Free Crossing Purgatory by Gary Schanbacher Page A

retrieved a blanket and draped it around her shoulders. She had not moved. He rested against the wagon wheel where he could keep an eye on Hanna and hear Joseph should he call out.
    What course now? He could not bear the thought of returning them to Cottonwood Creek in this condition. Who would minister to them? He could reunite with Upperdine’s party, but what then? He could not form complete thoughts, could not formulate a plan. His legs twitched, he ached to be up and moving. A part of him wanted nothing to do with this responsibility. He’d stayed behind with the Lights to lend a hand, to keep watch. And he’d failed. A part of him wanted to walk out of camp, off into the darkness, and to be done with it. He hated that part of himself.
    Night deepened and he fought to stay awake. He feared sleep, but the day had exhausted him, and eventually his eyes closed against his will and his awareness dimmed. Somewhere out beyond, he heard the sound of prairie beasts, snarls and yips, a deep growl, and he hoped they had found the wounded stranger who had caused this pain.

7
    I n his dreams, the skeletons returned, the rattling of bones. From the horde rose up a monotone lamentation.
    â€œTell us. Tell us.”
    â€œTell you what?” Thompson demanded.
    â€œYou know,” the reply.
    â€œWhy do you persist?”
    â€œYou know,” the reply.
    â€œWhy can’t you leave me in peace?”
    â€œYou know,” the reply. “Tell us.”
    â€œThe children,” Thompson said.
    â€œYes. The children. Go on.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œGo on, go on.”
    â€œThe children. I knew. I knew. I knew.”
    T HOMPSON ’ S EYES SPRANG OPEN . N OT even in his dreams had he confessed before. Not in dream, nor in prayerful confession, nor during waking hours. Yet the truth now opened his memory, laid bare his transgression. Raw, ugly like a rotting carcass.
    He’d checked his boys that morning before starting off for his father’s estate, first Matthew and then Daniel. Their foreheads burned. Cheeks flushed. Daniel had stirred, had reached for him, but Thompson settled him onto his mat without picking him up. Without an embrace. He’d debated at the threshold, stay or go, a moment only, and then departed. Rachel would look after them. He needed funds. He wanted the land.
    What must it have been like for Rachel? To sicken, to witness fever overcome her children, too weak to nurse. Those moments, those slow fading days, did she know? The sinking, the aching and fever and then a moment, perhaps, of clarity? The thin veil between here and there, had she seen through it, passed back and forth until the question finally resolved itself? He recognized something of her travels in her eyes that last day, but the haunted whole of it he could only imagine.
    Thompson stood. Dream world or real? Muzzy, he walked to the water pail and splashed his face. The muted light, a dim and mysterious world. A suggestion of form, a hint of substance, but indistinct. He fought to relegate his dark epiphany to the realm of drifting and unreliable imagination. This was real, this new day on the open plains. But truth stood firm, did not retreat. The world took shape, shadows solidified into wagon and firestone, but the truth remained before him, ox-like, stubborn, massive, and accusing.
    Thompson took up the dipper and filled it, drank, and looked about. A clear dawn, high sky, and free of clouds. The animals docile in the pasture. The camp orderly. On the ground, her discarded blanket.
    â€œHanna,” he called, his voice strident, causing the animals to raise their heads as if sniffing for danger. He scanned the riverbank, the pasture, the hill. There. On the hill. Digging. He called to her but she gave no indication of hearing. Running past the wagon, Thompson glanced in and found Joseph sleeping, and he ran on, pleading, “Hanna, no.” He approached her and slowed, sucking for breath. She