by Diane Noble
“Only our heavenly Father can protect us, lass. And we cannot know his purposes, his timing, what he may call us to do as a sacrifice. Being his child isn’t always safe. Our physical bodies will pass away, but the core of who we are—our souls—can never be taken out of his palm.”
I frowned then, remembering Ireland. “And you? You fear returning home because of the certainty of death.”
“ ’Tis a certainty in human terms,” he said. Then he raised a brow and grinned, breaking our somber tones. “And you’ve just guessed why I know the subject so well. You might say that I am intimately acquainted with the feeling of dread fear.” He chuckled. Then, looking heavenward, he thickened his brogue. “Aye, lass, even your questions cause thinkin’ about me own dilemma when it comes to God’s grace.”
“Grace?”
“Aye, his grace.” His voice dropped. “That place between where our short arms reach out to him and his powerful hands stretch toward us. That place where we fall so short of our own expectations. Fall short of what we imagine God’s to be.” Tears glistened in his eyes. “And then if we keep reaching toward him, we see the bridge of his love crossing that space between. No matter what we’ve done, no matter how far short of his glory we’ve fallen—he’s still reaching out. His big hands are open wide to catch us, to draw us nearer to his heart.” He paused, wiping his eyes. “That’s grace, child. That’s grace.”
My own eyes had filled. “Shouldn’t this grace remove our fears then?”
He nodded slowly. “Aye, lass. It should. But we’re human. We make mistakes. We run when we should stay. We’re cowards when we should be strong. We say things we shouldn’t. We act in ways unbecoming for God’s children.
“But our Father doesn’t give us just one chance to make it right.” He wiped his eyes again. “He keeps giving us chance after chance after chance.”
I thought of my headstrong ways, the hurts I’d caused others, the mistakes I’d made. “I don’t know if I can reach far enough.”
“That’s the glory of it,” he said. “You don’t have to, lass. ’Tis God who does the reaching. You just need to hold out your arms and stand still.”
Neither of us spoke for a moment. I tried to imagine such love, such grace. But the concept was almost too big, too deep, too wondrous, to take in. “I need to get my wood,” I said finally. “And the tools.”
He nodded with a sad smile. “I’ll miss you, Fairwyn.”
“And I, you,” I said, then stepped through the archway to the courtyard. I didn’t turn to look, but I felt his gaze following me to the monk’s cell.
I stepped inside moments later and stopped to let my eyes adjust to the dim light inside. There on the workbench was the heavy block of wood from the ranch. I stepped toward it and rubbed my hand over its rough surface. It seemed to beg for sanding, and I couldn’t resist just one quick swipe across the surface.
I set down the valise and reached for a sheet of sandpaper. I lightly smoothed it across the wood. Once. Twice. Pressing harder, glorying in the scent of the sawdust, I sanded a smaller area more intensely. I felt the surface with my left hand, letting my fingertips rub the wood. I pictured the rough-hewn piece finished and polished, shaped into the instrument I longed to play.
I lit the lamp and bent over Poppy’s instructions. The soundboard would be my first cut, using one of the saws above the bench, following the grain. I peered at the black oak, scrutinizing the grain, touching it, turning it. The length was perfect, exactly thirty-three inches.
Poppy’s instructions showed I was to draw a shape, hourglass, long oval, or something made entirely of my own fancy. His dulcimers were always hourglass shaped, though with varying designs, small and large. He had roughly sketched one of his most familiar for me to follow. But I was struck by the idea of designing a shape that would be uniquely mine.
Picking up a fat stick of carpenter’s chalk, I drew a double swirl along one side of the oak, then I rubbed it away. I tried again, this time keeping the curve gentler. It was better, but still not right.
Bending lower, I pored over Poppy’s designs, and then I looked back to my sketch. I hadn’t allowed enough width at the base of the instrument for the sound holes. Poppy’s drawings showed that each must be slightly less than two inches in diameter.
I couldn’t help the smile of satisfaction that played at the corner of my mouth as I redrew the shape. I tilted the wood toward the lamplight, knowing the design was perfect.
Without hesitation, I reached for the smallest saw, checked the strength and sharpness of the blade, and then began to make my first cut. Holding my breath, I pushed and pulled on the saw’s handle, holding to the chalk line. The wood was rock hard, and my right hand ached after just a few minutes, but gradually the cut appeared, taking the exact shape I’d drawn.
I stood back, grinning, to shake the cramp from my hand and to admire my work.
“Did you know, lass?” said a voice behind me. “Did you know that our Lord rejoices over us with singing?”
I turned as he crossed the distance between us and peered down at the block of wood. “You’ll recall that passage in Zephaniah that was a special favorite of Fairwyn Enid and her Daniel True: ‘The LORD thy God in the midst of thee is mighty; he will save, he will rejoice over thee with joy; he will rest in his love, he will joy over thee with singing.’ ”
Bending over the workbench, he ran his fingers over the wood, nodding slowly. He looked up at me and smiled, straightening. “I’ve heard your voice, lass. ’Tis a thing of joyous beauty.” His voice dropped as if in awe. “Can you imagine that our God sings over us with the same joy—only a thousand times more glorious and filled with love?
“Softer than a mother’s lullaby,” he went on. “More powerful than the wind, more glorious than a rushing waterfall, more gladsome than birdsong in spring.
“He’s given you a gift, Fairwyn March. One that reflects his joy in you.” Micheil glanced down at the wood, and then back to my face. “One that reflects his life in you.”
“I am staying,” I said, making my decision in that moment. “I cannot leave yet. It’s not time.”
“You will know,” Micheil said. “Just as I will, lass.”
Minutes later, I heard him whistling an Irish jig as he crossed the courtyard. I turned back to my workbench and picked up the saw again.
As I moved the blade back and forth in rhythm, I started to hum a lullaby, then to sing as I worked.
If all the world were a sheet of paper,
And the sea an ink of blue,
And all the trees on the hills were eagle quills,
It couldn’t write all my love to you.
A flutter like butterfly wings tickled the inside of my abdomen. Frowning, I stopped my work with the saw. Still humming I stepped back from the bench, my hands resting where I’d felt my baby move.
It couldn’t write all my love to you, my little one, I whispered in awe. I pictured the tiny legs and arms, the fingers and toes. My breath caught at the reality of the child within me. A baby! A baby! A thousand questions came to mind. What color were her eyes, her hair? Would it be curly or straight? What would I name her? Or him? Would she giggle or sing or both? What would her voice … his voice … sound like?
Again came the delicate flutter. Beside myself with joy, I hurried from the workshop into the sunlight and lifted my face to the heavens.
“My child and I are here,” I said out loud. I pictured God’s hands stretching out to us, crossing the place where I fell so short of deserving his love. That bridge Micheil said was God’s grace. “I’m not moving from this spot,” I promised God. “No matter what happens, I’ll not leave until it is time.
“I’m scared, Father. I still harbor fears that will not let me go. I still fear for the future, the uncertainties, my own tendencies to make bad decisions.
“All I know is that I cannot do this alone … cannot raise this child alone.” I stopped to draw in a deep breath. “I cannot do it.
&n
bsp; “Hold us in your big palm, my child and me. Hold us close.”
Twenty-Seven
The weeks passed quickly, fading from a warm autumn as we headed into my first crisp, sunny California winter. The cattle had returned from the high country, and now Micheil spent longer hours at the Saddleback. Several times I rode in the buggy with him to the ranch, but because I couldn’t risk riding horseback, I waited on the veranda for him to complete his rounds with the foreman.
But I didn’t wait patiently. Most often I paced the wide porch, itching to saddle up one of the horses grazing nearby and thunder across the fields, glorying in the wind, the sun, the sea air. As my abdomen began to show a slight swell, though, even the buggy ride on a bumpy, rutted road seemed dangerous. I decided to remain in town.
By mid-December I had finished shaping and smoothing the dulcimer’s soundboard and had begun work on the delicate fingerboard, sanding the wood until my fingers almost bled. Compelled to work faster and now feeling less tired, I worked as many hours during the day as I could, sometimes from dawn to dusk, other times just in the mornings, or even by candlelight late at night. Often, I stopped to walk around the deserted mission, stretching my back and rubbing away the ache from my hours bent over the workbench.
One Tuesday in early winter I walked to the outer courtyard, surprised to find Micheil shoveling out the stagnant pond.
“ ’Tis a fine mornin’ to be doin’ such work, my friend,” I teased with a heavy Irish brogue. “Though methinks the fragrance is not one of the finest I’ve found in California.”
He straightened and shot me a grin. “ ’Tis almost winter, and the rainwater will fill it, make it smell as fresh as an Irish meadow in spring.”
I stepped closer. “By summer won’t it be stagnant again?”
“Maybe in years before. But not this one.” He leaned against his shovel handle and pointed to the dry creek bed that wound by the well and disappeared under the outer adobe wall that circled the mission. “I’ve fashioned a method of digging a channel from San Juan Creek, which will bring fresh water to the pond. I’ll dig another channel on the other side to empty the pond and water the gardens.”
He looked proud. I followed his gaze to the sorry tangle of old growth and weeds, then looked back to him. “It looks like back-breaking work.” My tone softened. “I’m sorry I can’t help.”
He held up his hands in protest. “Don’t be considering such a thing, lass. I know how you are when you spot a garden to weed. Can’t leave it alone.” He shook his head. “If not of yourself, be thinkin’ of your wee one, if ever such a mood should strike you.”
“I promise,” I said, meaning it. The baby turned, and I felt a ripple of life scoot across my belly. “I do indeed.”
He bent over his digging, and I walked back to the shade of the pepper tree to watch him shovel the hard dry soil from the furrow.
I came back days later when he poured the first bucketful of water from the well into the trench. Micheil’s face lit up like the morning sun as he watched the water rush through the ditch to the tangle of dormant plants. Later that same day, we traveled through town in the farm wagon, gathering native cactuses, succulents, and even a small orange tree.
During the gray days before Christmas, I rode in the carriage with Micheil as he visited the families in his unofficial parish. I sat with him by the bedside of the aged, watching—sometimes with tears falling—as Micheil spoke words of comfort and healing. I baked breads and small sweet cakes with the children of the neighborhood, the barrio, wrapped the sweet delicacies with paper and bright bits of ribbon, and delivered them to families nearby.
San Juan became my village, my home, and the longer I was there the harder it was to think about leaving. Strangely, my fears of Zeb and what he might do to me lessened as time went on. But as my friendships grew with the women in my barrio, the more I knew I belonged in this place, surrounded by noise and clamor and laughter and song.
Antonia, the mother of Nando and Rosa; Elena, the mother of Carlos, Jaime, and Juan; and Carmelita, the mother of Nita, brought me warm sopaipillas and tortillas, often staying for tea and a visit. Each time they came, I picked up more Spanish words, and they tried hard to remember the English my grandmother had taught them. Hand motions and facial expressions filled in where words failed.
Carmelita, a pretty, vivacious woman, confided in me—in a combination of Spanish, English, and belly patting—that she was expecting her second baby. “In the spring,” she said, her round face aglow.
I hugged her, patted my own rounded abdomen, and told her a baby would soon be cradled in my arms too. “In the spring,” I repeated, first in English, then in Spanish. “The same as you.”
Carmelita frowned, looking doubtful, and I hurried to explain. “Mi esposo—my husband—is away. In North Carolina, where I come from.”
“You will go then,” she asked, looking worried. “You will leave before the spring?”
I sighed, and let my gaze travel to the sea. “Someday,” I said. “Sí. Someday.”
Carmelita touched my hand as if reading the sorrow in my eyes. From that moment when our hearts seemed to connect, I sought her out. We strolled together into town, little Nita skipping between us, holding hands with both of us. We sat in the gazebo, talking over sopaipillas and Irish tea. I kept Nita during afternoons when I saw Carmelita was especially tired. She promised to return the favor once I returned to California with my husband and child.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her I had no plans to return.
The children became my little shadows, following me to the mission almost every morning like I was the Pied Piper, pestering me with questions, playing in the mission courtyard, singing along as I worked.
Without instruction, Nando learned to sand scraps of wood with a surprisingly delicate touch. I soon realized that all the other children—Rosa, Carlos, Juan, Nita, and Jaime—wanted to help me with the dulcimer.
“All right, come with me,” I finally said on a rare sunny January day. I gathered them into a circle just outside my door. They sat wide-eyed, and I handed each of them a spacer or a bridge.
They turned the small pieces over, examining each angle, faces bright with wonder and anticipation as I then placed into each pair of hands a small sanding block.
“Follow Nando’s example,” I said solemnly, beckoning him to step closer and demonstrate how to sand the wood, following the grain. “These are important pieces, for this is a special musical instrument. I want it to be just right.”
Nando translated my words, his chest sticking out with pride, as he showed the younger children how to hold the sanding block.
Soon all were happily working, Nando in the middle, instructing them through each step. I stopped to examine Nita’s spacer. Looking worried, she handed me the small piece of wood.
“Beautiful,” I murmured in praise.
She beamed as I handed it back to her.
I examined each one. Though they held the wood awkwardly, the children were trying hard to follow instructions, and the results showed. With a grin I retrieved a basket full of more spacers and bridges and set it down by Nando. “After each is finished, you can give out another,” I told him.
The children looked at each other, then at me, their pride showing in their dark eyes.
“Señora,” Juan said with an arched brow and mischievous smile, “I like this almost as much as making sweet cakes in your kitchen.”
Immediately the others started arguing which activity was the most fun. Laughing, I rolled my eyes heavenward and shrugged. “No reason we can’t do both—but only one project at a time,” I said.
I stepped back to the wood shop doorway and leaned against the thick adobe jamb, looking out on the scene before me, the circle of children, laughing and talking and sanding.
A squawk of ducks flapped by in a V formation. Sailing through the buttermilk sky, they flapped and talked and carried on, still flying, still heading to their destination. I sighed,
feeling my heart in flight with them.
Still grinning, I glanced toward the archway leading to the outer courtyard, beyond the pepper tree, to the sparkling fresh waters of the pond.
Micheil looked up as if aware of my scrutiny. He waved and then loped toward the circle of children, his smile spread. “I see you’ve enlisted the help of experts,” he said in Spanish.
The children looked up from their sanding and laughed.
He turned to me and walked closer. “Your progress should move faster now with all this help.”
“She promises to teach us to play,” Jaime volunteered. “Isn’t that right, señora?”
“Sí,” I said to the boy, and then I looked back to Micheil. “They’re the age I was when Poppy taught me. I remember his big hands making my instrument, showing me how to hold it, finger it, and strum it. I remember the joy of holding the dulcimer, knowing it was mine, strumming it and feeling the vibration of music touch my soul.”
“May I see the dulcimer?”
I laughed. “I don’t know if we can call it that yet. I’m nearly ready for the clamping. Just waiting for the spacers to be sanded. But you’re welcome to examine the work in progress.”
I hadn’t shown him the entire design of the soundboard, the curve of the thin strips of wood that would hold it together once glued and clamped. With a smile, I stepped back and nodded for him to enter the shop.
He let out a sigh of appreciation as he headed to the workbench. “It may not be whole, but already ’Tis a work of art,” he murmured. “Is it just me, or does this piece of wood almost speak to you?”
I threw back my head and laughed. “ ’Tis a bit o’ Irish blarney I’m ahearin’ for certain.”
He laughed with me and then sobered. “ ’Tis a glorious thing you’re making, Fairwyn March. To be sure, a thing of beauty.”
Micheil started for the door, then turned to look back. He grinned then strode toward the children. He squatted on his haunches to talk with them in Spanish, their exchange punctuated with laughter. A moment later, he crossed the plaza, and a wave of tenderness washed over me.