by Diane Noble
“Aye,” he said softly, looking past me to the fluttering leaves of the pepper tree. “This is one of the few times the barrio families gather in one place. Though my departure won’t be for a few more months, I want to ask some of the families to continue my work here.”
“To take over your school?”
He nodded. “That will be the most difficult.” He turned back to me. “The anguish of the Indians goes back a century or more. The hostilities between the local groups are just under the surface.” He shook his head. “The sad thing is, lass, that each group has a rich heritage. I just wish they’d look at their riches and let the old wounds heal.”
“By bringing them together—to help the less fortunate—you’ve hoped to help them overcome their differences, their hostilities?”
He let out a long sigh. “Takes more than just one, lass. Takes all of us working together.”
I studied the profile of his face, those expressions of concern and compassion that had become so dear. “You’ve begun a good work, Micheil. Surely God will see that those seeds you’ve planted will grow.”
“Aye, lass. But in his time, in his time.” He turned with a sad smile. “I’m the most impatient of his children. I know in my heart that what our heavenly Father desires will come to pass. It’s just that my heart’s desire is to remain here to see it happen before my very eyes.” He smiled sadly. “Desire and duty are at war within me too often.”
“What you’ve done here won’t be forgotten, any more than what you’ve done for me will be forgotten.”
“Ah, my child, as I told you months ago, I believe this great big God of ours planned for our meeting at this exact time and place in our spiritual journeys. I will remember how I’ve seen him reflected in your spirit. How that recent joy that seems to glow from your sweet face has renewed my own courage.”
I blinked in surprise. “I can’t imagine that my spirit would cause anyone to be inspired,” I said quietly. I remembered my dark days, my lonely musings, my unhappy spirit, from years gone by. These memories pressed down on my heart like a weight, so different than those I would take with me from this place.
“That’s where you are wrong, lass. You may have considered yourself unworthy of inspiration, but ’Tis an error in your thinking.” He clasped my hand between his and held it gently. “You are worthy, Fairwyn March. Your heart belongs to the One who sings over you with gladness.
“And that, lass, is the glow of love and joy that you can’t hide.” His smile was radiant, as if he looked into the future and saw something that I did not. “That is the true music of your soul.” He glanced toward the doorway of the wood shop and nodded slowly. “ ’Tis a fact that our Lord has gifted you with a voice like an angel, with the beauty of your dulcimer songs. But lass, ’Tis the music of his love that brings it forth.”
He released my hand and stood, looking down at me, as I nodded, understanding the truth of his words.
“And you, Micheil Grady Gilvarry,” I said softly, “ ’Tis the music of your spirit that will stay with me forever. I’ll be hearing that music long after I leave this place.”
He rolled his eyes heavenward, a grin melting into the radiance on his face. When he again met my gaze, his eyes twinkled merrily. “As long as it’s me soul’s music you’re ahearin’, lass,” he said, “and not the froglike croakin’ of me voice.”
With a chuckle, he gave me another nod and turned to walk back across the courtyard, whistling as he went. He almost seemed to bounce as he walked, a new lightness having taken over his step. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see him dance a quick jig or click his heels in the air.
He seemed to sense that I was watching him and turned to wave. “Keep singing, lass,” he called to me. “Don’t you ever let your music die.” With another wave he stepped through the archway and was gone.
The Cottage at San Juan
Early morning, March 19, 1888
My dearest Grandmother Welsie True,
I am whole at last, I am! How I wish you were here so I could gather you into my arms and tell you how it happened.
I have found mercy in the arms of One who was with me, loving me all along and bringing me to where he wanted me to be so that he could show me himself.
I know myself too well to fancy that I will never be afraid again. For as you know, I am predisposed to worrisome thoughts. But now I know there is One with me who walks by my side, One who will carry me when I’m in need of carrying.
Tomorrow I will lock up your little cottage. I hope someday to return, bringing Zeb and our coming child. If Zeb doesn’t take to the idea, then I will bring our little one myself, to check on things, visit my new friends in the neighborhood, and introduce your great-grandchild to the waiting inheritance.
I write to you this morning as I sit in your gazebo, looking out at the slant of sunlight on the ocean. It’s reflecting on the rippling waves, looking like a million shards of glass have been scattered across the blue waters.
It reminds me of my heart, Welsie True. Long ago it held all my hopes and dreams. It seemed almost translucent, guileless, I suppose. I thought my heart would remain filled with warmth and joy. But I went my own way, headstrong and determined. My heart turned brittle with hurts, disappointment, and self-pity. When it shattered into a million little pieces, I thought it would never be whole again.
Now, as I sit here watching the light play like rainbow prisms on the rippling waves, I’m thinking about that heart of glass. Oh yes, it was broken, and I can’t place blame on Zeb for shattering it. Too much of the responsibility was mine.
All I know is that has God created jewels from the broken pieces. Micheil once quoted these words from the prophet Isaiah: “O thou afflicted, tossed with tempest, and not comforted, behold I will lay thy stones with fair colors, and lay thy foundations with sapphires. And I will make thy windows of agates, and thy gates of crystal, and all thy borders of precious stones.”
My heavenly Father has done this for me! He’s taken my brokenness and built me up with precious stones. Through you—and this little cottage—he brought me home. Truly home.
I look to the horizon, Welsie True, that hazy place between the edge of the sea and the sky. I like to think of you as still alive, waiting at the far end of my letters’ journey, listening and loving me, just as you always did.
How grateful I am for how you loved me all these years. You have given me a legacy like no other.
I remain
Your loving granddaughter,
Fairwyn True Deforest
I folded the letter, tucked it into an envelope, and sealed it with a stick of wax. I placed it inside my grandmother’s Bible and placed it in the oak secretary by the window.
A few minutes later, Nita tapped on my door. She gave me a hug and then took my hand and led me down the walkway to the family wagon. I held my finished dulcimer in my opposite arm like a baby. Carmelita and Fernando waved gaily, and Fernando jumped down to help me step to the bench seat. He held the instrument as I sat heavily next to Carmelita, and then handed it back to me. I cradled it against me to protect it against the jostling of the wagon.
My friend grinned, glancing at my round abdomen. I chuckled at hers. Nando’s ears turned red as he chirked to the swaybacked horse. Nita clambered into the back, full of questions about the swallows coming back to the mission.
By the time we reached the mission, families had already begun to gather. The sounds of Spanish guitars carried toward us as we let ourselves through the entrance gate.
The day had dawned clear and crisp, and now that the sun was higher, the sky had turned a purple blue. I sat down on the stone bench beneath the grape arbor as Carmelita and Nando walked into the center plaza, the children skipping along beside them.
I wanted to drink in every detail, from Micheil’s irrigation trenches to the pond where pollywogs and mosquito fish now flourished. The nearby garden remained a tangle of cactus, milkweed, and dandelions, and my fingers itched to pull a fe
w weeds. Glancing down at my stomach, I couldn’t help chuckling at the image. If I bent over to pull a single weed, I would likely topple into the tangled brush and never get out.
For days the mission families had been at work preparing the foods, chopping and baking, and cooking pots full of sauces. The air was filled with the fragrance of simmering chilis and baking tortillas. I leaned back and closed my eyes. It seemed everything within the line of my vision, every scent wafting toward me, every trill of birdsong and distant strum of the Spanish guitar—all of it filled my senses.
A flutter of wings reminded me of the swallows, and I looked to the pepper tree near the arches. But the flapping had come from a mockingbird, up to its usual antics, flying in dancelike loops, landing and singing, then starting over again. I smiled to myself, wondering if the swallows would indeed return today.
More families were entering the courtyard now. Many stopped to crane their necks heavenward. Each time I followed their gaze. The sun was high, the sky still a bright blue, but there was no sign of a single swallow.
The Spanish music that floated from the plaza was irresistible. I tapped my foot, wanting to dance, and then laughed again at the silliness of such a notion. Soon I rose and, holding the dulcimer, headed through the arches. I stopped in surprise.
The place was a blaze of color and music and laughter. Already, more than a hundred people had gathered. I grinned at Micheil as he passed by dressed like a vaquero for the occasion, leading a small group on a tour of the monks’ quarters. As the group moved off to listen to the guitar music, he headed toward me.
He glanced at the dulcimer in my arms, and smiled. “I saw it on your workbench yesterday, finished and glorious. Then it disappeared.” He raised a brow. “Been worrying meself sick all night because of it, lass.”
I strummed my fingers across the fretboard. “Surely you knew I would take it home to practice a bit.”
“Truly, lass, I did indeed.” He reached across to run his fingers lightly over the strings. “But I can also tell you this. I missed seeing the spread of your tools and the scattered pieces of wood.” He glanced across the courtyard to the workshop. “Looks too bare for words.”
Before either of us could speak, we were interrupted by Rosa, dark braids gleaming in the sun, as she flew across the bricks. “Los pájaros! The birds! I see them,” she shouted in Spanish. “I see them. They’re here at last!” The other children raced behind her, reaching for my hands and Micheil’s.
Nita led me to the outer courtyard. Already a crowd had gathered. They craned skyward.
“See!” Nita shouted. “Up there! Look!” In her excitement she chattered happily in Spanish.
I grinned, following her gaze. Then I saw them myself. A flock, perhaps three dozen or more, circled above the mission. They gleamed in the sun, almost silver—just as Welsie True had said—swooping and dipping gracefully through the sky. Their tails were spread like fans, their soft voices carried in the wind.
My heart almost stopped with the wonder of the moment, the little girl’s hand in mine, the vision of utter freedom and peace and joy.
The birds still circled, and I wondered if the crowds might frighten them away. Almost as one, the groups of families and children hushed. Still the birds glided and circled. Then more fluttered closer and joined in. One by one, they dipped and fluttered to the roof of the sanctuary, some perching in the arches on either side, some in the pepper tree nearby.
Just when I thought the sight of it all couldn’t be prettier, still more arrived, their voices lifted in a chorus of rolling churrrs with small squeaks and clicks as if they were talking to each other. They circled several times and then fluttered to a roosting spot.
“Listen to their voices,” Nita whispered, still hanging on to my hand. “Can you hear them?”
“I can,” I whispered back and squeezed her hand.
When it seemed that surely all the flocks had arrived, still more fluttered to a landing. Now people spoke in normal tones, and the festival spirit arose once more. The swallows seemed to take it in stride, and simply gazed down at the group with calm expressions.
The sun was starting on its downward arch when the folks started back to the main plaza. The children ran off to play, their voices joining the chorus of squeals, laughter, conversation, and guitar strums. If I listened carefully, I could hear the low, peaceful tones of the swallows above us.
At dusk, Fernando and Micheil lit torches around the plaza. The scents of posole, tamales, and tortillas again filled the air, and families broke into small groups to eat, some on blankets, others standing, still others sitting on the edge of the pond or near the front gardens.
During a lull, Micheil walked to the platform where the guitar players had been playing and looked out over the crowd.
“ ’Tis a night of celebration,” he said. “We celebrate the gathering of the swallows, we also celebrate the gathering of family and friends, all those we love. And we celebrate the care of our heavenly Father who brought us all together in this place.”
A hush fell over the crowd. In the front row, my young friends sat cross-legged in front of their parents.
“We are blessed,” he said, “with abundance from God’s storehouse.” He nodded toward the tamales and roasting beef. “What better day than this could we have?” With a smile, he gestured toward the roosting swallows. “Good food, great joy—singing, dancing, and music. And the swallows actually returned on time.”
Fernando whistled a cheer, followed by clapping from the others. The swallows fluttered, some taking wing, only to quickly return to their nesting places.
“Memories such as these can bring us comfort later on.” Micheil’s eyes sought mine.
“Aye,” I mouthed with a soft smile. “Aye.”
Micheil looked back to the families, his gaze resting on the group of children from the barrio. “Sometimes change comes. It’s not always welcome, but it must come nonetheless.” He looked back to me. “One of us is leaving tomorrow. Great change is coming to her life—”
“It is Señora Fairwyn,” Nando said with importance. “She already told me. I was the first to know.”
“Huh-uh,” Rosa said. “I was the first.”
“No! I was!” Carlos stood to emphasize his point.
A small peppery argument followed. I grinned, knowing enough Spanish now to understand. “I told you all at once,” I reminded them, raising a brow.
“I was there,” Carmelita said. She met my eyes with a sad nod. “Señora Fairwyn told us all, children. Over cakes and tea. But it does not matter who heard it first. We all will miss her.”
Antonia and Elena, sitting nearby, had already given me their well wishes, but they stood and came over to me to say good-bye. Antonia, reaching across my stomach to hug me, whispered, “Vaya con Dios.” Elena held me close for a moment. Then she pulled back and grinned, patting my belly just as the baby wiggled and turned.
After a few minutes, Micheil cleared his throat and the crowd quieted, though they still were hovering close by me.
“When people leave,” he said to the children, “though you don’t see them, you carry them in your heart. You remember everything about them. You will remember Señora Fairwyn’s dulcimer making …”
Still holding my hand Nita looked up at me, and nodded her head. “Yo lo recuerdo,” she mouthed in Spanish. “I will remember.”
“And baking little cakes in her kitchen …”
Nando licked his lips and rubbed his stomach, exaggerating dramatically for his friends, until a frown from his mother made him stop. His expression grew serious. “Señora,” he whispered, “I will miss you.”
I squeezed his hand, and turned back to Micheil.
“More change is coming,” he said. “Later on, I will be leaving as well.” He smiled broadly. “Going back to my home in Ireland, I am, but it won’t be for yet a season or two.”
The torches flickered and glowed, casting light on the faces of the men and women around
him. I saw their expressions turn from dismay to sadness, and then to alarm.
He held up a hand to stop their questions. “I’m telling you tonight,” he said, “because I need your help in the days to come.” He paused. “God has given us each other. We’re not alone in our journey, no matter our heritage, no matter who we are, rich or poor, from big families or small. He asks each of us to take the hand of another, to help them keep from stumbling, to feed them, to clothe them, to teach them.
“We can’t always succeed,” he said. “God doesn’t ask us to. He only asks us to try to help those who need us.
“Here is a story that explains it better than I can:
“Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father … for I was hungered, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in: Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me.
“Then the people asked him, Lord, when saw we thee hungered, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink? When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed thee?
“And the King answered, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”
Micheil went on, making his plea for others to help feed the hungry and visit the sick in San Juan and on the reservation. But I stared at him, my mind still on the King’s words, understanding at last. Micheil did not serve others as penance to gain favor with his Lord as he once suspected of himself. No, he served with a heart of ministry so great he might have been serving Christ himself.
I was stunned and blindly reached behind my skirts to find a chair. I grabbed hold and fell into it, still staring. This man, with a heart so pure, a love so deep … how could he possibly think of returning to Ireland and certain death?
“Lord,” I breathed, “this world needs Micheil Grady Gilvarry, his heart and soul!” I pictured his trial … the gallows … and buried my face in my hands. “Don’t take him from us.”