Ingathering

by Zenna Henderson

  Jemmy sipped his after-supper coffee and leaned back in his chair. “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “This business of Assembling. We have already Assembled our history from when Valancy joined our Group up to the time Lala and the ship came. We did it while we were all trying to make up our minds whether to leave Earth or stay. Davy’s recording gadget has preserved it for us. I think it would be an excellent idea for us to get Eva-lee’s story recorded, too, and whatever other ones are available to us or can be made available.”

  “Mother Assembled a lot because she was separated from the People when she was so young,” said Bethie softly. “Assembling was almost her only comfort, especially before and after Father. She didn’t know anything about the rest of her family—” Bethie whitened. “Oh, must we remember the bad times? The aching, hurting, cruel times?”

  “There was kindness and love and sacrifice for us interwoven with the cruel times, too, you know,” said Jemmy. “If we refuse to remember those times, we automatically refuse to remember the goodness that we found along with the evil.”

  “Yes,” admitted Bethie. “Yes, of course.”

  “Well, if I can’t persuade all of you to stay, why can’t Bethie stay a while longer and Assemble?” asked Meris. “Then she’ll have a lot of material ready for Davy’s gadget when she gets home.”

  And so it was that Meris, Mark, and Bethie stood in the driveway and watched the rest of the party depart prosaically by car for the canyon—if you can call prosaic the shuddering, slam-bang departing of the Overland, now making up clamorously for its long afternoon of silence.

  Assembling is not a matter of turning a faucet on and dodging the gushing of memories. For several days Bethie drifted, speechless and perhaps quite literally millions of miles away, through the house, around the patio, up and down the quiet street, and back into the patio. She came to the table at mealtimes and sometimes ate. Other times her eyes were too intent on far away and long ago to notice food. At times tears streaked her face, and once she woke Mark and Meris with a sharp cry in the night. Meris was worried by her pallor and the shadows on her face as the days passed.

  Then finally came the day when Bethie’s eyes were suddenly back in focus and, relaxing with a sigh onto the couch, she smiled at Meris.

  “Hi!” she said shyly. “I’m back.”

  “And all in one piece again,” said Meris. “And about time, too! ‘Licia has a drake-tail in her hair now—all both of them. And she smiled once when it couldn’t possibly have been a gas pain!”

  So, after supper that night, Mark and Meris sat in the deepening dusk of the patio, each holding lightly one of Bethie’s hands.

  “This one,” said Bethie, her smile fading, “is one I didn’t enjoy. Not all of it. But, as Jemmy said, it had good things mixed in.”

  Hands tightened on hands, then relaxed as the two listened to Bethie Assembling, subvocally.

  Angels Unawares

  “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”

  Hebrews 13:2

  I still have it, the odd, flower-shaped piece of metal, showing the flow marks on top and the pocking of sand and gravel on its bottom. It fits my palm comfortably with my fingers clasped around it, and has fitted it so often that the edges are smooth and burnished now, smooth against the fine white line of the scar where the sharp, shining, still-hot edge gashed me when I snatched it up, unbelievingly, from where it had dripped, molten, from the sloping wall to the sandy floor of the canyon beyond Margin. It is a Remembrance thing and, as I handled it just now, looking unseeingly out across the multiple roofs of Margin Today, it recalled to me vividly Margin Yesterday—and even before Margin.

  We had been on the road only an hour when we came upon the scene. For fifteen minutes or so before, however, there had been an odd smell on the wind, one that crinkled my nose and made old Nig snort and toss his head, shaking the harness and disturbing Prince, who lifted his patient head, looked around briefly, then returned to the task.

  We were the task, Nils and I and our wagonload of personal belongings, trailing behind us Molly, our young Jersey cow. We were on our way to Margin to establish a home. Nils was to start his shining new mining engineering career, beginning as superintendent of the mine that had given birth to Margin. This was to be a first step only, of course, leading to more accomplished, more rewarding positions culminating in all the vague, bright, but most wonderful of futures that could blossom from this rather unprepossessing present seed. We were as yet three days’ journey from Margin when we rounded the sharp twist of the trail, our iron tires grating in the sand of the wash, and discovered the flat.

  Nils pulled the horses up to a stop. A little below us and near the protective bulge of the gray granite hillside were the ruins of a house and the crumpled remains of sheds at one end of a staggering corral. A plume of smoke lifted finger-straight in the early morning air. There was not a sign of life anywhere.

  Nils flapped the reins and ducked to the horses. We crossed the flat, lurching a little when the left wheels dipped down into one of the cuts that, after scoring the flat, disappeared into the creek.

  “Must have burned down last night,” said Nils, securing the reins and jumping down. He lifted his arms to help me from the high seat and held me in a tight, brief hug as he always does. Then he released me and we walked over to the crumple of the corral.

  “All the sheds went,” he said, “and apparently the animals, too.” He twisted his face at the smell that rose from the smoldering mass.

  “They surely would have saved the animals,” I said, frowning. “They wouldn’t have left them locked in a burning shed.”

  “If they were here when the fire hit,” said Nils.

  I looked over at the house. “Not much of a house. It doesn’t look lived in at all. Maybe this is an abandoned homestead. In that case, though, what about the animals?”

  Nils said nothing. He had picked up a length of stick and was prodding in the ashes.

  “I’m going to look at the house,” I said, glad of an excuse to turn away from the heavy odor of charred flesh.

  The house was falling in on itself. The door wouldn’t open and the drunken windows spilled a few shards of splintered glass out onto the sagging front porch. I went around to the back. It had been built so close to the rock that there was only a narrow roofed-over passage between the rock and the house. The back door sagged on one hinge and I could see the splintered floor behind. It must have been quite a nice place at one time—glass in the windows—a board floor—when most of us in the Territory made do with a hard trampled dirt floor and butter muslin in the windows.

  I edged through the door and cautiously picked my way across the creaking, groaning floor. I looked up to see if there was a loft of any kind and felt my whole body throb one huge throb of terror and surprise! Up against the sharp splintering of daylight, through a shattered roof, was a face—looking down at me! It was a wild, smudged, dirty face, surrounded by a frizz of dark hair that tangled and wisped across the filthy cheeks. It stared down at me from up among the tatters of what had been a muslin ceiling, then the mouth opened soundlessly, and the eyes rolled and went shut. I lunged forward, almost instinctively, and caught the falling body full in my arms, crumpling under it to the floor. Beneath me the splintered planks gave way and sagged down into the shallow air space under the floor.

  I screamed, “Nils!” and heard an answering “Gail!” and the pounding of his running feet.

  We carried the creature outside the ruined house and laid it on the scanty six-weeks grass that followed over the sand like a small green river the folds in the earth that held moisture the longest. We straightened the crumpled arms and legs and it was a creature no longer but a girl-child. I tried to pull down the tattered skirt to cover more seemly, but the bottom edge gave way without tearing and I had the soft smudge of burned fabric and soot between my fingers. I lifted the head to smooth the sand under it and stopped, my attentio
n caught.

  “Look, Nils, the hair. Half of it’s burned away. This poor child must have been in the fire. She must have tried to free the animals—”

  “It’s not animals,” said Nils, his voice tight and angered. “They’re people.”

  “People!” I gasped. “Oh, no!”

  “At least four,” nodded Nils.

  “Oh, how awful!” I said, smoothing the stub of hair away from the quiet face. “The fire must have struck in the night.”

  “They were tied,” said Nils shortly. “Hand and foot.”

  “Tied? But, Nils—”

  “Tied. Deliberately burned—”

  “Indians!” I gasped, scrambling to my feet through the confusion of my skirts. “Oh, Nils!”

  “There have been no Indian raids in the Territory for almost five years. And the last one was on the other side of the Territory. They told me at Margin that there had never been any raids around here. There are no Indians in this area.”

  “Then who—what—” I dropped down beside the still figure. “Oh, Nils,” I whispered. “What kind of a country have we come to?”

  “No matter what kind it is,” said Nils, “we have a problem here. Is the child dead?”

  “No.” My hand on the thin chest felt the slight rise and fall of breathing. Quickly I flexed arms and legs and probed lightly. “I can’t find any big hurt. But so dirty and ragged!”

  We found the spring under a granite overhang halfway between the house and the corral. Nils rummaged among our things in the wagon and found me the hand basin, some rags, and soap. We lighted a small fire and heated water in a battered bucket Nils dredged out of the sand below the spring. While the water was heating, I stripped away the ragged clothing. The child had on some sort of a one-piece undergarment that fitted as closely as her skin and as flexible. It covered her from shoulder to upper thigh, and the rounding of her body under it made me revise my estimate of her age upward a little. The garment was undamaged by the fire but I couldn’t find any way to unfasten it to remove it so I finally left it and wrapped the still unconscious girl in a quilt. Then carefully I bathed her, except for her hair, wiping the undergarment, which came clean and bright without any effort at all. I put her into one of my nightgowns, which came close enough to fitting her since I am of no great size myself.

  “What shall I do about her hair?” I asked Nils, looking at the snarled, singed tousle of it. “Half of it is burned off clear up to her ear.”

  “Cut the rest of it to match,” said Nils. “Is she burned anywhere?”

  “No,” I replied, puzzled. “Not a sign of a burn, and yet her clothing was almost burned away and her hair—” I felt a shiver across my shoulders and looked around the flat apprehensively, though nothing could be more flatly commonplace than the scene. Except—except for the occasional sullen wisp of smoke from the shed ruins.

  “Here are the scissors.” Nils brought them from the wagon. Reluctantly, because of the heavy flow of the tresses across my wrist, I cut away the long dark hair until both sides of her head matched, more or less. Then, scooping out the sand to lower the basin beneath her head, I wet and lathered and rinsed until the water came clear, then carefully dried the hair, which, released from length and dirt, sprang into profuse curls all over her head.

  “What a shame to have cut it,” I said to Nils, holding the damp head in the curve of my elbow. “How lovely it must have been.” Then I nearly dropped my burden. The eyes were open and looking at me blankly. I managed a smile and said, “Hello! Nils, hand me a cup of water.”

  At first she looked at the water as though at a cup of poison, then, with a shuddering little sigh, drank it down in large hasty gulps.

  “That’s better now, isn’t it?” I said, hugging her a little. There was no answering word or smile, but only a slow tightening of the muscles under my hands until, still in my arms, the girl had withdrawn from me completely. I ran my hand over her curls. “I’m sorry we had to cut it, but it was—” I bit back my words. I felt muscles lifting, so I helped the girl sit up. She looked around in a daze and then her eyes were caught by a sullen up-puff of smoke. Seeing what she was seeing, I swung my shoulder between her and the ashes of the shed. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her fingers bit into my arm as she dragged herself to see past me.

  “Let her look,” Nils said. “She knows what happened. Let her see the end of it. Otherwise she’ll wonder all her life.” He took her from me and carried her over to the corral. I couldn’t go. I busied myself with emptying the basin and burying the charred clothing. I spread the quilt out to receive the child when they returned.

  Nils finally brought her back and put her down on the quilt. She lay, eyes shut, as still as if breath had left her, too. Then two tears worked themselves out of her closed lids, coursed down the sides of her cheeks, and lost themselves in the tumble of curls around her ears. Nils took the shovel and grimly tackled the task of burying the bodies.

  I built up the fire again and began to fix dinner. The day was spending itself rapidly but, late or not, when Nils finished, we would leave. Eating a large meal now, we could piece for supper and travel, if necessary, into the hours of darkness until this place was left far behind.

  Nils finally came back, pausing at the spring to snort and blow through double handful after double handful of water. I met him with a towel.

  “Dinner’s ready,” I said. “We can leave as soon as we’re finished.”

  “Look what I found.” He handed me a smudged tatter of paper. “It was nailed to the door of the shed. The door didn’t burn.”

  I held the paper gingerly and puzzled over it. The writing was almost illegible—“Ex. 22:18.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “It doesn’t say anything.”

  “Quotation,” said Nils. “That’s a quotation from the Bible.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Yes. Let’s see. Exodus, Chapter 22, verse 18. Do you know it?”

  “I’m not sure, but I have an idea. Can you get at the Bible? I’ll verify it.”

  “It’s packed in one of my boxes at the bottom of the load. Shall we—”

  “Not now,” said Nils. “Tonight when we make camp.”

  “What do you think it is?” I asked.

  “I’d rather wait,” said Nils. “I hope I’m wrong.”

  We ate. I tried to rouse the girl, but she turned away from me. I put half a slice of bread in her hand and closed her fingers over it and tucked it close to her mouth. Halfway through our silent meal, a movement caught my eye. The girl had turned to hunch herself over her two hands that now clasped the bread, tremblingly. She was chewing cautiously. She swallowed with an effort and stuffed her mouth again with bread, tears streaking down her face. She ate as one starved, and, when she had finished the bread, I brought her a cup of milk. I lifted her shoulders and held her as she drank. I took the empty cup and lowered her head to the quilt. For a moment my hand was caught under her head and I felt a brief deliberate pressure of her cheek against my wrist. Then she turned away.

  Before we left the flat, we prayed over the single mound Nils had raised over the multiple grave. We had brought the girl over with us and she lay quietly, watching us. When we turned from our prayers, she held out in a shaking hand a white flower, so white that it almost seemed to cast a light across her face. I took it from her and put it gently on the mound. Then Nils lifted her and carried her to the wagon. I stayed a moment, not wanting to leave the grave lonely so soon. I shifted the white flower. In the sunlight its petals seemed to glow with an inner light, the golden center almost fluid. I wondered what kind of flower it could be. I lifted it and saw that it was just a daisy-looking flower after all, withering already in the heat of the day. I put it down again, gave a last pat to the mound, a last tag of prayer, and went back to the wagon.

  By the time we made camp that night, we were too exhausted from the forced miles and the heat and the events of the day to do anything but care for the animals and fall on
to our pallets spread on the ground near the wagon. We had not made the next water hole because of the delay, but we carried enough water to tide us over. I was too tired to eat, but I roused enough to feed Nils on leftovers from dinner and to strain Molly’s milk into the milk crock. I gave the girl a cup of the fresh, warm milk and some more bread. She downed them both with a contained eagerness as though still starved. Looking at her slender shaking wrists and the dark hollows of her face, I wondered how long she had been so hungry.

  We all slept heavily under the star-clustered sky, but I was awakened somewhere in the shivery coolness of the night and reached to be sure the girl was covered. She was sitting up on the pallet, legs crossed tailor-fashion, looking up at the sky. I could see the turning of her head as she scanned the whole sky, back and forth, around and around, from zenith to horizon. Then she straightened slowly back down onto the quilt with an audible sigh.

  I looked at the sky, too. It was spectacular with the stars of a moonless night here in the region of mountains and plains, but what had she been looking for? Perhaps she had just been enjoying being alive and able, still, to see the stars.

  We started on again, very early, and made the next watering place while the shadows were still long with dawn.

  “The wagons were here,” said Nils, “night before last, I guess.”

  “What wagons?” I asked, pausing in my dipping of water.

  “We’ve been in their tracks ever since the flat back there,” said Nils. “Two light wagons and several riders.”

  “Probably old tracks—” I started. “Oh, but you said they were here night before last. Do you suppose they had anything to do with the fire back there?”

  “No signs of them before we got to the flat,” said Nils. “Two recent campfires here—as if they stayed the night here and made a special trip to the flat and back here again for the next night.”