Daria On the Trail: A New Handful

DISCLAIMER: I do not own either the Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own Daria Morgendorffer. The former belongs to GRR Martin and Daria belongs to MTV Viacom. This story based on the real Oregon Trail and has little or nothing to do with the computer game of the same name.

This work of fiction is written for my own amusement and ego gratification.

Reviews would be appreciated.

Daria On The Trail*Daria On The Trail*Daria On The Trail

Orrick Trout POV

"The Fish?" I said.

"Why not?" said Daria. "I try to stay out of your business but it seems to me that this company needs a new identity other than Ridge's Former Company."

"And you're suggesting that we call ourselves the Fish," I said. "Why?"

"Because we are following river courses to get to Oregon," said Daria. "We'll be leaving the Platte beyond Fort Caspar and then travel along the Sweetwater. Then we'll join the Snake River and follow it to Farewell Bend, then we'll make our way to the Columbia and follow it to the Dalles, much like salmon travel up and down the Snake and the Columbia to the Western Sea. At least four families in our company have fish names: Your family's name, the Carp's family name, and among the Yankees there are the Fish family and the Basses. The fish is an important symbol among the Christ-followers, even though I'm no more a Christ-follower than you are. I think the rest of the company might go for it."

That was an interesting thought. Our company could use a new shared identity and the girl's idea was worth considering. I made a note to myself to talk over Daria's idea first with Kara, then the other Riverland men, and then with some of my Yankee supporters.

"An interesting thought," I said. "I need to think about it."

Daria nodded in agreement.

"Now let's see about getting that tent up," I said. "You and Kara and the Wilsons will be able to sleep under cover tonight."

Daria POV

That evening I slept in a tent for the first time since I'd arrived in the 19th century. The guys had first set up a tent for us, then helped the Mormons to set up a couple of tents for the Mormon handcarts companies that were beginning to trickle in, then set off to rescue Mr. Wilson's stuff. The tent didn't cover everything: our supplies were covered with a tarp. Something must have told Captain Trout that we'd regret it if we didn't.

It darkened earlier than I expected: I wondered why, then saw some clouds rolling in from the west. I'd handed over the foodstuffs I'd scrounged to Kara, so we'd eat slightly better than we would out on the trail. Dinner that evening was beans and bread and bacon. Kara and Mrs. Wilson did a great job at keeping the fire going: the wind had begun to pick up and cooking proved anything but easy, but they managed.

We heard our first rumble of thunder just as we finished eating. We all looked at each other and had the same thought: rain. Kara and Mrs. Wilson and I quickly doused the camp fire and joined the kids in the tent just as the first raindrops started falling. Shortly afterwards we heard the first rumble of thunder. It then started raining. I thought of Captain Trout, Willem, Mr. Wilson and the Millers out by Deep Rut Hill and hoped that they were under cover.

The rain began to come down harder and the thunder grew louder and the lightning grew more intense. There wasn't much else to do except watch the interior of the tent momentarily light up as the lightning flashed across the sky and listen to the accompanying thunder. I counted the interval between the lightning flashes and the thunder-claps several times and told myself that the lightning wasn't too close. A couple of times the thunderclaps were close enough to the lightning flashes to make me suspect that I was probably lying to myself. Despite that, it wasn't long before we decided to turn in for the night. This evening looked to be crowded: not only would we be using the tent, but so would the Wilsons.

I awoke a couple of hours later to pee. In the process I learned a new lesson: we not only needed to do laundry but we were also sorely in need of a bath: not just me and the Trouts, but the Wilsons, too. Back in Boston or even Highland I would have wanted a tub with soap and body wash at hand filled with warm, chlorinated water, but here I was so desperate I'd settle for a river or a creek where I could dip myself and then do a poor copy of a Navy shower using a bucket for rinsing. As I went looking for someplace to do my business, I realized that I'd gained something else in common with Quinn: while I'd never care that much about fashion, I really did care about my hair and I hated its current condition.

The next morning, I awoke early when one of the Wilsons' girls accidentally gave me a kick. I realized that it was now past dawn and that I'd have to get up and at it. I stood up to fold my blanket and realized that it was damp: not because someone broke potty training, but because our freebie tent wasn't quite as waterproof as we'd hoped. I'd have to hang it out somewhere to dry.

Despite the fact that the guys were out, breakfast was crowded: not only were Mrs. Trout, Kennard and the Trout girls present, but so was Mrs. Wilson, her daughters Loretta and Marie, and her son Joshua.

"I would like to thank you for taking us in," said Mrs. Wilson.

"It is what the Mother expects of us," Kara replied in her Riverlands-accented English.

"The Mother?" said Mrs. Wilson.

"One of the faces of the Seven-in-One God," said Kara. "We do not follow your Three-in-One God."

"Oh," Mrs. Wilson replied. There was a long silence.

"And what about you, Daria?" said Mrs. Wilson.

"My father is Jewish and my mother is Methodist," I said. "I haven't really made up my mind yet."

"You ought to think about it some more and come to a decision," Mrs. Wilson said in a gentle voice. "Your very soul is at stake."

"Thank you," I replied.

"In case you're interested, several of us will be forming a circle for Bible reading," said Mrs. Wilson. "You're welcome to join us."

Subtle not, I thought, although she's being less obnoxious than the hair-on-fire street preachers back in Highland.

At that moment their conversation was interrupted by one of the Shy Sisters. Mrs. Thatch, I thought: I hadn't learned all the newbies' given names yet. Mrs. Thatch had brought some of her children along: a boy and two girls. She greeted Kara then said something in Riverlands-accented Andal too fast for me to follow. I briefly wondered if she was hyper: her kids certainly were.

"Yes, Daria speaks the Common Tongue, and she speaks it well for a Yankee," Kara replied in Andal. "Her first language is English."

Mrs. Thatch said something else faster than I could understand.

"I'm sure she could help your children learn to speak it, too," Kara replied.

Uh-oh. I began to suspect that the Morgendorffer ESL tutoring service was about to gain several new clients.

It took less than a minute to discover that the Thatch children were hyper-active. They were in constant motion, settling down for perhaps a few seconds, then springing back into motion again.

"Are they always this energetic?" I asked Mrs. Thatch, or I tried to. I couldn't remember the Andal word for "energetic" and had to pantomime and play-act the word so Mrs. Thatch would understand.

"Yes," Mrs. Thatch replied. "They are that energetic."

It looked like I was stuck. These kids did not act like they were going to stay still very long. I decided that I'd have to think of something that would wear them down as well as teach them some English. I gestured to Jilla and Minti to follow me out of the tent. "I know that you were hoping to get some tutoring with written English but it looks like that plan went out the window."

"There's no window," said Minti.

"Right you are," I said. "Out the tent flap, then."

"Oh, so we'll be watching them?" said Jilla, gesturing back at the tent and the little Thatches.

"That we will," I said. "So this probably won't be much of a class since you girls speak much better English than they do. Since Mrs. Thatch says that they're active, I think we ought to take a field trip up to the Fort and back," I said.

"A field trip?" asked Jilla.

Oops, I thought. My mistake. I didn't know if Nineteenth century schools had the term. "A field trip is a school-sponsored excursion," I said, hoping that Jilla and Minti knew what excursion meant.

"Do schools have excursions?" asked Minti.

"Sometimes," I replied.

I now had a plan and a destination: Jilla, Minti, and I would walk up to the Fort with the little Thatches in hand, I'd try to teach them some names and ask the sorts of questions that help them build up their vocabularies. Since our campground was the better part of two miles away from the barracks, hopefully we'd be able to cause the Thatches to burn off some energy. But just before I was about to round the kids up and take off, I had a horrible thought: what the Hell do I do if these kids do something kinetic or something stupid and extremely dangerous?

If this were the early 2000's, I'd be extremely worried about how I could discipline the kids: one smack and I might very well be facing a civil suit or even a criminal investigation. But after asking Mrs. Thatch, I learned that Riverlanders allowed me considerably more leeway: I couldn't switch them, but I learned that I could cuff them or even turn them over my knee if they got way out of line. I hoped to High Heaven that I wouldn't need to do anything like that but suspected that I'd probably have to.

We were now ready to set off. The Trout girls and I rounded up the errant Thatches and we set off for the Fort. I soon learned that I needed to keep my eyes on the younger one every single second, leaving me no time to muse about my career as a troublemaker back in Highland and how I now found myself on the other side.

Author's Note: Sorry about the delay, but the Muse left me for a while.