Through Rushing Water

by Catherine Richmond

  Nettie clasped Sophia’s hands and whispered, “Dear Jesus, please help our sister Julia. Please comfort her. Please heal her.”

  Sophia should have brought her prayer book. Why could she not remember the Prayer for the Sick? She had read it constantly when her father was ill. Something about infirmities and asking God to be the physician. Oh Lord, be the physician unto Thy servant Julia . . . because we have no doctor here.

  Nettie finished praying. They said good-bye and started back to the house. The snow continued, with smaller, more serious flakes now.

  “I shall take her some food after lunch,” Sophia said. “And firewood. She has none.”

  But Nettie had cooked the food and Will had cut the wood. How could Sophia help? “It must be dreadfully cold sleeping on the floor. Do we have extra mattresses at the house? Will brought me one when the roof leaked on my bed.”

  Nettie held the door open for her. With eyebrows raised, she said, “He gave you his mattress. There are no extras.”

  How kind of him. Yet, if he had given her his mattress, what had he slept on? Perhaps he might know where to find another. Sophia tromped through the blessedly warm kitchen to the front room and called, “Will?”

  “He went up to the warehouse,” Henry told her.

  The agent stuck his head out of his office. “Can I help you?”

  “No, thank you. I am sorry to disturb you.” Sophia could see the large building from the kitchen door. And she still had her coat on. “I shall go see if Will can make a bed for Julia.”

  Nettie glanced up from her place at the stove and nodded. “Too cold for troublemakers.”

  Too cold and too quiet. St. Petersburg had church bells, skating parties on the river, streets filled with sleighs. This village’s quiet spoke of desertion and loneliness, impoverishment so deep all energy must be committed to survival. Sophia hurried, almost running, and slipped into the warehouse. At her entrance, half a dozen men looked up from a table. What had she interrupted?

  “Sophia? Did you need something?” Will stood, putting down a well-worn book with numerous scraps marking the pages. Ah, his Bible. Will held a Bible study? Why had she, the missionary, not thought to do so?

  “Yes. I am sorry to bother you, but Julia has taken ill. She sleeps on the floor. Perhaps you know of a bed?”

  The men smiled. Will donned his coat and grabbed a stack of boards wrapped in canvas. “We were just praying about who’d get this.”

  “Wonderful.” Sophia followed him down the hill. “And Nettie is making soup. I wish I could help Julia too.”

  “You could sing. With your gusli.”

  It was not a miracle cure, but what else did she have? Sophia retrieved her instrument from the house, then raced back to Julia’s.

  Will unrolled long poles connected by a sheet of canvas. He fitted the ends into the headboard and footboard and held them in place with pins as thick as a finger. The frame assembled as quickly as an army cot.

  “How clever. Where did you get the long spikes?”

  “Those andirons from the last allotment. The canvas is from a tent Fort Randall tried to throw away. Won’t support anyone heavy.” He lifted the ill woman, blankets and all, and set her on the bed. “Miss Julia’s about to float away.”

  A smile flickered across the woman’s face as she settled into her new bed. Susette Primeau, Standing Bear’s wife, had replaced Buffalo Woman as caregiver. She propped her patient up with a backrest made from willow rods laced with leather strips.

  Sophia unbuttoned her coat and sat on the floor beside her. “Do you have a favorite song?”

  Julia gave a tiny shake of her head, too tired to speak.

  Susette asked, “Do you know ‘Cantique de Noel’ ?”

  Sophia had not heard the song since she had left France six years ago and suspected it had been much longer for the Ponca women, but the music returned to them all. Will sat beside her and hummed through the French verses, then continued in English, singing “O Holy Night” in a rich baritone that raised the temperature of the room above freezing.

  The fierce creases of pain in Julia’s face eased and she slept.

  Even in Sophia’s effort to bless Julia, it was Will who truly made the difference.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Sophia looked up from helping Luke Adams with his sums to see Will slipping into the back row. Since early November when the afternoon temperatures barely climbed above freezing, Sophia had invited her escort to wait inside.

  She glanced at her pocket watch. It seemed he arrived earlier every day, perhaps guided by dusk rather than time.

  Rather than interfering or interrupting like Henry, Will helped in his own quiet way. He said he had not attended many years of school, but she had yet to find an arithmetic problem that stumped him. And his skills in geometry far exceeded hers.

  When the lesson ended, Sophia asked, “Who can tell me what happened at the first Christmas?”

  “It’s when Jesus came!”

  “His mother’s name was Mary,” said Mark Adams, the one with low eyebrows like the Grand Duke Sergei Alexandrovich.

  Susette raised her hand. “Jesus’ parents did not have a horse, so His mother rode on a donkey. And she had the baby in a stable.”

  Sophia would have to give Henry credit—the children knew the Christmas story.

  “Last year a fat man came to church,” Rosalie told them with wide eyes. “He had a red shirt and white hair like a cloud on his face.”

  Sophia explained, “In some countries he is called Father Christmas or Saint Nicholas.” In some countries he brought gifts, but probably not to the Ponca Agency.

  “White people brought a tree into church.” Luke Adams giggled. “And put popcorn on it with a string.”

  Sophia exchanged a grin with Will. The students were right, some traditions were silly. Decorating with food must seem especially foolish to hungry children.

  Martha Jefferson looked her in the eye for a moment. “And the tree had paper cones with nuts and hard candy.”

  “And an orange for each of us!” Matthew clapped.

  “And Mrs. Nettie made lemonade. It made my mouth go—” Luke sucked his cheeks in.

  Ah, that was why Nettie had been saving those cans of lemonade. Sophia noted: Bring lots of food.

  “What songs did you sing?”

  Sophia tuned her gusli and the students reviewed the carols they knew: “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,” “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks”—sheep again!—“Hark! the Herald Angels Sing,” “O Come, All Ye Faithful,” and “It Came upon a Midnight Clear.” Will’s fine baritone added to the choir. A good foundation.

  “Now I need an older girl to play Mary, an older boy to be Joseph, and someone to bring their baby from home. A good-natured baby—no fussing.”

  “We have a new baby.” Rosalie bounced, making the bench thud on the floor. “He does not cry too much.”

  “Wonderful, but please remember to raise your hand.” Ah, yes, Elisabeth had been enceinte when they climbed the waterfall. “What is your new brother’s name?”

  This question generated considerable discussion among the siblings. The answer seemed to be either Raccoon or Michael.

  “Please ask your—” Was Rosalie’s mother Elisabeth, or Mary? She couldn’t remember. “Please ask your parents if your brother can be in our Christmas play.”

  The students agreed to have Joseph and Marguerite fill the roles. Frank, their best oral reader, would narrate. Matthew, Mark, and Luke became wise men. The rest of the boys would be shepherds. The girls would be angels. At the end of every school day, they would practice.

  The students completed their chores—sweeping out the mud took longer than usual—and dressed to walk home. Will helped Rosalie wind her scarf around her head, then the children rushed out, leaving a moment of blessed quiet.

  Sophia banked the fire. “Before today I have never understood the importance of Jesus’ poverty. The world has only a handful of kings and
princes, but millions of poor, who know what it is like to be without money for hotels and horses.”

  “I like that His earthly father, Joseph, was a carpenter.” Will nodded and picked up her gusli. “Could we bring this, go visit Julia again?”

  “Yes. It should not stay in a room without heat.”

  He tucked it under his coat.

  Sophia locked the school. “The angels announced Jesus’ birth to the shepherds first, before the wise men. That is also important.” She increased her pace as their path led them out from the cover of the trees to the windy bank of the river. “I think often of your words of wisdom: ignore the rushing water. With all the needs, how do you keep from drowning? How do you sort through all the requests for help?”

  “I just focus on the person in front of me, being Jesus for that person at that moment. Seems like you—” He stopped. “Never mind. None of my business.”

  Sophia jostled his elbow with hers. “Will. You have been here three years. You share your thoughts without scolding. Please, I would like to hear what you are thinking.”

  Zlata and her troika trotted out from their den beneath Julia’s house. When Sophia finished feeding them, she looked up at Will.

  He studied the bluff, limned by the setting sun, then swallowed and scratched his chin. “Well, I’m not sure you really ignore the rushing water. Every evening you’re penning a letter to someone asking for help, complaining about conditions here. Jesus didn’t write to rich people, asking them to solve His problems.”

  “Writing letters is wrong?”

  He did not speak again until they reached the house. “I don’t know. Just seems . . . shouldn’t God supply their needs?”

  “Perhaps I am to be His instrument of provision.”

  He shrugged and held the door open for her. “Maybe.”

  “Sit by the Christmas tree.” The rev handed the bucket to Sound of the Water, then hurried up front to light the candles on the cedar. Will had found it in a draw west of here, when they were out cutting firewood. Nettie and Sophia had decked it with strings of popcorn and cranberries, and paper cones of nuts, raisins, and hard candy. Sound of the Water looked in the bucket, then asked Will in Ponca, “What do I do with this?”

  On the walk from the agency house, the water inside had steamed, lost all its heat, and was rapidly on its way to becoming a useless chunk of ice.

  Will took the bucket since Sound of the Water’s winter weather gear was limited to one moth-eaten blanket. “I’ll dump it outside and refill it with snow.”

  The weather—light snow and severe cold—kept the people of Hubdon and Point Village home. Will scanned the pews, mentally matching each group with their house. All of Brown Eagle’s family, all of Walks in the Mud’s, all of Yellow Horse’s . . . everyone from the agency village made it except Julia, whom they had visited earlier today.

  “Merry Christmas,” he said to his friends.

  James hauled in a basket of oranges.

  Sophia, a princess in her fur coat, lined up the students. With a bag of scraps and rags, she had turned the Ponca children into the citizens of the Holy Land. The girls wore halos of crocheted yellow yarn. Three boys had crowns of yellow paper and the rest wore towels on their heads. All shivered and a hefty portion coughed. Good thing Christmas was on a Sunday this year; the people couldn’t survive a second church service at this temperature.

  Up front Nettie led “It Came upon a Midnight Clear” on the melodeon. Sophia had asked Will to sing “O Holy Night,” but the rev didn’t allow any songs not in the hymnal.

  Henry marched back from the pulpit, his hard shoes echoing on the wood floor. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Will stepped forward, ready to bust him across the jaw, Christmas or not.

  “Our Christmas pageant.” Sophia managed to have a commanding presence even when the rev towered over her and she had to whisper. “The children have worked hard on their presentation.”

  “But . . .” He scowled at Marguerite, holding her baby brother, and Joseph. “Indians playing the Holy Family?”

  “Who played them last year?”

  “Mother and I.”

  Will thought having an elderly woman and her son in the roles confused the congregation. It sure hadn’t set well with him.

  Sophia made a face like she’d bit into a wormy apple. “The students voted—”

  “Indians can’t vote!” he hissed.

  “The goal of this mission—”

  Will stepped between them. “Frank’s starting. You’ll have to settle this later.” Which with Henry would be his “All the good I’ve tried to do has been undone by your actions” sermon.

  Distinguished in a top hat and overcoat with a velvet collar, Frank read the Gospel account of Jesus’ birth. Sophia sent Marguerite and Joseph down the aisle. The young girl unwrapped her baby brother. The little one studied the congregation. His lower lip trembled as if he might be working up to a cry. Joseph leaned forward and whispered. The baby reached up and grabbed on to his brother’s finger, then relaxed in his sister’s arms. Angels took their places. Shepherds arrived, then the kings.

  Frank finished the reading, then looked toward the back of the church. Will gave him a thumbs-up. The young man had nailed every word. All their practice after school had paid off.

  The congregation stood and sang “O Come, All Ye Faithful.” Baby Michael waved in time with the music and gave a no-teeth grin, which got the whole church smiling.

  Will had met only one or two Jewish people, but he figured Mary and Joseph looked more like Poncas than blue-eyed Nettie and Henry. And Nazareth and Bethlehem were small, poor towns like this village, places where the Poncas would feel at home.

  A lacy handkerchief fluttered. Sophia was crying. Will put his hand on her shoulder. “Henry’s wrong. It came out well.”

  “If I had gone to China, I would have missed all this.” She covered his hand and smiled with a Christmas-star sparkle. “Thank you.”

  Will stepped up on the porch with an armload of firewood. If this cold kept up, he’d have to—

  Sophia opened the door. Her cheeks glowed as red as Santa Claus’s. “Merry Christmas! How is it outside?”

  “Half inch of squeaky snow.” Will finished stocking the wood box, then rubbed his nose. “Feels like I breathed in icicles.”

  “Perhaps we might visit Julia later?”

  He nodded. Sophia had said something about China last night. He wanted to ask her what she meant. Nettie called them to the table, where she’d set out oatmeal and sausage.

  James passed the coffee. “I bet you’re missing some fancy parties in New York.”

  “Last year was no celebration.” Sophia shook her head. “My father worked at West Point—”

  “The military academy?” Will asked.

  She nodded. “Down the river from the College. He taught cavalry tactics. Last Christmas I spent caring for him in his final illness.”

  Nettie murmured her condolences.

  “So this year is much improved.” Sophia toasted the staff with her tea. “It is my joy to celebrate the birth of our Savior with all of you. Your dedication and perseverance are an inspiration.”

  “Hear, hear!” James lifted his coffee cup.

  “Thank you,” Henry choked out. He could hardly yell at Sophia after such a compliment.

  “We’re having a better year too,” Will said. “Staff’s healthy.” Last year they’d passed around the grippe. Will, as the only one not ailing, ended up doing all the work short of preaching.

  “Thank the Lord for good health.” Sophia turned to Nettie. “Do you need help with the dinner?”

  Nettie shook her head. “All it needs is time.” She leaned on the table. “Tell us about Christmas in Paris.”

  Sophia’s eyes closed halfway and her face relaxed. “Of course the climate is much more temperate. Church bells ring. Oysters for dinner. The air is fragrant with roasting chestnuts from street vendors and bread from bakeries.”
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br />   “Paris sounds so nice. Why did you leave?” Nettie asked.

  Even her shrug seemed like part of a dance, involving both shoulders and a sway of her head. “Certain members of the Russian community there professed loyalty to the King of Heaven, but obeyed only the tsar. Then war with Prussia broke out. Father declined to participate in the conflict.”

  “You’ve had such a sophisticated life. What do you miss most?” Nettie asked. “Balls and dinner parties? Going to the opera and ballet?”

  “The heat at Vassar?” Will guessed. “I hear they keep the rooms at sixty-five degrees.”

  Nettie gave a little snort. “Sixty-five? I can barely get my oven that warm.”

  James rubbed his mouth. “French wine.”

  “Not what you would miss,” the rev growled at James, then lowered his heavy eyebrows at Sophia. “Bathtub. I heard you fussing about having to use the washtub.”

  “Forgive me. I should not complain. Not when our neighbors lack even that necessity.” Her blue eyes focused on something none of them could see. “No, what I miss most is reading. Selecting a book or periodical from the library, settling into my favorite chair by the window or under the lamp. Or in Paris, in a public garden. Many of the joys of Paris are without cost, which was fortunate. We had left much behind, necessitating simple living.”

  She turned to Will with a smile. “Perhaps God used that challenge to prepare me for His work here.”

  Another piece of the Sophia-puzzle dropped into place. As his sister-in-law would so delicately put it, Sophia had endured times of reduced circumstances.

  “Doesn’t get much more simple than this,” Henry muttered.

  Nettie shot him a warning frown, then asked Sophia, “And how do you celebrate Christmas in Russia?”

  “Also ringing church bells, but higher, more musical. So far north, St. Petersburg is blessed with plenty of cold and snow. We have festivals on the river. The Church follows the old calendar, so Christmas is a week later—January 7. We fast on Christmas Eve and attend church twice.”

  “So you’ve never had a normal, American Christmas?” the rev asked.