Lesia's Dream

by Laura Langston

  The man nodded kindly but the woman tossed her head. “Too cheap,” she proclaimed with a curl of her lips. “It’s probably sour.”

  The man roared with laughter. Slowly they sauntered away.

  Lesia stared at the ground until she felt the flush of heat fade from her face. Beside her, even Minnie looked embarrassed.

  “It’s because of Papa,” the other girl said in a low, trembling voice. “They know he was taken away That’s why they won’t buy our things.” She wouldn’t meet Lesia’s eyes.

  Was it true, or was there another reason? It didn’t really matter. Lesia could tell by the defeated slump of Minnie’s shoulders that Paul’s internment had hit her hard. It couldn’t be easy for her. But life wasn’t easy. Maybe Minnie was finally figuring that out.

  “We all have our crosses to bear,” Lesia said, glancing away from Minnie towards the river.

  There was that little girl again. Such a pretty little thing in her pink-and-yellow dress. Skipping back and forth behind a group of adults. Closer and closer to the white “Danger” sign. Surely one of them would watch her. The river was so high. It was overflowing its banks in places. She could fall in.

  It’s not your business.

  It was a long time before anyone stopped at their table again. When they did, Lesia upped her price by two cents. “And it’s good with the bread.” She gestured to the loaves Minnie had proudly displayed.

  “Too much.” They waved vaguely over their shoulder. “It’s cheaper over there.”

  “I also have eggs,” she said. “Very fresh.”

  But the people were gone.

  Lesia could feel Minnie’s eyes studying her. She waited for the girl to insult her, to say something about her pathetic attempt to sell the butter and promote the bread. But Minnie was quiet.

  Nervously, Lesia bent down and checked the butter. Was it melting? The sun was climbing; soon it would be midday, and the heat would intensify. But Andrew’s packing job was holding up nicely.

  The market was crowded now, full of people greeting friends and exchanging gossip, searching out the freshest milk and the tastiest bread. They still didn’t seem interested in Pearl’s bread. Or anything Lesia had to offer. Every once in a while, Lesia caught a glimpse of the litde girl with the black ringlets. She was getting closer and closer to the edge of the riverbank.

  It wasn’t her business. Besides, when she had tried to help at the store, it hadn’t been appreciated.

  The young child laughed as she chased after a black-and-white butterfly. Had she ever been that carefree? If so, Lesia couldn’t remember when.

  The girl was getting closer and closer to the water. Bozhe! What if no one stopped her and she fell in?

  She wouldn’t. Lesia fought back her anxiety and turned away. She smiled at a passing group of people. They glanced at her eggs, slowed. But then the younger boy nudged his mother, pointed out larger eggs on a nearby table, and they moved on.

  The little girl … where was the little girl? Lesia’s heart lurched when she turned and couldn’t find her. Ah, there she was, down the way, still laughing and chasing after the butterfly.

  The adults were paying no attention.

  She should stop her. Or say something. Her heart told her it was the right thing to do. But her head told her it wasn’t her business. Surely her parents could read the “Danger” sign. She was a Ukrainian peasant. And hated by these people. Speaking up would only invite humiliation. She’d had enough of that to last a lifetime. She’d just stop looking at the child, that’s what she’d do.

  Restlessly she tapped her fingers on the edge of the table. The sun was high in the sky. Her stomach growled. It was almost lunchtime. Lesia wondered if she could trade Minnie some butter for a chunk of bread.

  Involuntarily, her eyes floated back to the edge of the riverbank. The girl was still there.

  And then, in a flash of pink and yellow, the child was gone.

  There was no scream. No thumping fall. No rustle of fabric. Just there one minute and over the edge the next.

  Lesia jumped up and craned her neck. She couldn’t see a thing! There were people in the way.

  “What is it?” Minnie asked.

  Wildly, her eyes searched up and down the riverbank. There was no sign of her. Maybe she was with her parents. Heart pounding, Lesia turned and scanned the crowd.

  No little girl.

  Bozhe! She couldn’t get involved. She was a useless, worthless peasant. People would be angry. They would misunderstand. She would be questioned. Maybe even taken away.

  “What is it?” Minnie asked again.

  “A girl,” Lesia murmured, beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead. “I can’t see her.”

  Suddenly the truth swept over her like a blast of wind, lifting away her doubts and insecurities like soil swirling up on the prairie. She wasn’t worthless or useless or stupid. She wasn’t dirty or scrawny, a liar or a thief. She was Lesia Magus, beloved daughter, beloved sister. Keeper of traditions, steward of the land.

  She was a Ukrainian with a clear sense of right and wrong.

  And not saving the girl would be wrong. No matter what other people thought.

  “Watch my things.” As she ran to the river, Baba’s words echoed through her mind. In the eyes of God, we are all equal. Peasants and landowners. Ukrainians and Canadians.

  Lesia could see the child now. Flailing arms … a tangle of pink and yellow … long black ringlets… the current already carrying her away. Lesia threw down her shawl and jumped into the water.

  Bozhe! It was like liquid ice, filling her lungs and taking her breath away. The water pulled on her skirt, filled Papa’s boots and weighed her down. It had been years since she’d been swimming, and that had been in a still pond. This was a river swollen with the spring melt, a river with currents that were moving, shifting and rolling her downstream.

  Lesia fought with all her strength. Slowly, she neared the girl. Eventually her fingers clutched the collar of her dress. She pulled. The child came up sputtering and sobbing, her brown eyes wide with fear.

  “Hold on to my neck,” Lesia yelled.

  The child didn’t understand Ukrainian. Flailing, she pushed on Lesia’s shoulders. They both went under the water. Surfacing again, Lesia struggled to place the child’s arms just so. She seemed to understand. Finally, she was secure. With one arm around the child, Lesia used her other arm to fight her way back to shore.

  Back to the crowd that had gathered on the riverbank.

  Two men rushed into the water. Lesia recognized the child’s father, Jack Scott, from the general store. He seized the litde girl and hugged her to his chest, giving Lesia only the briefest of glances. The second man clutched Lesia’s arms and pulled her to the water’s edge. She stood there, cold and dripping, her clothes plastered to her body like clay on the outdoor oven.

  “Are you all right?” The man spoke English.

  Lesia didn’t know what he was saying. Involuntarily, her teeth began to chatter. She was so cold.

  Suddenly a dozen people surrounded her. Women were pulling off her clothes, men were shouting words Lesia didn’t understand. Someone was towelling off her hair; another person was spooning luscious hot soup into her mouth.

  “Great courage.”

  “A brave thing you did, saving Amy Scott.”

  “You should have called for help.”

  “You both could have drowned.”

  The words swirled and flowed and rolled and dipped … like the dust that floated on the air… the current that had tried to carry her downstream … the very prairie itself. Lesia heard everything and nothing. Nothing but the child.

  The child. Litde Amy Scott. Lesia had saved her. And that was all that mattered.

  Later, when she was back at her table, warm and dry in borrowed clothes with a bowl of soup in her belly, people were still coming up to her table, shaking her hand, offering thanks.

  “Tell them you’d rather have their money than their th
anks,” Minme muttered disgustedly when another old man shook Lesia’s hand. “All old Jack Scott did was glare at you. You saved his daughter. He’s treating you hke something on his boots.”

  “I don’t care.” She didn’t need Jack Scott’s approval any more. She had the approval of someone far more important. Herself. “I would hke to sell my butter, though.” Brooding, she studied her box. She hadn’t sold one bit.

  An idea dawned. It was a risk. There was a chance it wouldn’t work. But the Canadians wouldn’t laugh at her today. Not after she’d saved Amy. And even if they did, laughter couldn’t hurt her.

  “Cut a loaf of bread into small squares,” she ordered Minnie as she reached into the wooden box and pulled out the softest block of butter. “And when you’re done, hand me the knife.”

  Minnie opened her mouth to argue, but when she saw the look on Lesia’s face, she picked up the knife and started cutting. Within minutes, Lesia had buttered two dozen small squares of bread and laid them on a napkin on her table. When the next person came forward with her hand extended, Lesia told Minnie what to say.

  “Thanks are not necessary,” Minnie said in English to the middle-aged woman. “But please do try a piece of our bread and butter.”

  The woman hugged her parcels to her chest and stepped back. She looked over her shoulder like she was waiting for someone. “I don’t know.”

  Lesia sensed her hesitation. “Tell her the bread comes from your mother. That she sells out every time she’s here. Tell her the butter is from a new producer,” she instructed Minnie. “That it’s sweeter and fresher than any that’s been sold here before.”

  Minnie translated.

  The woman smiled, shook her head and backed away.

  “That is a crazy idea!” Minnie turned on her. “No one in their right mind gives food away. It’s—”

  “Thank you.”

  Startled, Minnie broke off. Lesia looked up.

  Amy Scott’s mother stood in front of them. Her red-rimmed eyes were puffy and her fingers trembled as she twisted a worn handkerchief between them. “Thank you for saving my daughter’s life.”

  Lesia didn’t need an interpreter to understand. Nodding, she reached out to take the woman’s hands. How awful she must feel to know she hadn’t been watching her daughter carefully.

  “I … I … wish there was something I could do …”The woman’s voice trailed away.

  “Tell her I want her to try the bread and butter,” Lesia said.

  Minnie frowned.

  “Tell her!” Lesia insisted.

  Minnie did.

  Surprised, Mrs. Scott studied her. “That;’s all?”

  “Tell her no one is buying and the butter is the sweetest this side of Brandon. Once people taste it, they will know.” When Minnie hesitated a second time, Lesia jabbed her with an elbow. “Tell her!”

  Minnie did.

  “Ah.” The woman smiled. She stuffed the handkerchief in her pocket, leaned over and selected one of the squares with the most butter. Raising it to her lips, she took a bite. Slowly she chewed. Her eyes widened. “That is very good.” She reached out, took another square and called over her shoulder. Three people hurried over for their own sample. Soon, there were a dozen people in front of the table. Bread and butter was selling so fast, Lesia and Minnie could barely keep up. Pennies and nickels and dimes lay scattered on the table hke flakes of snow.

  “Eggs too. She has eggs,” someone yelled.

  “What’s the name of your farm?” a young mother asked. “So we can look for it next time.”

  Minnie translated.

  The name of her farm? It wasn’t a farm. It couldn’t have a name. Farms were for the Master Stryks of the world. The people who counted.

  “Give it a name,” Minnie hissed. “It has to have a name so they’ll think of it again.”

  A name. A farm? Farms were when you belonged in a place. When it was home.

  They were all staring at her. Pairs and pairs of eyes. Canadian eyes. Staring and waiting. Only this time there wasn’t judgment in the eyes, nor was there anger or disgust or even derision. There was curiosity. Eagerness. And in one or two pairs of eyes there was the dim of acceptance.

  Had it always been there and she hadn’t noticed? Or had her good deed put it there? It was there; that was all that mattered. “Faithland,” she said shyly.

  Several people nodded, but those in the back of the crowd looked uncertain. “What was that?” someone yelled.

  “Faithland Farms,” Lesia said with a grin. This time her voice was strong and clear. “We’re Faithland Farms. That’s who we are.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “A farm?” Andrew looked impressed. He pulled on the reins to slow the wagon; they were almost home.

  Lesia felt her face flush. “They were all staring at me. I had to say something!”

  He laughed, and, after a minute, Lesia joined in. They were both in happy, hopeful moods—Lesia because she had sold out at yesterday’s market, and Andrew because Paul had just been released, thanks to a powerful friend who had spoken up on his behalf.

  “You reahze what today is, don’t you?” he asked.

  “No, what?”

  “It was a year ago today you saw your land for the first time.”

  With a slight shock, Lesia realized Andrew was right. Today was May 10. “A lot can happen in a year,” she said softly.

  “Like having a farm,” Andrew teased. “And a fence.” He pointed up ahead to where Lesia’s fence was just coming into sight. “You’ll need a sign now. All good farms have them.”

  “It’s not really a farm. It’s keeping Faith and the chickens happy, that’s all it is.”

  Andrew ignored her. “And you’ll have to have a place to keep all your money,” he continued. “Somewhere safe.”

  She giggled. “My sock works just fine, thank you very much.”

  “Oh, really?” He reached over his shoulder. “I thought this would be better.”

  Lesia stared at the square brown package he’d put on the seat between them. Now what?

  “Open it.”

  She couldn’t. “I can’t take any more gifts.” Faith was the final straw. Even Mama agreed.

  “It’s not a gift,” Andrew said. “Now open it before I stop this wagon and open it myself.”

  One look at his face told her he was serious. She picked up the parcel. It was surprisingly heavy. She ran her hands over the top of the paper. She could feel the raised surface, the familiar outline. It couldn’t be! Shocked, she looked up. Andrew was whisding!

  “Is it …?”The words stuck in her throat. “How did you …?”

  He stopped whistling. “Would you just close your mouth and open the parcel?” he ordered gruffly. But when he glanced at her, his face was indulgent, and his blue eyes were warm with the kind of tenderness she’d seen only once—when he’d talked about his wife.

  Hands shaking, Lesia struggled with the thin, green twine. With each twist, her heart raced faster. Then it was off and she was tearing at the brown paper, removing Geedo’s beloved Bible and Baba’s precious box. Fat, salty tears streamed down her face and plopped onto the wood. “I can’t believe you did this,” she blubbered. “You didn’t have to … I can’t accept this … it’s too much … another gift.” She was laughing and crying, making no sense at all.

  “Keep them dry, for heaven’s sake.” Andrew handed her a handkerchief along with his usual look of amused exasperation.

  She wiped her face, blew her nose and then ran her hands over the box: the delicate stems and manypetalled flowers, the tiny bee nestled at the centre of one of the blooms. She opened the Bible and inspected the pages, touching the familiar words with gratitude, checking that Geedo’s documentation of his family still remained on the first page. His family. Baba’s family. Her family too. It was all there. Both the box and the Bible were untouched. Bozhe! And she had thought she’d never see them again.

  “You’re always giving me things,” sh
e said when she finally trusted herself to speak.

  “I’m not giving you anything.” Andrew turned onto the path to their homestead. “I’m returning something that belongs to you. There’s a difference.”

  “But you had to pay to get them back.”

  “Especially for the box,” Andrew chuckled. “That old man drives a real hard bargain.”

  “I’ll pay you back. Out of my market money.”

  “I won’t take it.”

  “I don’t like debt. I guess I’m my father’s daughter, after all.” She smiled at the irony. “How much were they, Andrew?”

  He was silent a long time. Finally he turned to her and said, “Some things are priceless. To put the value of a dollar on those would cheapen them.”

  “But you—”

  “No.” He pulled the oxen to a standstill. “Both the Bible and the box have been passed down through your family, from mother to daughter and father to son. They are a part of your heritage, Lesia. You cannot give that up.”

  “But it wasn’t up to you to recover them for me.”

  He shrugged.”! can do it, so why not?”

  She opened her mouth to argue, but Sonia came tearing into the clearing. “Lessie, Lessie, come quick!” She ran back the way she came towards the garden.

  Fearing the worst, Lesia jumped from the wagon and ran after her.

  Mama was there, with Adam in her arms and Sonia at her feet. Above her was the bee skep Lesia had woven so many months ago. The one that had been damaged in the wind, the one Mama had insisted on mending. And just below it was a sight Lesia had been praying for.

  “Bees!” She stared at the hovering, buzzing mass in awe.

  Let your effort be true, my darling child, and your rewards will be sweet.

  Tears pricked her eyelids. A lump welled up in her throat. She hugged her precious family Bible close. “We have bees!”

  “Just in time,” Mama said with a smile, “to welcome you home.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  January 2003

  Winnipeg, Manitoba