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

by Robin Moore

  "I wouldn't turn a dog out on a night like this," McGrew said. "You saved my little girl's life and Mag­gie's too. You can't be all that much of a heathen to have done that. Stay and be our guest this evening. After all, it's Christmas."

  Mrs. McGrew came and took Jake by the arm. "I've set a place for you at the table. Come and sit."

  The heavy plank table was loaded with a savory feast, roast goose with wild grape sauce, sweet potatoes, corn cakes, broiled venison, and hot onion soup. It was enough to make the old man's mouth water.

  People settled down and sat.

  "Let us pray," McGrew said. "We are thankful," he began, "for the goodness and bounty of our lives as well as the miraculous rescue of our girls from the jaws of the white and frigid death. And Lord, we are especially blessed to have with us tonight a man, Jacob Logan, a buckskinned angel of the frontier. Guide him in your ways and help him to see the light.In the Lord's name, Amen."

  The Amens went around the table and were drowned out by the clatter of forks and tinware. All these miracles had brought on a terrific hunger.

  They feasted. Then they settled into that lazy, comfortable feeling that well-fed people have when the fire burns low and it's good to sit and listen to stories by the fire.

  Both men and women settled themselves, close back in the shadows. Mrs. McGrew blew out the candles so they had only the light from the fire.

  The stage was set. McGrew seized the opportunity to display his oratorical skills.

  "Now some people say," he began, "that this has been a cold winter."

  People nodded in agreement.

  "But, friends and neighbors, cold? You call this cold? I have seen some cold weather in my time that would make this winter seem like a day in July. Now you take the winter of 1771—that was a cold winter."

  "How cold was it?" someone asked.

  "Well, I can't tell you in scientific terms, but I will say this. One frigid morning, I was walking out to the mill, whistling as I went. But I noticed that no sound came from my lips. I looked up in the air and I can hardly describe my surprise at what I saw. It was so cold that day that those musical notes had just frozen solid in the air. Hung there like icicles.

  "So I reached up and plucked them out of the air, put them in my pocket and went about my work. At the end of the day I came back in the house and laid those musical notes out on the hearth to thaw. We sat at the table and heard a little whistle escape as each one thawed.

  "Well, that gave me an idea. I went out the next day and whistled all day while I stacked bags of grain at the mill. Came in that night and laid those musical notes I collected out on the hearth, laid them all out in order. And we sat there that evening and listened to what must have been about an hour of music."

  Laughter filled the room. A few others told their own stories, recounting cold winters past.

  Then McGrew's eyes fell on Jake, who had been sitting quietly, listening.

  "Tell us, Mr. Logan," he said. "Surely you must have some talk of a cold winter. Perhaps a daring hunting exploit or possibly an account of some es­cape from savage Indians that might delight us."

  All eyes fell on Jake. He took a long time in an­swering.

  "Well, it's true," the old man began. "I s'pose I have seen some cold winters up in the mountains. I 'member one year I was huntin' bear over on the second ridge. Managed to roust one right out of his hibernation spot too. He was madder'n a hornet. So he starts for me, with blood in his eye."

  Jake rose from his seat, hooking his arms up like the bear's, extending his fingers like sharp claws.

  "So I raised my rifle and was just about to pull the trigger when I realized that I had done about the stupidest thing you can imagine."

  "What was that?" someone said.

  "Well," Jake answered, "I'd poured powder down the barrel and I'd primed the flashpan but I had forgotten to cram a ball down the barrel. So there I stood with an unloaded gun, bear chargin' down on me."

  "What'd you do?" somebody asked.

  "Well, nothin' I could do. That bear had me backed up against a rock cliff and I'll tell you, I was plenty scared. Got so scared, the sweat started ta run down my forehead.

  "But it was so cold that day that those little drops o' sweat froze hard into little balls o' ice. I reached up to wipe the sweat away and I felt those ice balls and I got an idee!

  "I plucked one of those ice balls off my forehead and rammed it down the barrel of my gun. Just in time too, because that bear had reared up on his hind legs and was about to pounce on me. I raised my rifle and fired. The shot went off just fine. But the heat from the exploding powder melted that ice ball and there wasn't anything but a big splatter o' water goin' through the air toward that bear.

  "Fortunately, it was so cold that the water refroze into a sharp icicle. And that icicle went in right be­tween the bear's eyes.

  "The bear's body heat was so fierce, it just melted that icicle . . . and that pore old bear died of water on the brain."

  People collapsed in laughter. There was no end to the laughing. It went on like that all night. Then somebody brought out a fiddle and they cleared back the furniture and began to dance. Jake even got up and danced a reel with the widow Brown from down on Penn's Creek.

  Maggie and Annie watched it all from their blan­kets by the fire. They felt weak and their hands and feet still pained them. But there was so much joy in the house that night, a person just couldn't let little aches and pains draw off any of the fun.

  Annie touched Maggie on the shoulder. She placed a present, wrapped in paper, in the older girl's lap. "For Christmas, for you," she signed.

  Maggie unwrapped it and drew out a finely made basket of woven ash splints. "Thank you, Annie. It's a real gift, sure. You're so clever with your hands." Then Maggie thought about the bread loaves strewn out across the snow.

  "But I don't have anything for you," she said. "Or for anyone else here. I had made the bread all special. I made you a special loaf with your name written right in the dough."

  Annie shook her head and began signing. "Don't worry," her hands said. "You give your gift all year long. You have a talent with the bread baking."

  Maggie smiled. Annie watched her lips as she spoke.

  "I know a gift I can give you, Annie. Something more precious than a single loaf of bread. I'll teach you the secret to making the Callahan Bread, just as Franny taught me. You've got the heart of a Bread Sister, sure."

  Annie signed. "I feel like a sister to you, Maggie. It will be more than I ever hoped for to bake the bread like you do." Then, too overcome to say more, Annie settled back into her blankets and was asleep.

  Maggie saw Mrs. McGrew coming to her, through the crowd.

  "Maggie," she said, "I have something to say to you and I don't know exactly how to say it."

  Maggie sat quietly, and waited.

  "Something broke loose in me tonight, Maggie, something that's been tight and held for years now. When Mr. Logan threw back that blanket and I saw you two lying there, I knew you were dead. I just knew it. And I realized in that moment that I loved you every bit as much as I loved my own little Annie."

  She began to cry. "You see, I had another daugh­ter once—"

  Maggie put a hand on her shoulder. "I know," she said softly.

  "You know about Sarah?" Maggie nodded. "And how she died?" Maggie nodded again.

  "Well, after she was buried, I thought I would just go on, you know, but I never could be the same. I carried that grief around like a stone on my back.

  "Then you came along. From the first moment I saw you, all I could see was my Sarah standing there—she'd be just about your age, you know. And it hurt, it just twisted the knife in the wound. So it was torture to be near you. But I couldn't send you away, understand? And then you saved my little Lyons."

  Maggie nodded, tears coming into her eyes.

  "Tonight, when I saw you lying there, I realized that it was too late. It was too late to do anything about any of it, t
o tell you why I acted the way I did, because you were gone and dead. But you're not dead. . . ."

  "No," Maggie laughed.

  "And it's not too late. Life is hard, Maggie, but it's not as hard as I've made it. And so what if it is hard? We're alive, Maggie. We're all alive and we're to­gether. And you know what? It's Christmas, Maggie! It's really Christmas!"

  Maggie nodded and they embraced for a long mo­ment by the fire. Then Mrs. McGrew eased Maggie down by the fire where she could sleep and pulled up her blanket.

  Maggie lay back, eyes closed, feeling the warmth of the fire on her face. She smiled. Someone was playing the fiddle, soft. Just before she drifted off to sleep, she heard the sound of people singing. Rising above the music was one voice—beautiful and clear like a bell, like the voice of someone who had sung on the stage. Maggie didn't have to open her eyes to know who it was.

  Chapter Ten

  In the winter days that followed, Maggie kept her promise to Annie. She taught Annie the bread-baking secrets just as Franny had taught her, years ago in Philadelphia. Even though Annie wasn't a real Calla­han, she took to the bread baking just fine. She was soon able to bake up rounded golden loaves on her own, using the spook yeast from Maggie's pouch.

  It occurred to Maggie that in passing on the mys­teries of the bread baking, she had become a link in a long, loving chain of women who had passed the bread baking along, year after year, keeping the spook yeast going.

  Spring came on. Down in the marshlands along Sinking Creek, Maggie could see the vivid green shoots of the skunk cabbage pushing their way up through the snow that still lay on the ground. She knew the long weary winter was over.

  On a warm April evening, Maggie had taken a pack basket of loaves down to the McGrews. She stayed for supper.

  After the washing up was done, Maggie shoul­dered her empty pack basket and started for home by the moonlight. The moon had risen up full above the mountains, bathing everything in a ghostly, dreamy light.

  When Maggie came to the millpond, she saw the moon reflected in the water. She was so pulled by its beauty that she sat down in the tall grass by the side of the pond to admire it. She saw the moon above, hanging white and lovely in the sky. And the moon below, reflected on the rippled surface of the pond.

  "Two moons," she said to herself. She liked the sound of the words so she said them again, out loud, "Two moons."

  Then she heard a noise behind her. Someone was walking through the tall grass towards her. She turned and could make out John, coming across the clearing, walking lazily with his hands in his pockets. The moonlight picked up the white of his shirt and the dark bars of the suspenders that held up his pants.

  He walked up beside her. "Mind if I set with you?" he asked. Maggie sat with her back straight. "It's a free country," Maggie said. "Set where ya will."

  "All right, don't mind if I do." He had scarcely settled himself before he started talking.

  "You know, Maggie, sometimes I come out here and set just like this—just set and look at that moon hangin' up there in the sky. Sure is pretty, don't you think?"

  Maggie turned her face up to the moon. "Surely is," she said.

  "And I look out across this ground," John con­tinued. "Pretty piece of ground, wouldn't you say?"

  Maggie nodded. "Yes, I would."

  John forged ahead. "Now you take that rise over there, just before you get to the edge of the clearing. I've often said to myself that would make a good spot for a house, good place for a young couple to settle and get a start in life. Don't you think so, Maggie?"

  Maggie looked the ground over. "Well," she said at last, "I suppose it would be all right. Awful close to neighbors, though."

  "Well," John chuckled, "that's all in how you look at it. They wouldn't be just neighbors. They'd be family." John paused a moment to let the suggestion sink in. "That is, if your name happened to be McGrew. Do you catch my drift, Maggie?" "No, I don't." she said.

  "Well, let me put it to you just as plain as I can. What I'm talking about is marriage. Look, Maggie, let's quit beating about the bush. It's been on my mind and I know it's been on your mind and, well, everybody's talking about it. Everybody knows that marriage is the next step for me and you."

  Maggie's eyes flashed with anger. "You? Why, I'd no more marry you than the man in the moon. And even if I did want to get married, we're not even the same age. You're way too old for me."

  John laughed. "No, Maggie, not at all. I'm only three years ahead of you and besides, it's natural that the man should be older."

  "What's natural about that?"

  "Well, I don't know. Just makes sense, I guess. I suppose the Lord made it that way so that wives could ask their husband's advice when they get con­fused about something."

  "Advice?" Maggie laughed. "John, I don't mean to hurt your feelings, but you don't even have the sense to lead a church meeting in silent prayer, let alone give advice. You'd do best to stick to your millwork."

  Undaunted, John continued his reasoning. "Now listen, Maggie, you can't stay up on that mountain­side forever. Time'll come when you'll come down into the valley and start a family and take your place in the community."

  "I've got a place," Maggie said, standing up. "And this conversation is getting ridiculous. I'm headed home." She reached down for her packbasket.

  John took her by the shoulders and spun her around to face him.

  "You're a good girl now, Maggie. You'll see the sense of it. You'll come around to my way of think­ing. Especially after this—" and he drew her to him, his lips searching for hers in the moonlight.

  Maggie felt a powerful rage boiling up inside her. She grabbed him by the suspenders, swung him around three times and let him fly. John took two dizzy steps backward and fell into the millpond. A moment later, he surfaced, sputtering and hollering at the top of his lungs.

  "Maggie!" he shouted. "Git me out of here. I can't swim!" He thrashed about like a drowning man.

  Maggie threw her head back and laughed. "I should've guessed that," she said. She felt around on the ground and found a fallen branch. Wading a few steps into the pond, she extended the branch to him and pulled him up on shore. He lay on his side in the moonlight, coughing and gasping for air.

  McGrew, who had been watching the whole thing from the house, came rushing up. He bent over his nephew.

  "John, my boy. Are you all right? Here, Maggie-good God, girl, stop that laughing and help me get him on his feet." When they got him standing, John pitched forward and vomited into the weeds.

  "Just swallowed some of the pond," McGrew said encouragingly. "Nothing to worry about, happens to the best of us. Now get on back to the house, my boy. Get into some dry clothes, you'll catch a chill out here."

  John nodded dumbly and started for the house, coughing and shaking himself like a wet dog.

  McGrew stood quietly, the tips of his fingers to­gether.

  "Maggie," he said at last, "sit down. We need to have a talk."

  Maggie looked away. "Too mad to sit," she said.

  "Very well. Stand, then. We'll talk anyway. I gather ..." McGrew took a moment in choosing his words. "I gather John's proposal didn't set well with you."

  Maggie turned to the older man, scarcely able to believe her ears. "You mean you knew about this fool idea?"

  McGrew cleared his throat. "Well, surely. This is a family matter, of course. John and I discussed this at great length before he came to you."

  Maggie moved restlessly away, barely able to con­trol her anger.

  "Maggie, I will ask you to indulge me for a few minutes more. You see, there are a number of advan­tages to this marriage, advantages that will benefit us all. If John listens to me, he will be a rich and influen­tial man someday. The name of McGrew will be as good as gold in this region. All my holdings will go to him—and you, if you'll be his wife. I've come to think of you as a daughter and I see no reason why we shouldn't make it official in the eyes of God, if you know what I mean."

&nb
sp; "I don't think God had much to do with this," Maggie said.

  "Ah, now, child. That is where you are wrong. It is almost as though all this was preordained. All the pieces fit so perfectly. Take your bread-baking busi­ness, for instance."

  "It's not a business," Maggie interrupted. "It's a calling."

  "Now that is where you are wrong. It is a business, and a very fine one at that. Although it could be a much better one if it were managed properly.

  "With your bread-baking operation located here on the premises, it would be a tidy addition to the millwork we already do. John and I would handle the marketing of your work and all you would have to do is concern yourself with the baking you do so well. No need to worry yourself about the business end of things."

  "It's not a business," Maggie repeated.

  "Well, I won't dwell on this subject any longer. Think on it. But I'll warn you. I wouldn't take too long in making up my mind. I daresay John is the most eligible bachelor in the valley, and another girl just may catch his eye. After all, a girl on the frontier doesn't have many chances at marriage. She'd be wise to make the best of her circumstances. Will you think about what I've said, Maggie?"

  She said nothing.

  "Well, then, I'll be saying good night. You think on what I've said." Then he was gone.

  Maggie reached down for her pack basket. "Fool­ish talk," she muttered, not sure who she was talking to.

  The next morning, John officially began his court­ship of Maggie Callahan. He showed up at the cabin just after breakfast, pulling along a mule, loaded with flour barrels from the mill.

  "Good morning," he sang out when Maggie came to the doorway. "Uncle Joseph said it's time we bring you another load of flour. Where do you want it?"

  Maggie heaved a deep breath. "Bring it inside, John."

  John got the barrels stowed away safely in the corner and dusted off his hands.

  "You sure do need a man around here," he was saying. "Why, there's many a chore around here either too hard or dangerous for a woman to do. I have a little time before I need to be back. Is there any little thing I can do for you around here?"