. . . He felt a small
thrill of excitement. He had already wanted to go west, to see the
new country on the other side of the Rocky Mountains, maybe even to
carve a whole new life for himself there. But if the Blessing Stone
had told him to go east, then to Europe he would have sailed; south
would have taken him to Florida, and north would have had him packing
off to the wilds of Canada.
But the stone was pointing
to the word "West," which he had printed on a large square
of white paper along with the words "South," "East,"
and "North," lining up the four cardinal points with the
help of a compass. Then he had placed the smooth crystal, which his
mother had christened the Blessing Stone, in the center and spun it.
It had come to a rest with its narrower end pointing west.
He could hardly contain
his joy. Crumpling up the paper and returning the crystal to its special
velvet-lined box, he hurried downstairs to inform his mother of his
plans. But he stopped at the foot of the stairs. The curtains were
drawn across the doorway to the parlor, which meant a séance
was in progress and so his mother could not be disturbed.
Matthew didn't mind.
He was young and hungry and would celebrate with cakes and milk in
the kitchen until his mother's ghost-seeking clients had left.
As he cut himself a
generous wedge of chocolate cake, he hoped his mother's contact with
the spirits was a good one this afternoon; he was not in a mood to
cross words with her, or to have her refuse to let him go. Matthew
needed to go; he would die here in Boston if he didn't.
It was because of Honoria.
She had nearly killed him with her rejection of his marriage proposal.
His heart was in mortal pain; there were no salves or ointments for
this kind of wound. It wasn't just that she had said no, it was the
way she had said it. With a horrified tone: "I could not live
with a man who dealt daily with diseased bodies." Matthew didn't
blame her. Honoria herself was frail, spending half her time on her
retiring couch where she received visitors. Moreover, he himself was
not made of heroic proportions. Matthew Lively knew very well what
people saw when they looked at him: a pale, nervous young man who
frequently stuttered, and, despite his college education, was altogether
too unsure of himself.
Still, her rejection
had wounded him, and so Matthew Lively, twenty-five years old and
finishing his glass of milk, decided he was done with women forever.
Hannah Lively, daughter
of Molly Prentice who had once been the love interest of Alexander
Hamilton, came into the kitchen, a plain woman in black bombazine,
a small lace cap on her head.
"Was it a good
reading, Mother?" Matthew asked. He was proud of the fact that
his mother was one of the most sought after spiritualists on the East
Coast.
"The spirits came
through very clear today. Even without the aid of the Blessing Stone."
Then she gave him an expectant look.
"Mother, the stone
pointed West!"
She nodded sagely.
"The Guiding Spirit in the crystal knows where your destiny lies."
Sixty years old and
considered a true prophetess by their many friends and neighbors,
Hannah Lively believed absolutely in the power of the crystal, therefore
Matthew didn't tell her that he had had to spin it eleven times before
it finally pointed West. He reckoned the stone just needed warming
up.
"I have to leave
for Independence at once," he said excitedly. "They say
you shouldn't leave later than the first of May. Wagons that come
after the first ones don't get as good grazing grass along the trail,
and it's crucial to get to the California mountains before the first
snowfall-" He stopped when he realized what he had revealed:
that he had planned to go West all along.
His mother didn't mind.
As long as the crystal sanctioned it, her son was free to go where
his heart led.
They heard the front
door open and close, feet stamping on the mat in the hall. There was
Matthew's father, knocking the rain from his tophat - a tall silver-haired
gentleman with distinguished bearing, as befitted his profession.
He said solemnly, "The Simson boy died. It was the pneumonia,
he couldn't be saved," and went into the library. Jacob Lively
sat at a desk and, as was his habit, took care of business before
anything else. A meticulous records keeper, the elder Lively took
out a blank death certificate, dipped his pen into the ink and carefully
filled out the details, taking out his pocket watch to reckon the
time of death: it was exactly a six minute walk from the Simson house.
Only after he had completed
his business did he then turn to his family and, reverting to husband
and father, rose with a smile. "Am I to guess from the look on
my son's face that a decision has been made?"
"I am going west,
Father!"
Jacob embraced Matthew
and said with unaccustomed emotion, "I will miss you, son, and
that's God's truth. But you were born to put roots down in a foreign
land. We've always known that, your Mother and me." The Livelys
had seen the growing restlessness in their youngest son, and understood
his yearning to go to a place where he was needed. They reckoned that
out West was where his skills would be needed most of all. "Now
that the hour is upon us, son, I wish you Godspeed."
His parents presented
him with a gift: a black bag with his initials stamped in gold. Inside,
all brand new: scalpel and scissors, needles for sewing flesh and
skin, sutures of silk and catgut, dressings and bandages, syringes
and catheters. His eyes widened as he brought a prized instrument
from the bag. "A stethoscope!"
"Genuine French,"
his father said with chest-puffed pride. Very few were in use yet
on this side of the Atlantic.
The long wooden tube,
with one widened end to be placed on a patient's chest, had only been
invented a few years earlier. The original creations had been much
shorter, and then doctors had realized that a longer listening tube
allowed enough distance to keep the patient's fleas from jumping on
them.
Before he departed,
his mother wanted to do one last reading, for it was her plan to send
the Blessing Stone with him, reasoning that in the three thousand
miles between Boston and Oregon, Matthew was going to need the crystal
more than she.
While his mother consulted
privately with the Blessing Stone, Matthew paced in the parlor. His
upcoming adventure both excited and frightened him. It was the first
time in his life he had taken the initiative to do something on his
own. Ever since he was a toddler, he had been a follower. He had even
followed his older brothers into their father's profession (and if
Matthew had ever entertained thoughts of pursuing another career,
he had buried them because such bold initiative was not in his nature).
After Hannah had communed
with the spirit in the Blessing Stone, she took her son's hand and
pressed the crystal into it, curling his fingers over the stone. "Listen
to me now, son," she said gravely. "A great trial is facing
you. You must meet it with strength, courage and wisdom."
"I know, Mother,"
he said gently. "It's a long and uncertain journey to Oregon."
"No, son, I'm
not speaking of the journey. Yes, that will be arduous, but what path
isn't? I speak of something else - a turning point in that journey.
Something," her face grew troubled, "terrible and dark."
This alarmed him. "Can
I avoid it?"
She shook her head.
"It has been placed before you, it is your fate. But it is there
as a test. Let the crystal guide you, son, it will lead you to light
and to life."
And then it was time to leave as he had a long way
to travel - by foot, horse, coach, canal boat, and train - from Boston
to Independence, where the road to his destiny was to begin.
*
"I've already told ya,"
the wagonmaster fairly shouted, "I ain't takin' no unattached
females and that's that!"
Emmeline Fitzsimmons glowered at Amos
Tice in exasperation. She had spent the past two weeks in Independence,
the jumping-off point for the Oregon Trail, going through the massive
encampment on the Missouri where families were waiting to start the
trek west, and she still had not found a wagonmaster who would take
her along. It wasn't fair. Plenty of single men were finding places
in the wagon trains. But one lone female ….
She wanted to scream.
Captain Amos Tice was originally a
mountain man and his attire showed it: a long, fringed buckskin jacket
over striped pants and boots, flannel shirt, and a beaded Indian belt
from which was slung a long hunting knife. His sweat-stained broad-rimmed
hat shadowed a face red from the sun and a beard gray with age and
hardship. No one knew exactly what he was a "captain" of,
but he had a reputation for being fair and for seeing that his emigrants
got where they needed to go. Tice looked the audacious young woman
up and down: while Emmeline Fitzsimmons wasn't exactly beautiful,
and he wasn't partial to ginger fly-away hair and freckles, still
she was pretty, he thought, and he liked her plump, robust figure.
But she was an invitation to trouble in any man's book. "I'm
sorry, miss," he said again, "but them's the rules. We don't
allow unmarried women traveling alone."
Emmeline was beyond frustration. This
was the seventh wagonmaster to refuse her and the prospects were diminishing.
Already the first wagon trains had left; in a couple of weeks there
would be no more leaving because of snows in the Sierras. "But
I can be of help. I am a midwife." She waved her arm over the
crowd of women and children. "By the looks of some of these women,
they will be needing my services."
The Story
Continues . . .
NOTE: If you enjoyed this
excerpt, you are in for a treat with the rest of The
Blessing Stone. To obtain a copy of your own, you can
either purchase
it online, or find
a bookstore near you that carries it. Thank you for your
interest in The
Blessing Stone and be sure to return in the event destiny
was not with you for this drawing : )
