightened, too, for reasons she couldn’t say. It was as if he had not just gotten his life back but a new life altogether; he was more talkative, feverishly happy, newly optimistic. “You want to make sure that you’re good and strong first.”

  The truth was, too, she’d gotten used to having Halloran around, either in the wagon, tucked in behind the backboard, or propped up with quilts near the campfire at night, keeping an eye on the cooking. George had thought she’d lost her mind when she had insisted they make a place for him in their wagon, but Halloran turned out to be uncommonly easy to care for. He was effusively grateful for every kindness, played with the little ones for as long as his strength would allow, and, when his energy was spent, would listen to Tamsen talk about her early days as a schoolteacher in the Carolinas. Those hadn’t been her happiest days—she had been a young childless widow, trying to make her own way—but so different from her life with George that she sometimes marveled that it had happened at all.

  At twenty-five, he reminded her, a little, of her Jory. He’d always been a kind of compass for her. She hadn’t seen her brother in years now, though, and sometimes she thought her mind made any sort of excuse to look for him in others.

  There were even times when Halloran felt like the most courteous of lovers, with a shy smile and gentle ways, though she supposed she was imagining this, too.

  His hands were beautiful and graceful—fiddling to thank for that, she supposed. Sometimes, sometimes, she imagined what it would feel like to have those hands on her body.

  Did she seek them out or did they find her, these dark brooding men with their secrets? They never stayed, but their effect on her remained, leaving a need for more, like certain addictive herbs that can cause trembling and dizziness when a dose is removed too quickly.

  And Halloran’s sweetness only seemed to stir up that addiction, served to rejuvenate her hatred of George, the way the gaze of her own husband left her feeling itchy and stuck. She had the familiar urge to do something rash, to lash out, to free herself.

  Almost as soon as he was better, however, Halloran removed his things from the Donners’ wagon. Of course there was talk about his miraculous recovery. She should have known there would be. That Tamsen had witched him, that she had cast a spell on him. Betsy Donner reported it all, pretending to be shy about it, while obviously relishing the opportunity to lord it over Tamsen.

  Tamsen, however, had been called far worse before.

  Few people survived consumption when it had gotten as bad as it had with Halloran. Yet he was often the first to step out at the call to chain up and the last to bed down in the evening. He fetched water and firewood for his neighbors after he’d taken care of his own needs, as though he had energy to burn.

  Tamsen should have been happy, but she was afraid.

  Halloran was different. She couldn’t say how, but she knew that he was.

  One morning, he started bundling his things for the pack mule, intent of being back to his own, and when she advised him to wait another day or two, he told her brusquely that he knew what he was doing. Halloran had never snapped at her before, no matter how badly he’d felt. She was so surprised that she said nothing to him the rest of the day, only watched as he buzzed about madly, like an insect caught in glass, hitting hard for an exit.

  Since then, it had only gotten worse. Halloran argued with one of the Reeds’ teamsters when he took his mule through a narrow pass before the Reeds’ big wagon, insisting that the oversized vehicle was going to get stuck in the soft ground (he was right, however; they had double-teamed the oxen and managed to pull it out).

  Worst of all, the next evening, he had smashed his fiddle against a rock when someone asked if he wouldn’t give them a tune after supper. He was sick to death, he said, of being pestered to play for them.

  Everyone was shocked into a long silence, but Tamsen had, unaccountably, felt tears burn her eyes. Luke Halloran loved that fiddle like a child. Again the idea came to her that this was not Halloran, that Halloran had died and this was somebody else.

  But that was insane, obviously. Far more likely that the weeks of illness had changed him in some way. Or perhaps he’d always been this way, and the illness had obscured it.

  When she had imagined the journey, she had imagined hardship, and hunger, and dirt that clung everywhere, like another skin, and could never be sloughed off. But she hadn’t imagined this—the people, that she would be surrounded by so many other people, unable to escape their strange, inexplicable prejudices and their sudden, violent changes of mood.

  They’d been walking in the shadow of the Wasatch Mountain range for a week and it was hot, even after dark. Tamsen wanted a bath; she wanted to feel clean, even if she knew that by morning she would be crusty with dirt again.

  She waited until the rest of the family had settled by the tents so she might have a bit of privacy. Jacob read aloud for the children; George puffed on his pipe, eyes closed, as he had sat in his favorite chair so many nights at home. But now, sitting in the dirt beneath a bowl of unfriendly sky, the ritual seemed incongruous, almost desperate. As if he might, with his eyes closed, be trying to think himself back home, or all the way to California.

  With one of the wagons between her and the rest of the family, she filled their largest pot with water and set it to heat over the dying embers. Sounds from the rest of the wagon party carried lightly on the wind, but they were far away. The Donners were not pariahs, exactly, but they had fallen from their rank as the most prominent and influential of the families in the party. And whatever the others thought of her, Tamsen knew only one thing would make her feel better: a bath. She laid aside her blouse and skirt and stockings, stripping down to corset and petticoat.

  Using a washcloth dipped in the warm water, she wiped herself with long wet strokes. Around her throat, the back of her neck. Lifting the petticoat to address each of her long legs in turn. It was a miracle what a wet rag could do. She nearly cried with relief as the breeze touched her thighs and calves. She had just started to loosen her corset when she froze. Something had changed.

  Something had moved.

  The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She couldn’t have said whether it was a sound that alerted her, or a shift in the darkness, but she knew: Someone was watching her.

  Her eyes went to the bushes, to the dark ragged shadow of the trees. Nothing.

  She relaxed. The stories of prowling monsters, of wolves the size of horses, were infecting her as well. She went for her corset again, her fingers slick and clumsy with the laces. It was so quiet. Surely Jacob hadn’t stopped reading already. Surely the others hadn’t gone to bed.

  Surely she was not alone. The sun had only set an hour ago and people were up and about, driving their livestock out to the meadow, cleaning up after dinner.

  She got the laces unknotted. She opened her corset to expose her breasts, but this time the wind carried a bite, and she shivered. And then she saw it—a silhouette moving through the shadow of the trees, moving quickly, moving upright.

  With one hand she reached instinctively for her blouse, anything to cover herself. But with the other hand she snatched the lantern and lifted it high, so the light bounced off the trees and made a lattice of the leaves above them. He ran off almost at once but not before the light seized him, his face pale and narrow and hungry.

  Halloran. Watching her.

  Before she could shout, he was gone.

  She dressed with shaking hands. That look—it wasn’t desire, bu
t something deeper, something raw and animal. She tried to think where she had last seen her girls, her innocent trusting girls who had come to love and trust Luke Halloran. Leanne had been sitting with the little ones, sucking on rock candy while listening to Jacob. Had Elitha been among them?

  She hurried back to the campfire, startling the others from Jacob’s reading. George blinked at her as if he couldn’t imagine where she’d come from.

  “Have a nice bath?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer. Elitha wasn’t with the others.

  She knew it was silliness. Paranoia. Elitha had probably lost track of time. She was probably wandering in her usual dreamy way, looking for tadpoles in the creek or climbing trees to find abandoned birds’ nests. One time, not long ago, Tamsen had caught her whispering to herself, and when Tamsen had asked what she was playing at, Elitha had gone white-faced and angry. It’s not playing, she’d said. The girl would have to be broken of these habits, for her own good.

  Still, she didn’t want Elitha wandering tonight.

  Tamsen plunged into a thicket by the creek first. It was just the kind of place Elitha would like, a wild tangle of cattails and sedge, the air sweet with birdsong. “Elitha Donner! Are you out here?” There was no reply. It was quiet as church. Too quiet, everyone said, and Tamsen agreed. It was as if everything living had fled, even the birds. “Elitha, you answer me this minute.”

  Something rustled in the rushes. Tamsen’s heart knocked hard against her ribs.

  “Elitha?” This time, she couldn’t keep the fear from her voice.

  “Just me, I’m afraid.” It was only Mary Graves, loping into view on her stalklike legs. “Has Elitha gone missing?”

  “Not missing,” Tamsen said sharply. Though she had been thinking in just those terms, she resented Mary for using the words. “Just out for a walk, I’m sure.”

  The two women stared at each other. It was the first time that Tamsen had ever really gotten a look at Mary. She might have been attractive, but her jaw seemed a bit too square, and her eyes were certainly too large for her face. Though only a few years younger than Tamsen, she was probably a virgin.

  Maybe that was what appealed to Stanton; Tamsen hadn’t missed the way his attentions had moved on. Maybe he wanted an inexperienced woman who’d be easy to impress. It was funny how men would have a fling with an experienced woman—a whore, in their eyes—but settle down with someone who would submit to them, like calves under a yoke.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” Mary said. “I saw you headed this way. I’ve—I’ve been meaning to speak to you in private.”

  “I don’t have the time right now.” She offered no explanation. Mary Graves didn’t deserve one.

  When she tried to pass, however, Mary stepped in front of her. “Please. It will only take a minute,” she said. She looked as if she might put a hand on Tamsen’s arm and then thought better of it. “I only wanted to know why you’ve taken a dislike to me.”

  For a moment, Tamsen was speechless. She almost—almost—felt sorry for the girl. Mary looked baffled, like a child who has watched an apple fall up instead of down. At the same time, she felt a rush of hard anger: Mary believed that Tamsen owed her an answer. An answer that a less naïve girl would’ve figured out in an instant.

  If Tamsen had been in a different mood, she might have laughed. She might even have explained the way things were. Charles Stanton had chosen Mary, but that did not mean everyone else had to love her, too. Mary had stolen Stanton away from her without even trying. It wasn’t even clear that she wanted him.

  Tamsen had every right to hate her.

  Of course, she could say none of it. She lifted the hem of her skirt and clambered over the high tufts of grass, cutting around Mary Graves. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said lightly. “And I’m sure we both have more important things to worry about.”

  Mary didn’t let up. She started after her and immediately caught Tamsen, easily matching her stride. “You don’t like me,” she insisted. “I can tell from the way you avoid me. I only want to know why.” She bit her lip. “Does it—does it have to do with Mr. Stanton?”

  Tamsen couldn’t help but flinch at the sound of his name in Mary’s mouth. “What does Mr. Stanton have to do with it?” she asked, and heard her voice sound cold and thin, as if filtered through a layer of thick ice.

  Mary hesitated. For a second, Tamsen thought she wouldn’t be brave enough to say it. But finally she cleared her throat. “I heard stories,” she said simply.

  Stories. Another word for wrongheaded lies, like the ones told about her in North Carolina, before she moved to Springfield.

  If you’re so sure that I’m a witch, Tamsen had responded to the preacher’s wife who had hectored her so mercilessly all those years ago, do you think it wise to taunt me? It had given her a stupid, momentary pleasure to see the fear curdle on the woman’s face. That was the problem with women like Peggy Breen and Eleanor Eddy: They were afraid, always afraid, always of the wrong things.

  Now, the temptation to tell Mary the truth was almost overwhelming. She could tell her things about Stanton that she wouldn’t expect, set her straight. He was strong and smart, yes, but careless with feelings, his own and other people’s. He was made to be a loner; he was made to let people in only halfway.

  You don’t want to lose your heart to that kind of man, virgin.

  But Tamsen knew that Mary’s unhappiness would come to her, whether Tamsen told her how to see it or not. There was a small, mean part of her that was even glad.

  “You shouldn’t listen to stories,” she said only.

  Before Mary Graves could respond, someone shouted Tamsen’s name.

  Tamsen turned, mistaking the voice at first for George’s. But it was Halloran. He stumbled through the brush holding his stomach. Hunched, he looked like he had been shot.

  All his new strength, energy, and health had vanished; she was shocked by the sight of him, shocked and horrified. He was obviously dying. His eyes bulged in his head. His lips, pulled back in a grimace, exposed inflamed gums and rotting teeth. Tendons stood out on his neck, hands, and arms.

  “Mrs. Donner,” he said again, reaching out for her. Unconsciously, she stepped back, though they were still separated by a narrow creek. He stumbled on the uneven ground and landed on his knees in the water. But rather than stand, he began to crawl. “Help. Please help.”

  She forgot in that instant the man she’d seen watching her from the trees, and responded instead to the man she had nursed by her own campfire. She splashed into the creek, ashamed of her first impulse to get away from him, scooping water in her two hands, bringing it to his mouth.

  “Go find help,” she told Mary. “We need someone to carry him.” To Mary’s credit, she didn’t shriek or argue or faint. She turned and ran in the direction of the wagon train.

  He refused to drink. He moaned in agony and seemed not to hear her when she begged him to open his eyes. This close to him, she nearly gagged; the smell of him was already that of a corpse.

  As soon as Mary was out of view, however, Halloran opened his eyes. He grabbed Tamsen’s wrist with unexpected strength. “Mrs. Donner—Tamsen,” he said, pulling her close to his face, so close that she felt his breath on her cheek. “You’re still my friend, aren’t you? You were so kind to me, the only one to help me when I got sick . . .”

  “Shhh. Easy, now. Of course I’m your friend,” she said.

  His eyes were huge and bright. Even in the dark, they seemed to glow. She thought again of possession, of someone else inhabiting his body, making him act like a stranger.

  She tried to ease his hand off her arm, but his grip was too strong. Not like a dying man’s strength at all. A pulse of fear traveled her spine.

  “The rest of them, they’d let a man starve even when they got food enough to get by. They’re only out for themselves. I
f it were up to them, I’d be dead already.”

  “Please, Mr. Halloran.” The pulse transformed to a single, unifying rhythm. She was afraid. She could hardly breathe for the smell of rotting. What had happened to him? She had known disease to come back but not like this, not so quickly it would hollow a man in an hour. “You’re not well. Be calm, now. I’m going to get you help.”

  “No one else can help me.” His smile ended in a grimace of pain. “I’m dying, Tamsen. That’s why I come to you. You were my savior before—will you be my savior again?” He seemed to have difficulty breathing. She had to wait for him to gasp more air. “Will you do something for me?”

  “Of course I will,” she said. Her voice sounded thin. Why had she left her lantern up on the bank? The darkness was so thick it felt like the pressure of a hand.

  His eyes were closed again. His fingers relaxed against her wrist. Yet he was still trying to speak—he whispered something too quiet for her to make out, and whispered it again. She could see the effort it required; he was forcing out these broken words with the very last of his strength.

  His beautiful hands, his soft brown eyes, his quiet humor—all of it gone, ravaged by whatever sickness was devouring him. She was surprised to realize she was on the verge of tears.

  He was still trying to speak. “I can’t hear you,” Tamsen said softly. Then, “Be still, Luke.” But she watched him struggle to be heard.

  She leaned closer—so close that his lips, when they moved again, moved against her cheek. Finally she could make out what he was saying.

  “I’m hungry.” Again and again: a whispered note of agony. “I’m hungry, Tamsen.”