Abe reverently closed his Bible and tucked it under one arm. “When we stop and remember Meara, we must reflect on God’s mercy. His child has gone home where we all long to be. My dear Eleanor knows not to grieve when I pass. For I shall pass into everlasting life and peace.” He held his arthritic hand out to Granny. “Love, come stand by me. My legs are weakening.”
Without blinking an eye, the old midwife left Ella and stepped close to Abe’s shaky form. She wrapped her arm around his thin waist. He thanked her with his watery eyes and a sad smile. The aged man spoke once more, bolstered by his mate’s strengthening presence.
“Shall we pray, one and all, the Lord’s Prayer?”
They spoke the prayer in unison.
It was over in no time.
The men used ropes to lower the coffin. They pushed and shoveled the soil into the hole. The women leaned on one another and wept in muted sobs and sighs, which blended with the unnatural warm wind murmuring in the pine boughs. The plopping sound of reddish dirt clogs foretold their own future as mountain women.
They knew life was short, birthing was dangerous, and love was a sacrifice. So much could be taken from them. All the while, the women became prematurely bent and gray. Their husbands continued to dream about a future piece of landholdings—straight away over the next mountain, through the next valley—a hunk of gold or piece of rocky soil to carry out their lifelong dreams.
Perhaps, the women saw new life in the individual forms of their loved ones, the children gathered between them, and the dark hole in the ground. Only God sustained them in the bleak, thorn-filled life they fought to hold onto. Each of the women gave more than they’d ever get back from the unforgiving land or their careworn families, but they went on loving and trusting. Their weary, trial-etched countenances portrayed the dreaded and lengthy winter months and the hardships of the mountain people.
Not one of them would voluntarily hike out of the cove or the mountains, even if given the go-ahead and the whereabouts. Their way of life was injected into the interwoven pulsing veins and arteries of their work-hardened bodies, making them part of the surroundings—an element of God’s handiwork.
Ella stood straighter. A solid resolve filled her heart. I’ll make Mama proud of me.
The sun slid behind a cloud. A rumble of thunder started in the bottom of the curved cove and rolled up the tree-hidden mountain. Startled at the deafening noise, men and women reacted with alarm and called for the scattered children. If they meant to beat the storm, they needed to leave right away. The men hastily stacked a double layer of gray and russet rocks on the grave.
“That’s unusual,” Velma muttered, still facing the grave.
“What ya talkin’ about?” Her husband, Gust Clanders, glowered at her. “Rocks are always used.” His narrow, pockmarked face flushed with annoyance. He acted ashamed of her and turned away, shaking his balding head.
“Gust, I meant the storm.” She grabbed at her unbleached muslin bonnet. It threatened to take flight in the wind, like a crazed, flapping bird. She tugged on the threadbare ties and tightened them under her pointed chin.
Lyle’s curly light-brown hair blew about his forehead. He snatched the pile of rope from the ground and tossed it to another man. He shouted with the next rumble, “I knew it were too muggy. We got a bad storm coming. Let’s go.” He mashed his hat tight to his head, collected a shovel, and started down the moderate slope. His long legs ate up the distance. Everyone followed, waved children on ahead, and hastened to the wagons.
Gloom, formed by heavy clouds, boiled up and crept sideways throughout the elongated curve of the cove tucked below them. It emphasized the dire conclusion of two lives, but Ella miraculously felt life and hope unfolding in her heart. God’s presence covered her pain. She stood tranquil as the others scurried to wagons. Her eyes remained riveted on the rocky-mounded grave, but her tears dried in the high wind.
Life would continue for her.
Her mama schooled her to be strong. The claws of a mountain lion taught her to be strong. The disgusted glares of a harsh father told her she had to be strong. Pa’s trembling fingers had a way of digging into her arms. It made her more determined to stay strong, survive, and love life, in spite of him.
Katy scrambled back up the slope, her blue skirt whipping in the wind. She snatched at Ella’s arm. “Come on. I’ll walk you. Fern’s carrying Rebecca’s boy.”
In front of the cabin, women congregated and gave Ella quick hugs. They whispered their inner reflections and honest promises of prayers. While the coming storm whipped the tops of trees, five of the women handed her small items, wrapped in paper or burlap. They gave tokens of mothering and signatures of grief they couldn’t explain in mere words.
Ella’s dress snapped in the wind, tangled about her legs, and swept the tiny stones at her feet.
With wistful longing, she watched Fern’s family wagon roll away. The teen’s mother sat ramrod straight beside her tall husband. Lightning flashed and thunder crashed closer. Huge raindrops splattered the thirsty ground and dampened her cheek. Manfred Stauffer had been in a hurry, barely giving Fern time to put Zeb in the Foster wagon and run to Ella for a final hug.
The dark-haired teen twisted sideways in the back of the wagon and waved her shawl. “Ella Dessa! I’ll see you at the next quilting bee. Please, be there.”
Ella waved in response, a smile tugging her lips.
“She won’t be there.” Fingers bit into her upper arm and forced her to turn.
“Yes, she will.” She clutched the gifts to her chest, peered over her shoulder as the last wagon disappeared from view. “Fern said she’d see me. I believe her.”
“Pshaw!” He pulled his hat low over his squinted eyes. Big drops of rain pelted his shoulders and his newly-shaven jaw. His right hand jerked against her shoulder, but his fingers tightened. “Someone done tolt on her—gave her pa an ear full about seein’ her on the ridge with that dratted, red-headed McKnapp kid.”
It felt as if a rock plunged into her stomach. Pa couldn’t be telling the truth. She searched his cold eyes for a clue that he lied. “McKnapp?” Rain mudded the dirt at her feet.
“That’s what I said, McKnapp.” He let her go. “The boy were seen hightailing it through the ravine after gettin’ whatever he wanted from her.” With his beard gone, the bones of his jaws showed through his skin. It gave him an emaciated, skeletal appearance. His coal-black eyes crinkled at the corners, but not from years of hearty laughter.
Without thinking of the consequences, she blurted out, “It weren’t of her doin’. She tolt him to stop!” She hunched her shoulders against the splattering rain and tried drying her face on her arm.
“How come ya know ’bout that?” He bent forward. “Huh?” His face came within inches of hers, and his hat brim hit her forehead. His breath reeked of the pipe he smoked, Granny’s seasoned sausage he ate for breakfast, and the tang of whiskey.
Ella stepped backwards.
“Gurl, is that why I couldn’t find ya? I went there and saw movement. Were ya spyin’ on ‘em? Gettin’ yer eyes full, eh? An’ couldn’t answer me?” He snorted. “Maybe, you ain’t so innocent as yer mama thought.”
Before she could react, his shaking hand flashed forward—wet fingers spread wide.
Her head jerked as the large palm made contact with the side of her head. Stunned, she dropped her gifts to the mud and staggered away from the reach of his arm. She raised her hands to protect her face, expecting another slap or worse. Her ear rang. Tears stung her eyelids, and she fought for control of her breath.
Thunder rumbled. Icy rain soaked through the bodice of her dress. She wiped her eyes and stared at the muddy ground.
Don’t cry! Don’t let him see you cry.
“Jist ‘cause yer mama’s gone, don’t think I’m goin’ to stand fer sass from the likes of you. You’re growin’ up. An’ there’s more you’re gonna learn about bein’ a respectful female. I’m the one to teach ya.” He pulled his hat brim
lower and pointed. “Git inside!”
She ran to the cabin with the rain pushing her. Her heart hammered so hard she thought she’d faint dead away. Pa saw Fern and that boy. Her friend was in trouble, and she couldn’t warn her. Would Manfred send away another stepdaughter?
Thunder vibrated the log walls. Gloom filled the inside of the rectangular building, but she didn’t care about a lantern or the sting of the handprint on her cheek. She scrambled to the loft, just as the heaviest onslaught of rain hit and clattered on the sundried cedar-shake roof. She curled in a ball on her pallet and willed the roar of the thunder and the drumming of the rain to beat the ache out of her soul.
She heard him come in.
When the cabin door bumped shut, she slid sideways to peer down. Pa cursed and tripped over one of the misplaced benches. Lightning seemed to pass through the walls, illuminating the inside, but she knew the flashes of jagged light actually burst through the small window.
She rolled over on her pallet, to stare at the roof.
Soon, dampness soaked through the parched shakes on the roof. Cold droplets filtered around the layers and dripped on her. Ella turned over and stared at the single square window, with oiled animal skin serving as glass. It was the only item Mama ever begged Pa for during the past summer.
Before that, the cabin had been windowless. Begrudgingly, her pa chiseled and cut through the logs. The square of blessed light became reality. A wooden shutter could be latched shut during the winter. Mama had called it her one bright spot, besides her daughter.
Ella smiled, rolled to her back, and twisted her wet hair into a bun. She closed her eyes and let memories of Mama take her away from the rugged log walls. The drumming of the rain echoed the thump of her heart. The rain would damage the small tokens the women gave her, but she didn’t grieve over them. They were material things, a tiny loaf of bread, an edged handkerchief, or a scented packet of dried summer flowers.
She heard Pa throw his boots against a wall, all the while, cursing the downpour. But his flaring temper and the thunderous storm failed to shake her. After softly repeating a calming prayer Mama had taught her, she reflected on how happy her mama must be walking in Heaven.
“I wish I could leave here and be with you.” She imagined Mama bending to listen to her wish. Ella remembered Granny’s words on the mountain—how her mama now held and snuggled all her babies. “Mama, I want to be in Heaven. I want to hug the babies with you.”
Chapter 6
During the lonely week following her mama’s burying, Ella watched her pa with uneasy silence. She sensed bewildering changes in his behavior. He acted preoccupied, like a man wrestling with a hitch or deep inner thoughts.
Each morning, she’d brace herself for whatever ill-tempered treatment he might have in mind. She kept busy if he lingered inside the cabin, only relaxing when he went outside. She used a muslin sheet and managed to cut out a simple shift for herself. She hand-stitched it together and felt tickled to have another dress to wear.
“Now I can wash Mama’s dress.” She even considered the greater task of selecting one of her mama’s blouses and fitting it to herself. “If I take in the waist of all three skirts, maybe I could wear ‘em.”
*******
But nine days after her mama died, the tense routine changed. That morning, Ella knelt beside the fireplace with an iron poker in hand. She scraped back the gray ashes and exposed chunks of glowing coals. Within a short time, she had a hot fire and extended her chilled fingers to the blessed warmth.
Movements came from behind the corner curtain. He was awake.
Did he miss her mama?
She poured icy water from the wooden bucket into a kettle and considered what thoughts, if any, troubled Pa’s mind. Did he regret not fetching Granny in time?
Ella struggled with the weight of the heavy kettle, but managed to heft it to the hook over the fire. She pushed her mama’s flat cooking rock close to the fire and wondered how many years the blackened surface had served as an elevated base. Mama once told her it belonged to her own mother.
Mama would knead pliable dough early in the mornings. She’d brush her white hands together, to knock away loose flour, before arranging flat biscuits on the rock’s hot greased top. The vivid image in her mind caused Ella to pause and close her eyes.
A curse came from behind the curtain.
Hastily, she pushed aside memories and searched through the dry goods. Supplies were low. It meant asking Pa to go to the secluded narrow settlement of Beckler’s Cove.
I dare not do that.
Pa jerked the curtain aside, sat in the rocker, and shoved his stocking feet into well-worn boots. His hooded eyes never lifted to acknowledge her timid presence. He smelled sweaty.
“I were thinkin’ you’d like mush with milk? We have dried blueberries,” Ella said.
“No.”
“Ah, bits of ham with eggs. I can fix—”
“No!” He pointed a long finger at her. “Leave off yer askin’, or I’ll take the battling stick to ya. I got things on my mind. An empty belly will hasten my decidin’. Don’t talk to me, if ya know what’s good fer ya.”
She dropped her head and studied her stocking-clad feet. A hole showed one toe.
Pa left the cabin and milked their two skinny cows, which was usually her job. He set the half-filled pail by the table and went back out. She felt jittery. It was worse than anticipating a horrific episode of his arm shaking.
What was he deciding?
Taken aback by the oddity he now exhibited, she kept busy. She strained the small amount of milk. The skinny cows were drying up. The loss of milk would eliminate their butter supply, and she liked to churn butter. The repetitive movement lulled her qualms.
The sound of a heavy axe informed her where Pa was in the woods. She had once overheard him tell Mama he never dropped a dead tree after he found it. He said that once on the ground, they rotted too fast. Mama hadn’t replied, but her expression said he wasted time just sitting on the fence with a pipe clenched between his discolored teeth.
With a forceful sigh, she set aside the milk pail and studied the one room, which was now the center of her life. Everywhere she looked were reminders of Mama—the broken spinning wheel tucked in the corner, a pine needle container her mama had worked on, and the woven grapevine basket full of baby garments.
The little gowns had been cut from unbleached muslin during the first part of Mama’s pregnancy. Mama refused to sew them together until she passed her sixth month, for fear she’d lose the baby. Now, Ella didn’t know what to do with the delicate garments. She walked across the room and covered the basket with a scrap of material, so she wouldn’t have to see the miniature clothing. She nudged it with her knee and pushed it against the wall.
The constant chop of the axe stopped.
Curiosity soon pressed her to go see why things remained quiet. As she rounded the back corner of the building, she saw Pa urging their horse to pull another lengthy tree trunk into the side field. Rigging and dangling lines trailed from the horse to the log, and sweat dampened its back and skinny sides.
Ella climbed the crooked worm fence, sat balanced on top of it, and tucked Mama’s dress under her bare legs. Pa set the tree trunks on wedges and proceeded to saw them into shorter lengths—short enough to split for the fireplace. It was hard work. His long-legged, lanky body worked with a furor, and his actions made her think of a man racing against time and an invisible deadline.
She looked about the neglected homestead. Another light frost had fingered the tops of the mountains, deepening their fall colors. The day was crisp and clear. Autumn had arrived, along with the last days of harvest and gathering. Nature prepared for a change. A fat groundhog waddled up the slope behind her, and he paused to chew on morsels of yellowing grass and exposed roots in her mama’s dried-up garden.
A breeze moved the treetops. Their subtle colors mingled in a swirling pattern, much like a crazy-patterned quilt. One heavy frost would set
the hillside ablaze with profound reds, fervent yellows, and pumpkin-orange leaves. September would fade away to October’s final blanket of superb color.
The high sun laid warm hands on Ella’s shoulders and back, and a bobwhite gave one lonely, unanswered call from the high grass near the woods. She could hear the creek bubbling over rocks. The fresh scent of dried plant life drifted in the air, reminding her of Mama’s love of harvest time.
From down in the cove the exuberant baying and persistent trail voices of hounds drifted upward. She lost track of time as the harmonic noise faded away.
How many times had she seen Mama’s face battered with blows from Pa’s large fists? Mama always took the beatings in order to keep him from hitting Ella’s smaller frame.
Pa’s head turned.
She took a shallow breath and held it with lips parted. He had spotted her perched on the fence like a timid brown sparrow.
“Ya ain’t got better things to do?” He stopped the sawing and removed his hat. “I can suggest somethin’.” He wiped his sweaty head and glowered at her. His sinister, bushy brows almost hid his black eyes.
For a second, she felt stunned he actually spoke. Then, knowing she ought to acknowledge his question, she jumped off the fence. “Yes. I need to fix our meal.”
She ran, pushed through the entangling grass, and wished she hadn’t let him catch her daydreaming. As she rounded the corner of the cabin, tears trickled down her cheeks, but she angrily swatted at them.
Cryin’ don’t help.
She knelt beside the hearth. She washed some potatoes and chopped them into chunks, with the skins still in place. She dropped the pieces into a small amount of boiling water, and added leftover portions of salt-cured ham and chopped leeks. When the potatoes felt soft, she added the fresh milk and a gob of butter.
Then she sat and waited. She didn’t dare call him away from his chores.
With her stomach growling, Ella waited as her mama had in the past. She amused herself by counting how many logs went into the making of the walls. Mama had used them when teaching her to count.
The Girl Called Ella Dessa: Will she ever be cherished for the inner beauty beneath her scars? Page 6