"Jeremiah, I..." John muttered, and then paused. He wasn't sure what to expect. Jeremiah had threatened to beat him if he caught him stealing again, but he hadn't mentioned the dog yet. He had only reminded him that he had forbidden him to leave the ranch on his own, but that was not the 'one exception'.
That he was in danger however was obvious. Jeremiah was behaving strangely. Maybe having decided that there could be the one exception opened the door for a whole lot of more such exceptions. Jeremiah had pointed out that he was disobedient and ignored what they had instructed him to do, maybe Jeremiah was more of a schoolmaster than John had thought.
"The dog," John said, and looked at the dog that danced excitedly in front of him since he had stood up again, possibly thinking they could go out to play, "he followed me, I didn't..." John stuttered.
"What are you talking about?" Jeremiah asked confused, sounding somewhat impatient.
"I didn't mean to steal your dog, Mr Jeremiah. He followed me. I tried to send him back, but he didn't listen...," John explained, at the same time as he took another step backwards which brought him all the way to the front door. The dog continued to bounce and nudge the boy with his wet nose as if he was expecting to be brought out for a game of catch and John took too long to get ready.
"Sit," Jeremiah snipped his fingers as he pointed to the floor beside him, commanding the dog to obey. The dog came to him immediately with a whine, looking ruefully at his leader and then the boy.
"I know that John," Jeremiah told the boy softly. It had taken him too long before he realised what John was worried about.
Jeremiah put his hand inside his breast pocket from where he pulled out the two envelopes. He glanced at them quickly and put one of them back inside.
"This came last week, John," he said holding the letter in front of him for the boy to see. "Sit," he commanded softly pointing to a chair at the table, but this time it was directed at the boy.
"Oh," the boy went, his fear being immediately replaced with another, much greater one.
"Yeah," Jeremiah nodded.
Neither of them moved at first, Jeremiah carefully watching the boy, and the boy staring at the letter in Jeremiah's hand, terrified to say or do anything. He had wanted for this moment to happen but also threatened it.
"Oh," he said again, and then after a few moments added in a whisper that almost sounded like a question, "it came last week?"
"Yes," Jeremiah simply said, and motioned for the boy to sit himself down.
"Oh," John said again, and then added meekly, "that bad?", as he made his way to the seat that Jeremiah had pointed at. John knew instantly that had it been in any way good news, Jeremiah would have told him right away and would not look that grave.
Jeremiah nodded his response, and then sat down at the opposite side of the table. With his back towards the door, and wringing his hands in discomfort, he started to tell John, what he thought he needed to know.
The dog sat himself down beside his owner, offering his head to be stroked every time Jeremiah paused, as if he knew that this would take away the tension and help Jeremiah to get on with his task.
His head slightly turned to the side to watch the flames dance in the fireplace instead of looking at the person talking to him, John sat still and just listened. He didn't show any emotions. It was not what Jeremiah had expected. He'd expected him to cry, or at least having to fight back the tears.
"How does he know it's her. It could be a different Kitty Flannigan?" John asked in a sceptical tone when Jeremiah finally stopped talking. "How can he be certain?" he challenged.
Jeremiah got up and walked over to the counter, where he took out a small package from a drawer. When he came back, he shook out the jewellery from the package and held them out for the boy to inspect before he sat down again. Wordlessly John took them out of Jeremiah's hand. His shoulders sank in defeat, when he recognised the matching armband, earrings, and necklace his mother wore whenever she went to work, and the brooch, she never wore and kept in her drawer with the photographs, safe from her children's grubby little fingers. Still not crying, he pursed his lips. He seemed annoyed more so than sad.
After a while Jeremiah pulled the photographs and marriage certificate from the envelope and held them out for John to take as well. John placed the jewellery on the table in front of him as careful as if he had held the crown jewels themselves. He took the papers and looked at the photograph that was on top and almost had to choke.
There was his mother staring at him, a bit younger and healthier looking than how he'd remembered her but unmistakably her. He didn't know the man who stood beside her. He'd never seen the photograph and wondered where she had kept it.
Placing the photograph on the table, he looked at the next one, that of her parents back in Ireland. An elderly couple both dressed in dark, both stern looking. Her father sitting and his wife standing behind him to his right. Her hand resting on his shoulder. John knew it well. She had shown it to him, on the day it arrived through the post. She never told him who had sent it, but he remembered her crying. She told him they died. She heard the news of their death the same way as he heard of her's on this day. She often dug it out and looked at it, on the days that she was sad. He placed it on top of the other picture on the table.
He had to smile at the photograph that came up next. Ingrid, he was fond of her. She was a good laugh.
"What's this?" John asked holding up the official document.
"It's your parents' marriage certificate," Jeremiah replied.
John examined it. He couldn't make out everything but got the general idea.
He went back looking at the photograph with his Ma and the man he did not know.
"Is that my Da?" John asked out loud, even though he didn't expect Jeremiah to know the answer either.
"It says Johnathan and Kitty Finnegan on the back, and the year is the same as on the marriage certificate, same year you would have been born, so yes I think it is safe to assume it is your Dad," Jeremiah replied. He was surprised that the boy had never been shown the photograph. He thought it sad.
So far, the conversation had gone much better than Jeremiah had expected. He was kind of glad that the boy hadn't broken down. He wouldn't have really known what to do if he had. He was almost certain the child wouldn't have let him comfort him. John's cool reaction to the news surprised him however, upset him even somewhat. He thought it sad how unaffected John seemed by his mother's death.
"How did your man end up with my mother's things?" John wanted to know.
"Your Ma died in the Hospital on Blackwell Island. She had named her friend Ingrid as her next of kin," Jeremiah explained. He was prepared to answer the boy's questions honestly but was glad that this was the only one the boy asked out loud.
The boy let out a heavy sigh and Jeremiah hoped that he was wrong and there wasn't a knowing look in the boy's eyes as he put down the photograph and picked up the marriage certificate again.
"There is more," Jeremiah said, as he pulled out the letter about John's father from the envelope and handed it to him.
John put the paper he had held in his hands onto the table with the other items and then took the letter from Jeremiah. He unfolded it and tried to decipher the writing, but the handwriting was too difficult for him to read, so he handed it back to Jeremiah, asking him what it said.
"It's a letter from a Mrs Taylor to your mother. Apparently, she knew your father. She says your father drowned when he was saving her husband's life. Would you like me to read it to you?" Jeremiah asked.
John nodded and sat back, slightly slouching, sitting somewhat sideways with the corner of the seat between his knees. His right arm hanging loose over the backrest of the chair, he was facing the fire again while Jeremiah proceeded to read the letter out loud.
Jeremiah decided against telling him about Ingrid's suspicions. It would not change anything, he had decided. If she was right, and she should know, and the letter was fake and the man was a fraud who possibly was still alive but wanted to be dead, so be it. And if he was dead and died a different death it also made no difference. It was all hearsay anyhow, there was no point in speculating.
John hummed. "She never even said," he said shrugging his shoulders, but other than that there was no reaction to this information either. The boy seemed numb.
At last Jeremiah took out the folded handkerchief that held the three locks of the three brothers' hair. It was held together by a piece of string like a mini parcel. Jeremiah opened it and held it out to John, the handkerchief flat on in his palm with the hair on top of it.
"She had this on her as well," Jeremiah said quietly.
John stood up and leant across the table to carefully lift the handkerchief out of Jeremiah's hands. The dog who had been lying on the floor beside Jeremiah, sat up, raising his head above the tabletop, wanting to see what was going on as well.
John sat back down and put the piece of cloth in front of him on the table, rolling the curls that still lay on top of it from side to side with his index finger, gazing at them blankly.
The dog now came over to him and laid his head in his lap, but the boy just brushed him unkindly away.
Rejected, the dog went back to Jeremiah where he was of more use.
"Here," Jeremiah said and gave John a small leather pouch, that was decorated with lots of colourful little beads, no doubt Numees had made. "You can keep them in there," he told him.
John nodded. Unable to say thank you out loud, he carefully put the items into the bag and closed it.
"I'm sorry," Jeremiah said, but the boy just shrugged his shoulders and pursed his lips.
"I need to tell my brothers," John said after a few moments of silence.
"Huh," Jeremiah went, it was something he had thought about himself, but didn't expect it to be the first thing that came to the boy's mind. John rarely had mentioned his brothers to him. "I suppose I could help you write a letter," Jeremiah suggested. He had given it some thought earlier and had come to the conclusion that it was their best option.
John looked at him slightly annoyed. "I don't need no help writing a letter. I'm not going to write a letter. I'm going to go there," he said with bitter determination in his voice.
Jeremiah sighed. Up until now he had been sitting forward, his hands crossed in front of him resting on the table, watching the boy's eyes and every move he made. He sat back and started to give his attention to the dog, rubbing him behind his ears to keep himself calm and from speaking too soon. He wanted to tell John that this was not a good idea, that no matter how good the intention, he couldn't just waltz back into his brothers' lives, drop a stick of dynamite like this and then disappear again. He worried that the brothers' new parents might not let him see them. He wanted to tell him that he needed their blessing for this. His brothers would need their support. But he couldn't bring himself to say any of this to the boy, not just yet.
The boy however got the general gist, anyway. "You can't stop me," John spat, angrily which made Jeremiah look up at the child that he had decided to take on for good. Jeremiah sighed and then continued to watch the boy silently, contemplating what he should say to him.
"I can, and I will, John," Jeremiah eventually said.
"I'm not your prisoner," John snapped and got up out of his seat, squaring up to Jeremiah a little, challenging him to respond.
"We will write to the people that your brothers are staying with and take it from there. If they agree to let us visit, I will bring you," Jeremiah finally replied with calm determination, telling the boy what he wanted him to hear. It did not have the desired effect on the boy, however.
"No, they need to know now. I need to see them now. And I don't need you to bring me, I can go by myself," John shouted furiously at Jeremiah. Finally, emotions flooding out of him, he stood leaning forward, with both his hands placed on the tabletop, glaring at Jeremiah. There was a sense of desperation in his eyes and in his voice that Jeremiah recognised for what it was. Grief.
"John," he said, looking directly at the child, his voice full of comfort and acceptance, that the boy could not hear. "We will go. When the time is right, for us and them, we will go. I promise," he said.
The boy kept glaring at Jeremiah with pursed lips and narrowed eyes, fists clenched. He looked as if he wanted to launch himself at Jeremiah, and Jeremiah wished he would. It would give him a reason to hold him.
"The time to go is right now," John shouted back even louder, his eyes burning with the need to release the flood, "You said I can go, anytime I want, as soon as I've learnt to survive out there. You said so. And I can, you know I can. The only reason I'd turned back to this stupid place, was to bring your stupid dog back to you. I need to get away from here, and I need to go now," John shouted unnecessarily loud and then tried to make a run for the door, throwing an empty chair over as he passed to make it difficult for Jeremiah to catch him, because he feared he no longer could keep the tears at bay if he stayed.
But Jeremiah was quicker. Jumping up out of his seat, and swiftly stepping around the chair, he blocked the boy's way, "Oh no you won't. You're not going anywhere pal," he said to the boy who quick as a weasel turned back around, ran past the table and then up the ladder before Jeremiah could get a hold of him.
Jeremiah decided to go after him. The idea of leaving the boy up in the loft by himself with that much pain just didn't sit right. He climbed up the ladder, but as soon as he stuck his head above the frame of the hatch to the loft, John flung one of the empty wooden crates Jeremiah kept up there at him, and then another and another each time Jeremiah tried to approach until there were no crates left and John started to fling his blankets and anything else John could get a hold of at him. Jeremiah's words of comfort and cajoling remained unheard among the shouting of the boy that sounded more like growls.
Jeremiah decided to retreat. The boy was giving him a clear message. Stay away. He would have to manhandle him into a hug, and he didn't want to do that. It didn't feel right. There had been children in his care where this had worked, but there had also been those where this had made it worse, and something told him that John belonged to the latter.
"I'm here if you need me," Jeremiah called up in defeat.
"I don't," came the spiteful reply.
He hadn't expected the conversation to go quite so bad. He knew the boy would not come looking for comfort of him, but he hadn't expected this kind of outburst either. It made no sense to him, but then his own reaction to his wife's death had made no sense to anyone else either. Grief was a peculiar animal.
Had it been the daytime and bright outside he could have let him run off. He could have kept an eye on him from a distance until the boy was approachable again. But it had been too late for that. The idea of chasing him around in the dark was not appealing.
So Jeremiah cleaned up his kitchen and settled down with his book in front of the fire and his dog at his feet until Numees joined him, while the boy stayed upstairs. They heard him move about but he didn't even come down when Enkoodabooaoo and Matunaagd returned to the cabin as well. In the end they all had an early night. Matunaagd and Enkoodabooaoo retreating to the loft of the barn where they had made their temporary quarters.
"He is still awake," Numees whispered when Jeremiah climbed over her to get out of bed again. Jeremiah gave her a kiss and told her to go back to sleep. They could hear him move about every so often. They had listened to him over their heads. Initially it sounded as if the boy was moving furniture around, but after a while that noise had stopped. The noise didn't come from where the bed was but the right-hand corner of the attic, exactly above their own bed. John was being restless up there.
Jeremiah didn't need a light up in the loft. The full moon that night gave him enough light to see that the boy was not in his bed. How could he be, the bed was turned up onto its side, so that it formed a wall. The boy had barricaded himself into the corner. The bed, the little wooden box that served as an open bedside locker, the empty crates of various sizes that Jeremiah stored up there because the loft was nice and dry, the sacks of pelts that were stored there as well to be sold on his next trip to the city, practically everything the boy could get his hands on, was pulled into the left-hand corner of the attic to form a protective wall around him. Jeremiah sighed. It reminded him of the day when he first found the boy on the back of the wagon amongst the goods he'd bought in the city.
Moving some of the boxes to the sides Jeremiah approached cautiously. This had gone on long enough. This time retreat was not an option. The boy needed him, no matter how he would react to him.
"John," he called softly, "come on out John." He had no idea if this would work but he felt the stress the boy was going through and couldn't take it any longer. He had to do something.
As soon as Jeremiah had made it upstairs, all movement had ceased. It was as if the boy suddenly played dead like a possum.
"John," he called again, "come on out. I've got something I want to show you."
At first there was nothing but then he could hear the boy stir again.
Curiosity killed the cat, Jeremiah mused contently.
Sheepishly the boy peeked out from behind the remaining boxes in the corner and looked at what Jeremiah held in his hands. He didn't come out though.
Jeremiah moved the bed back under the window, where John had put it himself when they made the place more hospitable for him. He liked looking at the moon at night, he had told Jeremiah. Knowing that even though his ma and his brothers were so far away, they could all see the same moon, was why.
Having made the bed, Jeremiah sat down on it and patiently waited for the boy, holding the colourful tin container on his lap that he'd gotten out from under his kitchen counter. He tapped the space beside him when at last John came cautiously crawling out from his hiding place.
"Come on. You will like this," Jeremiah said, and padded the space beside him again, after which John crawled a little closer. He still wouldn't sit beside Jeremiah but was kneeling in front him at a safe distance, so he could make a run for the hatch in the floor if he wanted to. This time Jeremiah would not be able to stop him.
The boy's face was dirty. Dark streaks across his cheeks from where he had wiped the tears of his face were proof that that he had cried hard but also lied about having washed his hands earlier at dinner time. He hadn't put on his nightshirt as instructed either.
Jeremiah held out the box to him. "Here. Yours if you want it," he simply said and put the box on the floor in front of the boy and pushed it towards him, when they boy made no effort to come and get it of Jeremiah.
"Go on open it," he said and nodded, when he saw how unsure the boy was.
"What is it?" John asked quietly.
"You'll see. Just open it," Jeremiah instructed, so at last John did.
Inside the box were two of Jeremiah's always far too tough biscuits, some flat bread, some beef jerky, some nuts and some dried fruit, and a small and well-used pocketknife with a wooden handle. John looked up at Jeremiah who smiled at him with his kind eyes which made John look down at the food again.
At last John moved up to sit beside him. With the open tin on his lap, John fingered through the content of his box as if he was given a rare treasure of rubies and diamonds. Ever so slightly he leant sideways, so that his shoulder touched Jeremiah's upper arm just a little and tilted his head so that it made contact with Jeremiah' shoulder, barely touching. He stayed like this for a few short moments, but then, just as Jeremiah wanted to lift his own hand to stroke over the boy's hair, as if realising what he was doing John suddenly pulled himself together and sat up straight, breaking the contact with a barely audible sigh.
"Why?" John asked with a quiet voice, that was almost a whisper "I don't understand. You said...," he didn't finish the sentence.
"I was wrong, John," Jeremiah explained, "I owe you an apology. There is nothing wrong with wanting a little extra. You don't ask for much."
"But you said..." he couldn't even bring himself to repeat what Jeremiah had said to him. Jeremiah's logic had made perfect sense. What he had done had made him look selfish and made him feel ashamed, but he had also felt misunderstood. He had never meant to keep things away from the others.
"I know what I said, but I shouldn't have," Jeremiah simply said.
"I didn't mean to waste it," John said, looking at the food in front of him, "And I was going to share it," he added as he looked up at the man sitting beside him who looked at him a little confused, "when we'd run out of food. I was going to share it."
"I know John," Jeremiah said, "you are a good lad."
Jeremiah had heard the words, 'when', not 'if'.
The boy was scared, assuming a foot shortage to be inevitable. It was probably a constant in his mind. Jeremiah had to think back at their first days together at Walls' ranch, when he held on to the biscuits, and later on, the way he hid the egg.
"If I was gone it might be easier, Mr Jeremiah" John said lowering his head, knowing it was the right thing to say but worried Jeremiah would agree.
He'd rather go now voluntarily, than listen to Jeremiah complain about him all winter, like the farmer did, who had complained about having to put up with his cheek even though there was no work needing to be done. They had to share their winter supplies with 'the likes of him', he told everyone who was prepared to listen to his grievance. The farmer had been annoyed he wasn't allowed to let him go like the rest of the seasonal workers he employed during the summer. Everyone else was allowed a little longer in bed during the winter months, but John was made to sleep in the kitchen, so he wouldn't wake up the rest of the household, when he got up to milk the cows. The only thing he was really good for during winter, he was told. They never ran out of things for him to do anyway despite what the man said. His wife had told her husband she didn't mind getting up herself, it had been her job all through the summer when they all got up together at the same time, but her husband put his foot down. It was his gift to her, and she was to be grateful she was told.
"John if you need to put a bit of food under your bed to make yourself feel safe, that's okay by me, but it's not your job to worry about our food supplies, that is my job as your parent," Jeremiah told him firmly.
John looked at him with scepticism, scrunching up his nose and pursing his lips. Jeremiah could see the boy wanted to contradict him, but Jeremiah didn't want to give him the chance, so he kept going.
"You were right by the way, our harvest won't be great, Walls confirmed it today, but you don't need to worry about that. We have other means to get us through the winter. We'll get by. I promise. I'm going to make sure we are going to be okay," Jeremiah told him.
"I still need to see my brothers. They need to know" John said sullenly. It was true, they did, but it was not why he said it. He knew they were pining for his mother and him, just as much as he was for them. He needed to know that they were okay, and they needed to know that he was doing okay too. He was sure of it, even though they were still little. But he wasn't sure about Jeremiah calling himself his parent. He yearned for nothing more but hated it all the same.
Jeremiah sighed. He didn't want to start this again. "We'll figure it out," he promised in an attempt to put it to rest for now.
"But I need to see them," John said with a defeated tone of voice, too tired to fight but not giving in either.
"And I am sure you will. We'll figure it out somehow," Jeremiah tried to reassure, but saw that it made little impact on the boy.
"Son, you are not going anywhere, you stay right here with me now. This arrangement just got permanent," Jeremiah said, and he could see how the boy started to struggle with it somewhat, as if he wasn't sure if he wanted to embrace it or blow his lid again. This could go either way, Jeremiah thought.
Finally, the boy looked down at the open box of food again and then closed it.
"Time for bed son," Jeremiah said as folded back the blanket, and then took the box out of John's hands, putting it on the floor beside the end of the bed where John's pillow was. The boy climbed in fully dressed and with a dirty face. Jeremiah noticed but decided that it was too late to bother with it at this stage.
"I won't call you Pa, and I won't let you whip me," John told him, seemingly having found his more defiant voice again.
Jeremiah had to faintly laugh, "I wasn't intending to. Is that what you think all a Pa is good for? Whooping their unruly young'ins into shape?" Jeremiah asked padding the side of John's face playfully.
"Figures," John said as he moved his head away from Jeremiah's hand. There was no amusement in his face.
"Well, I am not going to be that kind of a Pa. If you let me, I'd like to try something different," Jeremiah said.
"And if I don't?" John asked. "You said you'd whip me if you'd catch me stealing something again," he said with a pout.
"I shouldn't have said that. I was angry and ran out of sensible things to say. I am not going to whip you," Jeremiah told him.
"Even if you catch me stealing something?" John asked.
"I'm not going to catch you stealing something," Jeremiah said and looked at the boy lying in his bed. "John you are not a thief. From now on I will make sure you have what you need. And I will protect you. You will have no reason to steal," Jeremiah told him firmly.
"And if I steal something anyway?" John asked challengingly, looking at Jeremiah directly.
"Now why would you want to do that?" Jeremiah asked amused.
The boy just shrugged his shoulders.
Jeremiah chuckled, "I find another way, but you mightn't like that either, so you better do as your told from now on," Jeremiah simply said with a smirk, but the boy still was not amused.
"I'm not going to hurt you John, now go asleep. We can talk some more tomorrow if you need, but now it's time to sleep," Jeremiah said, trying to sound reassuringly. It troubled him how hard it was for the boy to trust him. He knew that talking would do little good, he'd need to show him, and it would take time.
He had to think back to the conversations he had with his father as a young lad. Always at bedtime. Holding onto the worry for the day until he couldn't hold onto it no more as it was threatening to steal away his sleep.
"I still won't call you Pa," John mumbled as he turned himself onto his side to face the wall with the window above.
"That's quite alright, son," Jeremiah replied and tucked him in.
It was too late or too early whichever way one wanted to look at it, for him to go back to bed. So Jeremiah threw some wood onto the barely glowing ambers to revive the fire and settled down in front of it with the book he kept rereading because there was nothing else. He couldn't focus though, so he opened his father's letter instead.
Sometime later, he went back upstairs to check on the boy, where he had to uncoil the child's little fingers and lift his arm of the box of food that he clung to, like his sister used to cling to her doll when she slept at night.