Ingathering - The Complete People Stories

by Zenna Henderson

  “It is warmness. We use it in the time of cold when we do not want to shield. It is small. It will last small.”

  “Thank you,” said Nathan. “It feels good.” He pressed the warmness against his cold cheek and felt the hurting warmth of returning circulation in his ear. “I’m going to die of that Kelly Cow yet,” he said, wishing he had a warmness for each cold foot. “I can’t figure why she keeps coming over here anyway.”

  The person’s face turned pink. “I think that perhaps we—we call her to our loneliness. And we pet her. And give her things to eat, though—” thoughtfully—”she didn’t care for the rabbit bone.”

  “Cows don’t eat meat,” Nathan scoffed. “Well, I hafta be getting home or the dark will catch me.” He looked around for the cow.

  “She is over on the other side of the small trees,” said the person. “Why do you always come for Kelly Cow? If she doesn’t want to stay, why do you want her to?”

  Nathan was startled. “Don’t you know anything about cows?” he asked. “Who are you anyway?”

  “I’m Eliada,” said the girl. “But what about Kelly Cow?”

  “We need her milk,” said Nathan patiently. How could anyone not know about cows? “We drink her milk and use it for bread-and-milk and mush, and, if she’s giving enough, we can make butter and cheese—a little, anyway. Sometimes it’s the only food we have, between crops.”

  “Oh.” Eliada was thoughtful. Then she smiled. “Like our multibeasts. I had a multiyouny, but—” Her face tightened and she struggled with something in her throat until she could add: “We had to leave it, when we left. It liked to have its ears rubbed. It was Mahco.” Her eyes were very bright and her voice broke.

  Nathan was embarrassed before her emotion. “Yeah, I know,” he said, tossing the warmness from one hand to the other. “I had to leave my dog. He was too old to travel all that way afoot and Papa said he couldn’t ride. Jimmy said he’d take good care of him.” His face stilled for a breath-length. “I had to leave Jimmy, too—my best friend.”

  “Now,” said Eliada, her face serene again. “Here is Kelly Cow. May I taste the—the milk of Kelly Cow?”

  Nathan had jumped at the nudge of Kelly Cow’s nose against his back. He whirled and gathered up the raggedy old rope end as though the cow were going to take off at a dead run. Then he dropped it and half grinned at Eliada. “But how?” he asked. “What’ll you drink out of?”

  “Oh, yes, a container.” Eliada looked around as though containers grew magically on trees; then she squatted down and, drawing a double handful of snow toward her, molded it rapidly into a bowl shape. A piece of the rim crumbled out as the two looked at it. With an embarrassed glance at Nathan, Eliada cupped her hands around the container and closed her eyes in concentration. The bowl melted immediately into a puddle of clear water that began to dull into ice.

  “Oops!” she said, smiling up at Nathan. “That was for metal.”

  She quickly formed another bowl from the snow. Again she cupped it. Again she concentrated. And the surface of the bowl flowed upon itself, then solidified into ice. Eliada grasped it with both hands and lifted firmly. The bowl came away with an audible snap at its base.

  “There. A container. If milk isn’t too warm and we don’t use a slow time.”

  Nathan closed his mouth and shrugged. He didn’t know everything about everything. And the two of them waded through the loose snow to Kelly Cow, who, perversely, was wandering slowly homeward again.

  “Here,” said Nathan, holding out the warmness. “I need both hands.”

  “Do you have a place in your clothes to put it?” she asked.

  “Sure, I’ve got a pocket,” said Nathan, half smiling at her odd way of talking. You meet all kinds of strangers in a wilderness. He slipped the small chunk into his shirt pocket. “Now give me that snow thing.”

  Squatting awkwardly without a milking stool, he managed to half fill the snow cup. He handed it to Eliada. She took it and lifted it to her mouth. She hesitated and smiled at him apologetically. “There have been so many things lately that—” she shuddered a little, then tilted her head and the bowl and drank.

  “It’s good!” Eliada lowered the cup, a little mustache of milk foam at the corners of her mouth.

  “Kelly Cow gives good milk,” said Nathan. “But I gotta go now. It’s settin’ in to snow all night.” He wound the short frazzled end of the old rope around his hand, but something about Eliada kept him from starting. She was standing, staring down at the snow cup. Without moving her head, her eyes lifted to Nathan. The tip of her tongue wiped away the milk smudges on her lip. “We are hungry,” she said. “We are very hungry.”

  “Hungry?” Nathan asked. “How come? You had a good corn crop—”

  “If that is all you have to eat, it does not last until the year turns.” Eliada’s finger tightened on the bowl. “We are trying different barks now. But they are bitter!” Her voice broke. “And we are hungry!”

  “Well, my golly! I don’t have—” Nathan fumbled for words.

  “You have Kelly Cow.” Eliada’s eyes were shut as she forced the words out. “And it has milk—”

  “Yeah, but we have to eat, too!” Nathan defended.

  Eliada drooped from crown to snow, the bowl slipping from her hand and plopping wetly at her feet.

  “All right! All right!” he said gruffly. “I’ll give you some of the milk.” Visions of milkless cornmeal mush streaked through his mind and, even milkless, made him hungry. “I guess a cup of cold—milk—”

  Eliada was suddenly close to him, pinching a fold of his coat between her finger and thumb.

  “You know, too!” She cried softly. “Who feeds the hungry feeds two.”

  Nathan twisted away and thumped the heel of his hand against Kelly Cow’s shoulder. “What you going to put it in?” he asked. “But not all of it! Papa would tan my hide if I brought Kelly Cow home dry!”

  “I will go,” said Eliada eagerly. “I will go quickly. We have a container.” She whirled and fled over the snow, swiftly, lightly, as though the snow were no hindrance to her feet—as though she flew through the deepening snowfall.

  She was back, panting, with her container, its odd misshapenness bending her wrists downward.

  Nathan looked at it dubiously. “Where’d you get that thing?” he asked. “If it’s that heavy empty, how you going to carry it full?”

  “I will carry it,” she said, her eyes shining. “It is made of—of what was left after—after—” She hugged it to her with both arms. “It is not beautiful. We have not had much time for beauty yet. Besides, there is no metaller among us now. But it is loved. It is from Home.”

  “Yeah—well—home,” said Nathan, reaching for the container. “Mama has her little trunk. We couldn’t bring much, either.”

  He took the container and squatted again by Kelly Cow and began milking. White foam backed away from the far edge and the stream of milk rang musically against the metal.

  “Almost a song,” said Eliada. “Can you hear it?” She paced her words to the rhythm of the milking. “Praise—praise—food—food—Sing—sing. Oh, let us sing our praise for food!”

  Her words caught Nathan’s fancy and he tried it. “Praise—God— from—whom—all—blessings—” Then he slipped sideways and almost spilled the milk, righted himself, and ended up triumphantly, though the rhythm was a little muffled because of the level of the milk rising. “Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!” Then he looked a little dismayed at the amount of the milk in the container—and a little dubiously at depleted Kelly Cow. Eliada caught his uncertainty.

  “You have given us too much?” she asked.

  “Naw, guess not. Can’t put it back anyway. If I’m gonna catch it, another cup or two won’t change things. Think you can carry it?” He lifted the awkward, slopping basin up to her hands.

  “Oh, yes!” Her eyes were shining. “I will make it less heavy. This good gift of food you have given us. But the best gift is—we
ll, I knew it was the same everywhere, but to hear you sing to Them—” softly she echoed, “Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost—Though you named them other—that is the best gift you have given. Thank you.”

  Nathan wound the tattered rope around his hand again, shy to hear her speak so freely of such things. “You’re welcome. Now you got something to go on your mush.”

  “Mush?”

  “Well, porridge.”

  “Porridge?”

  “Gollee! You must be foreigners! Look, have you got any corn left?”

  “Yes.” She shuddered a little. “But, now, our stomachs—”

  “Well, grind some up to make meal, but not as fine as flour—here—” he said to her not-knowing look—”about this coarse.” He held out his hand and the grainy snow began settling on his old green mitten. “See? About that big. And cook it with water and a little salt.” He watched her comprehending nods at each step of the directions. “Stir it good or you’ll get lumps. Then put it in a dish and pour milk on it. If you’ve got any sweetening, put that on, too.” His stomach suddenly spoke to him out of its hunger.

  “Gotta go.” He dragged at Kelly Cow. “I’m late now, and the snow—”

  He looked back from the far side of the thicket and saw only the flick of Eliada’s skirt disappearing among the trees. He became conscious of the warmness against his chest and caught his breath to call out. But, eying the distance, he turned and trudged off with Kelly Cow, the warmness in his cold, free hand.

  ~ * ~

  “You’re late.” Mama was brisk about the table and didn’t look at Nathan. “Strain the milk into the crock. Supper’s almost ready. Adina, you help him.”

  Adina stretched the strainer cloth tight across the top of the heavy crock and watched carefully as Nathan poured the milk, to make sure that the cheese cloth didn’t slip.

  “Is that all?” she asked, her clear voice loud in the evening silence.

  “Shush!” Nathan elbowed her sharply.

  “Mama!” came her outraged squawk.

  “Nathan.” Papa’s voice was heavy with weariness.

  “Yes, sir,” said Nathan.

  “Is something wrong with the milk tonight?”

  “No, sir,” said Nathan. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”

  “Is so!” said Adina.

  “Is not!” retorted Nathan. “There’s nothing wrong with the milk. There just isn’t as much as usual.”

  “Oh, dear!” Mama came over to see. “You didn’t throw rocks at her again, and scare her so that—”

  “Rocks scare Kelly Cow—ha!” Adina said pertly, then wilted at Papa’s glance.

  “Wolves might!” Lucas’ eyes were big. “Was it wolves, Nathan?”

  “No,” said Nathan, shortly. “I gave some of the milk away.”

  “Give it away? Who on earth could you meet way out here—?” Mama was anxious to know. Who out here in all this loneliness—?

  “The people on the place where Kelly Cow always goes. You know, the other side of the thicket. That old man that won’t ever talk—only this was a girl from there. We talked.” Nathan was getting more and more uncomfortable. “She said they were hungry.”

  “This was a good year,” said Papa slowly.

  “But I guess they had only corn—and maybe rabbits. She said they were trying different barks to find something they could eat.”

  “Bark?” cried Lucas. “Like the deer do?”

  “They must be very slack, not to have laid in provisions for the winter,” said Papa.

  “I don’t know,” said Nathan, holding the snow bowl tightly in his mind. “Only she tasted the milk and told me they were hungry. I didn’t mean to milk so much for them, but—”

  “Well,” Papa said ponderously. “No matter, for one time. But remember, family must come first.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Nathan. He had a sudden notion. “She—she gave me something—” He reached into his pocket for the warmness and, with a pang, held it out to Papa on the palm of his hand.

  “A rock,” said Papa, not taking it. “Not much good for supper. Maybe that’s why she gave it to you.”

  Nathan smiled and put the warmness back into his pocket. “Yes, sir,” he said, and the room swept back happily into supper activity. Papa was in a good mood.

  ~ * ~

  “We called them other?” Adina was shocked. “How could they be anything but Father-Son-and-Holy-Ghost? Maybe they’re bad people!”

  “Adina!” Nathan’s voice came sternly through the dark of the loft. “If you don’t shut up, I won’t ever tell you about the baby again.”

  A rustling plop signified Adina’s lying down again.

  “People don’t all talk the same language. All the languages have a different name for God.”

  “But,” Adina was shaken, “I thought God was always God!”

  “He is!” said Nathan. “But—”

  “If you keep fighting about God,” said Lucas, “you won’t never get to finish what happened.”

  Silence came in the loft. Then there was a sound of turning on the rustling, unsoft pallets. Nathan’s voice came again.

  “Then I told her how to make corn-meal mush—”

  “Mush! She didn’t even know that!” Adina was horrified.

  “No,” said Nathan shortly, resenting the criticism. “They’re foreigners. So I told her how and she went away. I forgot to give her back the warmness, and that’s why we’ve still got it.”

  “It isn’t very warm now,” said Lucas, coughing as he squeezed it in his hands. “Bet Adina wore it out before I ever got it.”

  “Did not,” said Adina, too tired to get mad.

  “Eliada said it wouldn’t stay warm very long. It’s little.” Silence grew again in the loft and became very drowsy. Nathan’s voice came sleepily.

  “She said she’d make that bowl thing less heavy to carry it home.” Silence and heavy breathing were his only answer. Then, sharply awake, Nathan’s voice came again. “But she didn’t leave any tracks! Not even in the snow!”

  ~ * ~

  The weather closed in that night and snow fell on snow and storm followed storm, seemingly endlessly. During those days in the dusky one room that flickered with firelight, the children worked at the lessons set for them by their mother. Lucas struggled with his alphabet and numbers and his name—and the cough that shook his thin body.

  Adina sounded out the stories in Mama’s old Primary reading book that had to be read at the table because it was so fragile and so apart—and so precious. Nathan rather guiltily used part of his time to re-read David and Goliath in the Old Testament part of the Bible. He could have read it with his eyes shut, but he read it again, because it belonged to a time and place like this—shut in, sheltered. The shadowy room swirling with warmth and cold as the fire leaped and sank and the drafts billowed the clothes hanging on pegs against the wall.

  Finally, he set aside the Bible and the pleasant containment of the old story, and got out the box of carefully hoarded pieces of newspapers they had salvaged from wherever they happened to be found. Some made no sense at all when you tried to read what there was of them, but some were exciting and engrossing—and seldom complete. But something to read, words to learn.

  It was a warm, contained sort of time, with no world except the house. Its outside corners shrieked in the wind, but its inside corners were sheltering, though chilly. Outside was lightless tumult. Inside at one or two places beneath the roof, there was the companionable sound of dripping water—the hurried plik, plik, plik intermingling with the deeper, slower plunk-a, plunk-a.

  Papa rocked in his big chair that he had made after they got here. He looked long into the fire or at the dark ceiling, thinking whatever thoughts came to a wilderness farmer in off season. Or he worked on the horses’ harness. Or sat with the Bible on his knees, drowsing, his chair slowing—-rousing, his chair picking up tempo.

  Mama never lacked for something to do, but even she arrived at a time when she co
uld sit for long, resting moments, her current task on her lap, with no urgency about it.

  There were no days or nights. Time was kept only by the checking of the stock in the small barn behind the house, and the coming of bedtime and rising and the diminishing of the woodpile beside the fireplace.

  At some point in this timelessness, Nathan glanced up from his reading—bride wore white mousseline de soie—as if someone had called him. No one in the room was even looking at him, and so he bent to his work again. Again the call came, sharply, urgently, with not a sound—not a word. He got up uneasily and went to the fireplace. The woodbox had been refilled recently. The fire was about its secret munching and crunching of the old wood from clearing the land. Even the plunk-a, plunk-a was the same.