almost see them racing past her, laughing and shrieking, "I tagged you! You Ye it!"
Ben stopped short, and Megan broke quickly from her daydream. They were standing on a low bluff, looking down at what remained of a cornfield, dried stalks gathered in piles. Beyond the cornfield was a narrow stream that trickled down the center of a scooped-out rocky bed. On the bank of the river were clusters of the pale golden trees Megan had seen from her window. In many places their gnarled roots rose from the rocks, stretching wide.
'The trees look as if they're reaching for the water," Megan said.
'That's exactly what they're doing," Ben answered. "As you can see, this land won't support many trees. That's why so many people live in sod houses. Like Farley Haskill."
He pointed to a spot across the river.
Megan couldn't see Mr. Haskill's house until a ray of sunlight reflected off the single window by the front door. The house had been cut into the bluff overlooking the riverbank, and the only part that looked like a house was the wooden front—about eight feet wide at the most, she guessed. Built into the house front was a wooden door with a string hanging out of the latch.
"He lives in the ground, just like you did," Megan said in wonder.
"You'll see the inside when we visit Farley someday," Ben said. 'The rooms are large enough, but they're dark, and the snakes and rats like to sneak in out of the heat when they get a chance. When Farley has made his farm more successful, he'll be eager to build a real house out of logs, as we have."
"He lives all by himself," Megan said. "He must be lonely."
"Farley's never said so, but I suppose he might be," Ben answered. "He comes by our place now and then, and Emma often takes him bread from the oven or fresh vegetables."
"Even though his house is mostly made of dirt, it looks very tidy on the outside," Megan said. "I like that bush with the bright yellow flowers that's growing next to the front door."
"Goldenrod." Ben spoke absentmindedly, rubbing his chin. "I knew something looked different. It's that goldenrod. It's been planted recently, and you're right. The yard has been cleared."
"Mr. Haskill lives very close to the river."
"Too close," Ben said. "I warned Farley about the mosquitoes, but he'd settled in this spot even before we arrived. This was his home, and he wasn't about to change it. He said he'd had one bout of the fever and wasn't likely to have another, although there's always the danger."
Megan studied the small, almost hidden spot dug in the earth and said, "If Mr. Haskill's in danger, to my way of thinking it would be from pure loneliness."
After a supper of com bread, fried bacon, and buttered squash, Ben took his two rifles from the rack on the wall and began to clean them. Megan—still rosy from a warm bath and wrapped in her nightshift and one of Enuna's soft robes—curled on a chair as Enmia opened a book, holding it to the lamplight, and began to read a tale about a lion and a mouse:
'Xet me go, " said the mouse, "and someday I may he of help to you. "
The idea that this little mouse could do anything to help a large, magnificent beast like a lion greatly amused the lion, so he let the mouse go.
"Huh!" Megan said. That lion had a very high opinion of himself. I hope the mouse got clear away from him and never came back."
Enmia blinked with surprise. "Wait. I haven't finished the story." She read on, about the lion being caught in a hunter's net and the mouse gnawing through the net to
set the lion free. 'The lesson we should learn is never to belittle smaller things," she read and turned to Megan with a smile.
"Yes," Megan said, "but I do wish that the lion had told the mouse he was sorry for putting his nose in the air and trying to be so high and nughty. The lion's the one who should have learned a lesson."
"Perhaps the storyteller assumed that the lion had."
"Who was this storyteller?"
"A man named Aesop, who lived many, many years ago. Did you like the story, Megan?"
Megan thought a moment. "Yes, I did. But it was very different from the stories Ma and Da used to tell us. Their Irish stories were grand, with battles and magic and fiery pookas so frightening we'd shiver down to our toes. I don't think this Mr. Aesop was Irish, was he?"
Emma smiled. "As a matter of fact, he wasn't. But I hope you'll like his fables. We can read the rest of the book together."
Megan had already told Emma she couldn't read, because Enmia had talked about reading practically the first moment they met. But she still felt embarrassed. "FYances and Mike learned to read easily," she blurted out, "but I didn't take to it the way they did."
Enmia patted Megan's shoulder and smiled. "You're a bright girl, Megan, and you'll soor be reading as well as your brother and sister. Do you know any of your letters?"
"Y-yes. Those I know."
"Very well." Emma pointed to a word. "Tell me the letters in this word."
"M and e."
"Every letter has a sound of its own. Mmmmm is the m sound. You say it."
Megan did, and Enrnia said, "Now tell me the sound that e makes, and say the two sounds together."
**Eeee/' Megan murmured. "Mmmmm—i^eeee. Mmm-mm—Oh! Mer
That's right. The word is me. Do you see it anywhere else on the page?"
Megan studied the jumble of letters until she found it. Excitedly she pointed it out. "Here it is! And here again!"
'That's reading," Emma said. '*Just what you were doing."
Megan joyfully hugged the book to her chest. "Fm going to learn to read!"
**And write, too," Emma said. "So you can write to your mother and to your brothers and sisters."
The room blurred as tears rushed to Megan's eyes, and she tried to rub them away.
''I know that you miss your brothers and sisters very much," Emma murmured.
Megan nodded. *'I was thinking today about the little ones. We were very close, because they were in my care while Ma and Frances worked. I wonder how they're faring, and do they miss me as much as 1 miss them? Petey is so young. Will he forget me?"
"Of course he won't," Emma said. She put her hands on Megan's shoulders, and Megan could see the firm promise that shone in Emma's eyes. "It will be hard for us to travel during the winter, but when the spring comes, we may be able to take you to visit them."
Hope was like a warm spot burning in Megan's chest, and she hugged the book more tightly.
Ben got to his feet. He replaced the rifles in their rack and began to bank the fire, the orange glow casting deep shadows across his face. "Time for bed," he said, but as he spoke, a weird, high-pitched wail sounded somewhere outside. It seemed to come from far away, and yet its echo hung in the room as though it had seeped through the walls.
Megan gasped. "What was that?"
"Nothing to be afraid of," Ben said.
"Was it an Indian?"
Ben shook his head, and Megan stood up, still holding tightly to the book. *Then Vm not afraid," she said, adding with a touch of mischief, "unless you tell me that horrible sound came from the cow."
Emma and Ben laughed, and Ben said, "Poor old Ro-sie. She frightened you by being a little too curious. No, Megan, what you heard was a wolf howling at the moon, but don't be afraid. YouYe snug and safe in the house."
Enuna put an arm around Megan. "Come along, Megan," she said. "Time for bed. We rise early, because there's much work to do." With a folded cloth protecting her hands, she picked up and wrapped one of the flat, circular stones that were lying on the hearth, carried it to Megan's bedroom, and placed it between the sheets in Megan's bed, where it would warm her feet
Enmia tucked Megan in, pulling the quilt up to her chin. "Sleep well, dear," she said and bent to kiss Megan's forehead. "Pleasant dreams."
But Megan dreamed of Ma's kiss and Ma's strong hands tucking her into bed. When she awoke in the morning, her pillow was wet from her tears.
There was much for Megan to leam about the farm, and she loved each discovery. It was like winning a prize eac
h time she wiggled her fingers under a scolding hen and found a warm, freshly laid egg. Goliath the rooster tried to bully her, but she shouted and chased him. As he squawked and frantically flapped his wings, running away from her as fast as he could manage, Megan laughed aloud. "You old bully!" she yelled after him. *Tou can't get the best of m^!"
The first time Megan approached the cow she was so frightened she could hardly breathe. Rosie turned to stare at her, and Megan backed a step away, but she spoke up to the cow in a firm voice. "Ben said you do not bite, and I intend to stay out of the way of your clumsy feet, so let's both do our best to get this job done without any mishaps."
"Sit here. Rosie will like the feel of your head resting against her side," Ben told her. '*Now—move your hands like this and like this."
Megan did as he said and squealed with delight as she heard Rosie s milk squirt against the sides of the metal pail.
One evening Ben took his Henry rifle from the rack on the wall and showed Megan how to load and handle it.
"You'd probably find it easier to shoot the smaller rifle," he said. "The Henry is a bit too heavy for you now, but I usually have the smaller one with me. It's a good idea to know how to handle whatever gun is nearby in case—well, just in case of any kind of trouble."
"Indians?" Megan whispered.
"I'm not anticipating trouble with any Indians," Ben said. "It's more the wild animals I'm thinking of. Sometimes a pack of wolves comes around. And last summer, a fair piece north of us, some folks had trouble with a bear who wandered far out of his usual territory." He smiled. "I believe in being prepared. Enuna knows how to handle both rifles, and soon you will, too."
There were weeks of cool dry weather interspersed with days of late Indian sununer. With her sunbonnet off as much as on, Megan helped Emma weed the vegetable garden. Ben taught her to ride Jay and Jimbo, and once she got over her awe of the imposing horses, she felt very much at home on their broad backs. And in the
evenings Emma usually read a chapter from a fat novel called Moby Dick, before it was Megan's turn to read while Emma sewed.
Each night during the last half of October she'd pick up the collection of Aesop's Fables and work her way through one of the stories. While she occasionally stumbled over a word, reading began to come easier to her, and she often read an entire paragraph without stopping for Emma's help. At times she'd pause and look up, her heart thumping with excitement. ''Did you hear that now? I read all the way to the end!"
"Good for you!" Emma praised Megan as she grinned with pleasure. "You're learning quickly."
"It's grand to be reading," Megan would say, and she'd practice every chance she got.
Megan often disagreed with Aesop about the point of some of the fables, but she liked the tale of the fox who tricked the crow.
"It's very funny," she told Ben, who was mending one of his boots at the kitchen table. "In this story, a crow had a bit of cheese in her beak, and the fox wanted it. Now, I would say that the fox had no business wanting what the crow had, but the crow had stolen the cheese from someone's windowsiU, so she did not have my sympathy."
"I'll agree to that," Ben said.
"Well, the fox stood under the branch the crow was sitting on and began to flatter her. He told her things that no crow in her right mind would believe. Then finally he said he was sure that if she could sing she would sound like a nightingale. And do you know what that foolish crow did?"
"What?" Ben grunted as he tried to tug a thin strip of leather through a narrow hole in the side of the boot.
"Opened her beak to sing and dropped the cheese! The fox picked it up and trotted off, saying, *I may have said many fine things about your beauty, but I never for a moment mentioned your brains!' Isn't that funny?" Megan laughed with delight.
'Tes, it is," Ben said. "I suppose the lesson is to beware of people who flatter you."
'That's what Mr. Aesop said," Megan told him. "However, he missed one or two other lessons."
Ben looked up. "What other lessons?"
"Well," she said, "for one thing, the crow should not have stolen the cheese. And for another, whoever was careless enough to leave the cheese on the windowsill in the first place deserved to lose it."
Ben began to laugh, and Megan laughed with him. "At least you found one of the fables that you like," Ben said.
Megan shrugged. "As a storyteller Mr. Aesop wasn't very exciting, but the poor man was doing his best, and we can't hold it against him that he wasn't bom Irish with the natural gift."
Enmia laid her sewing in her lap and asked, "Megan, could you tell us one of the Irish stories your mother and father told you?"
"I can try," Megan said. Remembering well how Da had told the story, she began: "It was a silvery night, a night in which the moon lights each pebble of the road, making the way safe for travelers. Fiona O'Fallon, who was known to be the best seamstress in the whole of Ireland, tucked her thread and packet of needles into her pocket and left a house where she had been sewing a
gown for a young woman about to be married " Just
as Da had, Megan made her voice deep and impressive when she told about the meeting between Fiona O'Fallon
and the Queen of the Faeries, who wanted to take her away to the fairy kingdom. "Fiona OTallon knew she had no power to resist the mighty Queen of the Faeries, but she had the wit to pull the thread and packet of needles from her pocket and drop them on the ground before she was carried away by a great gust of wind."
Delighted at the rapt attention Ben and Emma were giving to her story, Megan went on to tell how Fiona's son found the thread and needles, realized what had happened to his mother, and set about bringing her home again.
"So as the sound of a great wind rushed over his head, he threw into it a handfid of dirt and shouted, 1 command you. Release Fiona OTallon!'
"His mother dropped from the cloud, almost into his arms, and praised him for his bravery and quick thinking. And oh, didn't she have much to tell her family about what she had seen and where she had been."
As Megan leaned back in her chair, Emma clapped her hands. "Wonderftil!" she said. "1 don't know when I've heard such an exciting story!"
"I'll tell you another tomorrow," Megan said. "About a pooka whose eyes glowed like two red-hot coals."
"Oh, Ben," Emma said, "when the Parsons come to visit, won't they love to hear Megan's stories!"
Megan ducked her head, blushing with pleasure.
She had learned to print neatly and, although she had to ask Emma how to spell many of the words, she proudly wrote four letters, one each to Ma, to Frances and Petey, to Mike, and to Danny and Peg.
The early November days grew cooler, and Megan bundled herself up against the wind that blew the grasses almost flat against the earth.
She woke one night, hearing movement and Ben's and
Emma's voices in the kitchen. It was dark. Why were they awake? It was too soon for the baby to come. Quickly Megan jumped from her bed and stumbled to the kitchen.
Emma and Ben were crouched next to Lady, who was lying on a bed they had made for her from a worn quilt. Emma looked up at Megan and smiled. "The puppies are being born/' she said.
Megan tiptoed a little closer, holding her breath in awe as Ben held up a wet, pink, mewling pup.
"I thought they'd look hke Lady!" Megan exclaimed. "Why is it so small? Why doesn't it have hair?"
"Give it time," Ben answered and turned his full attention to Lady as she began to whimper.
"Megan," Enuna said quietly, "come and sit by me. Lady loves you. She'll be glad to know you're here."
Megan sat back on her heels, sometimes holding her breath, sometimes gasping with excitement, as three more healthy puppies were born.
Lady and the pups were moved to a large box Ben had made for them. Megan understood that she shouldn't try to touch the puppies. They were so new, so very young, and they belonged only to their mother. But some day one of them would be hers! She stroked Lady's head, scarcely ab
le to contain her happiness.
Megan eagerly volunteered to clean the box and care for Lady, and each day she watched the puppies grow. To her delight, Emma suggested that she name them. The smallest one, with the white paws, she named Peggy. "After my little sister," she told Emma. "I just wish I could give the puppy to Peg. She's never had a dog to love."
"Maybe she does have a dog," Emma said. "I can't imagine a farm without a dog."
Megan brightened. "I'll ask her in my next letter." She picked up the two with white markings like stars on their foreheads. 'This is Moby and this is Dick."
Emma smiled. "How about that fat spotted fellow who's so frisky? What are you going to name him?"
Megan picked up the wiggling pup and snuggled him close. "This is Patches," she said, "and he's nune."
Lady carefully climbed into the box, stirring and settling until she was comfortable. Megan put Patches next to her as the other pups began scrambling over each other, pushing and squinning to get their next meal. As Megan expected. Patches did his best to edge out the others. Megan grinned. She akeady loved him almost as much as she did Lady.
Late one afternoon, Clem Parker, who served as postmaster for the area, rode over from his farm six miles away with two letters for Megan. One was from Frances and one from Ma. Since the letters were written in script, Enmia had to read them aloud to Megan.
Megan didn't mind sharing her letters with Enmia. As she listened to Frances's letter, Megan could almost hear her sister saying the words aloud. Her eyes filled with tears as Emma read, "I pray, darling sister, that you are with a loving family. Sometimes I ache with missing you, and I hope we'll soon see each other again."
In the Face of Danger Page 4