LEGAL DISCLAIMER:
Xena: Warrior Princess, Gabrielle, Argo and all other characters who have appeared in the syndicated series Xena: Warrior Princess, together with the names, titles and backstory are the sole copyright property of MCA/Universal and Renaissance Pictures. No copyright infringement was intended in the writing of this fan fiction. All other characters, the story idea and the story itself are the sole property of the author. This story cannot be sold or used for profit in any way. Copies of this story may be made for private use only and must include all disclaimers and copyright notices.
LOVE/SEX WARNING/DISCLAIMER:
This story depicts a love/sexual relationship between consenting adult women. If you are under 18 years of age or if this type of story is illegal in the state or country in which you live, please do not read it and consider moving so someplace less backwards. If depictions of this nature disturb you, you may wish to read something other than this story. And don’t freak out, the sex in this story isn’t with Xena. She’s dead, remember? So, if a Xena-less story is anathema to you, then by all means – be on your merry way, thanks for stopping by.
This story is a companion piece to my story The Resurrection of Xena. By no means a sequel, it’s just a further exploration of a story that Gabrielle told Xena in the tub in Chapter 15. If you haven’t read The Resurrection of Xena, please read that before reading this, otherwise this isn’t going to make much sense. I still consider RoX my final work of fan fic, this just popped out after Beth said that she’d read the bath scene for the umpteenth time AND SHE WASN’T TALKING ABOUT THE SEX PART. Anyway, that made me think there might be something more to that tale, so here it is...
Started on 4/2/2018
Finished on 12/31/2018
April 28th, 1846 Tuesday
My Dearest Xena,
It is indeed funny how one’s own sense of assuredness can turn without a moment’s hesitation. I wonder to myself these days if this is how you felt when you set off for Chin to help Lao Ma? Did you doubt the motivations of your actions? Did you wonder if the journey ahead was too much? America is indeed a wilderness, and more so than any time in recent memory do I long for those days when I imagined you by my side, able to talk to you, face to face as opposed to this jumble of languages strung together to keep my musings private. I always long for you alive and strong of course, able to feel your pulse quicken beneath my fingertips – but if you living and breathing is out of my grasp, I would still be happy of the company of your apparition.
In my mind’s eye, I have traveled back to that fateful day with Poseidon many a time and tried in vain to ascertain why I could simply not let my love for you go. Why, with you out of my grasp and away from my aspirations, could I not simply forge ahead with the remnants of the life we shared together and make something new. I am left with the choice I made that no; I cannot let you go, even though I may suffer for eternity with my heart’s desire unrequited. In the days that followed that decision, I have felt the ache of a love that knows no answer, and beats in one heart only. Those days turned into years, years into decades, and then centuries beyond. There is an exquisite anguish I suffer in having the most vivid memories of us together, even as each day with you becomes a day more distant, seemingly never to reinvent themselves in joyous communion. I smile because even these many centuries later, I can hear your bafflement in my determination to persist. Why not just shut my heart down and feel nothing, as opposed to this ache without end? Why not protect myself from the longing for which I can find no solace? You and I both know that our humanity is found no more acutely than when we hurt. Our sorrow and sadness are the things that lift us beyond the realm of other creatures and in how we cope with such. Not in our lust and anger – many a beast reacts to these most basic universal feelings. No, it is the pain of love lost, in all its many forms, and how we choose to move on that reveal in us what it is to be human. My love for you causes me great pain, but it is not a pain I would trade or shed, for it reminds me of my capacity for love and that beyond all else, that I am human. Not everyone is so fortunate to have loved such that it hurts this much to have it absent; I am reminded of that all too often. Pained though I am, I know that to feel for you as deeply as I do, and to long ago have those feelings returned by you, makes me truly exceptional.
It is not that I regret my decision to travel to the New World, rather I am excited by the prospect of something new, but this undertaking presents more ‘unknown’ than I have seen in many a year. I needed to install competent directors for The Chakram Shipping and Holding Company so ‘Adele Sparrow’ could journey to the American Frontier. I trust the people I have put in place after many years of grooming and vetting. Code words and signals have been established so directives of mine that I may send from abroad will be followed. I have resisted venturing out this way long enough; I can procrastinate no longer. While I’ve heard stories upon stories since the discovery of this continent, I wanted to wait before seeing for myself. I’ve always felt an unease about the Puritans that originally colonized it and had no desire to be present during their revolutionary war. But the time had come when I needed to put my hesitation aside and take a ship from Italy to this great unknown and see it for myself. If there is any chance that Aphrodite has been out this way, or Ares or any of the others, I need to know. I can only do so much cultivating relationships from overseas. I need to spend some time searching America for myself. Xena, this is how I move heaven and earth for you. If needs be, I will search every corner of the planet personally if having you returned to me demands it.
I have watched this experiment in democracy that is the United States of America with interest, albeit from afar. Granted, my years give me a unique perspective on things. Like a pendulum swinging to and ‘fro, I have seen people of good governance and bad. I have even seen folks with the best of intentions become corrupted by the greed and avarice of the people in their orbit.
While I prefer to live in a system that is just and holds the will of the people paramount, it’s rare enough to be near fantasy. You knew that all too well. There have been villages here and there the world over that have been near utopian in their righteousness for all participants, but such a rarity. As was in our day, often it is individuals living well and helping others in spite of the governing body, not in facility of it. The people I have corresponded with from overseas have been good on balance, I met with several businessmen in New York and my reception was mixed. It seems that business dealings with a woman from afar was one thing, but face to face… it was more than some men could bear. I spent some time in the upper reaches of the social circles; wealth buys entry even more readily here than in Europe. I have several opportunities I will move forward with, from men who value intellect and vision more than the trappings of one’s sex, but as for the others, I’m happy to let them go.
Quickly I bored with the social scene. Regulated to the “women’s circles” I’d found out all I could about the wealthy and influential. I don’t get the sense that Aphrodite is among this crowd and I need to explore to learn more. It didn’t take me long to realize that in this republic my Adele Sparrow alias was going to need retooling. A woman traveling alone, wealthy though I may be, has neither the rights nor the freedom to move and act as I desire. After several months in New York and Massachusetts, I realized that my best chance would be to pose as a man as I did for my first forays into medical school. Given that prospect, moving west with a wagon train also made sense and would be the most expedient way to cover more ground. I expect I’d meet people along the way and information is more valuable than gold.
Staging the transition was not terribly difficult. I’d made it as far as St. Louis, Missouri traveling as Mrs. Sparrow. I purchased clothing for my ‘nephew’ Samuel Stafford. Somewhere before Jefferson City, I took the time to remove the gems, coin and gold I’d sewn into various garments before packing everything “female” into a trunk. I had let my hair grow the last few years, it was longer than when we’d first met, so I needed to cut it short – so short that as it grew out I’d be able to see a barber and have it cut like the rest of the men. Now dressing as a man, I arrived in the city of Independence, Missouri with no one the wiser. I’ve sold the trunk of women’s goods as I won’t be needing them in the foreseeable future. I’ve learned over the years to pack light and keep things of sentimental value sparse. As I’ve mentioned in journals past, I hid your chakram, ashes, and my Sai back in Greece. The only memento of you that I carry with me, besides my own heavy heart, is the breast dagger that I’ve managed to keep safe all these years.
I suppose the clothes I wear now are not unlike the armor you wore centuries ago. It is a part of me, but it is not the whole of me. Oh Xena, if you could see me now, I wonder would you find my appearance comical? To fit in I’ve chosen well made, simple wear, keeping any ornamentation to a minimum. I have these sturdy brown leather boots. I wear socks with them that I knit myself and I wish I’d known how to knit when we traveled together. I think you’d have appreciated knit socks. My boots have a notched heel for riding, and now I’ve spent so much time in the saddle that I’m probably as comfortable on horseback as you were. In my left boot is a sheath with a throwing knife and in my right boot is a holster with a small derringer pistol. Just two shots, but it’s a good back up weapon. My main gun is a Colt Patterson revolver and I also have a Hawken rifle. At my back is a large buck knife in a leather sheaf. I have spent hours of solitude learning the local weaponry. Once I decided on this course of action, I approached this task with the same dedication as I’ve utilized in countless other pursuits; from learning the staff way back when, to languages, drawing, painting, the martial arts, even knitting. I am a solid shot with a gun and can throw knives just as well. My years of training in the martial arts have served me well in keeping my composure under pressure, which helps, not only in a fight but also in business negotiations.
The wagon train leaves on the first of May and I’ve needed to fully outfit myself. I have three pairs of woolen trousers, brown, light gray and dark gray that I suppose I’ll wear for church on Sunday, should they worship on the trail. This is a very religious country and lack of uniformity in this respect breeds suspicion. You taught me the value in being able to blend in and like everything else I’ve learned from you, it has saved me more than once.
I have several shirts and a couple of vests. I have a coat that is warm and an oiled canvas duster that will keep me dry in the rain. My bowler hat is beaver fur, a rich brown like your leathers, it matches one of my vests and in a pocket over my heart rests your breast dagger. You may wonder how I disguise myself physically, other than a man’s haircut and my clothing. I do suppose you’d have a more challenging time of it, but I have some muslin that I use to wrap around my chest to keep my breasts flat. I also have a phallus I’ve made of leather. Nothing ostentatious mind you, but I have it attached to a thin belt under my clothes so that if I move this way or that, there will be an appropriate filling out of my pants. To allow for my voice and the lack of necessity to shave, the story is that Samuel Stafford is the seventeen-year-old nephew of Adele Sparrow. Should the question come up I can also hint at some Indian blood in the family although that will have me looked down upon in most circles.
Before leaving St. Louis, I purchased a horse, a deep brown Mustang named Whisky that no one could ride. Stubborn, independent and smart; you’d think he were the reincarnation of Argo all these years later. A fair bit taller than Argo, his coat is a deep brown with a hint of red with a beautiful black mane, same as you. His difficult temperament, dare I say also like you, made him a bargain and my experience with horses has earned his respect. I suspect he and I will make a good team. He is three years old and it was time he had a partner who could handle him and look out for his interests. I was even able to get a good quality saddle, blankets, and tack thrown into the purchase. Other than my clothes and bedroll, I have a canteen, a whip – for people, not Whiskey –
gloves, a tie, bandana, small medical kit, some hard tack, flint for the fire, tools for making bullets, and a few luxuries I hope to trade along the way; coffee, sugar and such. I have some paper money, and I’ve kept some gold and gemstones hidden in my new belongings. Just for emergencies, mind you. I fully intend to earn my keep, both on the journey out west and as I continue my search. It also helps me fit in.
June 1st, 1846- Monday
My Dearest Xena,
We have been a month on the trail and life is beginning to have some semblance of routine. I’ve fallen in with some of the young men who scout ahead of the pioneers, looking for food and removing obstacles. It is long days and hard work but it passes the time. There are about six of us who regularly ride together. Most of them are of little note but I have become friendly with a large man appropriately called Hoss King. He rides with his brother, Percival, whom I don’t trust. Hoss is the younger of the two; large, beefy, smarter than his brother gives him credit, with a charming sense of humor. He is genuine and speaks plainly, which I find refreshing. He’s taken to calling me ‘Shorty’ instead of ‘Sam’, which is fine. Percival on the other hand is always scheming and boasting. You and I have met the type on more than one occasion. The pair talk of heading west to throw in with the Pinkerton Detective Agency. Percival fancies himself a sleuth and sees his younger brother as muscle. I’m intrigued by the company. If I am to believe what I’m hearing from the brothers, there could be useful contacts to cultivate in such an outfit.
The land we’re riding through is beautiful. It is Indian land, the natives having lived in harmony with the land for hundreds of years. There are many different tribes that live all over this continent. Some tolerate the incursion of the settlers better than the others do. The Europeans treat them with the same level of misunderstanding and hostility that we once harbored for the Pomira and sadly, I fear that the natives of this place will suffer the same fate. We’ve gone through some Pawnee territory and are heading into Sioux land. I believe we will also pass through some Cheyenne, Shoshone, and eventually Crow territory. There are areas where the Indians are fairly active and there is an undercurrent of unease amongst the settlers. I’ve learned to not worry about a problem before it presents itself, but then again, I don’t worry that my life may be in danger. My worries are much more mundane.
I find that my biggest challenge is finding the time and privacy to bathe properly. We’ve been traveling near the Missouri river so water is plentiful but privacy is not unless I head out on my own. I do so as often as I dare. In part for the solace of quiet and not having to pretend I am something I’m not for a day or so but also so I can steal some secluded minutes to fully strip, bathe and clean my clothes. I’ve made a point to try and always return with a deer or several rabbits. People are less apt to question you when they have full bellies.
I’ve seen no indication that folks think me anything other than a young man. You’ll be pleased to know that my acting has improved over the centuries. I’ve tried to keep Sam’s background simple. There are several families in the caravan with single daughters who find me respectable and I am giving them a wide berth. I’ve noticed that men ask fewer questions as to my education or where I might have picked up this skill or that. Our conversations are on the whole usually fairly superficial which is a relief for the most part. They talk politics some and of course discuss women. In some ways, the American Frontier isn’t very different from Potidaea. Women are expected to be chaste to be valued and men are expected to be experienced. That leaves a fair number of men with designs on women who aren’t ready or prepared for their advances. Already I’ve developed a bit of a reputation as a nuisance when it comes to accidentally wandering through a camp or the woods, spoiling a moment between a couple. The women have always looked upon my intrusion with relief and the men with annoyance. It’s happened to Percival twice and I think the last time he wanted to take a swing at me. Nothing I can’t handle though. There are several women among the settlers who are old enough to make their own choices and I leave them well to it.
I find the Americans an interesting mix of personalities and culture. The country is still in its infancy, not even a hundred years old, yet I see qualities that remind me of Rome and not in the best fashion. As individuals, I’ve found the people warm, good natured and generous. They are open and closed at the same time. The strange beliefs of the Puritans seem to hang with them like a cough that won’t go away. They are to some extent preoccupied with sex and religion, and these two conflicting instincts battle for supremacy in the individual. I feel a lot of guilt about this. I know that my own actions, severing the tether to Olympus with the destruction of Hephaestus’ Anvil is to blame for what was left of our gods losing supremacy to the spread of Christianity in the west. Between the two of us, we really laid the inhabitants of Mount Olympus to rest. Poseidon is the only god I know of who was on earth at the time of the severing, although he assures me that Aphrodite is alive and well. I suspect that Ares is also here, on earth somewhere – the Crusades and Spanish Inquisition seemed very much his handiwork.
I think what scares me most about Americans generally speaking, where they remind me of Cesar’s Rome is their arrogance and tenacious assertiveness. This is also where their religion plays a part and not in the best fashion. In groups, they are especially tribal and I fear that the time is nigh when they will see anyone who isn’t descended from specific European stock as illegitimate in this land of immigrants. There is an ingenuity in them that is only matched by their ambition. I think they will accomplish great things, terrible things as well, but certainly great.
I have not spent any time with the Natives of this place, so all I know of the various Indian tribes is what I’ve heard from the folks I’ve met. I’m fairly adept at sussing out the exaggerations to their narratives; being a bard does have its benefits, but there are some stories that have genuinely shocked me. I imagine that the native philosophy and concept of ‘ownership’ is very different from the people who are venturing into and transforming their lands. I hope to make their acquaintance someday and see what they are like for myself.
My Dearest Xena,
We are nearly at our destination and on balance I’d say the trip has been relatively uneventful. We rise early; families break their fast and tend to their animals if they have any, before preparing for the day’s travel. Some days the progress seems swift and easy, other days it is painfully slow, sometimes not even making the distance of a mile if there is an issue with a wagon or other obstacle. People use their time, when they have it, to rest, mend their clothing or possessions, take care of the wagons or animals, and care for the young and old alike. Some days the food and water are plentiful, other times I go without eating if that helps sustain someone else.
There have been the usual moments of drama and intrigue, disagreements between families, sickness, that sort of thing. We are heading into Crow territory and there seems a general disquiet and unease amongst the settlers. It’s almost as if the air carries an aura of foreboding, if this is about the unknown that Oregon represents to our company or fear of the Natives who live in the surrounding areas, I cannot say. The circle of life moves on however.
In one instance thus far, I am the cause of closing someone’s circle. It is probably the most antithetical thing to the Gabrielle you once knew and loved but I have come to accept that everyone dies; the only difference is to the when and the how. Xena, I would tell no one but you because I know you would understand. My long life has afforded me a unique view of when justice works and when it doesn’t. Like you, I do all I can to let justice run its course, imperfect as it may be. But like you, I have killed in cold-blooded murder. It is an infrequent occurrence. It may be decades, sometimes many of them when I do not feel compelled to act, but from time to time, I will come across a man or woman evil to the core who by circumstance or fate will escape the bounds of justice. There was such a man in our company. August and Sarah Grant have a fourteen year old daughter named Eunice. I found out overhearing the women talk that Eunice was raped by a fellow. His name is unimportant and I refuse to sully my journals with repeating it. He was cold, calculating, completely lacking in empathy or compassion.
I overheard the horror stories that several girls had relayed to their mothers as to this man and his actions. They said that Eunice was pregnant and they’d prepared a strong tea that they’d hoped would end the pregnancy. The fear and anger palpable as was the desperation as to what to do about him. We were far enough from our destination that his presence in our group was problematic. There wasn’t any kind of court traveling with us, there was no way to constrain him, and the women did not seem to think that the men would be inclined to abandon an abled bodied man who could do his share of the work.
This particular day, I’d come back to the wagon train after an unsuccessful hunting foray. Unencumbered, I was able to silently approach the camp. I happened to come across him as he drunkenly meandered his way back to camp from answering nature’s call in a field. I tried to talk to him. Encourage him to leave the company of his own accord, explained that his behavior with the young girls in our midst was unacceptable. Beyond unapologetic, he was boastful; he laughed. He was proud of himself. When they found his body the next morning, the assumption had been he’d drunkenly fallen and hit his head on a rock. Which he most certainly did after my whip had pulled his legs out from under him.
We have a couple of women pregnant with children now; of their own accord mind you, and there were two hastily arranged marriages. Two others died from old age, four from sickness picked up on the trail, and three from complications stemming from injuries sustained on our journey. Where I could, I made people more comfortable, always doing so unobtrusively, the patients none the wiser. In one instance, a man was wracked with pain so badly from a compound fracture that I utilized pressure points to ease him into sleep and nature took it from there. Infection is a big threat as is sickness picked up from drinking water or eating food that isn’t clean. Hunger has been a specter looming over almost everyone. At this point, just about everyone is out of flour and other staples. Some families have gone through their stores of meat. One family killed their last oxen, and in sharing the meat are now riding with another family on their wagon. There have been wagons emptied of all personal possessions and artifacts to make room for a family with food to share. I’ve seen some families eat their dogs, horses. The road has been hard and this journey has left everyone scarred to some degree.
I am more a loner these days. One of the gentlemen I accompanied on scouting trips, Henry, attacked me; put up to it no doubt by Percival. I was accused of a number of things – from stealing food to making a pass at a woman Henry fancied. At one point during our scrape, he pulled a knife on me; I shot it out of his hand before he realized I’d even pulled my gun. The work I’ve put into target practice has indeed paid off. For good measure, I pulled my buck knife, throwing it at him and cleanly nailing his hat to a tree.
Hoss whistled appreciatively and said, “A skill like that and you’re not taking bets?” He chuckled as he withdrew my knife from the tree and handed Henry his hat, “I’d give Shorty some space son,” he said, handing my knife back to me, handle first of course. To me, he said, “Remind me not to get on your bad side, kid.”
I couldn’t help but grin back at him. “Me? A bad side?” I replied with mock offense. I didn’t want to hurt Henry of course; I’d prefer to be left alone. But the most certain way to stem off future attacks by that kind of fellow is to make it clear that I’m more trouble than they want.
Nearly everyone has given me more space since then, save for Hoss of course. We while away the hours sharing stories – seeing who can come up with a more far-fetched tale. Oh, Xena, you’d laugh to see us. He is quite impressed by the ‘whoppers’ as he calls the stories that I tell. Little does he know I’m simply recounting our adventures. He won’t admit it of course, but the story of the Bacchae had him sleeping closer to the fire that night more than at any point in our journey. One of my favorites that he’s told me is about a fellow named Johnny Appleseed. It’s a wonderful story that I’ll need to write down for you.
September 23rd, 1846- Wednesday
My Dearest Xena,
The summer has been long and hard and with our destination nearly in sight, I have left the company of the settlers to make it the rest of the way on my own. It was not my original intention mind you, but a small band of Crow, some distance it seems from their own territory has forced my hand. I have a new name – ‘Fire Eagle’. At least that’s what Standing Bear has named me, more precisely: Fire Eagle Two Spirit. Two Spirit meaning that I am both man and woman despite my protestations to the contrary, but I am getting ahead of myself.
About two weeks ago our usual group of six scouted three or four days ahead looking for a path forward at The Dalles. This part of the trail near the Columbia River was blocked, and we needed to either clear it or mark a new path. Hoss and I rode together behind his brother Percival and the brothers, Billy and Henry. Billy is Henry’s younger brother. Billy looks older than his sixteen years but this trip has shaken him. Behind us was Bartholomew, a preacher’s adopted son. I guessed him to be about twelve. It was not lost on me that I was essentially riding with children.
Our second day past the obstruction I noticed we were being watched. I counted six men who were good at concealing themselves. I said nothing to my companions in hopes that curiosity satisfied, the men watching us would move on. A fortitudinous accident ensured that they did not.
Billy and Henry were spinning some tall yarn about the fanciful life of a gun slinger. All the men on the trail wear guns; it’s a common an element of costume as are boots and hats. They were pretending to quick-draw and by accident, Billy fires his weapon. The shot rings out and to my amazement, he hit one of the native men in the leg who was watching us. Before I could get close enough to protect him, Billy is hit in the shoulder with an arrow, the force of which knocked him from his horse. I’m off Whiskey and at his side in a moment and the scouting party has surrounded us, bows drawn, arrows pointed dangerously at us.
What followed was equal parts chance and luck. The scouts were speaking French. I found out later that the chief, Standing Bear, had instructed his sons Long Feather and Red Moon to practice, which enabled me to communicate with them, as I don’t know the language spoken by the Crow. Red Moon was the fellow who had been hit in the leg, the younger of the two brothers.
While there was no denying the pain that Billy was in, the arrow had missed bone and begun to exit his shoulder. For the time being, he was fine and in no mortal danger. I was more concerned about Red Moon, and it took some persuading on my part for his kin to allow me to help him. Fortunately, it was a clean shot. After the scouts watched me tend to Billy, forcing the arrow through, breaking off the end, burning the wound to close it, sewing him up, and then bandaging it with honey, Red Moon gave me permission to treat him as well. There was no mistaking that he made this choice in spite of suspicions and mistrust of the other braves.
We camped with this band of Crow for two days. Not by our choice, mind you. I was relieved that no one else in the company spoke French. I was able to converse with the Crow brothers and translate what I felt appropriate to my group, at times making up a different narrative as I saw fit. If Red Moon, Long Feather or any of the other Crow understood English and knew what I was doing, they didn’t indicate as such. For the time being, I trusted our captors with weapons more than I trusted my companions, in part because, while deadly, I felt that there was less chance of an accidental killing with an arrow. At my suggestion, all of our guns were confiscated and put in a rucksack, which was hung high from a tree. Percival was strangely quiet, seemingly content to have Long Feather treat me as our leader. This gave me pause. Henry, not to my surprise, was openly plotting revenge and vengeance even though Hoss pointed out quite plainly that it was his younger brother who had caused this mess in the first place.
I was curious about our companions and they were curious about us. I had noticed, before the brothers knew I understood French, that there had been conversation about be me being ‘too oddly beautiful for a pale face’. Frequently I caught them stealing looks, puzzled by my appearance. I was curious about them as well. The men varied in age, although I admit having a hard time determining just how old they were. To a man, they looked more youthful than they carried themselves. I supposed that Long Feather, clearly their leader, was in his late twenties and that the younger men were just entering adulthood. They all dressed in buckskin pants and soft boots that let them move quietly through the forest. None of them wore shirts, but in the heat of the summer, I couldn't say I blamed them. Their black hair was long and plaited in braids on each side of their head, down to their shoulders. Their ornamentation was minimal, but what I saw was beautiful, with exquisite craftsmanship.
After two days, it was clear that both of the injured men would be able to travel and should heal if they tended to their wounds in a sensible fashion. I persuaded the Crow to let my companions go. They took the satchel of guns. I was to wait a day, send my companions back to the company then follow after the Crow. When I met up with them and spoke to their chief, I would have our weapons returned if Standing Bear saw fit, then I could return them to my companions. Hoss was worried about my safety, but I assured him that I was not. I impressed upon him that it would be up to him and Percival to keep Henry from doing anything that would jeopardize Billy and Bart’s safety or the safety of the settlers. Hoss knew I was scrappy in a fight and relented.
The Crow were true to their word. Whiskey and I followed their trail, and after a day’s travel found a small, well secluded camp of maybe twenty souls at most. Some women, a few children, a couple of elderly. I learned that this was not the whole of the Crow Nation and in fact, we were well out of Crow territory. Rather, this was the immediate family of Standing Bear, who was on a vision quest and spending the year traveling as the spirits dictated. The group had established several small tipis where they slept. I saw some meat drying for storage and several fish cooking over a spit. They invited me to eat with them and I did, as I was famished. The food was delicious.
That evening, Standing Bear joined us. It’s hard to describe Xena; I suppose it’s similar to how I felt when I first met Cecrops. I was struck with immediate affection and respect. I sensed that Standing Bear was an honorable and fair man, and was both curious and apprehensive about all the settlers moving west. He found the ways of the English, as he called them, confusing and contradictory. But he was also preoccupied with his own troubles, the nature of which he did not share with me.
Around the campfire, we talked about ourselves. I told the story of Samuel Stafford, although I felt bad lying about myself. Emboldened by our camaraderie, several young men challenged me to wrestle – that was how Standing Bear translated for me as these young men did not know French. I fear I offended them when I agreed and just suggested they should all come at me together. There were four of them, and Xena you would have been proud. It only took a couple of minutes before the boys were nursing any number of bruises. After they’d picked themselves up off the ground, they clapped my shoulders to show no offense taken. That is when I felt overly bold and confessed to Standing Bear that I was a woman. He laughed and laughed.
He said that while I may be pretty for a man, that I was no woman. This naturally irritated me and I was trying to think of a way to prove it. He said he’d sleep on it, that I could get the guns in the morning and then rejoin the settlers. I spent the night by the campfire with several other braves.
The next morning, he invited me to bathe with him at the river before heading back and I agreed. We were accompanied by two of the women, in addition to Red Moon and Long Feather. On the off chance he decided that I was telling the truth, he said that he wanted me to feel comfortable with female company. I think he also felt that if I were a man, I would be too embarrassed to strip in front of women. Xena, I trust you will be gratified to learn I’ve become less modest over the years. After two thousand years, I feel like I have seen just about every variation of the human form there is to see. Besides, more than once, I’ve been run out of a village or town naked, or had my clothes stolen in a prison, or captured and stripped. My skin is my armor and the rest is just costume, as they say.
We gathered by the river, enjoying an unseasonal last gasp of summer that clung to the fall day. Everyone began to undress, communal bathing clearly not an unusual occurrence. I followed suit. I could see several braves in the vicinity keeping a watchful eye and I was gratified that the watchfulness was directed outward – towards anyone approaching the bathing area, not at me. We were quite safe. Red Moon sat on a rock, splashing water on his uninjured leg, wisely keeping his injured limb out of the water.
Carefully I put the weapons from my boots to the side – the throwing knife and the Derringer pistol. Standing Bear frowned at his sons who looked embarrassed; they had unknowingly left me armed the whole time. I dropped my pants and belt with my phallus, undid the shirt, and finally removed the binding around my breasts. It took me longer to undress than the family who were already in the river. The water was cold but not uncomfortably so and to be honest, it was a relief for a moment, fleeting as it was, to just be able to be myself. One of the women, Moon Song, I presumed was Standing Bear’s mother, and I took the other, Morning Rain, to be his wife, or one of his wives if he had more than one. There was maternal note to her laughter when I proved him wrong, although I did not understand any of the admonishments she gave him. Standing Bear blushed and seemed very sheepish at not being able to discern a woman in men’s clothes. I could almost swear he said something about all white men looking the same, beards or not.
There was a sound behind us. I turned to see what it was and then I heard the gasp. The women said something excitedly and Long Feather asked me about my ‘war paint’. It took me a moment to realize they were discussing the dragon tattoo on my back. Given that I rarely see it, having few occasions to stand between a couple of mirrors, I often forget it’s there. I explained to the best of my ability what it was, how it was applied. At first, I think they doubted that it was indeed imbedded in my skin but I joined them in the river and Standing Bear asked me if Moon Song could touch it. I agreed and could feel the old woman’s finger tips at the wings and body of the dragon. She whispered something to her son’s wife who asked if she could touch it as well. I explained that I did not mind if they all touched it, as it was just part of my skin. They all examined the tattoo at my neck and shoulders, all of them being gentle and respectful. Even Red Moon limped over, intrigued by the dragon. To reciprocate, the brothers each invited me to touch a scar or mark on their bodies. Long Feather had a scar on his forearm, and Red Moon had a round birth mark on the back of his shoulder. Perhaps more difficult than explaining the process of the tattoo was explaining what a dragon was, and that it was not an animal I had personally seen. This became of more interest to them than the fact that I am a woman who dresses as a man. As a result, they have gifted me with the name ‘Fire Eagle’.
As we bathed and then dressed, we spoke of our life and it felt good to tell the truth to some degree and Xena, I want you to know that when I do – when people ask me about my life – the life I lived with you is what I talk about. Granted, I need to phrase things a bit creatively to account for two thousand years, but our adventures were my life and you are my love. Standing Bear’s people believe that someone like me, a woman who loves women, or a man who loves men are ‘two-spirit’ people, possessing the spirit of both sexes. I gently tried to disagree that despite the clothes I wear that I am indeed all women, but that is their belief. Unlike the Europeans and Americans moving west, one such as myself is not seen as an abomination but rather as someone with unique insight. That is refreshing as well.
I feel truly welcomed by this family even though I know they consider me an outsider. It’s an odd juxtaposition I suppose, but sharing my secret with them and explaining my reasons for the deception – being from a far-away land and not appreciating the lower status that women are regulated to – seems to have put me on better footing with the Crow. In fact, Red Moon thanked me for treating his wound and gave me his hunting knife, a well-honed blade in a beautiful beaded sheath and in return I gave him mine. His father looked pleased at the gesture. While I may look like a white man, I am not one of them and that distinction seems to weigh in my favor.
Standing Bear has asked me of my plans and I have explained that I intend to settle nearby for a spell, in Oregon City, but beyond that, my fortunes seem uncertain. He has asked if I’d be willing to meet back here, in a year’s time to see how I have fared. I am intrigued at the prospect. This place where they’ve set up camp is tucked away, secluded, but I don’t doubt my ability to find it again. We shall see if our paths cross again, but I hope that they do.
I rejoined the main company only a few days outside our final destination. I was met with so much suspicion; lord knows what Percival and Henry told the others, that I am simply continuing onto Oregon City on my own. I left them two days ago and have ridden hard to put as much distance between the group and myself as I could. They have served their purpose to me, and me to them and frankly am happy to be rid of them. I had kind words with Hoss before I left and he feels bad on account of his brother. He hopes to meet up with me in town, we shall see.
March 22rd, 1847- Monday
My Dearest Xena,
From time to time, I ponder the nature of time itself. The way the seasons bleed into one another and the way our celestial symmetry hammers out it’s never ending rhythm, not unlike the heartbeat of the universe. It makes me recall a conversation I had once with Galileo Galilei. We would chat on occasion as I made my way through Tuscany about the essence of the universe and all the mysteries contained within. He would argue the case for the universe and life external and all the wonder science could reveal. I would counter with the universe within comprised of man’s capacity to love and understand the wondrous frontier of knowing ourselves and empathy for others. We would drink and talk until the wee hours of the morning. Aside from my ability to heal, I can’t help but marvel at the effect ambrosia has had on my mind. No, my beloved, it hasn’t made me anymore clever but my ability to recall and remember has certainly been to my benefit. In an instant, I can recall anything, from the scent that first time I held my first-born child with Mistos, to the price of bread in Egypt when I lived in the Pharos’s house, to the heft of a lens that Galileo made for his telescope, to that tiny scar above your breast. At times memory has been my salvation as much as it has been a torment to appreciate all that I’m missing.
I am pleased to tell you that the past half year has seen me settle fairly well into my life in Oregon City. I think this place has potential – both investigative and professional, and I’ve even surprised myself at the way ‘Sam Stafford’ has been accepted by the community in a personal fashion. Oregon City is quite the bustling town; situated on the east side of the Willamette River, just below the falls. I’d gather that the town’s population is about five hundred people. There are a number of businesses here, more springing up every week it seems as people continue to arrive by wagon train. Fur trading is the primary economic engine although there are a number of other businesses in town. I’ve taken up residence in a small hotel on one end of Main Street, near the falls. It’s owned by Frederick and Ethel Mason. Fred had done well in the fur trading business until an injury left him crippled. I believe it was a stroke but it happened some years ago and there isn’t anything I can do for him medically. He doesn’t talk much and has a hard time getting around. Fortunately, they had the resources to convert their home into a small hotel and continue to prosper. They live on the bottom floor, which has its communal dining room, large kitchen, and bathing area in an enclosed porch. They have four rooms to rent upstairs. I happened to show up as they’d asked a previous renter to leave; John Marshall, a fur trapper, had shown up drunk and disagreeable one too many times. It didn’t take much for me and a broom handle to convince him to find shelter elsewhere.
I make myself useful to the Masons when I’m not working by splitting logs, doing repairs on the house– whatever might be needed. Due to my petite size, I feel the need to demonstrate my physical aptitude; strength, cunning, and skill are useful social currency. My efforts have left me in the good graces of Ethel to be sure. The rooms are decent; clean if not spacious. I have an iron bed with a full mattress and sheets, a dresser with a bowl and a pitcher of water, a place to put my things and hang my hat. My rent includes a daily meal and some laundry every week and a half or so. I will admit that since I’ve been stationary for a time, my collection of worldly possessions has increased. In addition to some new clothes and a new pair of boots, I’ve bought several books, which I enjoy reading in the evening. My acquisitions include The Count of Monte Cristo, by Alexandre Dumas, Edward Lear’s poetry book, A Book of Nonsense, and Theodor Waits, Foundation of Psychology. I also enjoy reading Charles Dickens and Edgar Allen Poe when I can find their work. Joseph Parnell owns the mercantile in town and on occasion has books to sell. From time to time, I also trade volumes with Ruth Ginnson who is the local school teacher. I see her in church on Sundays, which is the hub of social interaction.
I managed to get settled before the wagon train I’d been riding with arrived. It seems that Percival had fancied a girl he met on the trail and they married shortly after their arrival in town. I was surprised to be invited to the wedding and I was happy to attend. Hoss lives with Percival and Rebekah but I know he’d like to make his own way. The three of us have secured work on occasion with Pinkerton Detectives as I’d hoped; I have made some helpful contacts there. I also provide security for Henry Wells who operates a small stagecoach company. Hoss often joins me in this work as well. We ride with a stage coach from one place to the next, rifles at the ready to ensure that the stage and her cargo arrive at their destinations unmolested. The work is dangerous and as such pays well, which enables me to live alone and enjoy some degree of privacy. I also get to visit a number of cities with fair regularity, thus fostering relationships there as well.
I used to marvel Xena, back in the day, at the number of people you knew be they former foes or allies. I understand so much more now that interpersonal relationships are the foundation for so much. Like you, I certainly don’t make friends with everyone, and while I suppose not being a fearsome warlord has helped me make acquaintances more easily, I’m not everyone’s sip of whiskey. With fair regularity, though I meet people whose company I enjoy, and who enjoy mine.
There are other young men in town who would be my peers if I were indeed what I claim to be. I behave much like them, as much like them as I can tolerate that is. There are a couple of saloons in town. One of them, Whiskey Pete’s, is the bawdier of the two. Regularly you have fellows playing cards and girls singing and dancing with the usual activity of a brothel upstairs. The other establishment is The Clementine Social House, further uptown, which is a fairly nice place. The emphasis there is on food and refreshment, and it is the smaller of the two.
About once a month or so, I take a trip to the upstairs of Whiskey Pete’s. I’ve come to know three of the girls that work the establishment: Ruby, Abigail and Scarlett. That first time it was Scarlett who broke the ice. I was playing cards with Hoss, Wyatt, Virgil, and Jackson. Wyatt and Virgil are a father and son team of fur trappers and Jackson is the undertaker. I was well into my forth whiskey and working to lose the five dollars I’d brought with me for gambling. Wyatt and Virgil were telling stories of their recent excursion and encounters with the Paiute people. Slowly losing my money was a way to keep them taking. About the time they’d finished their tale, Scarlett walked over and casually took a seat in my lap, to the delight and good humor of my companions.
“I can think of a better way to part with your money, Sam,” she said, her breath light against my ear.
“Scarlett! Come sit in my lap,” Jackson suggested. “Don’t waste time with that boy.”
“This boy smells a sight better than the lot of you,” she replied as she ran her hand down my thigh.
“And you teased me for bathing,” I said to Hoss, who blushed. “Who’s the fool now?” The fellows laughed. Everyone was in good spirits; the alcohol enough to take the edge off without anyone getting nasty drunk.
“I swear, for someone who spends as much time on the trail as you do, you keep frightfully clean.” Hoss shook his head dismissively and collected his winnings for the hand.
“If I told you I did it for my horse, would you believe me?” I said this with the appropriate amount of slurring. While I couldn’t feel it the way I man could, I could tell where Scarlett’s hand had moved and I jumped a little and smirked as I saw her eyes widen a little in surprise. I’ve been with enough men to know my own idea of an ideal size and I was clearly not the only one to think so.
Hoss chuckled again. “Whiskey is ornery enough I’d almost think so,” he said. “Why don’t you go finish your business upstairs, before you pass out from drink?”
“That Hoss King is a smart man,” Scarlett whispered in my ear, stroking my shoulders with her other hand. I will admit, it had been a long time since I’d felt human touch and it felt nice. “Why don’t you and I have a go?”
“Then lead on Miss Scarlett,” I said, letting her take me by the hand as I stumbled my way up the stairs. The boys at the card table cheered me on. They all thought I was young and possibly a virgin. Inwardly I laughed at that.
I feigned embarrassment as I glanced around her room when she closed the door. It was basic: clean, orderly, but not fastidious. The iron bed was not large but it was serviceable and looked inviting. The smell of flowers and perfume hung thick but not unpleasantly so. I saw a bouquet in a mason jar on the windowsill. It was a nice alternative to the usual smell of smoke and saloon.
She was straightforward enough. “Sam, its two dollars for a basic fuck, we all charge the same, house rules. You can pay with coin, cash, or gold, and don’t try to pass off that fool’s gold. All of us could practically be assayers. Big Jim is just down the hall, although you’ve never struck me as a violent drunk.”
“Miss Scarlett,” I replied, making sure I lightly slurred my words, “cheating you for services rendered would be the farthest thing from my mind. And no, ma’am, I would never hurt you.” I swayed a little to reinforce the illusion of compliant drunk and she smiled indulgently.
“My, but you are a charmer.” She chuckled as she moved next to me and leaned down to sniff at my collar. “Hoss wasn’t kidding; there isn’t any stink on you. Won’t even make you take a bath, unless you’d like to pay for one? Some men like a woman washing them down. That would be ten cents extra, for the hot water and my time.”
“No thank you, Miss,” I said feigning a level of embarrassment I thought appropriate but didn’t feel in the slightest.
She moved in to kiss me and it was nice. It has been a very long time. “I like it when you flatter me. But you can call me ‘Scarlett’ at this point,” she replied moving to undo my shirt. I finished the kiss, taking my time, then gently and firmly I stilled her hands. I’d been working on my story for some time, knowing that eventually I’d need to go upstairs to fit in with my fellows.
“I have scars,” I said. “From my daddy. I’ll pay you four dollars, I keep my clothes on, your lamp off, and I get to touch you, beyond meeting my needs. I’d like release Miss Scarlett, not questions.” I made no apology, but was firm in my request. She cocked her head and looked at me, trying to decide whether to indulge her curiosity over potentially losing the sale. She opted for pragmatism and I believe was happy with her choice. I tried to strike a balance between fumbling young man and actual love making. Ultimately, I gave her five dollars, and I swear she looked guilty taking it. She asked if I’d be interested in another visit, with either her or one of the other two girls. I said I’d be happy to provide the same rumination if my demands were met. I accept that eccentricity comes dear.
That’s how it began. Every few weeks I feign some degree of drunkenness first, stumble upstairs and have a go. Ruby and Abagail were happy to meet my demands as well, and I’d say I see them all about equally. I leave them happy as a way to cover for my embarrassment at being ‘too quick’ and if any of them have realized my deception, they have not said so. Given that I don’t really let them handle me, it is possible I suppose that they don’t know. Five dollars is a lot of money, I’ve no doubt that they’re only turning in the two dollars they’re supposed to receive so there is incentive to keep my secret.
I have to say that the whole encounter leaves me torn and tangled. If I’m truly being honest, I have to admit that I don’t dislike the deception of being a man all of the time. I enjoy the respect and being taken at my word, treated fairly, and judged on my character and actions. These things are stripped away the second you don a dress. There is a paternalism to the culture here that we’ve encountered on many of our travels together Xena and I have to say it hasn’t aged well. You’d like it no better now than you did then. But when it comes to physical or emotional intimacy and one-on-one relationships, this is where my costume and deception grate on me. Even with Hoss, I ache at not being able to be who I am. I have my same sense of humor, same fondness for telling stories but I hide much of what I know, and a fair bit of what I think. I suppose it’s boastful to say, but I feel bad that he can’t know all of me.
When it comes to the girls in the Saloon, it’s different. There I ache for my own desires. I want to be touched by a hand other than my own. I want to feel the things I’ve missed for a very long time now. I want to have the charge and release of that intimate connection with another woman and sadly, that just isn’t safe here. So, I channel my frustrated energies into the pleasure of the three women and leave them satisfied and appreciative. I head back to my rooms and try to drink away the dull ache and curse the fact that my head clears so quickly. When morning comes, I shake it off and don my costume anew.
July 4th, 1847- Sunday
My Dearest Xena,
Today the United States of America is seventy-one years old. I’ve read an interesting speech by James K. Polk, who is the eleventh President of this young country. There was a huge celebration in town and it was an opportunity to mingle with the people I’ve been friendly with as well as meet some of the new arrivals. I swear more people flood into Oregon City every week. The food was good and the revelry infectious. There was dancing, music, with nearly everyone being of good cheer. It’s been interesting to witness the celebration from within America’s boarders. Until my journey here, everything I knew of The United States, starting with the colonies and even at the first discovery of this land was from overseas. Certainly, the perspective from the courts of England, or aristocracy of France or even Italian countryside was different.
I keep Whiskey in a stable close by, and have gotten to know the owner, Samson Clarke, fairly well. He lost his wife in childbirth sixteen years ago and it’s just been him and his son Charles ever since. Charles tends to Whiskey’s shoes when he needs them. He may be young, but the boy knows horses and pays attention to detail. I’ve never worried about Whiskey’s care at Samson’s stable. One of the new arrivals in town is a Ferrier named Caleb Mercy. Originally from Mississippi, he ventured out west and made a bid for my business at the celebration. I just don’t have a good feeling about the man. He reminded me of how you used to describe your lieutenant Darphus. There is some kind of darkness in the man. Politely as I could, I declined. Caleb is married and his wife Elizabeth seems shy. She looked genuinely worried when I refused her husband’s services.
Also of recent note is that I have experienced my first gunfight, as well as my first duel. The gunfight occurred as Hoss and I were riding security about three weeks ago on a trip from Oregon City to Laramie. Just a stage coach with a strong box delivery. Six fellas tried to ambush us and I was struck in the gut. The bullet went clean through. I managed to drop one of the men on horseback with a rifle and got the other with my pistol. Hoss got a third man with his rifle and I think we injured two others who escaped with the third who got away unharmed. I swear Hoss’ embellishment of the tale has grown with each retelling. I told him I’d only been grazed to account for the blood on my clothing.
Somehow, the story seemed to offend John Marshall, who has had it in for me since I took his room at the Mason’s boarding house. This afternoon he picked a fight. Our Sheriff, Beaumont Northingham, did not see fit to intercede and John drew on me at the picnic. I was faster, and shot him in the arm holding his gun. The poor man could have survived but Doc Weatherby is an idiot and under his care, I expect the man will be dead by week’s end or at the very least will need to have his arm amputated from infection.
I wrestle with the decision not to intercede. It has been my experience that as soon as I exhibit more knowledge than I ought to know, people turn on me. It’s fine to be well read, or polite or helpful, but get in the way of someone with status – in this case the town’s doctor – then a suspicion is planted that will bear the fruit of discord, and I don’t need that. Certainly, John Marshall knew the risks when he came at me with a gun. I won’t lose sleep over his fate, well, not too much at any rate.
I am quite pleased to hear from a contact at Pinkerton about a performer in Astoria who goes by the name The Mighty Aphrodite. I believe she’s a singer and has been described, at least by the local adverts, as the most beautiful woman in the world. Astoria isn’t terribly far ride from here and while I can’t imagine that Aphrodite would be a theatre performer, I suppose it isn’t too far-fetched an idea. Even if the chance is slight, I need to see for myself to know for sure.
October 31st, 1847- Sunday
My Dearest Xena,
To my surprise and some degree of sadness, the festival of Samhain does not seem to have made its way to the New World as of yet, at least not to these parts out west. As of now, I hear that the Protestants in the north are most unwelcoming of new religious traditions, but that the southern parts of this continent may be a different story. I have no doubt that it is a matter of time though as I hear there are immigrants from Ireland arriving to the United States every day. As more people arrive from all over Europe, they bring their culture and traditions, making this country stronger and more vibrant with each new introduction. In time, I’m sure there will be Samhain festivals, but not yet.
I ventured to Astoria in early September and I can tell you that the trip turned out not as I expected. The ride from Oregon City was beautiful, lovely fall with the sights, sounds, and scents of the changing season. Xena, there are all manner of plants and animals here that would amaze and delight you. And green! I think I have seen every permutation of the color green possible, from the brightest verdant hue to the drabbest olive brown. And with fall in the air, the shades of yellow and orange are breathtaking as well. I traveled near the Colombia River, giving the bears a wide berth. I arrived to the coastal city, tended to Whiskey, and then booked myself a room in the hotel. I was able to arrange for a bath and get myself cleaned up. I found the theatre where The Mighty Aphrodite performed. She was the musical act, fourth on a bill of five performing acts. I’d brought the proper attire with me and managed to keep everything clean and dust free on the trail; I don’t think it’s boastful to say I clean up well. I enjoyed the first acts enough I suppose; standard theatre fare. When it came time for the musical number, my heart sank. It was not her. I know it had been a far-fetched hope but the disappointment still stung.
I left the theatre, not having the stomach to sit through the ballet. I made my way to the saloon, determined to get lost in a bottle of bourbon, salvation the farthest thing from my mind. My distemper and body language had been enough to keep the usual girls in such an establishment at bay. I bought the whole bottle and was drinking it steadily, feeling the effects if only for a moment. I scarcely noticed the tall brunette when she sat down at my table to join me.
“Need some help with that bottle?” Her voice had a low vibrato threaded with promise and humor. I looked up into crystal blue eyes and my heart lurched. Xena, I felt so lost. From the disappointment hours earlier to this woman who reminded me so much of you. I wanted to get lost in those eyes. Well, your eyes. I desperately wanted to feel your arms around me but your arms aren’t here and I wanted to settle for hers. I fear it was all on my face Xena. The hunger, the desire, the disappointment, the longing – all of it. Who I really am shone right through what I’ve worked so hard to contain for so long. Her eyes went wide with surprise, and then she smiled at me most warmly.
“I see,” she said, gently taking my shot glass and pouring herself a drink.
“I don’t think you do.” This was not me playing the innocent youth out of his depth with women. This was not me playing the violent gunslinger unafraid of any man. This was me, Gabrielle, at the edge of a precipice I desperately wanted to fall over, knowing that such a mistake could be serious.
“You’ve turned down my two best girls. I guess that’s not what you’re looking for, mister?” She was of good humor, but this was a challenge. She knew I was a woman, how is still a mystery, and was trying to ascertain the reason for my disguise.
“I prefer brunettes.” I poured her another drink and took a healthy swig from the bottle.
“Really? Would you even know what to do with a woman like me?” She challenged gently, and I let a smile glide across my face that I know made her reconsider exactly who had the upper hand here. She knew my secret, but if she was bluffing, I was clearly calling it. I leaned in close and whispered into her ear.
“My aim would be to ruin you for any other man, miss.”
“Follow me.” And just like that, she rose from the table, with me closely behind.
She was in her thirties, perhaps. Beautiful, strong – not you by a longshot but the closest resemblance I’d seen in recent memory. She led me through the hotel to a small house behind it. She explained that her husband owned the hotel but that they often lived apart. He was a businessman who traveled the country investing in various companies and interests; she managed the hotel and ran the brothel. Clearly, she ran the business and was not on the menu – unless she chose to be. She plainly asked why I was posing as a man, when she could plainly tell that I was not.
I was relieved to let my guard down. I explained that I was an entrepreneur myself, from Europe, and that traveling alone as a woman I’d have diminished rights and opportunities not to mention less safety.
“Oh,” she said disappointedly. “That business out there was for show of course, wrecking me for any other man?”
“I don’t think your husband would appreciate it if I did,” I replied with a smile. We were standing in her parlor, a very nicely appointed room. Soft, but not overly feminine. She was wealthy but did not put on airs about it.
We both knew that this conversation had moved in to dangerous waters. If either of us were wrong about the other, the consequences could be serious. I’ve been in that position more than once, a mistaken cue igniting any manner of anger or embarrassment but in this moment, I did not care. Xena, I’m not entirely sure why I did it, but caution be damned, I crossed the parlor and kissed her. She returned the kiss but quickly, breaking contact and stepping a respectful distance away. She did not look shocked, offended, or scandalized. No, she looked pleased, and hungry.
She whispered “Not here,” and it only took a moment to feel my foolishness. There were windows and the drapes were not drawn.
“Give me a moment,” she said, excusing herself to her bedroom. When she called to me, my heart caught in my throat.
“Perhaps you’d like to be a woman for a bit? I’ll make some coffee, we may be up late.” She had drawn the drapes closed and lit lamps so the room glowed warm and soft. There was a simple dress laid out on the bed.
I was hesitant at first. It had been some while since I’d donned the clothes of a woman. Much longer still since I’d made love as a woman, allowed myself to be touched and known as a woman. While we were alone in the house, there was still an element of risk. If someone were to barge in on us for whatever reason, she’d be ruined and I’d be run out of town, lucky if folks didn’t attempt to rape or beat me on the way.
“You’re not worried about someone walking in?”
She shrugged. “I have men who work as my security. They saw a man walk in; they will see a man leave. My husband is too wealthy for anyone to object to how we go about our business. As for Mister Banks, my husband, this will be a tale that he will…enjoy the retelling of, and by then you shall be gone.”
I put on the dress, not necessarily happy to be in the costume of the time, but very happy to be quit of the clothes of my alter ego, Sam Stafford. She fixed me some coffee and we chatted, then she asked me to dance and it was wonderful. In time, she undid the dress and slid it off my shoulders as I did the same for her.
I have no illusions that for her I was anything other than a pleasant evening. Clearly, she enjoyed my company; she quite enthusiastically enjoyed my company. And I do not deny that I absolutely enjoyed hers. She was as skilled a lover as I’d been with in decades. She was clear about what she wanted, she was eager to lead and take charge and I was happy to let her. Once in a great while I indulge my fantasies and pretend I’m with you. Xena, I don’t do it often, in part because it isn’t fair to whomever I am with but also in part because living in the past isn’t healthy for me in the present. But I fantasied Xena, gods how I fantasized. She knew it, she didn’t mind, and in fact encouraged me to call out your name.
Hours later when we were spent but content she asked me about you and I told her – that you were the other half of my soul and that you’d died. I said it was some years ago but that I still ached for you even though I knew my life needed to go on. I think she understood, saying, “Love is not a creature that behaves by the laws of time and understanding.”
Relaxing in bed, we continued to talk pleasantly as friends and she told me about her husband’s business. I gave her the names of several people in my company to contact as well as code words I’d provided my agents so they’d know that someone had indeed spoken to me. After I’d dressed, I removed a gold nugget from a small compartment in the heel of my boot. It was covered in black wax and looked like a pebble. I scraped off a little of the wax so she could see what it was. Her eyes went wide. She was surprised and pleased and invited me to visit whenever I’d like. I assured her I would.
I thought a lot about Delores in the days after. I don’t have any illusions but I do believe that her friendship and the friendship I’ve found with the Crow will make my day to day deception something I can endure.
I made my way to the Crow camp immediately after leaving Astoria. It took me about two weeks to get there with steady traveling as we used to do. The water was plentiful and I fished on occasion to preserve my hard tack. Delores had also sent me off with some bread and hard cheese for my ride. I found Standing Bear’s secluded camp without much trouble. I was cautious the closer I got because I knew they weren’t in well-established Crow territory and I didn’t want to bring unnecessary attention to myself.
I was welcomed warmly by the family, the members I had not met from before had clearly been told about me. More of the family spoke French and in some cases, I was able to help the younger ones with grammar and vocabulary. Standing Bear’s wife and mother welcomed me graciously and it’s hard to describe, but the sense of peace I felt just being able to be me, Gabrielle – not a man – not like most women – just me. That sort of freedom was so restorative. I did regular chores and projects with the family, spent some time just by myself swimming in the small lake and sitting on the bank daydreaming, knowing I was safe and accepted. It felt good to let my guard down for a bit.
I’m happy to say Red Moon was fully recovered from his gunshot and was quite proud to show me the scar. Long Feather was away hunting when I arrived but greeted me warmly when he returned with dinner. I told stories as I had before about our adventures. I used names like Fire Vengeance, Beauty Heart Feather, Thunder Cloud, Sunchaser, Moon Huntress, Death Bringer, Battle Wise Woman and Crazy Chaos Spirit to describe the various gods we’ve encountered (and Callisto). Naturally, I referred to you as Warrior Blue Eyes because ‘princess’ didn’t really translate. This time Standing Bear opened up to me some about his own challenges between the various native nations and how their battles would be affected by the incursion of the English.
I was honest with him and counseled that the white menace was not going to go away and that fighting them would be standing against the tide. I suggested that the native nations form an alliance, but people are people and on occasion short-sighted. He seemed to appreciate my perspective and we discussed strategy. Standing Bear is a wise man, he is of keen intellect, but he also is a loving, kind man looking far down the road for the safety and prosperity of his people.
I must have spent a week or more with the family. I tended to several who were sick or injured and they taught me some tricks about preparing food for long journeys as well as their craft with the bow and arrow. As before, some of the boys wanted to wrestle or see if I could catch their arrows, that sort of thing. I’ve been very careful not to become injured around the family. I worry if they see the way my skin heals it will be too much to comprehend and I will be seen as some sort of evil spirit. It’s happened more times than I can count. I truly enjoy my time here and do not want to see my welcome worn out. As before, we agreed to meet again in a year’s time. It is an anniversary to which I very much look forward.
June 22nd, 1848- Thursday
My Dearest Xena,
I had the most amazing, vivid dream last night. It was just after we’d met, after you had rescued me and the other girls from Draco. I recalled feeling lost, scared, and so very alone but I looked into your azure blue eyes and felt a safety and security that I don’t think I experienced in my entire life up to that point. I felt like someone was seeing me for the very first time and I felt the desire to wake up to those eyes of vivid blue for the rest of my days.
In my dream, we were sitting by a campfire that first night you invited me to join you. That first night. Before Callisto, Perdicus, Helen of Troy, Cecrops, before anyone crossed our path or adventures we shared. Before I even knew what love was, Xena, I fell in love with you. In my dream, I leaned over and kissed you, my mouth moved gently against yours and my kiss was returned. Even as I dreamt and watched us make love by the fire, it was as if I was standing outside my body. Did you know then Xena? Did you know then that from the second I saw those magnificent blue eyes, I saw my destiny, that my soul cleaved to yours, that I would follow you anywhere, that I loved you? As I watched the scene of us unfold, I saw the passion and the tenderness, and I felt the heat. So much heat.
I woke with a start to realize that my fever had broken and I was soaked with sweat. I had been wounded in a gun fight, something that had become far too often an occurrence. The gunfights were regular, being injured was an anomaly. A bullet had lodged firmly in my shoulder after having gone through my clavicle, rendering my right arm fairly useless. The reality is that I have been cocky, despite my ability to heal and understandable desire not to kill people. I’ve gotten good with guns, Xena. Very good. Easily as good as I am with a staff, and your chakram, and swords, my bare hands and any other number of weapons at this point.
Even now, I hear the words of all the sages I’ve followed over the years – Najara, Eli, Aiden, people I’ve met on my journeys without you. Some have been false teachers like Najara and Aiden, but I’ve met so many truly learned and peaceful people. People whose spiritual guidance shines like a beacon on the horizon. And still. And still words of peace can ring hollow when a man is standing in the street pointing a gun, wanting to kill you for some imagined slight.
This time, it was Logan Short, a grifter and gambler passing through town who lost his prized revolver, Odessa, a beautiful pearl handled Colt Walker Revolver to me in a card game. My memory of the cards in my hand and the probable cards in play allowed me to simply glance at my cards once then keep them on the table, under my folded hands. It’s hard to read marked cards if you can’t see them. And certainly, I could read the small changes in his expression easily enough to know when he was bluffing. Honestly, I expected him to take my offer to sell the gun back to him when I’d made it privately, away from the others so he could save face. All he had to do was leave town. He wanted to fight instead. Again, someone taking my apparent youth and size for granted.
As was my general rule in gunfights, I’d hit my opponent in their gun arm or leg to wound them. If they had two guns and moved to draw both, that changed things but as a rule I tried to let my opponents live, assuming Doc Weatherby didn’t kill them after. I drew faster than Logan Short and disarmed his right hand. I was not expecting him to pull another pistol from the back of his belt with his left. The bullet hit me and knocked me to the ground. He charged towards me to fire again and fell dead, look of complete surprise on his face when I took the gun from my right hand with my left and fired, hitting him between the eyes.
I managed to get to my feet and Doc Weatherby wanted to have a look at me. Xena, I now know what you did so many times and what it cost you to do it. I grinned and said that the bullet had just grazed me and that I was fine. I excused myself proclaiming an urge for a drink and a fuck, anything to get the town to move on to the next distraction. True to my word, I went to the saloon, drank several shots of whiskey, ambled upstairs, and did my best with the excruciating pain in my shoulder. Ruby was clearly concerned and offered to see to the wound for me; I assured her I was fine. A quick tumble later and I was able to stumble back to my room at the hotel. I got out my small medical kit and with a belt between my teeth to bite on; I proceeded to dig out the bullet. I had only just managed to extract it when I passed out from the pain.
I have discovered over the years that injuries heal much faster if it’s a stab wound or arrow that has pierced through me or some sort of injury that doesn’t leave something behind. The foreign object imbedded in the skin causes delirium until such time as my body is able to push out the offending object. Imbedded as it was, I could have been in bad shape for days or weeks had I not taken matters into my own hand. Passed out as I was, I was lucky that the wound closed and stopped bleeding. When I awoke, I was very nearly healed, save for some persisting tenderness as the bone continued to knit.
Even now Xena, in my time of pain and suffering you are there for me. Never farther than my memory, you haunt me. It is a haunting I cherish even as the pain of it feels like a hot knife in my heart. I expect I will spend much of today in bed, trying to fully recover and hoping to return to dreams of you, where I can hold you and touch you and have you tell me that it’s all going to be all right.
February 17th, 1849- Saturday
My Dearest Xena,
Today I had the profound honor of standing up with Hoss during his nuptials to Ruth Ginnson, the schoolmarm. There is something about the ceremony of a wedding that gets me every time. Naturally, I think about my first marriage to Perdicus. That event still fills me with bittersweet regret. We both know I had no business marrying him. I didn’t love him the way I loved you but life has since taught me that I will love no one the way I loved you, ever – but I can indeed still love in spite of this fact. There is value in the love I had for Perdicus, like the love I had for Mistos, the father of my children. There is value in a love that doesn’t blind you with its intensity, just as that blinding intensity has no equal. A lesser love is still love and as such is worthwhile.
I stood there today with Hoss who was beaming with pride in a new suit, with a fresh shave and haircut. I swear he looked as young as they think I am and not his worldly twenty-five years. I am genuinely happy for them both. Hoss has been talking about Ruth incessantly for months. While I don’t think matrimony will stop his effusive gushing, I can still hope. The man has been full-pierced by cupid’s arrow, he now is of the mind that everyone should get married, including me. It has been suggested that I make an honest woman out of one of the three I visit from the saloon since those are the only women with which I regularly spent time. I told him I don’t want to steal his matrimonial thunder but would give it some thought, which I won’t. Even so, it has been nice watching the fits and starts of young love. I think it reminds all who witness it what it is like being young and of singular focus.
About a week or two before his nuptials, Hoss and I had an interesting conversation on the trail coming back from a Pinkerton job. When I say “interesting,” I do mean an uncomfortable conversation that you would have found most amusing. We’d stopped at a healthy creek, letting our horses drink before crossing and unexpectedly he asks, “Shorty, do you have some sort of physical deformity?”
I looked up to see him pointedly looking at my pants. I frowned at him and replied, “I’ve got the parts god saw fit to give me, same as you. Speak plainly, what are you asking?”
He shifted a bit uncomfortably in his saddle and adjusted is hat. “I will admit that the other night I was in the outhouse behind Whiskey Pete’s. I was answering nature’s call and I overheard three of the girls that you visit talking. Ruby, Abagail and that other one…”
“Scarlett,” I supplied. He nodded in agreement.
“Right. Anyways, they were discussing us boys, and who was their favorite and goddamn if they didn’t all say you. You unnaturally endowed or something?”
Now it was my turn to shift uncomfortably. I frowned at him. “I expect the girls were having a go at you, knowing you were there,” I deflected. “While I don’t make a habit of looking at other men’s peters, I do not think I’m special in that department.” To forestall the next question, or gods forbid a request to see it, I extended my two index fingers about six inches apart. While I think my phallus is a little longer, I certainly didn’t want Hoss to know that.
He looked uncertain, as if he expected me to be concealing something of enormous length and girth, which my pants indicate I clearly am not. “I just don’t get it. I would like nothing more than to have Ruth talk of me the way those three spoke of you, I thought it was your pecker.” He shrugged and genuinely seemed lost.
I chuckled as we made our way across the river. “It isn’t really about your pecker, my friend,” I assured him. “I have two secrets in my dealings with women, and as you’re going to marry soon, I will share them both with you. Firstly, I bathe every three days at least – with soap. Daily I give my pits and nethers a good rinse.” He grimaced but I cut him off. “I know you think it unnecessary, but I’m telling you it makes a difference for anyone having to be near you. In fact, I bathe more often if I’m working up a sweat and have the opportunity. Women don’t want to deal with your stink, trust me. Secondly, as good as the ladies make me feel, I make them feel just as good, even when I’m done – especially when I’m done. The things you want them to do with their mouth? I do the same for them, son. If I expect to get weak in the knees, well so should they.” I looked at him unflinchingly to make my point.
He frowned as if I’d just told him something that made no sense. “Percy says that a woman’s pleasure comes from satisfying a man. That’s not true?”
I laughed aloud at this, drawing the attention of both Whiskey and Tallulah, Hoss’ palomino mare. The two horses seemed mildly interested in the source of my humor. “Hoss King, do you for a second think that were he so inclined, Ruby, Abagail and Scarlett would think him a magnificent lover?”
“I concede your point, Shorty.”
Clearly, I’d given him something on which to ruminate. Whether he takes my advice or not makes no never mind to me. Although, as someone who refuses to ride downwind of him, I do hope he takes my advice on the bathing part at least.
It may surprise you that Hoss asked me to stand up with him, and not his brother Percival. A rift has settled upon part of Oregon City with people picking sides. I don’t suppose it would surprise you to learn that I am somewhat involved.
I’ve mentioned Samson, who owns the stable, and his son Charles who looks after Whiskey. I have also mentioned Caleb Mercy and his wife Elizabeth. I think my suspicions about that man not being right in the head were well founded. Since coming to Oregon City, Caleb has been seen as a figure to be feared or avoided. The farrier and his wife are social pariahs to some extent. This has not been good for his business. He works out of a stable on the far side of town called Patterson’s. Anyway, he was behind the business that happened at Samson’s three weeks ago and many in town are still angry about it.
I was in my room at the Mason’s sound asleep, having just returned from a six-week job with Pinkerton. A pebble repeatedly striking my window woke me and I found Charles outside, in the dead of night, frantic that his father was in trouble. Two men, Zeke, and Clem – two local thugs-for-hire were at the stables threatening Samson and the horses. Charles was worried they’d burn the place down or hurt the animals.
As you can imagine, I wasted no time in racing over there, even dispensing with my usual precautions as to my appearance. I sent Charles to fetch Hoss and the Sheriff, more to keep him busy than actually needing the assistance. When I arrived at the stables, Samson was unconscious and Zeke and Clem were passing a bottle back and forth and taunting Whiskey, who was out of his stall, with torches. Xena, I don’t think I need to explain the white-hot rage that came over me. Different from the red rage of action without thought, this was a calculated anger. There were no witnesses. These men were going to pay dearly to set an example of the consequences from threatening my friends or associates.
It didn’t take much to get one of the torches and the bottle from Zeke. I took the fight outside, away from the hay and horses then spit fire in his face. He screamed like a banshee before dousing himself in a nearby horse trough. Clem charged back into the barn and I followed. He came at me with a knife; before he could throw it, Whiskey had kicked him, breaking his arm and several ribs. After that, I unleashed my fury. In moments, it was all over. I grabbed a nearby shovel and made good use of it. Anger fueled my focus and every swing, punch, kick and throw landed as intended. Bones broke under my assault, their blood splattering every which way. They tried to fight back but were no match for my skill or rage. When I finished, both men lay broken, bleeding, and perilously close to death. I put the pinch on Clem and demanded to know who put them up to it. I wasn’t worried about them noticing my breasts through my clothes, both of their faces were so swollen neither could see straight. Caleb Mercy had hired the pair to maim or kill some horses to drive business to Patterson’s and then to him by extension. I considered ending their miserable lives but didn’t. Letting them live would be a more effective warning to others. Some of their injuries were profound and would be life altering.
It turns out that Percival had a financial interest in Patterson’s and my actions may have resulted in several people pulling their horses from that stable and bringing them to Samson’s. As is his way, Sheriff Northingham has largely stayed out of all of it. I do not know if he really believes that people do better sorting out their own affairs in matters such as this or if he genuinely does not know what to do.
It is not lost on me, Xena, that when I look in the mirror, I see so little of the woman from Potidaea. The same girl who talked her way out of being a meal for a Cyclops, or was briefly Queen of the Amazons, or followed the path of peace and pacifism. Where has that woman gone? I have killed so many, wounded more, and always with a heavy heart. I feel like I know you so much better now, having walked some of your path. The weight that you carried with you all those years ago and the lengths you went to in order to shield me from that burden.
I don’t think I go a month without having to defend myself from a bandit or gun slinger. I have heard people in town call me ‘Dead Shot Shorty’ or just ‘Dead Shorty’ when they don’t think I’m in earshot. This does not mean I am an outsider mind you, quite the contrary. Dead Shorty is a name uttered with respect, admiration, and some degree of affection. Sort of the opposite of ‘Destroyer of Nations’ if you will. Mr. Shorty is probably the moniker I am called the most though, and it does make me smile.
That brings to mind something strange that happened at the reception today. I was in church with Hoss, Ruth, and other folks from town; friends and acquaintances I know fairly well. Elizabeth Mercy had been invited to the nuptials because she made Ruth’s dress. She’s a talented seamstress; I hear she’s also a skilled cook. Her husband declined to go since he knows Hoss and I are close. Anyway, Mrs. Mercy and I were formally introduced by Ruth and I was taken aback as to how unsettled I seemed to make her. I took her hand in greeting in the usual fashion and she nearly dropped her punch. I caught the cup with my left hand and handed it back, surprised to find her blushing furiously. I smiled and left her to her thoughts, not wanting to create the impropriety of talking to a married woman without her husband present.
April 30th, 1849- Monday
My Dearest Xena,
I know it is not my place to give these things much thought, but Elizabeth Mercy, or Bess, as I’ve come to think of her, continues to puzzle me. I’ve learned that her friends call her Bess, which in Oregon City means Ruth King, Hoss’ wife. For whatever the reason, Caleb Mercy has decided that Bess can have one friend and the friendship he will allow is with Ruth. Ruth says that Elizabeth prefers Bess. Caleb insists on calling her Elizabeth because he thinks it sounds fancy. Two issues puzzle me in regards to their relationship: why she would stay with a cruel brute such as Caleb, and what could drive a man (actually anyone, really) to mistreat someone so much. Bess is charming, from what I can tell. She seems sweet, bright, curious, but shy, certainly she’s beautiful. I think she’s in her early twenties and has long, straight, light brown hair that curls at the ends. Her eyes are light brown and quite striking. She’s tall, thin, and pale but has a kindness to her movement and the cadence of her voice. I can’t see what possible issue Caleb has with her but it seems everyone in town has heard him yell at her at least once.
It’s been raining; it seems there is no end in sight to the wet and mud. I was in a gunfight recently and the casualty this time, besides the fool who attacked me, was my beloved bowler hat. It suited me; it’s been my friend since before I embarked on the journey out west. Anyway, it met its demise as it was blown off my head and shot clean through the brim and crown. Nate West made a lucky shot, but it was his last.
The next morning, I open the door to my room and leaning against it was a beautiful black short crown hat. No note, no clue who it were from. I asked Fred and Ethel if they’d seen anyone come upstairs and they said ‘no’. I dressed for church; it is a necessary custom and essential to fitting in and being a part of the community. As I entered the building I tipped my hat to the women I passed, as is the polite custom. When I saw Bess, I tipped my hat. Sure, she was accompanied by her hot-tempered husband but that is no reason for me not to be polite. Anyway, I swear she smiled at me. A furtive, embarrassed, almost guilty looking smile. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost wonder if she suspects my true nature as Delores in Astoria had. But Delores is a singularly perceptive woman and I’ve hardly said two words to Bess so it couldn’t possibly be that.
January 19th, 1850- Saturday
My Dearest Xena,
Tonight, my heart is heavy with sadness and responsibility. I can only surmise that if you were here you would have handled my predicament without allowing yourself to become ensnared and encumbered by its outcome.
Yesterday morning seems a lifetime ago, yet it started plainly enough. I’d just returned from five weeks of work with Pinkerton and had made some good business contacts along the way. I was tired from the road and looking forward to a hot bath and several days of aimless rest before a trip to Astoria and Delores. I noticed I was nearly out of soap, so after my bath I decided to go to the mercantile. I also wanted some fabric for a new shirt.
Joseph’s mercantile is a nice enough place. Not the fanciest in town but I am often amused at the proprietor’s determination to persuade his customers to buy things other than what they came in for. He doesn’t do this to everyone mind you, but he does it to me and sometimes I relent, sometimes I don’t. He sells quality goods and for the most part his prices are fair.
So here we are, Joseph and I, going back and forth about the fabric for a shirt. I can sew well enough, although I don’t terribly enjoy the activity. I wanted something that would be comfortable to wear, as well as a fabric easy to work with. He didn’t know I’d be making the shirt myself mind you, I said I would be having an out of town cousin do it. Anyway, he’s determined to get me to buy a fancy linen I didn’t want for twice the price. During our discussion, Bess came in and as is her fashion of late, seems slightly flustered, blushing at the sight of me. She covered it well enough, Joseph didn’t notice. I tipped my hat and told Joseph to help the lady. She demurred, insisting she was happy to wait; she was just getting some eggs, thread, and liniment. Not five minutes later, Caleb comes in with a head of steam and a burr under his saddle. He starts in on Bess about the eggs and Joseph looks equal parts embarrassed and frightened. Before thinking, I bet Caleb ten dollars that he couldn’t tell a white egg from a brown egg once fried.
That was all it took. He’d been itching to do this for some time, I could just tell. The ass took a swing at me – a blow I easily deflected. He charged at me and I tripped him, sending him headlong into a display of flour sacks. The whole mess toppled over, covering him. He stood up looking like a ghost.
Well Joseph bust out laughing, Caleb shot out of the store as Hoss came in, and he bust up laughing, and I heard three or four more people outside laughing. You know who wasn’t laughing? Bess and me. I saw no humor in a violent man being laughed at. I knew where his rage was going to settle and so did Bess. Minutes later, Caleb comes back in and demands a gunfight for noon the next day, which is now today. I paid Joseph for the mess and went to the Sheriff to beg him to intercede. I told him to talk to Bess before Caleb would have an opportunity to vent at her.
By now my reputation in town is well established. When you never lose a gunfight, people stop challenging you as much unless they are a special brand of stupid, like Caleb. Like so many warlords and brigands we encountered in our travels.
Once again, in a fashion I can’t fathom, Sheriff Northingham refuses to act. He said he didn’t think Bess was in any danger but also thought that Caleb Mercy as a man Oregon City will be better off without. He did not appreciate me pointing out that those two statements were in conflict. Even Hoss has urged me to kill him and be done with it. He has mentioned more than once that Ruth has seen bruises on Bess that she’s tried to hide, as well as other various injuries. He suspected Caleb but without proof, nothing can be done, other than the expediency of murder. Women here are treated here as so much property, and getting someone like Sheriff Northingham to actually do something decisive is a fantasy. To some extent, his leadership style has been positive. Mostly people do sort out their differences amongst themselves. There are times, however, that I think some agency expressed from him on the town’s behalf would be beneficial. Certainly, I think if he took a firmer hand, we’d have less gunfights.
At any rate, Hoss’ suspicions about Caleb were confirmed when Bess came to my room that night. I guess Ethel took one look at her at the front door and let her inside even though it wasn’t strictly proper. Bess was in a frightful state. She had a fracture to a bone in her face, the ocular I’d suspect. Her shoulder was dislocated, her lip was split, and there were other assorted bruises and lacerations. I had her come in and sit down, and put her shoulder right, then tended to the worst of her injuries. She begged me not to go through with the fight. I told her I’d already been to the Sheriff, who was disinclined to intervene but I also expressed surprise that this was her position given her injuries.
“I can’t live on my own; I have neither the resources, education nor disposition for it. And I can’t pass as a man.” There it was. She knew. I asked how long she’d known and she said it was from the first moment she’d seen me. She said my eyes were too kind to belong to a man. So much for two-thousand years of insight and assumption on my part.
We talked for a couple of hours. Painful as it was, she let me put a stitch in her lip and bandage her wounds. As we conversed, she revealed that she’d been married off to Caleb young, too young, by a family with too many daughters. Unhappy, trapped in a loveless marriage to an abusive man, she felt frightened and alone. They had no children; what family she had was back in Ohio and were in no position to take her in. Caleb had been on his own since childhood and grown up rough, obviously. The Mercy’s owned no property and there was no money to speak of. Whatever money Caleb made, he drank in fifths. Even so, it was an existence that she knew, and if I could somehow get out of the fight, she would go on doing just that, existing. She was equally concerned it seemed for my safety, which was touching, if not unnecessary.
Without giving it much thought, I suggested that if Caleb died in the gunfight, I’d marry her myself, after a respectable time of mourning had passed. That would give her the time and freedom to decide what she’d want to do and where she might want to go. She seemed hesitant and tempted at the same time. I simply pointed out that it was only a matter of time before Caleb killed someone; if not her then someone else. She remarked of his possible death that it’d be “for the greater good” and I nearly choked on my whiskey.
The rain didn’t stop all last night. This morning it was cold, wet, and miserable. The mud was like a thick brown clay that didn’t want to let go of your boot heel. I made my way to the middle of town, across from the Sheriff’s office, dressed in my shirt, vest and pants, not bothering with my oiled canvas duster because I didn’t want anything in the way of my gun hand. My black hat kept the rain from my face, but my clothes were soaked and I was as cold on the outside as I felt on the inside. You could barely make out where the sun was from the thick cloud cover, but you could tell. You could just tell.
Caleb was there already with Zeke and Clem. Those two were still not fully recovered from the beat down Whiskey and I had given them two years ago. Zeke walked with a limp and scars on his face that had left him uglier than before. As for Clem, he can’t raise his right arm, I suspect from nerve damage. He drinks more now than he used to, and is a mean drunk. Unperturbed, I marched up to the trio and flatly told Caleb that I would let him live if he’d just leave town and go on without Bess. He glanced over to his wife who was standing on the covered sidewalk with Hoss and Ruth and turned back to me. “I’m gonna kill you and piss on your corpse.”
Xena, those were the last words that failed excuse of a man ever uttered. In the pouring rain, we took our places in the middle of the street and as soon as the bell on the church rang out I drew, shot, and killed him before his gun had even cleared its holster. Bess cried out, as much from relief as anything else I’d expect. Her husband fell backwards, landing in a muddy puddle with an undignified squish. Zeke and Clem looked at each other, back at me, then left in a hurry. I fully expect them to be gone by morning. Jackson, the undertaker was standing next to the sheriff and I expect has the casket at the ready.
These many hours later, I’m still trying to grapple with it all. I don’t need to tell you that even killing someone vile takes its toll. I would much rather spend my days trying to find Aphrodite or anyone who can help bring you back but to do that, I need to scour the earth, and to do that takes time, information, and the tenaciousness to live my life, even if the lives I’m living aren’t what I want them to be. Hoss and Ruth are taking Bess in for the time being but it is a temporary solution as Ruth is expecting a baby in six months or so.
As I sit here, listening to the staccato of rain on the roof, I am realizing all that my rashness entails. I am responsible for Bess now, for her safety, if not her happiness. Xena, I wonder – did you ever feel you were hasty in your decision to let me accompany you? You knew that the world was a dangerous place, that your road to redemption would be hard, and that safety and happiness were not assured. I think in those first weeks and months, the responsibility for me that you surely must have felt settled upon your shoulders like a cloak. Whether or not it was a burden you’ve never said, and certainly I know that in time it was a shared responsibility, as was the love we felt for each other, but those first months…
All I know is at the moment I need to get away. Bess is safe with Hoss. I need a week or two to clear my head and decide how I will proceed. I intend to keep my word, but I must do so carefully and with a plan. I had hoped to travel around the country in time after getting my bearings. Given this event, that too will need some consideration. I will leave for Astoria in a day or two, hopefully the rain will let up. I will forget myself in the arms of Delores for a spell and maybe, if the snow is not too foreboding, see if I can reach Standing Bear’s people and get a message to him. He and I have provided sound counsel to each other these last few years and without you here, I need someone else that I respect that I can turn to for understanding, if not guidance.
September 1st, 1850- Sunday
My Dearest Xena,
One might think that over two thousand years of living would render me either immune to the splendor of life’s wonder or unable to find the humor in its surprises. I am neither. Sunsets never fail to fill me with reverence and the days continue to challenge me with their unpredictability. In all my years of living, I have never been in the position to court a woman as a man, yet this is the predicament in which I currently find myself. And the prospect has me filled with bemused nervousness. I suppose it would be easy enough to pick up and move, to show up in another town, in another place, posing as husband and wife. But I have established some semblance of a life in Oregon City, which I am disinclined to abandon. It’s relatively safe, in spite of a do-nothing sheriff. People leave my friends and me largely unmolested. It’s a decent hub for my work with Pinkerton and the development of the contacts I will utilize in my search for traces of home. Ruth has also mentioned that Bess is fragile of spirit, exhausted from her move out west with Caleb and the events that have since transpired. For her as well I will stay, for the time being and as such, I must court her for the sake of appearances, to keep both my word and my secret safe.
I’ve kept nothing from you in the pages of my journals, save perhaps details that would serve no purpose. You know I’ve been married several times. I’ve been courted by men and on occasion, I have pursued one or two with determination of my own. I have fallen for women by surprise and by intention, as well as surrendered to their charms. I can’t say though that these experiences are much for me to draw upon in the here and now.
When Hoss and Ruth married, they got a nice place on the outside of town. Plenty of room, nice white fence, room for planting, a barn. I go over there every Sunday for supper if Hoss and I aren’t working out of town. As far as most town folk are concerned, I expect it will be a natural progression; Bess staying, me visiting. After dinner, I have the opportunity to sit and visit in the parlor with the three of them or take a short constitutional with Bess after supper. Quite understandably, I am most comfortable with her one-on-one. There is less pretense; I am able to speak more honestly. I have assured her that she has choices – if she would prefer not to get married, I’m certain I could help her get on her feet. Quite to my surprise, however she seems fairly enthusiastic about the idea of marriage. I suppose it makes sense, if she’s married to me, she will have safety and security, and not the sexual demands made upon her by a husband.
I suppose it is sardonic in that though our courtship has a foregone conclusion and that there is not mystery as to if I will propose or if she will accept, there is still a sweetness in going through the motions of this artifice. I bring her bouquets of wild flowers picked form the area surrounding Hoss’ homestead – hyssop, yarrow, and arnica are her favorites. Most recently, I gave her some honeycomb. I found a hive in a tree by a vast expanse of blackberries. Being immune to bee stings has its advantages. She was most appreciative and in turn cooked an outstanding meal. I’ve eaten at the royal court in France and her cooking was just as tasty, truth be told. On my visits, I’ve been privileged to enjoy scrumptious roasts as well as wonderful pastries. She said she grew up in the kitchen of a hotel in Cleveland, Ohio, with chefs who studied in France. She was fascinated and took in all they did as she kept out of the way of her parents who washed dishes. At fourteen, she was married off to Caleb, making room for the next youngest sibling in the kitchen.
Bess has admitted to me that she can neither read nor write and has borrowed a primer from Ruth to work on her letters and her figures. I have gifted her with a slate and chalk, and I help as I can with her studies. When we have more time alone together, I’ll be able to become a more active participant in her education.
Here is an area where I must be cautious. Certainly, ‘Sam Stafford’ or ‘Shorty Stafford’ (as everyone now calls me thanks to Hoss) is an educated man, but not so much to put me on the outs with my peers. I keep my knowledge of history and languages to myself and only exhibit the most basic of frontier medicine. I’ve demonstrated an aptitude for business in that I’ve formed some partnerships and made investments in people and companies I think will serve me well down the road. It’s a practice I’ve employed frequently in the last eight hundred years and it has served me well.
Living a long time has taught me to know when someone is lying or not trustworthy. When I’m around good people, like Hoss, Ruth, Bess, Standing Bear and his family, I can share a bit more, but always judiciously. I could become a feared specter to everyone I know and value in the moment between heartbeats, and the knowing of that is never far from my thoughts.
While Hoss is unawares at the moment, I am grooming him for a new adventure. Gold was discovered in California a couple of years ago, and last year saw a huge wave of immigration to that territory, or should I say State, as it will be known in a few days’ time. I have followed the news with interest and have already purchased a majority stake in a mining company. The next year or so will be a good time to make a move to put Hoss at its helm, even if we manage the company from afar for the time being. He is a good and honest man and his family is very deserving of the boon such an opportunity would provide. San Francisco has been growing steadily and I am certain that a business footing there is sound.
I feel confident at this point that the so-called ‘gold rush’ is more than a momentary boom and I am glad to be part of it. While I may have intended at some point to travel to width and breadth of this land myself, I now think it better to develop various agents to gather information for me that way.
I’m sure you’d ask, were you sitting across from me in my hotel room tonight enjoying a cup of coffee, why don’t I just travel with Bess as you traveled with me; continue my investigation with my wife at my side? While the memory makes me smile, thinking about how young I was and all I didn’t know – you must allow that I am not you and Bess is not me. I feel confident in my ability to protect myself but I am not certain I can secure the same for her. Also, Bess has neither the fire nor the temperament that I had. I do not mean this as a slight, mind you. I’m simply stating the truth.
It’s funny, one moment I see myself in her, unaware of so much, yet curious and hopeful, and the next moment do not recognize myself in her at all. She is fearful, and in some ways, seen more than a woman of any age should ever have to. There is no doubt that men in general scare her. Hoss is as gentle as they come but I’ve seen her flinch when he bursts out with a hearty laugh. I think more than anything else does, she craves a place where she can just be. Not be fearful, but just be.
At the very least, an added benefit of my predicament is that I no longer visit the women above the saloon. I have said my farewells to the three of them. Ruby was probably the one who took it the hardest. Abagail and Scarlett assured me that their door would always be open and wished me luck, but Ruby seemed genuinely sad. If you are wondering if I’ve cut ties with Delores in Astoria, the answer is no. That indulgence is for me, for mine own sanity and quenching of desire. The girls in town were for outward appearances. Not to say I didn’t get anything out of it. Certainly, that kind of connection is nice, but it wasn’t fulfilling for me sexually and the charade of it took a burdensome toll. Anyway, the fact that I’m not still enjoying myself upstairs reinforces the sincerity of my designs towards Bess. At least I do believe that is how the town at large will see it. There will be those folks who are appalled that she’d marry the man who killed her husband, but others will see it as just symmetry, and a wise move on her part.
I am getting ready to go spend a fortnight with Standing Bear and his family, with a stop in Astoria on my way home. Selfish I suppose, but I value these two facets of my life outside Oregon City too much to give up either one. I am content to have Bess live her life however she chooses, once we join our lives together, and I would expect the same courtesy and respect from her. I will ponder in the weeks and months to come how much I want to tell her and when to do it. For now, though I’m focusing on the trail right in front of me and for the next several weeks, that trail looks bright.
July 25th, 1851- Friday
My Dearest Xena,
Today I became an uncle of sorts. I must say it’s a first for that. Ruth had her baby, a beautiful boy they named Victor Samuel King. Ruth’s family is from England and they wanted to honor the reigning monarch Queen Victoria. Hoss was kind enough to honor me with the middle name. Bess assisted the midwife with the birth and Percival and I waited with Hoss in the parlor. I really wanted to be there but as a man that would have been inappropriate. This is one of the few instances when being a woman would have been helpful. As it was though, everything was fine; mother and baby both doing well. I was surprised that Percival handed Victor to me after he held him for a bit. Also, quite to my surprise, he suggested that such an auspicious event would be a good occasion to propose marriage, and looked pointedly at the door to the bedroom where Bess was tending to Ruth.
Things are somewhat lax out here in the frontier. Were I at court in Europe or even in more affluent parts of America, the rituals and customs for courtship and betrothal would be somewhat different. Given that Bess was previously married and that I’m not from an affluent family, we have more latitude. I’ve already written to her father, to request permission to court and propose, which he granted. Frankly, I’m sure he was surprised I even bothered with a letter. Bess has made it clear that her family doesn’t care two shakes one way or the other. In part because of circumstance, in part because of choice. I have a ring, not something that always accompanies a proposal, but I believe a decent token of intention.
Another facet of my designs on the Widow Mercy (as she is technically called by many) is that I’m in the process of building a house. I have purchased a small parcel of land a nice stroll from Hoss and Ruth. It’s close to the woods and somewhat out of the way. I am participating in the building of my home with a host of able-bodied men in town. Not as rustic as some homes on the frontier; it will have wood floors and a covered room on the porch for bathing. I’ve found some beautiful stone for a fireplace. There is a healthy well near the house, room for a nice barn and outhouse, space for a corral, chickens, and a garden. It was time to move out of the hotel, although I suspect Fred and Ethel will be sad to see me go. I’ve assured them I will still stop by on occasion for a visit and she insists on doing my laundry (for a fee mind you) until I’m married.
Anyway, I took a healthy swig from the flask that Percival offered, and when Bess emerged from the bedroom, I asked her to marry me. The boys were in great spirits after that. They insisted we all get rip roaring drunk after that and I won’t deny that I enjoyed the camaraderie. Percival and I will never be friends, but I suppose we’ve learned to tolerate each other, or rather, I suppose he’s decided that I’m no threat to him. He will always be Hoss’ brother, and I will be the person who actually listens to what Hoss has to say. I could go on and on about what I’ve learned about men in the last two thousand years, the useful part of it would fill a very slim book indeed. People have changed somewhat over the centuries, outlooks and such, but the core of what makes them tick – their fears and insecurities – stay largely the same.
Bess accepted my proposal, which was quite unexpected in that moment. Usually a woman will take time to consider and discuss said proposal with her family and such. But she said “yes” right there. Hoss urged me to seal it with a kiss. It was awkward, though I suppose fitting; Sam Stafford wouldn’t be completely at ease kissing a girl in front of other men. I was quick about it, kept it obviously chaste. Bess clearly seemed ill at ease, which I fully understand and respect. This marriage isn’t about love or affluence for her. It is a practical matter of convenience and survival. Since we are betrothed now, we will have more opportunity to speak privately with each other to work out the logistics of maintaining this charade in a way that is acceptable to her and enough to keep us both safe.
September 29th, 1851- Monday
My Dearest Xena,
I have recently returned home from my annual visit to Standing Bear’s family. In the stillness of this morning, during a brief surrender between storms, I have made a new fire and now sit at my table sipping coffee, looking out the window at the wet outside just before sunrise, a coyote pup named Sarsaparilla at my feet. More about that later.
Structurally, my home is nearly complete. Certainly, I’ve enough of a roof over my head to live here, although sleeping rough on the ground in the rain would not be exactly new to you or me, nor would it be an excessive hardship. Still, as we always said, that was a wet we could survive without. What remains of the homestead are the appointments: the paint, furniture, and possessions befitting a fairly well-off man starting his life with a new bride. There will be time enough for all of that. For now, I am enjoying the peace and solitude of this beautiful Sunday. I’ve readied myself for church and it will take me the better part of an hour to meander there on foot so the pup wears herself out enough to sleep in my lap through the service. She’s a wee thing, easy to hold in one arm, with sharp as razor teeth and beautiful, trusting eyes. I think you would like this home Xena, it would suit us, and that knowledge makes me smile.
I’ve had much opportunity these last couple of months to reflect upon you and the beginnings of “us.” I feel as though some karmic wheel has spun, reversing my position in the firmament. I wish for a magic carpet to take me to India, where I might find someone like Eli, or to China, where I might find my own Lao Ma to discuss destiny and my place in the wilderness of life. Never in all my days of traveling with you did I envision that I would be the one leading, or that someone would be interested in following me for safety, security, and possibly something else.
Hoss, Percival, and I rode into town after about three weeks on the trail for Pinkerton. Hoss and Percival happened to see Ruth and Rebekah in town and kissed them in greeting, just outside Joseph’s Mercantile. Bess was with them and I greeted her with a warm smile but nothing more. A couple of hours later, I was brushing Whiskey down at Samson’s stable when Bess found me and addressed me most harshly.
“Why didn’t you kiss me?” she demanded.
I glanced over at Charles, who was putting shoes on a Morgan and replied, “Because we are not married yet.” I do believe however that my eyes spoke volumes as to my confusion. Her anger seemed to lose some steam and she seemed somewhat pleased as to my response. When Charles left to get a fresh bucket of water from the trough outside, I also added that given that I’m not actually a man, and I was trying to be respectful and spare her embarrassment.
“I don’t find the idea of kissing you completely unpleasant. And I am aware that I must also participate in this pageant.” I am still trying to puzzle out the meaning of her response, but have decided to wait until I have the energy and privacy to further explore the topic with her.
I was in town for about another week and a half before ostensibly going on another job. This is the ruse I use for my forays to see Standing Bear or Delores in Astoria. I do enough solo work for Mr. Wells that no one would think twice of it. At any rate, I saw Bess a couple of times in that span, and I dare say that my reception was decidedly cool. I understand that people are complicated. What I don’t understand is that after all this time, why I’m not better at sorting it all out.
The most recent visit was when Hoss and Ruth came by to see the progress on the house. Bess joined them. She and I had some time to visit while Hoss, Ruth, and baby Victor toured the nearly-finished barn. Bess and I chatted about inconsequential things and she remarked that it was easy for her to forget I was not a man, unless she listened to my voice or looked into my eyes. She asked my given name and I told her “Samantha.” I figure it’s best if she just thinks to call me “Sam.” I will admit though that Delores does call me Gabrielle when we are together and it is safe. I will further admit that the heated rasp of her voice, while pleasurable, does not affect me to the degree that your vocalizations did. Xena, while there is much I miss about you, the scent of your hair on a fresh spring day, or the way you’d look at me, your strong arms wrapped around me, the sound of your voice, are all things for which I ache. I miss how we’d amiably chat about nearly anything, from life or death matters to the most inconsequential nonsense. The memory of the lyrical quality of your voice fills me with painful longing. I would give all that I have and all that I am to hear it again.
Bess and I strolled the porch and she asked me about the reinforced area that was off the sleeping quarters. I explained that it would be a bathing porch of sorts, fitted with a tub and small fireplace of its own for heating water. She finds it strange but I suspect will come around when she has the opportunity to use it herself.
Keeping my tone neutral, not judgmental, I broached the topic of her and me, and the parts we must be willing to play after our forthcoming nuptials. Certainly, only the most benign displays of affection are tolerated in public. I had never seen her within three feet of Caleb, and that was only when she had to. I do admire her directness. When I asked what degree of familiarity she expected or would tolerate of me, she replied, “As women can do not but hug or kiss, that will be acceptable.” I am rather proud that I kept a smirk from my lips and a retort off my tongue, as it isn’t my place to provide her with such an education.
I have discussed this with Standing Bear’s mother, Moon Song, and his wife, Morning Rain. They were amused, and observed that a woman as dense as a man is a find indeed. Moon Song in particular is perceptive, and asked me to unburden my heart and mind. I explained that I have stopped seeing the girls in town, but continue to visit Delores. I see her about three or four times a year. It weighs on me if this will be improper to do once married, even though my marriage will be a façade.
She was applying the finishing touches of beading to a buckskin shirt for me. I’d taken to dressing more like the family when I visited. She was also teaching me their art of beading, I was learning on a knife sheath I was making for Standing Bear while we chatted. It’s been a long time since feeling a mother’s love, and I admit to basking in its presence. Of all things, she directed me back to my own stories of home. Beauty Heart Feather and such. She said that to live in harmony with the world, I need to be in harmony with myself. If I starve my heart, my mind will weaken, or if I deny my body, my spirit will lash out in anger. I ached to tell her how long it’s been since my heart felt full, but I dare not. Instead, I thanked her for her counsel, and gifted her with a tea I’d bought for her in Astoria. I also strategized with Standing Bear as to his frequent issues with the Sioux and the English. All this led to my introduction to Sarsaparilla, who I call Sass, or Sassy for short.
We’d finished our evening meal and were sharing stories and tobacco around the fire, grateful for the bounty of friendship. Long Feather returned to camp with a tiny pup, rescued from its den, the mother having been caught in a hunter’s trap and its sibling already having succumbed to nature. She took a liking to me, and Standing Bear decided that the Spirits wanted me to be custodian for this small creature. Some of the younger children were saddened at the news but I feel that I owe this family too much to refuse such a small request. I promised to bring her back with me if she doesn’t decide to run off when she reaches maturity. A coyote is a wild animal, and I’m happy to look out for her until she can fend for herself, but that will be up to her. I rode home with her tucked into my shirt, supported by the snugness of my vest. She slept soundly. Sass has raised an eyebrow or two in town but I’ve built up enough good will to weather such a trifling eccentricity.
Xena, I can hear your chuckle reach me across the centuries. It is not enough that I have a female to keep track of. For the time being, I now have two.
May 14th, 1852- Friday
My Dearest Xena,
There have been times where I’ve truly wonder what I’ve gotten myself into; tonight is one of those times. Not unlike waking the Titans, meeting that woman with the zebra, saving Kaltor’s kingdom, encountering that oracle and assassin who looked like me, or even tasting ambrosia, I have to ask myself what in the gods was I thinking? It seemed like such a simple solution at the time. If I kill Caleb in a gunfight, I marry Bess and that’s that, but my wedding is tomorrow, and I realize that be it cluelessness or willful arrogance, I have not thought this thing through and I’m at a loss right now as to what to do.
I had not intended to barge in on Ruth and Bess as they made the final adjustments to her wedding dress. That was two weeks ago. I went over to Hoss’ place on Sunday night as I always do. They had not quite finished up. It was a simple, pretty dress; light primrose-yellow in color, with soft lavender accents, and delicate lace and stitching. Her long light brown hair was down and she looked stunning; innocent and trusting, and I felt my stomach clench. She blushed when she saw my face and I’m not sure if she was embarrassed at my expression of appreciation or at her own gratefulness in that appreciation.
Now that I have a home to myself, where there is little chance of being caught unawares, I’ve resumed my study of yoga in earnest. I can’t travel to India for guidance but I am hoping my memories of India will give me some clarity. As I meditate and move my body from one pose to the next, I try to put myself in any mindset that may give me insight. I’ve reminisced on what it’s been like, to be appreciated by someone to whom I was not attracted. I can only guess that is how Bess feels. Like most women, or even people for that matter, who have no instruction other than the dominant religion of this area, she must find like attraction an abomination as her religious text instructs. Delores is most assuredly the rare individual who has made the conscious decision to put the book aside and make her own choices. And certainly, Xena, I do not mean to infer that I am attracted to Bess in that respect. I feel a fondness towards her to be sure, but it is from a place of friendliness and sense of duty. I make no designs on this marriage being anything other than pragmatic in nature.
I fantasize from time to time, Xena, about what it may have been like, had we settled down in Amphipolis shortly after we’d met. Help your mother with the tavern or have carved out a little place of our own. How would we have fared together without danger lurking beyond every bend in the road? Would I have woken sooner to the awareness of my own desire? Or would that fire have slept longer without the danger of losing you at any moment? I cannot help but wonder what it would have been like to wake up in the morning with you, fix breakfast, and then go about our days.
With Bess, I fully intend to let her use the bedroom and I’ll sleep in the parlor. The home is well appointed and I’ll be quite comfortable. I have a dresser and dressing table in the bedroom ready for her things and I’ve put some flowers in a canning jar on the table. My clothing and incidentals are in the armoire, and it will be no trouble to dress on the enclosed part of the porch, something I often do after bathing anyhow.
Surely, I have the awareness that living my life this world over, having belonged to so many places, gotten to know so many people and customs that there is much about me that people would find queer. I shall have to find some balance therein that allows me to be authentic to myself as much as I can without doing things that would give Bess reason to fear me or find me so strange as to be un-relatable. That she has accepted my femininity, and sees the wisdom of such a ruse, I feel speaks volumes to her ability to the strength of her character and ability to understand.
May 16th, 1852- Sunday
My Dearest Xena,
The deed is done. As I write to you, it is nigh on two o’clock in the morning on Sunday. My wedding day has been long, joyous, but exhausting, and I could not lay my head down to rest without spending time with the very beating of my heart, which is you, dear one.
There are days, my beloved, when I curse myself for accepting Poseidon’s offer of ambrosia and damning myself to eternity to find that which I cannot. Today however is not one of those days. I find when I am happy and see glorious beauty in the world around me, such as hearing the joyous cry of a newborn baby, or even the juvenile attempts at a howl Sassy has graced me with – Xena, these things make me glad to be alive, and give me the inspiration and determination to see this through and find what I need to restore you to this world and be at your side. I was given the grace of such a day today.
On our adventures, we didn’t often stay in one place long enough to see how the changes we wrought affected people, and the people that they in turn encountered, like the ripples in the pond as you showed me. If we had, I’m sure you’d have felt the same humility and pride as I felt today when people I did not expect to either wished me well, joined in the festivities or bestowed upon us a wedding gift. There had to be between two hundred and two hundred fifty people at our celebration today. People drove to the church on their buckboards, came on foot, or on horseback. Women lined picnic tables with all manner of delicious concoctions. The town square was cleared for musicians to play and people to dance. There were families, children, dogs – it rivaled the Fourth of July celebrations in its revelry.
The day started with a surprise when Hoss came by to fetch me to the church. I had him catch me “as I finished shaving,” which I do on occasion. He had a wrapped package under his arm from Bess. She’d made me a new suit. It was a smoky gray, with a bowler hat to match. I have no idea how she could afford such dear material, and I can honestly say I’ve never worn as fine a suit. I was amazed at the fit; Hoss admitted that I looked fair enough. Hoss was not finished with his surprises however, a package had arrived in town from Astoria. As far as he knew, I had family out that way. It was a handsome pocket watch from Delores. I’d spoken to her about my upcoming nuptials and she found my intention “sweet” and “endearing,” words she said with no trace of jealousy or begrudgingly. The watch was inscribed “My love G from yours D” and I explained to Hoss that it was a family heirloom from a cousin, having belonged to my grandfather, Gabriel. At the church Bess looked beautiful in her wedding dress, a nervous smile on her face. Ruby, Abagail and Scarlett had gifted her with a gorgeous bouquet of flowers to carry, as well as a stunning wreath for her hair. It raised more than one eyebrow that neither Bess nor I minded having them in the church and certainly, they appreciated the respect we’ve shown them. As I had for Hoss, the big man stood up with me, as did Ruth for Bess; the four of us probably never looked more respectable.
The ceremony was moving, I suppose. The pastor read from the book that these folks hold dear, then had us recite our formal vows to honor each other, be true, kind, and loving. We sealed our commitment with a wedding band for each of us and a kiss, which was not nearly as awkward the second time around. Bess is a little taller than I am, and looking up into her face, I was surprised to see the unshed tears well up in her eyes. I don’t know if it was a sadness of having wedding she wanted but not to a person she wanted, or if she was just moved by the town’s blessing. I’m not sure. I also don’t necessarily think it’s my place to ask her. She is allowed her secrets, as I am mine. When the ceremony concluded, everyone made their way to the celebration. Hoss made a funny speech at the party about me being a much bigger man on the inside than on the outside and it got a hearty laugh from just about everyone. He congratulated us most warmly, from the bottom of his heart, which is deep and wide. Other well-wishers spoke most fondly of us. Fred was carried to the festivities on a bench, and I dare say I saw him smile as Ethel gave Bess a silver platter as a gift. I was very moved by the gesture. Even Sheriff Northingham shook my hand and wished us well.
Bess and I danced. Xena, it has been far too long since I last spent some time enjoying a dance. The steps here are not complicated; it’s not like the European royal courts, with every move having political connotations. No, here it is all about the joy of the movement and the moment. As you know, I’m a fairly proficient dancer, and having centuries of experience, feel I can hold my own with the best of them. Bess was unsure and unsteady at first, but was happy to have me lead, and seemed to enjoy herself nearly as much as I did. In no time, she’d learned the steps and we became very much a team. After hours of dancing and eating and being wished luck and good tidings by everyone in attendance, we returned to Hoss and Ruth’s place in my buckboard to get the last of her belongings, then (at last) to go home. To our home.
It was a little awkward at first. I showed her where everything was, beginning with a clay jar on the fireplace mantle. I keep paper money in there, and explained if she ever needed or wanted anything for herself or the house, to simply take the money and get it; there was no need for permission from me. I showed her the bedroom, and where she could put away her things. She looked apprehensively at the bed. I explained that I would be sleeping in the parlor. Immediately she asked why she wasn’t sleeping in the parlor. I was prepared for this and offered a compromise if she insisted, to take turns weekly trading bedroom and parlor. She seemed most pleased by this.
In what little I know of Bess, I do know that she’s frustrated in that not much has been expected of her, or should I say, the right things have not been expected of her. She has been expected to meet the physical needs of a man who didn’t appreciate her, only to time and again be punished for imagined slights. That isn’t her life any more. I remember how frustrated I used to get when you’d leave me in one town after another to soak up the color in the local tavern while you went out to save damsels and best the brigands. I’ve showed her the chicken coup, barn, small vegetable garden the various appointments to the house. She understands that while I’m away working, the responsibility is hers to keep everything going and she seems delighted by this challenge. She also has asked for an area to set up work for sewing and such. I was happy to oblige, as the house was being finished. I spared no expense in the kitchen, buying a quality cast-iron stove and appropriate cookery. She’s expressed some degree of security and comfort from cooking and sewing – areas where she does not feel out of her depth and I want her to have that too.
Tonight, I helped her unpack the last of her things and put her clothes away. I could tell she was tired but seemed hesitant to have me give her leave. I asked if she would object to a hug from her husband and she said no, that she was pleased to be Mrs. Samuel Stafford. I hugged her, kissed her forehead, and said “good night wife,” and she grinned. As I closed the bedroom door behind me, I heard her say, “good night husband,” and it brought a smile to my face.
So, I’ve come out here to the parlor to sit with my thoughts, sipping hot coffee with a coyote curled up at my feet. Though we may be separated by all of the space and time in the universe, Xena, you are never far from my thoughts, never more than a heartbeat away. While it aches to be unable to see you, to hear the sound of your voice and laughter, to feel your skin against mine, I could not let a day like today pass without spending part of it, dare I say the most important part of it, with you.
June 15th, 1852- Tuesday
My Dearest Xena,
To give you some insight as to how things are going, let me illustrate thusly – the first thing I heard this morning was, “What in tarnation are you doing?!” at a volume that had Sassy bolting under the table. I grant you, the path she took to get under the table was between my legs, knocking my balance and sending me toppling to the ground.
She’d been laying curled up on a rug, gnawing on a bone, minding her own business as I went through my usual yoga routine to clear my head. Bess has never seen yoga before. Clearly, it vexed her. I picked myself up off the ground and explained what yoga is, where it originated from, and that I’d learned it from a traveling mystic I’d met in Delaware. Certainly, that last part was fiction, but it was what I came up with on the spot.
I had recently returned from a fortnight on the trail and was grateful for the solitude and time to meditate. I now see that I should have gotten up earlier to do it. After a number of questions about yoga, mystics, and India, I promised to search for a book to help illustrate the place and its customs. Bess is coming along quite well with her reading, and we spend many an hour together pouring over the pages of the various volumes that I’ve collected. On occasion, she needs assistance with a word or a meaning, but I’m impressed at how sharp she is, when I can get her to speak her mind. She is slow to trust, I suspect that half the time she forgets that I’m not really a man, and I think I can tell when. There are times when she seems more at ease, more playful or happier, and then another moment she will become almost painfully shy or embarrassed. Once or twice, I think she was nearly flirting with me, although I am certain that it was not intentional.
I find that more often than I used to, I’m enjoying my time at home more and my time on the trail less. When I’m sleeping under the stars, I enjoy the vistas, Sassy curled up at my side, but I also long for either my bed or the couch in the parlor. Hoss teases me, but I know he feels the same. Ruth is expecting again, clearly, they are enjoying themselves when he returns home. Thankfully, he hasn’t asked me about starting a family. The rumor in town had long been that Bess was barren, something else to be thankful for. While I ache for her of course, I am relieved that I will not be expected to sire that which I cannot.
July 26th, 1852- Monday
My Dearest Xena,
I have had many years to reflect on the nature of ambrosia and its effects on my person. Assuredly, there is my most robust constitution and ability to heal nearly all manner of injury or affliction. As Callisto said, I do know that were I dismembered, decapitated, or hurt in an explosion perhaps, there is no coming back from those most grievous wounds. I know that I am not immortal. I suppose that is why death still affects me so. While I maybe ageing very slowly, I am indeed maturing, and feel the impact of those around me when their journey ends. Another manifestation of ambrosia’s gifts is my memory. My ability to recollect and keep my stories straight lifetime after lifetime has been invaluable. As is the ever-growing collection of people who have affected my life, for good or for ill.
It was probably a fortnight ago that I returned with Hoss from an exploratory trip into California. I admitted to feeling guilty, leaving Bess so soon after our nuptials, but we needed to meet with some businessmen about purchasing another mining company to join with ours. I returned as quickly as I could, filthy from the trail and hard riding to get home, I looked forward to a bath and slumber in the parlor. In a continuation of a tradition begun during our ‘courtship’, I brought Bess back a trinket from the road. I would try to pick some flowers, find a book she might like, or some small thing. In California, we had chance to visit a fancy store selling all manner of trinkets and baubles. I found a necklace, exquisite in its simplicity. An extravagance for some, but it wouldn’t be something that would raise eyebrows in Oregon City.
Bess was most pleased, and had a surprise for me as well. There were two cows now residing in our barn. Fair enough I suppose, who doesn’t like fresh butter? I could tell that she missed me, she was eager to talk and visit. I was eager for a scrub and some sleep. She asked if she could chat with me while I bathed, I replied that if she were not offended by my nakedness, I’d take no issue. She laughed and said that she doubted I had anything she hadn’t seen before.
I chuckled and said that I would wager that I did in fact have something she hadn’t seen before. I took off my shirt and unwrapped the muslin from my torso. I turned my back to her and she gasped. I believe “Lordy!” was the exact expression that she used. I explained that it was a tattoo; ink buried in my skin and for lack of a more logical explanation, said it was a gift from the mystic who taught me yoga in Delaware. She asked if she could touch it, if it hurt, and I said that it was fine. That it was long healed and no longer caused me any discomfort. Unlike Standing Bear and his kin, Bess’ touch was different. I do not believe she intended it as such, but the way she lightly trailed her fingers over my back was downright sensual. It was not done intentionally, as Delores might, but unconsciously arousing to me nonetheless. Light as a feather, but with purpose. I took a step away from her and faced her before sinking into the tub and pouring myself a hearty bourbon.
So, there I sat in a deliciously warm tub and she on a milking stool which she’d put in the ‘tub room’ as she calls it, I assume for the express purpose of chatting. After a brief account of my trip and her adventures to cow ownership, she launched into what I suspect had been on her mind all along.
“Have you always wanted to be a man?”
I will admit, I was surprised as all get out and the bourbon I was just about to swallow came out my nose. I sputtered, coughed, and then explained that while I may dress as a man, it was for safety an expedience only, and that I was quite content in my womanhood. As I’ve mentioned in missives from decades past, I have come across individuals of both sexes who for whatever reason or circumstance do indeed feel trapped in a body of improper design. And while I may resent on occasion the part I must play, or the costume I must wear, in no way does it extend below my skin, this having a soul that does not match my trappings. I saw no point in explaining this to Bess, however. She has neither the worldliness, nor experience to grapple with such a painful predicament. I said instead that I was completely a woman, aside from the masquerade I perpetrate for security and financial independence.
Then she asked me if I fancied men. I will say she was smart to add some additional hot water to the tub, thereby trapping me with my own hedonism. I replied that I have fancied men and before she could ask, I said yes, I have known them biblically. But I was also forthright and said that I preferred the company of women, both socially and biblically. I had long decided that at some point this topic needed to be addressed and while I was wary of her response, it would not be fair to hide the proclivity of my own heart. I told her that while perhaps unusual, there were a fair number of people in the world, both men and women who preferred the company of their own sex.
She looked and me and quite plainly said, “But women can’t lie with other women.” It was then I pointedly looked at the clothes I’d stripped out of before stepping into the tub, the leather phallus nestled in the pile of discarded garments. “Oh,” she said, looking embarrassed. I also explained that there were other things that people can do together but did not want to elaborate with specifics unless she asked. “But what about men and other men?” she wondered aloud.
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way.” I answered.
She was quiet a moment, then whispered, “But the Bible…”
I had another sip of bourbon and considered my response. I know full well that the writers of the Christian Testament were more concerned about the Roman use of slaves for sexual congress than anything else. I know this because I’d met some of those folks, and know that their thinking, like any religion before or since, is that it’s easier to raise congregants up within the family than it is to convert them from outside. In any event, all of this is something I most certainly could not tell Bess. Instead, I asked the question that if God was not in favor of…relations…in whatever form, then why did it feel so fulfilling? My heart broke when she replied, “Intimate physical relations are barely tolerable at best. I see nothing of God in it, whatsoever.” I looked at her with all compassion and said, “I wish Caleb had been the man you deserved.”
She seemed moved by this and noted my obvious exhaustion. She asked if we could talk about the topic in the future and I assured her that she had the freedom to discuss anything and everything within the confines of our home and it would never be uttered to another soul. Clearly, Xena, I believe my musings to you do not violate this trust given that you will most likely not read them until many years after her death; if I’m able to get you back at all. She insisted that I take the bed, as I’d been traveling hard and that Sass preferred to sleep in the space under it anyway. I was truly grateful for that kindness.
It felt good to sink to slumber in soft sheets. They smelled faintly of lavender and Bess, which was pleasant enough. Sadly, I was awoken early in the morning by my wife who was rattled and frightened.
“Sam! Sam, please wake up!” she said urgently. I awoke to her holding a broken arrow, half the shaft in each hand. “I found this by the front door.”
I took the two halves from her and examined the arrowhead and the fletching. I immediately recognized the exquisite craftsmanship. I put the pieces of arrow down and took her hands in mine to convey the seriousness of my meaning. I explained that I had befriended a Crow family, that I’d known them for years, and that the message from them was one of urgency. I assured her that she was not in any danger, and we weren’t under attack, but that if she felt uncomfortable in the house, she should go stay with Hoss and Ruth. They were hardly more than a twenty-minute walk from us, but I said I’d be happy to take her on Whiskey if she wanted to be escorted there.
She was quiet a moment and said that if I thought she was safe, then she was indeed safe; that she would be fine on her own. She knew how to use the rifle by the fireplace. I got out of bed and dressed quickly in my buckskin shirt, then rushed to the barn to brush and saddle Whiskey. I felt bad not being able to give him more of a rest, but he’s a strong one and I suspected would fare better during the hard ride ahead than myself. While I was making myself ready, Bess had been busy in the kitchen, putting together a parcel of provisions for me. I was so grateful for the gesture and overcome with worry for Standing Bear I hardly gave it a second thought when I hugged her and kissed her cheek in gratitude.
I took off in the direction of the trail that I always took to my meeting place with Standing Bear’s kin. As I’d hoped, I was met not too far down that path by Red Moon and Long Feather. They explained that Standing Bear’s mother, Moon Song was dying, and she had requested to see me before she journeyed to the home of their ancestors. We rode hard for four days, stopping only for the benefit of the horses. They were clearly worried about their grandmother and wanted to fulfill her request.
We did not go to the place where I’d normally meet the family, rather, we rode all the way to Crow Nation territory. I got some funny looks riding into camp but I paid it no mind. We rode straight to a tipi towards the back that had sage smelling smoke curling up from a vent at the top. I was greeted most warmly by Standing Bear, who was grateful I’d made such haste. He expressed gratitude that I’d figured out the meaning of the broken arrow and that I knew it was of some urgency. He looked at me with warm affection and said, “She asked to see each of her daughters, one last time.” As he spoke, he nodded to two women who were leaving the tipi and he introduced me to his two sisters who greeted me as family. They held the tent flap open for me and I went inside.
It was warm and smelled of fall, with the sage burning and other herbs. I could tell they were using medicines to facilitate ease of breathing. I went to Moon Song’s side and picked up her hand to hold. I could see no apparent injury. This was nature winding down, pure and simple. Her ancient skin felt paper thin but I could feel the thread pulse beneath. Watery eyes full of knowledge and wisdom fluttered open to look at me. She spoke to me in French, telling me that her time was drawing short, but before leaving she wanted to hear another of my stories. Something filled with love and happiness that would keep her pain at bay and while away some of her remaining time. The eldest of her two daughters handed me a cup of hot tea sweetened with honey, something soothing to coat my throat and fortify me for a night of talking. I drank it and told her a story, Xena. A story unlike any I’d told the family before. The story didn’t feature our gods, or the villains we fought or the people we’d saved. I talked to her for hours, all though the night. I told her the story of us. Not our adventures, but you and I, how we met, fell in love and saved each other.
Not a word was uttered in the tipi. Standing Bear, his sisters, and her grandchildren were all sitting in rapt attention, enthralled. She smiled as I wove my tale, laughing at the humor and blushing with happiness at the steamy frankness of some of my descriptions. In the early morning, she beckoned me close, touched her forehead to mine, called me daughter, and thanked me for all of the stories that I had shared with her family. She said I was guided by powerful spirits, from the one I wore on my back, to the one that beat within my heart. She was grateful that her son had a friend like me and she wished me a long and fulfilling life.
I thanked her and told her that I loved her and that I hoped that her journey would be full of wondrous adventures on the other side. I also said that memory is what renders us all immortal and that I would never forget her. I took my leave of her then, so she could spend the last of her hours with her kin, to converse in a language that I could not understand.
By mid-morning she had gone, departed to another journey in another place. When Standing Bear emerged, wiping tears from his face, he beckoned another young boy to come over, one of his daughter’s children. The boy had a horse in tow. A beautiful paint that was a little younger and smaller than Whiskey. It was Moon Song’s horse and she had requested that I have it. Whereas Whiskey has a cantankerous mind of his own, Tequila (as I call him) is of gentle spirit, eager to please, with the soul of a caretaker. I think he will make a fine horse for Bess.
I spent several days with the Crow, meeting more of the family, talking to the elders. Who I was was no mystery, tales of ‘Fire Eagle’ having already been told and I was treated most generously. I told Standing Bear of my marriage and he said that he’d like to meet my wife, and to bring her the following year to our meeting place. I will consider it and will indeed if I think that Bess would be as amiable to meet this family that has adopted me as one of their own, as they are to meet her.
Bard's Page