When Silence Sings

by Sarah Loudin Thomas

That, of course, spoke volumes. Charlie knew better than anyone that she didn’t have the patience for an injured child traumatized by the loss of her family. And knowing his opinion made her all the more determined to prove him—and maybe herself—wrong.

  Now she closed her eyes and took a calming breath. She needed to offer some sort of comfort, even though her own spirit was disturbed. Crouching down beside the child, she peered into brown eyes so dark they were nearly black. They stared at each other a moment, and the child stopped crying, as if assessing Serepta had required her full concentration. Finally, she held out her good arm, a silent plea.

  Serepta wet her lips. She’d carried her own children, so why should this be any different? She scooped the child up and carried her to a sofa, settling there. One wiry little arm tightened around her neck as the child buried her face against her blouse.

  “Want Momma.”

  It wasn’t a plaintive cry but more a statement of fact.

  “I imagine you do,” Serepta said.

  Emmaline lifted her head and examined Serepta once more. “Get Momma?”

  Serepta released a long, slow breath. “I cannot.”

  The little face scrunched. “Get Momma.”

  “Entering into a lengthy explanation of why that’s not possible would be a waste of time.” The girl sighed and leaned against Serepta. “But there is something I can do.” She stroked the curls without thinking. “Remember this, Emmaline. When you’re faced with something impossible, consider what is possible and do that instead.”

  Did she feel the small head nodding? She glanced down. Nodding off, more like.

  “Charlie,” she called.

  He appeared so quickly that she figured he’d been standing outside the room, likely watching her.

  “Bring the car around. We’re going to Ivy’s.”

  Charlie brightened and hurried off to do her bidding. He approved. And although she told herself his approval didn’t matter one whit, Serepta felt something like satisfaction stir inside her.

  chapter

  six

  On Thursday morning, Colman stood in the passenger depot examining schedules. If it weren’t for his father suggesting a fishing trip, he could easily be heading for Hinton Saturday morning, trying to turn up a church or wayside pulpit where they’d give him the chance to preach to a McLean or two. Of course, he’d probably get shot first. Still, the notion that it was what he was supposed to do gnawed at him.

  “Howdy, Colman. Your dad invite you to come fishing with us?” Elam swung through the door and nodded to the man working the counter. “Hey there, Fenton. You got us down to ride along with those empties headed for White Sulphur Springs tomorrow?”

  “Sure thing. And you can catch a passenger train back Sunday afternoon. Wish I was going with you. Haven’t camped out along a good trout stream in way too long.”

  Colman wrestled with his conscience. Was he really going to ignore what felt like a command straight from God? Especially since it might win him a church to pastor? He shook his head. While the temptation to earn a pulpit was strong, the thought of preaching to McLeans was like drinking milk after the cow had been in the spring onions. And if he actually did such a distasteful thing and wasn’t killed by a McLean, Webb would likely shoot him as soon as he got back home.

  Elam stood, looking at him expectantly. The poor fella might have unfortunate ears, but he also had a friendly face, and Colman suddenly realized how much work it was being on the outside of the feud and the family. It would be such a relief to just be one of the fellows off for a weekend of fishing. He hadn’t done such as that since his mother passed. And he was tired of trying to live up to the idea of being a man of God.

  “Looking forward to it, Elam. What do I need to bring?” Committing to the trip filled him with equal parts guilt and delight. He cocked his ear toward the delight and found he could hear the burble of a creek, the singing of birds, and the soft whir of a line releasing from its reel. Not to mention the laughter of companions.

  Elam slapped him on the back. “Shouldn’t need more than a fishing rod and some dry socks. Meet us down here with your gear midmorning. We’ll have our lines wet before lunch.”

  Colman’s current work schedule meant he didn’t need to be back on the line until Tuesday morning. He grinned. Yes indeedy, he’d use this time to learn everything Johnny and Elam knew about the long-standing feud. Maybe he could find some other way to put it to rest and win the Thurmond Union Church pulpit without ever saying howdy-do to even one McLean. Or earning the wrath of his uncle. He headed on home to find his rod and reel, whistling as he went.

  Friday dawned bright and lovely. Robins flocked on the holly trees, and Colman had the feeling the season’s cold was finally behind them once and for all, although he supposed there’d be a round of blackberry winter yet. He tried to focus on the beauty of the mountain morning, but still a thread of uneasiness ran through him. He settled his pack on his shoulder and decided that was one thread he wouldn’t tug on.

  He arrived at the station early to catch a ride with Johnny and Elam on one of the coal trains delivering a run of empty cars to White Sulphur Springs. The steam engine sat puffing and throbbing on the tracks. He tried not to think about how they’d pass right through the heart of McLean territory along the way. Johnny slapped him on the back, surprising him. How had he failed to hear the man’s approaching steps?

  “Elam’s gonna act as fireman on this run, and I’m gonna ride in the engine with him and Mike—he’s the engineer. You might want to hop the caboose—more room there. Ron’s the brakeman, but he don’t usually have much to say. You ready for a quiet ride?”

  Colman smiled. “A quiet ride sounds like just the thing. I haven’t been sleeping so good lately.”

  Johnny nodded and headed for the engine while Colman swung onto the caboose as the cars began to ease out of the yard. The smell of burning coal filled the air. Colman felt a sense of freedom wash over him. It was good to be heading out, fishing tackle in hand, with all the trouble over Caleb’s murder and this pesky notion he was supposed to preach to the McLeans somewhere behind him.

  Ron, a nondescript fellow with a beard, nodded. “Can you fill in as flagman if we need it before we get to White Sulphur Springs?”

  “Sure thing.” It was easy enough to carry flags back a ways to signal any other trains if they stopped. Especially since he didn’t expect them to stop on the two hour or so trip.

  Satisfied, Ron climbed into the cupola so he could see the length of the train as it wound through the mountains. He’d be keeping an eye out for signs of trouble along the cars, although since they were hauling empties, he’d more likely take a catnap. Which suited Colman just fine. He was content to sit here and watch the world go by. Hopefully he wouldn’t spot any McLeans out the window.

  The rocking of the train and the lack of conversation conspired to leave Colman jerking his head up off his chest. The conductor’s cot was made up neatly against the wall. Colman glanced at the brakeman, who was also nodding, and decided it wouldn’t hurt a thing if he stretched out for a minute. He hadn’t slept well in more than a week, and a deep weariness tugged at him. Lying down, he was asleep in moments.

  “Wake up, man! How in tarnation are you sleeping through this?”

  Colman jerked upright as Ron tugged at his arm. He swung his feet to the floor and shook his head. He couldn’t remember ever sleeping so hard. “Where are we? What’s the matter?”

  The wild-eyed brakeman jerked his head toward the window, which was a swirl of white. Colman blinked and rubbed his eyes. It was dusky dim inside the caboose and cold. He reached out to touch the window and realized it was snowing outside. Not just snowing, it was a blizzard.

  “When did this kick up?” he asked.

  “Started after we passed through the Big Bend Tunnel. Sunshine when we went in, and that”—he waved at the window—“when we come out.”

  Colman considered where that put them. “Are we much past the
tunnel?”

  “Not much. Snow’s piling up so the train has to push through it, and we’re slowing down. We’ve got to be burning coal faster than we can spare it.”

  “Not a whole lot between Hinton and Alderson,” Colman said.

  “Don’t I know it. This ain’t natural.”

  With a lurch and deep grinding sound, the train came to a halt, throwing Colman and the brakeman onto the floor in a heap. They stared at each other.

  “Guess we’d better see if we can get to the engine,” Colman said.

  “I ain’t even got a coat.” His new friend looked scared.

  “I’ll go. Give me that blanket off the bed.”

  Wrapping himself like an old woman in an oversize shawl, Colman pushed the door open against a northerly wind that felt like it was trying to peel the skin off his face. Thankfully the train wasn’t long, and he was able to stagger to the engine where any puffs of steam were lost in the swirling maelstrom. He fell inside the tight confines. Johnny and Elam looked almost as scared as the brakeman.

  “Thirty-odd years on these rails and I’ve never seen anything like this.” Mike, the engineer, kept adjusting his hat.

  “Can we push through it?” Colman peered out the front into blinding whiteness.

  “Don’t see how. Might have to wait it out.”

  Colman shook out his blanket and laid it over the engineer’s seat. “It’s warm enough.”

  They each settled into postures of waiting. They tried some conversation, but that soon petered out. After an hour or so, the door burst open again and Ron tumbled inside.

  “I thought you all might be dead or worse.”

  Colman wasn’t sure what could be worse but didn’t ask.

  “How’re we gonna get outta this fix?” Ron asked.

  Mike adjusted his hat once more. “Wait.”

  “Well, the storm sure ain’t easing up any. If anything, it’s worse.”

  No one had anything to say to that. They lapsed into silence again, the only sound being the howling, pelting wind and the settling of coal in the firebox. They dozed and waited until a blast of wind shook the weighty iron engine.

  “This ain’t no natural storm!” The outburst came from Elam, who’d barely spoken until now. “This here coal won’t last forever. If we keep burning it to stay warm, we won’t have enough to get us to Alderson, much less White Sulphur Springs. And there ain’t much but deep valleys and high mountains between here and there.”

  “Surely another train will come along,” Colman said.

  Elam stared pointedly at the window.

  Colman chewed on his lower lip. “Well? What do you suggest we do?”

  Elam’s ears started turning red. He looked sideways at Johnny. “You fellers know I’ve got the second sight.”

  “Aw, here we go,” Johnny said, throwing his hands up in the air.

  “Hear me out,” Elam said. “This here storm is God’s wrath. And someone on this train has brought it down on us all.”

  Ron looked like he would run if there were a direction open to him. Colman shifted and crossed his arms tight across his chest.

  Elam pointed a shaking finger at him. “That’s the sign. I saw a vision of a man with his arms crossed just like that. Saw it dancing in the flames last time I checked the firebox.”

  The other three men, including Johnny even, turned terrified gazes on Colman.

  He shook his head. “Hold on now. That’s pure foolishness.”

  “What have you done?” Mike had a quaver in his voice.

  Colman swallowed past a lump in his throat. Was it possible? Had his refusal to do what God wanted brought this storm down on them all? But that was ridiculous. God didn’t work like that.

  “I . . . nothing.” With a jolt, Colman realized he’d just spoken the absolute truth. He’d done nothing when God wanted him to do something. He pressed his palm against the cold glass of the train window. He thought he could feel bits of ice battering the other side. What if he were somehow to blame for their predicament? “This might be my fault.” He said the words low, almost to himself.

  “That’s what I’m saying,” Elam chimed in.

  “So, what do we do about it?” Mike finally removed his hat and punched his fist into it. “Toss him out into the snow?”

  All four men looked at Colman.

  “You don’t have to toss me. I’ll go.”

  “That’s pure crazy,” Johnny said, hair falling into his eyes. “Are you saying you’ll just wander off into this storm to die?”

  “No. I’m saying I’ll hike on ahead to Alderson and send for help.”

  “I reckon Hinton’s closer, but either way that’s pure crazy,” Ron said. “It’s miles either direction and rough going for a man on foot, even in good weather. You’ll fall or freeze before you make it there.”

  Colman closed his eyes to listen to the storm. The keening was constant, without any sign of a break.

  “Tell you fellers what we’re going to do.” Mike put his hat back on. “It’s on past lunchtime, so we’re going to make a meal out of the pound cake my wife gave me for her sister over in White Sulphur Springs. Then we’re going to bank that fire and bed down right here in the engine to wait it out. Come morning, I’m willing to bet this storm will have blown over and then we can decide what to do.” He nodded as though pleased with his solution. “Might be able to dig out enough to get a good start and plow on through.”

  Colman couldn’t deny the plan sounded a whole lot better than heading out into the storm. Still, having recognized his failing, he wanted to set things right. “I don’t know . . .”

  Mike pulled out a tin with the cake in it, cut off a hunk, and handed it to Colman. “Eat up. My wife’s cake is so good it’s practically manna from heaven. I don’t guess God would begrudge you a last meal.”

  Grumbling a bit, the other men settled down to eat and get as comfortable as the tight quarters allowed. The maelstrom outside dimmed the light and muffled any sound. It was like being inside a cocoon, and soon everyone was snoring but Colman. He stared into the swirling white that had narrowed their world to this small space inside the engine of a train. He told himself the storm might not have come from God. It might just be a freak of nature. But his gut told him otherwise. And if that was true, then his stubbornness had put these men in danger.

  Colman waited until he was sure the others were hard asleep. He didn’t know how he was going to find his way with the storm reducing visibility to a few feet, but he felt certain there was no other choice. The other men slept on as Colman stood and buttoned his shirt to his neck, then stuffed his pants down inside his boots and retied them snug. He used a pocketknife to cut a hole in the middle of the blanket he’d wrapped himself in earlier, turning it into a sort of cape that hung down all around him. As an afterthought, he grabbed one of the signal lanterns and a box of matches. He could use it to signal for help if need be. Tugging his wool cap firmly down over his ears, he took a deep breath, opened the door, and plunged into the storm.

  chapter

  seven

  Charlie parked the burgundy Ford Model A where the road petered out into little more than a dirt track. He opened the door for Serepta, his hand lingering at her waist as she helped the child out behind her. They would walk the last half mile or so while Charlie remained behind to ensure no one trifled with the car. It was a cold day for walking, which wasn’t that unusual in the spring when the weather could turn suddenly. Serepta looked to the east, where an ominous wall of clouds sent gusts hinting of winter toward them every now and again. She hesitated, but the worst of the weather didn’t seem to be moving their direction, or at all for that matter, so she kept going.

  Emmaline appeared to be a good walker, only occasionally stopping to pounce on a pretty rock or poke at a clump of greening grass. And once she was mesmerized by a squirrel that froze on a low-hanging limb and flicked his tail at them. At that point, Emmaline turned toward Serepta with such a look of wonder and amazem
ent that she couldn’t help but smile. Oh, to be so easily amazed.

  They entered a wood and saw a cottage nestled along the edge of the trees beyond a creek. Serepta helped Emmaline, hopping from stone to stone to keep their feet dry as they crossed the burbling water. As they stepped onto dry ground, Serepta realized she could hear singing. She let Emmaline poke at the water with a stick while she stood and listened.

  When was the last time she was this still and peaceful? she wondered. The water, the child, and the sound of a hymn being lifted to the sky all conspired to soothe her ruffled spirit. She inhaled the cool spring air and . . . but no. She would not let her guard down. Not even here. Not even with Ivy Gordon.

  “Come along, Emmaline.”

  She took the child’s hand and tugged her toward the cottage. Emmaline came willingly enough, carrying her stick like a sword in the hand that wasn’t confined by a sling.

  “There are no dragons to slay here,” Serepta said. “If there were, I would not bring you.”

  Emmaline looked at her with huge trusting eyes, and Serepta felt her heart catch. Thank goodness no one could see her traitorous heart.

  The singing grew louder as a slender woman with a long silvery braid trailing over her shoulder rounded the cottage. She wore a wide hat, and every inch of skin was covered, even her hands with cotton gloves.

  “Why, Serepta, this is a treat.”

  Serepta caught herself before she snorted. Trust Ivy to be the only person in the world who would honestly consider her visit a treat. She was also just about the only person in the world Serepta never suspected of having an ulterior motive. As best she could tell, Ivy was as guileless as she seemed. Not to mention powerless the way the locals gave her a wide berth.

  “Who do you have with you?” Ivy crouched down and looked Emmaline in the eye.

  The child tilted her head. “I’m Emmaline. I’m four. My arm is broked.”

  Well, Serepta thought, that answered at least one question. “She’s an . . .” Serepta glanced at the girl still wielding her stick. She wouldn’t know what the word orphan meant, would she? “She’s in my care for the time being.”