Remembering Maggie:The Complete Bread Sister Trilogy (The Bread Sister Trilogy)

by Robin Moore

  "Well, what am I going to do?"

  "Do? Well, girl, there's only one thing to do. We're jest gonna have ta set out tomorrow and I'm gonna have ta traipse you back downstream to the Susquehanna, get you on a boat back to Philadelphy, where you belong. Thomas and Franny were like brother and sister to me. I'll do what I ken to see you back safely."

  "But I can't go back," Maggie protested. "I haven't got anything to go back to."

  "No fambly?"

  Maggie shook her head. "Mama died of the fever three weeks ago and Papa's been away at sea for two years," she said, her voice quavering. "And I have no brothers or sisters. Why, Franny's practically my only living relative."

  "Well, only livin' relative or not, you got ta go back. No place fer a civilized girl like you out here. So back you go—I don't want to hear any more about it." The old man scratched his chin whiskers. "I jest got one question."

  "What's that?"

  "How in Lucifer's name did you get out here in the first place?"

  Maggie sighed. "That's a long story."

  The old man pushed his cap back on his head. "Well, I got all night. Nothin' to do now that the deer been run off."

  The hunter slapped his leg. "But listen now, we can make jaw music about this later. You hungry?"

  Maggie nodded. She was suddenly very hungry. Mr. Johnson's cooking hadn't been anything to rave about. The cornmeal mush he had made at dawn still lay like a dollop of lead in her stomach.

  The hunter glanced around the clearing. "Well, we'll go inside and pull together a meal. You get that bucket yer settin' on and fetch us up some water from that spring over there. I'll go inside and strike up a fire."

  When Maggie returned to the cabin with the heavy bucket of water, she could see the old man kneeling down by the hearth, laying out his fire-making gear: a chunk of flint, a bar of striking steel, a square of charred cotton cloth, and a handful of tinder made from the fluffed-up inner bark of the willow tree. He had already built a small pyramid of hemlock twigs in the fireplace, ready to receive the fire when he had it going.

  Maggie watched intently as he placed a thumbnail-sized square of charred cloth on the top of the flint, holding it down with the thumb of his left hand. He struck the edge of the rock a glancing blow with the steel bar. A shower of sparks flew up into the dark­ness. One landed on the charred cloth and began to glow orange. The old man picked up the tinder bun­dle in one hand and carefully inserted the glowing cloth into its center. Then he held the tinder aloft and blew. Smoke began curling up, and a moment later the bundle burst into flames. Quickly, he tucked the flaming bark in among the hemlock twigs. The fire crackled to life. He added larger twigs, then branches. Then he turned to Maggie and said one word, "Wood."

  She ducked outside and brought in all the wood she could salvage from the woodpile. She went back out and fetched her traveling bag, which lay at the edge of the clearing where she had dropped it. When she came back inside, she was glad for the firelight. The cabin seemed almost cheerful now.

  In no time the old man had prepared a simple meal of hot sassafras tea and jerked deer meat. He found a wooden bowl on the floor, filled it with tea, and passed it to Maggie. She took the bowl in both hands and drank. It tasted hot and strong. She sat back against the cabin wall, drank the rest of the tea, and chewed hard on a strip of jerky he handed her.

  "A body travels these mountains by hisself for so long, he gets hungry for talk," the old man was say­ing. "You mind conversin' for a while?"

  Maggie smiled. "No, I don't mind." She was a little hungry for talk herself. Herbert Johnson hadn't been much of a conversationalist.

  "So tell me how you come to this valley," he asked.

  "Came by horseback," Maggie said. "First across the level road from Philadelphia to Lancaster, then on to Paxtang on the banks of the Susquehanna River. We crossed at Clark's Ferry, then headed up the west bank to the mouth of the Juniata River. We ferried across and kept to the north bank of the Juniata right up into the mountains. We rode up over the mountain ridges, all seven of them, and came down into the Great Valley just about sundown tonight."

  "You keep sayin' we.' Who'd you come with?" "A man by the name of Herbert Johnson, moun­tain tinker."

  The old man nodded. "I've heard the name. But how'd you get hooked up with him? That is, if you don't mind me askin'."

  "No, I don't mind," Maggie said in a weary voice. "I guess it can't do any harm to tell you.

  "Mama died and no one knew exactly where Papa was, so some folks from the church said they'd take me in as a hired girl and I could work for my keep. Do kitchen and garden work. Which would have been all right. And I was ready to go, too. But as I was packing up, I ran across the letters Franny had sent since she moved out here.

  "Franny and I were always real close. When Mama took sick years ago, Franny came to live with us in Philadelphia. Meanwhile Uncle Thomas came here to lay out a homestead. A few years later Franny joined him.

  "That's when the letters started to come. Maybe three times a year, Franny would pay Herbert Johnson to carry me a letter when he came back to Philadelphia for supplies.

  "And, oh, I used to live for those letters. From the first time that I heard about this valley, I wanted to come out here and live with Franny.

  "Anyway, I found these letters while I was packing up and I realized that I didn't want to move into some stranger's house and be a hired-out girl. I wanted to come here and live with Franny. She was the one I felt closest to anyway. With Mama so sick all the time and Papa away so much, it was almost as if Franny was both mother and father to me.

  "I remembered that one time Mr. Johnson told me that if I ever wanted to pay him to carry a letter back to Franny, I could always leave word at the stable where he kept his horses. So I went down there and found him. Just by luck he was just about to leave on another trip west. So I talked him into bringing me out here. He said I'd have to pay him real well because of the added risk of transporting a runaway. So I did. I gave him Mama's sapphire necklace—real jewels, you know."

  Maggie bit her lower lip.

  "I sure hated to give up that necklace. She wore it the day she and Papa were married. She said she was saving it for me. She had to sell off the rest of her jewelry for medicine, but she always kept that one—the blue sapphire, saying I'd wear it on my own wedding day."

  Maggie stared into the fire, feeling the loss.

  "So, you see, I really can't go back to Philadelphia. I guess they figure me like lost property. I think they'd whip me good if they could get me back now."

  The old man warmed his moccasins by the fire.

  "That was very brave, girl, takin' things inta yer own hands like that," he said, "but takin' a whippin' would be better'n starvin' or freezin' ta death up on this mountainside. So back you go, girl, and that's all there is to it."

  Maggie decided to let the matter rest for now.

  "I never even asked your name," she said.

  "I'm just an old man," he said. "I don't need a name anymore. But those who talk to me call me by my given name."

  "What's that?"

  "Jake Logan. That's the name my mother give me. But most folks around here don't care to talk to me anyway."

  "Why's that?"

  The old man laughed to himself. "You could say I'm a mite unpopular around here. They don't take to wild men or wild critters, us that's been trampin' this valley long before they laid eyes on it. See, they plan to civilize this country, and that kinda thinkin' doesn't leave much room for people like me.

  "'Course your aunt and uncle were never that way. No, they were folks that knew how to live and let be. They were friends—I'd say only friends I had in this valley." Jake settled back against the cabin wall. "Had many a fine meal inside these walls," he said. "Many a fine meal. Your aunt was a good woman, you know. Likely, she still is. She sure had a way with people. Why, even the most cantankerous souls would warm up to her. That was partly 'cause of the way she was. And partly because of
the bread, a' course."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, Franny was known far and wide for that bread of hers. She would bake up that Callahan bread and people would just flock to it. Why, people'd move heaven and earth for that bread. Got to be so them loaves was good as money in these parts. Franny would bake 'em up and trade 'em for things she and Thomas needed. Many's the time I brought 'em squirrels and rabbits ta exchange fer that bread.

  "No, we never had a bread like Franny's, not before or since. It rised up light and airy and thick-crusted at the same time. Made a man's mouth glad ta chomp inta it!"

  The old man's lips began to work reminiscently.

  "She was like a sister," the man said quietly, "the way she listened to folks' troubles and pains and baked the bread for 'em. Some people called her the Bread Sister, because that's just what she was, Like a sister ta everybody."

  The old man had a faraway look in his eyes. When he turned his gaze to Maggie, he could see she had been sitting wide-eyed, taking in every word.

  Jake suddenly felt embarrassed, as though he had talked too long and too openly with this young girl. He slapped his buckskinned thigh and stood up.

  "Well, now," he said, "we best get some sleep. We have to make tracks tomorrow. I'll set out first thing in the mornin' and get us some meat for the trip—be back by noon at the latest. You stick close to the cabin 'til I get back. You can sleep in here by the fire, I'll bed down outside under the stars. That smoke will keep most of the bugs off you."

  He gathered up his rifle and hunting pouch and stepped silently out into the darkness, leaving the door open behind him.

  Maggie settled back against the cabin wall. It had been a long day and she was very tired. Through the open doorway, somewhere up along the mountain­side, she heard the lonely call of a night bird, but she had no way of knowing what kind it was.

  Chapter Three

  Maggie lay back on the dirt floor by the hearth and fell asleep, fell into the deep sleep that weary people know, the sleep that gives way to dreams.

  She dreamed that she was back in her parents' house in Philadelphia. Her father was away at sea, as he often was. Her mother, who was very ill, was asleep in her bed upstairs.

  Maggie was sitting with her Aunt Franny before the hearth in the kitchen. In the dream, Maggie could see her aunt—a tall, sturdy woman with a sure, strong way about her. Her red, red hair was twisted up into the bun she wore at the back of her head. The firelight flickered across her face, showing the lines that living had put there.

  Maggie knew this dream. It was one she often had. It was the remembrance of something that had hap­pened years before, something that had changed the girl's life forever.

  Franny dried her hands off on her apron and took a deep breath before she spoke.

  "Maggie," she said in her rough Irish brogue, "there's somethin' I've been meanin' to tell ye. I'm goin' away very soon . . . and I don't know that I'll ever be back."

  Maggie smiled, as if she were hearing a joke. "What do you mean? You've always lived here. And you always will. You've lived here as long as I can remember."

  "No, dear, it only seems that way. The time's really been very short. Now it's time for me to go."

  Maggie began to realize that her aunt wasn't jok­ing.

  "You remember your uncle Thomas," Franny went on. "You'll remember how he came over from Ire­land on the boat with me and you'll remember that he went west two years ago to build a homestead on the frontier? You'll remember all that, won't you, Maggie?"

  The girl nodded slowly.

  "Well, I got a letter from him this mornin' and he wants me to come over and join him when the spring thaw comes. He's got us a cabin on forty acres of land out there. And Maggie, I have to go. Tis two years now since I saw my husband and I want a farm of me own. I know that's hard for a young girl to under­stand. But maybe in time ye will. What's that look on your face now, dear?"

  "I was just thinking," Maggie answered, "I was just thinking how different this house will be without you here. With Papa gone so much and Mama weaker than ever and just me here alone." Maggie began to cry. "I don't want to be here alone. Don't leave me, I want to go with you." She buried her head in the older woman's lap. Franny gently stroked the girl's hair.

  "I know, dear, I know. If you were my own, I'd take ye with me in a minute. Don't think I haven't thought about it. But when I'm gone, your mother will need you more than ever. And, sure the fron­tier is no place for a young girl like yerself. Ye'll be wantin' to be near parties and dances before long now. There's none of that out there, just hard work, Maggie. And, good God, if somethin' ever happened to ye, yer mother would never forgive me."

  "I don't care about all that," Maggie said. "I just want to go with you."

  "Now, don't go on like that," Franny said. Shetook Maggie by the shoulders and held her firm, looking into her eyes.

  " 'Tis not the end for me and you, sure. I'll write every so often. And I want ye to know where'er ye go, I'll always be with ye child, I'll always be with ye in spirit. Won't ye remember that, Maggie?"

  The girl nodded, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  "Now," Franny said briskly, "I've got somethin' here for ye, sort of a goin'-away present, from me to you."

  Franny reached down into the bosom of her dress and drew out an old leather pouch that hung around her neck by a leather thong. The pouch was about the size of Maggie's fist. Franny held the pouch up in the firelight.

  "Inside this pouch," Franny said, "is the most pre­cious thing I can give ye. 'Tis somethin' that's been in the family many years. 'Tis the Great Callahan Spook Yeast."

  Maggie wrinkled her brow. "I never heard of it before."

  "Rightly so, dear. You never heard because 'tis our family secret."

  "Spook yeast," Maggie repeated the phrase. "Why's it called that?"

  Franny laughed, "That's what me mother, God rest her, always used to call it. Because it's got a life of its own, I suppose, like a spook."

  "What's it good for?" the girl asked.

  "Good for? To bake bread, o' course. I never showed ye this before, but the spook yeast is the secret to bakin' the Callahan bread that you know so well. This bakin' secret has been passed down by the women in our family since God knows when. And now 'tis time for you to learn, Maggie. Ye come by it honest. Yer a Callahan yerself."

  Maggie's eyes glowed with wonder.

  " 'Tis the yeasties inside this pouch that do the trick," Franny was saying. She dipped her fingers into the pouch and pinched off a roll of what looked like bread dough. She held it in her palm by the firelight.

  "A loaf of bread without spook yeast is just as hard and flat as a brick. 'Tis a livin' thing, Maggie. If ye add a cup of this spook yeast to yer bread dough, the yeast creatures start workin' in the dough and the bread comes to life too."

  "Smells sour," Maggie said.

  "Aye, 'tis the smell of the yeasties workin'," said Franny. "The original Callahan spook yeast was nothin' but flour and water allowed to sour in the heat. That starts the yeasties to growin'. But this mixture has gained somethin' more by bein' passed down all those years. 'Tis the aging that's made the spook yeast what it is. Some say ye can trace this yeast back for seven generations in the Callahan family. And 'tis still goin', still alive."

  "But why do you wear it around your neck like that?" Maggie asked.

  "Because, dear, the yeasties are livin' things; ye got to keep 'em warm. Too much heat kills them; too much cold puts them to sleep. The warmth of your body is just right. So I wear it around me neck, as all the Callahan women have, to keep it safe and warm as it should be.

  " 'Tis the closest thing the Callahans have to an inheritance, Maggie. And now 'tis time it came to you."

  Franny reached into the pocket that hung at her apron and pulled out another leather pouch, which looked exactly like hers except that it was new.

  As Maggie watched, Franny pinched out half of her own spook yeast and combined it with a cu
p of flour and water she had mixed and set by the fire. The tangy sour aroma of the spook yeast began to fill the kitchen. To Maggie it seemed as though she was watching magic at work.

  Franny rolled the doughy mixture into a ball and placed it in Maggie's pouch, then pulled the draw­string tight.

  "Come sit by me here, Maggie," Franny said. The older woman held the pouch by the leather thong and settled it down over Maggie's head so the pouch lay like a necklace on the girl's chest. "I pass the spook yeast to you, Maggie," Franny said. Maggie reached up and felt the pleasant roundness and full­ness of the bag in her hand. "It feels alive," she said.

  "Aye," Franny nodded. " 'Tis, dear, 'tis. Keep it safe around yer neck and the life of the bread will never leave ye. I'll teach ye the bread-bakin' secrets before I leave, dear. Take care of it and ye'll get many a loaf of bread out of that pouch. I have a feelin' that the bread bakin' will give ye a place in the world, Maggie. 'Tis somethin' of strength I can leave ye. So follow your nose, Maggie—"

  "I know," the girl said. "I know what you always say, 'Follow your nose—and don't be afraid of nothin'.'"

  "Rightly so, Maggie," Franny said. Then she stopped for a moment and thought. " 'Tis the rule I've lived by all me days. But that doesn't mean the same will work for you. 'Tis up to ye to make yer own rules, then stay to them. That's not always as easy as it sounds.

  "You see, Maggie, you and I are different. The adventurous life is not for you. Yer a quiet soul, Maggie, but ye got the strength of the Callahans within ye.

  "I've got the notion that someday ye'll be put to the test, like God tests us all. I think the most impor­tant thing for you to learn is not to follow your nose, as I have, but to look past your nose, to really see what yer lookin' at. Does that make any sense to ye?" Maggie nodded.

  " 'Twill make more sense as time goes by," Franny said.

  Then the dream faded away.

  When Maggie opened her eyes, she found herself lying on the dirt floor in the cabin up on the moun­tainside.