Oregon Trail

II - May 10, 1841

All my eyes can see is hell. Barren rocks stretched ahead of us, already death omens and the gray a sign of sickness. Gray fingers stretched ahead of us, curling their nails around my waist. I could feel them, squeezing the life out of me. The tears that fell from my eyes were gray, like the fog, like the rocks, like the ground, like the river. I suppose it truly wasn't gray, but that was all my eyes saw in this town. Chaestar hasn't spoken since we left Albany, but I can see when I look into his eyes that he sees the dark blood of red in Independence, Missouri. When I look at Nyila, wobbling on her stubby legs, I look past the screen of tears in her eyes and see how she sees the blue, the childish innocence of hope. When I look at Sanda, I see black, and I know that she hates all thoughts of this Oregon. But when I look at Tomas, I get scared, and I don't know what I see...

And of the slave? As for him, when I looked into his bloody, beaten eyes, all I can see is....

I can't even remember...what a color is anymore...but I live on, and I don't know how.

Our wagon rumbles behind us, looking gray to me as well. It is led by the slave, which I find surprising. Truly, he must be wishing death for himself. His skin is red and peeled, showing the muscle and bone beneath. His eyes are just holes in his head. The tears leave marks on his faces like twisted war paint. Yet he keeps on going, and so do I, and neither of us know how. Am I truly that in common with this black slave?

Another wagon rumbles past us, and I hear laughing, and I am offered a flagon of wine.

Even spirits will only dull my senses in this gray world, yet I take it and down it all in one gulp. When they ask Chaestar, he doesn't reply, his lips silent and wordless, his eyes red with fire and blood and everything in between.

"We're nearly there," Reed announces. He is a ragged, dirty man, clad in gray towels and gray scraps of dust. There is black between his bare toes and black spots on his furrowed, sunken head. He holds a deck of cards, the Joker held out towards me. Is this trip a joke? I wanted to scream, but words wouldn't come out.

THe stunted dwarf beside him in the wagon laughed. Their wagon was pulled by a horse, which they were hardly rich enough to afford. Pixie was of the stout height of 2 feet, yet he drank alcohol and smoked cigars as any grown man would. He was clad in a long drape of red curtain that he stole from a woman's house, yet it was more than enough to fit his body. He pulled out a card from the deck in front of him.

"God damn it," he chuckled. "Reed, why do you always win?"

Reed just shrugged, a smile etched on his face. "It must be beginner's luck."

Pixie grabbed another cup of wine and downed it in a second. "Beginner's luck is a stunted excuse. Tell me the true reason."

"They don't call me Reed for nothing," the man replied quizzically.

There were too many people with us on this trip. I had thought it would be just us five, me, Nyila, Chaestar, Tomas, and Sanda, but when we set off it was clear so many people had the same idea. There was a woman, who held a jar of flies of fire that she called 'fairies', with a wide grin that chilled me to the bone. A young boy around Nyila's ages had holes for eyes and a black pistol in his small hand. The only sane person I could think of--if we could even call him that--was the horse tender, who we call 'the Smiler'. He always grins as he washes the horses, and I could almost see...horsemeat...behind those white, sparkling teeth of us.

In our wagon was everything we needed: clothes, food, drink, the rifle my father owned, a tent, and a bag with ten thousand coins, or a hundred dollars, in its loops. That was all, and my journal and pen. We were so devoid of coin that we only needed a wagon half the size of a normal one to hold our supplies, and even that was difficult to gather coin for. We were so broken that we could not afford horse nor oxen, only the slave to pull our supplies. The rest of us walked on foot beside, walking eternally towards Missouri ever since the start, trying not to complain. Reed and Pixie never offered a ride in their horse-drawn wagon--for all their amiableness, they had just as much greed underneath. I dared not get close to the fairy woman, or the boy with holes for eyes, and the Smiler hardly made a good companion with all those flashing, threatening white teeth of his. I didn't even feel safe with Chae anymore, what with his silence. And then there are those scars on his neck, red and deep and bloody and turning black. There's no doubt that they are self-inflicted. I am truly scared for my brother on this trail.