by Diane Noble
I wept for us both.
Then I noticed the One standing between the young woman and Zeb. He too was weeping, wanting to gather the young couple into his arms, wanting to heal our wounds.
“You were there,” I whispered, my voice hoarse.
I will never leave you, he said. Nor will I forsake you.
The scene he’d shown me was fading. At once I was again walking with him through the graveyard, feeling a light mist on my face, and hearing the pepper tree leaves stirring in the breeze. My hand still in his, I turned to look back at the dark place we were leaving, the cold headstones, the shadows.
In me there is no darkness, he said in that voice that rushed like the wind. No shadow, no turning.
I woke with a start and sat up in bed, amazed to find myself in my bedroom at the cottage. It was almost dawn. Disturbed by the images in my dream, I rose and made my way to the kitchen.
I sat at my table and stared out toward the sea. Dark clouds billowed over the ocean. The first storm of winter seemed headed for shore. Roof tiles rattled in the wind, some breaking off and clattering to the ground. In the distance, I heard the clip-clop of horses’ hooves on the cobbled streets as the milkmen made their deliveries.
The rain slanted toward the cliffs, the cottage, in sheets, turning what should have been daylight into a gray and wet gloom. I didn’t go to the mission to work on the dulcimer. Instead I stayed inside by the fire, baking little cakes to deliver to the barrio children once the storm died down and thinking about my return to Zeb.
There was no darkness of spirit in me this day to match the gloom outside. Instead I found myself humming Spanish, Irish, and Appalachian folk songs while I baked, delighting in the scent of cinnamon and sugar, the sounds of the crackling fire.
And all the while, I will return to Oak Hill come spring played like a song’s refrain through my mind.
Surprisingly, the prospect was not fearful. With God’s strength, I would do as I must. I smiled, glad in my new courage. I will return to Oak Hill come spring.
While I waited for the last tray of cakes to finish baking, I walked to the window and pulled back the curtain to stare into the rain. As soon as the winter rains stopped, as soon as the dulcimer was finished, I would go.
Less than three months to finish my instrument. Less than three months to say my good-byes.
It rained for three days. Finally, on the fourth day, the sun broke through and the barrio children raced from their houses to play in the puddles, singing and shouting and laughing. The neighborhood once again came to life.
Rosa sped across the muddy road to hug me when I stepped out my front door. Antonia, her mother, waved from their adobe down the road, and Carmelita called a thank-you for the cakes I’d brought her during the breaks in the rainstorm.
When the rains had kept me indoors, in silent reverie, thoughts of my good-byes hadn’t seemed as difficult as they did now, with the children’s faces before me, their little arms hugging me tight, their mothers’ friendly smiles and greetings.
That evening, an hour before sundown, I spotted Micheil trudging up the muddy road, his hat brim turned downward, the lines in his face looking wearier than usual. An unexpected wave of affection filled my heart. He saw me watching from the small front porch and called out.
Wanting to weed the garden while the soil was rain-moist, over my long smock I had pulled on an oversize man’s flannel shirt I’d found in my grandmother’s closet.
Micheil grinned when he saw me, and I struck a pose like a manikin. We both laughed.
“I’ve just put together a stew,” I said. “Would you like t o join me for supper?”
“Lass, you’re spoiling this Irish lad for certain.”
“There’s a catch.” I caught his hand and pulled him around the side of the house. I pointed to the ocean below. The tide was out, and a wide stretch of sand lay beneath us. “How would you like to cook our dinner down there?”
His brow shot up again. “On the beach?”
I grinned. “It’s seems dry enough. The sun’s been out all day. We’ll have to cart it down there. If you’ll dig the hole for the Dutch oven, I’ll find some dry sticks.”
“That may not be possible.”
“We’ll take a bundle from the stove bin.”
I caught his hand again and pulled him along. We gathered blankets and towels and a shovel. Going to the kitchen, I gently placed the small Dutch oven in a basket. Inside were pieces of beef, carrots, onions, beets, and rosemary. Then I dropped in two blue-speckled plates and cups and cutlery for us both. Next I pulled a Mason jar full of fresh-squeezed orange juice from the icebox and tucked it along one side of the basket.
“Don’t forget matches,” Micheil said, watching me.
“Oh, and tea.” I grabbed a small tin and dropped it into one of the blue-speckled cups. “It will be cold after the sun goes down. We’ll need to hold the cups to keep our hands warm.”
We found a sheltered spot in the center of a rock formation and spread some old quilts. While he dug the hole for the cooking fire, I sat and watched him.
He was in silhouette, with the setting sun behind him streaking the sky with orange and lavender. He pushed the shovel blade into the ground and then leaned against the handle. He looked out toward the sea, and I wondered if his thoughts were of Ireland, halfway around the world.
He turned to me then, his expression one that I knew would haunt me forever. I could see beyond the shadows of twilight to his own fears of the future, his unwillingness to say good-bye.
I went to him and gently wound one arm around his waist. He laid his cheek on top of my head, and I thought he might be weeping. We stayed like that as the glow from the sun faded to dark purple.
“I need to make some decisions about my grandmother’s ranch, the cottage.” I spoke calmly, surprised at the peace in my heart. The waves swished across the sand, and a cool breeze came up where we sat facing the ocean. I shivered and tightened Welsie’s shawl around my shoulders. “I don’t think I’ll be back once I leave.”
I met Micheil’s eyes, and he gave me an encouraging nod. “ ’Tis as it should be, lass.”
I was grateful for his encouragement. “I will miss your singing,” I said, the corner of my mouth turning upward.
He laughed. “ ’Tis one of my best assets.”
“I was about to ask your advice about my grandmother’s properties.”
“Your properties,” he reminded me gently.
“After I leave, I want you to have them.”
He considered me for a few moments. The ocean swelled, rushing to the shore, then ebbed again. Above us, gulls circled and cried, some gliding almost without movement on the winds. The baby scooted something that felt like an elbow across my belly, and I smiled to myself, resting my hand over the place.
“I’ll be leaving, lass, though how soon I can’t say,” Micheil said. “All I know is that I can’t promise you that I can oversee your property.”
I leaned forward. “I don’t mean as an overseer, Micheil. I mean for you to take them as your own. I want to give the whole thing to you. You can use the proceeds for Ireland’s fight against the English. Or for feeding the poor there … or here. Maybe use part of the ranch as a school—”
He raised his hand to stop me. “I know your thinking, but no, lass. Welsie True left her lands to you, her own granddaughter. It isn’t fitting for me to take them.” I’d known what his answer would be before I’d made my offer.
When I didn’t speak, he went on. “As I told you before, the temptation would be nearly too great for me not to leave for Ireland.” He smiled, the sorrow clear in his eyes. “ ’Tis hard enough already. But letting the ranch, this cottage, burrow deeper into my heart … well now, it might just be impossible for me.”
I had no right to wish for his change of mind, but I had to admit I’d hoped the gift might turn him from his course. I tried to push from my mind the trial he would face, his walk to the gallows. I shuddered
and turned away.
“Lass,” he said softly. “your generosity moves me. More than you can know, it does. I will promise you this. I will stay on for a while, through the spring roundup, the calving, and the branding. My foreman is a man to be trusted. Perhaps you can hire him to run things. We’ll make arrangements with a banker here in town to oversee the financial arrangements. Together, they can see to it that the ranch runs smoothly. They’ll send you a full accounting and a draft of the profits each month.”
I nodded bleakly. “Yes, I’ll need to see the accounting, but we’ll let the profits accumulate for my child. Someday perhaps she—”
“Or he,” he added with a laugh.
“Perhaps she,” I corrected with a grin, “will come here to claim her inheritance.”
“Are you so certain she’s a she, not a he?” he teased.
I patted my abdomen, looking down thoughtfully. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s both,” I said. “Such a tumble of arms and legs …” My cheeks warmed, speaking of such a delicate matter in front of a man.
“Twins?” He almost shouted the words, then threw back his head and laughed. “Glory! Now wouldn’t that be a joy!” He leaned forward, holding my gaze intently. “I want you to remember, Fairwyn March, that when you deliver these wee ones—”
“We don’t know there’s more than one!” I protested.
He arched a brow and continued “When you deliver, lass, I want you to know that I’ll be singing over you, over your wee ones, with joy! I’ll be raising my voice to join the angels in heaven rejoicing, just as our heavenly Father rejoices over us.”
We talked on into the night, staring out at the starlit sky and listening to the rush of the breakers. When the full moon broke over the eastern horizon, shining its beams across the rippling ocean, Micheil began to sing, smoothly at first, then with a broken, husky resonance.
The pale moon was rising above the green mountain;
The sun was declining beneath the blue sea
When I strayed with my love to the pure crystal fountain
That stands in the beautiful vale of Tralee.
She was lovely and fair as the rose of the summer
Yet ’twas not her beauty alone that won me
Oh, no! ‘twas the truth in her eye ever dawning
That made me love Mary, the Rose of Tralee.
He stopped suddenly and was still, staring out at the ocean. Neither of us spoke. Perhaps he was afraid, as I was, to fully consider the meaning of his last words.
The waves broke and laced toward shore. My eyes stung as I held back the tears that waited to spill.
“When we’ve parted, I will carry you in my heart,” he said, still looking out to sea. A small wave rushed toward the beach, its foam shining in the starlight. Seagulls cried in the distance.
“Aye,” Micheil said after a few minutes. “That I can promise you, lass. ’Twill be until the end of time.”
Twenty-Nine
After that night, I felt a new urgency to complete my dulcimer. Every morning at dawn I walked to the mission, sometimes with an umbrella in the rain, sometimes in the fair predawn light that promised a crystal, blue-skied day as only a winter in California could. On such days the seagulls flapped and soared above me as I fairly floated along the mission road, just as I once did along the traces at home, and the sparrows and finches and mockingbirds sang from the olive trees and sycamores that lined my path.
As the weeks passed, the drape of my smock ceased to conceal the swell of the baby, and my walking seemed to bring her special delight. She bumped and jumped almost playfully and turned over in rhythm with my stride. I prayed for her safekeeping, and mine, during my early morning strolls, wondering if my newfound happiness and peace had anything to do with her vigorous activity.
By mid-February I could no longer see my toes. Carmelita’s mother, a midwife in our barrio, examined me and, with a beaming smile, announced what I already knew to be true: My child was robust and healthy.
One morning in early March I had just finished applying the first coat of varnish when I moved outside my workroom to stretch my back and enjoy a moment of the sun’s warmth on my face and shoulders.
“Señora! Señora!”
From across the arches beneath the pepper tree Nando raced toward me. Rosa, Nita, and Carlos, following along behind, began shouting before they made it halfway across the courtyard, their faces glowing with some bit of news. When they reached me, all four tried to talk at once, bouncing and shouting above each other.
I laughed, holding up a hand to quiet them. “One at a time, please.”
“Señor Micheil has asked us to sing,” Nando said, his eyes wide with importance. “At the festival! All of us—Rosa, Nita, Carlos, Juan, and Jaime.”
“And you, señora,” Nita said, taking my hand and craning to look me in the face.
“And Señor Micheil,” Carlos added. “Do not forget him. He says we will sing of our heritage. All of us, just like we did that day—”
“The day Nita’s mommy brought us lunch,” Rosa filled in.
“Sí! Yes, that was the day.” Nando grinned up at me as if looking for approval.
“And when is this festival?” I hoped it was before the end of the month. I couldn’t risk traveling any closer to my baby’s arrival.
“March nineteenth,” Nando said.
“Ah, yes,” I said, tilting my head at the memory that filled my mind. How could I have forgotten the festival my grandmother wrote me about each year? “Saint Joseph’s Day,” I said, “the day the swallows return to the mission.”
“Sí! Sí!” the children shouted, again bouncing and talking with excitement.
“Señor Micheil,” Carlos shouted, vying for my attention, “he says he’ll sing that night too, and also say a few words—”
“Of en-cour-age-ment,” Nando added, struggling with the unfamiliar word. “Because Señor Micheil says that the winds of change are soon to blow, and he wants to prepare us.” He hesitated and scratched his head, frowning. “What does that mean?”
I smiled and ruffled his hair. “God has planned good things for us all,” I said quietly. “But sometimes it means things will be different.” I couldn’t bring myself to tell them that I would be leaving in just a few weeks. That the cottage would be empty and dark. That no one would be there to oversee their cake baking, to listen to their happy chatter, to answer their troubled questions or settle their minor squabbles.
How could I tell them?
I couldn’t. Not yet.
They ran off to play, and I turned back to the dulcimer. The days were warmer now, and I expected the first coating of varnish to dry overnight. I stepped closer to the workbench to examine the thin veneer I had just applied.
The dulcimer was nearly complete. I rubbed my fingers over the fingerboard, the only part of the dulcimer that wasn’t sticky with fresh varnish. My fingers moved along the spacers, tapping out soft rhythms from long ago as if they were connected to my heart, not my arm.
I jumped when Micheil spoke behind me. “ ’Tis almost done.”
I turned and gave him a mock glare. “I’ll have to start all over if I drop it.”
My words were spoken in jest, but his expression was serious when he spoke. “Something tells me your time is nearing.”
I smiled at the irony. “For my leaving, yes. Also for”—I looked down at my bulging stomach—“for, ah, well …”
“The coming little one,” he grinned, helping me in my embarrassment.
He moved to my worktable and bent to examine the soundboard. “You’ll be taking part of our mission home with you.” He studied the sound holes, moving his gaze from the mission bell cutout to the swallows. “When will you go then?”
“I’ve only just now decided—after Nando told me about the festival. I’ll leave the day after.” I leaned against the workbench, my folded hands resting on the shelf made by the baby. “I can’t miss the children’s singing.” The image of the candlestick sent t
o me by my grandmother came back to me. It had brought me so much comfort during my dark days with Zeb, with its glow of candlelight illuminating the relief of swallows. “Or the return of the swallows,” I said with a sigh. “My grandmother wrote of its wonder.”
He chuckled then. “Did she also tell you that it’s more legend than reality? That sometimes they don’t return on time.”
I laughed. “She did, but I choose to believe the legend.” I straightened, rubbed my back, and then moved through the door to the plaza, conscious that I now waddled rather awkwardly.
“Have you told Nando … and the others?” Micheil asked as we moved to the squat adobe bench in the center of the courtyard.
I sat heavily and smiled my thanks. “I will soon,” I said, “though it will be difficult to tell them why. Perhaps harder on me than them.”
“I know you’ll be missing them when you leave, lass. They’ve become your wee shadows.” He settled on the end of the bench, turning halfway toward me, resting one ankle on the opposite knee.
I sighed and closed my eyes, holding my face to the warmth of the sun. “I can’t promise them I’ll return. I hope to, of course. But it may be long after they’re grown and gone.” I shook my head. “How can you explain that to a child?”
“They’ll have memories of the love you’ve given them,” he said. I opened my eyes to study his face, seized by the sudden flow of my own memories, the children’s voices, their laughter and song. The way Nita had of kissing my cheek whenever she saw me or Nando’s pride in helping with the dulcimer. The way they constantly peppered me with questions, from why robins’ eggs are blue to why the tide flows in and out.
And Micheil? What would I do with my memories of him? I smiled at him gently. He, too, had shown me love and acceptance when I thought I was the least of God’s children to deserve it.
My memories of Micheil would be tucked in my heart forever.
“The children tell me you’re planning to speak at the festival,” I said, forcing my thoughts away from the heart-wrenching loss I would soon face. “Will you tell them you’re leaving?”