Beneath the Slashings (Divided Decade Collection)

by Michelle Isenhoff

  Grace pulled her legs in tighter to her body and pressed closer to Gideon. She had begun to shiver, but she didn’t want go inside. Not yet.

  “Grace look!” Gideon whispered. His finger stretched toward the woods behind the stable. Then she saw it too, a giant form gliding silently out of the forest on wings blacker than the night sky. “An owl!”

  “It’s beautiful,” she breathed.

  The bird flew in a graceful arc, winging its way over the drowsy camp. Grace was curious where it had come from and where it was going. As the moment stretched out, she marveled how three lives—a majestic bird and two watching children—could converge and seem to hang suspended together in time.

  And then the bird was gone.

  Gideon suddenly became aware of her shivering. “You’re freezing,” he scolded, sitting up and drawing her off the woodpile. “Let’s get you inside. Your brother’s going to sound lights out any moment anyway.”

  He walked with her to the van doorway and saw her safely inside. The moment had passed. Three lives each went their own separate way.

  Chapter 17

  Grace watched the bone needle flash in and out among the rabbit fur. Using long strings of sinew and the occasional point of a knife, Loon had already stitched together a beautiful fur blanket. The only skins left were the ones that had smoked over the fire. Now the Indian was fashioning them into a soft shoe right before Grace’s eyes.

  “You are a quiet companion today,” Loon commented.

  “I didn’t sleep well last night,” Grace admitted.

  Loon tied off the string and slipped on her first moccasin. It reached to the bottom of her calf and fit like her own skin.

  “It’s beautiful,” Grace said admiringly. “How do you do that?”

  Loon grinned and turned her foot this way and that like a little girl showing off new Sunday shoes. “Many snows have fallen since I learned to sew. My mother taught me. I will show you.”

  Grace watched carefully as Loon measured her other foot on one of the remaining skins with a charred stick from the fire. She cut out the shape, carefully saving each scrap of leather, and then began to piece together larger sections. “Tell me why it is you could not sleep last night,” Loon suggested.

  Grace shrugged. “Someone has caused a lot of trouble in the lumber camp this year, and danger always feels closer when the sky is black.”

  At the woman’s prompting, she told Loon about the sliced harness, the broken chain, the file in her bed, and now the axe heads.

  “Do you know who is doing this?”

  “No, but I have a suspicion.” She shifted on the skin rugs, and even as she watched the woman stitch the next boot, she worked the flat, heavy stones in front of her, grinding acorn meats just as Loon had taught her.

  “It frightens me,” Grace admitted. “I thought I was learning to master some of my fears, but when I think about someone plotting such evil, my stomach cramps and I can hardly think.”

  “You must have courage, young one.”

  Grace snorted. “That’s not my specialty. You named me Cries Under Tree, remember? When I’m frightened, I tremble from my head to my toes.”

  Loon pulled at another long length of sinew. “Courage isn’t the appearance of bravery. It is choosing correctly in the face of fear.”

  As Grace pondered her words in silence, the Indian woman launched into a story.

  “Long ago, there lived a great chief named Nanabush. He was a mighty hunter and fierce warrior. All the People respected him.

  “One day, Nanabush engaged in battle with spirits of the deep. When the chief spirit was slain, the host raised up great fountains of water and pursued Nanabush through all the earth. Waves roared over the land. Floods reached to the mountains.

  “When Nanabush could find no more dry land on which to stand, he made a great canoe. He and all the animals fleeing with him were saved. But as he floated day after day, Nanabush knew he must outwit the spirits of the deep. He must recreate the land.

  “So he said to Beaver, ‘You are long of breath, sleek and swift. Swim to the bottom of this water. Bring me a handful of soil so I may dry up the water and make new lands.’

  “Beaver dove deep and long, but he could not reach the bottom. When he rose at last to the surface, his life had expired.

  “Nanabush turned to Turtle. ‘You swim strong and your heart is brave. Dive to the bottom of this water. Bring me a handful of soil so I may dry up the water and make new lands.’

  “So Turtle dove deep and long, but he, too, could not reach the bottom. When he rose to the surface, the breath had left his body.

  “Now Nanabush turned to the other animals. ‘Who will dive to the depths of these waters so I might create new land for us to live upon?’ But the animals had seen what happened to Beaver and Turtle. Even the strongest would not volunteer.

  “Nanabush turned then to Muskrat. ‘Will you, little Muskrat, swim to the bottom and bring me a handful of soil to save us?’

  “Muskrat looked round at the other animals, all larger and swifter than he. Bear, Eagle, Fox and Loon, none dared brave the water’s depths. Though he shook with fear, Muskrat’s heart was noble. ‘I will go,’ he told Nanabush, and he slipped over the edge of the canoe.

  “The water was deep and cold, but Muskrat swam down, down, down to the bottom of the sea. His vision grew dark. His lungs burned for want of air. Fear nearly turned him aside, but he pressed on bravely through the murky depths until he touched solid earth.

  “So long was the way that Muskrat lost consciousness on his return to the surface. But when Nanabush revived him, he still grasped a bit of dirt. Nanabush took this handful and tied it around Raven’s neck. ‘Fly through the heavens and sprinkle this dirt over all the water, then it will recede and new land will spring forth. There you may make your homes.’

  “It happened just as Nanabush said. All the animals were saved because of the courage of the least among them.”

  Grace had sat spellbound throughout the tale, the grinding stones motionless in her lap. She had heard the account of Noah and the Great Flood many times, but never had it been told to her with such vivid emotion. Loon’s animals reminded her that she wasn’t the only one who encountered frightening circumstances. Nor was she the only one who trembled in the face of them.

  Loon patted Grace’s arm with a wrinkled smile. “I’m sure when the time comes, you will possess as much courage as Muskrat.”

  “Ivan, we have brought you dinner.” Squeaky made his announcement as he did nearly every Sunday.

  Ivan rolled off his bed with a grimace. “Vhat did you catch today?”

  Gideon poked his head into the kitchen then. “We didn’t catch anything, Ivan. We brought them home dead.” He held up a game bag proudly. “Three grouse, a pheasant, two squirrels and four rabbits.”

  “Vhy is it hunters never clean their own catch but pull an old man from his bed every veek?”

  “Because you’re so good at it, Ivan,” Gideon teased. “Who else can rip a hide from a rabbit without even tearing it? You’re a professional!”

  “And,” Squeaky put in with a grin, “you are zee only one who does not wish to hear ma chérie read to us from her books.”

  Ivan sighed and took the bag, grumbling in Russian all the way out to the dingle.

  “Ivan, you are, what you say, a rum bloke!” Squeaky called after him with a grin. Then turning to Grace, he asked, “So, ma chérie, what will you read today? Zee little girl with zee matches? Zee duckling most ugly? Or have you somezing new?”

  She felt silly reading fairy tales and fables to grown men, but they had listened enthusiastically as she read through both of her books. The stories had been new to many of them, and a few were requested twice. Now, however, they had begun to call for her Christmas book.

  Already the mess hall was filling with lumberjacks. A few looked newly trimmed, and several had damp spots around their collars where they had at least splashed at the back of their necks. It
took only minutes for them to pick up last week’s cry.

  “What was the name of the book you got for Christmas?”

  “Have you finished reading it yet?”

  “Finished reading it? Shoot, Doc, I bet she read it four times by now!”

  Grace smiled at the men and held up Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. “Actually, I’ve read it five times.”

  “You gunna read it or just show us the picture?” Gideon called out from his seat on the floor.

  “I’ll read it, but I don’t know if you’ll like it. It’s—unusual.”

  “I got nothing else to do but listen or sleep. Maybe I’ll do a little of each,” Gideon grinned and leaned back on the floor with his feet propped on a bench.

  So Grace began, “Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do…” At the end of the page, she turned it and continued reading. “…but when the Rabbit actually took a watch out of its waistcoat-pocket, and looked at it—”

  “The Rabbit has a pocket watch?” Fiddlesticks broke in. “Why ain’t you boys never shot a rabbit with one of those?”

  He was hushed by several men, and Grace continued.

  An hour later, her throat felt scratchy, and her arms had grown weary from showing round the illustrations. She closed the book, leaving Alice at the mad tea party.

  “So, how is a raven like a writing desk?” Happy Charlie asked. “It didn’t never say.”

  “It’s not a riddle that’s meant to be answered,” Gideon piped in. “It’s just nonsense, and shows the Hatter’s an odd character.”

  “It should have been answered,” Charlie grumbled, standing up and heading for the door. “And who ever heard of a cat that disappears?”

  “You didn’t have to listen, Charlie,” Doc pointed out, following him to the door.

  “I wish that nuisance Bertie would disappear and quit leaving critters in my bunk.”

  “If you disappear her cat, ma chérie will not read to you anymore.”

  “And Ivan might leave something even worse in your soup…”

  As the men exited, Grace went in the kitchen and took a long drink from the dipper in the water bucket. Ivan was there, cutting the game into pieces and frying it on the stove. It would all be added to the beans Sam had taken from the camboose.

  “Ivan,” she asked, “is it true the skin stays intact when you clean a rabbit?” Even as she had read to the men, her mind had been pondering Gideon’s comment.

  “It is true. The hides, they come off like a shirt.”

  “What did you do with them?”

  He shot her an inquisitive glance but asked no questions. “In the bucket of pig slops.”

  Grace took an apron off the wall and slipped a sharp knife in the pocket. As much as she loved her warm boots, Loon’s moccasins had looked softer and lighter, perfect for long hours on the drafty kitchen floor. Perhaps...

  She dumped the contents of the bucket into the pig trough, grimacing as she fished through the offal. Pulling out the skins, she wiped the gore on the snow, staining it pink. She must scrape them clean with a knife, and she thought she could handle that, but first she needed help stretching them.

  Carrying the skins at arm’s length, she entered the smithy.

  Johansen looked up from the heavy grappling tool he was mending. “Been hunting, Miss Grace?” he teased.

  “No, but Sam and the others have been.” She got right to the point. “Johansen, do you think you could help me nail these to some frames?”

  Johansen moved toward a pile of scrap wood. “Reckon I could slap together something. What do you plan to do with these?”

  “I—” she paused, not certain she wanted to tell anyone in case she failed. “It’s a secret.”

  “Then I won’t tell a soul.”

  In the few moments it took him to build the frames, Grace slipped outside and returned with a pan and the four rabbit heads. She held them by the ears, unable to look at their cute, furry faces. “Do you—do you think you could help me with one more thing?” she asked, gagging at the thought of what must be done.

  Johansen understood her intentions immediately. “Set them right there,” he said, indicating his work table. Then he fished around for a mended bucket. “I was wondering if you’d mind delivering this up to Ivan. He said he needed it today.” She did so gratefully, and by the time she returned, the pan was half full of gray matter, and the heads were nowhere to be seen.

  She smiled her appreciation, but before she could return to the kitchen, Jefferson entered the smithy. “Grace,” he hissed, “I’m glad I found you. Can you do something for me? Think you can slip these somewhere Ivan will stumble onto them?” And he pulled three bottles of lemon extract from his pockets.

  Johansen whistled low. “Ivan’s been roaring mad about those. Where’d you get them?”

  “Silas’s bunk, after I stumbled on him passed out drunk in the woods.”

  “Pokey with him?”

  “Naw, Silas must have figured he didn’t have enough to share.”

  “Five bottles went missing,” Grace pointed out.

  “And half of one is enough to make a man roaring drunk,” Johansen said.

  “Are you going to turn him in, Jefferson?” Grace asked.

  “Figured I’d drag his sorry carcass in here and toss a gallon of tea down his gullet. Give the man one more chance. That is, if you don’t mind, Johansen.”

  “Think he’s worth it?”

  “It’s not him I’m thinking of.”

  The blacksmith shrugged. “Go ahead.”

  Grace slipped the extract in her apron pocket and picked up the pan of brains and all four rabbit skins. “I’ll be back with tea in ten minutes.”

  Ivan looked up as she came in and watched disapprovingly as she leaned the frames against the wall behind the cook stove. “First socks you cook in my good kettle, and now these carcasses you hang in my kitchen?” His glower deepened as he glanced at the contents she was mashing in the pan. “And what is this?”

  “Brains.”

  “Oh no, this you vill not cook. I forbid it!”

  She had already considered his objections. “But it will make Mr. Bigg very angry.”

  He paused, sniffed disdainfully, and turned away. “All right. Do it.”

  Chapter 18

  “And at midnight Paul and Silas prayed, and sang praises unto God: and the prisoners heard them. And suddenly there was a great earthquake, so that the foundations of the prison were shaken and immediately all the doors were opened, and every one's bands were loosed.

  “And the keeper of the prison awaking out of his sleep, and seeing the prison doors open, he drew out his sword, and would have killed himself, supposing that the prisoners had fled. But Paul cried with a loud voice, saying, ‘Do thyself no harm: for we are all here.’”

  Grace perched on a bench in the back of the mess hall and listened to the visitor. Sam told her preachers sometimes traveled from camp to camp, but it was nearly March and this was the first one to reach the Bear Creek Camp. He looked rather like the lumberjacks, with longish, ropy hair, a full beard, and travel-stained clothing. And he was reading from the Bible at full volume, using an upturned kettle as a pulpit on the end of the first table.

  The mess hall was filled to capacity. Despite not being a church-going crowd, as Pa had said, almost every man had turned out for the sermon. Pa had insisted she and Sam attend, as they hadn’t had a lick of Sunday school training since leaving home, and they were more than happy to leave off breakfast dishes.

  Though the preacher grew animated as he elaborated on the scripture text, Grace stifled a yawn. The rabbit skins had dried beautifully but had required another sneaky trip to the Indian woman for instructions. Afterwards, she had worked on her moccasins long into the night. If she was to get any use out of them before spring, she must finish them soon.

  “My brothers, the jailer was filled with joy when he came to believe in God. Yo
u, too, can know that same joy. For forgiveness is found in his Son, Jesus Christ…”

  The men listened politely, they offered hearty amens, and they sang the hymns with gusto. But not one of them went forward for conversion. Grace did notice, however, two or three whispering fervent petitions of their own as the preacher closed the sermon with prayer.

  Afterwards, as the sky was forget-me-not blue and the mercury dancing above freezing, Grace pulled an empty crate outside into the sunshine. The men, too, were slow to return to the bunkhouse. After a few snowballs found their mark, logs were set up endwise and razors and scissors put to work. A fire was lit in the yard and a large vat suspended above it.

  Fiddlesticks pulled a log against the side of the cook shack—well away from any soap. “Heard me a preacher joke once,” he said to no one in particular. “Nigh onto twenty years ago now. Never heard another do nothing but preach,” he cackled and gave his thigh a hearty slap.

  A few others avoided the scrubbing, as well. Grace noticed Pokey smoking a pipe with one haunch resting on the woodpile. Silas sat beside him. Several others settled around the yard or drifted into the bunkhouse for a nap.

  “Grace, help me lug water,” Sam requested, toting a heavy pail. “There’s another bucket at the well.”

  Reluctantly, she left her seat, recalling how many times he had helped her fill the sock kettle. Unfortunately, that source of income had dried up as all the holes were mended.

  As she hauled a third bucketful, a sleek white cat darted into view, swiped twice at the one remaining sow basking beside the smithy, and then streaked across the yard and into the dingle. “Bertie!” she called. She hadn’t seen the cat for a week.

  She emptied the water into the nearly full vat. When she turned around, the preacher was approaching with the cat in his arms. “Does this fellow belong to you, miss?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.” She took the animal and stroked the soft white fur. “Bertie, where have you been?”

  “Right fine sermon this morning, preacher,” Doc called from his seat on a log. Squeaky was trimming his hair. “Best I heard in a long while. Sure got me right here,” he said, pounding a fist against his chest. Suddenly, he yelped. “Dag nab it! What are ye cuttin’ my ears for, Frenchie?”