Chapter 19
Yet another river crossing and more drownings. We add our own graves to the others across the rut-lined land.
One, two, three, four, five…
The men make tombstones from wood or stone. Reverend Smith, who only comes out of his wagon for births or deaths, says a few words. We say some prayers, sing a hymn or two, and leave. This time, instead of one mother’s screams there are many bereaved laments pummeling the night. The whispered wind becomes a haunted howl, reminding us that no one crosses this land unscathed. We are all in danger all the time, and from the silence in the night, the way everyone ducks into their tents with scarcely a word, we all know it to be true.
I struggle along with my bound, painful hand, but I have no choice. There’s no time to dwell on it so I don’t.
