Rumpled Martin couldn’t have been more pleased. Tessa felt the extreme opposite. Martin and Willie beat Hans and Tessa two out of three quoits games. Hans left for home, irritated by being bested at his own game. Martin lingered on at Beacon Hollow to eat supper with them, including two helpings of peach pie, and then played a game of checkers with Willie. His lingering frustrated Tessa, but at least he let poor Willie win.
The same thing happened the following Saturday. And the one after that. One Saturday afternoon Martin arrived at Beacon Hollow with a wooden ball and sticks with hoop nets attached. He had learned of a new game, lacrosse, and wanted to play it. He asked Tessa’s parents to help make up the teams. Her mother only agreed when they promised to play the game far away from her special rose, planted close to the house. Last Saturday, poor Willie had tossed a quoit haphazardly and it landed on the rose, breaking a branch. Her mother had looked as if she might cry.
Martin explained the game and showed the sticks he’d made—lacrosse meant the sticks, which were fashioned with a net he called a cradle. It took a few times to catch on, but soon the ball was slinging back and forth. As Hans slung the ball at Martin, who had to dodge and dart around the yard to catch it and keep it out of the goal, Tessa’s mother pulled her aside. “Look, Tessa. Look at our Willie.”
Willie was laughing!
“Martin did that,” her mother said, more to herself than to Tessa. “He did that for him.”
“Martin looks ridiculous.” Martin was ridiculous.
“Yes. How wonderful.”
Tessa thought her mother gave Martin far too much credit.
Afterward, they plopped on the grass, spent. “Where’d you learn that game, anyway?” Hans asked, leaning on his elbows.
“I learned of it from Christy,” Martin said amiably. “Over at Indiantown.”
You never saw someone change so fast. Hans’s face flattened, and his eyes went feral. He jumped to his feet, threw the stick on the ground, and marched to his horse, threw a leg over it, and galloped off.
Late that night, she heard her father’s voice carry up the kitchen chimney flue. “You wanted our Tessa to find a suitor,” she heard him say. She crouched down on her knees by the loft’s hearth. “And now she has two.”
Two? Two suitors? She sat back on her heels. Hans, she had a hope in her heart for. But Martin Gingerich? Why would anyone think she would find him to be someone of interest? It was a consideration to reject immediately and she would have thought her father held the same opinion. After all, Martin was a boy of low character, and he was Mennonite. The Amish were always fussing about the influence of the Mennonites and the Dunkers on their young folks. Their youth left to join those churches, but no one joined the Amish. If someone left the Amish, he didn’t return.
So Martin Gingerich had big marks against him. Surely her father recognized that. If he were right about Martin intending to court his daughter, you’d think he would dissuade him from coming over on Saturday nights. But no! He welcomed Martin into their home as if he was . . . welcome. As if he even enjoyed his company. Maria was always complaining that Bairn Bauer was too liberal in his thinking, and perhaps she had a point.
Tessa heard her parents say something and leaned closer to the flue. “She’s far too young,” she heard her father say.
Tommyrot! She wasn’t too young to know her heart.
Her mother mumbled something, but she could only make out one word: Immature. Who was immature? Surely not Hans. Certainly not Tessa. Which left only rumpled Martin to be described as immature. Her head wagged in agreement.
Her father’s voice sounded firm. “Nae. Y’ ken how I feel.”
About what? Tessa practically stuck her head in the fireplace, trying hard to listen. Whenever her father spoke in English, it was always worth a listen.
“He spends far too much time over there, under his thumb. I fear he is on the brink of rebellion.”
Who? Where? Whose thumb? What rebellion?
Her mother said something else, but Tessa couldn’t make it out. Maddening! If only her mother had a louder voice.
“He was overly indulged as a child, and I see it still.”
Oh. Tessa heartily agreed. Martin was spoiled. She felt a sweep of relief, so happy she could hardly contain it. She could rely on her father’s solid-gold judgment to shoo Martin off in another direction. And leave space wide open for Hans.
Shawnee Village, Monongahela River
July 25, 1763
At some point during each day, Betsy found herself crossing paths with Caleb. He would appear at her side when she foraged for kindling to keep the fire stoked or hoisted a heavy pot of water from the river. Each time she encountered him, she felt her spirits gladden and the day lost some of its bleakness.
Early one evening, she went down near the river to forage for driftwood on the beach and found Caleb waiting for her, a pleased look on his face as she approached him. Their gaze lingered longer than she intended and she felt her insides stirring; something she had never felt for Hans. The disloyal thought unsettled her and she quickly turned her attention elsewhere.
She pointed to the water and walked a few steps closer to it. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, what is the name of this river?” It was a wide, twisting river, lined with trees, and the water shown silver under the setting sun.
“Monongahela. It means River with Crumbling Banks. It is always changing, always moving. It does not want to stay in the same place for too long.”
“Like you.”
The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, amused. “To the Shawnee, this river is our road. Canoes”—he pointed to a row of canoes turned over on the beach—“they are our horses. You will see, come winter, when we move south.”
Such a thought disturbed her, for she believed the longer she stayed in one place, the better chance she had to be reunited with Johnny. She gazed at the direction the water rushed, wondering what he meant by moving south.
Again, he seemed amused. “This river flows north, not south. It has a mind of its own.”
Also like him. “Monongahela,” she repeated. Betsy had learned to appreciate the importance of names to the Indians. Caleb explained that naming something held great meaning, that it represented being, and it made her think of Adam in the Garden of Eden, when he had been given the task of naming all the animals, plants, and trees by the Lord God. As Caleb called him, the Holy One.
But there was something else on Caleb’s mind today. She could see it in his eyes; he was like a child waiting with a surprise. “Like the river, it is good to have a mind of one’s own.” He had been holding one hand behind his back, and now he brought it forward and held something out to Betsy. “For you,” he said. It was a book.
She looked at the book but didn’t touch it.
“Take it,” he said. “An empty book. Waiting for your words. To be filled with new dreams.”
A swirl of conflicting emotions caused her to hesitate. “I . . . can’t accept it.”
He frowned. “You do not want it?”
She wanted the journal, wanted it desperately, but feared what taking it might cost her. “I have no wampum to give you.”
“I want nothing. It is a gift.” His voice held a hint of offense.
Her reluctance had hurt him. He had never showed her the slightest disrespect, had never touched her inappropriately, not once. Even now he kept himself at a safe distance.
But where did Caleb get this book? To whom did it belong? Her first thought was that it was plunder from another raid. Perhaps it had belonged to someone just like herself.
He read her mind. “I traded a bear skin to a peddler for it.” He straightened his back. “I am no warrior. I cause no one to hurt.”
She took it from him and opened it. It was, indeed, a book void of words, covered in tan sheepskin, the pages a creamy parchment color, a pencil tucked inside. “I thank you,” she said, glancing up to meet Caleb’s eyes. “It will bring me great succor.” Their eyes
held, just a second too long, and she felt her cheeks grow warm. She turned away. “I must look for bits and pieces of wood.”
He helped her gather kindling and driftwood; together they walked back up the path toward the central fire. Nijlon had given her the task to tend the fire tonight, but she’d been gone so long that it was reduced to nothing more than glowing coals. “Oh no,” she said, picking up her pace. “I’ve let it go out. Nijlon will be upset with me.” Nijlon was kind, but she expected her words to be carried out.
Caleb strode ahead of her and dropped his armful of wood on the ground. He picked up a stick to stir the coals, and flames soon sputtered up. He added a few pieces of kindling to feed it; wood started snapping and crackling, and the fire roared to life. Then he turned to her. “You see, do you not?” he said quietly. “The flame cannot be quenched. Light will always overcome the darkness.”
From the way he was looking at her, she felt as if she were being seen, truly seen, for the first time in her life. She found it both exhilarating and disconcerting.
He turned and walked away. She watched him leave, watched how gracefully he moved, how defined the muscles in his shoulders and back were, until all she could see was his silhouette in the shadows.
Beacon Hollow
July 28, 1763
Hans rode up the path from Beacon Hollow as Tessa was crossing the yard with a bucket full of steaming milk. Milking the cow twice a day was her least favorite task, and she had tried, with limited success, to persuade her mother to hand off the chore to Willie. Her mother said yes to the late-afternoon milking but not the early-morning milking, for poor Willie needed his sleep. Well, so did Tessa.
Especially now, since she had, at long last, experienced her first monthly flow. She welcomed it with her whole heart, welcomed the stomach cramps, the low backache, the mild headache, the longing to curl up and stay in bed that accompanied it. She was now, truly, finally!, a full-fledged woman.
Hans gave her a bright smile when he saw her and she practically swooned. It was small wonder that she acted dazed in his presence. She returned his smile, cheeks warming, dropping her gaze and fussily checking the hair at the back of her neck.
He swung a leg over his horse to dismount and walked toward Tessa, but before he reached her, her father strode out of his carpentry shop with frustration on his face. “Hans, I’ve been waitin’ on those parts. Did y’ bring them with you?”
Uh-oh. Her father was using English, a sign of emotion.
“No. I’ll finish them soon.”
“Nae.” He shot a look of pure exasperation at Hans. “Nae, y’ told me that days ago.” For long moments, the two men studied each other. “And just where have y’ been? Were y’ off to Paxton again?”
Hans’s face became suddenly hardened—an expression Tessa found oddly chilling, perhaps because his smile disappeared so completely. His words were clear and crisp, as if they froze in the air as he spoke. “I told you I’d have the parts finished soon.”
“Not soon. By the end of today. Heed me, Hans. Yer holding up this wagon.” With a determined grimace, he turned and moved toward the carpentry shop in long, hurried strides.
Hans glared at his receding back. “That wagon is the only thing he cares about.”
“You’re the best smithy in Lancaster County,” Tessa said, flashing him a brief, nervous smile. “He needs your help. Truly, he does.”
Hans turned toward her, as if he’d forgotten she was there. He tilted his head in a familiar gesture that made her insides go soft, and gazed at her as if he was seeing her in a new light. “So what are your plans for the day?”
“To go look for the stallion. Felix thinks he might be drawing near to his farm. Two mares are in season.”
“Well, let’s get Willie and go stallion hunting.”
Tessa glanced uncomfortably at the carpentry shop. Her father was losing patience. “Uh, what about the parts for the wagon? You’re the only one who can forge that hardware. The only one with the skills to do it.”
He seemed pleased with her words. “Tessa, I could not have endured these past months had it not been for your faithful companionship.” He smiled at her and she found it impossible not to return his disarming smile.
It occurred to her she might have just discovered the means to gain—and hold—Han’s attention. Be his reflection, the way the sheep pond reflected her image.
Not Faxon’s Farm
August 2, 1763
Anna walked Willie to Not Faxon’s Farm for schooling each morning and picked him up in the afternoon. She hoped a structured, normal life was a step in the right direction to help Willie mend his sorrowful spirit. She thought it best not to let him be alone on that walk, though it was safe on the well-traveled shortcut that ran through the woods between their farms. Tessa had gone back and forth between the two farms since she was younger than Willie. He was certainly safe alone on the path in the woods. More importantly, she didn’t want him to feel alone.
Willie had yet to speak to Anna or Bairn, though Tessa said she had heard him say a word here and there, quietly, under his breath. That news was a great relief to Anna, for she had a nettlesome worry that his mind had become disordered. Wisely, Catrina put no pressure on him, she just scooped him into schooling in the same calm, competent way she managed Benjo and Dannie.
This teaching arrangement was a pleasant surprise. Actually, Catrina was a pleasant surprise. Anna remembered her vividly on the Charming Nancy as a miniature version of her mother, Maria. Catrina had appointed herself to be the town crier for the entire ship—above or below decks. She tattled on every sailor, every passenger, and thrice on the captain. She had been a thoroughly annoying little girl.
Catrina had married a young fellow from Germantown who died in a horse accident shortly after their wedding. Much to Maria’s disappointment, Catrina remained in Germantown. Years later, she married a German printer, an elderly man, who promptly died of heart failure. Widowhood had seemed to radically affect Catrina’s outlook, given her a sense of empathy that had been sorely lacking. She was an entirely different person than Anna remembered. A better person. Sorrow was not without its blessings.
As they walked through the woods on this warm morning, Anna looked down at Willie’s little hand, tucked in hers. She didn’t let herself grieve often over the little boys she had borne and buried because she believed they knew a better life than anything this world could offer. The eternal life, warm and safe, in God’s glory.
But when she did let herself think of them, she mourned, especially for Bairn. She was sorry he did not have his sons beside him in the carpentry shop or down at the sawmill by the creek, the way Tessa worked beside her in the house.
Today, as she felt Willie’s little hand curl around hers, she wondered what it would have been like to raise a son. To know that a soft little hand like this one would not remain soft or little for long.
They grew so fast, these children. Too fast. Tessa’s monthly flow began a few days ago for the first time, and she was so happy to make that passage into womanhood that her feet had hardly touched the ground since. And all Anna could think was that she wished time would slow down. She was well aware that soon, much too soon for Anna, Tessa would marry and start a home of her own.
The passing of time had always been a comfort to Anna, slow and steady and sure. Days could flow one into the other without her even noticing. But sometime during the last year, the passing of time felt entirely different. It felt finite, difficult to grasp, like trying to hold water in her hands. Time was slipping away.
Shawnee Village, Monongahela River
August 15, 1763
It seemed as if time slowed down since Betsy had come to this Indian village. Each summer day was much like the day before and the day after. There were no markers, like the Sabbath, to create rhythm and balance for the week, and she stopped trying to keep track of days. She realized she had adjusted to her life among the Shawnee villagers, strange as it was, and she was not
miserable. Nor was she happy. She was somewhere in between.
She found herself paying close attention to changes in the natural world, things that were part of her life but did not hold much meaning to her: subtle changes in the clouds that hinted at the morrow’s weather, the path overhead of migrating birds, a cooling wind that skimmed the top of the river’s surface before reaching the village. Until now, she had never felt anything for wilderness but dread. It was inhospitable and uninhabitable, full of dangers; its very name originated out of the word wild. Her father had believed that the wilderness needed to be conquered. Turned into farms.
Betsy’s perspective on the wilderness had radically changed. She was no longer afraid of being alone in the woods but felt drawn to its beauty. When she ventured farther and farther out on walks, she felt a deep peace settle over her. She felt closer to God in the wilderness, though she knew that wasn’t true, for God was everywhere.
A soft smile touched her lips at the memory of trying to explain to Numees that God was everywhere and in all things. Numees’s big eyes grew wide as she peered around the wigwam, as if trying to locate Betsy’s God. Betsy tried to make her understand God was spirit, invisible, like air. So Numees breathed in deep gulps of air until she nearly passed out, hoping to please Betsy’s God.
The pagan ways of the villagers disturbed Betsy—how they worshiped several gods and believed that all of nature was linked, interrelated, from a river to a rock to a red-breasted robin.
But she also saw beauty in the lives of the Indians. To the villagers, everything was “we,”—never I, me, or mine. They were generous to a fault, sharing everything they had. And they did not have much. It was a life without creature comforts.
Each afternoon, while her sisters napped, Betsy would wander down to the river where she could write in her journal and pour out all these new insights and discoveries, trying to sift them through and come to conclusions. When she had finished writing, she would go to the place where she knew Caleb would be, tending the village’s central fire, burning down the boat. His work was to hollow and shape the inside of white pine or white oak logs into a canoe.
The Return Page 14
