Fields of Grace

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Henrik stood perfectly still, holding his breath as he waited to see if Joseph would fully rouse. To his relief, his brother rolled to his side, pulling the quilt over his head. His snore resumed. Henrik tiptoed from the room, releasing his breath when he reached the hallway.

  A faint glow cast by the dying coals guided him to the larger half of the sod house. He stepped into the main room, then immediately drew back. Ma and Eli, sound asleep, lay coiled together in the far corner on Ma’s mattress. The sight brought a new rush of anger coupled with nausea. He clutched his stomach, breathing hard to gain control. Maybe he should just take his things and leave without a word.

  But no! He needed money. Eli had promised him money for school, and he would have it. He didn’t know where Eli kept the money pouch—he would have to ask for it. He puffed several breaths, gathering courage. Then he cleared his throat loudly.

  A shuffling noise came from the main room.

  Still in the hallway, Henrik called, “Eli?”

  “Jo.” Eli’s voice sounded croaky. “Just a minute, boy.”

  Soft whispers and more shuffles sounded, and then Eli’s voice again, stronger. “We are dressed. Come in, Henrik.”

  Henrik strode to the trunk where they ate their meals. The crumbled chunk of sod from the ceiling lay on the floor next to his stool. He toed the mess. The shattered lump reminded him of his crumbling dreams. Eli must make things right!

  “You are up early,” Ma said. “I thought you would sleep late on New Year’s Day.”

  “I cannot sleep.” Henrik avoided looking at Ma, focusing instead on Eli. The man ran a comb through his tousled hair, following the comb’s path with his broad palm, unaware of Henrik’s inner torment. “I need to speak to Eli.”

  “Nä-jo.” Eli returned the comb to the little shelf pressed into the wall and crossed to the trunk. He sat on his stool and gestured to the spot across from him. “Sit down. Your mother will get some coffee brewing.”

  Ma began ladling water from the bucket into the coffeepot as if the man’s every wish was her command—the same way she had always followed Father’s instructions.

  The lump of fury in Henrik’s chest expanded. He remained standing. “I want the money you promised me.”

  Eli’s complacent expression immediately tightened into a puzzled scowl. “What?”

  “Money.” Henrik drew out the word, his tone deliberately belligerent. “You promised me money for schooling. I want it now.”

  Eli flicked a quick glance at Ma, who stood beside the fireplace with a pile of grass logs in her arms. Then he faced Henrik again. “I promised you money from the harvest, jo. But, boy, you know . . . after last night . . . we will not have a harvest.”

  Henrik slammed his fist onto the trunk’s top, and Ma jumped, dropping one log. He leaned toward Eli. “It is not my fault that there will be no harvest. I should not suffer because this land chose to destroy the crop rather than nurture it.” He jerked upright, folding his arms over his chest. “You and I had an agreement. You said if I would put on a happy face and work hard, you would give me money to attend a university.”

  “Jo, I did, but—”

  “I have fulfilled my part of the agreement. Now you fulfill yours. I want to go.”

  “And I want you to be able to go, too.” Eli’s unflappable attitude further stirred Henrik’s ire. “But you must wait for a harvest.”

  “I will not wait another year to see a second crop fail!” Henrik hissed the words through clamped teeth, his temples throbbing with the intensity of his frustration. “I will not be stuck on this land, turning sod, cutting grass, and mucking out animal stalls for another season! You promised me money for school. Are you a man of your word or not?”

  Everyone in the room froze with Henrik’s challenge. For long seconds, Eli stared into Henrik’s face, his expression stoic. Henrik waited, unblinking, his heart hammering. He heard Ma’s rapid breathing, and a part of him wished to soften, to apologize, but fury held him in place.

  Finally, Eli rose, pressing his hands against the trunk’s top. “All right, Henrik. You want your money, I will get it.”

  “Eli?” Ma took one forward step. She shot a look of disapproval toward Henrik before turning back to her husband.

  Eli shook his head, and Ma fell silent. He knelt and rolled the feather mattress aside. A flat circle of tin lay on the dirt floor. Eli lifted it, revealing the leather money pouch tucked into a hollow. He carried the pouch to the trunk and flopped it onto the top.

  Straddling a stool, Eli untied the pouch’s flap. “I said you would receive half of your father’s portion.” He removed a stack of bills and fanned them out. Propping his elbow on the trunk, he held the fan aloft. “Is that what you remember?”

  Henrik nodded, staring at the paper money.

  “All right, then.” Eli began counting aloud, making four equal stacks on the trunk top. While he counted, Ma’s face grew pale. Her gaze darted from Eli to Henrik and back again, but she didn’t speak a word. Henrik, observing her from the corner of his eye, fought a rising tide of remorse. Should he leave Ma? Could he?

  He steeled himself. Ma had Eli. She had no further need of his presence. Besides, he was grown, no longer a boy to be ordered about. He didn’t want his livelihood forever tied to a successful wheat crop. It was time to pursue his own dreams.

  Eli slapped the last bill onto the stack. “Your share comes to two hundred and eleven dollars.” Leaning heavily on the trunk, he added, “Much less than what you would receive if you waited for a harvest.”

  Henrik clenched his jaw. “I will not wait for a harvest that may never come.”

  Eli clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Boy, where is your faith?”

  Henrik snorted. “Faith . . . in what? This land? We know nothing of this country other than it grows tall grass and in one night hail can take everything away. You cannot promise there will be a harvest, but there will always be schools and a need for teachers. I want what is known rather than something hoped for.” He held out his hand.

  Without hesitation, Eli lifted one stack and placed it on Henrik’s palm.

  Henrik rolled the bills into a wad and pushed them into his pocket. A thankyou hovered on his lips, but rather than voicing it, he clamped his jaw shut. Without looking at Ma, he strode to the hallway and lifted a limp burlap bag. He shook it, and a dozen potatoes bounced on the floor, a reminder of last night’s hailstones pounding the fledgling wheat. Leaving the potatoes scattered in the hallway, he headed to his room. It took only a few seconds to shove his clothing into the bag. As he tied the bag shut with a piece of leather string, his brother roused.

  Rubbing his eyes, Joseph yawned. “What are you doing, Henrik?” “Leaving.” Henrik snatched up the bag and marched into the main room.

  Joseph bounded past him, his nightshirt hiked up around his knees. “Ma! Henrik says he is leaving!”

  Henrik removed his coat, hat, and scarf from the peg on the wall. As he did so, Ma stumbled forward and grasped Henrik’s upper arm. “Son, please do not go!”

  Henrik shrugged loose and shoved his arms into the sleeves of his coat, sidestepping away from her when she reached for him again. “I have to, Ma.” She recoiled from his harsh tone as if he had slapped her. Guilt struck, but he resolutely refused to give it root. “How will I ever become a teacher if I stay here?”

  “B-but where will you go?” He noticed her eyes shimmered with tears.

  “To McPherson Town. I can buy a train ticket there.” He jammed his hat on his head and wove the scarf around his neck. Bending over, he grabbed the tied end of the sack and flung it over his shoulder. “I will send—” But then he realized he couldn’t send word. No mail service reached their land. How would he communicate with Ma and Joseph? For a moment, he wavered.

  But then he glimpsed Eli standing tall and stern beside the trunk, and his resolve returned. Eli and his faith in God . . . the man was a fool. How could one trust in a God that pummeled their hard-won crop
with hail rather than blanketing it in protective snow? God had not kept Henrik’s people from hardship in Russia. God had not kept Father and Jakob safe. Why should they think God would grant them endless blessing in America? Henrik must take care of himself, and to do that he must be far away from this place.

  He yanked open the door. “Good-bye, Ma.”

  “Henrik!” Lillian dashed toward the door. Strong hands gripped her upper arms, stopping her flight. She fought against Eli, grunting in frustration. “Let me go! I must go after my son!”

  “Lillian, stop!”

  Eli’s stern command brought a momentary end to her struggle. But she held out her arms toward Henrik’s departing form, anguish twisting her stomach and tightening her throat. “But I must bring him back!”

  Eli spun her around, holding tight to her shoulders. “Let him go.” He edged her back into the sod house and closed the door.

  With a cry, she scrambled to open the door again, but his restraining arms prevented her from reaching it. She thrust her fists against his chest. “Let me go! He will get away! Let me go, Eli!”

  “Lillian, Lillian . . .”

  His soothing tone did nothing to calm her. Trapped within the circle of his arms—a place that had meant sanctuary and security in months past—she bucked to free herself. Eli lifted her and carried her to a trunk. He sat and held her in his lap. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t escape his iron grasp.

  After several minutes of frantic struggling, she collapsed against his chest. Only then did he relax his grasp. He lowered her to a stool and knelt beside her, his hands gently cupping the sides of her head. “Lillian, you cannot go after him. He—”

  She clutched his shirt front. “Then you go. Take one of the horses. You can catch up to him. Bring him home to me, Eli. Please! Please bring him home to me.”

  “No.”

  “Why, Eli? Why?” Her throat was so knotted with emotion she could barely get the words out.

  “He has made his choice. He wishes to be a man.”

  “But he is not a man! He is a boy—my son! And I want him here!” Pressing her fists to her quivering lips, she groaned. “Oh, how can you understand? You have never nurtured a child from infancy.”

  Eli jerked as abruptly as if she had stabbed him with a knife. But when he spoke, he retained his tender tone. “It would be pointless to drag him back. He would only resent the interference and leave again. We must let him go to make his way. To make his mistakes. In time, wisdom and maturity will bring him back again. But it must be his choice.”

  Lillian threw her arms outward, forcing his hands away from her head. Her hair caught on one of his fingers, but she welcomed the sharp pain. It took her attention away, be it ever briefly, from her aching heart. She stood, glaring down at his kneeling frame. “His choice! His choice?”

  Clutching her hair, she paced the room. “What of my choices, Eli? I choose to have my remaining sons with me! I want them here, on this land, at my table, under my roof!” Hysteria raised her voice to a near screech. Joseph scuttled back into his half of the sod house as Lillian continued to rail. “Was it my choice to leave my beloved village of Gnadenfeld? Was it my choice to have my husband and my little boy tossed over the side of a ship like a bundle of garbage?”

  Rushing forward, she grabbed Eli’s shirt and yanked, drawing him to his feet. She shook his shirt and thumped her fists against his chest. “I cannot reclaim my home in Gnadenfeld. Reinhardt and Jakob cannot return from the dead. But you could bring Henrik back! Go get him, Eli!” She shoved him toward the door. “Bring me my son!”

  But Eli remained in place, as if his boots had sent roots into the ground. His impassive expression, his hands hanging limply at his side, infuriated Lillian. How could he stand there like a lifeless scarecrow when her son wandered away into the cold?

  “Eli!” She screeched his name. “Eli, please!”

  And finally he moved. Very slowly, he shook his head from side to side. Sympathy glinted in his eyes, but his set jaw showed stubborn denial. “I will not go after Henrik, Lillian. He must find his own way. I will pray he returns to us, but he must choose to return.”

  She gaped at him in silent disbelief as he moved slowly to the hooks and took down his coat.

  “I will see to the animals now.” He nodded toward the fireplace. “Rebuild the fire. This room is cold.” He stepped out the door.

  Lillian stood for a moment, staring after him, her body so tense she couldn’t move. Then her muscles dissolved. Incapable of holding her upright for another second, her legs buckled, and she crumpled onto the floor. With her face pressed into the cold dirt, she sobbed until she feared her lungs would collapse. But the tears—a means of release in the past—did nothing to remove the agony of betrayal.

  31

  Would Lillian mourn forever? Eli tossed a pitchforkful of hay to the horses as he pondered the thought. For three weeks he had been waiting for his sweet Lillian to return. He longed for the days when her face lit with pleasure and her arms opened with invitation each time he entered the room. Her persistent withdrawal cut worse than the bitter wind that coursed across the land, chilling Eli from the inside out.

  He forked up a load for the oxen, and something in the hay caught his eye. He shook the hay loose and then reached into the dried strands to withdraw a faded, dry thistle bloom. He pinched the thistle head and the brown petals crumbled and fell away, leaving him holding an empty stem. He had carried thick clusters of these purple, cone-shaped flowers to Lillian. The thistle—once bursting with life but now dry and dead—painted an ugly picture of Lillian’s heart.

  The thistle would not blossom to life again. Would Lillian’s love for Eli?

  After hanging the pitchfork upside down on two nails pounded into the side of the barn, Eli pulled his collar around his chin and walked to the field. Now, well into January, snow had finally fallen. He looked across the endless, soft blanket of white that would have created a perfect protective cover for his wheat. He sighed, his breath hanging heavy in the frigid air.

  So much work turning that sod, planting the seeds. So much anticipation, waiting for the seeds to sprout. So much celebration at the first growth. So much hope for a bountiful harvest. “Why, Lord, could You not have held back the hail? Our lives had melded together, Lillian’s and mine. Those months as her husband . . . as her true husband . . . brought me more joy than anything. But the hail . . .” He swallowed the lump of bitterness that filled his throat. “It took everything from me. . . .”

  As the words left his mouth, Eli experienced a twinge in his soul. He replayed his own statement until remorse sent him to his knees. “Oh, my Father Gott, please forgive me. The hail has not taken You from me. My joy . . . my greatest joy . . . is in my salvation. I can never lose Your love. Thank You for the reminder.” The wind whisked by, carrying crystallized snowflakes that stung Eli’s cheeks, but he remained in his bowed-low position, praying, until the wet soaked through his pants and his limbs turned stiff.

  He rose, brushed the crust of packed snow from his knees, and turned toward the sod house. A tiny trail of white smoke rose from the chimney, spiraling against a pale blue sky. The dark sod stood out against the carpet of white like a welcoming beacon, and his heart twisted as he considered the lack of welcome waiting within the thick walls.

  The joined houses once held peace and contentment, but now tension and anger encased the cramped space. Even Joseph suffered. How many times had Eli awakened, stretched out on Henrik’s bed, and heard the boy crying softly into his pillow? As often as the sound of Lillian’s nighttime weeping had carried to his ears. Too many times.

  He set his feet in motion, plodding slowly across the soft snow. Somehow they must repair all that had been broken between them. But how? Lillian would hardly look at Eli, let alone speak to him. And without communication, there could be no reconciliation. His foot scuffed on something hard, nearly tripping him. He stopped and looked down. His boot had encountered a stone the size o
f a loaf of bread.

  Blowing out a breath of annoyance, Eli crouched down and tried to pry the stone from the hard ground. In his plowing, he had discovered that the land was littered with large stones. The troublesome rocks worked their way to the surface, dulling or even chipping a plow’s blade.

  He almost fell on his backside when the stone came loose, but he caught his balance and rose, lifting the rock with him. He carried it to the nearest of the four piles of fieldstones that stood around the plowed field. The largest pile measured almost as high as Eli’s head and was as big around as the small sod house. Underhanded, he heaved the rock toward the top of the pile, watching it hit and then tumble until it caught between several others halfway down the miniature mountain. Whisking his hands together, he started to turn away, but then he spun to face the rock pile.

  An idea formed rapidly, his heart beating against his ribs. He had promised Lillian a house—a sturdy house with many rooms. Without a harvest, he couldn’t buy wood for such an undertaking, but what if he built a house of rock? Hadn’t he told Lillian that God provided all they needed on this land? Their need for food had been met. Now he saw how a shelter—a permanent shelter—could be constructed from resources available right here on this land.

  It would take many rocks and much work to build a house, but what else did he have to do until the others came and he purchased seed for a crop? Yes, he would build a house for Lillian. He would keep his promise, even if he did not move into it with her. Sorrow wrenched his heart as he considered remaining estranged for the rest of his life from the woman he loved. Could he stay on this land, living separately, now that he knew the ecstasy of being her beloved?