Читать книгу Wind-Borne Sister - Melinda Holland - Страница 7

I don’t recall much more of that evening. Against a background of heavy rain, rolling thunder, and occasional sharp lightning strikes, I see glimpses of tasty porridge, a small spare bed, a warm fire. Very soon the soothing balm of sleep enveloped me. That night I dreamed I saw Anna, riding St. John’s eagle, smiling and laughing as they flew above the storm. She had tiny starflowers in her hair, and she was no longer rail-thin as she had been in the weeks before she died.

I awoke to a strange sound: an irregular scratching and rasping. I opened my eyes just as a large black and white tom jumped from the floor to my chest, somehow managing to glare and to express curiosity at the same time. “And who are you, puss?” I asked aloud.

Susannah, who came in by a narrow doorway, laughed lightly. “Ah, has Ebenezer found you? Usually he sleeps on that bed during the day. He’ll warm to you if you scratch him just so between the ears and under his chin.” I did as she indicated, and soon a rich, throaty purr serenaded us. “You have a new friend, Ebenezer,” Susannah remarked. “Treat her well.”

After petting the cat a bit longer, I raised myself to sit on the side of the bed. “How did you sleep, Brie?” Hearing Anna’s nickname for me proved bittersweet, and I felt tears begin to prick behind my eyes.

“Very well, thank you. I dreamed of my sister.”

“A good dream, I hope?”

“Yes, it was. The only hard part was awakening, though Ebenezer did his best to soften the transition.”

Susannah moved quietly into the room and reached out to find a stool not far from the bed. Seating herself, she turned again to me, and her tone was different. “What are your plans, sister of Anna, child of God? Why did you set out alone by boat at a time of year when storms are frequent? I tried to puzzle out your story as I sat by the fire last night, and I came up empty. Your body bears no marks of beating that I could see with my hands; you are not sickened by disease or poverty. You know the Lord and carry his light with you . . .” A deep sigh escaped her, as though a painful memory had intruded, and then she shook her head.

“But once again I forget myself. Hospitality first, then the explanation.” She gestured out the door to the left. “You will find a tub of hot water in the back room, as well as some fresh clothing. It may be slightly loose on you, but it is clean. I’ve been drying your boots out by my front room fire; I’m afraid I don’t have another pair to offer you.”

“Thank you, my lady—Susannah. You have been so kind to me. God showed me your house in a vision yesterday morning; when I saw it just before sunset, I was hopeful. But I did not dare hope for such generosity.”

“Once I was in great need, and a couple took me in. I promised myself to do the same when the Lord asked it of me. That spare room has been waiting long years, while I wondered who would come. I didn’t think Ebenezer would be the only one to snuggle beneath those soft covers.”

She left me then, and I cleaned and dressed myself in a small, tidy room. The only ornamentation was a large sculpture of the woman who reached out for the hem of Jesus’ garment. He had his back to her but had just begun to turn his head in her direction. One of her hands was yet on the fringe, and the other was upraised in joy, her face overcome with delight at the change she was experiencing. After dressing, I went over to inspect it more closely. Somehow she had captured a gentle, knowing smile on the Lord’s face; it was beautiful to behold. Yet it was the face of the woman that fascinated me. The wonder and awe in the features reminded me so keenly of that last look on Anna’s face. Perhaps she also had felt the power of God surge through her, had been given the blessed chance to gaze upon him.

I gathered up my travel-tarnished clothes and carried them with me as I returned to Susannah. Her large front room met many purposes: sitting room, dining room, even a small kitchen of sorts near the large fireplace. But I saw then what I had missed the night before: a large alcove on the side of the house that overlooked the sea served as a studio. Several pieces were in process: one in stone, another in wood. I had not noticed any wooden sculptures elsewhere in the house, and so I asked about it: “You also sculpt in wood?”

“Yes, I’ve just started. Now that my blindness is complete, working with the stone is more difficult and dangerous. The wood is more pliable and forgiving. I don’t know if I will ever finish that last stone carving. It seems fitting somehow, though: it was to be the descent of the Spirit at Pentecost.” I looked more closely, and I could just make out several figures, each with a dancing, wavy shape above their heads. The faces were vague, but their hands expressed astonishment, eagerness, storytelling. And the flames seemed also to be wings, reaching upward to the heavens. It was beautiful just as it was.

Susannah and I shared a quiet breakfast, as Ebenezer wound around our ankles, wishing for a bite of fish. I had the chance to observe her more closely this morning. She was not so old as I had first thought: perhaps in her late sixties, it was the white-scaled eyes and hair the color of sea foam that made her seem much older.

As I savored the last bite, she resumed the focus she had laid down earlier. “Brie, tell me your story. How have you come to be here?”

I felt afraid. She had shown me such gracious care; I did not want to risk losing that. I was already beginning to feel at home here on the hill above the sea, among her stone-sculptured stories. The silence stretched between us.

“I can tell that you are afraid. I will not hurt you. What is it, Brie?”

I knew that the best way for her to understand was to show her. I reached into the pocket of the apron that she had loaned me and cupped the cross. My fingers also brushed against the scrap of paper I had found in the bow of my boat: peace to you, peace to you . . . I leaned into trust and gazed with love upon her eyes, marred by the cataracts and other disease. I felt her confusion, then her own fear. I saw a little girl running, running fast and frantically down a hillside, chased by a bull who had escaped from the pasture. The bull was caught, but the girl did not know, and in her running, she lost her footing and fell face-first into a bramble full of sharp, cutting thorns. They tore at her face, her clothes, and especially her eyes. I felt the stinging pain in my own eyes, then concentrated on a deep wave of healing, of light, of hope. The way forward seemed a tangled mixture of resistance and longing. Suddenly I heard her gasp.

“I see a bit of light. From both eyes I see a bit of light! What is it that you are doing, child?”

“This is why I had to leave. The people of my village distrusted me, called me witch. I am no witch, Susannah. I did not seek this power. Sometimes it has come as protection for me, as a distraction. Sometimes it is solely for the other, to soothe a burn, to soften a bruise. Most of the time I see in my mind the source of the pain: I saw you running away from that crazed bull and the way you fell into the brambles . . .”

I heard her sharp intake of breath but kept speaking. “It started the day I buried my sister. We were alone by then. I did not know my father well, killed in the war. He visited once when I was about eight. I remember his kindness, as well as the way he sat staring into the fire with pain in his eyes. Before he left again, he prophesied that God had a long journey ahead for me, but would always go with me. Perhaps this is the journey that he meant.

“Our mother died two years ago, succumbing to a winter influenza. I thought my sister and I would always be together. But then she fell prey to fever after stepping on a rusty nail while playing in the fields, and she never rallied. Amidst her fever, she told me that she saw our mother dancing on the arm of a tall, red-haired man with long sideburns. She had never met our father, but that’s who she had described. After she died, the one thing I kept was this pewter cross that Anna always wore around her neck. She found it on the shore the summer she was four and treasured it always.”

I handed the pewter cross to Susannah, and saw with surprise that her hands were shaking. She fingered it with care, even with tenderness, and I saw her straining to see out of eyes that were now slightly less thick with fog. “Anna, my Anna. . .” Her voice held a faraway quality of wistfulness and pain. She did not speak for several minutes, and I waited, feeling that something strange and somber had been reawakened for her.

At length she began. “This cross belonged to my daughter, Anna. She was lost at sea many years ago, as she journeyed home after remarkable travels. I still keep her letters; perhaps later I will ask you to read them to me. Some said they saw the ship in the storm, that they were close, so close to home. I did not want to believe that she could die within sight of our land . . . Her body was never recovered. But I know this is her cross.”

She handed the pewter pendant back to me. “Look on the back: do you see the tiny initials, ALM? Anna Leigh Mason. My husband worked it for her; he was a gifted metalworker in his day.” Her voice shook as she continued, “Anna shared in her letters that she had begun to experience a gift of healing light, a strange ability to bring comfort to others, to know their pain. We wanted to believe her, but it seemed so strange . . . James and I understood art, bringing life out of metal and stone, but to restore life in the place of disease and scarring? Today you have shown me that she spoke truth.

“Gabriela, I want to know more of your story, I do, but this has been overwhelming. I need to rest. Please know that you are welcome in my home; I do not fear you. You may stay as long as God calls you to be here. Please make yourself at ease here, in the house, the grotto, the fields around. Tomorrow I may ask you to help me with chores and tasks. For today, explore, rest, let your soul be blessed that there is none here to fear you or wish you gone.”

She rose and walked to a flight of stairs at the side of the house. “I’ll be upstairs for much of the day, I think. We’ll meet again over supper, perhaps around six?” And then she was out of sight.

A great turmoil of emotions whirled in my heart and spirit. I felt wonder and fear at this strange interweaving of our lives, having lost beloved young women named Anna. I remembered how Susannah had called me Anna when I arrived. Did I remind her of her child?

I thought also of this strange healing gift. Learning that Anna had also been chosen to serve as instrument for its expression comforted me immeasurably. I was not alone; I was not so strange in my gifting. Yet I wondered also about the cross; was it necessary for this gift, or was it only that in holding it, I focused better on God’s voice, God’s invitation and revelation for the other in need? I did not know.

I missed Susannah’s presence. She had a gentle, quiet heart that radiated peace. Yet I understood her need to grieve and reflect alone. She had not shared how long ago the boat had gone down in the storm; she did not tell how her husband had died. Had he also been on board? I knew from my own life that, once awakened, those sorrowful memories needed a bit of space to be held and then laid to rest once more.

Susannah had recommended a day of exploration and rest. I put on my boots, gathered up my water and a generous portion of bread from the table, and left by the door to see what the day held in store.