“Arms, pale ones.”
“You are so diplomatic, Philip. That man, is he pale?”
“No, but your mother was—this we know. Some parents have dark hair and are married to people with light hair. The children can’t have both.”
He heard her take a deep breath. Her hands trembled as she raised them to grasp her hood and then slowly pulled it back, allowing it to fall behind her. Seconds passed, but she didn’t speak, and he didn’t turn his head.
“Look at me, Philip.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
The words tumbled over themselves on his lips, but at last he managed to stammer out, “Because if I do, you will find an excuse to avoid me too.”
“If you want to be my friend after you see me, I will be grateful to I AM forever.”
Philip’s eyes slid sideways. Unconsciously, he steeled himself against whatever he might see, but it was unnecessary. Her profile though unusual, was nothing so horrifying. “You do have his nose, Dove. It is very distinct. Long and straight, but not too long.”
She didn’t reply. With her hands clenched together in her lap, Dove sat there, staring at the water that splashed into the pool, waiting. He realized after a few seconds, that she probably waited for him to leave. To test her, he stood, watching closely for any reaction. There it was, a tear splashing on her hand. She truly believed he would reject her for something as simple as pale skin, hair, and eyes. It seemed nearly inconceivable.
“Dove, look at me. I want to know what this man saw that night. What I saw of you was nothing to make people run. Startle because of its unusualness, sure, but not run.”
“You won’t see it, Philip. There is no fire here. The stories of my eyes being full of fire are true—somewhat. Everyone’s eyes reflect fire, but if I am angry or embarrassed, my eyes become reddish purple. Near fire, the flames reflect in them in a way that is truly terrifying. Combine that with my wild hair—”
“It isn’t wild now,” he contradicted.
“It usually is. Merewyn taught me to braid it to keep it from matting and looking so frightful.” She sighed. “Do you really think I could have frightened away those men, made that man who was there to kill you; do you think I could have terrified those people if I was not frightful?”
“I think you used the element of surprise to disarm people who didn’t expect to see something so unusual.” He knelt before her with his eyes to the ground. “Will you look at me, Dove? We need to know. I’m sure of it from your profile alone, but don’t you want to know if this man is your father?”
“If he is, he left us—”
“To find work, Dove. He left to go find work and returned for you. That is what my father does every spring. Should we not be willing to welcome him home?”
She shuddered, her hands shaking even as she clenched them together. “I can’t trust—”
“You can’t trust a man who married a woman like you, or a friend like me who saw your profile and was unshaken?”
“Look at me then.”
His eyes rose to meet hers, but they were closed. “Why are your eyes closed, Dove? There is no fire here.”
“Trust me, Philip. Don’t ask that of me.”
Determined not to press her too much, he focused on the rest of her face. Her nose was definitely that of the daughter of Martin Bowman. She had a name, a real name. Dove of Wynnewood was Rosa Bowman, daughter of Martin and Margaret Bowman.
He smiled. Her fearful face relaxed a little. One corner of her mouth turned upward before she smiled. “You do that just like your father.”
“Do what?” She squeezed her eyes tighter, but she held her head high.
“You give a hint that you’re going to smile before you do. The odd thing is I’ve noticed that since I’ve known you, but I never saw it. I can hear it in your voice just as easily as I can see it on your face.”
“You’re not repulsed by me?” Even as she asked, she reached to pull the hood back over her face.
“Not at all. You don’t need the hood anymore, Dove.”
“But I do. I need it to protect me from the villagers. I need it to protect me from the sun.”
“But here in the shade of the trees and with a friend…”
“I cannot become careless, Philip.” Her hand brushed away a tear. “Tell me a new story. Surely you learned one in Oxford or have one you’ve wanted to tell me.”
Disappointed, Philip sank back to the earth and leaned his head back on the log. “I could tell you about the man named Philip.”
“Oh, I want to hear of him!”
He had been sure Dove would be excited about it. Before he began, Philip prayed that I AM would show Dove how important it is to yield and obey. “An angel of the Lord came to Philip and told him to travel on the road from Jerusalem to Gaza. The Bible says that Gaza is a desert—a place with little water and very sandy.”
“How can there be sand if there is no water pushing it up on shore?”
“I haven’t seen it, but some of the masters talked about entire places as big as England being nothing but sand, so it can happen.”
Dove’s voice was full of awe. “I AM likes variety, doesn’t He?”
“I think He does. Now a eunuch from Ethiopia had been to Jerusalem, you know, the holy city of the Jews, to worship. He was on his way home, riding in his chariot and reading from the prophet Isaiah.”
“He had part of the Bible? Isaiah is part of the Bible, is it not?”
Philip nodded. “Yes. He must have obtained scrolls from the priests in Jerusalem. Or maybe he brought them from home.” Philip shifted so that his spine no longer lay on a tree root. “When Philip saw the chariot, the Spirit of I AM told him to join the chariot.”
“Philip, this must have been a wealthy man to be able to buy such a scroll. Was he?”
“Yes. He was a court official to Queen Candace and in charge of all her treasure.”
Dove pulled apples from her pockets and passed him one. “Queen Candace was from Ethiopian?”
“Ethiopia—yes. So, Philip ran up the chariot and seeing that the man was reading Isaiah, asked him if he understood it.”
“An intelligent question.”
Without commenting, Philip continued. “The eunuch said, ‘How can I unless someone explains it to me?’ So the eunuch invited Philip up into the chariot, and starting with the scripture that the eunuch was reading, explained Jesus to him.”
“What was the scripture? Does it say?”
“It was the one from Isaiah—”
“Of course.”
He felt foolish as the silliness of his words struck him. Chuckling, he agreed, “Naturally. It was the verses that say that He was like a sheep at slaughter, silent before the shearers, who did not open His mouth. He was humiliated and denied justice and His life taken from him.”
“Jesus. Did you not say that Jesus refused to give a defense when they tried Him? They humiliated Him and killed Him.”
“Very good, Dove. That is exactly what happened, so Philip explained it to him. The passage says that beginning with that scripture, Philip told of Jesus, which seems to imply that he used many more because soon they came to water.”
“I thought you said there was no water in the desert.”
“I believe they have wells and things, but no lakes and rivers like we have. However, the scripture just says that the road led from Jerusalem to the desert, not that they were in the desert yet.”
The discussion of desert and lack of water seemed to make Dove thirsty. She pulled a flask from her cloak, poured the water over the violets, and then laid out across the ground near the edge of the pool, allowing the fresh water to fill it. “Go on.”
“So, when they came to the water, the eunuch pointed to it and said, ‘Look, here is water! What prevents me from being baptized?’”
“Oh, yes. I see. Philip must have explained more of Jesus than just that scripture. The one word, beginning, is very important there, isn’t it?
How else would we know that we are not to infer baptism from the words in that passage? I can’t think of anything in there that sounds remotely like baptism.”
“That’s what brought me home, Dove. They were doing that at Oxford—inferring all kinds of things from passages. That alone might have been interesting, but it was adding to scripture the way they did it.”
Dove nodded, the hood slipping down further and into its usual place. “You were wise to come home. Now, what happened to the eunuch?”
“Well, both men went down into the water, and Philip baptized them, but when they came out, the Spirit of I AM carried Philip away to preach somewhere else and the eunuch went home, rejoicing.”
He waited for her to ask about why Philip was sent away from a man who needed to learn, but she didn’t. Silent, she sat, sipping her water and watching the pool as if transfixed. At last, just as Philip was ready to explain it anyway, Dove pointed to the pool. “Philip, here is much water. What hinders me from being baptized?”
It was Philip’s turn to be speechless. He turned, his arm on the log supporting him, and gazed at the profile of the cloaked waif of Wynnewood. “Dove? You believe?”
“Yes.”
He sat upright, peering closer as if able to see the twitch of her lip before she smiled even through the darkness of the cloak. “How long have you believed? I cannot think that the story of a eunuch’s baptism prompted instant faith.”
“You will be angry, I think.”
“Never, Dove! I am trying not to shout for joy!” Her giggle prompted a slight whoop. “I can’t contain myself completely. Tell me all!”
“I suppose it began on the trip to Oxford. I prayed, Philip. I prayed all the way there. I was scared—terrified, really—and so alone. I sang and prayed to keep me sane. I was frightened for you and—” The hood dipped lower. “Me.”
“Oh, Dove. When I imagined you walking along those cliffs in the dark, across the countryside and meeting outlaws—”
“And my father, if what you say is true,” she interjected, the familiar impishness back in her tone.
“And your father… it shames me. I don’t deserve such a loyal friend.” Before she could contradict him, he urged her to continue. “So prayer produced faith instead of faith producing prayer. Tell me more.”
“I fought it, Philip. I didn’t want to trust. I thought I had to have a complete trust in I AM or I could not truly believe, but one of the Mæte challenged me. He said that all gods required some faith to believe. I saw then that this was my problem. I was trying to believe without faith. You said once that it is ‘not of yourselves’ but I was making it of myself. Once I quit trying to control my belief, I no longer struggled.”
His joy was a little tarnished by the realization that a dwarf who knew nothing of I AM had accomplished that which he had failed to do. “Why did you not tell me all these months?”
“It was awkward for me.” She sighed. “All the stories you told me, all the lessons you shared, they were such a part of me that I sang them constantly, mulled them over in my mind constantly. I couldn’t have gotten away from them had I tried. Thank you, Philip. No one else in Wynnewood would have cared enough about me to teach me of I AM. If you hadn’t…”
“You really believe…” Philip spoke as if he couldn’t quite believe it himself.
“Yes, and since all of your stories of new faith include baptism, I want you to baptize me. The pool is here, what stops you?”
“I can’t. We’ll bring Broðor Clarke—”
“No!” She turned as if to leave. “I will not have it, Philip. You must baptize me. How can you refuse me? It is wrong.”
“It is wrong for me to do that which belongs to a priest. I am not a minister yet, Dove!”
“You will be. That is enough for me. I do not want to wait all those years, but I will. My lack of obedience will be on your head, Philip Ward.” She strode through the trees, clearly upset with him.
“Dove, wait!” She halted but didn’t turn. “I will ask Broðor Clarke. I can’t do something so important without consulting him. He is my mentor. He will be the one who decides when I am ready to be a minister. I cannot ignore his authority in this. Do you understand?”
She returned to him and pulled on his sleeve. “Then let’s go. You will ask him.”
Never had he seen her so eager about anything. “I will. And will you meet with your father?”
They traveled nearly a quarter mile before Dove finally answered. “If you will be there, I will meet him. I do not promise to stay,” she added hurriedly. “I don’t trust him yet. But I will try.”
Chapter 39
Baptism
“She wants you to baptize her?” Broðor Clarke’s astonishment discouraged Philip. He would say no.
“Yes. I didn’t even know she believed until yesterday.”
“And why didn’t you baptize her?”
His eyes widened. “You—I—what?”
“I said,” the minister spoke very slowly, “why did you not baptize her? Is she not worthy of it?”
“You would approve of that?”
“A fellow believer wants to be as Paul. She wants to arise, be baptized, wash away her sins, calling on the name of the Lord. Why would you not help her with that? What if Ananias had refused the Apostle Paul?”
“I thought you—”
“You thought I’d refuse baptism to anyone who wished it?”
“No!” Philip’s face flamed. “I just thought that a minister—a priest—must be the one who—”
“And Dove agrees to this plan? She is ready for me to touch her, see her without the hood covering her face? This is something she is ready to endure?”
“No. She says she will not if I do not baptize her.”
“Then why would you assume I would deny her baptism? Are my hands holier than yours?”
“No, but you are a priest—”
“As are you, Philip. Peter teaches us of the priesthood of all believers. You must not deny one of the basic blessings of the Lord. Baptize her—now if you can find her.”
“It’ll have to be later. Dove and I are meeting with her father at the Point.”
“She agreed? Are you certain he is really her father? That seems like a dangerous place to meet a stranger who might want to hurt your friend.”
“I am certain.” Philip struggled to find the right words. “She has his nose.”
“What—how—” Broðor Clarke’s eyes widened. “She removed the cloak?”
“The hood, yes. I didn’t see her eyes, but her nose…”
“Go! Meet with them. Take her to be baptized later! This is very wonderful news! First, she is united with her Heavenly Father and then her earthly one. I AM is so good!”
Broðor Clarke practically shoved Philip out the door. He stood on his step, watching the young man stride down the street, his head high, nodding to the other villagers. Pride filled his heart. Philip’s first convert—it was a beautiful thing.
An odd sight caught his attention. Was that the Fletchers’ goat with blankets tied to her back? He hurried to take a better look and saw Tom Fletcher pulling his large cart with all of their belongings and two chickens tied to the top of it.
“Fletcher! Where are you going?”
Tom put down the arms of the cart, the chicken cage shifting precariously. “We’re going to Cockermouth. I can do better there. The new man—he is a fletcher. He can take over my business and work for Lord Morgan.”
“This seems sudden; are you sure?”
Tom nodded, his eyes refusing to meet Broðor Clarke’s. “I am respected in Cockermouth. Here…”
The minister nodded. “I understand. Godspeed to you, Tom.” He turned to Una standing beside the goat, little Adam seated on the animal’s back as they stood still. “My prayers are with you both.”
“Thank you, Broðor Clarke. You’ve been a good minister to us. We will not forget you.”
“Have you seen Philip?”
Tom picked up the arms of his cart, adjusted the weight, and stepped forward. “He is better off now. The new man can teach him what I could not.”
Broðor Clarke stood in the middle of the road, watching as Tom and Una made their way out of the village and up the road, past the midwife’s cottage, and out of sight. An indignant sniff behind him wiped the sad expression from his face and replaced it with a smile.
“Bertha, how do you feel about the loss of our fletcher’s family?”
“Good riddance, I say. He cheated that boy.”
“Philip is a man, Bertha. You will make yourself appear old if you persist in seeing everyone under thirty as a child.”
“When the boy is over twenty, I’ll try to consider him a man.”
Broðor Clarke laughed until he saw the midwife’s eyes. “What troubles you, Bertha?”
“Nothing. You’re a fool.”
The words were familiar, but the conviction behind them was gone. He watched as she looked everywhere but toward the cliffs near the Point. “Are you not pleased that you may be free of your charge now that Martin Bowman has come?”
“So that I may be kicked out of my own home to make way for a father who abandons his family?”
“You know better than that, Bertha. He went to find work. Men all over England do it every day.” Broðor Clarke frowned. “The cottage is what truly concerns you. Do you think Lord Morgan would allow one of his people to live on the streets? What about the Fletcher’s cottage? They have left. You’d be in the village—closer to your mothers. Letty could live with you. It would be better for her, don’t you think?”
As he spoke, the anxiety seemed to vanish slowly from the woman’s face. She turned toward the empty fletcher’s cottage, eying it curiously. “I should speak to Lord Morgan’s agent. It’s a good cottage—clean. Una was one of the more intelligent women in Wynnewood.”
“Because she listened to your notions of cleanliness?”
“Some of them, yes. I never could get her to air beds. She was certain it’d allow in disease rather than keep it out.”
The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series Page 70
