Chapter Six

Slivers of pale-peach sky, glistening beneath wide streaks of mauve and magenta, signaled the beginning of another lonely day for Belle. Watching the gorgeous sunrise, she sat on a flat rock along the creek bank. Lush, green moss carpeted small rocks near the clear water, creating the illusion of a small oasis in the last days of a dry, Texas summer. Savoring the coolness of the dawn and breathing in the fresh air, Belle embraced her knees as close to her chest as her advancing pregnancy allowed.

“I must decide today,” she said to a green bullfrog, lazing on a rock near her feet. He looked up at her with shiny, black eyes as though he were listening.

“I must, I must.”

The frog remained stationary except for the sides of his throat moving in and out at perfectly-timed intervals.

“I can’t really go home.” Belle gestured to the frog with her hand as if he were an audience of many. With sadness in her voice, she echoed her thoughts from many a sleepless night, “There is no home.”

After reflecting a few moments, she sighed and patted her firm and slightly-protruding abdomen, feeling the first fluttering of movement. “You little butterfly, you’re not very big yet, but you are in there, aren’t you?” she asked her unborn child. “I have to stay because of you. I have to survive for you.” She winked at the bullfrog and watched him jump into the translucent water.

Now, with the major decision reached, Belle felt the weight lifted from her shoulders. In her youthful innocence, she neglected the severity of her decision and skipped back to the dugout while golden rays spilled over the horizon.

Inside her earthen home, she grasped a berry pouch from its wooden peg and scampered off to pick berries. Afraid of wild animals and Indians, she entered a thicket with caution. “Afraid of anything that moves,” she whispered, advancing farther until the thicket engulfed her.

She spotted an abundance of berry-sized fruit and wove her way through the mass of vines and bushes. Plucking a handful of the dark morsels, she studied them.

“Oh, you’re not berries. You’re grapes.” She placed one in her mouth and lolled it around on her tongue before biting into it and tasting its tangy juice. Possum grapes. Oh, I’m so excited to find something wild to eat. I can’t wait to get my pouch full.

Conjuring up visions of iridescent grape jelly, thick grape jam, and delicious cobbler with flaky crust encouraged Belle to pick possum grapes with relish. Intent on filling her berry pouch, she stood in the natural arbor, motionless except for the gentle picking movements of her hands.

Just as the tinge of royal purple on her fingertips and a tug of the muslin strap around her neck conveyed the message to Belle to stop picking, a twig snapped. She froze, afraid to even breathe. The sound echoed in the early-morning stillness. Two black eyes, from deeper in the thicket, stared at her.

Belle peered into the haze to see if the eyes belonged to an animal or a person. Not that it matters. I’m going to run just as soon as I can make my legs move. Her entire body seemed cast in stone. Squinting and straining to see better, she discovered a small, brown face. When she blinked, it disappeared.

Belle turned away and ran toward the clearing. Vines and briars pulled at her clothes, slowing her progress, making her more frightened than ever. Her rapid heartbeat thundered in her ears, and her lungs seemed to have climbed up and lodged in her throat, but she ran as fast as she could. With the clearing in sight, she looked behind her. No one’s following. If only I can make it to the dugout.

She stumbled over a rock and screamed, the sound to her like something far away and in slow motion. She felt her body tumbling over and over in the lush grass of the clearing before everything went smoky black.

The warm, tantalizing sun of morning streamed down on Belle’s face, making her eyes squint. She started to move, but the pain in her head reminded her of the fall. She placed her hands on her firm, rounded abdomen. “Are you all right in there, little babe?”

Subtle movements within reassured her until the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck stiffened. I feel like I’m being watched. Peering about, she saw and heard no one.

“That infernal silence again,” she swore under her breath. Although she enjoyed solitude, too much silence frightened her. She sat up and glanced around, still seeing no one. When she tried to rise, excruciating pain shot through her ankle, pain so severe it took her breath away for a moment.

“Must have twisted it,” she whispered in short breaths. Trying not to cry out with pain and realizing her ankle couldn’t bear her weight, she panicked. Her whisperings became louder. “What am I to do?” She cast an anxious look toward the dugout. Unsure if she could crawl that far, she felt helpless and scared.

Belle sat at the far edge of the clearing, in pain but not alone. Someone is out here. I’m still being watched. Angry Wolf, the ugly brave, came to mind. She began to weep, hoping no one would hear her. “I’m trying to be responsible and fearless,” she whispered through salty tears. “But I’m frightened out of my wits.”

Still sniffling, she noticed movement to her left and strained to see while swallowing a huge lump that welled in her throat. She stifled a scream when a human form emerged from behind a boulder. Feeling every muscle in her body constrict, Belle felt like a snake recoiling as the brown form advanced toward her. A small Indian woman, a very pretty one with eyes like onyx, came closer.

Belle shrank back, having heard stories about Indian women who were more ruthless than their men when it came to torture. Even though Belle was frightened, she clenched her fists into tight balls, the only defense she possessed.

The Indian woman pointed to Belle’s foot and displayed her hands in front of her, palms open to show she had no weapon. The tinge of royal purple on her fingertips matched Belle’s.

She must have been picking the same possum grapes as I. Belle opened her fists and looked down at her own purple fingers. She must have been the face I saw in the thicket.

Remembering how cautious the Indian woman’s approach had been, Belle had the feeling this woman may be as frightened as she. Belle winced as the woman, with care and skill, removed the footwear from the injured ankle. With gentle hands, the woman inspected and rotated the ankle area, then applied pressure on the sole, walking her thumb back and forth for a few minutes. She replaced Belle’s footwear and helped her stand.

Belle was hesitant to place any weight on the injured foot although the woman offered her shoulder for support. With the woman’s help and constant smiles of encouragement, Belle hobbled to the dugout and all but collapsed on the bed.

The woman massaged Belle’s foot and wrapped it with strips of muslin she found lying on the rocking chair, part of Belle’s quilting scraps. Then she disappeared for a few minutes but returned with Belle’s full, berry pouch.

“Thank you,” Belle said.

The woman wore a puzzled look until Belle smiled at her. She smiled in return.

Belle pointed to her chest. “My name is Belle.” She tapped her chest. “Belle,” she repeated.

The woman nodded. “Belle,” she said in a timid voice. She pointed to her own chest. “Ehawee.”

Belle didn’t understand the strange word but tried to repeat it.

The woman laughed a soft, melodious laugh, one of the sweetest sounds Belle had ever heard.