Fields of Grace

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  He ran his hand along the smooth line of the bonnet covering the sturdy bed of the wagon as he moved to release the second pair of oxen. In his mind’s eye, he reviewed the crowded space inside the wagon. Trunks and supplies filled the bed, but maybe they could lay a feather mattress across the trunks for Lillian. Then he and the boys could sleep on pallets beneath the wagon, where they would have some protection.

  The boys’ banter carried to his ears, and he looked up to see them heading toward the wagon with their arms full of twigs. Lillian came from the opposite direction holding the corners of her apron, which hung low and tight with its load. His heart seemed to double in size, filling his chest. His family . . .

  Swallowing, he raised his hand and waved. “Hurry now! Night will soon fall, and we want to have a nice meal together before we sleep.”

  Lillian proved an adept fire builder, and soon she had a pan of Bobbat, a hearty bread laden with meat and dried fruit, baking over a snapping fire. A tall coffeepot balanced on the rocks guarding the fire, the liquid boiling while the Bobbat baked. Good smells lifted on the breeze, nearly turning Eli’s stomach inside out with anticipation. He and Henrik kept busy smoothing out the ground beneath the wagon and then laying out their bedding. Joseph freed the three speckled hens from their cage and watched them scratch in the dirt near the wagon.

  Dusk fell, soft and rosy, with the wind gentling as the sun slinked toward the horizon. Lillian removed plates from the back of the wagon and called, “Nä-jo, Joseph, put the clucks in their box so we can eat.”

  They sat in a circle around the fire, and Eli prayed for their simple meal, adding, “Thank You, our Father, for providing us with a new home. Take us safely to it and may it provide our needs according to Your riches in glory. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Lillian whispered, the simple expression carrying a deep note of appreciation.

  For a moment their gazes met across the flickering fire, and Eli wondered if the high color in her cheeks came from the fire’s heat or from a heat within. Before he could explore the answer, Joseph held out his plate.

  “Cut me a big piece, Ma. I am starving.”

  Laughing, Lillian divided the Bobbat into four wedges and served each of them. Eli forked up a big bite, his mouth watering. Usually well-flavored with fresh sausage and plump raisins and baked in a mud-brick oven, the open-fire Bobbat contained chunks of dried beef and chopped dried apricots. Despite the differences, it was every bit as good as the original version. He ate with relish, as did his companions. No one talked; they were too tired, Eli supposed, to think of words to say. When they finished, Lillian pushed to her feet and reached for the plates.

  But Eli shook his head. “Nä, you cooked; we men will clean up.”

  Henrik made a face, but he stood and headed for the water barrel.

  “No water, boy.” Eli’s words stilled Henrik in his tracks. “We only have the two water barrels, and I do not know when we will have the chance to fill them again, so we must use the water sparingly. We will only use water for drinking and cooking.”

  Joseph sat straight up. “No bathing?” Elation filled his voice.

  Eli swallowed a chuckle and opened his mouth to confirm Joseph’s assessment, but the dismay on Lillian’s face made him offer a compromise. “Your mother will dip a cloth, and we can use that to wash our faces and hands. If we come upon a creek, we will bathe and give our dishes a thorough scrubbing. But for tonight we will scrape these plates and pan good with a fork and make do.” Turning to Lillian, he said, “You have had a long day, Lillian. Go . . . ready yourself for sleep while the boys and I clean the dishes. I—we—Henrik and me—made a bed for you in the wagon.”

  In the waning light, he watched color again climb her cheeks.

  “The boys and I”—he pointed to the pallets—“will sleep there.”

  She nodded, the loose strands of hair from her bun swirling around her face. “Dank. But I . . . I need . . .” Her gaze skittered around the camp, her lower lip caught between her teeth and her brow furrowed.

  What caused her such anxiety? Finally, understanding dawned. Although the topic was not one he would usually address with a woman, it was necessary. And she was his wife, after all. Leaning forward, he whispered, “The trees will provide a barrier. Take the lantern from the end of the wagon to light your way.”

  Another quick nod served as a reply. She spun and dashed away.

  The sound of distant thunder awakened Lillian. She sat up and blinked into the gray gloom, confusion making her pulse race until she remembered where she was. Tipping her head to the side, she peered beneath the edge of the bonnet at the dark sky. What odd thunder Kansas possessed! Usually thunder rolled and then stopped, but this thunder continued—a persistent rumble. She shifted to her knees, and the wagon springs squeaked.

  A shadowy figure appeared at the end of the wagon. “Lillian . . . you are awake?”

  She tugged her blanket to her chin and nodded. “Jo. The thunder wakened me.”

  “It is not thunder. Come.”

  In the minimal light, she saw that he offered his hand. After a moment’s pause, she took it and allowed him to help her from the wagon. She held the blanket around her shoulders like a shawl, shivering although the breeze wasn’t cool. “What is it?” Why she felt the need to whisper, she couldn’t explain. But to speak aloud would be to desecrate this predawn hour.

  “Look.” Eli hunched his shoulders, bringing his face next to hers and pointing straight ahead.

  Stars still dotted the sky, only a soft blush of pink on the eastern horizon promising that the sun would soon appear. Deep shadows covered the land, but by squinting, Lillian was able to make out a large, moving mass of . . . something. Horses? No, these creatures were too short to be horses. But something large, with hooves. The thunderous sound came from the pounding of their feet against the hard earth. Dust rose like a cloud above the herd, and the ground quivered beneath her feet.

  Her breath coming in little spurts, she repeated her earlier question. “What is it?”

  Eli’s hand rested on her shoulder. “I am not sure, but I think they might be what the land speculator called buffalo. He said they look like humpbacked, hairy cows.”

  Lillian shrugged further into her blanket, straining to get a better glimpse of the hairy cowlike animals. But the herd of buffalo—if indeed that is what they were—headed away from them, the thunder sound becoming more distant. After a few moments, they seemed to disappear into the morning gloaming, only a puff of dust staining the sky to provide evidence that they had been there at all.

  Lillian looked up into Eli’s face. He stared after the herd, amazement tingeing his features. His hand still rested on her shoulder, so she stood very still, waiting for him to remove it rather than disturbing his concentration.

  Finally, he heaved a sigh and shifted, looking into her face. “I think we are very fortunate, Lillian, to have seen the buffalo. The land speculator told me nearly all of the herds have been wiped out by hunters. But there they were on our first morning, waking us with the sound of hooves against the sturdy ground that will receive our wheat seed.” He sighed deeply, serenely. “This is a goot land, Lillian.”

  Suddenly he seemed to realize his arm was around her because he jerked his hand away so abruptly her blanket slipped. He jammed the hand into his pocket, as if afraid it might do something else of which he didn’t approve.

  As casually as possible given the uneven beat of her pulse, she shifted the blanket back into place and then fussed with her braid, which fell over her shoulder. Her pretended indifference had the desired effect—he released a breath and pulled his hand loose to run it through his hair. “It is early, I know, but maybe you could start our breakfast? The earlier we start, the more progress we make today toward our land.”

  She nodded and headed around the wagon. “You wake the boys, and I will—” Her words died when she realized a fire already crackled. She looked at Eli. “You have been up for a long time already if y
ou got a fire started.”

  He shrugged, his grin sheepish. “I kept it going all night.”

  She gawked at him. All night? Had he slept at all?

  “I thought it best to keep wild animals at bay, and then, too, you would not be troubled with the work of building a fire first thing.”

  Lillian examined the gentle blaze and the neatly jumbled pile of sticks waiting beside the rock circle to feed the fire. Throughout her marriage, Reinhardt and she had performed their own duties. He worked as a cobbler to earn their living, and she kept the home. She would never have attempted to cobble a shoe, and never had Reinhardt assisted with her chores. Yet Eli had readied this fire for her. The simple act touched her deeply.

  “Dank.” She heard the tremulous note in her own voice, and she swallowed, adding in a firmer tone, “It is very kind, but you must not stay up every night tending a fire. You will need your rest if you are to have energy to drive the wagon.”

  “Ach.” He waved his hand. “It is no trouble, and I can doze on the seat, since I have Joseph to keep us on course.”

  They laughed together softly over Joseph’s fascination with the compass. A sliver of gold appeared on the horizon, and Eli shifted his face to the rising sun. A deep breath expanded his chest, and a contented smile stretched across his face.

  “Ah, here is the sun. Another day. A day of freedom.” He slapped his stomach with both open palms. “We will have breakfast; then I will read to us from the Bible for a good start on our day, jo?”

  Lillian nodded. “I would like that.” Then she blurted, “You are so schaftijch this morning.”

  His lips twitched, his eyes sparkling. “Is there a reason I should not be cheerful?”

  She wished she could snatch back the words. Reinhardt had been surly and uncommunicative most mornings. Not until after his coffee did he speak without grumbling. Having a man greet the day with smiles rather than snorts was alien but pleasant. But making the comparison was most surely disloyal to Reinhardt’s memory.

  She tossed her blanket into the back of the wagon and lifted out a skillet. She carried it to the fire and set it on the rocks to heat. “Please wake the boys and have Joseph check the hens’ box for eggs. I will prepare a hearty breakfast, but first . . .” She waved her hand toward the scrub trees off the road. “I must visit the trees.”

  15

  Henrik shielded his eyes with his hand and peered down the road, then drew in a breath of anticipation. “I see a town ahead!”

  Beside him on the wagon seat, Eli nodded slowly. “Jo, boy. I see it, too.”

  After four days of traveling by wagon, with Eli skirting cities, Henrik was ready to see people and buildings—anything besides scrub trees, prairie grass, and little jumping critters that barked like dogs but scurried like overgrown mice. Didn’t this new country hold anything of interest?

  When he’d asked Eli why they couldn’t visit the towns along the way, Eli had chuckled in his frustrating way and said, “For what purpose would we visit? We cannot speak their language. There would be nothing to say. Besides . . .” He had raked his fingers through his beard, lowering his voice. “I do not wish to be taken advantage of. If we stay away from people, we are safer.”

  Recalling the conversation, Henrik snorted in disgust. Safer . . . and bored. He shifted on the seat to face Eli. “Will we stop at this town?”

  Ma leaned between them from her spot inside the wagon bed. “It might be wise, Eli. The water barrels are low—we could replenish them in town.”

  Henrik held his breath while Eli worked his jaw back and forth, considering Ma’s comment. When the man nodded his agreement, Henrik nearly shouted with glee. But when they pulled into the town, Henrik’s elation dampened. The town was small, only a few wood-sided buildings lining a dirt street and a spattering of houses beyond. The wood siding on all buildings was bone white and unpainted rather than gray and weathered, which told Henrik they had been recently constructed. Railroad tracks dissected the town east to west, dividing it into two halves.

  Eli drew the oxen to a halt beside the tiny train depot, the only building in town wearing paint. A man stepped from the little structure and pushed his hat to the back of his head, examining their wagon.

  With a smile, Eli said, “Goodendach—hello.”

  The man lifted his chin. “Hello.”

  Shifting on the seat, Eli pointed to the water barrels that hung from the wagon’s sideboard. “Wota?”

  After a moment’s pause, the man lifted his hand and gestured to Eli. Eli hopped down, and Henrik started to follow. But Eli shook his head. “Nä, you stay here with your mother and brother. I will see to filling the barrels.”

  Henrik huffed in frustration. The town wasn’t much—that was obvious—but at least it would be a change from the prairie. Why couldn’t he explore? He plunked back onto the seat hard enough to make the springs squawk in protest and watched Eli and the man walk around behind the building. In moments, Eli returned, a smile on his face.

  “We can fill our barrels from the water tank, no charge. He called this place Cottonwood Station. And I think he said we are halfway to Newton.”

  Halfway? That meant at least another four days of sitting in this wagon, staring at the rumps of oxen, and tasting dust. Henrik leapt to the ground. “While you fill the barrels, I am taking a walk through town.”

  Eli’s eyebrows formed a sharp V. “We will not be here long.”

  “I need to stretch my legs.” Henrik made a show of arching his back, grimacing with the movement. “What will it hurt for Joseph and me to get some exercise? We are tired of sitting.”

  Ma leaned out of the wagon. “Let them go, Eli.” Her hair hung in her face, her eyes tired. “It will do them good.”

  Without waiting for Eli’s reply, Joseph hopped down from the wagon and scampered to Henrik’s side.

  “Come, Joseph.” Henrik grabbed the sleeve of Joseph’s shirt. His brother waved at Ma and then fell into step beside Henrik.

  A half dozen horse-drawn wagons stood along the edge of the street, the horses lazily nodding under the sun. The boys encountered a few townspeople, who looked them up and down with idle interest, but no one spoke to them. That suited Henrik fine. As Eli had said, they didn’t speak the same language. Listening to—and not understanding—English made him feel foolish. And he hated feeling foolish.

  The only person with whom he had enjoyed visiting since they reached America was Nora, back at the little restaurant in Topeka. In their conversation, she had mentioned a university being built right there in the city. His heart twisted with desire to return to Topeka, spend time with Nora, pick up as much English as he could, and then enroll in that university. But he couldn’t leave Ma and Joseph right now.

  He and Joseph reached the end of the business district, and Joseph kicked a stone in the road. “Should we turn around and go back?”

  “Nä, not yet.” Henrik turned a slow half circle as he answered. Tall grass grew in scraggly patches alongside the foundation of the building at the edge of town. Henrik shook his head, disgusted. Someone should take a sickle to that grass—it created a good hiding spot for snakes or spiders. Suddenly, from the depth of one thick clump, the glint of sun on something shiny caught his eye. A coin, perhaps?

  “Stay here and watch for the wagon,” he told Joseph; then he strode to the clump and hunkered down. Cautiously, in case he startled a snake, he pushed the blades of grass aside, revealing the source of the glint. Three skinny-necked green-glass bottles stood in a crooked row against the building’s stone foundation.

  Henrik sent a quick glance over his shoulder. Joseph stood with his back to him, looking toward the railroad station with his hand cupped above his eyes. Convinced he was unobserved, Henrik lifted the center bottle from its hiding spot. Liquid sloshed in the bottom half.

  After another furtive glance left and right, he popped the cork and put his nose over the narrow opening. He recoiled at the smell, but as he did so, a memory surfaced. When
he was thirteen or fourteen, he and Father had traveled to Volgograd. He’d encountered two Russian youths passing a thick jug back and forth. With wide grins, they’d offered him a sip. The smell coming from the jug had sent Henrik scurrying to his wagon. The youths’ scornful laughter still rang in his mind.

  He’d been too afraid to try the liquid then, but he was no longer a boy. He was a man. He lifted the mouth of the bottle to his lips.

  “Henrik!”

  Henrik jerked, nearly spilling the bottle’s contents. He quickly replaced the cork and rose, holding the bottle by its neck behind his leg. “What?”

  Joseph pointed. “Onkel Eli is coming.”

  Henrik angled his body away from his brother and slipped the bottle into the waistband of his pants. A tug of his jacket hid the bottle from view. Then he joined Joseph in waiting for the wagon. He assumed a casual pose, but beneath his shirt, his heart pounded like Father’s hammer on the cobbling bench.

  Eli called, “Whoa,” and the oxen obediently halted. “Nä-jo, boys, climb in.”

  Joseph started to climb in the back, but Henrik stopped him. “Sit up front with Eli for a while.” He stretched his mouth into a yawn. “I want to lie in the back and rest.”

  Joseph trotted around the wagon and hoisted himself onto the high seat. Henrik clambered over the back and slumped into the narrow space between the trunks and the wooden hatch. The top of the bottle’s neck poked into his ribcage, and he shifted slightly to remove the pressure.

  The wagon lurched forward, and Ma sent a hopeful smile in his direction. “Did you enjoy your walk, son?”

  He nodded. “Jo. But I am tired, Ma.” Without waiting for her response, he leaned his head into the corner and closed his eyes. The wagon bounced along, the growl of the wooden wheels against the rough road a familiar sound. Henrik crossed his arms over his middle. The glass bottle felt warm and smooth against his skin. As soon as night fell, he’d sneak away from camp and sample the contents of the bottle. Those Russian boys had seemed to enjoy drinking from their jug. Henrik looked forward to a few moments of pleasure.