Читать книгу Wind-Borne Sister - Melinda Holland - Страница 13

All through that winter, I raised my hands in prayers of thanksgiving, much as Anna had done. I was warm and safe, beloved and encouraged. Susannah taught me a few of her carving tricks, and I coaxed the rough-hewn form of an albatross from a bit of driftwood over the long dark nights of midwinter. She taught me new recipes, simple preparations, ways of combining just a few ingredients for nourishment and delight. I knew in my heart she was seeking to prepare me for a long journey ahead, one with few provisions and unpredictable circumstances.

Sometimes in the evenings I would read aloud to Susannah from Anna’s letters, coming to love and understand this vibrant, faithful young woman through her own words. I looked for clues in her letters as to where she had been: town names, plans, descriptions of vistas, and landmarks. They were few and far between. Besides, her point of embarkation would not necessarily have been anywhere near the deserted beach to which I imagined the party had come after storm and despair, guided by a wise old bird. Who was I to think that I could find her? To travel alone as a young woman, even one well-trained in cooking, wise in boating, versed in healing, was a foolish plan altogether. But it was only midwinter. Perhaps the coming months would reveal God’s deeper plan.

Soon snow insulated us in our cottage world, with only brief forays out to tend the cow. Then came ice and wind, and it became clear that spring would be late in coming this year. At intervals, in the quiet evening, I would sometimes feel compelled to extend my hands toward Susannah, inviting the light to return to her shaded eyes. Over time she could see vague forms and outlines as she had not for two years or more. It helped her to navigate her home more confidently, to take up her old craft with less anxiety. I watched in wonder as she coaxed the figures of two dancers from a glossy, rich piece of wood; by the end, I recognized them as Allan and Anna, just as I had seen them in my vision in the fall. Her artistry revealed both their joy and Anna’s radiant spirit.

When the refreshing rains came at last, I knew that it would soon be time to journey forth. Allan had not come often over the winter, and his brief visits had clearly been for Susannah’s sake, with little time for me. On his most recent trip, he had at least begrudgingly thanked me for the bit of sight Susannah had regained. I rushed to assure him that was the Lord’s work, not mine. He neither agreed nor disagreed, only looked at me thoughtfully. I knew he nonetheless wanted me gone.

One evening Susannah brought out another of Anna’s letters, longer and more rumpled than any I had read over the intervening weeks. “This is her last letter. When I could still see, I read it over and over again, once word reached us of the ship lost in the storm. I wasn’t ready to share it with you before. But I sense that you will be leaving soon. You need to know the fullness of her story.”

And so I took up the letter, its words slightly blurred from old tears.

“Dearest Mama, how I miss Lily and Molly! I am glad they found their sweethearts during our travels together. I could tell from the faces and voices of their menfolk that their marriages are fortunate ones, that they will be well-loved. But journeying with Katherine and Isabella has been strained and difficult. And I can’t quite seem to shake the fortuneteller’s words.

“The other night, Katherine and I shared a difficult talk. Her faith is deep, yet also judgmental. Because she had praised how Jesus has gifted his people in surprising and beautiful ways, I dared to speak of how he sometimes works his healing touch through my own. Her face changed dramatically, and she turned away. ‘Healing powers are witchcraft, not the ways of the Lord,’ she intoned, as though reciting from Scripture. But I know no such words are in the Good Book. I spoke more timidly but persisted, ‘When the power comes, I feel his peace and presence. It is not my work, but his desire for others’ healing, as well as their openness to receive.’ Her look became even more severe. ‘Turn from this “gift,” Anna; it will be your demise.’

“Oh, Mama, I felt so heavy with disappointment. It is clear that Katherine’s faith is strong, but her rejection of what I shared was intense. The next morning, she walked far ahead of Isabella and me on the road, as though she wished to separate herself from us both.

“It is so hard to write what came next. I still don’t know quite how it happened. Isabella and I had stopped to gaze at some lovely roadside flowers. We were distracted and lost sight of Katherine. Suddenly I heard her scream. We lifted our skirts and went running as fast as we could, though with travel packs, running is awkward at best. It was a full minute before we came upon her.

“I think that she must also have been stopping by the roadside to admire some of the springtime color. But she did so beside a steep ravine, lost her footing and fell some thirty feet downhill. Even from a distance, I could see that at least one arm and one leg were broken, and her head had come to rest against a heavy tree trunk. Isabella and I quickly hid our packs behind a tree and searched for a safe way down to her. It was very rough going, with much slipping. Isabella fell a few feet, but she caught herself on a young sapling, thank the Lord. When we finally arrived where Katherine lay, her face was ashen, and she was shuddering with fear and pain. I put out my hands to her, believing that God would want to bring her some measure of comfort, perhaps even healing. Oh, Mama, she spit on my hands, and then spit on my face! ‘I want none of witchcraft’s touch, even in my pain!’ she cried. I felt my heart break within me, and I felt something else, most strange: the warmth that had surged to my hands vanished like mist in the wind. You see, Mama, she had rejected it outright. It shocked me, and I began to shiver a bit myself.

“Isabella and I prayed for help to come, as we knew no way to get Katherine back up to the roadside ourselves. After about twenty horrifying minutes, during which time Katherine fell unconscious, we heard hoofbeats and the crunch of carriage wheels on the track above. We screamed ourselves hoarse, praying to be heard over the road sounds. Presently, the wheels stopped. A young man peered down into the ravine and saw our frantically waving hands. There was a second man with him, older but clear-thinking, who worked together with the first to rig up a sort of sling with which to carry her. Very carefully they made their way down the slope and managed between them to get Katherine to the top. Isabella and I slipped and slid but somehow found our way up as well.

“We were very fortunate that the men were kind and generous—and their carriage accommodating. They placed Katherine gently on one seat and invited Isabella and me to accompany them to the next town, where they would seek a physician. Mama, I prayed and prayed and extended my hands all through that lurching, frightening trip, but nothing happened. Katherine’s condition worsened, and by the time we found the gentle doctor in Kenton, his face was grave and creased with worry.

“He spent a long time in the room with Katherine, ministering to her. I knew that he would set the bones in her limbs; they could heal over time. It was the blow to her head that troubled me deeply. If only she had welcomed the healing right away! It always seems to be most powerful just after a wound has been received. I sat outside with Isabella, and we tried to keep one another’s spirits up, yet our hearts were heavy.

“When the doctor finally emerged through the door, I knew before he spoke. She would not live. For a man who has seen much of the world, of illness and of death, I expected a more detached telling. But his eyes had tears shining in them as he told us, ‘Young friends, I am very sorry to tell you that Katherine will likely not last the night. The wound to her head is severe, and her spirit has already turned to embrace death.’ I intuitively knew what he meant by this, but Isabella cried out, ‘Embrace death! Doctor, what are you saying?’ He sat down next to her and gently laid his hand on her arm. ‘Those of us in the healing profession see many strange things. One of the things they don’t teach you in school but that you come to see early is that a person’s spirit often has far more to do with their healing than any medicine or care. Some people survive in the worst of situations, fighting and fighting for life to the surprise of everyone. Others die when they might have lived. I cannot say whether Katherine might have lived; injuries to the head are unique to each person. I can see, however, that she does not wish to fight, and I feel sorry for that.’

“Isabella began to cry quietly, and the doctor laid a tender arm around her shoulders. Later, after Isabella had spent some time with our dying friend, I also took my turn. As I entered the room, I recognized the labored breathing of one who is close to death, and I stopped short several feet from the narrow bed. ‘Katherine?’ I began. I took a few steps closer, and she raised her head just an inch or two from the pillow. Her eyes were clouded, yet no longer angry. She looked right at me as though trying to memorize my face. ‘Anna,’ she whispered. ‘The Lord holds you close now,’ I began, ‘very close.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I will stay with you by your side if you wish.’ ‘Yes.’ There was a long pause, a deep quiet broken only by her ragged breath. ‘My Bible,’ she said at last, with a weak wave of her hand. I had not noticed earlier, but the kind men who came to our aid must have carried Katherine’s pack up the hillside with her. I rummaged in her rucksack and found her dog-eared, much-loved copy of the Word. I turned to the Psalms and began.

“It was a very long, sad night, Mama. Isabella brought me some soup that the doctor’s wife had prepared, and he came in every few hours to take Katherine’s hand and to offer her some light medicine to ease the pain. Mostly I just read aloud in a halting voice, trying to keep my eyes on the Lord in that room full of pain and my own deep conviction of unnecessary loss. I did not read all of the Psalms aloud, Mama; perhaps it was wrong of me, but Psalm 73 speaks of feet slipping and slippery ground, and somehow I could not; it seemed too cruel.

“I believe that Katherine gave up her spirit to the Lord somewhere in the midst of the promises of Psalm 86; surely he has shown her mercy, as he promises in those passages. I love that psalm, and I did not look up until I finished it, to see her face. Though ashen, it was peaceful, Mama, very peaceful.

“I did not call out to the doctor or Isabella right away; I felt that some quiet space alone would be all right. I smoothed back her hair and straightened the coverlet. I even stroked her face. She had a lovely face, Mama; had you met her, you would have longed to sculpt her, I know. It was still before dawn, and the candlelight played on her hands and face with gentle, subtle shadows. I turned to I Corinthians 15 and read aloud to her peaceful form—or perhaps more truthfully to my own grieving heart—the promises of the resurrection: ‘The trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised.’ They shall be raised. She shall be raised. And you and I, Mama, when the time comes.

“As I turned to close the Bible at last, something fell out on the floor. It was a letter. I felt a sort of stirring inside, as though that letter was important, so I tucked it into my pocket to look at later. Then I went to share the sad tidings with the others.

“Katherine had not had much money, and though the doctor was most generous, Isabella and I pooled most of the rest of what we had to pay for her burial in the village churchyard down the way. We knew she would have done the same for us, but it left us with a difficult decision; was it time to return home? I miss you deeply, Mama, but I did not find a certainty in my heart that I had accomplished all that was meant for this journey. However, Isabella was adamant: we should take the shortest route to a port city and make our way back north. I would be too frightened to travel alone. I thought about trying to find Molly and Lily, but knew that their lives were going forward in other ways, and I could not press on their generosity. I agreed to make the short journey back to port and home.

“So perhaps you will see me before you see this letter, Mama. I do not know the route the courier will take. It will be lovely to see your face, to wake early and milk the cow, to dance with Allan again. And yet in my heart I am puzzled; I can only see those things as through a dreamy mist, not sharply as I imagined. I wonder why?

“Oh, I nearly forgot. I opened the letter from Katherine’s Bible late last night. It is from her sister, Betsy. I had not realized that Katherine had come from so far south in our country; she never spoke of home. The letter describes tall mountains and a beautiful valley with ‘praying oaks.’ I wonder what they are? I hate it when I remember that Betsy does not know that her sister is dead. When I get home I will write to her at her home in Nybron and try to tell her gently. Please pray for Betsy, Mama; it is clear from her letter that she loved her sister and that she, like you, has hands that shape beauty where none has been. She had little sketches throughout the three pages; I think one must be of her and Katherine together when they were a little younger. I can see the family resemblance! There was also a small design of a kitten; it made me think of our little tyke, Ebenezer. Such a grandiose name for a wee bit of fur! Though I imagine he is grown big and self-satisfied now. It will be good to sit with him when I return.

“I love you, Mama. Give my love also to Papa and to Allan. Pray for travel mercies and safe passage, and I should be home before long. As always, rest in the arms of Jesus; he loves us so! Your Anna.”

Susannah and I sat for a long time in silence, with the rumbling purr of Ebenezer as counterpoint to our thoughts. I imagine that Susannah was remembering her daughter with both deep grief and aching love. I was struck by a different sense: that somehow the letter from Betsy and my dream of weary stragglers washing up on a beach, tall mountains beyond, were part of one mystery, with Anna at its center. I turned the last page of the letter over in my hand. Very delicately lined on the back, as though they had been traced, I found both a landscape of mountains, with a valley and trees in the foreground, and the depiction of two young women’s heads, foreheads touching as though they laughed in a moment of shared joy. Which was Katherine and which Betsy? Had Anna found the latter? I did not know, and yet I felt certain that my journey led south to find out.