I fear there is something bigger than my God. A greater power that tests my luck. A thing that laughs as I swiftly lodge my weary feet in the fulgent snow. This thing, this greater being, watches and taunts. No matter how hard I pray, I can’t shift the outcome of my fate. 

Before the arduous journey to the West, I prayed every night, morning, and in front of every meal. Mother would lead in prayer by giving thanks for the abundance that was on our plates and ending with a wish that the abundance never stops, that we would never know what suffering is like. I had my doubts in this. I thought it was repetitive and unenviable to plead this way. There was one night where Mother let my oldest sister, Sarah, guide the prayer. Sarah did everything right except for the last request. Mother was so upset by this that she never let Sarah lead again. I had thought my mother was paranoid and unwieldy for being so adamant about this because, surely, God understood how much we valued our food. Surely, having food was the least of our worries.

However, as I see my mother sparing her share of scraps for her children while fighting the desolate weather, I feel guilt. Did God take my dubiety as ungrateful? Am I at fault for my family’s privation?

 Nestling in our earthy and makeshift cabins, the snow fell faster than time passed, and our fate was being made for us. As days turn into weeks, and weeks into months, small groups of our company drift off in search of rescue. In denial of your own upcoming death, you want to save yourself. Leaving our campsite to look for help was more of a death sentence than anything. We knew the ones that left weren’t coming back. There would be no rescue. 

It wasn’t until mid-December when I realized saving my family was actually up to me. As a forlorn hope, fifteen of us went off to look for rescue. We figured that the more of us that went, the more chances we had of someone surviving to find rescue. Even though our crude campground wasn’t any sort of comfort or luxury, I still felt anxious to leave it. The possibility of never finding anything filled me with grief. I knew I would remain a burden by staying put. I am more useful on the trail, and my father needed me. 

The barren sound of our exhaustion and hunger is enough for no one to talk. I don’t look at my sister or my father. I’m scared of seeing the same austere feeling I have within them. I don’t want to see that they’re suffering similarly that I am. 

On the fourth day of incessant travelling, we decided to stop to eat that day’s gatherings of pine cones and tree bark. As we were spread amongst respective logs, I heard a woman whisper to her husband about how nippy the weather was. I wanted to scoff at this. Nippy is an understatement. Nippy is a lapdog that pees on the Persian rug. This weather is a wolf tearing at my flesh.

The husband reaches into his pocket and disposes of his copy of The Emigrant’s Guide to Oregon and California, which had advised the shortcut that got us stranded in the snowstorm. With all of our sprightliness, we gently clap our hands together in jubilation. Burn, Lansford Hastings. 

That next morning, I wake up to Charles Stanton already sitting up by the campfire smoking a cigarette. As everyone started walking away, Charles never stood up. He made that cigarette last longer than my father ever could, like it was going to be the last thing he ever did. As if the smoldering campfire and Charles were having a profound conversation, his eyes never wandered from it. I wanted to know what he was thinking. Does he remember what hopes await for us further west?

Just as the four mornings before, everyone continued walking without saying a word to each other. At this part in the misadventure, we stopped roll call, but we didn’t need it for me to recognize that Charles wasn’t following. No one seemed to care, so as fast I as I could, I wandered back to where Charles remained, sitting on top of his log. Doesn’t he remember that our families are waiting for us? Depending on us?

“Aren’t you coming?” I asked timidly, as if the abrasive weather was a beast that shouldn’t be woken up. 

“Yes,” He respired like it was against his will. “I am coming soon.”

I curse James Reed for leading the party through Hastings Cutoff and join the party again. Every twig snap and crunch of snow, I flinch to look behind me. Charles is never there.  

I impress myself every morning by how harder it gets to force my eyelids open and how mindless walking has gotten. I stopped keeping track of the days the same way I stopped praying; just gave up doing it altogether because it didn’t seem all that influential anymore. Whether it was still December or if we’ve rolled into the new year, my family was still dying. God or whoever else is out there has stopped listening. 

I spent the days daydreaming, which is something I didn’t do before. It was a new kind of prayer. I daydreamed about cooking in the kitchen with my mother again. I stopped daydreaming about eating at the dinner table. I daydreamed about sewing a new cotton spring dress. I stopped daydreaming about shopping for a new winter coat and thick wool socks. I daydream about John Snyder.

John Snyder has dark hair that resembles my own and a kind of confidence that looks better on men than in women. He’s a natural leader. John is a respected man. He is a benevolent man – was a benevolent man. If he were here right now, he would stand tall in the snow and lead the prayer that my mother couldn’t bring herself to say anymore. He would encourage storytelling around the campfire. He would’ve come up with an inventive trap to catch animals to eat. I would imagine our children also having dark hair.

Charles had never caught up with the party, and John never showed up to save the day. Although I had witnessed everyone else quietly die, I still believed my family was invulnerable because I was there. Yet, when my father pulled in Sarah and I really tight, I was offended when he alluded to the fact that he was dying. 

“You have to do whatever you can to stay alive.  Think of your mother and brothers and sisters in the cabin at the lake.  If you don’t make it to Sutter’s Fort, and send help, everyone at the lake will die.  I want you to do what you have to” He takes a haphazard breath inward, “Use my flesh to stay alive.”

Sarah and I had heard of stories about humans consuming other humans, but we thought it was impractical; something made up to frighten us and our younger siblings into eating our potatoes. The youngest, Nancy, loved her potatoes. I don’t think she knows of the cannibals. I think of Nancy sitting at the campsite with our mother and the other siblings. Starving. Cold. 

Sarah was the one to break out crying. She clutched onto Father’s shirt and tugged forcefully, like she could shake the death out of him.

“I refuse. I won’t do that, Pa!” Her sunburned eyes cash the tear reserves and her malnourished body crumbles.

Think of my mother and brothers and sisters in the cabin at the lake. 

 “You’re not dying!” She screams again.

Everyone at the lake will die. 

“Get up!” She’s incoherent as she wraps her scarf around our powerless father’s shoulders. “Get up!”

“He’s giving us an order, Sarah.” I say this to get her to stop crying. “We have to make it back to the others.”

Sarah, still crying, leans into Father and lays there. I follow. Father hums a church hymn I’ve forgotten the name to, and Sarah is quick to quietly sing along. 

Once they’re finished, Father whispers, “Lead the prayer, Mary.” 

I have to do whatever I can. 

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

I commend you, my dear brother, to Almighty God, and entrust you to your Creator.

May you return to him who formed you from the dust of the earth.

May holy Mary, the angels, and all the saints come to meet you as you go forth from this life.

May Christ who was crucified for you bring you freedom and peace.

May Christ who died for you admit you into his garden of paradise.

May Christ, the true Shepherd, acknowledge you as one of his flock.

May he forgive all your sins, and set you among those he has chosen.

Amen.