Sophie's Journey - Chapter 32 - No False Comfort

 

Sophie's Journey - Chapter 32

No False Comfort

Gray light reflected on the muddy river, cold and distant. Sophie Petersen’s hands ached under the rags she had wrapped them in. The world had lost its color. Only black rock, brittle yellow grass, and the muddy brown North Platte were left.

Every step sent pain along her spine and into her sore, battered feet. To keep from panicking, she focused on the only numbers that mattered: how much flour was left and how many miles to Fort Laramie.

“Mother, my shoes won’t go on.” Anne’s voice was thin and wheezy. She sat collapsed on a roll of canvas, feet swollen, red, with bloody heels.

Sophie knelt, the grit from the trail scratching her knees, and massaged the child’s stiff arches. Anne’s face was empty, her tears long since spent.

“We will find shoes at Fort Laramie. Maybe sugar, if we are lucky. But you have to walk today.” Sophie’s voice was flat. She gave no tender comfort, only the command to survive.

Marianne Lautrup sat nearby, arms wrapped around her sides, holding her wool shawl tight against the cold from the river. She didn’t talk about Denmark or green fields anymore. She bit her cracked lip and held onto Sophie’s cart.

“I am so hungry, Sophie,” Marianne whispered, her eyes locked on the dark ridgeline ahead. “My stomach is a knot. The grit is in my teeth. Each mile demands more than the last. If we reach the fort... surely there will be flour? Shoes for the little ones?”

Sophie pinched Anne’s pale toes, watching the blood flush slowly back into the skin before fading. “Help me roll the bedding. The company moves soon.”

A long shadow extended across the ground. Brother Levi Savage stood above them, thin and weathered, his face set as he looked at the horizon. He spoke without kindness. “The roads ahead are deep sand, Sister Petersen. It will be a hard pull today. The supply wagons are already full of the sick.”

Sophie stood up, steadying herself with one hand on the cart. “My children will walk, Brother Savage. As long as I have breath to hold on to the pull bar,” she said.

Savage looked at her, noticing the dirt on her skin, the way her jaw was set, and the steady, stubborn movement of her hands. He gave a short nod. He didn’t offer false comfort. The nod was enough.

By afternoon, the travelers on the trail were covered with dirt and sweat, and battling the harsh sun. The flat land started to rise, but the climb brought deeper sand, making every inch a struggle.

Sophie pressed into the harness, the leather digging into her shoulders through her sweaty dress. Next to her, Peter pulled without a word, his thin body shaking under the weight.

“Watch the cart in front of us, Peter,” Sophie said, breathing hard. “Don’t look at the hills. Just watch those wheels. Then news circulated quietly down the line, carried via whispers through the dust: Jesse Empey was gone.

He had been getting weaker since the river crossing, his thirty-one-year-old body shaking with chills that even the hot Nebraska sun couldn’t stop. He had left England with his wife and four young children, hoping for Zion. Now the prairie had taken him.

The company stopped. Sophie stood still in the sudden quiet, gripping the wooden pull-bar so tightly that her bruised knuckles turned white.

There was no time for a real funeral; the ground was too hard to dig. Elder Willie and the sub-captains stood close together, talking quietly with serious faces. From a distance, Sophie saw Mary Ann Empey by the supply wagon. The young widow held her nine-month-old baby, Sarah Jane, close to her chest. Her three older children, William, James, and little Mary Ann, were hanging on to her skirt, their eyes empty and staring.

They looked so much like Sophie’s own children that she had to look away. Mary Ann stood alone now, a widow on the endless plains, left to pull the heavy cart and keep her four children alive until they reached the mountains.

We have to keep going, Marianne,” Sophie said, cutting off Marianne’s soft whimpering before it could start. “The living need the miles more than the dead need the ground. Now help me tighten the harness.”

“Five,” a voice muttered from the road near them. “Five souls.”

Sophie didn't need to turn to know Peder Mortensen’s hoarse rasp. He leaned firmly on his makeshift wooden cane, eyes fixed on his own family pulling ahead.

“Five gone already in September, and we haven't even sighted the peaks,” Peder said, the sound of his voice nearly buried by the rattle of wooden axles. “Five names for the ledger, Sophie.”

“Names that are in the Lord's hands, Peder,” Sophie said, though her tongue felt as heavy as lead.

“The Lord cares for spirits, but this prairie takes bodies,” Peder said, as he rubbed his brow, leaving a streak of red dust on his forehead. “The numbers don’t add up. We move slower every day. The flour rations get smaller. The children get weaker. If we lose strong men like Brother Empey on flat land, what will happen in the mountains? What if the wind brings snow?” 

Sophie pulled against the handcart until the rough wood bit deep into her raw palms. “We reach the fort. We get flour. We keep moving.”

“Flour can’t turn back time,” Peder whispered, moving in closer. “It’s late, Sophie. Later than Brother Savage warned us back in Florence. We’re walking right into a trap of stone and ice, and we’re doing it while singing hymns.”

“Keep your complaints to yourself!” Sophie said sharply, her fear finally breaking through. “I have four children to keep alive today. I don’t have space in my mind for your numbers.”

Peder didn’t apologize. He stared ahead toward the west, his lined face set like flint. The dark truth hung heavy between them as they trudged along in silence.

Sophie kept walking through the thick, hazy twilight. The road drained her strength and covered her wool skirts in red dust. Fort Laramie was still days away. She looked at her children, feeling a strong, protective anger, and set her jaw.

By the time they made camp, cold stars were sprinkled across the night sky. The heat was gone, replaced by a breeze that cooled their sweaty backs. With little wood to find, they clustered together tightly on the bare ground in the dark.

“Mother?”

A small, cold hand slipped into hers. Emma crawled out from under the worn quilt, her face colorless in the starlight.

“Is it true what the men said?” Emma murmured, her eyes wide. “Is Brother Empey dead?”

"Yes, Emma. It is true." Sophie pulled the quilt higher, tucking it under Emma’s chin. The child’s skin felt as paper, dry and thin. "Brother Empey has gone to rest."

Emma went quiet, her little body limp against Sophie’s side. A gust of wind shook the covering of a nearby wagon, making a sharp sound in the dark. "But he was at the fire just two nights ago," Emma said softly. "He was laughing at the baby's toes. How can he be gone?"

Sophie didn’t have a gentle answer ready. No way to soften what she had to say. "The road is hard, Emma. Sometimes the body just stops."

Sophie held Emma’s hand, her rough skin against the girl’s knuckles. She knew that she should encourage the girl, but today, God seemed so far away. She couldn’t talk about Zion and the wonderful things they would see there. Zion was too far away. 

Emma paused, her voice trembling. “They said his wife has to pull the cart all by herself now. Will we be left like that, Mother? If the snow comes? If... if you stop breathing like Brother Empey? Will we be alone?”

“You are never alone,” Sophie said, pulling the girl in tight. “And you never will be alone, Emma.” I am here; I will always be here. And nothing on this trail can take me from you. I won’t let it.”

Emma rested her head on Sophie’s shoulder, her breath unsteady at first, then calm. The camp was quiet, filled with the smell of sage and waning embers. To comfort Emma, Sophie turned to the only thing the trail couldn’t take: their memories.

"Do you remember the farm in Gentofte?" Sophie inquired gently. "The way the cows had the scent of clover?"

Emma stirred, a small trace of light returning to her eyes. "And the kitchen? It was always warm."

"Always," Sophie murmured. "And the bread fresh from the oven, still steaming.”

Emma closed her eyes, a faint trace of a smile touching her lips. “I wish I could remember the taste of the butter,” she said. “Yellow butter on fresh warm bread. Just once.”

Sophie closed her eyes. She hated the price God asked for land, and guilt ate at her. She didn’t tell Emma that fresh bread and butter were only dreams now, or that the route ahead would be colder than the river. She just held Emma tighter as the girl fell asleep and waited for morniing. 

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Sophie's Journey - Chapter 31- Lost in the Willows

 Sophie's Journey - Chapter 31

Lost in the Willows

The ringing of axes traveled through the encampment. Anne stirred, pressing close to Sophie. Peter and Emma slept, their breathing soft. Sophie awoke, then drifted back into sleep when Otto suddenly cried out in alarm. She arose to quiet Otto, and he clung to her. Outside, dawn turned the hollow gray. The trees remained black against the light sky. She smelled campfire smoke and meat. Her stomach tightened. They had killed a cow. She had almost forgotten what that was like.

She sat up and crawled out of the tent. The camp was already busy. Men moved around the carts. Peder Mortensen and his son were working on a handcart, fitting a new axle. Others worked with him, their hands black with grease and tar. Repairs had started.

Marianne came to her elbow with a tin cup containing something hot. Although her eyes had red rims and her face looked pale from fatigue, she managed to give a thin smile. "It's broth," she said, "from the cow. There's not much of it, but it warms the bones."

Sophie took the cup and wrapped her cold fingers around it. The heat helped. "Any news?" she asked, though she was afraid to hear it.

Marianne shook her head. "They sent more men at first light. Captain Willie went with several others. The first two searches found nothing." She looked toward the trees, where the hollow was dark. "They will find her, or she will come back. She must."

Sophie drank the broth. It was thin and greasy, nevertheless warm. She thought of Sister Stewart, somewhere out past the trees. The hollow looked gentle, but it could swallow a person. A hundred yards, and you could disappear.

"The children?" Marianne asked.

“Peter is still sleeping. He has earned his rest.” Sophie answered. “He's a good boy and strong,” she continued, her speech showing the sadness that comes to mothers when they see their children aging too quickly. “We would never have made it without Peter and Captain Savage helping.”

Marianne nodded and replied, “You speak truly." Pointing to a cart with a cracked wheel, she continued, “It’s good that we can make repairs here.” Two men held the handcart steady while another tied a split log around the break, fastening it with rawhide. The work was rough, but it would hold. It had to. 

Sophie gathered up her children and fed them the broth that was left. Soon the hollow buzzed with activity as people took advantage of a morning without travel to make repairs and regroup. As they worked, Sophie and Marianne kept watching the edge of camp, waiting for the searchers. 

When they saw them return, they looked weary. Brother Oliver shook his head at Captain Siler and said, "Nothing. We followed her tracks to the creek, but then lost them in the willows. The ground is too soft to leave any prints."

Captain Siler's jaw tensed. "Captain Willie took eleven men on his third expedition, and they went deeper, towards the south bluffs. If she's walking, she might now be miles away."

The afternoon dragged. Sophie washed clothes and mended Peter's shirt. The children played quietly near the tent. Anne grasped her skirt.

Late in the day, sunlight glimmered through the trees. A noise rose at the edge of camp. Sophie looked up from her sewing. Someone staggered out of the trees, helped by two men Sophie did not know.

It was Sister Stewart, but she looked changed. Her dress was torn and muddy. Scratches marked her face. Her eyes were full of exhaustion. She moved slowly, dragging her feet. Captain Woodward walked next to her, steadying her. He had found her while cutting timber.

The camp assembled around her. Women brought blankets, food, and water. Sophie pushed through the crowd. She reached Sister Stewart as the woman collapsed. They laid her on the ground. Sophie knelt and pressed a cup of water to her lips. Sister Stewart drank, water running down her chin. Her hands quivered too much to hold the cup.

"Easy," Sophie whispered, using the very tone that she adopted when her children awoke from nightmares. "You're safe now."

Sister Stewart had great difficulty focusing her eyes on Sophie, as though Sophie were a figure seen through deep water. "I heard..." she spoke quietly, her words dry and broken like that of withered leaves. "I heard the cattle and the axes. I pursued the sound."

Sophie took her hand. The fingers were ice-cold, nails broken and dirty. "You did well. You found your way."

They gave her beef soup. Sister Stewart ate quickly, soup running down her chin. Color came back to her cheeks. She closed her eyes and slept, her head on a rolled blanket.

Sophie laid another blanket over her and stepped away. The camp seemed less heavy. But Willie and the eleven men had not returned.

 Sophie returned to her children and held them close. Emma wondered, "Is the lady all right?" with a serious look on her delicate face.

"She will be," Sophie said, "because she's strong, just like all of us."

By evening, the camp was grateful but uneasy. Captain Atwood called the Saints to prayer in the middle of the hollow. Sister Stewart was found, but Captain Willie, and the eleven men were still missing in the dark.

Later on, the captains talked in low voices. As Sophie settled her children, she caught pieces of their talk. The third group had not come back. As night came, worry replaced relief. Peter came and joined her, his young face serious in the light of the fire. "Will Captain Willie be all right?" he asked.

"Sophie said that he had eleven brothers and that he knew the country better than most of the others; therefore, he would be able to find his way back."

She watched the tree line, hoping someone would appear from the dark. Time passed. The fire burned low. Sophie was about to give up and crawl into the tent when she heard it. The sound of voices, many voices, approaching through the trees. She stood, her heart beating fast.

Captain Willie appeared first, followed by the other men, mud-spattered and weary. The camp stirred, people emerging from tents, calling out in relief and welcome.

"We found her trail," Captain Willie announced, his words projecting across the hollow. "Tracked it to the south bluffs, but lost it near dark. Deemed it best to return and make a fresh start in the morning if needed."

He paused, and it seemed everyone tried to speak at once.  "She's found?" Captain Willie asked.

Captain Siler came forward, grinning. "She came in on her own this afternoon. Heard Woodward's men cutting timber and tracked the sound. She is exhausted, although alive. Sleeping now."

The tension left Captain Willie's shoulders. He closed his eyes and moved his lips in silent prayer. When he opened them, his eyes were bright.

"Then we are all restored," he said in a soft voice. "Thanks be to God. We are all restored."

The camp kept the celebration quiet. There was little to share, but the mood was lighter. Sophie hugged her children and kissed their foreheads. For one night, they were safe.

That night Sophie slept peacefully. The axes were quiet. The lost had been found. The hollow was still except for the river and her children's breathing next to her.

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Sophie's Journey - Chapter 30 - Into Ash Hollow

  Sophie's Journey - Chapter 30

Into Ash Hollow

After the meal, the captains called for the company to move. Ellen Cantwell's cry remained in the air over the handcarts. Even the work of repacking felt quiet and uneasy. The captains warned that the climb into the bluffs would take time. They could not waste daylight. The trail was not straight. Marsh by the river forced them inland. Cliffs blocked the way. They would have to climb, twist through the hills, and drop down to Ash Hollow.

Sophie took her place at the cart with Peter next to her, while Marianne managed the younger children and the bundles. The bugle sounded, and they began to pull.

The climb started at once. The path rose through loose rock and sand that slipped underfoot. Sophie's lungs ached. Her shoulders ached. At every step, the cart became heavier, as if the bluffs wanted to push them back.

Someone yelled from in front. Sophie looked up and saw trouble ahead. The path got steeper, zigzagging over the bluff. One team could not move their cart. Two groups joined, four people pushing while another cart waited behind.

When it was their turn, Levi Savage offered to assist. He moved next to Peter without saying anything, and they pushed the cart as Sophie pulled.

The sun was bright, but the air stayed cool. Sweat ran down Sophie's back. Her hands, wrapped in cloth, burned against the coarse wood. She fixed her eyes on the path and counted her steps to forget the pain.

“One. Two. Three. Four.” Peter grunted as he pushed. His face was serious, older than his years. Sophie wanted to tell him to stop, but she needed his strength. He knew it too.

At the first switchback they stopped, gasping for breath. Below, the river curved through the valley, shining in the sun. Sophie saw the nooning place far behind and the trail they had climbed, cutting back and forth up the bluff. From here, it looked impossible, as if they had scaled a wall.

"Not much farther now to go," said Captain Savage, although his breathing showed that he was more comforting himself than them. "After that it's a descent into the hollow, where there are real trees, cedar trees, as they say."

Sophie nodded, saving her breath. They adjusted their grip and pushed on.

Marianne moved up behind them, one hand placed against her side and the other pulling at a bundle which had fallen from the cart. "If this is the road to Zion," she said, breathing hard, "then Zion must be beyond a difficult climb."

Sophie managed to give a faint smile. "Save your breath, Marianne; you'll need it before we come to the next bend."

"I tell you, I have none left to save," said Marianne. "My feet are as rocks, my back is on fire, and that cart has become wicked since this morning; when we loaded it, it was lighter, I promise you it was."

"Then we'll teach it to obey," Sophie said, tightening her hold on the cart. "Bit by bit."

The climb dragged on for hours. The path zigzagged over uneven ground, skirting cliffs that fell into hidden valleys. They passed through a grove of cedars, the first real trees Sophie had seen in weeks.

They started down, the carts sliding on the loose gravel. Ropes and every bit of strength the company had held the carts back. Sophie walked backward, boots digging in, arms shaking. Peter did the same on the other side, his expression pale and set.

Ash Hollow opened before them, broad and filled with grass and trees. The North Platte shone in the distance. The detour had cost them daylight and strength. The river ran close to the bluffs, but the low ground was boggy. To avoid it, the trail climbed the broken bluffs and dropped into the hollow.

That morning, Levi Savage had warned they would need to double up for the climb. He was right. The broken bluff forced them to turn and climb in stages, pulling ropes and pushing their bodies against the carts. What should have been an easy road by the river became a half-day fight through the hardest ground yet.

When darkness fell, they set up camp. No one spoke for a long time. Sophie barely had the strength to raise the tent. Peter and Emma gathered wood. Sophie sat on the cold ground and coaxed a fire from damp tinder. Anne fussed in her lap, perceiving her mother's weariness.

Marianne collapsed beside Sophie. Dust lined her face. Her bonnet had slipped back. "Now, Sophie," she said, forcing a thin smile, "if there was ever a day meant to humble us, this was it. The hill caught my feet, my bundle broke in the dust, and little Otto cried as if his heart would break. More than once I thought I should sit down and let the rest go on without me."

Sophie warmed her hands over the small fire. She did not look up. The faint glow of the fire showed Anne's sleepy eyes and Peter's hunched shoulders. "I am grateful it is over," she said quietly. "Not because it was kind, but because it cannot ask anything more until morning."

"Over," Marianne echoed, letting out a breath that was not quite laughter. "No one ever told me anything like that before. My limbs are still on the bluff, moving and struggling. When the cart jerked, I thought we would all go down together. I meant to weep, but it was no use, and there was no time."

Sophie put her hand over Marianne's. "It’s ok to cry," she said, trying to smile. "All day I have said bold things and believed only half. This small fire feels like a kindness tonight."

Marianne lowered her head. For a moment, both women were silent. The hollow sank into darkness, filled with soft voices, coughing children, and the sound of wagons cooling in the evening air.

"Someone's missing," Peter called. When he came back from the river with water, his face was troubled. "Sister Stewart; they noticed it at the camp, and her footsteps went off in that direction." He indicated the trees, for it was there that the hollow became thick with shadow.

Sophie looked where he pointed. The hollow seemed open at first, but brush and broken ground lined the sides. 

"You could go a little way and lose your sense of direction," Peter said. "It's getting dark, and the captain says we cannot send anyone else until morning.

Marianne focused her gaze at the end of the hollow, where the searchers' lanterns had disappeared.  She spoke quietly, "I talked a great deal about the difficulties I had when I was coming down." "Now I feel ashamed of that. Here I am by the fire, and the children are within easy reach. At least we have been spared that." 

Sophie gave Marianne's hand a single press before releasing it. "Yes," she said. "The walking is over for tonight, the cart is still there, and the Lord has allowed us to sit together. Although I have very little strength left, I am grateful for it."

Sophie thought of Ellen Cantwell lying in the wagon. Sister Stewart was lost in the trees, maybe hurt, maybe wandering as the cold set in. Sophie pulled Otto and Anne close and looked into the dark where the searchers had gone.

When the searchers returned, their faces told the story before they spoke. Mud caked their boots. Branches stuck in their hair. Their eyes looked hollow with failure.

"I couldn't find her," Brother Oliver said. "I followed her trail to the creek, but then lost it. It's now too dark, and there are too many places she might have gone."

Captain Willie stood next to the fire with his shadow looming large over the bluff face. "We'll start the search again at first light," he said, "and keep posts throughout the night in case she manages to find her way back."

Sophie closed her eyes, but she couldn’t calm her thoughts. Her children pressed close for warmth. Lying awake, she listened to the night sounds. Somewhere, Sister Stewart was alone in the dark, maybe calling for help, but no one could hear.

Otto coughed in his sleep, a wet sound that made Sophie worry. She pulled him closer and felt his ribs move under her arm. She closed her eyes to pray.

“Lord,” she prayed silently, “if Thou wilt not take this burden from us, then lend us strength enough to bear it. Keep Sister Stewart through the night, whether she walks or lies still, and let some mercy find her before the morning. Lay Thy healing hand upon Ellen Cantwell, and draw the poison from her wound if it be Thy will. Watch over my children, over Peter's weary hands and Emma's valiant heart, over little Otto's breath and Anne's sleep. And if there is courage left for me, help me find it when the light comes again. Amen.

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Sophie's Journey - Chapter 29 - Shadows of the Bluffs

 

Sophie's Journey - Chapter 29

Shadows of the Bluffs

Frost came hard for the first time, stiffening the tent canvas until it was hard and brittle. Sophie woke before dawn to her own breath hanging in pale clouds. She reached over and pulled the blanket higher around Otto's shoulders. The boy stirred but did not wake. Beside him, Emma slept with her thumb against her lips, a habit Sophie had tried and failed to break.

She rose quietly. Her joints ached from the cold ground. Outside, the world was white and brittle. The grass along the riverbank stood in frozen spears. The North Platte moved slowly, its edges sealed with a thin skin of ice.

"Sharp one, ain't it?" Marianne stood by the dead fire, her arms wrapped around herself. "Brother Willie says we'll roll at nine. The captains are waiting for the sun to soften the ground."

Peder Mortenson emerged from the gloom. "The ground won't soften much today,” he said, his breath forming a cloud. "Frost this early means the season's turning. I've seen it before—Denmark, '47. The cold came and never left until spring."

Sophie pulled her shawl tighter. "You think it'll hold?"

"I think it'll get worse." Peder squatted by the dead fire and poked the ashes with a stick. "The captains know it too. That's why they're pushing for Ash Hollow—water and shelter before the real cold sets in." He looked up at Sophie, his face serious. "Keep your little ones close today. The trail ahead is bad—sand giving way to rock, the river pressing close, and bluffs steeper than they look."

Sophie nodded. “Another hard day ahead,” she muttered.

She looked toward the river. The bluffs rose on the far side, layered in tan and red stone. She no longer counted the days since Florence. Someone had scratched the miles on a wagon board: more than 380. The numbers mattered less than the tiredness in her children's faces.

"Peter," she called. "Wake the little ones. We need to pack before the bugle."

Peter came out of the tent quickly, all energy and no caution. He was ten and did not know what it meant to be tired. Sophie knew. She had watched the meat melt from her bones and felt her skirts grow loose.

They packed as they had done a hundred times. Carts loaded, tents pulled down. The dying fires hissed as river water hit the coals. Captain Willie rode past on his horse, face grim. He looked like a man carrying a burden he had not chosen.

The company rolled forward at nine, as promised. The sandy roads that had plagued them lately hardened overnight, making it easier to pull. Sophie pulled her cart with Otto fastened to her back in a makeshift sling. The child was two and getting bigger, but he could not keep pace with the older children.

The sun rose, and the frost melted. The sand turned soft again. By noon they reached the foot of the bluffs, where the river pressed close to the stone. Sophie watched the captains point at the ground ahead. The river bottom was marshy, choked with willow and reeds that would catch a cart axle. To reach Ash Hollow, they would have to climb two miles up broken shelves of ochre stone, then descend another two or three miles. What should have been easy miles along the water had become a half-day struggle through rough ground.

"We'll stop here," Captain Willie called out. "Take water from the river. Fill everything you have. It's seven miles to the next reliable source."

The company halted in the shadow of the bluffs. Sophie unslung Otto and set him down on a blanket. Peter went to the river with the water pails while Emma tended to Otto, wiping his face with a corner of her smock. The boy had developed a cough that worried Sophie, though she said nothing. There was little enough to be done for it.

She was unpacking the dried meat when she heard the scream.

It cut through the camp noise like a blade—a child's cry, high and terrified, followed by shouts. Sophie ran before she could think, legs carrying her toward the sandy slope where the younger children played.

When she arrived, Sophie saw Captain Siler standing with his pistol drawn. On the ground lay the twisted body of a rattlesnake, its head blown off, its body still quivering in the dust. And in the arms of Brother Cantwell was little Ellen.

Sophie pushed through the crowd. The girl lay limp in her father’s arms. Suddenly, she gasped and placed her hand on her chest, and Sophie could see the puncture marks in her already swelling hand.

"She was playing in the sand," someone said. "It came out of nowhere."

Brother Cantwell held his daughter as if she might dissolve. "The captain killed it," he said, his voice strange and distant. "But the bite—what do we do for the bite?"

Captain Siler was already holstering his pistol and pulling items from his saddlebag. "Powder and lard," he said. "Best remedy we have. And a little whiskey inside, to steady her."

Sophie watched as the Captain stirred the powder into the lard in his tin cup. He applied the gray paste to Ellen's hand while the girl whimpered, her eyes glassy with shock. Then he produced a flask and tipped a small amount between her lips. Ellen coughed, sputtered, then grew quiet.

"She'll sleep now," Siler said. "The Lord willing, she'll pull through."

Sophie saw doubt in his eyes. He would not meet Brother Cantwell's gaze. She remembered a snakebite in Denmark, a farmhand bitten by an adder in the hay. The man lived, but his arm never worked right again. Ellen was so small.

They carried the girl to her family's wagon, where Sister Cantwell waited. Sophie returned to her own children, who had gathered in a silent cluster by the handcart. Peter held Otto's hand. Tears marked Emma's face; she had not bothered to wipe them.

"Will she die?" Emma questioned, trying to sound brave, but her voice cracked on the last word.

"I don't know," Sophie said. She rarely lied to her children, and she would not start now. "They've given her a remedy. We can only pray."

They ate what passed for dinner: a few bites of tough meat and flour gruel. Sophie chewed without tasting. She kept looking at the Cantwell wagon. No sound came from inside. Peter, usually full of talk, was quiet. Emma kept glancing that way, worry pinching her face. Sophie was about to send her for water when Marianne appeared, shawl tight, cheeks red from the cold. She sat beside Sophie and took a cup of thin gruel. They sat in silence by the dying fire. Marianne stirred her gruel but did not drink. 

Sophie watched Peder, who had set himself near the remaining embers of the fire, carving a length of oak wood with his pocket knife. His hands moved steady and sure, blade flicking thin shavings into a tidy pile at his feet. When he finished, he stood and came to her, offering the newly carved horse to Otto, who took it with a happy squeal.

"That'll help occupy him," Peder said. "Maybe help keep him out of trouble."

Sophie managed a thin smile. “I always liked to make them things. Toys, mostly,” Peder continued. “Our father said I was wasting time, but not every boy wanted to be a farmer.”

She looked at him, trying to see past the stubble and wind-burned skin. "What did you want to be, then?" Peder turned the knife in his hand, thumb caressing the weathered handle. "I wanted to build things instead of grow them," he said. "I was a blacksmith before I was injured."

"If you want," Peder added, more softly now, "I can show Peter how to set a snare for rabbits. It might help.

Sophie hesitated at the offer, but she nodded. "That would be good. Thank you."

Peder nodded. Turning to Peter, he said, “Do you want to learn how to set a rabbit snare?”

The boy came quickly, eager to learn. Sophie watched them walk away. Something eased inside her. It was not hope, but the knot of worry loosened a little.

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Sophie's Journey - Chapter 26 - The Stranger's News

 

Sophie's Journey - Chapter 26

The Stranger's News

The camp was busy with morning chores. A single rider appeared on the horizon, gripping his saddle. He looked tired, his hands white on the leather.

Sophie looked up at the noise. It was not the usual talk. Voices were low and tense, drawing the Saints toward the center of camp.

The stranger’s name was Henry Bauichter, a soldier just released from Fort Laramie. He spoke quickly, out of breath, as if he had been running. The camp grew quiet.

“I left Fort Laramie on the 29th of last month, riding east on horseback. After about thirty miles, I came upon a wagon drawn by two mules, with two horses trailing—one of them an Indian horse with a distinct white face. Two men accompanied the rig: Thomas Margetts and James Cowdy. Margetts was traveling with his wife, and Cowdy had his wife and a young child. They told me they were making their way from Great Salt Lake City back to the States, so I joined company with them.”

He paused, breathing hard. The camp leaned in, waiting.

“On the afternoon of the 6th, around one or two o'clock, roughly seventy miles out near what I believe was North Bluff Creek, Margetts and I rode out into the hills to hunt buffalo. It wasn't long before I brought one down about a mile and a half over the bluff from where we had halted the wagon. Margetts rode back to the wagon to fetch some utensils so we could gather the meat and tallow, while I stayed behind to dress the carcass.

Margetts came back, filled the first container with tallow, and walked toward the wagon. I stayed with the buffalo, cut meat, and filled the second tin.

When I reached the ridge, I saw at once something was wrong. The wagon’s canvas was gone. The mules and horses had disappeared.

I found the bodies of Margetts, Cowdy, and Cowdy’s wife on the ground. The child was alive, crying, blood on his face. No one had been scalped. Cowdy had an arrow in his thigh. Mrs. Cowdy’s clothes were torn, her body left exposed on the dirt. Mrs. Margetts was missing.

The back of the wagon burned. Everything useful was gone. Feathers from a bed tick were scattered, but the tick itself was missing. I saw about a dozen riders far off, moving away. They looked like Indians. I had heard no gunfire while I worked on the buffalo.

I knew I could not stay. Everything I owned was in that wagon—my papers, my money, my watch. All of it burned. I got on my horse and rode for Fort Kearny.

I didn't pass a single soul until I reached this camp this morning, empty-bellied and nearly spent after fifty hours without food. If you can spare it, I need food, ammunition, and provisions enough to carry me on to Fort Kearny.”

The camp was silent. Safety was three hundred miles away. Danger waited seventy miles ahead, on the same trail.

There was no time to mourn. They had to keep moving.

Bauichter ate and took ammunition for his ride to Fort Kearny. The camp went back to work. They loaded forty sacks of flour, each a hundred pounds, onto the handcarts. The carts were almost too heavy to move. To keep the supply wagons going, the Saints hitched milk cows to the wagons. The cows were awkward and loud, not used to harnesses. Men shouted. Ropes pulled tight. Children ran from the hooves. For a while, the camp was mayhem. Still, the work got done.

By midday, the milk cows stood ready in their harnesses. The company started its march, mile after mile through the lowlands of the Platte. Heavy wooden wheels turned in wet, clinging sand. The cows pushed into their yokes and kept the carts moving. At dusk, they made camp by the river. They crossed to a small island to gather firewood for the night.

Sophie watched Marianne as she collected firewood, each heavy step dragging as if weighed down by the gruesome story they'd just heard. Catching up to her, Sophie was overcome with sadness and empathy at the sight of the tear trails cutting through the dirt on Marianne's face.

“The child,” Marianne whispered, her gaze fixed on the gray, silty water. “He said the child was still crying. How can the Lord allow a babe to cry in such a place?”

Marianne’s grief struck a raw, agonizing nerve in Sophie. A cold knot tightened in her chest—not just for the unknown child, but for her own little ones sleeping back at the camp. She swallowed down the sudden swell of panic, forcing her voice to stay grounded even as her mind reeled at the unbearable cruelty of it all. She kept piling wet driftwood. She could not forget the picture of that child. “The Lord allows many things, Marianne. He allowed the sea to take Thomas.”

Marianne shivered, though the air was damp, not cold. “They’re close, Sophie. Seventy miles. That’s three days of pulling, maybe four. What if they’re waiting for us?”

Sophie stood up, straightening her sore back, and looked toward camp, where Emma watched the younger children. “Don’t worry, Marianne. We will not fall behind, and we will not split up. One wagon alone is one thing. We have a large company. That is different.”

“Mrs. Cowdy...” Marianne’s voice failed, and the color drained from her face. “He said they left her exposed. Like she was nothing.”

Marianne bowed her head in shame. But Sophie would not let herself be shocked.

“We are not alone out here,” Sophie said. “We are a group, with many we can rely on. But I’ll tell you this: I am not leaving my children for anyone to find in the dirt. Even if the horses are gone, and the wagon is burning, I’ll keep moving toward the Valley.”

Marianne looked at her then, her eyes open and haunted. "You sound like Peder. So cold."

“I’m not cold, Marianne,” Sophie said. She lifted the bundle of wood against her hip. Wet bark soaked her dress. “I’m just awake. Now pick up your wood. The fire won’t light itself. The children are hungry.”

As they walked back to the children, Sophie did not look at the sky. She looked at the gloom where her children slept. Emma’s small hand curled near her face. Peter’s chest expanded and fell with the heavy rhythm of the exhausted. Otto and Anne snuggled together.

The stranger’s story crowded Sophie’s mind. She felt uneasy. She had tried to calm Marianne, but the fears were real.

It wasn't just the fear. It wasn't just hunger now. It was the image of the blood-smeared child crying in the grass. This fear was sharp and clear. Every crack in the dark, every shift of the wind, now meant something. Beyond the fire was an unknown tomorrow. Sinkholes and sands that bogged down the handcarts, and the constant hunger of half-rations waited for them in the morning —and perhaps the sharp, silent bite of the arrows the stranger had warned about.

Sophie leaned over her children and watched them sleep. She could not afford to break. She pushed away the horror of what she had heard and the fear of what might come. Apprehension was a luxury which she could not afford. She locked it away, leaving only the hard truth of survival.

There were only her children. Only the cart on the trail. Only the next step. She had to be ready.

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Sophie's Journey - Chapter 28 - The Apostle's Promise

 Sophie's Journey - Chapter 28

The Apostle's Promise

Sophie woke with her cheek pressed against the tent canvas. She did not know when she had fallen asleep. Around her, people were getting up and coughing. She heard Captain Atwood’s voice outside, loud and clear.

"Get up now," Atwood called. "Get up, or the tent comes down around you."

Sophie turned away. She knew why he was so gruff. They were falling behind, and every day brought winter closer. But the people here were not fighters; they were simple farmers, merchants, weavers, and children. 

She used last night’s coals to start her fire. She boiled flour and water for breakfast. It was no longer porridge or bread. It was paste, barely enough to keep them moving.

They were still eating when the riders came. Sophie heard the hoofbeats before she saw them. It was not like the sound of feet or carts.

Wagons and carriages rolled in from the east, with strong, well-fed horses. The shiny carriages shone brightly in the sun. Apostle Richards and his party had arrived.

The carriages slowed at the edge of camp. Sophie saw Apostle Franklin D. Richards in the first carriage. She remembered him from Liverpool, from the mission hall. He had spoken to them before they left on the Thornton. Now he appeared older, or maybe just cleaner, with a neat coat and trimmed beard. He smiled at the handcart company, but Sophie watched the horses. They looked strong. Their ribs did not show. 

The Saints crowded around the visitors, hungry for news. Sophie sat on the ground with Anne in her lap and Otto leaning against her. The river moved behind them.

Elder Richards stood before them and spoke with authority. He talked about their progress, the miracle of the handcarts, and how far they had come with so little. 

Emma moved beside Sophie. She watched Richards with wide eyes, the same way she had watched the missionaries in Denmark before the trail made her doubt.

Then Richards raised his hand, and his tone of voice changed. It grew lower and heavier, the voice of someone speaking from certainty, not just thought.

“Beloved brothers and sisters, my heart grows with a joy that words can scarcely frame as I look upon your faces tonight. We have traveled hard and fast from the shores of Europe, pressing across the waters and the rails, pushing our teams to the limit so that we might catch you upon these great plains. And why? To speak to you as you prepare to press forward. You are the vanguard of a new dispensation in Israel. You are the literal fulfillment of prophecy, pulling Zion forward with your own hands!

I know your wagons are few. I know your hands are blistered, your feet are sore, and your shoulders are bruised from pulling handcarts. I know that the adversary raged against you just days ago, sending the wild beasts of the plains to stampede your cattle and strip you of your teams. The devil sees what you are doing, and he trembles! He desires nothing more than to see your knees buckle and your faith fail here in the wilderness.

But I say to you, look not at the cattle you have lost; look to the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob! Some have told you that you have started too late. You have heard voices in your very midst murmuring of disaster, warning you of the mountain snows, of sickness, and of death. There will be some trials to endure, but I speak to urge you to trust faith over fear and keep pressing on.”

Turning toward Captain Willie and the other captains, Richards continued, pointing out Captain Savage. “Brother Levi Savage has spoken to you with the understanding of the flesh. He has laid before you the calculations of the world, quivering at the sign of a cloud and counting the miles with a mind full of doubt. But I tell you tonight, Brother Savage has spoken by the spirit of the world and not by the Spirit of the Living God! It is a want of faith that looks upon the work of the Lord and sees only a grave.

Hear my word, Saints! I am an Apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ. I speak to you in the name of Israel's God: If you will gird up your loins, if you will banish doubt from your camp and walk forward in absolute obedience to your priesthood leaders, the Almighty will manifest His power in a manner this world has never witnessed.

Do you fear the winter? I promise you, the Lord will control the elements. He who parted the Red Sea and stayed the sun for Joshua will hold back the snows of the Rocky Mountains. The skies will be softened for your passage. Your path will be opened, and the cold shall not have power to destroy you. You shall walk across the canyons in safety, and your feet shall stand upon the holy ground of the Salt Lake Valley before the bitter cold can overtake you.

You are not forgotten. Our prophet, Brigham Young, does not yet know the perils of your travel, but he will soon. My party and I ride in light carriages. We shall outrun the wind to the valley. I give you my sacred promise: the moment my boots touch the streets of Great Salt Lake City, I will stand before the Prophet and tell him of your devotion, your trials, and your need, and he will send aid.

Before the snows can fall, a line of wagons, fresh mules, warm blankets, and abundant flour will be rolling eastward from the valley to meet you on the trail! Relief will come. Israel will rescue her own.

Cast away your fears, then, O Israel! Let this dark wilderness reverberate with the holy strains of Zion ere the night closes in! Let the very peaks of the everlasting mountains tremble at your songs of victory before your feet have so much as touched their rugged slopes! Bind up the broken-hearted, lift high the weary hands that droop with the trials of the way, and sanctify your souls this hour for the manifest glory of the Lord God Almighty!

God bless you, Captain Willie. God bless you, faithful Saints. Press on, and we shall welcome you with shouting and tears of joy in the courts of Zion! Amen.”

The camp was quiet at first. Sophie looked on the faces around her: thin cheeks, cracked lips, tired eyes. Everyone needed the promise to be true. When Richards said the Lord would hold back the snows, a woman nearby sobbed with relief. Others called out 'Amen.' Sophie wanted to join them, but hope looked dangerous. She was afraid to say it out loud.

Sophie heard something else beneath the relief. Richards had promised rescue, but he also spoke of trials and suffering. She tried to hold on to the promise, but the warning stayed with her.

Then the smell of smoke drifted through camp. Usually it served as a comfort, but today it carried the heavy odor of roasting meat.

“Look at them,” someone blurted out. Peder Mortensen's face was twisted into a scowl as he whittled a scrap of wood. He didn't look at the Apostle; he looked at the place where the company’s fattest calf had been slaughtered an hour before. “Faith, patience, and obedience. That’s the sermon. And the collection plate is our children’s dinner.”

“He is an Apostle, Peder,” Sophie whispered, though the words sounded thinner than she wanted them to, and her own stomach cramped at the odor of the meat. “He carries the word of the Lord.”

'He carries our meat in his belly,' Peder snapped, his knife shaving a long, thin curl of wood. “Captain Willie gave it up because he’s a man of order. But there are four hundred of us, Sophie. Old men with no shoes, and your little Anne who can barely stand. They have four horses to a carriage. They could have hunted a buffalo in an hour. Instead, they take the calf.”

He pointed his knife toward the river, where the Apostles’ carriages were already beginning to roll toward the crossing, their drivers high and dry on their benches.

“They tell us the Lord will keep the way open,” Peder said, his speech sinking to a low, dangerous growl. 'But they’re the ones holding the gate, and they’re charging a heavy toll.”

Sophie did not answer. She watched the carriages move toward the river, the men riding high above the dust. The hunger in her wasn't merely an ache. It was turning into something colder.

Peder sat down next to her after the carriages had disappeared. "He speaks well," Peder said, his speech husky from the day’s dust. "But he talks like someone who’s never had dirt fill his boots."

Sophie didn’t look up. She kept her hands on Anne’s tiny shoulders, trying to protect her from the increasing wind. "He promises the snow will hold back. He says the cold won’t have power over us."

"Do you believe him, Sister Sophie?"

"I want to," she said. "Emma believes the Apostle. You can see how happy she is." She signaled toward the campfires. Emma was talking with the other girls, her face bright with hope. "She looks like she did back in Denmark. Before Thomas died at sea. Before the cattle ran off."

Peder coughed, rubbing at his throat. "Emma’s just a kid. Of course she still has hope," he murmured gently. He looked at Sophie, his eyes heavy with hunger and pain. "But look at the sky, Sophie. It doesn't care about Apostles. It just looks like winter."

"I know that Brother Savage warned us," Sophie exclaimed. "In Florence, he told us the snows would catch us in the mountains. But Elder Richards called him a man of little faith. He said Savage spoke by the spirit of the world."

"Levi Savage is a man of wisdom, who knows how many miles an ox can walk before its heart gives out. I trust his experience on the trail." Peder said. "I’m a blacksmith. I know faith doesn’t change timber and iron. And it doesn’t feed a starving mule."

"Don’t," Sophie said, her manner biting despite her tiredness. She looked up at him, her eyes fierce-looking in her thin face. "Don’t say that. If I believe Savage, then I have to believe we’re pulling these carts to a grave. I have Otto. I have Anne. I can’t walk twenty miles tomorrow if I think the horizon is a lie. I have to believe Elder Richards. I have to believe he’ll send rescue wagons with supplies."

Peder was quiet for a long time. The wind shook the tents and brought the smell of sage and rain. The river moved brown and slow beside them. He stood up, his back stiff from the cold. "Tomorrow, whether the words of Elder Richards are true or not, we keep moving," he said as he walked away.

Sophie thought about the words she had heard that day. The sound of the North Platte River filled the camp. "Elder Richards has to be right," she thought, holding Anne’s shawl tightly. She closed her eyes, but she still saw Peder’s thin face and remembered Levi Savage’s warnings of the possibility of early blizzards, of low rations, and the difficult mountain passes. If he were right, every step would bring her nearer to losing her children to the trail. The handcart and the Elders could not save them.

She could not live with getting up each morning at daybreak, and putting on her weathered boots with holes in the sole. Then preparing their meager portions of flour into paste and feeding her children, only to find the horizon was a trap. She chose to believe the Apostle’s promise because there was nothing else. She imagined the sky clearing, the snow holding back, and wagons coming with blankets and flour. It wasn't just faith now. Elder Richards had to be right. If he wasn't, she couldn't go on.

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Sophie's Journey - Chapter 27 - The South Bank

 

Sophie's Journey - Chapter 27

The South Bank

The North Platte River stretched across the high plains, blocking the handcart company’s way. It was mid-September, and the trail on the north bank presented a problem.

Sophie held on to the handcart crossbar, her chest tight as she looked ahead. North Bluff Fork flowed into the Platte nearby, but the real threat was beyond that. Pale sand bluffs crowded the water’s edge, steep and jagged, making it nearly impossible for the carts to pass.

The sand hills seemed solid under their bunchgrass, but the wheels told a different story. Sophie held the pull-bar with sweaty, dirt-streaked hands while Peter struggled next to her in the harness. The cart sank nearly to the hubs, and they had to drag every yard forward.

"We have to keep moving, Peter," Sophie said, her words coming out in short, strained bursts. "If we stop, the sand will trap us."

Peter did not answer. His teeth were clenched the way his father’s had been during hard seasons on the farm. Behind them, the Willie Company bent into a crooked line, every family hunting for firmer ground. Now and then, someone cried out when a cart stuck fast, and men hurried over to shove it free.

Sophie’s back hurt, and the pain spread down her legs. She was used to hard work in Denmark, like milking cows, baking bread, and carrying water, but this was harder. Each push moved the cart only a little. The sun was hot, and hunger left her dizzy and weak.

“I can’t feel my toes, Mother,” Emma murmured from the front of the cart, where she sat snuggled beside Otto. The six-year-old was supposed to walk, but her legs had given out an hour ago, and Sophie could not bring herself to set the child back on the trail.

"Wiggle your toes, Emma," Sophie said, not turning around. "Keep the blood moving. We'll reach the water soon, and then you can rest."

“We can’t pull through this,” Peter said, his voice sinking to a hoarse whisper. He did not say it in despair. He said it as fact.

Even wagons pulled by oxen sometimes had trouble on these slopes, but the handcarts, made of green wood and already worn out, faced an even harder path. If they tried to push the carts through the deep sand, axles might break, wheels could get stuck, and tired people would get hurt before they made any progress.

A group gathered at the front of the line. Captain Willie stood with his sub-captains, their features concealed under their hats. The north wind felt cooler now, a real sign that September was here.

Sophie stood between the handles of her cart, her hands sore and blistered. She watched Captain Willie and the elders gather in low, urgent council. She didn’t need to hear their words to know the truth. A wagon train with oxen might have made it through the sand hills, but they couldn’t. They were just weary people pulling carts, and they grew weaker with every mile. If they tried to push the handcarts into the deep sand, they would waste the day and get nowhere.

When the word came down the line, silence spread over the Saints. Millen Atwood gave the order: they were to cross the river.

"To the south side?" Sophie asked, her hand gripping Emma’s shoulder.

“The captain says it’s the only way around the bluffs,” Captain Atwood shouted, his voice projecting through the strengthening wind as he walked the line. “Check your loads! Secure the canvas! We cross together, and we do not stop in the middle!”

Sophie looked out over the Platte. From the bank, it looked shallow and safe, but its wide, muddy water and churning currents warned of quicksand and sudden deep spots where the river had gouged out the bed. Turning the carts toward the Platte felt like choosing danger because no better path remained. The air sharpened near the water, and the river lay gray and unforgiving beneath the pale sky.

Captain Willie stood near the edge, mud on his boots, guiding the first carts into the current. Sophie tightened both hands on the crossbar and watched the first group step down from the bank.

When it was her turn to go into the river, the first step stole Sophie’s breath. Cold water inundated her boots and bit into her ankles. Below the surface, the riverbed rolled with quicksand and hidden holes, while the current pulled at her skirts and tried to turn her sideways.

Her wool skirt soaked up the river, growing heavier with each step. Some younger women had cut their skirts short or wore bloomers, but Sophie’s long skirt dragged in the water, slowing her down when she needed to move quickly.

“Push, Peter!” Sophie cried, her voice cracking. She dug her toes into the shifting mud and threw the full heft of her thin frame into the wood. Across the river, the lowing of stubborn cattle and the shouts of men coaxing the remaining oxen echoed off the bluff.

"Keep moving, Sophie! Don't let the wheels settle!"

The shout came from behind her, but Sophie heard only the cart. She leaned forward, dug in her heels, and pulled. Behind her, the wooden axles moaned as muddy water circulated around the spokes.

The voice belonged to Peder Mortensen. He sat inside his cart while his sons and wife strained to pull him along with all their belongings. His old leg injury made it impossible for him to walk through the river. “We have to keep moving,” he said, “or we will get stuck or swept away.” 

Peder didn’t try to hide how miserable he was. “My toes are completely numb, Sophie,” he said, squeezing water from his heavy trousers. “It didn’t look deep from the bank, but as soon as I stepped in, I knew I couldn’t keep my balance. If we have to cross this freezing river every time the Platte bends, we’ll be walking on stumps before we ever reach the Valley.”

Sophie didn't have enough energy to answer. She pulled hard, her heart beating fast as she tried to keep her family moving. Mud rubbed her ankles raw, and stones scraped her heels. Peter struggled behind the cart with water above his waist, his expression pale. He was too small for the strong current, and momentarily it seemed like the river might sweep him away.

To Sophie’s left, a mother screamed as her small child slipped into the swirling water. A brother caught the boy just in time, but both came up wide-eyed, trembling. The captains urged exhausted men, women, and crying children onward while others steadied the carts and drove the last cattle across.

The cold made Sophie’s legs cramp. As they went deeper, the sand shifted under their feet. The cart rocked in the current, and briefly the wheels lifted, as if the river might carry it away.

They moved forward only a little at a time. Sophie’s wet skirts dragged behind her, and she saw Marianne being carried by a young man, her face against his shoulder. Some people still walked, but others had to be carried. The crossing showed who was strong enough to keep going.

When the wheels finally reached solid ground, Sophie stumbled and almost fell. She pulled the cart out past the high-water mark and let the bar drop into the mud. Her legs were numb and shaking, but she stayed standing long enough to watch water pour from her skirt.

The company left the bluffs behind. Sophie looked back across the river and felt uneasy. Now they were on the south side, facing a rough trail toward Ash Hollow. The sand hills were behind them, but the path ahead looked hard. Sophie pulled her shawl tight as the cold wind cut through her wet clothes. Even though they had crossed the river, she did not feel safe.

The trail on the south side of the river was difficult. Old ruts, thick brush, and deep ridges tested the handcarts with every step. Instead of a steady pace, the handcarts went by stops and starts. Every mile felt twice as long, and every hill took time they didn’t have.

That evening, the camp was quiet and tense. Men struggled with wet canvas as the wind tried to pull it away. There were no fires. The buffalo chips were soaked, the willow branches wouldn’t burn, and everyone shivered in the sudden cold as the last bit of summer warmth faded.

Sophie looked back across the Platte at the north bluffs they had left behind, pale and quiet in the diminishing light. They had made it past the one obstacle and survived the crossing, but the day had cost them more than it gave. They kept moving, but the trail was wearing them out, and winter was getting closer.

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