The Amethyst Heart

by Penelope J. Stokes

  “He suggests it, Mother, because he’s right.” Abraham let out a shuddering sigh. “Face it, Mother—real life does not always turn out the way you believe it should. Maybe it has for you and Father. You had this great romance, this rich heritage of doing good for the downtrodden. And it’s no secret you expected better from me. But I’m not like you. And I never will be, no matter how much you pray for me to change.”

  The word pray came out with a sarcastic sneer, and Silas saw an expression of pain flash over his wife’s face.

  “So we won’t be waiting until spring,” Abe went on. “We’re getting married right away, before the truth becomes too obvious. The Littletons have been told, and now you. No one else will know—unless they go to the trouble to count backward when the baby is born.” He shrugged. “Don’t take on about it, Mother. It happens all the time.”

  Pearl blinked back tears, and Silas did his best to set aside his own feelings and resign himself to the reality of the situation. He was too old, too sick, and too tired to waste energy on his son’s foolishness. Abe would just have to live with the consequences. He only hoped that the baby wouldn’t suffer from its parents’ irresponsibility.

  The thought arrested him. The baby!

  Silas had birthed enough children in his life to know that every newborn infant brought fresh hope into the world. No matter how reckless and self-centered Abe and Pansy were, there was now another life to think about and pray for—the unborn child that was even now developing in the womb.

  His grandson . . . or granddaughter!

  March 1900

  The new century had dawned, but Silas barely had the energy to notice.

  His body had weakened steadily since fall, as the cancer spread. But it was not just the cancer that was eating away at him; it was also the perpetual tension in the household. When Bick Littleton had discovered that Enoch had paid off the debts of his best field hands and taken them to work on Noble land, he flew into a rage and refused to complete the house he had promised to Silas Noble’s only son. With nowhere else to go, Abe and Pansy had come to live at Noble House, and the burden had fallen upon Pearl to care for the two of them, along with nursing Silas as the disease doled out his final days.

  Abe, of course, did little besides ride his horse into town to drink and gamble, and Pansy hadn’t lifted a finger in months. Always dependent, pregnancy had rendered her even more helpless. Shortly after the wedding, she had taken to her bed, panicked that if she did the least bit of work, something might happen to the baby. Never mind that women had for ages done grueling manual labor right up until the time they delivered, with few ill effects. Pansy was the exception.

  Abe, in typical form, had adjusted poorly to no longer being the center of his wife’s attention. They argued, often loudly and long into the night, especially after Abe had been drinking. Sometimes he would leave in the middle of the night, stalking out and slamming the door and not returning until morning. No apology would follow, nor a word of explanation. Just a sullen moping about until he and Pansy made up, or until some real or imagined slight sparked the next argument.

  Meanwhile, Silas’s illness had progressed to the point that he barely recognized himself when he looked in the mirror—which wasn’t often, for he rarely had the strength to get out of bed. His arms and legs were bony and drawn, and his skin hung in pasty gray folds.

  It wouldn’t be long now. He was simply waiting. Holding on with a fierce grip to the last moments of life.

  In spiritual terms, Silas was ready to die. He had no question about his eternal destiny. He looked forward, in fact, to being released from the pain that racked his body and the fatigue that drained his soul. And he was certainly ready for a little peace and quiet. But there was one thing he had to do before he let go.

  Upstairs, in the bedroom she shared with Abe, Pansy was in labor.

  Pearl came down regularly to inform him of her progress and ask his advice about the birthing. She would deliver the child herself, with the aid of a local midwife. Abe was nowhere to be found.

  Silas lay on the big four-poster bed in the downstairs bedroom and listened to the sounds of labor, sounds he knew well from years of delivering babies. Pansy shrieked a lot more—and a good deal louder—than most of the women he had helped, but that was to be expected. He waited and prayed.

  At last he heard the sweet sound his old ears had been longing for—the lusty, bawling cry of a newborn. He could see it in his mind’s eye—the child wriggling, protesting heartily at the injustice of being removed from its warm womb and forced out into the cold, frightening world. Tears filled his eyes, for he knew, as the baby could not, what a splendid world it could be, full of light and love and promise and purpose.

  With great effort he struggled to his feet, reached for his cane, and went to open the dresser drawer.

  The amethyst and pearl brooch lay in its accustomed place, nestled inside the velvet box. Years ago, he and Pearl had discussed giving the brooch to Abe as a wedding gift for his wife, according to Noble tradition. But given their son’s penchant for gambling and drink, they had decided to wait, to pass it on to their first grandchild, if they ever had one. And now that child had been born.

  Silas pulled the amethyst heart from its casing and turned it over in his bony hands. His eyes could no longer see the inscription on the back, but he knew what it said: Sincerity. Purity. Nobility. ”Lord God,” he whispered, “let this child live up to the Noble name.”

  With a shaky movement he dropped the brooch into his sweater pocket and slowly made his way up the stairs. When he reached the doorway and grasped hold of the doorpost for support, Pearl turned and saw him.

  “It’s a girl,” she whispered through her tears. “We have a grand­daughter!”

  Silas shuffled toward the bed and reached down to take his daughter-in-law’s hand. Her hair, usually perfectly coiffed, was plastered in damp strands against the pillow. Her nightgown was stained with sweat and blood.

  She gazed up at him with a vacant expression. “Where’s Abe?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “He’ll be back, I’m sure.”

  “Eventually.” She turned her head away.

  “What is her name?” he asked.

  “Whose?”

  “The baby. It’s a girl, you know.”

  “Oh. Yes, I know.” The emptiness in her eyes tugged at his heart. “Doesn’t matter. You name her.”

  Silas frowned. “That’s not for me to decide. Haven’t you and Abraham come up with possible names?”

  Pansy shook her head. “No.”

  “Well, what would you like her name to be?”

  At last a little life came into the girl’s face—but it was anger, not interest. “I said, it doesn’t matter,” she responded. “You do it.” She pushed the baby in his direction and closed her eyes.

  Silas reached out and took the child in his arms. Supported by Pearl, he gazed down into the tiny face and looked into his granddaughter’s eyes, and his heart stirred. “I feel like Simeon,” he murmured. “Lord, now let your servant depart in peace.” He smiled at his wife. “But not quite yet.”

  With Pearl following behind, he shuffled down the hallway and out onto the small balcony above the front door—the courting porch, Booker had called it. It was a perfect night, cool and clear. The moon had risen, casting a pale light over the yard. The scent of dogwoods and azaleas wafted to him on the evening breeze.

  In a brief moment, it all came back—all the feelings he had experienced over the years in this house. His deep love for his Pearl of great price. His sense of fulfillment at doing something with his life that counted—not just for time, but for eternity. The liberty that had come to his soul in this place.

  He leaned against the wall for support, cradled the child in one arm, and with some difficulty pinned the heart-shaped brooch onto her blanket. From a lifetime ago, his grandmother’s answer came back to him: It is as priceless as the one who wears it is to the one who g
ives it.

  Looking into the face of his infant granddaughter, Silas knew that Grandmama’s words were true. His ancient eyes fixed on the brooch. The amethyst glittered dimly, and the pearls that surrounded it glowed with a faint luminescence, like little moons. One of the pearls was still missing. Human nature, his wife had said. Precious, yet flawed. Priceless, even in its incompleteness.

  Silas nodded in Pearl’s direction and summoned the last ounce of his physical strength to raise his newborn granddaughter over his head, as he had long ago seen Booker do with Enoch. “We commit this child to the purposes of the Almighty,” he whispered, “and name her Amethyst Pearl Noble.”

  Breathless, Silas slid down the wall to a sitting position, still holding the baby in his hands. Pearl sat down next to him, weeping as he prayed: “May she draw from her heritage the faith and love of her ancestors, and may she live a life worthy of her name and her calling. . . .”

  The infant made no sound. She gazed into her grandfather’s eyes as if she understood every word he uttered. Perhaps, as Silas had long suspected, the newly born did come into the world bearing the wisdom of the ages.

  Silas drew the baby close to his chest and held her there. “Live, my little Amethyst,” he murmured, “live under your grandparents’ blessing. Find your way to truth, no matter what it takes. . . .”

  The child’s tiny hand closed around his finger, gripping it as if she would never let go. Then her head nodded against his shoulder, and his lolled back against the wall.

  “One goin’ out, while another’s comin’ in,” Silas murmured.

  And as he breathed his last, the baby slept on.

  18

  Legacy

  March 14, 1993

  And that was you, Grandam?”

  Amethyst looked up at her great-granddaughter. Since yesterday evening, off and on, she had been telling Little Am the story of Silas and Pearl. Now tears glistened in the girl’s brown eyes, and a wistful smile crept over her face.

  “Yes, child. I was that baby. The day I was born, Grandpa Silas died. One was going out, while another was coming in.”

  “So you never got to know him. That’s so sad.”

  “I knew him, all right.” Amethyst shook her head. “Just not the way you mean. His blood runs in my veins, and his blessing influenced my life in some rather miraculous ways.”

  “But where did you get all this information?” Little Am persisted. “Did you grow up hearing these stories from your grandma Pearl?”

  “No,” Amethyst sighed, an old familiar regret washing over her. “My grandmother Pearl died the following year.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “I’m not certain. My suspicion is that, with Silas gone, she simply decided it was time to go. It’s not unusual, you know—true love has a powerful draw on people.”

  Little Am’s eyes took on a faraway look. “I hope someday I find that kind of love.”

  “I pray you do, too, child. Love is what makes each day special and unique. Love gives purpose and meaning to life.”

  “Have you ever had that kind of love, Grandam?” The girl lifted one eyebrow. “You know, real passion?”

  “It’s probably hard for you to believe, since you’ve only known me as a decrepit old woman, but yes, I’ve had my share of love. More than my share, if truth be told.”

  “Well,” Little Am declared, sitting back and folding her arms, “you can bet I want to hear that story.”

  Amethyst chuckled. “Why? Because you can’t imagine your old Grandam as a wild young thing?”

  “You? Wild?” Little Am’s eyes wandered to the den wall, where the unloaded shotgun leaned against the fireplace. “Come to think of it, it’s not too difficult to think of you as wild, Grandam. I mean, you showed a pretty wild streak when you stood up to Grandpa Con and locked him out of the house.”

  “Your grandfather would probably say that I showed an insane streak,” Amethyst corrected. “And it may get me into trouble.”

  “I think we’re already in trouble,” Little Am countered. “But it sure is fun.” She sat in silence for a minute. “Silas was a real hero, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, child, he was. Not in the sense of winning the Medal of Honor or being famous, but simply by being faithful to what he was called to do.” Amethyst got up from the chair and stretched her arthritic limbs, then walked to the wall that separated the log cabin room from the dining room and took down a picture. She handed it to Little Am. “Do you know who that is?”

  Am stared at the photograph. “Of course I do. I make A’s in history. It’s Abraham Lincoln.”

  “Can you read the inscription?”

  “It says, ‘To Silas Noble, with appreciation for your contributions to the cause. A. Lincoln.’ I suppose he means the abolition of slavery, and the help Silas gave to the wounded soldiers?”

  “That’s my assumption. From what we know, Grandpa Silas was a great man, in a very quiet way.”

  “That brings me back to my original question, Grandam. How do you know all these details about Silas’s life?”

  “See that bookcase on the right side of the desk?”

  Little Am nodded.

  “Bring one of the books from the top two shelves over here.”

  Little Am went to the bookcase and returned with a faded red leather volume. “What is it?”

  “This,” Amethyst answered, stroking the cover lovingly, “is one of nearly fifty journals left by Pearl Noble.”

  The girl’s eyes grew wide. “Really? Cool.”

  “Cool doesn’t begin to describe the contents of these books,” Amethyst said. “Pearl kept records of everything—the daily events of their lives, the crises, the slaves’ experiences. And not just what happened, but her philosophy—her thoughts about the times, about the Emancipation, about the confusing and difficult struggles that followed the war. Her journals are a treasure trove of history—and they give a lot of insight into her heart and mind as well.”

  “May I see it?” Little Am reached out a hand.

  Amethyst smiled to herself. Clearly, the story of Silas and Pearl was working on her granddaughter. The zombie hadn’t reasserted itself since she had begun to tell the tale, and now Little Am was asking politely rather than demanding what she wanted—and in proper English, no less.

  “No,” she said, pulling the book away with a teasing smile. “You may not see it. You may have it.”

  “To keep? For good?” Little Am’s eyes flashed with anticipation.

  “For good. And all the others as well. But if you don’t mind, I’d prefer them to stay here, in the house.”

  “Oh, sure,” Am replied distantly. “Whatever.” Her attention was riveted on the pages. After a minute or two she looked up. “I just had the strangest feeling, Grandam. Like these journals are about me.”

  “In a way, they are.” Amethyst nodded with satisfaction; the girl was beginning to understand. “We’re not born in a vacuum, child. We’re the product of our genetic makeup, our environment, our influences. And although I don’t quite comprehend it myself, I’m convinced that somehow we can be affected by the spiritual legacy left to us by ancestors whose names we’ve never even heard.”

  “You mean like in China?” Little Am put in. “I’ve read about how people in Oriental countries worship their ancestors.”

  “You did get A’s in history,” Amethyst commented. “But I’m not talking about worshiping those who have gone before us. I simply believe we can be influenced by the heritage of the people we carry inside of us. The way I was influenced by Grandpa Silas.”

  “Great. So I’m going to become like Con and Mimsy?” Am twisted her mouth up in a grimace.

  “Not necessarily. If you have the insight, you can choose who your spiritual mentors will be.”

  Amethyst watched the wheels turning as her great-granddaughter considered this. At last Little Am closed the journal and sat up straighter. “The story doesn’t end with Silas and Pearl, Grandam. I want to
hear more.”

  Amethyst glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Not tonight, child. It’s nearly midnight, and tomorrow is Monday. You know what that means.”

  “Yeah. Grandpa Con will be back.”

  “I’m afraid so. I think we should both go to bed and try to get a good night’s sleep.”

  Little Am got up and came over to Amethyst’s chair. “All right. But if it’s okay with you, I’ll take Pearl’s journal with me.”

  “Just don’t stay up all night reading.”

  Little Am leaned down and gave Amethyst a kiss on the cheek. “I won’t.” She turned to go, but when she reached the doorway, she looked over her shoulder. “Grandam?”

  “Yes, child?”

  “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For the stories. For the journals. For everything.” She paused. “Mostly, for being my Grandam.”

  Amethyst smiled. “I love you, child.”

  “I love you, too.” Am muttered the words under her breath and disappeared up the stairs.

  Settled in the big four-poster in the downstairs bedroom, Amethyst gathered the quilt around her shoulders and relaxed into the down pillow. She was exhausted, but it was a satisfied kind of tiredness.

  Her great-granddaughter was showing more promise than she had ever dreamed possible. The girl was intelligent and insightful, and truly seemed to be captivated by the stories of her ancestors. That was a good sign. A very good sign.

  Perhaps the Noble legacy wouldn’t die, after all, when Amethyst made her exit from this world.

  As her eyes drifted shut, Amethyst breathed out the prayer she knew by heart, the blessing Pearl had written in her last journal. “May she draw from her heritage the faith and love of her ancestors, and may she live a life worthy of her name and her calling. . . .” But this time she prayed it for the teenage girl who slept upstairs

  “Find your way to truth, Little Am,” she murmured, “no matter what it takes.”

  19

  Judge Dove