Peaks of Grace (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 5)

by Alma Boykin

  She slowed her pace as she reached the stone steps leading down the last bit of the trail. She heard voices around the corner and her walk became a near crawl. She’d trotted into a mess more than once, coming around that lower corner too fast. Some of the women liked to dry linen on the rails there in the hot sunlight, and Odile remembered vividly the yelps when she’d upset baskets or knocked clean wash to the ground. And the stinging swats her mother’d given her afterwards, once the tales reached the house. “Odile Sabrina, pay more attention!” Her mother’s voice rang in her mind’s ear and she listened carefully before venturing around the corner.

  “What do you mean Lord deSarm’s dying?” Goodwife Dupuy’s sharp voice demanded. “That’s fools’ talk.”

  “No, not at all,” Goody Martin replied. “Fr. Thomas told my boy Misha to pray for milord’s health, then not three hours ago dropped what he was doing and hurried up the hill with one of the Hall servants. He’s been there since, the father I mean.” Goody Martin always repeated things, “just so’s I’m clear, I mean.”

  “And the herbwife’s been up there since yesterday, even though my Sarah’s down with the spots.”

  Uh oh, that’s Goody Shellmain. I’d better go back up before—

  A very strong hand grabbed Odile’s arm. “There you are, wasting another afternoon,” Shellmain began. “You should be ashamed Odile Sabrina Rheinhart,” the hand shook Odile, or tried to. Odile wasn’t the waif she’d been six years before, not that her growing up stopped Goody Shellmain. “Making your mother and sisters do so much work so you can laze away dreaming about the man you’ll never get, not with your day-wasting and—”

  “That’s enough, Goodwife Shellmain,” Mistress Dorothy’s voice cut through the rant. She continued in her more customary warm, mellow tones, “Odile’s a good girl and does her part and more, I wager. Her parents brought her up right, and she’d not go off if she’d not finished her chores, would you?”

  “No, Mistress Dorothy, Goody Shellmain,” Odile assured the women. “Mother sent Andrea and I out so she could work on Bethany’s dress and repacking the dower chest without us in the way. She wanted to spread out all the linens and soft goods to air and to make certain they’d stayed clean and nice.”

  “There you have it,” Goody Dupuy informed the others. “And Bethany’s wedding’s certain, unlike whatever called the priest up to the hall. And it’s starting to look gray to the south.” Her tone suggested that they’d best finish up their outdoor work. After another attempted shake, Goody Shellman released Odile with a quiet, “humpf,” and gathered up her bleaching, her clogs making an irritated patter on the stone and faux-stone steps. Odile eased around the side of the ancient stairs, staying close to the shadow-cool wall and out of the other women’s way.

  Mistress Dorothy stopped her. “A moment, Odile.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Please give your mother my greetings and tell her that the first batch of bitterleaf will be ready in three days, if it doesn’t rain. If it does, five days, and I’ll need a little more earth coal after.”

  “The first bitterleaf batch will be in three days, five if it rains and if it does, you’ll need more earth coal. Yes, ma’am,” Odile repeated.

  The farm wife nodded, her hard-starched headdress scratching against the shoulders of her dress. “Correct. You can go.”

  Odile made a little bow and continued on her way, staying close to the walls of the houses and the few shops in this part of the town. A handful of donkey carts and pack mules clopped past, probably carrying goods for the mercer and produce left from the morning’s market. Mistress Dorothy only came into Sarmvale on market days, since she and her husband had a large herb and soft-fruit farm that needed constant attention. Odile still recalled the rich scent and wonderfully soft fuzzy skin of the special white pfeaches and the luscious, too-sweet flavor of the “frost-kissed” pfears her father had bought her for saint’s day gifts the year he’d made lots of money.

  Thank you, Godown, that father’s doing well again. Odile stopped to let a wagon clatter past on the cross street before walking on. The past two years his and Mike’s efforts had almost been for naught, but this year they’d struck a rich silver seam with a little copper as well. The men had given the first smelting to Godown, making her mother pat her foot against the floor the way she did when she disagreed with her husband. Odile knew what the argument would have been, even if her mother never said a word aloud. Godown doesn’t ask us to impoverish ourselves, she recited. He will understand if you pay the tithe over time. You need new trousers, and there’s the girls to provide dowers for, and the roof needs repairing, and what ever else on the old, small house had worn out or broken that month. But her father had been scrupulous, as always, and Godown rewarded them ten-fold, just like the Holy Writ said He would. Odile approved of her father’s generosity.

  She reached the house and opened the little gate that separated the strip of vegetable garden from the road. Someone had left a tiny, meter-and-a-half-wide garden around the house, right where the eves dripped, and her mother had pulled up the flowers and replanted vegetables not long after they’d moved in. The neighbors had tsked, but that was all. Goody Joan Rheinheart kept the little path swept, the gate oiled, and the plants neat and well under control, unlike some people Odile knew of. She paused, listening for the sounds of maternal frustration. Hearing none, she tapped twice, then opened the door.

  “Perfect timing, Odile,” Bethany called from the far side of the main room. “After you take off your patens, boil some water in the black kettle, half full. Mother’s gone to get the whiteroots out of the cellar.” The house shared a cellar with the neighbor to the south and the entrance sat between the two houses.

  “Black kettle, half full. Is the fire already lit?” She put her walking stick into the tall canister by the door and crouched, unlacing the leather ties that kept the protective covers on her second-best shoes. Then she removed the shoes and put on heavy, boiled sheep-wool slippers (after she shook them out, just in case.)

  “Yes. I put in a stick of wood to encourage the embers, but you might want to add a little more.”

  Odile walked past the heavy trestle table, then turned right, into the cooking area. The medium-sized kettle sat in its usual place by the door, under the shelves with the frying pans and other small cookware. Odile ran her hand up the rough outside of the kettle, locating the bale. She picked up the heavy pot and carried it to the stove. The front space radiated heat and she squatted a little then heaved the awkward-shaped pot up, over the edge guard, and into place. It settled with a quiet “thamp” into the hole. Odile picked two nice-sized sticks of wood from the pile beside the stove, hunted around until she found where Bethany had left the oven mitt, and opened the front door. She added the wood, closed the door, and put the mitt back where it usually lived. Then she pumped and poured two buckets of water into the kettle. The pump felt light as she worked. Hmm, when did Mike last fill the kitchen barrel? I don’t remember.

  “Bethy, when did Mike last fill the barrel?”

  “Mgph?” It sounded as if her sister had a mouth full of pins. Odile waited for a moment, then thumped the side of the barrel. It echoed as if empty, or almost empty.

  “Never mind. I’ll take the yoke and get two big bucketsful from the well.”

  “Mgnpf,” came in an affirmative tone.

  By the time Odile drew up the water and returned, her mother had the whiteroots cleaned. “Oh, thank you, dear. Just leave those by the kitchen barrel and I’ll add them once I get these chopped. There’s a few still on the worktable for you to peel. Bethany’s almost done with the last hem on her dress,” her mother explained.

  “Already? That’s wonderful.” Odile found the whiteroots and a very sharp little paring knife. She set to work, running the blade along the crisp tuber, mindful of knots and soft spots. Those got cut out. “Mistress Dorothy says the bitterleaf will be ready in three days, or five if it rains. If it does rain, sh
e says she’ll need a little earth coal,” Odile reported.

  Chopping noises followed a loud sigh. “Five days, then. Goody Cochin’s knee is saying rain.” The town swore by Goody Cochin’s knee for weather predicting. “I’ll ask your father when he gets back this evening to see about it.”

  Odile finished peeling the whiteroots and delivered them to her mother, then wiped her hands on her apron. “Shall I get the table ready?”

  “Yes, thank you.” That meant sweeping the room, as well as putting a cloth on the table and getting out the plates and utensils. Her husband might be a miner, but Goody Joan Rheinhart insisted on keeping house as her mother had. Odile thought it was a little silly, especially the way her brothers made messes, but kept quiet. She busied herself tidying up the room, putting the chairs back into place from where her mother and Bethany had moved them as they emptied and then refilled the dower chest.

  She’d just gotten finished when she heard lots of fast-moving feet and a hubbub erupted outside the door. Bethany brushed past her and opened it. “Yes?” her younger sister called. “What’s going on?”

  “Collapse at the mine,” a man called back. “Men are caught. Master Sylván wants Odile to come at once.”

  The young woman blanched and Odile’s hand went to her beads. Oh no, oh, dear Godown, lord of mercy, please, please no. Without father and Mike, we’ll starve.

  “Her prayer won’t help,” a grating voice snapped. “He’d do better to call Fr. Thomas from the hall or wherever he’s gone to.”

  “Nah, he wants Odile’s smarts, not her beads. Odile can find holes where we can’t, Sylván says. Miss Rheinhart, is you sister in?”

  Odile leaned around her sister, bracing her hands on Bethany’s narrow waist for balance. “I’m here. I’ll get my patens and come in a moment.”

  “I’ll bank the supper fire and see to mother and Andrea,” Bethany whispered. Their youngest sister had a nervous streak that made life too dramatic for her own good.

  “Thanks.” Odile patted around by the door until she found where her shoes and patens had gotten kicked, then put them on, accepted the heavy shawl Bethany handed her, and grabbed her stick. Then she went out.

  “Noooo!!!” She heard Andrea wailing from behind the adults. Odile closed her eyes for a moment, irritated as usual. St. Gimple be with her, Godown please calm her down before she sets off Mother, please.

  Odile had been up the mine trail once or twice on errands, but one of the men took her hand before she’d taken two steps past the gate. “We’ve got a donkey. Up you go.” Two men lifted her onto the little beast’s back. She clutched the brush of a mane with one hand and her stick with the other. The sturdy animal clopped off briskly, through the cobble streets and out of town, men walking beside it. Odile felt a touch of cool wind on her cheek and smelled a hint of dirt and water on the breeze. The rain’s not that far. Please Godown help us. Dear St. Peter, please intercede and give the men strength. Please may the fall not be bad. She’d heard stories about storms pulling the rock gas out of cracks until the gas suffocated men or exploded when it touched a lamp. The trail steepened and Odile hung on tighter as the donkey’s fast walk slowed to a heavy plod, interrupted by scrambles. The air cooled and she heard more men’s voices, including Master Jean Sylván, the head of mines for Lord deSarm.

  “What can she do?”

  “She can find holes for us,” Sylván’s oddly squeaky voice answered. Her father always said that he thought Godown had played a joke on Sylván’s parents, giving them a huge son with a tiny voice. Odile’s mother didn’t think it was funny, but Odile did.

  “I’m here, Master Sylván,” she called as the trail leveled out at the edge of the workings.

  The donkey stopped and a large hand helped her down. “Right. There’s no danger of a further collapse,” the squeak began. “The men are working close to the main shaft, almost a kilometer inside the main tunnel. The fall is in the way, and we’re trying to clear it, but it’s slow going.” He put a hand on her back and guided her toward the mouth of the shaft. She felt cool air flowing into her face and smelled wet rock and something sour. “My maps show a second tunnel that will lead us around the fall, but I don’t want to use too many lamps, it’s in an area that’s been closed since my granther’s days, and there are dead galleries in the area. We don’t have time to waste. Can you find a way, Miss Rheinhart?”

  “Um, I think so, Godown willing.” That was enough, apparently, because someone tied a rope around her waist. Master Sylván kept his hand on her shoulder and guided her into the main tunnel, then to the left. The walls narrowed and she reached out with her left hand, feeling the cool stone. She began counting her steps as she went along. The mining master dropped back and she kept going, sweeping the darkness ahead of her with her stick and keeping one hand on the wall as she counted her paces. After four hundred she stopped and sniffed. The air smelled different, more stale, and she leaned to the right, then to the left. She turned her face to the right and felt a bit of air moving past her, trickling toward the main entrance. Odile took a very cautious step forward, shifting her stick so that she could keep her right hand on the tunnel wall, stick in the left. The stone felt wetter but the air smelled dry as well as stale. She swept with her stick. The wall under her hand dipped away and she eased over that direction. Instead of smooth stone, she felt a jumble of rocks. The dry air grew stronger, and she felt around with her stick, then touched more of the jumble. She found a little hole and started to work a rock loose. I’ll just pull this out and see where the hole goes. “I’ve found something” she called.

  “Wait.” A new man spoke from behind her, and she heard steps approaching. “I’ve got a safe-lamp, let me see, Miss Rheinhart.” The tension on the rope around her waist went slack and the steps drew closer, then stopped beside her. “What is it?”

  “I think this may be a cross passage. I was going to pull a rock out and see what happened.”

  Something scraped on the man’s far side. “Which one?” She tapped the chunk just above the little draft. “Ah, no, Miss. How about one a little lower down?”

  She felt around the draft. “This one?”

  “That’s better.” She stepped back a little, giving him room. The lamp scuffed on the ground and the man grunted, then worried the rock loose. He stopped and they both listened hard. He moved another rock, then a third. She heard fabric on stone, the rough canvas of a miner’s heavy jacket. “Well I’ll be St. Gimple’s bonnet!”

  He brushed back past her and called, “Sylván! She’s found an old fall and cross-tunnel, it feels like. I can get my arm through to the shoulder.”

  More men arrived and Odile backed across the tunnel, staying well clear as the men worked. The dry air and sour smell grew stronger. “That’s enough, get those lamps out of here,” Sylvan squeaked. “Can you go farther in, Miss Rheinhart?”

  She felt the rope around her waist tighten as she walked forward. As before, she swept with her stick and kept one hand on the wall, counting her steps. The sour smell grew no worse, and the flow of air stayed dry. The wall drew closer on her right. “The shaft is changing direction,” she called to the man on the end of her rope.

  “Right or left?”

  She felt with both hand and stick. “Left, at an angle.”

  “Keep going,” came the answering squeak.

  Odile shrugged and did as ordered, moving away from the wall but keeping her hand on it. After a hundred steps the tunnel roof seemed lower and the air grew cooler, moist, and not as sour. She slowed, extending the stick and swinging it at shoulder level. She didn’t feel anything, so she took a few more steps forward, now ducking to avoid the roof. She swept again and brushed rock. “I found rock ahead.” She moved at a creeper’s pace, making absolutely certain that the floor didn’t vanish into a hole under her feet. She felt the wall. A little air moved through it, and a sudden, different sour smell made her want to hold her nose. “It smells like rotten eggs in wet laundry,” she compla
ined.

  “You found it!” The rope went slack, voices murmured, then the tension returned. “Ooohh, that’s low.” A large presence muscled in beside her and Sylvan’s rough sleeve brushed her hand and face. “Yes. Very good work! Godown truly blessed you, Miss Rhinehart.” He backed up. “Go back to the main tunnel, Miss. We need to get cribbing in here so it’s ready before we open the fall.”

  She turned, counting as she walked more quickly. The rope around her waist fell completely slack and she stopped. “Reel in the rope, please, so I don’t get tangled.”

  “Sorry.” She finished the return trip and pressed herself against the wall of the old tunnel, opposite of the side passage. “Master Sylvan wants cribbing timbers and someone to set them. The tunnel’s low. I had to bend like,” she bent not quite double at the waist. “And it smells like rotten eggs.”

  Men dragging wood hurried past her. After they disappeared into the tunnel, a calm voice suggested, “Let’s wait outside, Miss Rheinhart. Tom? Stay here to relay if they need something.”

  “Will do, Rich.”

  Odile let Rich take her arm and guide her out of the tunnel. There wasn’t any point to being rude. “Here’s a place to sit if you want.” She brushed the rough wood of the bench’s top, making certain it was clear of bugs and rocks, without thinking and someone chuckled. Rich asked, “Do you need a cushion?”

  “No, sir. Just force of habit.”

  An older man, his voice harsh with years, said, “And a wise habit it is, too. Would you like something to drink? It’s spring water, from up the mountain.”

  Odile realized that her throat had gone dry. That’s strange. Nerves? She nodded. “Yes, please.” Someone poured the water into a metal cup and she took it carefully. It felt full. It was, and it tasted of minerals, but not in a bad way. She held the cup out and the man refilled it. She drained it again. As she returned the cup, she felt her hands beginning to shake. In fact, all of her shook, and she crossed her arms over her chest and hugged herself. Thank you Godown. Thank you for helping me find a way. Thank you.