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

by Robin Moore

  It was on an overcast afternoon in early September that the packtrain carrying McGrew's nephew arrived in the valley. McGrew took the whole family in the wagon down to the fork of the trail at General Pot­ter's house to meet John.

  McGrew's mill and Potter's house were the two most important spots in that end of the valley. The mill was the center for business and Potter's house served as a combination fort and meeting place. In case of Indian trouble, the settlers had agreed to make a stand at Potter's fortified house. But Indians had made no trouble in years. For the most part, people were drawn to Potter's because it was located on a main trail and because Potter was an influential, energetic man who knew how to get things done.

  When McGrew pulled the wagon up before the house, they could see two freshly killed deer hanging from their hind legs on a tripod before the house.

  "Looks like Potter's rifle has been true again," he said. "Maura, a taste of venison would be good this time of year. I believe I'll arrange a trade."

  "Very well," Mrs. McGrew said. "But don't barter our lives away for it."

  Just then John came striding out through the front door. He was handsome, and from the way he walked, Maggie could tell that he knew it. McGrew got down from the wagon and went over to shake his hand.

  "Good to see you, my boy. You've grown tall since I've seen you last, eh? Come and say hello to the family—we have a new child, Lyons."

  They walked toward the wagon. John's eyes in­stantly fell on Maggie.

  "This is our hired girl, Maggie Callahan," McGrew said.

  John reached up to where Maggie sat in the back of the wagon and took her hand.

  "Just as pretty as Uncle Joseph told me you'd be," he said. "I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot of each other." Then he winked.

  Maggie drew her hand back. She took an instant dislike to this brash stranger.

  Potter, a short powerful man, came through the doorway and motioned the men inside. "Have a drink before you leave, gentlemen?"

  McGrew smiled. "Come along, my boy, you're about to get your first lesson in commerce on the frontier."

  The men disappeared inside. Twenty minutes passed.

  "Never did see them do any business without a jug of whiskey to wash the deal down," Mrs. McGrew said testily.

  At that moment McGrew came through the open doorway, tripped over the doorsill, and fell flat on his face. John stumbled out after him. He bent over the older man.

  "Uncle Joseph, are you alright?" he asked.

  McGrew scrambled to his feet.

  "Of course, John. Must be those benches we were sitting on. Cuts off the blood flow to the legs, makes a man's knees go wobbly."

  Potter had taken off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. "Let's get that deer loaded up," he said. "Storm's on the way, I can feel it in my bones."

  With some grunting and cursing, the men managed to load the deer into the wagon. John climbed up into the wagon bed, pulled an old blanket over his head, and was instantly snoring loudly. McGrew walked around and, after several tries, managed to vault himself up into the seat.

  "Joseph McGrew," Mrs. McGrew said sternly, "you're drunk as a skunk."

  McGrew drew himself up into the picture of mock dignity. "Maura," he said, "you cut me to the quick. I was merely—"

  "I know exactly what you were doing." She glanced overhead. "If we hurry we'll make it home before the rain hits. Are you able to handle the wagon?"

  "Of course, my dear." McGrew snapped the reins and they were off, headed down the rutted wagon road toward Sinking Creek.

  They had been traveling for less than ten minutes when McGrew fell asleep with the reins in his hands. He toppled backward into the wagon bed and landed beside John and the body of the deer.

  Mrs. McGrew made a desperate grab for the reins and managed to snatch them up before they fell under the wagon. She held little Lyons in the crook of her arm as she turned around in the wagon seat.

  "Maggie," she said sharply, "come up here and hold Lyons."

  Maggie crawled into the seat and took the baby in her arms. A light, freezing rain began to fall. Maggie covered the baby's face with a blanket. She looked back over her shoulder and saw Annie moving around in the back of the wagon, unfolding an old blanket and using it to cover her father and her cousin against the rain.

  Mrs. McGrew snapped the reins, and they were moving again. The rain began to fall harder now, hitting them with stinging, cold drops. Maggie glanced up at the sky, water streaming down her face. The clouds looked gray and foreboding. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning cracked overhead. Thunder rolled like drums.

  Maggie noticed that Annie had crawled forward in the wagon, coming up behind Mrs. McGrew. Annie started tugging on her mother's cloak. Annie's eyes were wide with terror. She began sobbing hysteri­cally. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out.

  Maggie glanced over at Mrs. McGrew and saw something she would never forget. Etched in the older woman's face were the same lines of fear. Seeing Mrs. McGrew display any emotion would have been unusual, but Maggie wasn't prepared to see her trem­bling in terror. She knew something must be deeply wrong, something she couldn't understand. Surely there was more to this woman's terror than a simple lightning storm.

  Annie grew so insistent in her pleading that Mrs. McGrew had to pull the wagon to a stop. She swung around, grabbed Annie by the shoulders and shook her violently.

  "Stop that crying!" Mrs. McGrew shouted against the rain. Her voice was high and hysterical. "Don't you see? You're only making it worse. It won't be like last time! Annie," she shouted, "do you hear me?" Then the older woman caught herself. "No," she wailed bitterly, "Of course you don't." She flung the girl back into the bed of the wagon. Annie fell sob­bing beside her father.

  Maggie turned to say something to Mrs. McGrew to calm her down, but it was too late. The older woman had snapped the reins and started the horses down the muddy road at a brisk trot. The road was full of ruts and gully washes, and the wagon bounced so hard that Maggie had to brace her feet and hold on to the seat with one hand to keep from being tossed out.

  Maggie couldn't understand why Mrs. McGrew was driving so fast. What was her hurry? A horse could slip and break a leg on a wet road like this.

  Up ahead Maggie could see the place where the road forded Sinking Creek. This was normally an easy crossing through shallow water. But the pelting rain had swelled the creek into a muddy, raging tor­rent, nearly as deep as the wagon bed.

  Mrs. McGrew saw the water too. She braced her feet and pulled back on the reins, bringing the speed­ing horses to a stop. Maggie thought that Mrs. McGrew would back the team up, turn around, and return to Potter's now. But she didn't do that. She just sat with the reins in her hands, her eyes fixed on the swirling waters like a woman in a trance. The roar of the water filled their ears.

  A bolt of lightning fractured the sky overhead and jolted Mrs. McGrew into action. She lashed the reins and the horses sprang forward, dashing into the creek bed.

  "No!" Maggie yelled. "Don't try to run the stream!" But it was too late to stop her. The horses had already plunged into the stream, sunk in up to their withers. The rapids welled up around the wagon bed.

  Maggie leaned back in the seat to keep from falling out, and as she did the left front wheel struck a rock with a jolt, tumbling little Lyons out of her arms and into the current. He was gone.

  For a moment Maggie was too stunned to move. Then something inside her took over. She jumped over the side of the wagon and disappeared into the rapids. Even though the water was only waist deep, she sank in over her head and was swept a dozen yards downstream before she could find her footing and stand up. That cold plunge took her breath away, and for a moment it seemed that she might drown. But she caught her breath and began thrashing around in the water looking for the baby. It seemed hopeless.

  Then she saw him, about twenty yards down­stream. A dead tree had fallen into the water and Lyons' clothing had snagged on one of the branches. The baby hung, just un
der the surface of the water, limp as a rag doll.

  Maggie let the current take her over that way and tore the baby free from the snag.

  Holding Lyons to her chest, Maggie fought her way up through the shallows and onto the muddy bank. She laid him on his back in the mud and tore open his shirt, placing her ear to his bare chest. Nothing. No movement. No sound. Was he dead?

  Then Maggie remembered something she had seen Franny do with a small baby years ago. She turned Lyons over with his head pointed down and gave him a sharp whack between the shoulder blades with the palm of her hand. The baby choked and vomited up water.

  "That's it, Lyons," she said encouragingly. "Come on, baby, breathe!"

  She continued clapping the baby's back with her hand. More water came up. Then Lyons let out a piercing wail and began to cry. Maggie was never so glad to hear a baby scream. She turned him over and looked him in the face. His eyes were squeezed shut and his mouth was wide and open, screaming for all he was worth.

  "You did it, Lyons! You came back to us! You're alive!" she shouted.

  Maggie glanced up the road and saw that Mrs. McGrew had made it across the river, pulled the wagon to a stop, and was running toward them.

  Mrs. McGrew took the baby from Maggie, holding him tight and rocking him in the rain, wailing and sobbing. Maggie led her back to the wagon and drove the team the rest of the way home.

  While Maggie put the horses in the shed, the McGrews stumbled inside and got a fire going. By the time Maggie trooped in, they were all wrapped in warm blankets, shivering by the fire.

  She stripped off her cold, wet clothing and wrapped herself up by the fire. No one spoke. They just stared at the fire with their teeth chattering, as though the very sight of the flames could bring the warmth back into their bodies.

  Maggie felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Mrs. McGrew's.

  "Death passed close by here today," the older woman said in a trembling voice. "You drove it away, Maggie. I won't forget that."

  "It was nothing special," Maggie said, shivering. "I mean, anybody would have done the same for a baby. I hope he doesn't catch a cold from this."

  Mrs. McGrew didn't say anything more. She just stared into the flames.

  Maggie felt a cold shiver go through her body. Death had passed awfully close by that day.

  Chapter Seven

  The McGrews never mentioned any­thing about the night of the light­ning storm again. But it was apparent that something very elemental and very terrifying had happened there that night, something that Maggie only dimly understood.

  Then, one day, quite accidentally, she stumbled across the secret.

  John had loaded up a mule with two barrels of flour, then coaxed the animal up the mountain trail to Franny's cabin. Maggie had gone along to see the cargo safely there. Since she would be baking that day, Maggie carried a bowl full of risen dough with her.

  "All this work I'm doing for you," John joked, "you ought to give me a cut of your bread-baking profits."

  Maggie snorted. "Not much profit to speak of, John."

  They were coming into the clearing now, bringing the mule around to the front door.

  "How much you charge for that bread anyway?" he asked.

  "I don't charge any set amount," Maggie ex­plained. "I just trade for what I need."

  John laughed. "That's no way to run a business."

  "Just as well," Maggie retorted. "I'm not running a business. I'm just living."

  "That's a woman's talk for you now," John said. "Haven't you got a headful of strange notions about the way the world works? Talk like that reminds me of my cousin Sarah."

  Maggie's ears pricked up. She tried to make her voice sound casual. "Sarah? Who's that?"

  John was unleashing the barrels from the pack-saddle.

  "Oh, she's long gone now. Been dead for years. But she was a spunky girl, I'll say that. She was Uncle Joseph and Aunt Maura's oldest daughter. And the apple of their eye. She'd be just about your age if she were alive now."

  "How did she die?" Maggie ventured.

  "Lightning," John answered.

  Maggie felt a chill ripple down her spine. "Struck by lightning?" she asked. "Oh, sure. You never heard about this?" Maggie shook her head.

  "Well, I'm not that surprised. Everyone in the family felt pretty bad about it. It was such an unusual death and all."

  "Go on," Maggie said.

  "Well, funny thing about it, as nearly as I can figure, it happened right there where the road forded Sinking Creek, right at the place we stopped the other night. I guess that gave Aunt Maura an awful scare. And then, when Lyons was almost lost . . ."

  "What about Sarah?" Maggie persisted.

  "Oh, well, this was right after they had moved to the valley. They were all full of vim and vinegar in those days. At least that's the way their letters sounded. Then we got this letter telling about Sarah's death and after that it just seemed like their spirits were broken.

  "One night they were traveling home on that road, same time of year, same kinda storm. It was while Uncle Joseph was driving the horses across the ford that a bolt of lightning came down outa the sky and struck the wagon. Sarah and Annie, who were riding in the back, got hit worst. The jolt went through Sarah's body and tossed her clean out of the wagon. Happened so fast, nobody could do anything about it. The water just swept her away before any­one knew what was happening. Uncle Joseph found her body about a mile downstream the next day.

  "Annie was lucky to come out alive. As it was, the lightning burned the shoes right off her feet, scorched all the hair off her body—took three months for it to grow back. Uncle Joseph says the lightning burned the part of her brain that makes the hearing and the talking so she's deaf and mute to this day. It's a miracle that she's alive, way I see it. Wouldn't you say so, Maggie?"

  "Yes, I would," Maggie said absently. Then she turned and went inside, wanting to be by herself for a while.

  Maggie had hoped that hearing about Sarah would make things better. And, at first, it did. But, as the dark winter days passed, Maggie felt the sadness of the story creeping over her. Every time she looked at Annie and saw the young girl signing with her deli­cate hands, she felt the tears starting in her eyes. It was just a tragedy, that was all, and no reason for it.

  Now that Maggie knew Mrs. McGrew's secret, she began to feel a strange compassion for this stern woman. Maggie remembered how it was for her when her mother died. Of course, it wasn't the same. Her mother had been sick for years and her death was almost a relief. How much worse, Maggie thought, to lose a daughter so suddenly. In the days that followed, Maggie came to see that she and Mrs. McGrew carried the same grief; they just carried it differently.

  The winter was the most severe Maggie had ever known, and the gloominess she felt was deepened by its harshness. The snow piled up around the walls of the house and the wind sifted it in through the cracks between the logs, so Maggie had to sweep the floor up several times a day, brushing the snow out the front door into the wind. Even with both fireplaces going, they lived in a perpetual, bone-chilling cold. They wore their blanket coats inside and many times they sat down to the table wearing knitted mittens to keep their fingers from freezing while they ate. Hot food grew cold as soon as it was in the bowl. They used the chamber pot at night now, emptying it each morning so they wouldn't have to make nightly trips to the outhouse.

  They passed a joyless Christmas. Mrs. McGrew forbade any festivities, although Maggie and Annie did exchange some knitted socks and mittens they had made for each other.

  "We have no time for such frivolousness when there is so much work to be done," Mrs. McGrew had said. Actually, idleness was their greatest enemy. There was simply nothing to do. Once the meals had been prepared and the washing up was done, once wood and water had been fetched, there was nothing to do but sit in the cold and dark and wait for spring.

  It was during those winter days that Maggie came to appreciate especially her weekly baking trips to the cabi
n. Annie sometimes went with her, and for the two of them it felt good to be up on the white snowy mountainside, away from the gloom and stillness of the house.

  But Maggie loved even more the days when she went alone, walking in her homemade snowshoes up the mountainside, alive and awake to everything. She stoked her fires and kneaded her dough and baked the loaves with Franny on her mind.

  It was an eerie feeling for Maggie, baking bread there in Franny's place. Many times, despite herself, she looked back over her shoulder, almost expecting Franny to be there. The voice and the feel and the spirit of Franny were in the bread and in that cabin. For Maggie it was as if every smell and sight and sound connected with the bread-baking days was a remembrance of her aunt. And she always returned to the mill with a new sense of strength and worth, pulling her fresh-baked bread wrapped in a blanket, lashed down on the toboggan she and Annie had made from split ash staves.

  Sometimes, in the hours after returning from the cabin, Maggie found herself saying things to the McGrews, not out loud, but in her head. At nights, she would lie awake and compose her sentences, saying

  what she lacked the courage to say in her day­light hours.

  One afternoon, toward the end of the long dismal winter, Maggie was baking alone at the cabin when she heard a sound at the door. When she looked up she was surprised to see Jake Logan, dressed in his winter furs and skins. His body was covered by a huge blanket coat that trailed down to his knees. He wore a fur hat made from the entire skin of a red fox with the bushy tail trailing down his back. He took off his warm bearskin mittens and set his rifle up against the cabin wall.

  "Wal, girl," he said, "I seed your smoke and fig-gered I'd find you here. Roust up that fire! I'm about froze. Froze for talk and bread."

  Maggie smiled. "Me too. It'll be a while before the bread's ready but I can start talking anytime."

  Jake settled down by the fire. "Good enough. Start talkin'."