I'll meet you by the broken tree
Prologue 1855
It was the constant queasiness that was unbearable. The little girl knew, if she could finally sick up, the bumping and jumping of the shabby four-wheeled cart would resume its rightful place far in the back of her mind. Oh, at first the steady rumble of the steel-railed wheels on the uneven road had not bothered her so, no, the journey from Saint-Louis to the town they called Omaha had been almost pleasant. But that had been two weeks ago: now far west of Omaha, she could say she hated the jagged landscape with a passion.
"Kid! Hey, kid, I'm talkin' to ya." The mule driver called from the front of the wagon. "Git you' rump up 'ere!"
With a sigh the little girl clenched her teeth and, hanging on for dear life to the sideboards, climbed into the paraphernalia that lay down the length of the vehicle, between the fat little man and herself.
She whimpered when a particularly large rock was rolled over, causing her to lose her precarious grip on a canvas-covered item and roll to the floor, hitting her head in the process. It wasn't the first time the ten year-old was injured since leaving Saint-Louis with the mule driver, and now she knew better then to complain. After a few more collisions with objects ranging from a sturdy wooden table to a finely worked pewter lamp, the slip of a girl climbed onto the driver's bench - more of a plank, really. She readied herself to be sent out to lead the six filthy mules through a particularly difficult portion of the path, that was what she had been hired to do, after all.
"Wha' was it you' folks called you agin, kid?" The driver said after a silence, effectively stunning the wide-eyed child.
After a second, the youth in question announced, wistfully:
"Siobhan."
"Right... foreign name if ol'Hank ever hear' one."
"Irish." She offered, knowing the distinct red tint in her otherwise brown hair, along with her freckled nose, had already given her away.
"Hmph" was the only answer she received, much to her relief. Irish blood was not welcomed everywhere these days: she had learned the lesson painfully enough on a few occasions.
The fat little man muttered for a time and Siobhan began to wonder if this was the only reason he had called for her: the bumps and jerks were much less disturbing at the rear of the cart: she was eager to reclaim her place.
"Mister James?" She inquired, fearful of interrupting his thoughts: they were painfully slow and he did not like being distracted from them, most of the time. She kept her hands far from him, warily eyeing the whip coiled on his lap: there were still pink streaks across her palms from that fourth night west of Saint-Louis, she doubted they would ever disappear.
"Yeah, yeah kid." He never called her by name. She was always 'kid', or at least she was when he was in a good mood. "We'll be reachin' a village soon - well... a town, really, by region standards." her heart leaped: at last! "You' gunna have ta change you' name kid, foreigners, they ain't always best looked upon in these parts." He mumbled something about all of them being foreigners here one way or another, then added, out loud: "Don't git me wrong, sometimes people don' mind 'em, but jus' ta be on the safe side."
"But I don't want any other name." She mumbled her thick accent peeking: Hank James did not take notice: he barely understood her as it was anyway.
"I knew a woman once, an' a fine one at that, yes..."The driver remembered fondly the shapely figure, all those years ago. "If someone asks you, from now on, you' name's Haley, an' you keep it at that! That drawl o' yours would have us thrown out o' some cities I know." Siobhan choked: the man had the nerve to complain about her drawl? "Well? Git over there you lil' chit, can't you see Dolly'll be breaking 'er legs in those ditches if ya don' git you' ass movin'?" He made a move to snatch his whip but Siobhan had already darted down on the ground and was hurrying to catch up with Dolly and Molly, the leading pair.
Coaxing the animals around the holes was easy enough, with a few gentle tugs and the right words murmured in the right ear. The trick she had originally learned from her Da had been meant for horses, but she had found it worked just as well on mules.
Siobhan walked silently beside Patty, the left-hander on the third pair and also the youngest of the group. The sun was sinking in the horizon, blazing a thousand different hues of reds and oranges. She knew Hank would be wanting to set up camp soon. She should have been glad after the long, hot day, but the coolness that was quickly crawling from the east froze her to the soul. Dusk often brought on a longing for home she did not know she could feel until it was upon her.
She did not have many recollections of her homeland, and all she could summon of the moor was a faint odor and what her Ma and Da had been willing to tell her once they had moved to America.
The poster has said there was money enough for thousands here, enough jobs for entire families. The poster had lied.
For five years they had survived, Da, Ma, lil'Pete, the twins and Siobhan by doing a few odd jobs here and there, from city to city. There were already more immigrants then what the manufacturers could hire, and even with Da working everywhere he could and the teenaged duo of Pat and Aidan, two able-bodied lads of 16, engaging in every illegal fight where there was money to be made, there was still a constantly pregnant Ma to feed (there had been three miscarriages in as many years) and three year-old Peter to care for. Consequently, it was not so surprising that Siobhan had quickly learned the art of pocket lifting.
It was five years before Da found a half-decent, steady job. There were staying in Saint-Louis at that time, the horse market was hiring handlers - Da was good with beasts. Unfortunately, the job didn't pay quite enough to feed a pregnant, sickly wife, an infant boy, a growing girl and two full-blown teenagers. Of course, the twins earned enough on their own to provide a small, shabby housing for everyone, but when Hank James offered to take "one o' them kids" on his journey west for the post as a helper - the man was growing weary in his old age - for three months or the duration of the trip there and back again, Da and Ma had jumped on the occasion. Of course, it would have to be Siobhan: Pete was too young, and the twins were earning their keep and more, even if not always legally. Sending Siobhan had been the only solution. Oh, they'd had tears in their eyes when Da lifted her onto the cart, clutching her bundle close to her heaving chest, but in their mind they had already been calculating how much money they would save over the coming months. Strangely, Siobhan did not resent them: so long as lil'Pete stopped weeping from hunger and Da was able buy more coal to keep Ma warm enough to keep her babe, then she was happy. And it wasn't as if this were permanent either: depending on the terrain, they would be back in ten or twelve weeks, Hank James had promised the parents.
And now, a month since Saint-Louis, through roads, paths, and no path at all, they were finally coming to the first agglomeration which the mule driver deemed worthy of the term "town". Yes, it had a nice ring to it: "the town of Tree Hill, middle of nowhere". "Strange name", she had observed, and Hank had specified, proud to appear knowledgeable, that it was a rough translation of the Indian name. She wondered if Indians still dwelled there.
It was high noon when the mail wagon rolled, quite slowly, into the town of Tree Hill, Siobhan leading Dolly and Molly in six inches deep of thick mud, while Hank encouraged his beasts with a few cracks of his whip above their heads (and consequently above Siobhan's) as he sat on the driver's bench.
The little girl had been surprised the intense glare of the sun had not already dried the ground, but Hank had quickly informed her it would remain wet until the end of June - at least - and that was a month from now! Even if it was near the end of May, Siobhan sank well past her ankles in the mixture of earth and animal rejects, making each step that much harder. After slowly progressing on the main street - well, the only street, really - for some time, Hank finally reined in his mules.
"Woah, ladies, woah!" Siobhan did not know if she was included in that, but she leaned gratefully and tiredly against Molly's sturdy shoulder."Start untackin' 'n I'll see the farrier 'bout lending us a couple o' stalls for the night. We'll be sleepin' under a roof tonight, kid!"
He spat a jet of brownish saliva and muttered to himself something about being too old for this sort of adventure. With a final look around the quiet street, he trudged into the large, double-doored building beside which he had halted the cart.
The little girl straightened herself and quickly proceeded to undo the complex harness, walking the placid animals inside - well, almost all placid: Patty, still green and volatile, reared at the first sound that came from the smithy and trotted away quickly before Siobhan could react.
"Well? What are you waitin' for, you little chit! Go 'n git that meatloaf off the middle o' the road!"
Seeing his short but stout form emerge from the barn, Siobhan trudged on her ten-year-old legs to the shivering mule. Murmuring soft, hidden words, the little girl hoisted herself up on the animal's back.
Now, maybe if Patty had not bolted at the stable door, if she had not angered Hank into coming back out, maybe things would have turned out differently. They did not. As it was, Hank was standing on the stable threshold when the band of mad riders appeared at one end of the street. By the time they galloped through the cluster of buildings, Siobhan had pushed Patty to the other side of the road hurriedly and hank had recognized the riders as Pawnees. But when they started firing their guns into the air, Siobhan had to duck deftly behind Patty, catching a glimpse of Hank turning to run for cover. All at once she noticed gun barrels peeking out of several windows, there was a loud metal clang as a bullet bounced off a bucket and a strangled cry rose. A strangled cry, coming from a across the street. Across the street.
Horror struck, Siobhan peeked under Patty's heaving belly - the mule was petrified with fear. The young girl found herself staring numbly at Hanks feet, it was the only thing she could see. Suddenly, her entire universe had been reduced to the scene in front of her: Hank lying there, in six inches deep of mud. Just like that. Already, the thumping hooves and yells were receding, but she didn't hear them. All she could feel, see, was her own heart still beating and the dead form of the man who was to take her home, lying on the side of the only street in the town of Tree Hill, middle of nowhere.
With a whimper she straightened and, forgetting Patty, ran across the street to kneel beside the body of the fat little man. Sure enough, there was a rapidly spreading red stain on his filthy shirt, on the right hand side, directly in his lung. Hank coughed, spurting out blood both from his mouth and wound. The next moment he was dead, drowned in his own blood. Siobhan let out a wail, faint but heartfelt. Distantly she heard footsteps on the matted, dry earth of the stable.
"Oh, Jesus" Someone swore softly: she didn't feel like reprimanding them, for the first time since she had learned what cursing was.
Surprising herself, she felt tears running down her cheeks. Her hand reached tentatively, of its own accord, toward the face of her employer, her guardian. She hadn't known him very well, but she had liked him, she realized. She had liked his gruffness, and the kindness that showed through every one of his insults. She had like that he treated her neither like a little girl or an animal, but simply like ignorant brat - which she was the first to acknowledge she was. Lightly, she touched his eyes and pulled the lids closed with respect as she had seen her Da do, that one time, when they were in New York.
"Now now, lass, this ain't no place for a girl." Said a deep, kind voice behind her. She heard a lighter footstep approaching and a hand little bigger then her own took her wrist away from the dead man's face.
The boy who stood before her watched Siobhan thoughtfully, his clear blue eyes examining her from head to toe. The man behind coughed and murmured something the little girl did not quite catch. The boy nodded without looking back at the man and, still hanging on to her wrist, led her away from the morbid scene.
Once they rounded the building the boy stopped abruptly and turned toward Siobhan.
"Don't worry, uncle Keith will take care of everythin', he's a good man." The tone seemed too serious for the blonde, freckled little boy, it seemed odd.
He glanced away hesitantly then let go of her wrist only to offer his hand.
"The name's Lucas Scott, but everyone calls me Luke."
Siobhan opened her mouth to answer mechanically, but her gaze wandered back to the corner of the house: she could still see Hank James' lifeless feet.
"I'm Haley." She would've left it at that, but the blonde arched an inquisitive eyebrow. Another glance at the weathered boots before they were covered by a thrown blanket. "My name's Haley James, pleased to meet you." She tried to keep the drawl out of her voice.
A/N: This is it for the prologue folks, I know it was pretty short, and I promise the actual chapters will be longer. Also, I'm going to try and really stay with the OTH characters personality wise and throw them into the civil war era, just to see where they'll take themselves. There's just one minor problem with that scenario: Peyton is really too modern to undergo the same treatment so I don't think she'll be making an appearance. Brooke might have a line or two though. Another note: Siobhan would be pronounced something like "shi-VAWN". So until next time, so long!
J.D. Lawrence