Small Favors

by Erin A. Craig

  “A shortcut?” Papa repeated, daring to look up and meet his gaze. “Where?”

  “Do you have an area map? I can show you.”

  Papa nodded mutely.

  “What about the monsters?” I asked. “The wolves or bears or whatever they are. Six men were killed. Something is out in those trees.”

  Whitaker raked his fingers through his hair, pushing it from his smoke-smudged face. “We’ll take firearms and lanterns—so many lanterns. We’ll be too loud and too bright—no creatures would want to come near all that.” He reached out to cup his hand over mine, and rubbed reassuring circles with his thumb. “And, sir,” he said, looking back to Papa, “I’m an excellent shot. If anything threatens us…anything…I promise I’ll be able to handle it.”

  “You don’t know how fast they move,” Papa muttered. He looked utterly hollowed out, just a shell of my father.

  “But you do,” Whitaker said. “We’ll know what to expect. Together we’ll be able to handle them.”

  Papa laughed, though there was no joy in it. “I’m damned if I go and damned if I stay. How am I to make such a choice?” He pushed himself over to the edge of the bed, reaching out to take Mama’s hand, but stopped himself in time. “Sarah, I don’t know what to do. I wish you could help me decide.” He buried his sobs into the bedding.

  I knelt, pressing my side against his. The honey’s warm sweetness nearly masked the stench of burnt flesh and singed hair radiating off Mama.

  “Papa,” I said softly, keeping my voice low so only he could hear me. “Do you remember what you told me about the bees and the hive? How the actions of one affect the whole?”

  After a long moment, he nodded.

  “And how even when it feels impossible, we need to honor our commitments to each other, for the good of all?”

  Another nod.

  “We need you. Both of you,” I said with emphasis. “We need to get Mama out of the Falls.”

  “We?” he repeated, uncomprehending.

  “All of us. We’re all going. Sam and Merry, Sadie and I. We’ll all be together.”

  He shook his head. “No. We can’t leave the bees. Not for that long.” He sat up, and I could see the plan forming in his eyes. When he looked at Whitaker, they were clear and focused. “I’d be in your debt.”

  Whitaker held out his hand, helping Papa to his feet. “I…I don’t want to rush anything, but it might be best to start the journey with the sun in our favor?”

  Pink rays of morning stained the sky. The flower fields, so lush and verdant only the day before, were now smoldering heaps of ash. Papa’s mouth twitched. He hated rushing into decisions and would often stew throughout the night, making scribbled lists to weigh the good and bad before resolutely making up his mind.

  “Doc—is she all right to move now?”

  Dr. Ambrose fidgeted with a corner of the sheet. “As good as she’ll ever be. You’ll want to take more of these bandages—and the honey. And take this,” he said, pulling a small glass bottle out from his bag. Its paper label had “Chloroform” written in spidery script. “If she starts to stir before you make it to the city, wet a handkerchief with a bit of this and hold it to her nose. It will keep her sedated and she won’t feel any of the pain.”

  Papa took it. “How much do I owe you?”

  He waved Papa off. “Pay me when you get back. There’s no rush at all, Gideon. I know you’re good for it.”

  They shook hands, and the doctor slipped from the room. I wasn’t sure if I imagined hearing his sigh of relief.

  “We’ll take the cart,” Papa decided, then frowned. “But I hate to leave you without either of the horses.”

  “Take them both. You’ll travel faster.”

  He turned to Whitaker. “How much time you reckon this shortcut will save us?”

  “I’d guess we can shave a day or two off the trip, sir.”

  It normally took a week to get through the pass.

  “I’ll start packing supplies,” I offered. “And Merry and Sadie can fill the wagon with fresh hay. We’ll spread a quilt over it. Might make it a little more comfortable for Mama.”

  Papa reached out and cupped my chin. “Thank you, Ellerie.” After one wavering look at Mama, he was out of the bedroom in two strides, bringing Whitaker with him, ready for action. “The map is in the sitting room.”

  Their voices faded deeper into the house. I knew I should start to prepare for their journey, but I lingered at Mama’s side, unwilling to let her out of my sight, even for a moment. When would I see her next? What if something happened to her—or Papa—or both of them—while they were away?

  What if—

  Hot tears welled up and spilled down my cheeks, just when I’d thought I’d cried every last one out.

  “Ellerie?” Merry asked, poking her head in. Sadie was at her heels, her eyes wide with worry and fear. “Is it okay to come in now?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said, brushing at my eyes to dry them.

  Merry had occupied Sadie while Dr. Ambrose had worked. Though their nightdresses were covered in dirt and soot, they’d cleaned their faces and hands, scrubbing the skin raw and pink.

  “Is she sleeping?” Sadie whispered as she tiptoed in. I was glad the worst of Mama’s burns were covered beneath the sheet.

  “It’s kind of like that,” I said, and pulled her into my lap. She hadn’t let me hold her like this in months, and I expected a protest. Instead she pressed her back to me, snuggling in close. “Dr. Ambrose said it’s her way of trying to heal. She needs lots of rest.”

  “Papa and Whitaker are looking at maps,” Merry said. She never missed anything.

  “They’re taking Mama to the city. She needs more medicine than we have here.”

  “But I don’t want Papa to go!” Sadie said, her voice cracking. “What if the fire comes back? Who will protect us?”

  A sob worked its way up my throat, and it took every bit of effort I had left to swallow it. I so badly wanted to dissolve into tears, to cry like the little girl I felt I was, but what good would that do? I had to stay strong in front of them. “Sam and I will watch over you. I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise. For right now, we have to be very brave. For Papa.”

  “And Mama,” Sadie added.

  “And Mama,” I agreed, pressing my lips to her hair. It was ash gray and reeked of smoke. But somewhere, beneath all that, I could still smell my little sister. “There’s much we need to do before they can leave. Will you help me?”

  They nodded, and with a final look at Mama, we left.

  * * *

  “I think that’s the last of it,” Whitaker said, pushing the final sack into place before hoisting himself onto the seat of the wagon.

  The sun rose over the mountains, spilling golden light across the valley. The air was alive with songbirds, chirping and singing to greet the dawn. Other than the smoke still rising from the ruined fields—and the small, motionless figure carefully nestled in the back of the cart—it could have been the start to any other morning.

  “I just need…I think I left behind…I just need a moment,” Papa muttered, ducking off toward the hives.

  “Where’s he going?” Whitaker asked, watching my father.

  “Probably letting the bees know he’ll be gone for a while.”

  “Letting the bees know?” he repeated dubiously.

  “Papa talks to them, all the time. He lets them know about everything going on around the farm—the weather, announcements, even when there are new chicks. He says it helps them feel like a part of our family.”

  Whitaker hummed, considering the notion. “Will you be all right while they’re gone?”

  I lifted my lips in an attempt at bravery. “Take care of them for me, and I’ll be just fine.”

  “I’ll get your mama to help as fa
st as I can. You have my word on that, Ellerie Downing.” He held out his hand to shake on his promise.

  “Just be safe, all of you,” I said, slipping my fingers between his.

  Whitaker leaned over, resting his elbows on his knees to whisper at me. “There is one thing I find myself wondering.”

  I took a step closer to join his conspiratorial tones. “What’s that?”

  “Who set the fire?”

  I blinked, certain I’d misheard him. “What?”

  “Fires don’t start themselves.” He looked over the fields as if expecting to see the culprit still there. “Who lit the match?”

  “Mama said it was heat lightning.”

  He raised one doubtful dark eyebrow. “Did you hear thunder last night?”

  “Well…no, but that doesn’t mean—”

  “Just think about it, okay?” He tweaked the curve of my jaw, just below my ear. “Keep your eyes out. Be careful. Stay safe.”

  “You as well.”

  His eyes bore down as if trying to impart a thousand thoughts that his lips would not. “Keep that clover close, you hear?”

  “I will.”

  Papa emerged from the house, a tiny quilt thrown over his arm. I recognized it as the swaddling blanket Sadie had used as a baby. I knew he worried they wouldn’t return before spring if the snows set in early, but I’d not considered exactly how far away that was. If they all came back—when they all came back—there would be three of them, not two. Our family would be seven strong.

  I released a deep, shaking breath, sending up a prayer.

  Please, God, let us be seven.

  “I told the bees everything,” Papa said, pulling me to the side. “They’re all yours.”

  “Mine?”

  He nodded. “Take good care of them, and they’ll take care of you.”

  I was staggered and stunned that he’d entrusted them to me. “But Sam—”

  He held up his hands, stopping me. “Ellerie, they’re yours.”

  He stepped away to tuck the quilt next to Mama, and I caught sight of Sam standing a little ways off, watching us. His eyes were dark and unreadable. I started toward him, but he feinted, pretending to check the harnesses.

  With a sigh, Papa gestured for us to gather around him. “We’ll be home as soon as we can,” he promised. “All of us.”

  Sadie broke into tears and threw herself at him.

  “Oh, I shall miss you,” Papa murmured, pressing kisses into our hair.

  “You’ve got the extra honey jars?” I asked, trying to distract his sadness.

  All the bottles we’d filled last week had already sold. We’d dipped into Mama’s honey cake stash to cover her burns.

  “I do.”

  “And the cash too?”

  It had been a struggle at first to have him take the money. He’d wanted to leave most of it with us, knowing it was the only way we’d be able to buy supplies in town. But after I’d pointed out that none of us could guess how long they’d be gone or the cost of medical treatments, Papa had finally relented.

  “We’ll be fine,” I said as reassuringly as I could, making eye contact with all my siblings to get them to agree.

  “We’ll miss you,” Samuel added. “But we’ll be fine.”

  Merry stifled a sob.

  “Ready, sir?” Whitaker called out, as if sensing my father’s wavering resolve.

  I shot him a look of gratitude, and he winked back.

  “Ready,” Papa said, disentangling himself from us. “Sure you don’t want me to take the first spell?”

  “Stay with your wife, sir,” Whitaker said. “I’ve got everything taken care of.”

  * * *

  “What do we do now?” Merry dared to ask once the cart carrying Whitaker, Papa, and Mama had turned round the path’s bend and we could no longer see them.

  We’d climbed onto the porch, trying to secure the best vantage for their send-off. I was about to jokingly suggest a bath—we certainly all needed one—but as I stared across the charred fields, the enormity of the task ahead of us sunk in, and its weight cut off any lightheartedness I’d wanted to muster.

  What were we to do?

  “Well…I suppose we ought to…We should…” My words faltered as my face crumpled and I sank to the steps. I just wanted to close my eyes and cry myself to sleep.

  Sam settled in beside me, tentatively patting my heaving shoulders. “It’s going to be all right. It…it looks like a lot right now—”

  “It is a lot.”

  “But we’re going to get through this. We just need to outline everything into steps. Little steps that are easy to do, and before you know it, everything will be done.” I could see he was faltering as well. “So to start with…There’s no point in clearing the fields just yet, is there? The harvest is done; the bees have their winter honey. We won’t need flowers till next spring, right? There are seeds in the shed and—”

  “The shed,” we said in unison.

  Dread bloomed in the pit of my stomach.

  None of us had gone near it since Mama had been pulled free.

  “We’ll need to go through everything in it and save whatever can be salvaged,” I said decisively. “Sam, you and I can pick through the stuff. Merry, we’ll need you to make a list. Things that will need replacing.”

  “What about me?” Sadie asked. “What should I do?”

  “We’ll set up wash buckets in the yard,” Samuel supplied as I drew a blank. “You can rinse the things we pull out, get the soot and ash off. We’ll all take turns,” he added as he saw her face fall. She always felt she drew the short stick with chores. “See who can scrub them cleanest. It can be a contest!”

  “What does the winner get?”

  “First bath tonight!” I promised, and Sadie laughed with glee.

  Our moment of fun didn’t last long.

  Pounding hooves raced up the drive. At first I feared it was Papa and Whitaker, already turning back. Something must have happened to Mama, and I wanted to retch up every bit of hot bile roiling in my gut.

  But it was one of Cyrus’s farmhands, riding up on his stallion. Though the morning was still cool, both man and beast were covered in a sheen of sweat. He must have ridden from town at an absolute breakneck pace.

  “Is Gideon still here?” he shouted from the horse, without bothering to dismount.

  “They already left,” Samuel said, and the worker let out a curse of frustration. “What’s the matter, Isaiah? You look as though you’re about to keel over.”

  “You’re needed in town, all of you.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Why all of us?”

  “You four are the only witnesses we’ve got.”

  Merry frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “The fire last night,” the farmhand said, squeezing his thighs as the stallion beneath him pranced with impatience. “Joseph Abernathy and Philemon Dinsmore say they know who started it. But you’ve got to come to the Gathering House and try to reason with them all. It’s gotten out of hand.”

  “What has?” I asked.

  “The whole town is out for blood. Come on!”

  The stallion, misinterpreting his rider’s command, took off galloping down the path, racing back to town.

  Carried by the wind, the last of his cries echoed over the farm. “They’re going to hang Cyrus Danforth!”

  “Rule Number Four: Seek not to harm your fellow men, for Amity’s wrath circles round again.”

  We ran all the way into town and arrived outside the Gathering House, gasping for breath. The hall was crammed past capacity. Younger children spilled out into the yard but were still keenly focused on the proceedings at hand. No one jumped rope. No one played jacks. Everyone stood on tiptoe, smudging noses against the windowpanes.

&n
bsp; “They’re here! The Downings are here!” Bonnie Maddin announced, her voice screeching as she spotted us rushing up Potter Road. “Everybody out of the way; let them through!”

  The crowd turned toward us. Their faces—still smudged from the fire—ranged from sympathetic to furious. My heart swelled as I remembered how they’d all come to our aid when we’d needed them most.

  We had our house, our farm, our very lives because of these people.

  I opened my mouth, wanting to thank them, but hands pulled us into the Gathering House. I felt like a salmon fighting upstream as we were pushed toward the front of the hall. There were too many people and too little space. My lungs could hardly draw breath, and I worried something might snap and we’d all be crushed in a sea of shaking limbs and angry faces.

  “They’re here! They’re here!”

  Voices shouted for the Elders’ attention. The three huddled together, conferring and closed off from the rest of the crowd in their tight triad.

  We were pushed to the front of the room, pressed against the Founder Tree. There was no Book of Decisions, no bowls of pigment to cast our votes and judgments. I glanced behind us. Most of the children were out in the yard, but I still saw small faces hiding behind their mothers’ soot-stained skirts, staring in wide-eyed wonder at the proceedings.

  There would be no Deciding today, then.

  “Where’s Cyrus?” Samuel whispered to me.

  “He must be here someplace,” I said, searching the crowd for his unpleasant face. Isaiah had made the situation seem completely dire, but the man in question wasn’t even present.

  A ruckus sounded from outside, breaking up the nervous din that had settled over the crowd, an explosion of obscenities thrown about like grenades.

  Cyrus.

  He was manhandled into the hall, trussed like a lamb to slaughter. His hands were pinned behind his back, wrapped in thick, prickling hemp rope. The rough cording had worn welts into his skin, which was opened raw in some places, and was stained with blood. His two accusers—Philemon Dinsmore and Joseph Abernathy—shoved him forward, struggling to get the protesting man through the crowd.