The Blizzard Bride

by Susanne Dietze

  In Chicago, she’d seen her share of wind and snowstorms, but there had been hints, warnings. A minute ago, she’d fancied spring. She’d never seen anything like this. Lord, show me what to do. Keep the children here or send them home?

  She had little fuel left. No blankets. No food but for a little cider in the pot and half a kettle of water. She spun from the window.

  “Children, don your coats and mittens, quickly. Coy, move away from the window. We haven’t much time if you’re to get home before the worst hits.”

  She could scarcely hear the children’s excited chatter over the howling gusts of wind. Her hands fumbled with fastening buttons and searching for matching mittens. When the coat rack was empty, she grabbed her own coat and hat and surveyed her students.

  Josiah, Vernon, and Robert wore denim jackets, little defense against the cold, but better protection than Oneida’s linsey-woolsey dress or Florence’s calico frock. “Have you no coats, girls?”

  “Didn’t need one this morning.” Florence’s voice was high with fear.

  “You can have my sweater,” Willodean offered.

  “It’s too small for me.” Florence looked desolate.

  The children offered solutions while Abby’s mind raced. Aside from the two girls without coats, several hadn’t brought mittens, hats, or scarves with them. She had a spare shawl in a desk drawer, since her workspace was so far from the stove. One girl could wrap in that, but the other?

  Abby shrugged out of her coat and handed it to Florence. Oneida was much smaller, so Abby rushed to collect the shawl for her, offering her bonnet as well.

  Then she opened the door and lost her breath. In those few minutes it had taken to put on outerwear, the storm had worsened. Though she faced south, away from the wind, snow as coarse as sand blew into her eyes and nose. The wind pushed her sideways.

  She slammed the door shut.

  “No going home,” she yelled over the wind. “We’ll stay here tonight.”

  Thank God for showing her what to do before she sent the children out in this.

  Except … she had sent children home. Two. Berthanne and Almos …

  Her stomach revolted. One hand went to her mouth. Lord, please, don’t let them be lost. Guide them to safety, oh please.

  Over a dozen pairs of eyes looked at her. She mustn’t retch, mustn’t frighten them any more than they already were. Except for Coy and Josiah, perhaps, for they were in the far corner of the vestibule dancing a jig about spending the night in school. Their antics were enough to settle her stomach so that she didn’t require the slop bucket.

  Yet.

  “Let’s return to our seats.” She beckoned them within the schoolroom.

  Zaida fingered her top button. “Shall we take off our coats?”

  “I don’t think so.” It would get colder in here, but at least they had enough firewood to last the night. She gestured at Coy and Josiah. “Carry the logs inside for us, please.”

  “This’ll be fun.” Coy was grinning when he dropped an armful of logs in front of the box stove.

  “I don’t think so.” Nellie huddled wide-eyed at her desk.

  “Why don’t we pray?” If there was ever a time for her to start praying in public again, it was now. “Lord, we know You are here with us, as You were with Jesus and the disciples on the storming Sea of Galilee, as You were with Jonah in the dark belly of the whale, as You’ve been with us our whole lives, snow or sun, good times and bad. We ask for Your protection, and we ask this with gratitude that You’ve provided us shelter. Thank You.” Not wanting to frighten the children, she silently added a fervent prayer for Berthanne and Almos. “Amen.”

  A chorus of amens surrounded her.

  “Now, I’ll put more logs on the fire. You can work on your flowers or read or play quietly.”

  Quiet was too much to ask, with the wind lashing the school. Abby wasn’t sure which was worse, the noise or the cold seeping in the cracks in the walls and under the door and windows like oil up a wick, saturating everything it touched.

  Smack! The door had flung open, admitting a blast of cold, roaring wind. Abby rushed to shove it closed, but the latch wouldn’t hold any longer. Pressing against the door with her back, she met the gaze of the curious, frightened students who followed after her. “Bring a desk.”

  Bartholomew and Josiah scrambled away and returned, carrying one of the plank desks. Coy carried another by himself. They shoved both desks against the door, barring it shut.

  “Thank you, boys.”

  “What if we use up the fuel, ma’am?” Bartholomew whispered in her ear.

  “We’ll burn desks if necessary.”

  “Miss Bracey, what if my mama worries?” Micah’s already large eyes were round and wide.

  “I hope your mamas trust that you are safe here at the schoolhouse.”

  Kyle went still as stone, a first for him. “What if we’re not safe?”

  “We might be hungry by the time the storm ends, but we shall persevere, snug around the stove.” Although snug was too generous a word.

  Willodean rubbed her eyes. “I want to go home.”

  A few of the younger children started to cry. Meanwhile the wind whipped up with such vigor that Abby wanted to wrap her arms around her head to block the noise.

  But she couldn’t. She had to be strong, brave for these little ones. “Come, let’s push the desks away from the stove and all gather around it. I shall put the kettle on and we may all have a sip of tea.”

  “Mama says I can’t have tea until I’m older,” Willodean said.

  “She won’t mind today.” Abby smiled. “While it heats, I’ll read a story.”

  Mark, the Match Boy had enough of a plot to hold their interest. Adjusting her bustle behind her, she perched on the ground among her students and began the Horatio Alger story. The frigid floor stung her legs and feet, and the little box stove was not a match for the storm. Tonight would be uncomfortable, but they would survive.

  She was thinking in terms of survival? Her stomach flopped again. Do not retch. Oh, you mustn’t let the children know how afraid you are.

  Had last night taught her nothing? She’d spent years talking to herself. It was time to talk to God.

  Lord, we need Your strength and wisdom. Your peace.

  “Miss Bracey, I’m scared,” a small voice said.

  She hadn’t realized she’d stopped reading. “I am too, Micah. But courage isn’t the absence of fear. It’s striving despite it. We must all take courage today.”

  Micah nodded. Kyle dashed a tear from his cheek. Willodean stared at her boots.

  “Think of the story we will tell our families later. Let’s finish the story about Mark the match boy and—”

  The scream of splitting wood had her on her feet. Impossible, but a section of vestibule ceiling was gone. Tattered tar paper whipped like a shredded sail, and snow swirled into the hole.

  No matter how many desks they burned after the wood was gone, they would freeze to death before dawn.

  Abby ordered the children into a line based on age, older, younger, older, younger, dispersing the stronger among the weaker. She went first, Willodean next. Coy volunteered to bring up the rear. Those without gloves pulled stockings over their hands, and she’d helped those without hats to pull their shirts or coats up about their ears.

  Then, after scrawling their destination on the blackboard in case anyone came to the school looking for them, she’d taken the coil of twine she’d brought for the art projects and wrapped it around each child’s waist, knotting it over and over. Pity they had nothing thicker, but thank God they had something to tether them together.

  Lord, have mercy on us. Imbue this twine with the strength of iron and guide us straight on to Burt Crabtree’s. Amen.

  “If the person in front of you or behind you falls, help them to stand. We leave no one behind,” she shouted, hoping they could hear her over the wind.

  Since she’d given her coat to Florence and he
r shawl to Oneida, she wrapped her scarf about her head and tucked it into the neck of her blouse, leaving a small hole over her face for her eyes.

  Ready, then.

  She shoved away the desks in front of the door and stepped out. The vestibule had been frigid as an icehouse, but now that she was outside, the air smacked her face like a slap. There was no choice, however, but to step out into the blizzard. Into … a nothingness of white.

  Where was the well? The cottonwoods, or the fence between the school and Mr. Crabtree’s? All she could see was whipping snow, which grated like sand in her eyes. Keeping them open was agony. Oh Lord, I’m blind. I’ll get us lost.

  Her lungs ached, and she couldn’t catch enough air to fill them. They were cold, yes, but panic also clawed at her chest.

  Remain calm and think.

  How far was Burt Crabtree’s house? A hundred yards, as the crow flew? A map formed in her mind, simple but clear. Burt Crabtree’s front door was due east of the schoolhouse and then a few paces north. She had the schoolhouse as a guide for now. Once the schoolhouse stopped, if she continued straight, she could find the well, and beyond it, the fence he’d been repairing. At the fence, she’d bear left, to the north, which was into the wind, but the fence would guide her for several paces before she and the children would have to climb over it and cross his yard. If she walked straight …

  Easier said than done. The wind pushed from behind, knocking Willodean into her.

  She turned around to set Willodean on her feet and then pressed her palm against the schoolhouse, starting their march east. At the end of the school, she took as deep a breath as she could manage. She must walk straight, eyes closed, to the well. Extending her hands ahead of her, she focused on her steps. Straight line, straight line. One after another.

  Her foot thumped against something. The edge of the well’s brick wall. Thank You, Lord. She gripped it for three steps until she had to let go in pursuit of Burt Crabtree’s fence. She’d forgotten until this moment that it was barbed wire. It would hurt to touch and crawl over. The children would be cut or scraped.

  Better that than frozen.

  Her arm swept the air before her like a sideways pendulum, grasping for the fence. Step after step. The snow felt like fire, not ice, burning her beneath her clothes, and her heart raced from exertion and fear.

  Something tugged her leg. Willodean? No, more like a bramble caught her skirt. The fence. Thank You, Lord. She focused on the imaginary map in her head. Now that she’d found the fence, she must walk, oh, twenty paces north before she’d be parallel with Burt Crabtree’s porch. A pace was taken at full stride, however, and her windblown steps were shorter, labored and staggered. Double the number, then. Forty steps. She counted as she traced the sharp fence with her hand as she struggled on. Later, she’d probably find wounds on her fingers, but she couldn’t feel pain now. At thirty paces, the fence disappeared—

  She groped. Opened her eyes and instantly regretted the pain, but she made out the dark, narrow shape of a Virginia rail fence. Burt Crabtree must not have replaced this section of his fencing with barbed wire yet. She’d cry an alleluia, had she sufficient breath, but she shouted it in her heart. This would be so much easier to climb over than barbed wire.

  Maintaining contact with the wood, she stumbled forward, counting an additional ten steps before she stopped and hitched up her dress to climb over. She slid on landing but gripped the fence and leaned against it to assist Willodean over, then Florence. After that, she couldn’t help anyone else. She had to move to make room for the others to get across. Squinting into the snow and wind, she plotted a step due east.

  Now that she’d stopped, though, it was difficult to start again. Every muscle from her abdomen down ached, but at least she had sensation somewhere. She’d lost it in her hands and feet. Soon it would be over, if she and the children kept on—

  Her ankle gave way, sending her tumbling forward. There must be a dip here, a small valley in the otherwise-flat field that had filled with snow. How far did it extend? Going through it would slow them down and make them wetter, colder. Going around it, she could lose her bearings.

  Lord, show me where to go.

  She scrambled to her feet. The fastest way out was through.

  “It’s deeper here,” she yelled behind her. “Take care and tell the others.”

  Willodean tugged the twine. “They’re saying no.”

  “What?” Oh, it hurt to talk. It hurt to breathe.

  “Go back,” Willodean shouted.

  Sure enough, the bigger boys were yelling. “… getting us lost.” Coy?

  She was not getting them lost. Not if they went straight. She cupped her mouth to shout over her shoulder. “We can’t go back. The school will be too cold.”

  “Better than dying out here.” Was that Robert? “Let me out of this rope.”

  The twine at Abby’s waist tugged hard enough to pull her backward. The children were trying to break free? Oh no. They mustn’t separate from one another. If she could turn and comfort the children, she would, but if she did, she’d lose her bearings. Already she had to concentrate much harder than usual as to which direction was which.

  She would not lose these children. Nor did she survive the past six years to die out here, like this. “You have come so far and been so brave. Only a little farther. Prepare to walk through a dip in the field.”

  Any grumbles were lost to the wind.

  She had to lift her legs higher here—what about the younger ones? The twine about her waist tugged, pulled downward. Willodean had fallen. Abby turned and traced the twine downward to a bundle that must be Willodean. She opened her eyes a crack. “Can you stand?”

  “I lost my shoe.” Willodean was crying.

  Abby hauled Willodean’s solid weight into her arms. She tucked Willodean’s stockinged foot beneath her arm. “I have you, darling.”

  She must keep moving forward … if that was the correct direction anymore. After turning to pick up Willodean, she wasn’t sure if she’d pivoted back at an angle or not. Everything was white, above and below, side to side. White and so loud. She couldn’t see Burt Crabtree’s cottonwoods or his house. Nor could she walk straight, much less think straight anymore.

  God, I came to You last night, to start anew. This isn’t what I imagined You had in store for me, but You are with me. I believe it. I can’t stand believing anything else.

  Words floated into her mind from the Bible. Something about being placed somewhere at a moment, for a purpose, because of God’s design.

  Her foggy brain nudged her. It was from Esther, the woman God used to save her people. This was not the same scenario, of course. Abby did not equate her circumstances to Esther’s. But the verse gave her comfort … if only she knew it by heart. When this was over, she’d have to seek it out in the Bible.

  If she survived.

  Oh, she was supposed to be counting her steps. How many paces to the house from the fence? She strained to recall her imaginary map. Thirty paces, so sixty steps? How many had she taken? Nine, maybe? So that was … fifty-some. Fifty-one, that’s right. It shouldn’t have taken her so long to execute so simple an equation, but her brain had gone soft as cornmeal mush.

  And she’d forgotten to count her steps while she was subtracting. She trudged forward, gasping for breath.

  Were others out in this? Had Hildie and Patty been outside hanging laundry when the blizzard hit? Had Bynum found shelter in the barn or in the house? Where was Dash? Snug in the stable with horses to help keep him warm? And Almos and Berthanne. If they died, it was all her fault.

  Tears singed her face. Instinctively, she shifted Willodean and brushed at her eyes, and oh it hurt, like she scrubbed off delicate skin. Had her tears frozen her eyelids shut?

  Don’t think, just move. One step. Then another. Clutching Willodean, who was heavier by the moment. They had to be close to the house.

  Wind blasted her back, thrusting her and Willodean forward. She twisted a
s she fell, so she wouldn’t land atop Willodean. As she twisted, something struck her head. Hard. Pain reverberated from her forehead down to her teeth, and bright squiggles danced before her eyes. She fell to the ground.

  Had she hit a tree branch? Maybe his barn or his house? If she reached out again, found it, she could trace it to the front door.

  Her arms stretched, finding nothing. She tried again. Oh, they were empty. She’d been carrying something, though, hadn’t she? A precious bundle? Yes, something important, although she’d forgotten what it was.

  Willodean. That’s what—who—she’d been carrying. What was happening to her? Her mind wasn’t working right. Everything was foggy. And she couldn’t find the wherewithal to stand.

  Do not rest. You’re not finished yet.

  But it was comfortable here, down on the ground. Her arms and legs were so heavy. Maybe if she rested a moment she’d have the strength to try again. Her head didn’t hurt so badly anymore.

  Her eyes cracked open. White, then darkness. Light. Dash’s face, surrounded by a golden glow.

  She must have died, out in the snow.

  CHAPTER 12

  Abby, wake up. Wake up, honey.” Dash’s lips brushed her crimson, swollen eyelids, then her cold temple. She shivered so hard.

  Her eyes opened a crack then shut again. He’d have to get her closer to the stove but—something yanked him back. A small figure flopped to the floor behind him and cried out.

  “They’re tied together.” Burt tugged at twine connecting Willodean and Abby. “Knotted. I can’t tear it. I’ll get a knife from the kitchen.”

  That would take twenty seconds too long.

  Hang propriety. Dash laid Abby on the floor and pulled up her skirt, exposing her shins. There it was, the knife gartered to her black stocking. He untied it, re-covered her legs, and snipped the twine between her and Willodean. He cut the tether between a few more children before Burt returned.

  Not one of the children had said a word. All shivered, and half of them slumped to the floor inside Burt’s door. “We need blankets. Towels. Anything.”