by Diane Noble
“No!” I growled into the silence. “My husband is not the one. I will not go to him.” I clutched my stomach. “ ’Tis just my child and me now. My child. Not his. He doesn’t deserve to know.”
I turned on my side and curled into a ball. The clock ticked from down the hallway, and the waves beat a soft rhythm in the distance.
“You’ve been with me in my troubles …” I breathed. “Are you here now? Have you always been with me?” A sense of warmth settled into my spirit, and I didn’t feel so alone. I drifted to the place between waking and sleeping, feeling loved. Unaccountably loved.
I am with you, beloved, even to the ends of the earth.
I sat up in bed and looked around, rubbing my eyes. The kitchen clock struck three. I had slept, or was I still asleep? “You are with me then? You are here?”
I am with you.
“I need you,” I breathed. “But I’m afraid …”
Of turning from your darkness to the light, beloved, to my light?
“Can you take it away?” My voice was little more than a whisper. “My darkness, I mean?”
I can do all things, if you but ask.
Still on my bed, I bent forward, crying. “Then do it, I beg you. Take this darkness from me.”
When the still, small voice spoke again in the depths of my heart, I wept in disappointment.
I already have, beloved. My son’s sacrifice conquered death.
“Then why can I not know it?” I argued. “Why do I still feel imprisoned in it?”
He forgave those who nailed him to the cross. Can you do less?
“But I’ve been so wronged,” I wept. “I should not have to forgive until Zeb begs it of me.”
He forgave without being asked.
“You cannot know my pain.”
I know your going out, your coming in. The very hairs on your head are numbered. You think I do not know you?
“But my heartache is deep, the deception by my husband, my friend …”
My son was betrayed by his friends.
I fell silent, ashamed.
I am the light of the world, beloved. In me there is no darkness at all.
I buried my face in my hands. “I can’t do it,” I cried. “I don’t have the strength.”
Lean on me, child, and learn of me. Try me, and know that I will give you the strength you need.
“What must I do?”
Forgive, as I have forgiven you.
“No.”
I will help you.
“I cannot.”
I tossed and twisted in my covers until the clock struck five. When I rose, the words in my heart seemed to have come in a dream. I pondered their meaning, knowing that somewhere in them was truth. Important truth.
Forgive, as I have forgiven you.
I stoked the stove and set water to boil for coffee.
Forgive, as I have forgiven you.
Then I stepped from the back door to the pathway leading across the small picketed enclosure. A blanket of fog had settled during the night, deep and thick around me, obscuring the sea even in the gray dawn. As I stood listening to the surf crashing below, the small, quiet voice in my heart came back.
Forgive, as I have forgiven you.
I thought about Zeb. How could I possibly forgive or return to him? I couldn’t. I also knew I had no choice.
“God, help me,” I whispered, staring into the ashen mist. “Help me.”
The mists were burning off from the midmorning sun when I headed down the hillside for a walk into town. I was trailed by a passel of neighborhood children, wide-eyed and giggling into their hands.
Finally I stopped and turned to greet them. The youngest grinned up at me, her black eyes merry. “Buenos días, señora,” she said, exchanging a triumphant look with a little boy who might have been her brother. The other children looked duly impressed, likely because she was the first one to engage me in conversation.
“Bue-nos dí-as,” I said slowly.
My pronunciation obviously wasn’t what they expected, for the lot of them burst into laughter. They chattered away in Spanish. I shrugged and shook my head. “I don’t understand,” I said.
Finally, the child I thought was the little girl’s brother stepped forward. “We want to know if you live here now.” He pointed to the cottage. “Señora True was our friend. We miss her.”
“I miss her too,” I said gently. “She was my grandmother.”
He translated my words to the other children. The little girl stepped toward me and tugged at my hand. Her face very serious, she said several words in Spanish, and I looked to her brother to explain.
“Señora Welsie made us little cakes. My sister wants to know if you will too.”
I laughed then, bent lower to look into the little girl’s eyes, and said, “What is your name?”
Her brother translated. “Rosa.”
“And yours?” I looked up at him.
“Fernando, but I am known more by Nando.”
All the other children moved closer, almost encircling me. One by one, they told me their names: Juan, Carlos, Nita, and Jaime.
“I will make you some little cakes,” I said, “if you will help me.”
Nando translated, and the others chattered excitedly, smiling up at me and nodding.
“Su casa?” Rosa asked.
“Sí,” I said, glad I remembered at least that much. “Sí.” I smiled. “First you must show me the way to some shops so I can buy some flour and sugar and eggs.”
Nando grabbed my hand, pulling me forward, and called to the others to follow, explaining my request in Spanish.
“Wait, wait!” I said, laughing. “You must first ask your mommas. Please, run back and get their permission. I’ll wait here.”
There seemed to be no translation needed. The group trotted as one up the incline and soon disappeared from sight. It took only a short time for them to reappear at the top of the hill, this time with their mothers in tow.
I waved, signaling it was all right for the children to accompany me, and the women waved back. Minutes later, Rosa took one hand, Nita the other. Nando marched in front of me, the other boys trailed behind.
We soon arrived in the heart of San Juan, across the mission wall. The children led me first to a pandería for flour and leavening, to an open-air grocer to buy oranges and avocados, which they called alligator pears and insisted I try, then to a small ranch near the train tracks that sold eggs and milk and smoked pork.
As I trudged back up the hill to the cottage, my usual weariness seemed to almost disappear. The chatter and laughter of the children lightened my heart, and the sight of them gathered in my kitchen a half-hour later, aprons tied around their waists, some on stools or boxes, others perched on a worktable, made me forget everything but the joy of the moment.
I found my grandmother’s recipe for little sweet cakes in a small tin box in her cupboard, and set about breaking eggs and instructing Rosa and Nando how to stir them, Nita to sift the measure of flour, and Jaime to set the wood in the stove.
As we worked, I began to sing “The Old Gray Goose Is Dead.” Nando translated and gales of laughter resulted. The children tried hard to form the English words, then Nando attempted to teach me the Spanish words for the song. Finally we settled on a mix of both. By the time we put the small cakes on an iron sheet and slid it into the oven, we’d forged a friendship.
I looked around the kitchen, taking in the spilled flour on the floor, the smudges of the same on nearly every little brown face, the merry chatter. As the aroma of the baking cakes filled the room, their eyes widened and their voices hushed in anticipation.
They gathered round the stove as I clutched a heavy pad and pulled the iron sheet from the oven. Atop it the cakes were lopsided and lumpy, but the children didn’t seem to care. They licked their lips and made small humming sounds.
“Outdoors,” I said, gesturing to the grass this side of the gazebo. “We’ll eat them out back.” No translation wa
s needed. They scurried outdoors while I scooped the cakes from the flat pan and piled them onto a platter. Nando held open the back door, and I stepped through.
The children made a grab for the cakes, and above their chatter I heard a rumbling chuckle. I turned to see Micheil heading around the house. “Looks like I’m just in time,” he announced.
“Hola, amigos,” he said to the children, and greeted them each by name. To my surprise, he settled cross-legged onto the grass beside them, happily munching on a small cake of his own.
I sat down in the weathered chair by the gazebo and watched the scene before me. The small picket-framed yard seemed ready to burst with sunlight and laughter. Soon three of the children’s mothers entered the gate on the opposite side of the cottage. They greeted Micheil like an old friend, and, after introducing me, he spoke with them in Spanish, carefully translating for me.
The women soon gathered their children to take them home, thanked me for baking the cakes, then disappeared into nearby houses. It seemed strangely quiet when they had left.
“I’ve never had neighbors,” I said to Micheil with a half-smile. “These seem to come with the cottage.”
He laughed. “You reminded me of Welsie when I saw you standing here with the children. She fed these little ones every chance she got, told them stories, sang them songs.”
I tilted my chin downward, a warm pleasure sweeping over me with his words. “They loved it when I sang ‘The Old Gray Goose,’ but I didn’t try any others. I thought I might confuse them by using too much English.”
“Welsie taught the children many words. They understand more than you know,” he said. “Just start your singing and see what happens.” His voice softened. “And, lass, I think they might be held spellbound by your dulcimer playing.”
“Ah, but first I must make one,” I countered, smiling.
“I came to see if you might want to ride to Saddleback Ranch with me. I’ve saved a chunk of wood for you there that just might strike your fancy.”
“The seasoned hardwood you told me about?”
“The same, lass. Welsie picked out the best block months ago, knowing that in the end she would invite you to come to California. And hoping, of course, hoping with all her heart that you would come.”
He stood and took the platter from me to carry into the cottage. Then ordering me to sit at the small round table beside the stove, he donned an apron and cleaned up the mess the children and I had made. He whistled as he swept the plank floor, and, after pumping water into the dishpan, wiped up the spilled cake batter on the stove.
“There now,” he said, untying the apron and scanning the kitchen for spots missed. “ ’Tis better than new.”
I grinned at him. “Is there anything you can’t do, my friend?”
His own smiled faded. “Only what I want to do more than anything in this lifetime, lass.”
To return to the priesthood, I knew he would say if I asked, but I nodded slightly in understanding and said nothing.
“We’ll need to be on our way now,” he said. “ ’Tis a ways out to the Saddleback, and we’ll want to be getting back before dark.” I started for the door, and he gently reached for my arm. “Perhaps you’ll be needing a wrap, lass. I wouldn’t want you to take a chill now.”
His concern touched me, and I nodded. “Aye, kind sir,” I said with a grin.
He laughed then. “I’ll be makin’ an Irishwoman of ye yet, lassie.”
I climbed into the wagon and sat on the driver’s seat. He circled the vehicle and settled beside me. At a flick of the reins the mare pulled away from the cottage. Within minutes we wound into the hills to the east of San Juan and onto a rutted road that stretched across a grassy valley. The horse clopped along, and the wagon jostled from side to side as the wheels headed through the ruts.
We’d gone only a few miles when Micheil slowed the mare and pulled over to let another rider pass coming the opposite direction. He pointed to a barren plateau up ahead.
“Welsie’s cattle range is on the plateau, her ranch down the hillside on another steppe just below.”
I gazed up at the wide sky in wonder. “My grandmother liked open spaces.”
He laughed and popped the reins above the mare’s back. “She always said it was a breath of fresh air just to be out of the hollows of home. It seemed she couldn’t get enough of views that let her see forever—from her cottage, from the place I’m taking you.”
“The shadows of the hollows sometimes block the sun most of the day.”
“That’s what she said. She loved the West because the views stretch to heaven itself. She couldn’t seem to get enough of the sunlight and warmth she found here.”
He turned the horse onto a path leading up a slope on the north side of the plateau. The mare whinnied and flicked an ear back as we headed up a steeper incline. Small clods of dirt rolled behind us. I grabbed hold of the bench as the wagon rattled along, seeming to rock and sway enough to topple.
“Ah,” Micheil breathed audibly, as if the air were purer this far above the ocean. He rounded the easternmost switchback and climbed onto flat land. “This is Saddleback Ranch.” He halted the horse and turned to me with a grin. “Fairwyn March’s spread.”
“My ranch,” I mused with a frown. I’d almost forgotten that my grandmother had left it to me. I let my gaze travel across the windswept, golden grasslands. It held a beauty all its own. Clumps of cactus were scattered among the boulders and live oaks. And in the distance the ocean stretched beneath a hazy blue sky. I could see why Welsie True loved this place.
“Where are the cattle?” I said, looking up at him. “I thought this was a cattle ranch.”
He laughed. “ ‘Tis, Fairwyn. ‘Tis. And I’ll explain their mysterious disappearance a wee bit later.” Then he caught my hand and pulled me along as both of us ran like the wind to the far end of the plateau.
“Stop, stop!” I finally called, bending over, breathless.
He let go of my hand and, heaving great breaths of his own, fell on his knees and stared straight up at the sky.
I looked down at him, laughing again. “Why, Micheil Grady Gilvarry, I believe I might have outrun you after all! You’re panting harder than I am.”
He sat up. “Ah, but ’Tis a long time since anyone called me that.” He smiled. “Welsie True was the last.”
“I thought maybe so,” I said and turned to look out toward the open sea. “She loved this place,” I said. “I bet you can see to eternity from up here.”
“Aye, lass, that you can.” He stood beside me now. “I’ll show you,” he said. And we walked slowly toward the far end of the plateau.
From there we could see Welsie’s ranch tucked into a grove of fruit trees and eucalyptus and black pines. Farther out spread a thousand head of cattle, their soft lowing carrying on the wind. Beyond the little village of San Juan, an even wider expanse of the ocean could be seen. It sparkled blue-gray until it melted into the horizon. Even Santa Catalina Island rose up from the ocean, its mountain formation looking like the back of a great gray whale.
“How did she manage to buy this?” I asked.
“She came to California with a small nest egg. She started buying land, an acre at a time, mostly land no one else wanted. She started out with a small herd of cattle, some sickly scrawny things someone had ordered by train from Texas and never claimed. She got them for a song at an auction, then set about nursing them to health. Turned out to be a prize herd. She sold off part of it for a tidy profit a few years later. That’s how she bought the cottage in town.”
He turned to me. “Everything she did was for you. She hoped to leave you enough to never want again. She wanted you to make your own choices without worry of poverty or need.”
“I can stay here then,” I said softly, imagining it.
“Aye, that was her intention—if you chose to.”
I turned to him. “Yet you’re saying I must return to Zeb.”
He didn’t speak for a mome
nt. “It makes the choices harder.”
“This is where you live. It is your home.”
“ ‘Tis.”
“And should I …” I tried to formulate my thoughts. “If I decided not to stay …” I drew in a deep breath and started again. “If I did determine I needed to go back to Zeb—I’m not saying I am, only that should I feel I must …”
He raised a brow, his head tilted. “Lass, what is it you’re trying to say?”
“If I did, and if I gave you this ranch—for I think my grandmother loved you as much as she did me and would be pleased—if I gave it to you …”
He held up a hand. “Then it would truly make my choices even harder.”
“Because of Ireland.”
“The same.”
“I have no need for a cattle ranch,” I said, my voice soft. “Should I stay, the cottage is perfect for me.”
“What about for your child, Fairwyn?”
I spun then, moving my hands to my stomach. I tilted my head and started to protest. But when I saw the compassion in his face, I stepped back and held my tongue.
“My dear ma bore seven after bearing me,” he said. “I well remember the signs.”
My cheeks warmed. “You guessed then?”
His smile was gentle. “I knew then.”
I walked away from him. “That’s why you’ve been telling me I must return to Zeb.”
“Partly.” He walked closer to stand beside me. “For the child, but also for you.”
“I don’t think I have the strength in me,” I said, still looking out to the sea, the glint of sunlight playing on the distant waves.
“ ’Tis our Lord who strengthens us.”
I turned to him. “Are you just repeating those platitudes you learned in”—I grappled for the right word—“seminary … Catholic university … wherever it is you learn to be a priest?” He grinned, but I went on. “You remind me of those things I know to be true about God”—I tapped my forehead—“but have never taken root in my heart.” I searched his face. “But you, Micheil Grady Gilvarry, I suspect you, too, have learned these truths about God up here.” I touched my head again. “But neither have they taken root in your heart.” I resisted the urge to point to his chest—the very place where his silver cross lay.