The Seeds of Change

by Lauraine Snelling

  Forsythia drew a deep breath. After the horror of last night, this crossing seemed almost easy.

  “Well, if that’s the worst we ever cross, we can consider ourselves lucky. We better grease those axles tonight. It’s a good thing we brought both grease and tar along, thanks to Anders’s thinking ahead.” Lark wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her arm.

  “I wish I’d read more of those books about traveling west.” Del stepped down from the wagon. “Someone else can ride. I’d rather walk a ways.”

  Lilac flicked the whip on the ground, putting the oxen into action.

  Forsythia let Lark take the horse and climbed into the wagon. Thank you, Lord, a chance to rest awhile. If only she could stop remembering the thud of that man hitting the ground.

  A couple of nights later, screams jerked Lark out of a deep sleep. Not again. On her feet and rifle in hand before she had time to think, she heard Del murmuring at the back of the wagon. “What is it?” Other than her sisters being awake, nothing seemed amiss.

  “Sythia had a horrible nightmare.” Del held her sister in her arms, murmuring soothing words and stroking her back.

  Lark puffed out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, her heart hammering back into place. “I’ll go check on the animals.”

  The indigo skies were lightening in the east, and the sun would be up in another hour. Far too short a time to go back to sleep. Starbright nickered softly as Lark approached, and nuzzled her chest.

  As trees emerged from the dark, so the trail to the water could be seen, and Lark removed the hobbles from the mare and led her down to the little river to drink. A cardinal stuttered, then heralded the dawn with its special song. Lark looked upriver to see two deer drinking on the opposite shore. Starbright lifted her head, water dripping from her muzzle, ears pointed at the pair.

  The shattered peace tiptoed back in. Hopefully, they could find land like this with a creek and big trees. What would the terrain be like in Nebraska? She led Starbright back to camp, where her sisters had started breakfast.

  “Everyone, make sure you have a loaded gun with you whenever you leave the camp from now on. We don’t want a repeat of the other night.” Lark managed to keep her shudder to herself. She’d known there might be thieves about—Anders had warned her repeatedly—but what could they have done differently? That was the big question.

  You could have stayed home, her inner voice said. If you hadn’t gotten in such a snit at church and then gone into that saloon . . .

  If Del had died, it would have been my fault. And now my little sister has to live with knowing she killed that man. Lord, why do I feel like you are so far away?

  She looked across the fire to see Forsythia staring into the mush she was stirring. Of them all, Forsythia was the deep thinker and the one least likely to share her thoughts. She and Pa had many long discussions about the meaning of Scriptures and books they’d read, about the why’s behind how the world spun and men treated each other. Pa had called her tenderhearted.

  Lark looked up at the song of a meadowlark soaring toward the brightening sky. Soon the sun would be up, chasing away the memories that came with the night. She shuddered. How could she forget that man’s voice? It was grating, but still she could tell he was enjoying himself. When she thought about the other man who had escaped, she hoped one of the horse’s hooves had connected with him.

  Lord, let that awfulness be the worst thing that happens on this journey.

  9

  Walking, riding, driving—how to get away from that horrible night?

  “What’s going on, Sythia?” Lark asked, falling back from walking with the lead ox.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Not what I asked you.”

  Forsythia stared down into the concern on her sister’s face. She felt the tears start again, tears that seemed to live right under the surface, the slightest nudge causing them to overflow.

  “The nightmare?” Lark asked.

  Forsythia nodded and shook her head, then shrugged, almost all at the same time. All I want to do is go home. That thought jerked her flat like she’d hit the end of a rope running.

  “Hey, Lilac, leave the letter writing and lead the oxen, will you?” Lark called toward the back of the wagon.

  “Sure. Something wrong?” Lilac tucked the paper and pencil back in the bag and made her way to the front to find Forsythia raining tears. She climbed over the bench seat and down to the ground, taking the whip from Lark. “Sythia, it’s going to be good again. God promised.”

  Forsythia fought to smile through her tears. Lark waited for her at the back of the wagon with open arms. They sat on one of the long wooden boxes that held kettles and other cooking needs. Leaning into the comfort of sisterly arms, Forsythia failed to stop the sobs.

  “If screaming will help, do so. Pound on the box. You can even pound on my knee.” Lark jiggled her leg.

  “If it would, I might.” The words stuttered between the sobs.

  “I did, and it does.”

  Forsythia turned her head to stare at Lark, shock drying up the tear well. “When?”

  “One night when I was trying to find Anders, a puffed-up officer told me to give it up and go home. Quit wasting my time. If Anders was indeed in a prison camp, he’d never come out again except in a wagonload of cadavers going to a mass burial.”

  “Oh my . . . you never told us any of that.”

  “I figured it was bad enough for me to know without inflicting it on all of you.”

  “I’m so grateful you didn’t follow that advice. To think we came that close to losing Anders forever.” Forsythia felt like she could have wrung out her handkerchief. Instead, she flapped it a couple of times and mopped her eyes. “Thank you.”

  “Now, let’s talk about what is happening with you.” Lark clasped her hands together, elbows resting on her knees.

  “I keep seeing my knife stuck in that horrible man’s back. It all happened so fast, I didn’t even think about it. I just threw it.”

  “Pa trained you well.”

  “He didn’t train me to kill a man.”

  “Perhaps not, but he did mean for you to defend yourself, or in this case, your sister. They say the first time is the hardest.”

  Forsythia choked on the words. “I won’t do it again.”

  “That’s why soldiers are trained by repetition so that shooting or stabbing or whatever they need to do is a reflex action, and they do it without thought. They also know that their job is to save their comrades as well as themselves. You were saving your sister’s life and possibly all of our lives. That man was enjoying what he was doing.”

  “Will the nightmares and the horror ever go away?”

  “That’s a God job, I think. Only He can see inside of your head. So we’ll pray, all of us together tonight, for Him to wash all this from your mind and soul. Remember, whiter than snow—that’s His cleansing power.”

  “You ever thought of being a preacher?”

  “God made me the wrong sex, according to certain people we used to know.”

  Forsythia didn’t even try to stop the giggle she felt start in her toes and scrub its way out. “Lord, thank you. I am learning anew to trust you, this time with my mind and my heart. I trust your healing.” She sucked in a lung-filling breath and held it, almost feeling the release of . . . of she knew not what. “So now, when I feel like screaming, I go ahead and do so, only screaming, ‘Lord, help!’ or ‘I trust you, Lord!’” Another giggle escaped. Thank you, Lord. “But what if the emotions overcome me again?” She clenched Lark’s arm, feeling her whole body tense.

  “Remember when we were little and if we were hurt or frightened, how Ma would sit down in her rocker, gather us into her lap, rock oh-so-gently, and sing to us?”

  Forsythia tipped her head back, trying to dam the flow before it began. “Oh yes, I remember.” Her whisper allowed sweet tears to trickle down her smiling cheeks. “I remember.” A pang of mother-sickness ra
ther than homesickness stabbed her heart. She watched the dust puffing out behind them, smelling and tasting the dryness of it. “Thank you, Larkspur. I feel like I could sleep for a week.”

  “You can lie on the pallet and sleep as long as you need to.” Lark turned and took Forsythia’s hands in hers. “When—if—they come again, we will all pray together. We will beat this thing.”

  Forsythia felt her head nodding.

  Lark clambered back onto the wagon seat.

  “All is well?” Lilac called from her position beside the oxen.

  “All will be well,” Lark responded. “Remember Ma quoting some woman of long ago? ‘All shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.’”

  “Possibly. That’s a good thing to remember. How about we stop when we reach some shade? Move around and take care of the animals?” Lilac suggested.

  “Good idea.” Lark turned and smiled back at Forsythia, something of Ma’s love in her eyes. “All shall be well.”

  “We’ll find a good place to camp with enough grazing and then stay there an extra day to give the animals a rest,” Lark told them a couple of days later. “Sythia, you want to ride ahead and find us a place to stop for the night?”

  “Be happy to.”

  Once mounted, Forsythia nudged Starbright into a lope and sat back to enjoy the rocking motion. She slowed to a jog through a small town made up of a mercantile, livery, church, a few houses, a school, and a saloon. Why did there always have to be a saloon?

  She waved at two boys sitting on the steps of the mercantile, sucking on peppermint sticks. “Are we in Indiana yet?”

  The two boys looked at each other and giggled. “Uh-huh.”

  “You know anyone who might like to sell us some eggs, maybe milk too?”

  “Uh-huh, my ma has lots of chickens.”

  “Where might we find your ma?”

  “At our house.” He pointed over his shoulder. “You want I should take you there?”

  Forsythia rolled her lips together to keep a straight face. “Now, that would be a mighty neighborly thing to do.”

  Both boys jumped up and trotted up the road with her, then turned onto a wide path. When they neared a house, they ran ahead, yelling, “Ma, Ma, we got comp’ny.”

  Forsythia trotted up the lane, an orchard on one side and a pasture with several cows on the other. Chickens scratched around a house that hadn’t met a paintbrush in a long time. A black-and-tan hound crawled out from under the porch and, after a prolonged stretch, trotted out to greet the horse and rider, tail wagging.

  A woman wearing a faded apron and a bright smile pushed open the screen door and stepped out, a rifle leaning against the wall. A little girl peeked out from behind her. “Welcome, stranger. The boys said you’re looking for eggs and perhaps a chicken?”

  “We are indeed. My sisters—and brother—and the wagon are some ways behind me.”

  The woman patted her daughter’s head. “Where you headed?”

  “Nebraska by way of Independence, Missouri, where we plan to join a wagon train.”

  “Well, we’ve got eggs. ’Sides milk and soft cheese, and I can slaughter a chicken, if you’ve a mind. Oh, and butter. The store you passed buys from us too.”

  Forsythia’s mouth watered.

  “I can butcher that chicken while you go back and bring your wagon here. Late as it is, you might could overnight here, fill your water barrel from our well. It’s safe here.”

  “I sure appreciate your offer. I know we’ll want the food you mentioned, and I’ll pass on your invitation. It’ll probably be an hour or so before we get back.”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  “Thanks.”

  Forsythia turned Starbright around and nudged her into a slow lope back to meet the wagon. Thank you, Lord Jesus. She found herself humming the words, adding more until the words and notes had become a song, one that made her want to shout and sing it out. And get it written down.

  When she saw the wagon ahead, she leaned forward enough to urge Starbright into a gallop. The wind on her face tried to tear her hair out of her bun, and her sunbonnet beat a tune on her back.

  “My land, girl, what’s goin’ on with you?” Del called as Starbright slid to a stop, grinning nearly as much as her rider.

  Forsythia beamed at her sisters. “I have the best news.”

  “What, we are in Nebraska?” Lilac grinned back at her.

  “Not hardly, but I met a family who sells eggs, and they invited us for supper and to spend the night there. They have two boys who were sitting on the mercantile steps in town, and they waved and I stopped and I followed them. . . .” Her words tripped over each other before running together.

  Lark raised a hand from the wagon seat. “Whoa. I think I missed half of what you said, so start again, and perhaps slow down a bit.”

  “Sorry.” Forsythia wanted to hug them all.

  “Forsythia Peace Nielsen, I’ve never seen you so excited.” Del stroked the horse’s sweaty neck. “She was in such a hurry to share her news, she made you race back to us. Sorry, girl.”

  “I know.” Forsythia leaned forward and smoothed Starbright’s mane to one side. “Just think, girl, you might get to spend the night out in a pasture. No hobbles.”

  She told her tale again, more coherently this time, and in less than an hour, their wagon rolled up at the end of the family’s lane. The two boys were waiting for them and caught a ride up to the farmhouse.

  “Does your family do things like this often?” Forsythia asked them.

  “Not much. Not many wagons no more.”

  “What is your last name?”

  “Herron, ma’am. You can stop here. Pa will show you where to park your wagon.” The boy leaped from the wagon seat to the ground while his brother slid off the horse, their dog running from the house, barking a welcome.

  Someday, Lord, let us welcome strangers like this. The smile Mrs. Herron wore to greet them underlined Forsythia’s thoughts.

  With the oxen and Starbright set free in the pasture, they followed their host back to the house, where Mrs. Herron had cookies and lemonade set on a table under a tree.

  “I think I must have died and gone to heaven.” Lilac bit into a cookie. She answered the beckoning of the eldest Herron daughter, and they sat side by side on one of the various logs that made up a circle.

  “It looks like you have company often,” Forsythia said.

  Mr. Herron nodded. “We have church out here when the weather permits. In the barn or the house otherwise.”

  “You’re a minister?”

  “Of sorts. I figured the Bible talks about meeting in homes, so we could do that too. Someday we might try to build a church building, but for now . . .” He waved his arm to encompass the place. “Meeting at night allows folks to get their work done and then come worship. It’s a shame you can’t stay for our meeting tomorrow night.”

  Please, Lark, please, Forsythia caught herself pleading. Let us stay.

  Why was she hesitating?

  ’Cause I don’t know what’s best to do, that’s why. To enjoy the evening and head out at first light? Or accept the invitation and ignore her fear? Fear. Why in the world am I afraid of this blessing? When she thought of it that way, Lark felt like kicking herself. She could feel her sisters’ eyes on her. “Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Herron, for your gracious invitation. I wish I could think of some way to repay you.”

  “Repay?” Joseph Herron burst out laughing. “Ah, Clark, we’re only sharing what God has so richly blessed us with.” He clapped his hands on his knees and stood. “Everyone, let’s get our chores done.”

  Lark almost offered to help in the kitchen but clamped her mouth shut just in time. That would be a dead giveaway. “I haven’t milked cows for a while. Could I help you so I don’t forget how? After all, we’re hoping to have livestock again when we find our land.”

  “Up in Nebraska, you said?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, we would
n’t want his hands to get soft, would we, boys?” Mr. Herron asked his sons, grinning.

  Taking her place with her forehead planted firmly in a cow’s flank, Lark let her mind wander. The cow’s swishing tail brought her back to a three-legged stool in a barn in Indiana. “Easy, old girl,” she murmured, glancing at the cow’s head to see she was finished with her grain. “I’m hurrying as fast as I can. You have a lot of milk to be pulled out.” Someday I hope we will have cows like this, pigs and chickens, a new home with new friends in a town that only you know about, Lord God.

  She swung the milk bucket off to the side when she finished and stood to stretch. “You have a milk can to pour this into?” she asked Mr. Herron.

  “Up by the grain bin. You sure you want to milk another?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.” Milking cows was a great place for letting one’s mind roam. Unless you had a kicker who liked to plant her foot in the bucket.

  As Lark poured the steaming milk through the straining cloth spread over the mouth of the can, she inhaled. Perhaps you should tell this man who you really are, whispered that voice inside her head. And perhaps I shouldn’t, her other side answered back.

  Her shoulders inched upward toward her earlobes, where they seemed to reside permanently these last weeks. Could it have anything to do with needing to be constantly on guard? She hadn’t realized the pressure till arriving at this taste of heaven. Tears pricked unexpectedly. That wouldn’t do.

  “You all right?” Mr. Herron asked as he paused beside Lark.

  “Will be.” Lark cleared her throat and flexed her fingers. “It’s been a while since I milked.”

  They ate supper at a big oval table that managed to seat them all, four sisters, five children, and their parents. Afterward, while the girls put the kitchen to rights, Mr. Herron and the boys hauled wood out to the fire pit.

  “Mr. Herron,” Lark asked, “do you mind if we get out our instruments? We have a guitar, fiddle, and harmonica. We just need to tune them up. I thought perhaps we could all sing a bit.”