by Linda Byler
Hester walked through the acres of destruction, wondering at the power of God, the way nature reinvented itself. She found a perfect pink rose growing on a vine that wound its way around a black tree stump. Stopping, she bent to pick it, held it to her nose, and inhaled deeply. This beauty among ashes. It was so lovely Hester could hardly bear the thought, the pink rose so alone, lighting the destroyed world with its presence.
She found a narrow cave beyond the burned area. She wanted to stay for the night, but there was no water, so she continued on her way with long, even strides that ate up the ground. She followed the side of a ridge, then turned downward, hoping to find a creek or a spring—just a trickle of water. She thought of Hans’s springhouse, the cool, wet interior that housed the cold, creamy milk, mint tea, ginger beer. She had to find water.
She calculated the distance she’d come. Probably ten miles since morning, but that was only a guess. She hoped she had traveled far enough that anyone who searched for her had given up.
The light faded now. She lifted her face to look at the sky and saw black clouds rolling and tumbling. The wind rustled the leaves above her head.
Hester did not try to find shelter. She sat beneath a sparse old tree and lifted her face to the glorious, wind-driven, pelting raindrops. The flashes of lightning and ear-splitting claps of thunder evoked no fear in her. She cupped her hands and caught the pure, clean water, licking it up like a dying animal.
She winced when hail bounced off her head, then covered herself as best she could with the coarse haversack. On her hands and knees, she raked crazily at the small bits of ice, stuffing them into her mouth and chewing them to pieces. She could not get enough. Shivering, she kept swallowing, opening her mouth to the driving rain that followed the hailstorm.
The trees bent and swayed. Lightning flashed in jagged streaks across the sky, followed immediately by loud claps of rolling thunder. Not once was she afraid. This was the way it was. Nature punched and bounced itself around upstairs, throwing lightning down with fiery swords. But in all that clatter, the gift of rain followed, saving withering fields of corn, assuring anxious housewives another chance at preserving enough vegetables for the coming winter.
Her thirst slaked now, Hester remained beneath the aging tree. She thought of looking for a sapling so she could strip the bark and gnaw the tender inside lining like a rabbit, but she was afraid her stomach would rebel because it was so empty. The last thing she needed was to get sick.
She was cold, shivering, and so hungry she decided to eat a whole strip of the jerky. She had to keep moving. The storm was a big help, the way it would wash away her tracks, but she could not relax or become sloppy or inattentive.
She filled the crockery jug full of water from the tumbling little brook that appeared in the crevice between two steep banks. Heartened, she walked swiftly along the dripping forest, thunder grumbling in the distance.
The land was leveling out now, becoming almost flat. She climbed another tree and was amazed to see a large clearing just ahead of her. Would there be people living close by? Her steps increased then, until she was panting a little, so eager was she to see what was in the clearing. A house? A town?
She ran shaking fingers through her long, unkempt hair. She looked down at her torn skirt, the blackened front of her shortgown, and decided to change into her clean one. Raking her hair back from her face, she snapped a piece of string from the ball in her haversack, then tied it securely. Washed clean by the rain, Hester decided she was presentable, just in case she did stumble onto another person. Or people.
She walked eagerly now, realizing the happiness she would feel in meeting anyone—a family, perhaps, or a couple alone. She traveled the entire length of the clearing, her head swiveling, searching, without seeing one building or a small soul. Well, so be it then. She’d likely find a spot to spend the night, then kill a small animal for her supper. She was not thirsty, she was reasonably clean, and she still possessed enough strength to care for herself.
She’d start a fire, although that thought gave her a scare, but only as long as she let it. The man by the river was very likely uninterested or unaware of her presence. Probably both.
In the shelter of the trees, she repeated the previous night’s ritual, although this supper was even tastier. The clearing popped with healthy, brown rabbits barely smart enough to hop away at the sight of her. She ate the succulent, browned meat, made a mild, tasteless tea with catnip from the meadow, then fell into an uncomfortable, restless sleep. The ground was wet and dripping. Her only cover was the sodden haversack and her soiled shortgown.
During the night, every fox and coyote in the mountains must have come down to the clearing to hunt rabbits. The yipping and barking and squealing were enough to wake the soundest sleeper. Finally, wet, uncomfortable, and chilled, Hester got up, poked the coals of her fire to a small flicker, then set the crockery jug on a hot stone to heat the catnip tea.
Sitting cross-legged, she lifted her face to view the vast panorama of stars in the night sky that was washed clean by the afternoon’s hailstorm. Every one of those stars looked as if they had had their faces scrubbed, they were so bright and shining.
Alone in the vast universe without the base creature comforts she had always taken for granted, Hester sensed a wild elation growing in her chest. Her senses were freed like an eagle in flight, and her spirits soared. Ah, yes. “They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall rise up as eagles.”
“Here I am, God. Please look after me. Amen.” One star blinked, smiled, and bowed to her.
CHAPTER 3
IN THE MORNING SHE SQUATTED BY THE FIRE, poking a peeled, green branch into the cooking rabbit to test if it was done. Satisfied, she raked the crisp meat onto a section of willow bark, then bent her head to blow on it so it would be cool enough to eat.
Ravenous, she ate in great, tearing gulps, her strong, white teeth ripping the meat away from the bones. It was good even without salt. She tested the wild artichokes roasting in the fire, rolling them gingerly before popping a section into her mouth.
After she had eaten, she packed the haversack, set it aside, then kicked dirt on the fire, replacing the natural order of growing grasses as best she could. She lifted her face to the sun and walked toward it. East. Always east.
In long, loping strides, she covered the clearing and entered the surrounding forest. Her strength bolstered by the rabbit cooked over the fire, she was tireless. The air was crisp and clean without the pressing humidity.
The day passed the way the previous two had. She climbed ridges, then slid down the opposite side, hunger and thirst her only company. She found pokeberries, wild leeks, and a few tart strawberries that made her mouth pucker. Later on, a stomachache forced her to sit beneath a tree to rest. The wild creatures watched her approach, then slid noiselessly into the underbrush and behind fallen logs.
The sun had already dropped behind the high mountain ahead of her, the shadows lengthening to create a long twilight on the west side of the mountain. As usual, she was thirsty. She knew the best place to find water was at the base of the mountain, so she’d stay on this side for the night. She searched as long as the light befriended her, then stopped in defeat. Well, she’d survive till morning. If there was no water, she’d just rest for the night. Her stomach felt as if it would cave in, shutting off her airways with its deflating. There was nothing to do for it.
She did find a patch of liverwort. She knew the flat-leafed herb grew only in moist places, so she bent her back and spread her fingers through the crumpled edges of the leaves. The earth beneath the herb was damp, but not wet. She looked for a sturdy green branch, shaved the tip to a digging tool, then walked downwind to a place where the slope fell into a crevice.
Here she began to dig, repeatedly inserting her hand to feel for moisture. Her tongue clung to the roof of her mouth, her head buzzed with fatigue. When blisters formed on her palms, she pitched the pointed stick angrily to the grou
nd and flopped down on the forest floor. But she did not give into the weakness of women. She did not cry. She merely gave up, fixed a bed of leaves, and dropped off into a fitful sleep. The sliver of moon that rose above the trees gave no light. It just hung in the sky above the endless green of the forest, a slice of peace and tranquility, a small thing of beauty, completely unnoticed by the sleeping Hester.
Another morning brought thirst like cotton fibers in her mouth. She thought of digging deeper, then looked at the angry red spots on her hands where the water-filled blisters had popped, leaving the tender skin exposed and burning.
The sun already dappled the way as she hauled the haversack on to her shoulder and set out. She would not attempt this mountain, even if it was a low one. She would walk north until she found water.
She tried not to think of water. Or tea, or any cold, frosty drink from the springhouse. She swallowed, then swallowed again. She coughed, a dry, rasping sound that surprised her.
When she broke out of the forest to a clearing lush with yellow tangled grasses, raspberry bushes, thorny wild roses, burdock, thistle, and locust seedlings, she stopped, sniffing the air warily. This field may have been tilled at one time.
She remembered Theodore Crane, the schoolmaster, telling her how the land reclaimed itself after settlers moved on. One of the most invasive plants were wild rosebushes, their roots multiplying underneath the thick, unkempt grasses. They and the locust seedlings.
Warily now, her thirst forgotten, her large, dark eyes roved the clearing, searching for buildings, piles of stone, split rail fences, any sign of human dwellings.
She stood as still as a stone. Nothing moved except the strands of loose hair that straggled across her forehead and the black eyes beneath them. She sniffed, then turned her head to sniff once more. Yes. Unsurprised, she caught the faint smell of woodsmoke. Turning back the way she had come, she glided noiselessly to the safety of the trees.
She’d skirt the clearing, remaining hidden. She would watch. She moved stealthily now, bent forward, dashing from tree to tree, lifting her head to breathe deeply. Ah, yes. The smell of smoke. She was surprised at the sharp sensation of homesickness. She smelled the smoke that had curled down from the stone chimney even in summer, when the cooking and baking needed to be done.
How her stepmother grumbled on humid mornings when the smoke hung over her laundry, infusing the spotless, sweet-smelling linens with its earthy scent. She conjured up the thought of breakfast cooked in cast iron kettles over the fire—fried corn meal mush with dried beef, plenty of eggs, and thick slices of good bread spread with churned butter. And all the water she could drink in the redware tumblers.
She felt lightheaded now. The forest spun, tilted to the right, then at a crazy angle to the left before righting itself, allowing her to keep moving. The smell of smoke was sharp and suddenly acrid. She froze when the deep baying of a hound dog began. Another voice chimed in. The high-pitched wail ended on a much higher note, stopped, then began all over again.
Hester’s eyes searched for low branches. She found some pines, swung herself up into the lowest one, and climbed rapidly, her bare feet curling around the scaley extension, the pine tar harsh to her nose.
When the hounds’ baying increased to a frenzy, she peered beneath the bough of the great evergreen to find the source of the woodsmoke far below to her left. A small gray house built of logs, with a weathered roof made of split shingles and covered in heavy green moss on the north side, stood at the edge of the clearing. Like a humble, squat soldier, it presided over the tangle of weeds and brush that covered the clearing. There were no out buildings, no barn.
The house had a porch on the gabled end to the north, where the cool shade of summer provided a place of comfort away from the blazing sun. A small section of the porch contained an uneven pile of firewood, stacked, but not efficiently. A stump in the yard hosted an axe sunk into its top, along with various articles that didn’t appear useful.
She spied the hounds. Skinny, ungainly creatures, their bawling mouths wide, their lolling tongues waggling as they howled, their noses turned in her direction.
A door slapped open, then shut. A stout man appeared, but he was too far away to determine his age or the color of his clothing. He yelled something unintelligible and the hounds slunk away, their tails curled beneath them, cowering.
Hester remained in the tree as the man went back into the house, slamming the door shut behind him. She weighed her options. Her thirst became the deciding factor. She would ask for a drink, ask to have her jug filled, then move on fast. She’d risk being attacked by the hounds.
She lowered herself, branch by branch, until her feet hit the soft bed of pine needles. Shrugging her shoulders, she adjusted the haversack and stepped out of the forest, thirst taking the place of common sense.
As she had hoped, the shrill baying of the dogs brought the man to the door immediately, yelling orders in a language Hester did not understand. As before, the dogs slunk away, lowered their bellies, and crept beneath the porch. Startled, the man watched her coming across the edge of the clearing. He waited, a thick hand on the rough post supporting the roof of the porch.
A few bare spots held back the soiled tufts of grass among the rusted junk and various tools that spoke of times when someone tilled the soil. A few bones, lengths of string, pieces of bark, and clumps of dirt, rocks, and leaves littered the area surrounding the cabin. As she drew closer, she saw the man’s beard was flecked with gray, the mustache drooping above it gray as well, yellowed, and uncut. His hair was long and tied back with a thong of rawhide, his clothes of undetermined origin, color, or cleanliness. Hester guessed his age to be around fifty, perhaps close to the age of her father.
Her words were a croak, unable to be understood. Hester tried to clear her throat but was unsuccessful. She stopped and pointed to her dry mouth, her pride pushing back the desperation she felt.
“Wal, wal.”
The man’s eyes were kindly, crinkled in a weather-beaten face. Eagerly, Hester watched him turn, go into the cabin, then emerge with a large metal dipper with a long curved handle, precious water dripping from it like diamonds. Muttering like a person gone mad, Hester reached for it, lifted it to her lips, and drank sparingly before lowering it.
His eyes approved, then he spoke to her in a foreign tongue. Hester did not reply. She lifted the dipper and swallowed once more.
“Where?” he asked.
She shrugged. He watched her savor a few more swallows, then turned and motioned her to follow. But she remained on the porch, standing uncertainly against the post, still cradling the dipper, greedily possessing it.
He came back out and offered her a crust of dark bread and a piece of soft cheese. His hands were darkened by hard work or soil, the nails black around the outer edges. A sour smell, an aura of soiled clothes and unwashed skin, surrounded her, making her shrink away, her eyes lowered.
“Don’t be afraid.” His words were halting and heavily accented.
When Hester lifted her eyes and saw his kindness, his will to please, she reached out and took the food from him. She gulped the coarse, nutty-flavored bread, washing it down with insatiable gulps of water that ran down the sides of her chin. She ate the soft cheese that tasted a bit moldy.
She handed the water dipper back to him and he refilled it, watching as she slurped thirstily. He brought more bread and cheese, which she ate ravenously.
She would not sit down or enter his house. In halting English, she told him she must move on. She had learned to speak it in school, but her time there had been so short and often sporadic, so that she had to concentrate to come up with the right word.
“Where you going?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why?”
She shrugged.
He invited her to stay. He said he would not harm her. She did not believe him. She stepped off the porch and bent to pickup her haversack, meaning to be on her way.
His voice
behind her stopped her. “You need water. I will give you more bread.”
She turned, hesitant.
“Come.”
She followed him inside. At first, the dim light disoriented her, but she soon made out the shape of the fireplace, a table and chair, a bed in the corner, unmade. The logs inside were brown, not gray or weather-beaten like the outside. There were mounted deer antlers, skins stretched from peg to peg, and a shelf containing dishes and heavy pans. A few rumpled cloths covered with dirt lay in front of the fireplace.
Hester smelled the aroma of cooking and saw the black pot above the red coals. Her mouth watered. She watched the man warily, unable to scale the wall of suspicion. Mistrust left her pacing the room like a caged animal.
He brought a brown parcel and held it out to her, his eyes watching her face. “Take it.”
She did, quickly, before he changed his mind. She turned to place it in her sack, then straightened, ready to go.
“You want soup?”
She nodded.
“Sit.”
He hurried to draw up a chair, then cleared the bullets and skins away from her, leaving the table bare. Going to the fireplace, he ladled the thick, brown soup into a bowl, then placed it carefully on the wooden table. He brought a pewter spoon, as big as a tablespoon.
The soup was thick and rich, with a flavor she couldn’t identify. She raised her eyebrows and pointed to the dish. “What is it?”
“Turtle.”
Hester nodded. She had made soup from the gummy, white flesh of the snapping turtles from the pond in the lower field. It had to be boiled for hours, until the thick chunks turned into threads, then flavored with fresh herbs, carrots, and leeks. This was good. It filled Hester with strength, giving her a bright, new start, returning energy that had flagged to the point of exhaustion.