The Girl Called Ella Dessa: Will she ever be cherished for the inner beauty beneath her scars?

by Karen Campbell Prough

  The number reached thirty-four, and he came through the door—reeking of sweat and the outdoors.

  He removed his hat, brushed sawdust from his filthy hands, and sat on one of the benches. With reservations, she slid onto the opposite bench. Pa lifted his knife and surveyed the tabletop. It was bare except for the steaming bowls of soup.

  “No flat biscuits? Yer mama would’ve fixed me a half dozen. Straggly-haired gurl, you’re worthless.”

  Ella bowed her head. She hated to tell him they lacked flour for biscuits, long sweetening, or anything else. The flour bags were without substance, except for a dusting of flour.

  “I’m sorry, Pa.” Her chest hurt. She bit her lip and waited for him to curse her or punch her from across the table.

  “Hmmph!” He seized his spoon in his fist.

  Breathe, she told herself. Her lips parted, and she bowed her head. Oh, please, dear Lord, don’t let him hit me. Thank you for this food.

  He spooned the soup into his mouth and sputtered, “She didn’t teach you nothin’.” The liquid from his spoon dripped to the table—a whitish-clear blotch on the worn pine board.

  But that was the extent of his interaction with her. He slurped with each mouthful of soup. He paid her no heed—as if dismissing her existence.

  She had anticipated beatings, expected indifference to her feelings of loneliness, but it was as if she no longer existed. That part was somewhat welcomed. Still, she desperately wanted to talk to someone. She toyed with her dented pewter spoon while he drank the milky liquid in his bowl.

  “There ain’t no flour in the poke. Velma left her kettle here. It’s her best one. She uses it for chicken. I washed it. I’m supposin’ she needs it.” She again held her breath and waited—gauging his reaction. She hoped to have a real conversation.

  “Then I reckon Velma will hav’ta send her lazy drunk husband to fetch it.” He set his wooden bowl down with a loud thump and wiped his mouth on a stained shirtsleeve. “He ain’t good fer much, except begettin’ more addlebrained offspring.”

  Quickly, she nodded her head in agreement. She didn’t dare act shocked or disturbed by his callous words.

  He ran a grubby finger through a dollop of soup on the table. He rubbed at the liquid until the spot dried—darkening the old wood.

  Mesmerized, she watched his flat-tipped finger move back and forth. Dread built with each movement of his large hand. She had witnessed the same hand choke her mama for a minor mistake.

  Would she be next?

  “The flour, I’ll git when I ride to the settlement. I’ve someone—things to tend to. Got me a friend to see, ‘cause I’ve made my mind up ‘bout somethin’. I hate livin’ on this mountain. Tote water an’ heat me a tub tonight.” He stood to his feet and snatched his hat from the wooden peg by the door. “I’ve got splittin’ to finish.”

  *******

  Later that evening, Ella lay in the loft listening to water slop and splash in the wooden tub. Pa cleaned himself with water she had toted from the creek and heated over the fire. Because she failed to start early enough in the afternoon, the full silvery moon had burst over the treetops as she lugged the last pail to the cabin. Fearful a panther watched from the edge of the woods, she had almost flown along the moonlit ground. The water had splashed her skirt and dampened her legs, causing gooseflesh.

  Now, her arms and shoulders ached. Most of the time, Mama could get Pa to fetch all the water. In the past, he filled the barrel outside the cabin door. Apparently, it was now her tiresome job.

  After drawing the ragged quilt over her shoulders, Ella snuggled deeper into its comforting weight and warmth. Cool air blew through neglected cracks and holes in the clay chinking. She felt it touch and drift frosty fingertips over her cheek.

  What’s his sudden hankerin’ for a bath?

  Her mama often complained about Pa’s lack of bathing. He’d let himself go without washing during the late fall and winter months. And he used the chilly mountain creek during the hot summer, but only once or twice a month.

  What changed his habit, a little over a week beyond her mama’s death?

  Chapter 7

  Sunday, September 25, 1836

  The next morning, after the first blush of the Sabbath, Ella watched her pa slip the leather bridle over the horse’s nose. He wore a clean shirt and his newest coat. He had smoothed his curly hair back off his high forehead. Water dripped from one dark curl and traveled the side of his shaven jaw. A red scrape showed where his straight razor had slipped. A dab of dried blood remained.

  Is he goin’ to the Sunday service?

  “Won’t be here tonight.” In the frigid air, his puffs of breath ascended between them.

  She blinked her eyes a couple times and tried to comprehend what he meant. “Not tonight, then—when?” Disbelief washed over her. He’s leavin’ me alone?

  “Don’t know. An’ don’t ya go gettin’ skeered.”

  “I won’t be skeered.” She hid her inner panic. “Remember the flour? Some meal?” She stopped speaking and clenched her freezing hands in the folds of her shift.

  He slipped the rifle sling over his head, opposite his powder horn, and then lifted his hat from atop the post. He patted his wet hair and pushed the hat over the flattened curls. “I’ll git flour tomorrow.”

  “Take me?”

  “No.” His thin face pinched up. His eyes narrowed. “You’re goin’ to hav’ta learn to be alone. Ya ain’t my wife—never will be. Can’t deny I ain’t debated it, but decided other things are fairer game.”

  Confused by his odd words, she gulped tears and murmured, “It’s just I ain’t never stayed alone at night. When you comin’ back?” Her teeth chattered. She folded her arms across her chest, mentally warding off his rebuff. She wished she had thrown a shawl about her shoulders and covered the lightweight shift.

  He looked down at her. A sneering grin stretched his wide mouth sideways. “I’ve no plans to be back no time soon. As far as stayin’ alone—git use’ to it. With that scarred neck ya got, you’ll be lucky the scrawny-necked chickens don’t up an’ leave ya. No man’ll ever wed you proper like.”

  Shock caused her eyes to smart, but she clamped her teeth together. The dull pang in her chest mushroomed. She wanted to drop to her knees, crawl away, and become part of the forest floor.

  He threw a double-folded blanket over the horse and mounted the animal’s narrow back. “Gurl, you’ll see me when I top the trace. Don’t slack in coopin’ the chickens at dark. I clipped their wings an’ flushed ’em into the forgin’ pen. Saw a wolf on the ridge last night.”

  “I heard him.” Ella felt a lump building in the back of her throat, threatening to explode in livid, hateful words. She wanted to wound him verbally, the way he hurt her. By biting on the insides of her cheeks, she fought the urge to spew the same curse words he habitually hurled at her and Mama.

  What would she do at dark? The harvest moon would still be bright, but it wouldn’t keep her company.

  The idea of sleeping in the cabin alone felt daunting. Her bottom lip quivered. She willed herself to stare at his broken-nailed hands lifting the leather reins and not at the smirk on his face.

  He clicked his tongue and squeezed the sides of the horse with his bony knees. The pitiful animal dropped her head and obediently plodded for the trail. Her ragged hooves crunched on small rocks scattered in the clay and dirt.

  He didn’t turn to wave. There was no use calling him back. Instead, Ella sprinted barefooted through the stiff, frosted grass, along the hill, and to the grave. She cried out for Mama, but she didn’t succumb to tears. She sat under the pines, near the mound of rocks and stones. The recollection of her mama’s kind voice reciting scripture soothed her temper.

  She pushed her spine against the trunk of the tallest pine and welcomed the pricks and pokes of the uneven bark. Slowly, her breathing grew calm and thoughts rational.

  “Mama, I think I can’t bear no more. He’s done left me alone.” She twisted
her chapped hands in her lap and rubbed them together to create an indication of warmth. “Come nightfall, I’ll bar myself in and practice readin’ your Bible. Pa said he done seen a lone wolf.” She wiped at a single tear. “I know God’ll see no harm comes to me. You always tolt me to wait on the Lord. I just don’t know how long to wait or what I’m waitin’ for.”

  She stood and whisked leaves and dirt from her shift. She peered down on the only home she had ever known. Filmy smoke curled from the crooked stone chimney and drifted sideways. It hugged the cedar shake roof of the building and then faded away, carrying the scent of charred hickory and the promise of warmth.

  But the homestead appeared forlorn and shabby, even with the inviting smoke and the backdrop of color-tinged leaves covering the rolling ridge. Ella squinted and tried to imagine the slender, used-up figure of her mama standing in the doorway, cupping her hands to her mouth, and hollering for her daughter.

  Ella Dessa!

  A shadow moved to her right.

  She ducked behind a tree and peeked around it.

  With relief, she spied a red fox—not a wolf—trot out of the forest. He followed the v-shaped hollow. He disappeared and reappeared as he headed for the penned chickens. His little feet patted along in silence. Before he reached the clucking fowl, the brown chickens spotted him and scattered in the forging pen. They let loose warning cackles.

  “Hey!” Ella screamed. “Get away from my chickens!”

  She lifted her shift well above her knees and burst from her hiding place. She broke into a run, letting her bare feet carry her along the cleared slope as fast as she could go. It felt exhilarating to abandon all decorum and be a child, again.

  The fox skidded to a stop, hesitated, and looked from the alarm-raising chickens to the angry human barreling at him. He flipped head for tail, legs churning and belly low, and bolted back through the hollow. Once over the hill and at the fringe of the forest, he trotted up the slanted trunk of a fallen tree and turned to watch Ella pursue the squawking chickens in circles. She could see him sitting atop the log, ears up, and attention focused.

  “You ain’t gettin’ ‘em! I know you’d like to drag one off. You thief!”

  The fox’s ears twitched at the sound of her voice. He licked his jaws, yawned, and plopped himself—belly-down—on the log. He remained there, the sun’s fresh rays reflecting on his brilliant fiery coat of fur and white-tipped tail. A crimson maple leaf fluttered to the ground, perfecting the picture and blending with the fox’s splendid orange-red coat of fur.

  Annoyed that the fox appeared innocent, she grabbed a stone from the ground and threw it in his direction. “I’m goin’ to kill your sneaky ways right now! Ya no-account chicken thief.”

  The fox pointed his snout upward and yawned wide, one more time. His teeth snapped together.

  With an exasperated sigh, she shooed the six hens into the chicken house. They ran through the feathery clippings of their own wings and mingled at the rear of the tiny dilapidated building. They clucked and voiced their displeasure. The chickens weren’t happy about being cooped, preferring to scratch and peck at the soil and dry grass, but Ella didn’t want to take the chance of the fox helping himself to a meal. A large owl had gotten the rooster and one hen two weeks before. Her pa had promised her mama he’d build moveable enclosed pens out of saplings.

  He never did it.

  After collecting two eggs from the nest boxes, Ella latched the small door, and waved a hand at the attentive fox.

  “Go. Slink back to your den!”

  Immediately after entering the cabin, she boiled the two eggs and ate them. They weren’t much, but it was all she wanted. The single room seemed huge and lonely. She stared at the wooden tub sitting near the fire, the water scummy and gray. A bath would feel wonderful, but it meant emptying the water Pa had used, bucket by bucket. Then she’d have to carry water from the creek. But as she studied the tub, the more the thought of a bath appealed to her.

  *******

  Almost two hours later, Ella stripped off her soiled dress and sank into the tub of hot water. Sitting doubled up, she folded her arms on top of her knees and bowed her forehead against them. Her tears made no sound as they dripped to the steamy water.

  She remained in that position until the water temperature cooled. Only then did she reach for a rag placed on a nearby bench. With vigor, she scrubbed and washed her body and hair. It felt good to imagine that she might eliminate all her troubles by cleansing her skin.

  High above the cabin, on the mountain, a wolf howled. The drawn-out, forlorn noise gave her gooseflesh, and she stood to her feet. Through the one opaque window, the full moon was able to cast a narrow path of light along the floor.

  She dressed in a shift and a pair of long woolen socks. Reluctant to leave the fire, she made herself a soft pad of quilts in front of the hearth.

  “There’s no one to care what I do.”

  *******

  Ella’s supper was a simple affair of boiled meal with a bit of honey and milk. Even though the cabin felt cozy and warm, she fought overwhelming loneliness, which prompted her to get her mama’s Bible and read.

  She sat with legs crossed and reverently opened the leather-bound book. She turned the fragile pages. It was the Sabbath, and her mama had always read to her, but she wasn’t sure what to read.

  Between two pages, a folded piece of paper came to view. Watermarks splotched its creased and yellowed appearance. They resembled teardrops soaked into the paper. With utmost care, she unfolded and smoothed it flat on top of the book of James. Written in a looping and artistic handwriting was a letter—addressed to her mama.

  With awe, she read the words aloud. “Dearest Meara, My friend, Logan, promised to deliver this missive to you this evening. I cannot slip away. I have the night watch over the new mining equipment. We leave in one week for North Carolina. Logan laughs at a teacher working in a questionable gold mine, but it is what I must do, right now.

  With every fiber of my being, I yearn to have you as my wife. There will never be another woman who will fulfill what I am as a man. Tomorrow, I am coming to ask for your hand in marriage. Parson Wheedon said he could marry us on Saturday.

  I will bring the hairpins to you. I have finished the carving on the box. It is my wedding gift to you, along with what is stored inside it. Keep it safe. It is our future.

  I have to know you are my wife before I leave. It will be my last trip. I promise. I just need to fulfill my obligations with Barringer, the mine owner. I dislike the lack of restraint showed by all when flakes of gold are discovered. I will not waste my life on the love of gold.

  God’s gift of art and teaching anoints my talents.

  When I return, I will take what I have placed in your hand for safekeeping and buy a piece of land for us. There, I will build you a wonderful home and dig wild roses to plant around it. I will hide it from all eyes, so we can cling to one another. We’ll be concealed from the world. The scent of the roses will not surpass the way you take my breath away. I will go back to teaching, and you will lovingly nurture our children. Yours forever and ever, Miles Kilbride.”

  Ella was stunned to realize another man had once loved her mama. Tucked in the old Bible, wedged between pages of a book her pa wouldn’t be tempted to read, the secret had remained hidden. Her mama never mentioned the man’s name to her or talked of a love letter.

  No date had been added to the letter.

  While she stared at the tender words, her childish heart ached. Her mama had endured beatings and punishments, all undeserved.

  Why hadn’t she married the man named Miles?

  She refolded the delicate paper and took it to the loft. She pulled the carved box from under the pallet and held it up. The fire’s dancing light reflected on its surface. The rose, carved into the lid, held a sweeter significance. She lifted the lid and fingered the polished bits of bone, shaped into narrow hairpins. Now she knew who fashioned their tapered tines and why her mother cherishe
d them. With care, she placed the folded letter in the box for safekeeping.

  A smile played about her lips. She wished to be loved the way Miles Kilbride had apparently loved her mama. Her fingers fumbled, as she braided her damp hair and wound it on top of her head. The six pins did an excellent job of holding it in place.

  Back at the fire, she dropped to the quilts and lifted one of them over her shoulders. In the moving flames, she saw her mama’s face—free of bruises and sorrow. “Mama, I know you’re with God, but you think of me. I found the missive from Miles. He writes words like what’s in Solomon’s Song, and I understand Pa never cared like that. Now, God can comfort you.”

  After rubbing aside a tear, she set the Bible in her lap and searched for a passage to read. A New Testament book, with a man’s name, caught her eye. She started with the first chapter and read how Paul called the youthful man his son. In the fourth chapter, she read where Paul told Timothy not to let anyone look down on him just because he was young, but to set an example for other believers in speech, in life, in love, in faith, and in purity.

  Ella contemplated the words. She wanted to be all the things listed—an example in life. Her heart yearned to be what God designed for her. She closed her eyes and told God she felt sorry about all the anger she held toward her pa.

  As the evening slipped away, she stared into the flickering flames and wondered how Pa could hate her. She whispered another prayer. “Dear God, please soften my feelin’s toward him.”

  Chapter 8

  Monday, September 26, 1836

  The next morning, as Ella chased the chickens out into the gleaming sunshine, Leigh Chesley rode up the trail on a horse.

  “Just here to inquire of you.” He grinned from the saddle, lowered a cloth-wrapped pie, and held it out to her. “Naomi sent along a minced meat pie. Fresh baked ‘fore sunup. Nice flavored.”