When Breaks the Dawn (Canadian West) Page 12

  “I almost steal,” she confessed. “When you gone, I almost put the book in my pack.”

  Her head came up and she looked at me again.

  “Mr. Wynn wouldn’t put children in jail. He wouldn’t put me in jail. But Jesus—He would have been sad. He doesn’t want stealers in heaven—so I left the book.”

  She turned to go.

  “Susie, wait!” I cried, running to my little stack of books. I chose the three Susie loved the best.

  “I want you to take these,” I said as I hastened to shove them into an open corner of her little pack. “I want you to keep on reading. To think of us as you read the stories. To remember all the good times we had here.”

  Her eyes looked misty then. I thought the tears might spill over, but they didn’t. “I remember,” she nodded.

  She was gone then, the door closing softly behind her. Then it opened again, just a crack and a small dark head leaned back into the room.

  “I forgot thanks,” she said humbly, and the door closed again.

  I stood looking at the door. It didn’t reopen. Kip whimpered and brushed against me. He wanted to go with Susie, and for one moment I was tempted to open the door and send him, to send the Silver One to take care of her, but reason kept me from doing so.

  And then I let the hot tears stream down my face. She was gone. Just like that, our little Susie. Gone with her own people, back to her own world. Would she have a chance to be all the things I had dreamed for her? Would she ever be able to stand in front of a classroom? Would she be properly cared for? Would she have a chance to grow in her Christian faith? All these questions and more pounded in my brain, but all I could manage as I cried for Susie was, “She won’t even get to eat her carrots!”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Reminders

  The silence roared all around me, deafening in its finality. Day after day I tried to adjust to being without Susie. Wynn eventually returned. He understood how I felt and held me as I cried. I believe he shed a few tears too over the loss of the little girl.

  “We knew we’d have to give her up,” he reminded me and himself.

  I sniffed noisily. “Yes, give her up, but not so much ‘up.’ ”

  Wynn looked at me questioningly.

  “I thought Susie would go back to her home here,” I maintained. “I never dreamed that Maggie would move her away where we’ll probably never see her again. I thought—I thought she’d just return home and she could still visit now and then, and I’d see her about the village, and she’d still come to school, and we’d work in the garden together, and—”

  Wynn stopped me.

  “We all thought that,” he affirmed. “No one knew that Maggie had close family in the other village.” He waited for a moment and then went on. “This is better for Maggie and her family. You know that, Elizabeth. They can be properly cared for now. Perhaps Maggie can regain her strength. Too Many tried hard, but she was an old woman. She had too much to do and too little strength to do it. I don’t think they ate well. I—”

  But this time I stopped Wynn.

  “I know all that. I’m not sorry for Maggie—or—or for her family. It is best for her—and I’ve prayed—many times, for what was best. For Susie, too, I—I want what’s best. I’m not crying about that. I’m crying about me.” The tears gushed out again.

  At last Wynn got me comforted to the point where I could function, but I missed Susie dreadfully.

  When the house was silent beyond my endurance, I fled to the garden. It was growing well. Susie would have been proud of her little patch. In spite of the attacks of mosquitoes and blackflies, I worked at pulling all the weeds. Then when I could stand the flies no more, I returned to the sanctuary of my quiet house.

  Kip missed Susie, too. He seemed to be watching and listening constantly, his head cocked to one side, his ears thrust forward and straining. But Susie did not come.

  Now the leaves went tumbling on the wind, wild geese honking as they passed overhead. I took in all of the produce from our garden. I gathered the produce from Susie’s garden as well, sharing her vegetables with the people I knew to be her special friends. The men of the village prepared to leave for the traplines at the first fall of snow. I clanged the big bell and classes began again. This time five students came. The new interest was due to Susie’s summer class sessions of play, I was sure.

  We fell into a routine, and I was thankful for all the activities which filled my days. Still I thought about Susie. I thought about Maggie. Had I done enough? Said enough? Did Susie know how a Christian was to live out her faith? Did Maggie really understand about God’s plan of salvation? Had I made it plain that it was for her, too? Had I really done what I could have, should have, done? Nagging thoughts picked away at me. I prayed and prayed for the family.

  And then one day as I was praying, God spoke to my heart.

  “Do you think I am unaware of where they are?” He seemed to gently say. “Do you think I have deserted them? Don’t you think that I care, that my love is certainly as strong as yours? And don’t you know that I, through my Holy Spirit, can go on talking to them, even in your absence?”

  I felt humbled. Of course I knew all that. Maggie’s salvation did not depend upon me. Susie’s nurture did not depend on me. It had depended on God all along. Where they lived really had nothing to do with it. Now I committed them totally to God and let the guilt and fear slip from my shoulders.

  I was still lonely, but the pain around my heart had eased. I visited Nimmie and some of the other women a little oftener to help fill the hours. Many of them began to drop in for tea again. Even though the fall days seemed to trudge along slowly, the calendar showed that our world was indeed continuing on.

  In the midst of one of our first winter flurries, two Indian men on horseback approached our small cabin. Kip had alerted me, and I watched them as they came. One of the men dropped down from his horse, handed the reins to the other, and walked up our path to the door.

  He bumped at the door rather than knocking, which sent Kip into a frenzy that I stopped by commanding him to go quietly to his corner. When I opened the door, the man reached into his leather jacket and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. He said not a word, just handed it to me, turned on his heel and went back to swing onto the back of his horse. Mystified, I watched them ride away.

  The cold wind blew snow into the cabin as I stood there with the door open. Kip whined and I was jerked back to the paper I held in my hand.

  I closed the door and went to the table, looking at the unfamiliar thing I held. I finally found my senses and spread it out on the table. It was a letter, just a simple letter written on a sheet torn from a child’s work scribbler. There was no salutation at the top. It began with the message. I flipped it over and looked at the back side. It was signed “Susie.”

  My heart began to beat faster as I read. Susie’s printing had improved; she had not forgotten what she had been taught. Hungrily I searched each word, each line.

  “How are you. I am good. My mother is good two. We have a church here. I go. My mother gos two. We like it. We have a school here. Many boys and girls go. The teacher is nice, but not as nice as you. My mother feels better she says to say thank you. She didn’t know before to say that. I miss you and Kip and Mr. Wynn. Did my garden grow okay. Susie.”

  I read the letter three times before I let the tears fall. She was fine! Our Susie was fine! She was in school, and in church, too. A little voice within me seemed to say, “See, I am caring for her,” and I bowed my head in thankfulness to acknowledge that care.

  Though the winter storm seemed to intensify, rattling the windows in its fury, it could not bother me. I felt warm and content. God was taking good care of our Susie.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Sickness

  Christmas came, a cold stormy day, and Wynn and I stayed indoors beside the fireplace, hoping he wouldn’t be called out for some emergency. He wasn’t, and we were thankful.

  The next day was j
ust as cold but this time Wynn was called upon. An elderly man, trying to gather wood in the storm, had fallen, breaking his hip. There was nothing much Wynn could do except give him something for the pain and try to make him as comfortable as possible.

  Wynn talked to the family about trying to get the man out to the Edmonton hospital, but they would not even consider it. I fought my way through the storm with a pail of hot soup, which they seemed to appreciate.

  Since I was out and already in the settlement, I decided to call on Nimmie. She was busy with her two little ones. Nonita, a cheerful little girl with an angel face that broke easily into a grin, was walking and trying to converse now.

  Ian junior, whom they called Sonny, was not as cheerful nor as chubby. He had been a fussy baby from the first and did not seem to gain weight as he should. He was crying now as I was welcomed into Nimmie’s home. Nimmie did most of her work with the baby cradled on her back or held in her arms.

  Nimmie’s face brightened when she saw me. “Whatever are you doing out in this weather, Elizabeth?” she wanted to know.

  “I came to bring some soup to the LeMores, so I decided as long as I was out I would stop by.”

  “I’m so glad you did,” said Nimmie. “I needed someone to talk to.” She smiled a bit ruefully and passed me the fussing Sonny.

  “He has been so cranky. I think he must be cutting teeth. Nonita gave us no trouble. Even when she cut her teeth. She was such a contented baby, but sometimes I just don’t know what to do with this one.”

  I walked the floor, patting his back and bouncing him up and down. He looked exhausted, but he couldn’t seem to settle down to sleep. Nonita wanted her share of attention and ran to get her favorite book to show me the pictures. She jabbered as she pointed and I tried to reply as I walked back and forth across the wooden floor.

  I had just gotten the baby to sleep when Nimmie said tea was ready. I didn’t dare try to lay the baby down for fear he would waken, so I held him up against me and drank my tea with him in my arms.

  Nimmie looked pale. I asked if she was feeling ill, and she just smiled a weak smile.

  “Again?” I said in astonishment. She only nodded her head.

  Little Nonita tried to crawl up onto her mother’s lap and Nimmie slid back her chair so she could lift the girl.

  “I love my babies,” Nimmie said, “and I am glad that another one is on the way, only this time I have been feeling so sick. I hope it passes soon. It is hard for me to care for the two of them when I feel as I do. Especially with the baby so fussy.”

  I felt sorry for Nimmie. I would have offered to take the baby home with me for a few days had Nimmie not been nursing him. “I could take Nonita if that would help,” I offered.

  “She’s no trouble,” Nimmie answered, cuddling the little girl she held.

  “I’ll come over and give you a hand here,” I decided.

  And so through the wintry months of January and February, I trudged off to Nimmie’s almost every day where I helped with laundry, dishes and baby care.

  On many days Nimmie was forced to stay in bed. She usually took the baby Sonny with her; cuddled up against her, he seemed to rest better. While they slept I did Nimmie’s work and played with Nonita. What a little dear she was, and I found myself eager to get to Nimmie’s each day just so I could spend time with the child.

  At our supper table I shared with Wynn all of the funny things she said and did that day. We laughed about them together.

  Being with Nimmie’s babies did not lessen my ache for a child of my own but rather increased it. Each day I would petition God’s throne for the child I still did not have. My heart grew heavier and heavier. It seemed I had been praying for a baby forever, and God still had not heard my prayer.

  The first of March ushered in a terrible storm. The blizzard raged around us, and Wynn did not leave the cabin. One could not see even a few feet in front of one’s face.

  I worried about Nimmie. Wynn reminded me that Ian senior would not be needed to tend the store on such a day, and he would be home to help Nimmie with the children. Although I knew Wynn was right, yet I missed my daily trip over to Nimmie’s. Would Nonita be wondering where Aunt Beth was?

  The storm continued for four days. I was sure we would be buried alive by the snow before it ended. What about those who had to get their wood supply daily? What would they be doing to keep warm? Wynn was concerned, too, and in spite of the weather he decided to see how people in the village were faring.

  I hated to see him go. It was so nasty out, and I feared he might lose his way in the storm. He took Kip, fastening a leash to his collar. He also took his rifle; he might have to fire some shots in the air, and I would need to reply with his lighter gun if he should get confused in his directions by the storm.

  It seemed forever before Wynn was back. The news from the village was not good. Many people lay huddled together under all the furs and blankets they owned. Two elderly women had already died from exposure. In some cabins they had not been able to keep the fires going, and without fires there was no food, so those who were not well were getting even weaker.

  Wynn said he was going to hitch up his dog team to haul wood to the homes where it was needed and asked me if I would take my largest pot and make up some stew or soup to be taken to the hungry.

  I hastened to comply, my fears for Wynn’s safety uppermost in my mind. It was risky working out in such weather. We both knew it, but under the circumstances it was the only thing that could be done.

  It wasn’t long until I heard Wynn and the complaining dogs outside our cabin. I knew Wynn was taking from our winter’s wood supply to build fires in some of the other homes. If only the Indian people could be convinced to bring in a wood supply each fall and stack it by their doors. To them that was unnecessary work. The wood was always right there in the nearby thicket, they reasoned. I added some more sticks to my own fire so the stew would cook more quickly.

  I bundled up and went with Wynn. It took me awhile to convince him I should, but at last he conceded. We carried the stew pot between us.

  Wynn was right. Some of the people were desperate. While Wynn got the fire going in each cabin, I dished out some of the stew into a pot in the home and put it over the fire to keep hot. As soon as the chill was off the cabin, the people would crawl from under their blankets and sit around the fire to eat.

  As we moved from cabin to cabin, we were thankful for each one in which the people had been able to care for themselves. When our rounds were over, Wynn took me back home and then he set off again. He still had the two bodies to care for. As usual in our northern winters, they couldn’t be buried properly till spring.

  The storm finally ended and I breathed a sigh of relief, but it wasn’t to be for long. With many people in a weakened condition, sickness hit the village. For many days and nights, Wynn worked almost around the clock. He gave out all the medicine he had and sent a runner out with an emergency call for more.

  I made soup and stew, kettle by kettle, and we carried it to those who could not manage by themselves. We spoon-fed those too weak to eat alone. The homes were a nightmare of offensive odors, for there were no sanitation facilities and it was too cold, and the people too weak, to go outdoors.

  I had to stop, pray and steel myself before entering many of the cabins. It was impossible to clean them up, though we did try, but illness soon had them in the same condition again. I was often glad for the mask Wynn insisted I wear over my mouth and nose. Though it did not shut out all the smell, it helped enough that I could function without getting sick.

  The few who remained healthy helped us care for the sick. I don’t know what we would have done without Ian, our faithful standby. He was always there, carrying wood and water and bringing food supplies from his store. And then Nimmie and her family became sick as well, and Ian was needed at home.

  I called on Nimmie often. She was so sick I feared we would lose her. She did miscarry the baby she was carrying, but she fough
t tenaciously for her own life. Both the children were sick. I worried about the weak and sickly little Sonny. Surely his frail little body would not stand this additional illness.

  But, strangely, it was darling little Nonita we lost. I would have cried for days had I not been needed so desperately. As it was I could only ache. Poor Nimmie’s little herb-gatherer, her little sunshine, is gone.

  When the sickness was finally conquered, the village had lost nine of its members. The rest of us were so exhausted, so empty, that we could hardly mourn. The bodies were all wrapped and placed in a shed belonging to the trading post—all except little Nonita. Ian spent many hours fashioning a tiny casket for her to rest in. Again, we would need to wait for spring before the burying could take place.

  With heavy hearts we tried to strengthen one another. Nimmie valiantly braved her daily chores, but there was an emptiness in the cabin. She had looked forward to a family of three children, but she now had only one. Little Nonita’s laughter and chatter was only a memory. I think Nimmie was glad even for Sonny’s fussing. It gave her a good excuse to constantly hold him. Nimmie greatly needed her arms full during those difficult days.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Summer of

  ’Fourteen

  When spring came that year, I greeted the new life like old friends—tiny leaves, the flights of birds. I began to make plans for my garden.

  Our classes of the year had been interrupted by the storm and then by the sickness. We missed nearly three months that should have been spent on the books. So we continued our studies a little longer than we normally would have. The village people agreed to it, I believe, out of gratitude to me. I tried not to take advantage of their goodwill and promised I would dismiss the children as soon as I saw that they were needed at home.

  And so it was mid-July before we closed our school for the summer. I was ready for the break, too. With classes each morning, helping Nimmie and her little ones each afternoon in January and February, caring for the sick villagers for many weeks following that, and then trying to catch up with the schoolwork we had missed, I was exhausted. No wonder I was not expecting a baby, I told myself. My body was just too tired. In spite of my reasoning, my lack of motherhood still weighed heavily upon me.