by Janette Oke
Elizabeth lifted her eyes to the ceiling and threw up her hands again. Wynn chuckled. Outside the storm still howled.
“Would you rather have me out with a dog team?”
The question was asked teasingly, but Elizabeth did not accept the bait. “Yes, I guess I would. At least the dogs don’t get flat tires or suddenly quit, or . . . or boil up and shoot out steam or get stuck in mudholes or snowdrifts.”
Christine laughed in spite of herself. “But you used to worry about Dad when he was off with the team.”
Elizabeth’s expression admitted she’d been caught, but she refused to concede. “That was different,” she argued.
“Different how?”
“Well, it wasn’t the dogs I was worried about.”
“What, then?”
“Some . . . some drunk or half-crazy man with a knife . . . or a gun. Some . . . some sudden storm, or river or lake with rotting or eroded ice. Lightning strikes that started tinder-dry forests on fire. That sort of thing.”
“Mama,” Christine announced, “I think you are just a worrier.” But she said it with love, not condemnation, in her tone.
Elizabeth’s response was to rise and refill their coffee cups. Christine watched her mother fondly. She knew her mother had tried over the years to take each concern to God in prayer. It was not hard to pray about one’s fears and doubts. But leaving the burden with God was sometimes a more difficult thing. Elizabeth had told Christine once that she kept taking her worries back. Working the difficulty through her heart and mind again. Fretting when she should have been relaxing in her faith. She said she’d had years of practice, and yet . . . yet . . . she wondered if she was improving in her trust level—or getting worse. Christine had given her a hug and told Elizabeth she couldn’t answer that, but she did know her mother had been an example to both Henry and her over the years of what it was to trust deeply in God.
Now Wynn admitted, “I guess I might worry some, too, thinking about you out on the roads alone in an auto. Those driving machines seem to—well, need a man’s hand. At least up here in wilderness country.”
Christine stared at her father. Wynn had never been one to designate what was or wasn’t suitable for each gender. Her face must have shown her surprise, for Wynn hurried on. “Not that a woman can’t do those things—change tires, fill radiators, and all that. But it just seems to me that she shouldn’t have to. It’s hard, dirty work. Not much suitable for clean skirts and soft hands.”
Before Christine could respond, her father continued, “It’s like this here war.”
The war. Yes, Canada was now at war. Christine felt another chill. True, it didn’t seem real, and true it was many miles away. On another continent, in fact. Yet the fact remained, their country was now officially at war. Christine, along with many others, had been shocked by the September 1, 1939, newspapers, which carried the stark and frightening headlines. Germany had invaded Poland. The next day the papers screamed out in bold print that Britain had declared war. Canada, an independent country, had followed suit one week later. Young Canadian men—and some women—were rushing to enlist and join the cause. Christine had found herself wondering if that was what she should do. Defend her country. Be part of the troops going off to stop the enemy. She had not dared to mention that thought to her parents.
Suddenly it felt as if those chill winds had finally managed to find their way into the small kitchen. Christine saw her mother shiver, and she unconsciously pulled her own warm robe more closely about herself.
“I can understand why the young men are anxious to defend their country—all that we believe in. If I were younger, able”—Wynn’s eyes inadvertently dropped to his injured leg— “I’d want to go myself. But the young women? That just doesn’t seem right to me somehow. The mud and muck of trenches isn’t the right place for women.”
“But they aren’t in the mud and muck,” protested Christine. “They are in the dispensaries and canteens and offices.
They—”
“The horrors of war still reach them. There’s no escaping it.”
“How did we get off on this . . . this morbid subject?” Christine protested. “It was a perfectly good morning, and now, here we are, discussing the war.”
A perfectly good morning? The wind howled and tore at everything in its path. The snow whipped and beat on the sides of the small cabin. The temperature had dropped dangerously low, making the wind chill unfit for man or beast. Yet the fire still crackled, the coffee steamed in the cups, their stomachs were full, their feet warmed in snug slippers. They were safe in their small world.
“Until this conflict is over, it’s going to affect everything we think or do,” Wynn predicted. It was a sober thought. “I lost another young officer yesterday. He says he has to go or he’d not be able to live with himself. I understand that. I’d feel the same way.”
Christine knew that many young Mounties shared the opinion. Would Henry? But he was engaged to marry Amber. Would he now just walk away from her and her little Danny? Could he?
“Did you know that John Beavertail and Wynn Ermineskin have both enlisted?”
Christine had not known. Both young men were from village families that had embraced the Christian faith. Both had been educated in her mother’s small schoolroom and were to have made a difference for their people. The Ermineskins had even named their baby boy after the Mountie they so admired. Wynn was not a name used among the Cree until her father had earned their trust. Christine felt fear clutch at her stomach.
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. Why did this man—this Hitler— think he could march out and take over the world? Why? Why didn’t God just strike him down? It wasn’t fair. Why did good people have to die? Why would young men—and women—be called to give their lives to stop such evil?
Christine pushed away from the table. “I’d better get dressed,” she said as her excuse, but really she just wished to get away. To try to escape, in some way, the presence of the faraway war that seemed to hang in the air like a pall, holding the entire country—the entire world—in its evil grip.
Someone needs to stop him, she found herself thinking as she fled to her room.
Then a new thought. That is exactly what they are trying to do—all the young men and women who have rushed off to enlist. Gone to offer up themselves—their very lives if need be—to try to halt this wave of evil across the ocean.
Why did she think she could just stay at home and enjoy the world as she had known it? Shouldn’t she go too? Was her life more precious than the others who had already gone? And yet. . . ?
A sudden feeling of fear and dread gripped her heart, and her face flushed with shame. She might talk big. She with her feelings of what a woman could do if she put her mind to it. But she was a coward. She did not wish to go. She would hate the muck and mud of war that her father had described. She did not wish to face the possibility of death, of an enemy bullet ripping through her flesh.
When she reached her room she did not dress as she had stated but flung herself facedown on her bed. The chill of her heart was far greater than the chill of her unheated bedroom. God, she cried, how many others are going through this . . . this anguish? How does one know if it is right to go—or stay? I want to pray—to beg—for safety. That you’ll keep those I love here. Protected from the evil. But is it fair? Is it right? I don’t know. I just don’t know. Who, then, will go? Who will stop this madness? This desire for power? The wickedness of war. It isn’t right.
Even as she prayed, Christine knew the world had never been fair. Or right. Not since the day Adam and Eve had tasted of the fruit of the garden and turned loose all of the fury and hate and evil of the wicked one. There were always those who fought against him. There had always been those who were willing to pay the price of resistance. True, it wasn’t fair—but it was so. And she—like every other human who had walked the earth—had to make up her own mind as to when and where she was to take her stand.
CHAPTER
Two
As her father had predicted, the blizzard soon passed, leaving a world of shimmering white. Huge drifts of snow piled up against the sides of the cabin and blocked the paths to the outside well and the shed that held wood for the fires. The brightness of the sun reflecting off the masses of white crystals made it difficult to face the outdoors without squinting. Christine, bundled warmly at her mother’s insistence, worked against the mounds of snow, clearing a path between buildings and supply sources. It was good to be out. Good to have to use strength and muscle against a force of nature she could actually conquer. Shovelful by shovelful she was winning her own small war. Gradually the inner turmoil was also subsiding, though she knew she was a long way from finding the answer to the conflicts in her heart and mind.
Nearby the dog romped through the drifts, leaping and springing about to send fluffy whiteness spraying out like thick foam. The next moment he lay and rolled, pushing his back and head as deep into the mounds as he could, wriggling and writhing as though to bury himself in its coldness. Christine could not help but laugh at his antics, like a child at play.
The kitchen door opened and framed Elizabeth as she wiped her hands on her apron. She called out, excitement making her voice shrill, “Henry’s on the line.”
Christine was quick to toss aside the shovel, removing mittens and stomping snow from her boots as she reached the doorway.
“Christmas,” Elizabeth was saying as Christine pushed past her. “They’ve decided on Christmas.”
Christine did not bother to pull off her boots. Time on the phone was precious and expensive. She would not keep Henry waiting, paying for minutes that profited nothing. Hurriedly she grasped the receiver. “Hello.”
“Chrissy. Hi. Henry here.”
He needn’t waste his time informing her of what she already knew. But then she wasted time by asking foolishly, “Where are you?”
He chuckled. “Where I’m supposed to be. Why?”
“You sound so . . . so close.”
“It’s often like that after a good storm. Air seems clearer.”
“There’s no crackling at all,” Christine observed further. “I can’t believe—”
“Forget the weather,” Henry interrupted. “I’ve more important things to talk about.”
“Mom said it would be Christmas,” responded Christine, pulling her thoughts in check.
“Christmas.”
“That’s wonderful. But . . . soon.”
“We didn’t want to wait. Saw no reason why we should.
Besides, Danny is anxious—”
“Don’t blame poor little Danny,” teased Christine.
Henry laughed, a joyous sound. Christine had never heard him so happy. She felt a happiness and relief of her own. If Henry was to be married at Christmas, it meant he was not intending to rush off and enlist. He’d not do that to Amber and Danny. Her relief made her feel weak.
“Amber would like to speak with you,” Henry inserted into her whirling thoughts. There was a moment of delay as the receiver was passed along.
“Christine. I wish we could chat in person about our wedding plans instead of hurriedly over the phone,” came the warm voice, “but I’d love to have you as my bridesmaid.Would you?”
Christine felt her heartbeat quicken. “I’d love to.”
“I’m so glad.”
“What . . . what do you wish for me to wear?”
“I’m going to wear a suit. I thought you might like to wear one too. Something you can wear again. You may choose the color. I’m making mine out of a . . . sort of a creamy white.”
“Will Henry be in uniform?”
“Yes. And his attendant.”
“His attendant. Who is that to be?”
“One of his young officers. Laray.”
“So he’ll be in uniform too,” repeated Christine, though that question had already been answered.
“Yes. But don’t worry too much about trying to match the uniform. Pick something you like. That you’ll get use out of later.”
Though it was not spoken, there was the war again. One could not even plan a wedding without taking into consideration that the war might rage on and on, making each purchase, each dollar spent, carefully weighed. Who knew when one might be able to obtain another new suit?
“Thank you,” murmured Christine before Amber expressed her own heartfelt thanks and handed the receiver back to Henry.
“Now—I have another request,” Henry picked up the conversation. “This one might need a bit more consideration. I . . . I do want to take my new bride on a bit of a honeymoon. I was wondering . . . since you aren’t working at present, would you be able to stay down here and care for Danny for a week?”
Christine loved Amber’s little boy dearly, but before she could even work through a possible response, he hurried on. “I don’t need your answer right now. Think about it. We’ll understand if it doesn’t work out. Amber’s folks would be glad to have him, but her mother works, and I’m afraid a rambunctious boy is a bit much for her dad at times. We thought—”
“I’d be glad to stay with him,” Christine said quickly. “It’d be fun.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“It won’t cut into your job?”
Christine laughed. “Henry, I don’t have a job.”
“But you might—”
“Not now. Not with a good excuse to wait. I’ll look for a new job after Christmas. Mother has been trying to keep me anyway.”
“Then it’s settled.”
“You can count on it.”
“Great.”
“Fine.”
She knew he was about to hang up, and yet she wished to hold him for a bit longer. But what could she say? The call already had cost him considerable money.
Reluctantly she was about to say her good-bye when he spoke again.
“Chrissy? How about coming down early? Help Amber with the preparations. Get to know Danny a bit better so he’ll feel more at home. You’d have to batch with me, but I’ve got this extra room.”
“I’d love to,” she responded, anxious that he might change his mind before she could respond.
“Terrific!” He sounded genuinely pleased. “When?”
“I’ll talk to the folks. Let you know.”
“I’m glad, Chrissy,” he said. “I’ll look forward to it.”
“Me too,” she responded just before hearing his good-bye. The line began to hum in her ear. Slowly she returned the receiver to the cradle and turned to face her mother. “He wants me to take care of Danny while they are on their honeymoon,” she explained. “He . . . he says for me to come early so I can help with the wedding and get to know Danny better. . . .”
She wasn’t sure just how her mother might react. But she watched as the face before her brightened with pleasure. “That will be nice,” Elizabeth said. “So nice for you and Henry to have this time together before he is married and has a family to care for. That will be so nice. It’s good you haven’t found a job. Then you wouldn’t be able to go. I’m so glad—”
“I’m glad, too, that I’m free to go,” Christine said. “I’ll love having this time with Henry—and little Danny. But I do need to look for work. I’ve procrastinated long enough. You’ve always said that procrastination was right next door to sinfulness. I must shake myself out of the doldrums and get on with life. I must.”
Elizabeth reached out a hand and brushed back a stray wisp of hair that had dislodged itself from Christine’s woolen cap. She nodded. “Right after Christmas and the wedding,” she said. “That will be soon enough.”
Christine thought she read relief in her mother’s eyes.
“So when do you think I should go?” she dared to ask.
“What did Henry suggest?”
“Well, nothing specific. I said I’d talk it over with you and Dad.”
“I don’t suppose you’ll want to be there for too long a time.”
Was her mother backtracking—trying to find a reason to hold her longer?
“It’s the middle of November,” Christine began. “The wedding is little more than a month away. If I am to be of help to Amber, I need to go fairly soon, I’d think.” She found herself feeling a bit defensive.
“We’ll have to get you to Edmonton to catch the train. The roads will be difficult right now after the storm.”
“They’ll clear them out.”
“Yes—but it’ll take a while.”
“Dad will know. He gets the reports.”
“You’re dripping,” Elizabeth pointed to Christine’s wet boots. She wondered if it was a real concern or a means of distraction.
“I’ll wipe it up.”
“No, you go finish your job. I’ll wipe it up.”
Christine pulled her woolen mittens back on and moved to the door. “I think I’ll take the dog for a run as soon as I’ve finished.”
“Isn’t it a bit chilly?”
“It will do us both good.”
Elizabeth did not argue further. “Just make sure you are back in time. Your father likes to eat at twelve-thirty sharp.”
“I’ll be back.”
Christine closed the door firmly and reclaimed her shovel. She had almost finished digging out from the storm. She would not keep her father waiting for the noon meal. In fact, she decided that the walk with Teeko would take her to his office. She would have time to discuss some things that were troubling her as they crunched home through the snow together. There was so much on her mind, and even though she had been sincerely praying for direction, she felt an older, wiser head could give her sound advice.
Her father was just stepping from the small office, fastening his parka firmly about his chin, when Christine and Teeko made their appearance. “This is a nice surprise,” he greeted her, pulling on deerskin gloves. “Couldn’t you stand being cooped up any longer?”
“I didn’t really mind the cooped-up part,” she responded. “I just thought a walk would do us good.”
He nodded and moved down the steps to join her.