The words that follow are from the “next to last blog” (Faith in a Word) that I posted on “The New Residencia, and they are here for your convenience, to remind you of where you “left off” at.
If, by chance, you’ve not been following this story then you might need to read the entire blog, and maybe the one or two before. Man, that’s a lot of reading, but, as they say, if it’s worth it, ……
ice
-----From -----“Faith in a Word”------
“Tell me, I said, aloud, about the woman named Jackie, who was traveling alone, and who everyone loved.”
“You want to know about her because of her name, right?”
“Yes, I said, I find it odd that a woman in 1846 had such a modern sounding name, although I realize it’s short for Jacqueline.”
It’s also a slang form of Jack or John, which in this case - was exactly what it was, for Jackie was actually posing as a man who was known as John Duncan.
Go on I thought.
And he did…..
Jackie was a beautiful lady of 40 something, I never knew her exact age, but she was posing as a man, in his forties, and she was an expert with make-up and clothes. Nobody but a few had a clue she was anything other than what she projected. Many of us figured that she had come from the stage or somewhere similar; in any event, her disguise as I said was excellent.
She was on the run from somebody, I never knew exactly, but it was obvious she was running from instead of to. But I know the reason she was running.
Pausing for a drink, Leo looked into the darkness, and another match came alive in his hand; lighting his cigarette he looked at me and said, aloud, “she was an alchemist.”
…the nowhere man…
Her name was Jackie, and “most” knew her as a man, but a few, me included, knew her as a woman of exquisite beauty, and exceptional abilities, which was two of the reasons she was on the run. Others wanted her for themselves, wanted to hold the fire, breathe it, use it, ….and extinguish it.
As we head down that trail, the same one as before, I can still remember thinking how lucky I was to be “there.” In that time, in that place, with that woman, breathing the same air as she.
It’s easy to place myself in that time, walking slowly beside the wagon I’d bought and fixed up for the trip. The dusty, distinctive smell of the canvas, the stench of the droppings of the oxen, and the fear lurking; never far from my conscious mind.
Looking at the wagon I recalled how I’d stretched, and fought that old canvas, over at Pete’s livery stable, pulling and tugging it over the “hoop-shaped slats,” finally cussing so much that Pete quit what he was doing to help me.
I’d waterproofed the canvas by rubbing linseed oil into it, and I remember how it made my hands feel; I could literally feel the strength transferring into my pores as I massaged the coarse fabric.
The canvas was a permanent brown from age, and the dirt that had been burned into it from the sun. Its many sewn up scars gave it the appearance of a bandaged, moving blob of dirt, but, now, as I walked beside the wagon, I was proud of it, proud of myself for getting this far, and I was looking forward to California, the land of dreams.
And yet, you must understand how desperate it was; we’d just come through the spring rains, fighting"tooth and nail" the mud and slime they brought, knowing all along we were losing valuable time sloughing through the crap; for summer would not last long, maybe not even through August, and we had to get through the pass before the snows. There was already talk of a “short-cut.”
Now… as I walk over the uneven earth, wishing I’d worn my other boots, and talking to you, my mind is abuzz, thoughts are settling, a plan forming, and yes, I know you’re here with me, just as she is, just as they all are.
In the air, I smell the sweat and the stench once again, and feel a breath of winter, which is patiently awaiting the passage of summer.
As a shiver runs up my back, to my neck...
I begin to whistle.
