The Sword

by Gilbert, Morris

  Suddenly something caught her eye up in the road, and she pulled Rosie over. “Whoa, girl,” she whispered. “There’s something up ahead.” It was just a big shadow, looming up right in the middle of the road. Cautiously she rode closer until she could make out that it was a wagon, stopped right on the track. She stopped Rosie again to watch. For long moments she listened, but she heard no sound and saw no movement.

  She pulled the shotgun from the sheath and rode slowly past the wagon, giving it a wide berth. As she passed it, she saw a horse, still in the traces, lying in the road. It was obviously dead. Again she pulled Rosie to a stop, turned her, and called out softly, “Hello, is anyone here?”

  The crickets had begun singing, but just barely louder than their shrill calls she heard a voice coming from the wagon. Dismounting, Chantel tied Rosie to the seat upright, still holding the shotgun. She went to the rear of the wagon, stopping once again to listen but hearing nothing. Finally she came to the opening at the back and lifted the canvas cover. No lamp was lit inside, but she could make out the form of a man lying on the floor. “Are you sick?” she asked hesitantly.

  A man’s weak voice answered. “Yes, I’m afraid I am. Very sick.”

  Chantel stood irresolutely, afraid of being out there in the wilderness, alone, and maybe trying to help a man who was not good, a man who might be like Rufus Bragg or the men in towns who looked at her so greedily and licked their lips. She shuddered a little but then closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Chantel knew herself. She couldn’t ride on and just forget. She had to help this man. Whoever or whatever he was, she would not leave him here, like her, alone and frightened in the wilderness.

  CHAPTER NINE

  With determination Chantel tucked up the canvas flap and climbed up into the wagon. She drew close and looked down at the man.

  He was elderly, she could tell, lying flat on his back, and as her eyes grew accustomed to the dim starlight, she could even see the lines in his face. His hair and his beard were as white as snow. He didn’t speak, and she could see that his cheeks were sunken in and his eyes were dull with pain. Even as he stared at her, his eyes began to close and his head lolled to the side.

  She glanced around and saw that, although the wagon was huge, most of the space was taken up with shelves filled with goods of all kind. There were canned goods, fresh vegetables and fruits, bolts of cloth, hardware, tack, tools, and many small unlabeled boxes. The man lay stretched in the space between the shelves in the middle of the wagon, and there was barely enough room for her to kneel beside him. She spotted a lantern hanging just by the canvas flap for the opening, with a box of matches on a neat little shelf just underneath it. Quickly she lit the lantern and squeezed by so that she could kneel down by the sick man.

  “You are very sick,” she observed. Now that she could see him more clearly, she could make out the pallor of the old man’s face, the skin that looked stretched too thinly over the bones. It was a death’s-head look, they called it, and she had seen it on her mother.

  The old man coughed weakly. “Yes, I’ve been very ill indeed. How did you find me?”

  “I was just traveling along the road, and I saw your wagon. Your horse is dead, no?”

  “Yes, that was the problem.” Another coughing fit seized him and racked his small frame. When it passed he continued in a weak whisper, “My horse died, and I tried to dig a hole to bury him. But I was so tired, and then the rain caught me. I got wet and there wasn’t any way to dry off.”

  “You’re still wet,” Chantel said, feeling the dampness of his clothes. “You need to get warm and put on dry clothes.”

  “Yes, but first some water, please? I had my canteen here, but I drank it all.” Bewildered, he looked around.

  Chantel knew he had a fever. When she had been feeling his clothes, she had touched his neck, and it was hot. She jumped up. “Never mind, you. I’ll get water.”

  Chantel hurried to get her canteen and the tin cup she used for coffee. She filled it half full and gave it to him. She had to pull him up and hold him in a half-sitting position, but he drank thirstily.

  “Could I have some more?”

  “Maybe you drink just a little bit at a time, yes?”

  “Maybe that would be better.”

  Chantel nodded. “It’s still wet outside, but I’ll build a fire and get you dried off.”

  “There are two tents stored under the wagon. One of them is much too large, but the other is small, maybe small enough for you to put up. There’s also a small stove stored right behind the seat. In the cold weather, I heat the tent up with the stove.”

  “I can do this,” Chantel said sturdily. She got her blankets and hurried back up into the wagon. She put one of them over him and rolled up another to rest against his back so he could stay in a half-seated position. Once again she refilled the cup and warned, “Little sips only, yes?”

  “Yes, I’ll do that,” he agreed.

  “I’ll be taking the lantern. I’ll need it to find everything,” she told him.

  He merely nodded, obviously exhausted, and his eyes closed again.

  Chantel headed for the wagon opening and for the first time saw the fold-down steps that made it so much easier to come in and out of the wagon. Without hesitation she flattened herself in the mud beside the wagon and looked at the frame underneath.

  Sure enough, there was a great roll of canvas that must have been a huge tent and another much smaller roll, both tied with sturdy rope and simple knots to the undercarriage. Quickly she untied the smaller tent and pulled it out. She had never had a tent, had never even been in one. But she had seen them before, and Chantel had a quick mind, so it took her little time to figure it out. She found the stakes and tent poles and immediately could picture how to stake out the tent and then raise it. This she did, quickly and efficiently. It was a small tent, but it was high enough for one to stand upright.

  Secured right behind the driver’s seat was a stove, and beside it was a box that held rich pine, which would burn almost instantly and was the best and quickest way to start a fire. The stove was small indeed, but large enough to warm the little tent and cook a little bit on the top. She set it down near the tent opening and laid the pine knots along the bottom.

  Running now, she hunted, almost despairing of finding any dry wood, but not far off the road she found an enormous oak tree with many fallen branches, some of them as thick as her arm. The thick greenery of the leaves above seemed to have sheltered them from much of the rain.

  Soon the stove was throwing out a cheery heat, and Chantel was heartened. But she looked around at the muddy ground and knew that she couldn’t lay the old man on the ground.

  She went back into the wagon and saw that the man was still sleeping, his head fallen to the side, his mouth slightly open. His breathing had a funny, rattling, wet sound. She sighed and held the lantern high to look around.

  Soon she spotted them, cleverly stored, as all the many items in this wagon seemed to be. Folding cots were attached to brackets above the shelves, and they had thin but soft canvas mattresses. On a shelf underneath the neatly piled bolts of fabric were several blankets folded into uniform squares. Chantel hurried to make him up a bed in the tent, which was now pleasantly warm.

  Returning to the back of the wagon, she climbed in and said, “I have the tent up, and the stove is making it warm. If I help you, can you go there?”

  “I think so.” The old man struggled, and Chantel went to his side and put her arm around him to lift him up. He coughed then smiled faintly and said, “I’m sorry for being such a bother.”

  “No bother to me,” she said awkwardly.

  She helped him as he took tentative steps. He was weak indeed, and she practically had to carry him. It took them a long time to reach the tent. Immediately he collapsed onto the cot gratefully.

  “Mister, you need to get outta those wet clothes.”

  “Yes, I’m—so—very cold.”

  Chantel went back to
the wagon and found some dry clothes for him. She returned and saw that he had been able to sit up on the edge of the cot and remove his shirt. “Here, put this warm shirt on.” She helped him put his arm through the sleeve and buttoned it up. “You lie down. I take your pants.” The old man didn’t argue. He lay back, and Chantel lifted his feet and legs onto the cot. She removed his sodden shoes and wet socks, and she put on a pair of thick socks she found with the rest of his clothing. He was very thin, and his skin was sodden, but he still burned with fever. She looked up and she saw that he had passed out again. It took a little struggle, but she finally was able to put the dry pants on him. She then put the blankets around him. “You be warm soon, you,” she said quietly.

  The old man didn’t answer. By the dim lantern light she studied him. He was thin-boned, his cheekbones pronounced, his cheeks hollowed. His mouth was short and full, and he had a pronounced nose. She knew that he was old, but at fifteen years of age, she couldn’t tell the difference between thirty and sixty. He seemed to be resting quietly now, so Chantel decided to take care of Rosie and investigate the wagon more. She was hungry, and she knew that when the old man woke up she should try to get him to eat.

  First she went and untied Rosie and led her to the great oak tree. Although the rain had stopped, it was still the driest, most comfortable place she could think of for her sweet, hardworking horse. Chantel unsaddled her, rubbed her down, and gave her the last of the grain. There was grass growing underneath the tree, though, and soon Rosie was grazing contentedly.

  For perhaps the dozenth time that night, she climbed back in the wagon. She rummaged around in the foodstuffs, and to her surprise she found something she had never seen before: chicken broth in a can. She set about trying to figure out how to open it; it seemed like it would be a dangerous business with her hunting knife. It took her a little while before she figured out the tool she needed to open it, and then triumphantly she found a can opener. She took a couple of carrots and stalks of celery and with satisfaction used her opener on the can of broth. Soon she had a thin but nourishing soup bubbling on the stove.

  “It smells good.”

  Startled, Chantel turned to see that the old man was awake. “Hello,” she said a little shyly. “You sit up and eat. It’s good for you when you’re sick.” Again she had to help him sit up and propped him with some rolled-up blankets from the store in the wagon.

  When he was comfortable, he asked, “What is your name, child?”

  “Chantel Fortier,” she answered, spooning up soup into the ever-useful tin cup.

  “That’s a French name.”

  “Yes, ma mere gave it to me. Chantel means song.”

  “Yes, I know. It’s a very pretty name. It’s very nice to meet you, Miss Fortier. My name is Jacob Steiner.”

  “How long since you ate, Mr. Steiner?”

  “Two days, I think.” He passed a trembling hand over his forehead.

  Chantel said firmly, “I better feed you.” She dipped the spoon in the broth, tasted it first, and then blew on it. “Ver’ hot, too hot. I blow it for you, me.” She blew on the spoon, tasted it again, and then fed it to him.

  He opened his mouth immediately, swallowed it, and whispered, “That’s very good, child.”

  “We feed you a little bit at a time.” She fed him half the cupful of broth, but that was all he could manage. Again he asked for water, and Chantel gave him a small amount, again cautioning him to take small sips. “You’re so sick, Mr. Steiner, you’ll just eat a little, drink a little, then more when you’re better.”

  He took several small sips then sighed tremulously. “I think you saved my life, Miss Fortier.”

  “You call me Chantel. Everybody does.” She knelt down beside him and put the broth down. “You want to lie down and sleep?”

  “No, I want to sit for a while. The heat feels so good.”

  “You talk so funny—why is that?”

  “Because I grew up in another country, Germany.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Far across the sea. I’ve been here many years, but I know I still have an accent. You have an accent, too, Chantel.”

  “I talk like Cajun. That’s what I am.”

  Steiner seemed to be revived by the warmth of the tent and by the warm food. He smiled a little, a gentle smile so genuine that Chantel could clearly see the kindness and warmth in him. The very few remaining wisps of doubt she had about him disappeared.

  “Cajun,” he repeated. “Creoles from the southern parts of Louisiana, I believe. Is that where your people are?”

  “I have no family.”

  “You’re all alone?”

  “Yes, all alone.”

  “How did you end up on this abandoned road?”

  She stared at him, bemused, and finally answered slowly, “I don’t know. I just rode and rode and came here. It’s a good thing for you I did, me.”

  Steiner smiled, “Yes, indeed very good. I owe you my life, child. I could feel myself getting ready to go meet God.”

  Chantel was silent for a moment. “My mother went to meet with the good God not long ago.”

  “And your father?”

  “Him, too, but longer ago. And my stepfather—” Abruptly she broke off.

  Steiner shot a quick glance at her. “You were afraid of him?”

  “He—he wasn’t a good man. He wouldn’t leave me alone, so I have to run away.”

  Jacob nodded sadly. “And so where were you running?”

  “My mother had a sister. But when I got there, she’d gone, so now I have no one.”

  Jacob said quietly, “Well, that isn’t exactly true. You have God and you have me. You’ve saved me, and now I’ll be your friend.”

  Suddenly tears came to Chantel’s eyes. She’d felt so alone so many nights under the canopy of stars. Even when the sun was shining and the world was bright around her, she had an emptiness in her that was almost like a physical ache. “That—that would be good, Mr. Steiner.”

  “Call me Jacob. Friends call each other by their given names.”

  “Is Jacob a German name?”

  “No, Jacob is a Bible name.”

  “You named from a man in the Bible?”

  “Yes, in the book of Genesis.”

  “You’re a Christian man then?”

  “I’m a Jew, Chantel. Do you know what a Jew is?”

  “No, I never knew any Jews.”

  “It would take a long time to tell you. Let me say this: I was born into a Jewish family, and we were taught that one day a Savior would come, a Messiah. All Jews are waiting for that.”

  “And who is he? Do you mean Jesus?”

  “Yes, it is Jesus. Most Jews don’t believe that. They’re still waiting for a Messiah. I found Jesus as my Messiah, so now I’m a Christian Jew. That’s very hard for some people to understand, but I love the Lord Jesus.”

  “Ma mere loved Jesus. She talked to me about Him sometimes.”

  “Do you have Jesus in your heart?”

  “No, I’m alone, me.” She hesitated then added, “I go sometimes to church, but I don’t know what it means.”

  “Well, perhaps later we can talk about that.”

  She saw that his eyes were drooping, so she said, “You sleep for a little. When you wake up, I give you more broth.”

  As she helped him to lie back down, he asked, “Chantel, shall I tell you something?”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “I knew you were coming.”

  Chantel stared at him. “How did you know that?”

  “When I was so very sick, it seemed as if I were awake, and I had a dream. Do you ever dream, Chantel?”

  “Sometimes, but not when I’m awake.”

  “I still don’t know if I was awake or asleep, but I dreamed that I wasn’t going to die. I just knew someone was coming to help me, and so I rested better. Then I woke up and saw you, and I knew that God had sent you.”

  “The good God? I talk to Him sometimes, b
ut He don’t answer me. He didn’t tell me to come. He doesn’t know where I go.”

  “God knows you and has known you since before you were born. And He chose you to help a poor old man that was dying.” He put out his hand.

  Chantel instinctively took it. “I don’t know about all that. I just know I find you.”

  “We’ll talk later. I’m very sleepy.” He lay back.

  Chantel covered him with the blankets. She checked the stove and then walked outside. She was fascinated with Jacob Steiner. She hadn’t ever met anyone like him. His appearance, his speech, and everything about him was strange to her. She studied the stars for a while and then decided that she might sleep in the wagon. Making up a nice bed with one of the cot mattresses under her and a clean blanket, she thought about Jacob Steiner, about his dream, and about his insistence that God had sent her to save him. She thought that was just the old man’s mind wandering in his sickness and settled down to sleep.

  As she drifted off, it fleetingly occurred to her that maybe Jacob Steiner had been sent to save her.

  The next day Jacob had improved considerably. Chantel fed him eggs, for he had a large supply. He ate three of them for breakfast. “You’re a good cook, Chantel,” he said.

  “Anybody can cook eggs.”

  “People who can cook eggs always say that. But the people who can’t cook eggs know better.”

  The sun had come out and the earth had warmed up. The smell of the earth and the woods was strong in Chantel’s nostrils, and she sniffed appreciatively. Then she turned to him and said, “You rest some more, Jacob. I think you’ll need to rest a few days. I’ll cook for you, and you’ll get better and stronger. Right now I’ll get Rosie, me, and we’ll move your poor old horse far away. Not good to be so near dead animals.”