To the Bright Edge of the World

by Eowyn Ivey

Now I find him quiet, somber, on edge. He is prone to sitting alone, sketching in his notebook. Does my memory fail me, or have these short years changed him?

At least I sent him with my letter. I had little time to compose it, but may my words remind him of my love and allow him to feel the touch of home.

it is one thing to send out the laundry, but I am perfectly capable of cooking meals and keeping a house. (What would Mother think, to know that even with no husband or children to care for, I am being afforded a housemaid!) But now that my tasks are restricted, and I no longer have Allen’s assistance, I suppose it is unavoidable.

my queer nature, staring at little birds for hours on end. “With field glasses, and those clothes! You look positively the vagrant in that floppy hat. Where on earth do you traipse off to? Even in the rain and wind! And now to catch you sweeping before the help comes. At least you aren’t like the others. So dreadfully predictable! It is what they want of us, though, isn’t it? A good woman is predictable, and seeks out a predictable life. They would have us kept safe and quiet and insipid.”

I could have remained there for hours, studying the fragile curve of egg-shell and the intricate weave of thistle down and spider silk. But I heard a muffled groan, and I knew my weight and the hard heels of my boots were taking their toll after all. “No, no,” you insisted. “I’m perfectly fine. Look as long as you want.” I stepped to the forest floor and looked down into your kind eyes. Never before had I felt such wonder and magnitude—I told you I wanted to see a humming bird nest, and you heard me, not just my words, but my longing.

The shades of the ice hypnotize—Tillman & I stood beside each other, stared, speechless for some time. Even from this opposite shore of the river, a man is pulled into the blue of the deepest fissures. Within are the hues of cold itself. The sight chills me, yet I thirst for more. I wish Sophie could see it.

Samuelson asked why he didn’t travel downriver before now. Boyd’s answer was cryptic. —She wouldn’t leave. She said she’d already come down too far out of the mountains. When asked of whom he was speaking, Boyd said that he has a wife, that while there was no preacher to do the work, they are married before God all the same. —I never would leave a wife, he said. Samuelson became impatient, demanded to know who he was talking about. I advised we should get food in him as his thinking may be clouded by hunger.

—Two days ago she left me. God help me, but I was too weak to follow her. Now she’s gone. She told me she’s going over the mountains somewhere I can’t ever find her. What she said is crazy, that she & the fog are one & the same, that there can’t be one without the other. She says she leaves me because she loves me, that I’ll be better off. I don’t see that she can be right.

You lose your head over a woman so you nearly kill yourself? I’d have thought better of you.

He wept like a child at his kitchen table. I was grateful to have this journal to take my ey...

In our haste we all missed our targets. We were left with only Tillman’s kill. As we approached the dead caribou, we were pleased to see that the Indians had downed one nearby as well. We had meat!

bits of meat to their open beaks. Tillman asked why they threw scraps to the birds. —They’re saying their thanks, Samuelson said.

—Let me ask you this. How did our Colonel first spot the herd? I recalled the camp robber that squawked outside the cabin. —Not the first time, the trapper said.—Not by a long shot.

I once thought to kill myself so that I would no longer wander through a fog such as this. How could it be any greater crime than that which I have already faced, committed, failed to undo? Yet I am a coward. I have written the truth on this page. Cowardice, sickly yellow thing, I found you like worms writhing beneath an overturned rock—I peeled back my self and beheld you at my core where a shining soul should have been.

Charlotte, however, put quick work to filling the barrels and jugs. She is much stronger than she appears. I am embarrassed by how little I can do, and so earlier in the week confessed to Charlotte my condition and apologized for requiring her to do nearly everything. At times I wonder if she isn’t a little slow, for she only stared at me and said nothing.

“Oh yes, Mrs Forrester is very tired, and we must all know what that means!” and gave her affected giggle. Everyone laughed, though they had no idea why, and I blushed furiously. What could they take from those words!

Why do I find it impossible to speak my mind in these instances? I am always hopeful that I have misheard or misunderstood, and then I am held by anger and indecision—if I say anything at all, I fear a torrent of emotion will burst forth that will cause embarrassment.

I cannot understand how a woman so bright and engaging can express such ignorance. It makes our friendship a challenge.

Why do we insist on inflicting more suffering on a world that is already fraught with it?

They set themselves down in my sitting room and commenced to telling me every dull and horrifying consideration of child bearing and child rearing, as if they did me favor to counter my vast inexperience. Oh, I wish I possessed more gratitude and patience. I know they are well intentioned, but I detest being told that I will surely feel this way or that I must always or never do such-and-such or suffer the consequences.

There was something diminishing about the conversation, too, as if suddenly we had become only, collectively, and forever Mothers, with no room for an entire individual. I would have much rather heard about Mrs Whithers’ efforts to learn how to play the flute, or Mrs Burton’s recent trip to San Francisco. Did she see the traveling opera production as she had hoped?

Some of these poor women are asked to account for every minute of the day and are reprimanded if it is not spent as their husbands see fit. If they turn their time to embroidery and gossip, they are condemned as frivolous. If they attempt to organize a literature club or a discussion of women having the vote, they are mocked for taking themselves too seriously. Mrs Whithers is not even allowed to choose the fabric for her own dresses. She says she is not bothered by it, as her husband has suitable taste.

Samuelson said she disobeyed her family to run off with that otter husband of hers.

The notion that ravens are harbingers of death! I

I was so glad, and was beginning to walk toward it, when that raven—the one with the deformed leg that has been frequenting the yard—swooped in and landed just a few feet from the comb.

It flew toward a stand of trees, and I thought for a moment it might land on a branch and somehow drop the comb. Instead, the raven kept to the air, flew over the tops of the trees, and continued on his way. Flew away! With my lovely comb!

As is my wont, I have been dedicated to my personal diary. I hope you have been as well. I long for the evenings when we can read them aloud to each other & share our days.

There you were: lovely, brave, & oblivious to me. I think it only served to kindle my affection.

Be sure that the Connors’ girl takes good care of you. Sleep late, eat as much butter as you desire, please do not climb any trees, stay well & know that I think of you each & every day.

<3

Your adoring husband, Allen PS Know that my love is steadfast. I march back home to you.

Beautiful and hopeful

We soon came to understand that the Old Man joined the Indians as they set south downriver. The scoundrel told them that we were trying to steal the very light of dawn, that we had hidden it in the crate to take back to our own land so we could have two suns. He prodded them to open it & release the light. Skilly says he tried to stop them, but they found the glass plates &, perhaps thinking they were contraptions for catching light, stripped them from the protective covers. Skilly demonstrated how they held each up to the sky to inspect them & to shake out any remnants of dawn. Pruitt was near apoplectic. He is certain all the photographs are ruined. I worry, too, for my letter to Sophie.

But with the box containing the sun he was more careful.… That was finally given to him, with the strict injunction to not open it. But, turning himself into a raven, he flew away with it, and, on opening the box, light shone on the earth as it does now. But the people, astonished by the unwonted glare, ran off into the mountains, woods, and even into the water, becoming animals or fish.

Right now, for example, I’m wondering how on earth you could end up with your great-aunt’s hair comb as one of the artifacts if it was plucked up by a raven and lost in Vancouver in 1885.

Why do you think he left out so much? In the report he sent back to Vancouver Barracks, the only mention of the man named Boyd is of his cabin, and the Colonel states that they slept there for several days. There’s nothing about the man’s wife or the fog or the caribou. Never once does he mention the “Old Man” in his reports. Since you are so familiar with these papers, I’m curious to know what you think.

Victorian Silver Hair Comb. Allen Forrester Collection. Circa 1880.

Our sleds for the first time worked as intended & glided as if weightless.

For the first time since she joined us, I saw her smile.

Samuelson led. The dog, for once, brought up the rear. Tillman said he did not like the way the animal hesitated to follow, as if it knew more than us. No one spoke after that.

We’re like mice scurrying into a cat’s maw, he said.

None of us noticed when the dog first became separated from our group. There was a sudden, sharp bark & we all stopped to look behind. The animal was several hundred yards downriver & against the far canyon wall. We could see its quandary—the animal was separated from us by a large fracture in the ice that began farther downriver than we could see.

—Boyo, she said, pointed towards the dog. I stepped forward to take her arm. Her look was quick & alarmed, then angry. But she did as told & walked with us back to join the others. We explained what had happened, that we had lost the dog, but I had ordered the girl to remain with us.

Omg!

At first gray light, we found that the river was still frozen. The Indian woman was gone. —Wondered if she might take off like that, Samuelson said. —She’s gone for Boyo, Tillman said.

There was no way to have known we were so near, but Tillman will not forgive me for making us sleep in that canyon. Less than a quarter mile ahead, beyond the next turn in the river, we came to the end.

It had taken us 1 day & 1 hour to pass through the canyon. I am much relieved. From first contemplating this expedition, I believed this to be our most significant obstacle. The canyon stopped Haigh, & many of the Russians before him, if only because they falsely believed they could navigate its open waters. Only over ice can it be traveled. Even then it is no easy chore.

An impressive sight. From here to Alaska’s coast, the Wolverine is a deluge of floating ice blocks, slush, roiling water. —Nattie! Tillman ran past us, shouting. It struck us all then. The woman & the dog were somewhere down in the canyon.

As for us, for good or ill, our entrance is sealed. Until now, we might have turned back, gone home the same way we came. No longer. We now belong to the Wolverine.

Do they have to stay until nxt winter?

I can’t tell you what a kick I got out of the photograph of the canyon that you sent. I have it up on my refrigerator, and I like to see it every morning when I go to get the orange juice. It’s hard for me to imagine what it must be like to step out your door and into that country every day.

So different. Pics dont do justice

I should have thought some of that over better when I was laying out my life. But I suppose that’s always going to be the case.

All too quickly Harry landed in a hospital bed with battlefield injuries. He lost both his right arm and right leg. No antibiotics or much for anesthesia back then—they must have knocked him out with chloroform right in the field, sawed off the bloody limbs, and hoped for the best. Tough to imagine how he survived. He was the oldest of the brothers, and from the letters I’ve read, I think he was the one expected to do great things in the army. Instead that fell to the Colonel.

Sounds a little gay

One time, though, I watched a raven snatch up a baby rabbit, carry it off into a nearby field, and rip it to shreds. It changed the way I see those birds. They are crueler than you might suppose, or maybe not cruel so much as self-serving.