A cold frail hand grips my warm supple hand. I give my dying mother a reassuring squeeze. She is the only soul I have left in this world. There is a father but he abandoned us. Mother clings to my hand like she clings to the idea that father will walk through the door at any second. Her congested cough touches my soul. I need her. I need to tell her that.
"Mother, dear. It's Ruth. Your daughter. I'm here. I haven't left."
I reassure her that everything is going to be okay. One of us has to be strong. Though I have been told I resemble an angelic porcelain doll that could shatter, my spirit perseveres.
"Child, has Nathaniel come home? It has been nearly a fort night since he left," my mother managed to say in a ragged breath.
Mother suffers from delirium due to the raging fever. I am aware of her death that looms over us. I am aware of the peril of being so near a contagious woman with consumption. But, you see, she isn't just any woman. She is my mother. She is on her deathbed at the Mission in Council Bluffs. Delirium confused her overtaxed mind.
I reply, "Papa has been gone for years. That's why he left us at the Mission."
A light of memory flickers in Mother's eyes like the flickering candle that barely illuminates our pale faces.
A paroxysm of coughs consumes her entire being. She hacks up blood into a rag. Instinctively, I release her hand, knowing the end is near. Knowing I would no longer have anyone once she perishes from God's green earth. Mother sits up. Sweat beads her weary face. She looks like me: hazel eyes and angelic face except her curly strawberry blonde hair is greying. And her cherubic face is now ashen. Mother once was beautiful. Now, she is haggard.
"Your father is on a great mission," Mother says, swallowing, "A mission to ... " Another fit of coughing distracts her.
As a small girl, I heard whispered tales from family friends and relatives late at night (when the grown-ups thought I was sleeping) about my father's mission. The real mission was John Brown's. Mother never spoke of Papa's involvement with a band of murderers in Bleeding Kansas. She was ashamed of his activities and despised his broadsword that reeked of death. Distressing memories remind me when Papa took that broadsword and left us in the middle of the night. It was shocking to learn as I got older, that my own father was entrenched in John Brown's doctrine and heavily involved in those massacres.
The man who refused to give my mother and I a single drop of love, convinced himself that he had a higher purpose. A mission to hack slaveholders to bits. He crowed to mother in a drunken rage that he showed no mercy to the slaveholding swine. "An eye for an eye," he bellowed. Mother tried to take his bottle away. A swift slap met her face. She sunk to the ground, bursting into tears. I have little memories of father except the times when he drank the corn likker late into dawn, awakening mother and beating her. They would have screaming matches like this. Frightened, I hid under the crude wooden plank that served as my bed, squeezing my eyes shut, praying to Jesus to make all the bad in the world go away. Watching Mother suffer at the hands of Papa's beatings was too much for a little girl to bear. The savagery of his actions still resonates in my mind today.
Clearly, Papa loved the extreme abolitionist movement more than his own family. When war erupted between the states, Papa left for good. I was but a girl when he rode off on horseback, tilting his hat at Mother, galloping off into the full moonlit night. In a letter penned by him, we learned that he joined up with the Jayhawkers to fight those rebellious Bushwhackers. After the second sacking of Lawrence, Papa insisted in his last letter to Mother, that we relocate to Council Bluffs. We did just that, leaving our home on the Marais des Cygnes for Iowa.
The Mission is were I presently am, watching Mother die before my eyes. Papa never came back to get us despite Mother clinging on to the hope that he would come back. Abandoned, Mother and I only have each other but soon, I will have no one. That other mission of Father's was what my mother started to say before her coughing fit.
"A mission to do what, Mother?" I ask gently, putting a cool damp cloth on her head.
Coming out of her delirium, she replies, "To convert the inferiors, my child. That is his calling." Another coughing spell consumes her. I rub her back soothingly.
My mind races. Inferiors means wild Indians. Had Papa finally put down the sword and found a new cause? Had he written to Mother about this?
"You are to join your father, my sweet Ruth, when I have come home to the Lord," she insists.
"No. That is nonsense. You will mend. I am taking care of you."
A beatific smile etches her cracked lips as her eyes glaze. Silent tears stream my cheeks. At this very moment, Mother peacefully comes home to the Lord right in front of my hazel brown eyes.
Several hours later, I am standing here, listening to a choir sing a dirge. Due to Mother's contagious state, benevolent men at the Mission bury Mother. I watch a crude wooden coffin sink into the earth. Mounds of dirt fall on the coffin. Tears well in my eyes. Father needs to know about her passing. I am that someone to tell him. At Mary Cole's (my dearly departed mother) graveside in the early morning, a kind-hearted, brown bearded Reverend, Peter Masterson, reads scripture while I weep. I kneel beside the mound of dirt, putting a white rose on it. It's unfair that she left. We needed each other. Turning to leave, the Reverend escorts me, offering his arm for support. Stumbling, I take it.
Reverend Masterson asks, "Are you an orphan, Miss Ruth?"
I shook my head, tasting salty tears. Swallowing, I say, "I have a father. He is a minister like yourself."
"The Mission has an obligation to send you to your father. Where is his church? Kansas?"
"I don't know. Somewhere out west. Frankly, I know nothing of his whereabouts. He abandoned mother and I for the war."
Placing a strong hand on my shoulder, Reverend Masterson says reassuringly, "I will locate your father. In this time of sorrow, you need the support of your family."
I feign a smile. The heavens open up, dumping a relentless rain that soddens my black mourning dress. Soon after, it rains for days and days while I wait for word about Father.
At the weeks end, Reverend Masterson finds me in the girls' quarters at the Mission.
"Miss Ruth," He informs me, "I have discovered your father, Reverend Cole, is ministering to the railroad workers of the Union Pacific."
"Then I shall go."
The Reverend admonishes me, "This is no place for women folk, missy. If your father had a church, I would have no qualms escorting you to him. I forbid you to go."
I give a complaisant nod. For the remainder of the day, I fight back tears and the naughty urge to defy Reverend Masterson's orders. That night, I go to bed with the other girls. Not able to stand it any longer, I make up my mind. I wait a long time before everyone is sound asleep. Creeping out of bed, I hurry into my undergarments (chemise, corset, hoop skirt, and petticoat) and pull my black bow-tie dress over top my head. I grab my black bonnet with the red plaid ribbons, gloves, and my wool cape.
"Goodbye, Mother," I whisper dolefully.
When daylight breaks, I leave Council Bluffs, bereft from the sudden void in my life. It is unfair that the only person who loved me in the world left so soon. Looking at the sky, I pray to the Heavenly Father that Papa will be overcome with joy after years a part from his only child. Despite my father's flaws, I miss him and am certain he misses me. I leave Council Bluffs on the train bereft but I leave with a thread of hope that I will find my father, reunite with him, and have a family again. Any questions asked why I am traveling alone, I will reply that the Mission sent me.
*Note* This concludes the end of the first chapter. I made the decision to tell the story in the present tense which I thought would be an interesting concept. I only used the past tense with flashbacks and will try to use this sparingly in further chapters. Formatting issued resolved! I ship JBM and Ruth and hope they get back together in Season 4. I hope to see more JBM fanfics out there!
*Extra* There was not enough room to fit my entire blurb, so here it is in its entirety:
Ever wonder what led up to Joseph Black Moon and Ruth Cole forming a friendship that transformed into a sweet love story that captivated fans in Season 1? Two Worlds Collide fleshes out these poignant stories of a curious Cheyenne warrior turned Christian struggling with his identity, Joseph Black Moon, and a preacher's daughter whose innocence shatters in her unraveling world, Ruth Cole, told with the backdrop of the grungy, nomadic, dangerous town of Hell on Wheels. I do not own this story nor the characters. Reviews are welcome.