"Music is the divine way to tell beautiful, poetic things to the heart."—Pablo Casals
Andy steps down from the wagon, a grave expression on his face. Hearing the wood creak, Lulu looks up from the fire, eyes brimming with questions. He shakes his head.
"He's no better. The fever still seems as high as ever, and he hasn't regained consciousness." He sits down on the log opposite her, kicking a stone dangerously near to the flames. "The worst part is that there isn't anything else we can do for him. Except wait and watch."
She silently examines the man. She's never seen him so disheveled, what with his unshaven face and crooked suspenders.
And despite his totally deadpan voice, there seems to be an embedded pain, of sorts, tugging his whole demeanor in a precariously emotional direction.
"But he's not the only thing on your mind." She says pointedly.
The question hangs in the air for a long while with no reply, seemingly lost to wind. But he does finally grace it with an answer, prefaced by a deep, mournful breath.
"I'm worried about Betsy. She hasn't left his side since it happened." He looks up with clouded eyes. "It's hurting her. She hasn't gotten a wink of sleep, and she's not eating."
Here he pauses, cautious, as if to put off words he doesn't want to say. After a moment he proceeds in a hushed tone. "I…I don't think she can last another night. She's liable to make herself sick if she stays in there much longer like that. But she says she won't leave until there's someone to take over. And she won't let that person be me."
"Why?"
"Oh, something about nursing being woman's work. Hardly historically accurate reasoning." He grits his teeth. "I just don't understand her. Most of the time she has a perfectly good head on her shoulders, but when someone else gets sick, she risks life and limb…"
Lulu places a hand on his shoulder to silence him.
Andy sometimes has a hard time admitting that he has a chink in his armor, but she knows he's always had a soft spot concerning the schoolteacher among them.
"Andy…look, if it's going to get your so worked up, I'll take over tonight."
The words tumble out of her mouth in a selfless moment, before she can stop them, before her mind remembers to register the fact that she loathes sickbeds and anything connected with them.
Especially the waiting.
But the everlastingly grateful look on his face tells her that there's no backing out.
"What time?" she inquires quietly, attempting to work an enthusiastic strain into her voice.
He fishes his watch out of his pocket, studying the hands contemplatively.
"Eight o'clock tonight should work. We're done with supper by then, and things'll be quieting down."
"Alright. Any special instructions?"
"No. Just…wait and watch."
A silence—contented for him, uncomfortable for her—falls between them, punctuated only by the quiet bird calls that have sounded all afternoon. She knows if she were Betsy, and this were just a normal day, Andy would be naming them off one by one in his own variety of serenade.
But she's not Betsy, and this is far from being a normal day.
"So," he asks gently, jolting her out of her musing, "how's your hand?"
Lulu ruefully looks down at the bandage on her bacon greased palm.
"I wish it were worse. Things wouldn't seem so strange."
He glances at the stagecoach window. "They certainly wouldn't."
She casts a glance at the sky, piercing blue for the past two days. But now a sick feeling wells up at what she sees.
"Those rainclouds?" She points, and he looks up.
"Yeah. We'd better get the camp packed up. I think it's gonna pour."
###
In concordance with Andy's prediction, it does pour, but thanks to a rare canopy of trees surrounding the area, camp is, for the most part, unscathed. At eight o'clock only a bit of water drips through the leaves as she proceeds to the wagon.
Andy is waiting for her at the back, one of Betsy's arms listlessly looped through his. She's pale, paler than Lulu expected, but she supposes she shouldn't be surprised—the last few days must have taken a tremendous toll on her.
"See, Betsy? I told you I had a replacement lined up." Andy smiles in the direction of the brunette as he gently begins to lead her away. But she turns back abruptly.
"Lulu, if you don't…I mean, I'd never forgive myself if…"
Lulu realizes that her friend is working hard to find the words that will prevent her from going in. She's trying to give her a final opportunity to retreat.
But, looking at Andy's face, she knows she can't take it.
She waves a hand. "Aw, shoot, Betsy. He ain't contagious, is he? You go with Andy an' have some fun. You deserve it." She winks, and, without waiting for a response, gracefully pulls herself up into the wagon.
She hasn't been in here since that horrible first night, when every surface was splattered with blood and she and Betsy were frantically dressing wounds by precious lantern light. They both sat with him that night, while the others paced worriedly outside, unable to sleep through the deafening drumrolls of their fast beating hearts.
The blood has since been patiently sponged away from the canvas and wood, leaving only pale shapes where it refused removal. Her eyes sharply take in the chair Betsy set up at the head of his sickbed—she opts to sit Indian style next to it instead.
She looks at the perspiring man beside her, unconscious, unaware, and sighs.
"Look Cal, I'm not so good at these night long bedside vigils. Never have been. That's Betsy's line, but Andy and I figured she could use a break tonight. I don't see the point o' 'em, really—vigils, that is. I mean, if a body's gonna die, it's gonna die, no two ways about it. So why do you need someone to watch 'em every minute if…"
Something inside her twinges at the beginnings of that last remark, and she bites her tongue.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Cal. I do have a big mouth, don't I? That must have sounded downright awful. But you know this is the third day you've been out? Was nice weather yesterday an' the day before. You once told me you love skies as blue as cornflowers? Well, that's what these were. Even bluer, maybe. But tonight it's raining. Now don't go worrying, we're all safe and dry. You already had us in a good place before it happened—thanks for that."
She reaches out to smooth the corner of his blanket, and her voice takes on a tender tone.
"You'd be real proud o' Andy…and Dusty. They're keepin' us together, just like you would. It's funny though, it's not as if…well…" her voice drops to a whisper, "I think they're losin' hope, Cal. They don't want me, or Betsy, or the Brookhavens to realize it, but they're doing a rotten job at covering up. It's all over their faces. I mean, Dusty always has been crummy at hiding his feelings, and Andy couldn't lie to save the world…" At that the start of a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth, but her face soon becomes stoic.
"Andy can take care of 'imself, I reckon. But I'm worried 'bout Dusty, Cal. He…well, he ain't bein' Dusty. He hasn't asked one dumb question since it happened. Not to mention that he only had two disasters this morning—just burned my hand and smashed in the stage's window. That's it. And last night I was watching him shufflin' through camp, real quiet like, staring at his feet. He didn't trip over a thing. And I just wanted to run over and wring 'is neck. Shout 'Where'd you put Dusty? You ain't him!' I'd think he'd get more clumsy without you 'round to keep him in check. But he ain't. I jus' don't get it. And if he stays like this? I don't reckon I could stand it. I mean, let's face it: Dusty will be Dusty. And I don't think we'd have it any other way, even if we do want to tan 'is hide sometimes."
"Then everyone else…seems almost…afraid to talk. Not only that, but they're wanderin' around on tiptoe like they don't want to wake the dead. You know what mean? Only—and I swear on my daddy's grave, I don't mean this to sound callous—I'm not. Not that I'm breakin' out the tap shoes and having a ball or anything. But to me, no sound feels unnatur'l. After spendin' so long in saloons and dance halls and the like, I reckon I just ain't used to it. But, I mean, I never knew a body who died just 'cause someone else talked. Maybe Andy's read somethin' on the subject—he's always pulling a new fact out of those books o' his. But if it's all the same to you, I'm gonna keep on talkin'—and walking normal, for that matter—, least 'til someone tells me to stop. Not to worry, though. Soon you'll be back in the land o' the livin' and everything'll be back to normal. No one'll pay any mind to my chatter. And you better come back to us Cal, y'hear? We're survivin' right now, but…we need you. There's a spot in this wagon train as big as the whole west that no one else can fill. So if you go and die on us, well, I'll…I'll kill you. You really want Dusty to try his hand at leadin' us to California? Look where he's gotten us so far. I mean, landsakes, even with you around…" She trails off as she looks down. Her voice softens.
"Well, I won't go there. I know he's your little pal and all. Funny, though, how you'll be at his throat one minute and defending him with your life the next. I guess that's a kind of privilege a wagon master can have when dealing with his scout. But you are a saint, for putting up with him and all his predicaments like you do. I think the rest of us would have prob'ly skinned him alive by now, if not for you—I know I would have. Don't get me wrong, Cal, I love him—really I do—but sometimes…oh, you know how it is. Better 'an any of us, I reckon."
She lifts her hand to brush a sweaty clump of hair from the vicinity of his closed eyes.
"Oh, Cal. We need you, and Dusty, and the rest of us back. But you're the only one who can make it happen. Dusty and Andy may be losin' hope, Cal—but I'm not gonna give up on you yet."
She smiles wryly. "Well, that's my morbid, Mother Lulu lecture for the evening. Bored you stiff, huh? Or did it?"
She sighs heavily.
"It's amazing how much I don't know 'bout you, even after being on the trail so long. Sure, you're a former cavalryman who somehow winded up as the wagonmaster for this bunch. But who are you, really? That's what I wanna know."
That statement seems to merit a short pause, which she grants before picking up her monologue on a different note, one that focuses not so much on what she doesn't know, but what she thinks she does.
"You're Irish, aren't you Cal? Have to admit, never did do much Irish dancin' in the saloons. My sister Rosette married a man from Ireland, though. He had the most beautiful voice when he sang. I coulda listen'd to it the whole day through and never gotten tired o' it. Rosie'd play the piano, and he'd sing, an' I'd dance—not real dancin', mind you, just steps I made up. I loved that."
"But I reckon I wanted somethin' more. So I kissed 'em goodbye and struck out on my own. That's how I ended up here, with y'all. I guess Donal's songs never really left me, though."
She turns her head and wistfully looks out the back of the wagon.
"You know this one, Cal?"
"I wish I was in Carrickfergus, only for nights in Ballygrand.
I would swim over the deepest ocean, the deepest ocean for my love to find,
But the sea is wide and I cannot swim over and neither have I wings to fly.
If I could find me a handsome boatman to ferry me over to my love and die..."
###
Darkness. It's all he can see.
It takes him a moment to realize his eyes have flickered open, so great is the expanse of the black night. His senses are dull and battered, but a vague, blurry instinct makes him do a sudden double take: it is night, and this is the west—he ought to be cold. But instead a stifling heat smothers him, seeming to swell his airways and make each breath a little harder than the last.
He hears, ever so faintly, a delicate, pretty tune, carried by a voice so heavenly as to be on loan from God himself. It's a beautiful song, one he's heard somewhere before, though he can't for the world remember where. Something about it puts him in the mind of an Irish dancing girl.
Or an angel.
Spirals of glaring, flagrant colors from all across the spectrum begin to dance before his eyes in the darkness, out of step with the music, mocking his incapacitated state with their agility.
And yet the voice continues to sing, unshaken, unmoved, perhaps even stronger against such adversity.
He listens for a while longer, the melodious strains lulling away his pain better than any balm or ointment he knows. He fights to stay awake, to remain conscious until the end of the song, even as an acute exhaustion lays siege to his body.
His fatigue wins out. But as he drifts back off to sleep, he rests assured that someone is watching over him.
###
The second time he awakens, he feels strangely free and refreshed. There is no fevered heat choking his every pore, no swirling colors in his line of vision. More than anything he feels numb, but not unbearably so.
He sits up too quickly and feels a grave pain drive into his head. A pair of hands gently pushes him back, and he gratefully complies.
"Easy, Mr. Callahan. You're still not well."
He blinks his eyes, trying to smooth out his vision. The face of the speaker slides into clarity.
"Betsy?" he whispers hoarsely.
She smiles. "Yes, Mr. Callahan."
"What 'appened?"
"You were unconscious for three days. Andy said that last night…"
Hearing those two words—"last night"—he almost unconsciously tunes her out.
Something happened last night. He awoke, and something happened.
What was it?
A certain blurriness seems to have manifested his mind, shaking all his memories on their foundation. He doesn't want to think—moreover, it hurts to think.
But he has to remember.
Fragments and phrases slowly begin to trickle into his mind, each presenting a possibility yet none feeling quite right.
Music…Irish music…Carrickfergus…
The words hit his mind one after the other, like bullets fired in rapid succession.
And they're all he needs to get the ball rolling.
"Betsy, did anyone come in here late last night? Or early this morning?"
"I don't think so."
"Betsy, I…I ain't real prone to believing in things like…angels but I could've sworn last night…"
She sweeps a cool, wet cloth across his brow as if to silence him.
"Hush now, Mr. Callahan. It was just the fever. The only one in here last night was Lulu." She takes her bowl and clothes on her hip and climbs down from the wagon.
And suddenly, despite the foggy, confused state of his mind, everything clicks.
As long as he's going to be sick and confined to bed, he might as well make the most of the time.
After all, he has plans to make.
###
"There, Lulu. That's the way to stir it." Betsy nods approvingly. "This ought to turn out better than the last batch."
Lulu glares at her in jest reproach.
"Let's not talk about the last batch."
Betsy laughs dryly. "I try not to judge the first time around, but as far as I'm concerned your soap making will always be defined by the look on your face when you saw what happened…"
Lulu swats at her companion playfully. "You're more of a devil than you get credit for."
"Face it, Lulu: it took Andy, and Dusty, and Mr. Callahan to haul away what went on in that pot, and all three of them must have thrown out their backs doing it."
"If Mr. B had helped out it wouldn't have been so hard on 'em. Besides, we gave 'em the afternoon off. And at least it happ'ned now. Goodness knows everything's easier since Cal's back on 'is feet."
"Yes. I suppose." The brunette says, suddenly distracted by the soap mixture.
"M' stirrin' still okay?"
"Oh yes. It's fine. I was just thinking that…well, I do wish we could make the soap a little…prettier. I know it's petty, but I'm sick and tired of this…" she gestures to the pot, "lye soap color."
Lulu's eyes light up with a sudden thought.
"Hey, a little earlier Andy an' I found a patch of red berries. Can't eat 'em, he said, but they're okay as dye. I'll go pick some and bring 'em back here."
Handing the spoon over to Betsy, she wipes her sweating hands on her apron and takes off in the opposite direction, hoping that distance will help clear her nostrils of that dreadful cooking soap smell as she mentally attempts to navigate towards the berry patch.
She's about five minutes from camp when she hears it first.
It begins as a quiet, distant buzz, but when she realizes that she needs to turn right at the brambles, it gradually becomes clearer. It's bothersome to her, for some reason or another, but she proceeds cautiously, refusing to let herself be afraid. She's Lulu for goodness sake—"McQueen of Seduction." Why should a little ol' noise have her on edge?
As she approaches the patch, the drone almost surreally clarifies into distinguishable words.
"If I were King of Ireland
And had all things at my will
I'd roam for recreation
More comfort to find still
But the comfort I would seek the most
So that you may understand
Would be to win the heart of Lulu
The Flower of Sweet Strabane
Hearing her name, her heart skips a beat. She prowls away from the berry patch, intent on finding the voice. As if to support her efforts, the second stanza begins.
Her cheeks they are as rubies
Her hair a chick-soft blonde
And o'er her milk white shoulders
It carelessly hangs down
She is the fairest creature
And the pride of all her clan
And my heart is captivated
By the flower of Sweet Strabane
She follows the dulcet tone, tiptoeing towards it with shaky confidence. Drawing nearer, she ducks behind a bush, hoping it will come to her instead of the other way around.
As the third verse begins, she gets her wish.
But since I cannot gain her love
No joy there is for me
And I must seek to hide my tears
In the lands across the sea
Unless she cares to follow me
I swear by my right hand
Callahan's face you'll ne'er more see
My Flower of Sweet Strabane
A nervous thrill ripples through her stomach as the song draws to a close. As the singer starts to walk away, she nonchalantly slips out from behind the bush, bracing herself to speak.
"Hi, Cal."
Her voice obviously catches him off-guard. He turns around stiffly.
"Lulu…"
His voice betrays surprise for only that word. Instantly regaining his composure, he barks, "What're you doin' out here?"
She answers without hesitation. "Gatherin' wild berries for Betsy's soap. And I just heard the most lovely songbird. Had kind of a deep lilt—you know the one? Gave me the feeling that he was doin' a matin' call, of sorts…"
He stares at her blankly for a moment. Then his face breaks into a grin.
"I believe I do know the one. And let's see…" he thoughtfully strokes his chin, "if I remember correct, it's an Irish bird, usually attracted to pink feathered females."
"And…" she prompts, trying to keep her hand from flying up to her hair accessory, "how does he show a pink feathered female he's int'rested?"
He pauses for a moment.
"Like this."
With that, he almost sweeps her off her feet—literally—as he draws her mouth up towards his. As their lips collide, she feels an excited shiver run down her spine as she goes delightfully pins and needles all over. Half of her becomes cold inside; the other half overheats to an excess. Her knees are almost buckling.
She's been kissed before, but…not like this. He's making her feel weaker than she's ever felt in her life.
And she doesn't mind a bit.
Her hands seek support on his broad, steadfast shoulders as they separate into two separate entities once again.
"Man, I'd follow you to any land across the sea for that."
He smiles amusedly. "How about starting small? Like followin' me across that stream o'er there for a quiet walk. Just the two of us." His eyes twinkle, and the flighty fraction of her being silently wonders if he can make them do that on command.
"I'd love to."
He grins widely, then takes her arm as they proceed to the brook.
A moment later she says, "That ol' Irish bird really can sing. I never knew."
"Well, their pink feathered ladies aren't bad either, you know. Not bad at all. Especially the Carrickfergus variety."
If she'd looked up, she would have seen the placid, knowing smile on his face.