The Seeds of Change

by Lauraine Snelling

  “Well, bless my soul, what a gift that would be. And a mouth organ, no less. Now, that surely don’t take up much room in the wagon.”

  “No, it doesn’t, but the others don’t either, as we hang the cases from the ribs of the wagon.” She looked over at hearing giggles and saw Lilac with her paper and pencils out, probably drawing one of her comical animals for the children.

  Lark dug her harmonica out of her shirt pocket and settled on a log.

  One of the little girls scooted up next to her and grinned up. “My name’s Essy. It’s special to have you here to play.” Her lisp made her big smile and friendly eagerness even sweeter. “Someday, when I get big, I want to play one of those.”

  “You could play it right now.” Lark showed her how to blow into it and make different notes. “You hold it like this.” She heard the others tuning up and blew a C, making the little girl grin even more. “Sometimes you have to blow gently and other times harder.” Lark placed the harmonica in Essy’s small hands. “Blow on this side.”

  Several notes came out. Essy handed it back. “Can we do that again tomorrow?”

  “We certainly can.” I guess that means we’re staying over another day. She glanced up to see her sisters nodding and beaming.

  She played the opening bars of “She’ll Be Coming ’Round the Mountain,” and the others joined in singing and clapping. Other songs followed, and soon the Herrons were calling out their favorites.

  “Isn’t that some pretty? Never thought I’d get to hear your music-makin’ again.” The male voice brought the musicians to a halt as they turned to gape at the speaker.

  “Isaac, glad to see you, son.” Mr. Herron stood to greet the young man, and one of the boys leaped up and ran to grab his hand.

  Lark stared at him, shaking her head. She’d thought never to see the drifter again, and here he walked up right in the middle of singing, like before. At least now they knew his name was Isaac.

  “You know these folks?” Herron asked.

  “I met them one night on the trail. Heard music and singing as if from a heavenly choir. I thought to stay away, but I couldn’t, and here you all are days westward.”

  “How come you’re here?” Lilac asked.

  “I was hungry and stopped at the store to ask if anyone needed some work done in exchange for a meal, and they sent me out here. The Herrons made me feel like family and told me about a neighbor who needed some help, so here I still am.”

  “We want him to stay, but he only agreed to a little while. Sit yourself down, son,” Herron urged.

  “Will you play some more?” Essy’s whisper could have carried back to the store.

  “What would you like me to play?” Lark asked.

  “‘Mary Had a Little Lamb.’”

  One of the boys groaned, but his mother gave him a look.

  Lark chuckled inside as she played. The memory of her mother giving Jonah that same look made her blink back tears. Someday, Lord, I want a daughter like this.

  “Let’s have one more and then call it quits. Morning comes mighty early here,” Mr. Herron said.

  The sisters swung into “Blest Be the Tie That Binds,” and everyone stood to sing.

  As the notes drifted off like the smoke from the fire, Mr. Herron took the hands on either side of him, and the others followed suit. “Dear Lord, thank you for the gifts you have given us, like this time together. And may you, our good Lord, bless and keep us. May your face shine upon us and fill us with your peace.”

  They all drifted off to their beds, and Lark decided not to set any watches. They’d all get a full night’s sleep.

  The next day was one of rest for themselves and the animals, and the Nielsen sisters looked forward to the worship service that evening. It was nothing like the service at their church at home. Dusk sneaked in while they were singing, which led into Mr. Herron reading Scripture, followed by observations rather than a sermon. He asked for comments, and some of the attendees added their thoughts. Then they prayed for the needs and praises people brought up. Someone started singing and the others joined in, followed by a time of silence—to let the Spirit speak, Herron said. Awe and reverence floated around like the fragrance of sweet peas in spring.

  “Let’s sing the doxology and say our benediction together.”

  Never had that song sunk into Lark’s heart like this. Praise God from whom all blessings flow indeed. It was so sweet to worship with other believers with no officious hypocrite twisting God’s words.

  “I wish you could stay longer,” Mrs. Herron said, hugging each of them. “I’ll have breakfast ready for you in the morning so you can be on your way.”

  “I sure enjoyed your music again. To think—two nights in a row.” Isaac gave them a nod. “The Lord bless and keep thee.”

  “And you also. If you ever get to Nebraska, I hope you can find us, Mister . . . ?” Del quirked a brow.

  “McTavish. And, Miss Nielsen, I will make every effort. You’re heading down to Independence, right? I pray God’s protection on you all the way.” Isaac McTavish touched his hat with the gentle courtesy that sat as easily on his shoulders as the tattered jacket.

  “And we you.”

  Saying good-bye in the morning, with extra eggs, a cooked chicken, and a loaf of bread added to their load, made leaving even harder. Lark raised her hand in a final salute and left the temptation to remain behind. They couldn’t, not with the danger that could be following. This was such a welcome reprieve, but there were sure to be hard times ahead.

  Lord, please find us a wagon train to join up with, and let us not be too late in the season. One with folks like these would really be appreciated.

  10

  How I hated to leave there,” Forsythia said.

  “I know. Me too.” Del heaved a sigh.

  Forsythia situated the folded blanket behind her back as she leaned against the cooking box, then dug her journal and pencil out of her bag. Fumbling in the bottom of the bag, she dug out the pocketknife she kept there and sharpened the pencil so she could begin to write, catching up on the last few days.

  Lord, the only gift we could give the Herrons in return was our music. And to rejoice in being bathed in their unending flow of love. How could they share what they had so freely? Only by the grace of God. That’s what Mrs. Herron said. I felt at home there from the first moment we stopped the wagon. How can love permeate even the grass and the trees? I can understand through flowers, but there . . . a pasture for our animals, grass to cushion our beds, good food and laughter. And then to think that Isaac McTavish appeared too. He said that night at our camp that he hoped to see us again, but we didn’t even know his name. And now, O Lord, we pray for a wagon to join us. Thank you for all the blessings you poured out upon us. Amen.

  She dashed away a tear ready to splash down on her journal pages. At least the pencil did not smudge from tears like ink did. She tucked the pencil and journal in the bag and stared out the back of the wagon at the road ribboning behind them as they headed onward.

  That afternoon she rode Starbright on ahead, looking for a place to stop for the night. Streams were fewer now, but she spotted a ribbon of blue dotted by trees along its shoreline. A river—an honest-to-goodness river. She touched her heels to the mare’s sides to reach the shoreline, where indeed there were places other folks had camped. Cattails and water grasses lined the shore here, but around the bend there looked to be an open spot.

  Staring out from the shade of her sunbonnet, she nudged Starbright into the water. “You can’t have much, but we’ll be back soon, and then you can drink your fill.”

  When she tugged on the reins, the horse raised her head and turned to go back to the wagon. Perhaps we can all swim there tonight and catch fish for supper. She set Starbright into a rocking-chair lope so she could tell the others.

  That night, with fish sizzling in the pan thanks to Lilac, the stars a canopy of twinkles thanks to the Lord God, and the smoke driving away the mosquitos, Forsythia broug
ht out the guitar, picking rather than strumming. With each note separate, they seemed to rise with the smoke and float above the treetops. The monster oak whose branches provided shelter for them rustled in the breeze that danced around.

  They finished their supper, drinking the last of the milk the Herrons had sent with them before it soured, leaving only enough for pancakes in the morning. After scrubbing their tin plates and the frying pan with sand in the river, Lilac took the first watch.

  Forsythia roused from a deep sleep when Lilac shook her shoulder.

  “I think I hear something,” her sister whispered. “Am I going crazy? Can you hear that?”

  “What?” Forsythia sat up. “Someone crying?” She strained her ears. “Nah, can’t be. Must be a bird calling.”

  “No.” Lilac raised a hand. “Someone out there is crying.”

  “Any idea which way it is coming from?” Lark slid from her bedroll.

  “Let’s split up.” Forsythia stood as Del sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Lark, you go that way. Del, you stay here, and Lilac, you and I will go this way.”

  “Maybe there’s a house somewhere around here.” Del shook her head. “We sure could use a moon right now.”

  “Take the guns,” Lark said. “Shoot once to let us know where you find them and twice if you need help.”

  Forsythia made sure she had her knife in its scabbard, and Lilac picked up the handgun they’d taken from the thief. Lark and the Winchester headed north along the shore, and Forsythia and Lilac went south.

  They slogged through a marshy spot and paused to listen. The cry came again, closer this time. Beating off mosquitos, they forged ahead, the brush trying to scrape their clothes and skin away.

  “Ouch!” Forsythia stopped to unsnag her skirt before it was ripped off.

  They could indeed hear a child wailing. They broke out of the brush to see a wagon with a hooped canvas top just like theirs. As they drew nearer, they could see coals from a dying fire and an outline of someone in the wagon.

  “Hello? We’ve come to help you,” Forsythia called.

  “Oh, thank God.” A man’s voice.

  “Pa, don’t leave.” A child.

  Forsythia and Lilac sprinted the final distance.

  “I’m going to shoot to tell the others where we are, so don’t be afraid of our gun.” Lilac pointed the pistol in the air and pulled the trigger. The shot sounded like an explosion.

  The man beckoned from the back of the wagon. “My wife is ill, and the baby might be coming and—and—” He broke down sobbing. “Thank God you’re here, that someone is here. God sent us angels. Here in the wilderness, someone heard and came.”

  Forsythia and Lilac paused at the tailgate of the wagon. A woman lay on a pallet, one arm around her small sobbing child.

  Dear Lord, how we need your help now. What do we do? Forsythia nodded to Lilac and mouthed, Pray. “Sir, could you and your little boy move out of there to make room for me to see to your wife?”

  “Oh yes, of course.” He jumped down and reached for his child. “Come on, Robbie, let these kind ladies help your ma.”

  “Go.” His ma pushed the boy with a weak hand.

  Once the man and his son were on the ground, Forsythia climbed into the wagon and knelt beside the woman. “We heard crying, so we came. How long have you been sick?” The reek of vomit and intestinal sickness permeated the wagon.

  “Thank God for your good ears. It started a couple of—” She paused to suck in more air and blew it out before inhaling again.

  “Are you in labor?”

  She shook her head. “I-I don’t think so. Too early. Oh, your hand feels so cool.”

  “You have a fever.”

  “I know. Been coughing some. So weak.”

  “When did you eat last?”

  She shrugged. “No idea, lost track of time. Thomas tried to feed me, but it-it didn’t stay down.”

  “Drinking?”

  “Thirsty.”

  “Lilac, bring us a cup of water.”

  When she had the cup in hand, Forsythia slid her other arm under the woman’s head and held her so she could sip. The woman coughed immediately.

  Forsythia sat back on her heels. Lark, Del, please come quickly. But she was the one who had studied and grown the herbs after their mother died. “What is your name, ma’am?”

  “A-Alice.” The whisper came fainter as the woman drifted off to sleep.

  Thomas, Alice, and Robbie. Forsythia nodded as she climbed out of the wagon. And a baby on the way.

  When Lark arrived, the three sisters talked together too low for Mr. Thomas to hear. “We’ve got to get her cleaned up and taking spoonfuls of herb tea and ideally beef or chicken broth. Either way, we need hot water. I say, first we ask him to get the fire built up and pray they have a big pot.”

  “We could bring our wagon here to use our pot too,” Forsythia suggested.

  “If this is dysentery, it’s contagious. I’m surprised the mister isn’t showing symptoms, or the boy.” Lark chewed on her bottom lip. “I’m trying to remember what I know from bringing Anders back. Dysentery is what killed so many soldiers in the prisons. It spreads terribly fast.”

  “So perhaps this isn’t that.”

  “I guess we’ll see.” Lark walked over to the man at the fire. “Mr. Thomas, first thing, we need hot water for tea and a lot more water to get your wife cleaned up. Is that all the wood you have?” She pointed to the few pieces lying off to the side.

  He nodded. “I’ll get more.”

  “We need your largest pot too.” Forsythia twisted her hair back out of the way and rolled up her sleeves.

  He nodded and stood, but his son clamped both arms around his leg.

  Lilac squatted beside the little one. “Hey, Robbie, I’m going to hold you while your pa goes to get more wood. We need it to help your ma.” She scooped him up, arms and legs flailing.

  “Pa!”

  Del could probably hear his shriek back at the wagon, but Lilac held him, speaking softly until he settled down.

  Forsythia nodded to her. “Just like gentling a horse, isn’t it?” Lilac had always had a way with animals and babies of any kind. “You take care of him, and I’ll take the pot down to the river for water.” She looked over to see the fire catching on the wood Thomas had added. He set a small pan of water from a bucket under the wagon on a rock on the fire’s edge, then headed back into the woods.

  “Pa?”

  The child’s whimper tore at Forsythia’s heart. “Thank you, Lilac. Poor little one. Must be three or four, you think?”

  “About that.” Lilac set him on her hip so she could use her other hand to pat his back, swaying all the while. “Pa went for wood, Robbie. He’ll be back.”

  “Wood?”

  She used her apron to wipe his face and dry his eyes. “Uh-huh. He went for wood.”

  Forsythia hauled the iron pot down to the river and filled it, then hauled the heavy pot back to the fire, where Thomas and Lilac were breaking up several branches to add to the flames.

  “I’ll get more.” Thomas left again, but this time his son only sniffed and laid his head on Lilac’s shoulder. Lark dragged a huge branch into camp, dumped it, and went back out.

  “I need my herbs, and I just thought of the chicken we have left. We could set it to boil.” Forsythia studied Lilac. “Why don’t you let me take Robbie and you run back to our wagon? You’re much faster than I am. Get the things we need and ride Starbright back?”

  Lilac nodded. “Robbie, my sister will hold you, and I’ll be back as fast as I can so we can help your mama.”

  He sniffed again and nodded, letting Forsythia take him without a whimper.

  “I think he’s exhausted. I’ll have his pa put him down to sleep as soon as he gets back.”

  “Good.” Lilac patted the child’s back. “Good boy.”

  Forsythia swayed as Lilac had, murmuring, then singing softly as she felt Robbie relax against her. Despite the circumstances, h
er heart warmed at holding the little boy. Would she ever have children of her own?

  Mr. Thomas returned with more wood. At Forsythia’s suggestion, he reached into the wagon for a pallet, spread it under the wagon, and tucked his son under the light blanket.

  “Mr. Thomas—”

  “My name is Thomas Durham.” He tipped his head slightly. “Did I hear you say your sister will bring another pot?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll—” He stopped. “Alice.” He strode back to the wagon at his wife’s call. Forsythia followed.

  “Thirsty. R-Robbie?” Alice said.

  “Robbie is sleeping on his pallet under the wagon. Ladies from another wagon are here to take care of you.”

  Forsythia went to the fire and used her apron as a hot pad to pick up the pan of warm water. “Mr. Durham, could you please get me a spoon?”

  He dug in a box and handed her one.

  Climbing back up in the wagon, Forsythia tested the water and held the spoon to the woman’s lips. “A spoonful at a time. Hold it in your mouth if you can, then swallow.” Lilac, hurry. Mrs. Durham was so weak, and the baby mounding her belly . . . Lord, help her keep this down. Please, Father, help us. “More?”

  Another spoonful. Lord, please. She sat down on the edge of the wagon bed and heard horse’s hooves. Thank you.

  Mr. Durham had started another fire, so he took the big pot from Lilac’s hands and strode off toward the river. “Thank you,” he called back.

  Lilac tied the horse to a wagon wheel and lifted the sack she’d attached to the saddle. “I have herbs here. I’m not sure what you need, so I brought several. Del is cooking the chicken so we’ll have broth.”

  “She kept two spoonfuls of warm water down.”

  Mrs. Durham retched, and the water drooled out her mouth.

  “Guess not.” Forsythia took the pan back to the fire, where she sprinkled several herbs on the water and set it back on the rock to heat. She dipped a finger in the large pot of water and shook her head. “Not hot enough yet.”

  Lark returned, dragging more branches. “It sure will be easier to find wood in the daylight, which looks to be on its way.”