The Storyteller

In the rickety, horse-drawn carriage, a strange, vaguely epicene character with a warm smile stretched across their face sat beside my mother, who chewed vigorously on her thumbnail, pulling back the bonnet cover to peer at the pastures that had been surrounding us for days.

Mama asked Papa very often how close we were to the next town.

"It will be alright," he would mumble every time, shushing her gently.

We break every night just before sundown, setting up the increasingly dingy tent and lie together to stop the shivering.

It was only this morning that the visitor came charging towards the wagon, just after our breakfast of bacon and bread, their short, scarlet hair blowing in the wind behind them. Papa was securing the last of the gear to a horse called Spitfire when the newcomer slid through the canvas flaps and settled on the wooden floor with a relieved huff of breath.

They introduced themselves as Charlie, nodding their slender face politely and offering their thanks. Mother hardly acknowledged them, totally engrossed in settling my wailing baby brother, but I smiled happily.

I was grateful for a new face.

In the middle of the Oklahoma plains, they stuck out like a sore thumb. Their stylish black trousers looked expensive wrapped around their slender waist, neatly holding in place a pristine, white buttoned shirt under a vest of brilliant golden designs. They certainly looked lavish alongside my mother in her plain grey dress and bonnet.

Charlie was from a place far away, with beautiful, glowing creatures and forests, they explained, and emphasized how very much they would like to be home again.

I could understand wanting that.

Truthfully, I had spent the last ten days-- fifteen, maybe-- staring at the monotonous fields, the same expansive pastures of wheat and cotton and barley that dissolve into the distant blue sky. I listened to the same screeching of infancy, felt the familiar lurching of the wagon as we hit the odd large pebble.

I wanted nothing more than to be in our new home out West. It is going to be made of the finest wood that money can buy, Papa promised.

Charlie's presence created a homeliness while we sat together on the wide wagon bed. They showed me interest, something I had received little of ever since the baby was born.

I told Charlie all about our home in Louisiana. Mama's eyes watered when she listened to me speak about our log home near the swampy water, the crickets chirping at night and the sweet taste of figs just pulled off the tree.

Papa promises molasses pudding after dinner every night when we settle in Oregon Country.

Back home, he knew a guy from the saloon, who had a cousin, who had a friend that moved out West with his family last May chasing that shiny metal.

Now, November 1855, he heard that family has servants who prepares for them their roasted fowl and keeps their sheets fresh. He spends his days getting fat off desserts, their daughters married off to wealthy suitors, and the wife spends all the money when she's not fucking the kitchen attendant.

I wasn't supposed to hear that.

I only heard through the thin blanket I used to cover my face when I pretended to sleep. Mama was fussin' about Papa's packing up and moving us without asking how she felt.

I whispered to Charlie when we settled under the thick canvas, and they eagerly listened to my every word. I wasn't shivering that night.

There weren't any crickets chirping, either.

When we resumed the trail, the air was hazy lavender with the early morning light. Charlie sat cheerfully beside me; legs crisscrossed. Their delicate feet were still bare from last night's rest. I, myself, hadn't risen from my cotton pallet, nor did I intend to.

It was nearly unbearably hot around the time we braked for our nooning. Charlie grinned affectionately as they wiped the sweat from my brow.

Mama divvied out the dwindling stockpile of cold beans. Charlie modestly declined a portion and watched us placidly as we hurried through the meal.

Mama and Pa pressured me more than usual to finish my helping and I did so with some effort.

It was upon our continuance shortly after, that Charlie began telling me the beautiful stories. Oh, how they could create dazzling fantasies with their mind, weaving them into resounding tales of bravery and perseverance.

They told the tale of the silver-scaled dragon that flew over an impoverished town in the distant East, where the pale-skinned residents hunted it with their sleek, thin swords.

A hideous witch, they said, near the town they called home, lived deep in a forest hidden behind a curtain of cascading willow trees. She could transform into a beautiful woman, with long hair the color of whipped butter, or turn into a small orange cat who would chase your ankles until you gave it your most prized possession.

On a rocky island off a North European coast, there lived a race of ghostly men, forced to endure an eternity of dreary, unfulfilled hell as punishment for their crimes as pirates in the wars of centuries past.

I marveled tranquilly at Charlie's dainty jawline as it rattled on with endless fables. Their azure eyes glinted with excitement at my captivation. Passion dripped like honey from their crimson lips.

Mama showed little interest in their stories. She eyed me carefully, pulling me often to lay my damp head in her lap until the heat forced me to withdraw.

It was sweltering under my thick dress come late afternoon, when the trail turned from erupting dust to pebbled street. Mama petted my head gently while Charlie cooed over my sleeping baby brother.

Suddenly, I could hear Papa whipping the reins harder, more ferociously, and the carriage jostled until we slowed to an abrupt stop. Mama ripped open the flap of the bonnet and we watched Papa sprint into a startled crowd. I couldn't discern anything except the hysteria in his voice.

Mama shook my shoulders tenderly. "The doctor is coming. You'll be alright, my angel."

Charlie encouraged me calmly, having since directed their attention to me.

I felt the lurch of my body being carried out of the wagon bed. My skin prickled with disquiet and my throat ached when I reached out and grabbed my mother's thin wrist.

"Mama, can you find Charlie? I want to hear another story before I go."

My mother looked anxiously up at my father whose bulky figure loomed over me, brows furrowed, as I lay sweating on the wooden cot.

"It's the fever, I think..." interjected an unfamiliar voice.

I felt my stomach heave as the townspeople lifted me into the air, scurrying like hungry ants in the direction of the sleepy village. My head dangled lazily, teetering on the hard, flat surface.

Through foggy vision, however, I could recognize the spectacle of an exuberant passenger beaming with their unwavering optimism, teasing me playfully from inside my family's carriage.

Their golden vest glinted in the afternoon sun, just briefly, before they waved cheekily once more and disappeared behind the dirty wagon cover.

I smiled wistfully at the cloudless sky, and I found myself praying that Charlie made it home to the vibrant wilderness they had spoken so highly of.

I would very much like to be in our new home, too; our posh house in the center of town, feeding baby brother fresh baked pie. Mama will learn to play the piano, and Papa will never have to work in the mines again.

And sometimes, in the cool evenings, when everyone is settled for bed, Charlie will come and visit, laying close by me in my garden of marigolds under the stars, recounting delightful stories to pass the time.