A Dark and Promised Land Read Online Free PDF Page A

of five conical tents of hide stretched over poles; a pale yellow they glow, a weird and unearthly light flickering like a will-o-the-wisp. Dogs bark and flaps are thrown open as they approach.
    The widowed women commandeer a tipi for themselves and the orphaned children. Once inside they sprawl about, several almost naked. The tipi is too small, and those with the strength sit leaning against each other. A few sobs for those who died, and more for those who survived.
    Indian women bring in armloads of wood and throw them on the fire. Sparks and a smoky haze, miasma of wet wool, and the sour spice of filthy, lousy bodies engulfs the tipi. The temperature soars. They sit in a huddle separate from the Europeans, and a sheen of sweat appears on their dark faces. They set a copper pot to boiling and toss in a handful of small, hairy leaves. One of them fills tin cups and carries the tea to the survivors. Perhaps a dozen are capable of responding.
    She brings Rose a cup, and, propping up her head, holds it to her lips. The scent is earthy and fragrant, but the taste bitter. She softly speaks words that Rose cannot understand, but there is no mistaking the tenderness in the woman’s voice. She chews several of the tea leaves and places them as a damp poultice on Rose’s cut hands. Rose smiles at the touch and looks into the kind woman’s face. The Indian returns her smile, her brown fingertips tracing with wonder along Rose’s white arm. She wraps the cuts in soft cloth.
    Another presents Rose with a ribbon of dried meat from a skin bag. While she had never really believed all the ghoulish stories she has heard about these people — stories of infant sacrifice and cannibalism — when confronted by this piece of anonymous flesh, Rose thanks her, and surreptitiously pushes it out under the edge of the tent where it is wolfed down by one of the dogs.
    The Indians give them a few blankets and robes in which to wrap themselves, and those who are able, turn away from each other and pull off their sodden clothes. The Indians watch with wide eyes.
    â€œI’ll take a cane to your eyes, any o’ thee that look upon me,” says an old woman in a voice high and weak, her thin jaw quivering. “’Tis not Christian to be seen like this, not afore the heathen.” She pulls off her rags, revealing pale, sagging buttocks covered in veins and blue blotches. The Indians attempt to suppress their giggles as they chatter to each other in their own language.
    â€œLook at the udders on her; like a nursing buffalo.”
    â€œThey are so pale, like a pike’s belly.”
    â€œPike with hair, you mean; see the thatch on the old one!”
    The wind rattles the stiff hides against the poles, and Rose feels a cold draft wrap around her legs like a snake. There are nowhere near enough furs for all the Europeans and they are forced to share; chilled, naked bodies press against one another in great embarrassment.
    Pushed to the edge of a robe, the skinny feet and legs of an emaciated and filthy girl stick out. Rose opens her blanket and the child mechanically slides over. Pressing her cold, knobby frame against Rose, she immediately falls asleep.
    Rose too needs to sleep, and wishes her father is with her. She curls up on the bed of prickly conifer boughs and wraps her arms around the child, surprised at how cold and hard she is: utterly without animal warmth, like a tree root. A flea bites her, and mechanically she scratches at the place. She wonders where they are and whether it is near the end of their journeying. Her father said something about Red River. Perhaps this is the same place.
    When she closes her eyes, scenes from that night’s horror intrude: screams of the dying, wooden feel of corpses that they pushed past on the trail. The smell of the burning frigate. She clenches her teeth, squeezing her eyes against the tears. Her body shakes.
    Beside her, the Indians stare into their snapping fire