Heart of Glass

by Diane Noble

  I wondered if Micheil might be there this moment, pulling the rope in the bell tower. If I hurried I might catch him before he left for Welsie’s ranch, the one she called Saddleback.

  An hour later, I hired a carriage to take me to the mission. I grabbed hold of the upholstered bench seat as the cabby drove across the small valley, the wheels creaking, the vehicle jerking and bouncing as it hit ruts and bumps in the dirt road. On the right side of the carriage rose velvet-brown hills dotted with live oaks. To my left stretched the ocean, sparkling like a million jewels in the sunlight.

  When I stepped out in front of the mission, I was immediately disappointed. What had appeared pure white and gleaming from a distance was little more than a long pile of cracked and crumbling adobes. Perhaps they had been whitewashed at one time, but now they were stained with age and in sad need of repair.

  I headed to a small grape arbor just beyond the front gate and placed my two valises on a stone bench near an olive tree. Still clutching the smaller satchel, I headed tentatively into a tangle of overgrown plants and rosebushes that had turned to rosehips and barren sucker stalks. Farther out, nearly to the corner of the crumbling wall, a covered well stood beneath another olive tree.

  A shallow, stagnant pond lay just behind the overgrown, dead garden. I skirted it and headed to what appeared to be the front of the sanctuary. It rose domelike above the rubble around it, a crooked wooden cross on its topmost point. The place had no doors, so I walked inside.

  It took a few minutes for my eyes to become accustomed to the dim light. I sneezed three times and looked up to see the beams of dust dancing in bars of sunlight through the gaping holes in the dome roof.

  Welsie True had told me of the mission’s disrepair, its tragic history of earthquakes and storms. Still, I was not prepared for the sorry state of the place. Even the original tower bell lay on its side where it had fallen in the 1812 earthquake. Dozens were killed the morning it fell. I turned away, unable to bear the images that the broken, once-majestic bell brought to mind.

  I turned to walk back to the tangled gardens, but then I heard footsteps approaching from the altar at the front of the church. I stepped into the shadows as a man passed me, his head down, his shoulders bent as if under a burden even greater than my own. He was slight of build, and even in the dim light his eyes seemed to hold great sorrow, his face lined with care.

  My heart went out to him as he stepped into the glare of sunlight. He stopped, looking puzzled, glanced back into the sanctuary where I hid, then moved on.

  He wore Western pants, frayed from hard labor, and a flannel shirt with rolled-up sleeves. A heavy silver cross, suspended from a chain around his neck, rested against his chest. He moved quietly, perhaps out of habit from years of wearing robes. I knew the man had to be Micheil.

  I stepped cautiously into the sunlight and shaded my eyes, surprised I did not see him striding through the dead gardens or around the stagnant pond. Puzzled, I stood utterly still, trying to figure where he had gone. From the branches of a live oak tree above me, a mockingbird sang. Another fluttered along the branch above the first, calling out. A hummingbird buzzed near my cheeks, then stopped to take nectar from a nearly spent hollyhock stalk.

  “ ’Tis a lovely day,” said a deep voice behind me. “Would you care for water, lass?”

  Startled, I whirled. Standing near the covered well was the man in the flannel shirt. He held out a gourd with water spilling over the sides. It seemed like a long time ago since anyone had called me lass. Though I knew it was a manner of speech for this Irishman—and meant neither married or unmarried, young or old—still it caused my eyes to dampen.

  I walked toward the well, cautiously, slowly, until I stood before him. “Tell me it is better than the water in the pond,” I said, taking the ladle-gourd from him.

  A smile crossed his haggard face, and he nodded. “This is the purest you will ever drink. Straight from a fresh spring hidden beneath the ground.”

  I drank and it was indeed sweet.

  “You are a stranger here.” It was not a question.

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  He studied me, looking deep into my eyes as if to see my soul.

  “I am Fairwyn March,” I said finally.

  “I thought as much,” he said, his voice kind.

  I tilted my head, puzzling. “Then you must be Micheil.”

  “I am indeed.” He turned the crank at the side of the well, letting the wooden bucket drop once more into the water. When he had pulled it up again, I gave him the gourd and he filled it. I drank again, thirsty in this dry climate.

  “Welsie True wrote that I needed to hurry to her,” I said. “She said you would take me to her cottage.”

  “Aye, lass. I know she was expecting you any day.” His brogue was thick and rolled from his tongue like cream. The sound of it reminded me somehow of the one who had filled my dreams when I was trembling with fear. Though there was no sense of rushing, musical waters or of streams of light. Only gentleness.

  Micheil leaned against the base of the stone well, hooking one booted ankle across the other. “Welsie True knew everything about you, from your yellow hair to the near count of freckles on your nose. She knew that some called you Fairy lass, and she especially knew of your musical heart. She knew you well, and she loved you with utter joy.”

  I frowned, leaning forward. “You said ‘knew,’ like she might be gone.” My words were barely a whisper.

  He nodded to the stone bench beneath the grape arbor where I had left my valises. “Let’s sit for a while in the shade. I have much to tell you.”

  I trailed after him across the small courtyard to the place where I had entered. I settled onto one end of the short bench; he sat down at the other. For a moment he did not speak; he stared at his feet, his shoulders hunched and still.

  “When Welsie wrote to you last, she was very ill,” he said, looking up again. I realized I was wringing my hands and made an effort to quiet them. “She had been suffering for a long time.”

  “She spoke of her ailments,” I said, knowing with dread fear what he was about to tell me. Tears blurred my vision. “I knew her time might be short.”

  “She desperately wanted to see you, but she also knew she hadn’t much time. That’s why she wrote to you at last. She also knew your life was troubled, and she understood you might soon need a sanctuary.” He was silent for a moment and then added, “She died only a week ago.” The grief in his face was raw, and I thought he might weep.

  For a moment I couldn’t speak. I stared across the courtyard, away from Micheil’s sorrowful gaze, out to where the church lay in ruins. “Why did she not send for me sooner? Through the years, I begged her. Before I married Zeb, I wanted to come to her.” I met his eyes again. “She thought I might need a sanctuary—then why didn’t she offer it?”

  “After your marriage, she thought you could better work out your problems with your husband if you remained with him. It wasn’t her desire to separate you.”

  Thoughts of Zeb and our troubles brought on a wave of dizziness and nausea. Swallowing hard against the ache, I continued in a whisper. “She always wanted the best for me, God’s best … but I’ve never been able to fathom all she told me about his love and his forgiveness. I had hoped …” My voice trailed off. How could I selfishly think of what I needed from Welsie when I’d only begun to grieve over missing her presence, even from a distance, in my life? “Mostly I just wanted to see her.” I met his gaze. “In the end she was my one true friend.” Neither of us spoke for a moment. “I just wanted to meet her at last. Now I feel robbed of … so much. Robbed of her.” My reasons still seemed selfish, which added shame to my grief.

  Micheil looked worried. “Are you not feeling well, lass?”

  I smiled at the name, so familiar from my childhood. Fairy lass, I’d been then, to Poppy and to Selah. Hearing it from Micheil brought me comfort somehow. “I’m weak from my journey,” I said. “And hearing your news about We
lsie … it’s more than I can bear right now.” Tears pricked the backs of my lids.

  “She understood your circumstances,” he said. “She made me promise to tell you all she’d planned to.” The kindness in his expression was mixed with something I could not read. “She told me every detail so I that could tell you in her place.”

  “Can you tell me now?”

  “ ’Tis a lengthy tale,” he said. “Are you certain you’re feeling well enough to sit through it?”

  A new wave of nausea swept over me. I brought my hand to my mouth, mortified I might be sick in front of him. I closed my eyes, breathing deeply.

  “Lass, your face is the shade of the clouds in the heavens.” His voice held alarm. “You must rest.”

  I nodded, my hand still covering my mouth.

  “Have you eaten yet this morning?”

  The thought of food brought a fresh pang of sickness. I closed my eyes and shook my head violently. “No food,” I murmured from behind my hand. “Please, do not speak of food.”

  He was standing now, looking more alarmed than ever. “What can I do to help … should you lie yourself prone … or have some soup? Oh my, there I go again, talkin’ of food. Oh, lass, tell me …” He looked helpless, but I was in no condition to see the humor in how he was wringing his hands.

  I lifted myself heavily to stand near the bench, swaying a bit as I tried to regain my composure. I reached for it to steady myself. “The journey … Welsie’s death …” I started to cry. “It’s all just too much to bear.”

  “Let me take you back to your inn. I’ll see you indoors and find someone to watch over you.”

  Biting my lip, I nodded. “Yes, please.” I swallowed hard, struggling to keep my breakfast down, then managed to give him directions.

  He left me at the bench and hurried off across the courtyard. After no more than ten minutes, he was back with a carriage hitched to a team of swaybacked grays. He settled me inside and drove me down to the small Spanish inn. There, he held me upright as he spoke to Mrs. Blum, the innkeeper. Then, one on either side, they helped me up the stairs to my room. I fell exhausted onto the bed, vaguely aware of Micheil’s leaving and Mrs. Blum’s bustling around the bedroom, closing the window shutters and covering me with a counterpane.

  I woke to the sound of mission bells a few hours later. Feeling immensely better, I rose to open the shutters and peer out at the ocean, gulping in huge breaths of air. My room, on the third floor, was large and full of light. It had a single small iron bedstead near a window that overlooked the ocean, an oak rocking chair, and a writing table.

  Still filled with weariness, I did no more than take supper with the other boarders and walk along the beach at sunset. I gathered shells and examined tide pools. I tried not to think of Welsie’s death, but it was impossible. Until now, I hadn’t realized the anchor her love had been for me.

  Sorrow washed over me as the sun slipped into the pearl-gray waters of the ocean and darkness fell. Long ago Poppy said I needed to listen for God’s song in the night, but right now in my soul’s dark musing, I could find no music at all.

  I had counted on Welsie True to help me find my way through the darkness, and now she was gone.

  I did little more than sleep and eat for three days. Even the ocean lost its pull. Mrs. Blum told me that Micheil had stopped by twice a day to check on me, but arrived while I was sleeping.

  On the fourth day, I felt stronger. I walked along the beach, studying my disappearing footsteps in the wet sand. The waves washed them away as if I’d never trod upon this beach, just as I had washed away the footprints of my life in Oak Hill. I thought of Zeb and wondered if he grieved for me. And what about Jeannie, the woman I thought was my friend?

  Even those musings seemed minor compared to my own grieving over Welsie. It was time to find out what she’d meant to tell me. I touched my stomach and felt the barely perceptible swell of my growing baby, whose existence I could no longer deny. For this child, for our futures, I felt compelled to find out all Welsie True had planned to tell me about herself, about our family.

  At dusk I pulled on my cape and walked to the livery next to the train station. I didn’t expect Micheil to be at the mission this late, but I would leave a letter for him. I would return in the morning at ten. I couldn’t wait any longer. I wanted to hear everything that Welsie had told Micheil.

  As I settled into a hired buggy and flicked the reins, the mission bells rang in the distance, their tones low and mellow, echoing across the valley. It seemed they were calling me.

  I rested one hand on my stomach, wondering again at the child’s life growing inside me, and turned the horse onto the mission road.

  Twenty-One

  The last tone of the bells seemed to echo in my heart as I stepped through the entrance to San Juan Mission. The sun had long ago set, and a lacy mist off the ocean drifted among the olive and eucalyptus trees. The air was chilly, and I shivered as I passed the overgrown gardens. I glanced around the front courtyard then walked toward the arches at the north of the large complex. In the center was a fountain made of dark clay, with a small empty pool around it. Both were dry, and as I moved closer I could see they both were cracked and chipped with age.

  I sat on the short wall that circled the pool and glanced at what must have been a plaza, with square rooms that might have once housed a smithy, a carpenter’s shop, a candle factory, and a kitchen. Perhaps rooms for traveling monks walking from one mission to the next. I strolled to one of the long buildings and peeked through a window. An aged wooden bed was inside, and a table and chair, all appearing to be at least a century old.

  I walked along the covered walkway outside the little rooms, peering inside each one. Darkness was now falling, and, because of the gathering mists, I strained to see across the courtyard past the fountain. I had almost rounded the entire square when I came upon the last in the row of cells. I inched along the wall until I reached the window. I peered in, surprised at what I could see in the dim light.

  The room was swept clean, empty, except for a small corner table with a candlestick atop it, a large chair appearing to have been fashioned from tree branches, and, at the farthest wall, an ancient and scarred worktable hewn from a single massive tree. Tools hung neatly in a row above it.

  They were familiar, so familiar. My heart quickened as I stepped inside and drew closer. I reached for the matches on the table beside the candlestick and lit the candle. I looked around in wonder. This square room was so like Poppy’s woodworking shed out back of our cabin that it nearly took away my breath.

  I pulled a small chisel from its hook and checked its sharpness. Someone had recently worked it on a stone. It was as sharp as Poppy’s. Next I pulled down the first of three saws in various sizes. From one to the next I moved, the possibilities of using each filling my head. I pictured Poppy’s big hands as he held the tools, carving and scooping and fashioning. I could almost see him bent over his work, his forehead smooth with pleasure in his work.

  I reached for the pouch that hung at my neck, opened the drawstring, and pulled out his dulcimer drawings. Gently smoothing the torn pieces, I laid them on the worktable and moved them about until they were in the proper order. The figures were crudely fashioned, and some were so faint they were barely legible.

  But there they were, sketches for the soundboard, the tail block, stock, frets, and fingerboard, even tiny drawings of the soundboard holes. Poppy’s own designs: small meadow flowers and swallowtail butterflies.

  All I needed was wood, blocks of hardwood, to make a dulcimer. Poppy mostly used sassafras, maple, and walnut, and I knew such trees might not grow in California. And they needed to be seasoned, not just hewn from a fresh limb or trunk. Poppy’s instruments had an earthy sound, woody and fuzzy, instead of the bright twang of some. I wanted my instrument’s tone to sound mellow and true like his.

  Still puzzling over where I might find such wood, I refolded Poppy’s drawings, extinguished the candle flame, and
headed to the doorway. I glanced back at the carpenter’s shop with pleasure once again before stepping outside and making my way back to the gate.

  Darkness had fallen now, and the chilly mists hung low and dense. I shivered again, walked quickly across the compound. I had gone but a short distance, through the arches to the tangle of gardens by the stagnant pond, when I heard the murmuring of voices, or more accurately, one voice coming from the dilapidated sanctuary. I recognized the soft Irish brogue as Micheil’s and made my way through the deep darkness to the entrance of the church and stepped inside.

  I didn’t want to disturb him, but only wanted to let him know I would meet him here, or wherever he might suggest, tomorrow morning.

  Candles flickered on the dusty altar, casting macabre dancing shadows on the adobe walls. I still could not see anyone, but the voice was clearer now. I followed it down the center aisle. I had taken but a few steps when I realized I was listening to a prayer.

  Embarrassed that I had intruded, I turned to leave. I held my breath when I heard him utter the word mercy. I hesitated, wanting to retreat now, but fearing my footsteps would be heard. So I remained still.

  “Father God,” Micheil said, his voice low, “I have prayed for it so oft I do not know if you are hearing or simply turning your back on me, your servant.”

  I halted midstep, statuelike, knowing I should leave but unwilling to move my feet.

  “I have worked for you from the time I was a lad,” he went on. “Done for others, served at your altar, performed the sacraments. Yet in all, Father, I have failed to know your mercy … forgiveness.”

  A great silence followed. I drew in my breath and held it, knowing surely even the sound of my breathing could be heard in this place.

  “Who goes there?” the voice demanded. “Who is it?”

  “ ’Tis Fairwyn March, sir,” I said.