“I don’t understand.”
“The Indians watch as Cornish men do battle with the Irish. They watch as the good churchgoing miners get roaring drunk every Friday and Saturday night. They watch as the same families go to their separate churches on Sunday and sing songs about Jesus.
“I show them my Bible, which I call sacred, and it is sacred. They then show me their writings that they preserve upon birch bark books that they also call sacred. I see their dances and songs of faith, and they hear us singing songs and lighting candles and sprinkling incense about, and they see no difference.”
Skypilot glanced at his pocket watch. He had less than a half hour before he needed to be back on that ship, and yet Father Slovic showed no signs of slowing down.
“Do you realize that before the Europeans began to settle here, dishonesty was practically unknown among the Chippewa? So was selfishness. They greeted their visitors, gave them food and drink, and helped the first Europeans as they were used to doing for one another. I have to admit, I have not always felt justified in trying to teach these people the white man’s religion. That’s what they call it, you know, the white man’s religion. As though Jesus himself was white.”
“Father Slovic”—Skypilot glanced at his watch again—“I am grateful to you and for your hospitality, but exactly what are you trying to tell me?”
“That if you come into my country among my people teaching the gospel with words that you do not back up with godly actions . . .” Father Slovic’s eyes blazed. “I will despise you, and so will Moon Song’s people.
“Unless you know in your heart that you can live a life of dignity and honor here, unless you believe that you can pledge yourself to that girl for the rest of your life, then don’t stay and add to the tears that have already been shed in this country. Don’t be yet another man who comes here as a Christian only to dishonor the Lord’s name.”
Skypilot felt the heat and impact of Slovic’s words and knew they came from harsh experience. One of his teachers in seminary had once said that the biggest stumbling block ever presented to people receiving the gospel was Christians acting badly.
“If she’ll have me, I won’t leave her. Ever. I will also try to live as close as humanly possible to the teachings of Jesus.”
“Well, then.” Slovic picked up a pen. “You have an education. Have you ever considered teaching school?”
“I did a little teaching this past winter when I was laid up at the lumber camp with an injury. There were three children in camp. Why?”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“A great deal.”
“Then here is the name of an acquaintance of mine who is in charge of a school at the Minnesota Mine near Rockland, Michigan. It is at the base of the Keweenaw, near the center, so I’d suggest you find water transportation to Ontonagon. If you get off there, it will put you about twenty miles from Rockland instead of trying to walk in from Copper Harbor.”
Father Slovic scribbled the name on a piece of paper. “They’ve been without a teacher for over two months. It is near the end of the school year, but you might be able to do some good in the next few weeks. The building they have is not much, and you’ll have to share it with the Methodist church that meets there. Most of the parents I met are not particularly interested in their children’s education. The children fight among themselves, Cornish against Irish, as do their parents. It does not pay a lot, but it does come with room and board and a chance to live close enough to see Moon Song from time to time. My advice is to spend the summer and winter there before you make a permanent decision. Make sure you have what it takes to stick it out before you do more damage to her than what has already been done. You need to, at the very least, experience snow like you have never experienced before in your life.”
“I’ve cut timber in the Saginaw Valley. Trust me, I have experienced snow.”
“You really have no idea what you are talking about, but you will. The Saginaw Valley is mild compared to the snow and cold we experience here. I’ve written a note on the bottom of this address recommending you.”
The warning whistle of the steamboat blew. As Slovic was seeing him through the kitchen to the door, Mrs. Veachy triumphantly pulled a pan of small, crescent-shaped pies from the oven. “I hoped to have these finished for you in time.”
“Ah,” Slovic said. “Mrs. Veachy has made some pasties for your journey.”
“Pasties?”
“The Cornish women make these every day for their mining husbands. They time it so that the pasties are coming hot out of the oven as their husbands go out the door. They put them inside of their coats to keep them warm as they walk to the mines.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He tucked two of the savory-smelling, cloth-covered pasties in his pocket. “But are either of you going to tell me where Moon Song is?”
“No. I’ll get word to her through some of my Chippewa friends where you are,” Father Slovic said. “If Moon Song wants to find you, she will. If she doesn’t, you’ll never see her.”
The mining town of Rockland was little more than a few dozen log cabins huddled along the main trail, and the structures that supported the mine work along with one church/school, a general store, and a boardinghouse. Also, two larger frame homes with Gothic overtones rose apart from the rough log cabins. He assumed those were the homes of owners or overseers. Even around these loftier homes, the grounds were muddy, raw, and bare. Tree stumps were everywhere.
It was as though the earth did not exist to produce any living thing here but only to vomit up copper. The forests had been denuded all around. Smoke curled from a few chimneys where there must be cooking going on because it was far too warm to need a fire for warmth. These few acres compared to the sweeping grandeur of the lakeshore he had seen as he had sailed around the tip of the Keweenaw to Ontonagon was like comparing the pockmarked face of the moon he had glimpsed once through a friend’s pair of strong field glasses to paradise.
Although he appreciated Father Slovic’s note of introduction, he arrived at the Minnesota Mine footsore from walking, disoriented by how much his original plans had changed, and doubting in his heart whether the position was available. He also wondered if he would be up to the job. The teaching position here, at least the way Slovic had described it, didn’t seem all that welcoming a proposition. Perhaps going into the copper mines would be preferable, although he knew nothing about mining, and the idea of going so far underground did not seem at all attractive.
Slovic’s acquaintance, a Mr. Harvey Turney, turned out to be one of the foremen of the mining operation, and when Skypilot handed him Slovic’s recommendation, he studied it, frowned at Skypilot, then studied it some more.
“You don’t look like a teacher. You look more like a lumberjack.”
“I’ve been both.”
“And it says here that you go by the nickname of Skypilot?”
“That’s what they called me in the lumber camps. It kind of stuck. My given name is Isaac Ross.”
“I’ve heard that the shanty boys in lumber camps call preachers Skypilots. Are you a preacher?”
“I used to be.”
Mr. Turney spit a long stream of tobacco juice at a scroungy cat slinking by. Skypilot didn’t know if that expressed the man’s contempt for cats or for preachers. The cat stopped just long enough to hiss at Harvey Turney, so he chose to believe that this interchange involved a long-standing feud between the two.
“The former teacher here lasted three days.”
Skypilot felt his stomach sink. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Got the kids a two months’ vacation, which is what they were aiming for. They’ll be all cocked and primed for you.”
He knew it was too much to hope for, but he had to ask. “Did the teacher leave any lesson plans behind?”
Turney switched the wad of chaw from one side of his cheek to another. “Don’t know about that, but there’s a pile of books still there unless them hooligans set fire to t
hem.”
Skypilot’s stomach sank even further.
Turney handed the recommendation back to him. “Well, you got the job. If nothing else, you’re big. That might scare them a little. Boardinghouse is over there. The pay is room and board and fifty cents a day if you teach. The pay is nothing if you don’t show up.”
That was less than half what he made in the lumber camps, and the way Turney spoke, it sounded nearly as dangerous. Slovic had said he should give it a year. He wished Moon Song knew what he was sacrificing for her.
He stopped himself. Sacrifice? He did not like the fact that that word had just cropped up. Tonight he would have to spend a good long time on his knees praying for forgiveness for seeing this opportunity that the Lord had handed him as a sacrifice.
“School would usually be closing in a couple weeks,” Turney said. “But since it’s already been closed all this time, let’s plan on you keeping it open through the end of July. Teach the mean little beggers a lesson for running the teacher off. You can give ’em August off for summer vacation. Start back in September if you’re still around.”
“I appreciate the job,” Skypilot said politely.
Turney gave a rough laugh. “You won’t for long.”
20
The bright eyes that surveyed him from behind the shared desks watched him studiously, but he got the distinct feeling that it had nothing to do with the subject he was trying to teach.
His neck hair stood up each time he turned his back on them, and there was a general feeling of uneasiness in the pit of his stomach.
So far the most he’d had to do was pull apart boys who were fighting. American-born kids against Cornish kids against Swedish kids, and all of them ganging up on the Irish kids, who were tough little nuts that could hold their own. Rocks were sometimes involved. Broken bones. Knocked-out teeth.
The last thing on any of these kids’ minds was books and learning. With the exception of some of the sweeter, more serious girls, they were all too busy planning their next battle. At first he’d tried to integrate them within the classroom, a place where he thought democracy should hold sway, but that had turned into a disaster. Now the different factions each held to their own geographic location in the classroom, and the physical distance between those factions had become wider and wider as those on the outskirts imperceptibly scooted their chairs farther and farther away from those not of their own countrymen.
“The square root of—”
Something hit his neck. He smacked at it, and his hand came away with a spit wad. He whirled around to see who had thrown it.
Everyone feigned innocence, except two of the littlest girls who looked at him with sad eyes and three older girls who stared at the floor and blushed at the indignity he had just endured.
The hollowed-out tube that blew the spit wad at him was probably stuffed up someone’s sleeve or pants leg right now. He’d have to inspect every last child to find out who the culprit was. How was one to teach under these circumstances?
Even though he was facing them, another spit wad hit him on the side of the face. Again, everyone on that side of the school feigned innocence, and the others snickered.
He’d thought it had been too quiet in the classroom but couldn’t put his finger on what was bothering him. Evidently, he’d been sensing the fact that the children had called a temporary truce between themselves in order to get rid of the new teacher. They weren’t happy about being kept in class during the month of July. Their truce gave them the energy to more fully concentrate on their objective.
He could have given any one of them a good shake or even a good smack. No one in this town would care one iota. Definitely not Mr. Turney. Such punishment was mild compared to what he saw some of the rougher parents doling out to their children on the street. But he had a feeling that if he did use his superior strength on them, things would only get worse. He would become the enemy indeed from that point, and the battle would be on.
On the other hand, he couldn’t exactly call recess to get them out of his hair until he could reclaim his equilibrium. That would be rewarding bad behavior.
He glanced out the window, praying for inspiration, and saw something that gave him an idea.
“I believe we’re all feeling a little restless with summer here,” he said. “Let’s go for a walk.”
“All of us?” the little girl on the front row said. She was still so small, her feet did not touch the ground when she sat on the school bench.
“All of us,” he said. “I’m thinking about having a contest.”
“What’s the prize?” one of the bigger boys, an American-born boy named Rupert, asked.
Prize, indeed. He glanced around the schoolroom. Nothing much popped out at him. Then he remembered dinner last night.
“The woman who runs the boardinghouse where I live makes the best chocolate pies I’ve ever tasted. How about I buy a whole chocolate pie for whoever wins the contest.”
There was a general affirmation at this. He had their attention. The spit wads, temporarily, ceased.
As they trooped out behind him, he hoped that he could keep this from turning into a free-for-all and prayed that he could finish out the day without anyone getting hurt—including himself.
The thing that had caught his eye outside was an enormous woodpile that needed to get chopped before next winter. Judging from the height of the pile, there was no end to the need for firewood here. He’d been whittling away at it himself at odd times, splitting the chunks of wood into smaller sections that would fit into the woodstove they kept at the back of the schoolroom/church building that the mining company had provided. There were two axes locked away in the storage shed. Both, thanks to his attention, were sharp as razors.
Most of the children, especially the boys, were used to being sent out to the woodpile to bring in kindling and firewood. They would know their way around an axe.
He divided the older boys and those girls who wanted to participate into two teams at random, after sitting the smaller children in a group off to one side far enough away to be safe once the chips started to fly.
There were complaints. He had anticipated there would be.
“I don’t want to be on his team,” one boy said, pointing to a redheaded Irish boy who immediately piled into him with his fists.
Skypilot pulled the two boys apart and held them by the scruff of their necks while they took ineffective swings at each other.
“Look at me. Does it look like I care if you want to be on the same team?” He gave them both a shake. “Does it?”
“No, sir,” the older boy said. The Irish boy simply put his hands in his pockets as his way of calling a truce. Skypilot let go of them.
“Whichever team wins today gets chocolate pie tomorrow!” he called out. Then he showed them what he wanted them to do.
During what was left of the school hour, the two teams tried to beat each other at who could split the biggest pile of wood. Skypilot used his watch and called “time” every five minutes, whereupon one would put down their axe, and another boy or girl would take their place. He kept the two teams far apart in case anyone’s axe swing went wild.
From time to time, he would call out in a singsong voice, “Chocolate pie,” and their efforts would be renewed. Some of the older children actually had some skill and did a respectable job. It pleased him when some of the children, getting into the spirit of the thing, called out encouragement to teammates even though they were from different backgrounds.
Finally he called it quits and measured the two woodpiles. The team that won happily congratulated themselves.
“I forgot to tell you.” He rolled up his sleeves. “There’s a third team. Those little ones over there. Since most of them can barely lift an axe, I’ll be their team captain. If I win, the little kids’ team wins the pie.”
He handed his pocket watch to one of the smaller girls.
“Call out ‘time’ when fifteen minutes is up, Abbey. You”—he poi
nted to one of the older boys—“watch over her shoulder and make sure she gets it right.”
Then he had all the children stand back. He spit on his hands and started splitting wood.
He had always had a special affinity for an axe. Like some men had a talent for playing the violin, he could practically make his axe sing as it sailed through that pile, splitting it into chunks of firewood perfectly sized for their school stove. When the little girl called out “time,” his pile of wood was three times the size of either of the ones the children had cut.
“Guess my team gets the chocolate pie.” He rested his axe over his shoulder. The smaller children started laughing, clapping, and hugging each other.
“That’s not fair,” one of the older boys said. “You’re bigger and stronger than we are.”
“Exactly,” Skypilot said. “I’m bigger, I’m stronger, and I could break any one of you in half for the trick you pulled this morning. In fact”—he stood close to the boy and deliberately towered over him—“there’s a big part of me that would love to do that. Fortunately for you, an even bigger part of me wants to march all of you in there right now and finish our arithmetic lesson for the day.”
That was exactly what he did. Maybe it was the physical exertion that had calmed everyone down. Maybe it was the demonstration of his superior size and strength. Maybe it was simply the change in scenery for a few moments that helped the children concentrate. But they paid attention and did their work. He was surprised how proud he felt of this small accomplishment. Getting and keeping the attention of those ornery youngsters and beating them at their own game had given him a heady feeling that he seldom experienced. Teaching a room filled with wriggling children was one of the hardest things he had ever done, and strangely enough . . . the most satisfying.
He smiled thinking about the surprise he had planned for them tomorrow for their noon meal. It might cost him a week’s wages, but he intended to have enough chocolate pie for everyone to get a nice, thick piece.
Under a Blackberry Moon Page 20