Silver Moon

by Jenny Knipfer

  Jenay put her arm around Mauve as they walked into the house. “We’ll find Maang-ikwe and get her opinion. It could be . . . nothing.”

  Mauve was grateful for her encouragement and assistance.

  “You back. How was tea?” Maang-ikwe asked when Jenay found her aunt in the living room, in her rocker with her feet up on a stool.

  “Good. Natalie had quite a spread. We brought some cake home.” Jenay gently pushed Mauve forward with the baby. “We came right home when we finished.”

  Mauve unwrapped Pearl from her shawl. Pearl started to whimper and scratch at her face.

  Maang-ikwe leaned forward and squinted some. She held out her arms to indicate she wanted Pearl. Mauve placed the baby in the older woman’s lap without hesitation or comment. Maang-ikwe took her time examining Pearl, who quieted and fixed her reddened eyes on the woman who held her. Mauve thought Maang-ikwe always infused peace into whatever situation came up. She had never seen the older woman flustered or anxious.

  Maang-ikwe turned Pearl's head from side to side, touched the back of her hand to her forehead, looked closely into her eyes, and touched the rash on Pearl’s face, which grew larger by the hour.

  She sighed, a steady stream of breath. “Miskwazhe.”

  Mauve’s white face looked to Jenay.

  “She has the measles,” Jenay sadly interpreted.

  “But . . . where did she contract it? We haven’t been much of anywhere. I don’t understand. How could she get . . . measles?” Mauve looked directly at Maang-ikwe, demanding the truth. “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “Oui,” Maang-ikwe replied firmly. “I see dis aakoziwin before.”

  The old woman’s sad eyes reflected an intimate pain.

  Maang-ikwe passed Pearl back to Mauve and got up with a groan. She padded over to the drying rack on the right side of fireplace where her herbs hung upside down in clusters. She plucked some dried blossoms of feverfew off a bundle. A case of wooden shelves stood underneath the rack. Jars, baskets, bowls, and pouches were filled with various herbs, and natural ingredients for making medicines and sat upon the shelves. She opened a suede pouch and pulled out a handful of dried, daisy-like chamomile heads.

  “Come. We make tea and give to Pearl. She need be kept cool. She must drink much.” She handed the herbs to Jenay. “Nindaanis, you make into tea and cool. We give her to drink, and we put on rash.” She turned to Mauve. “Do not worry. She be fine. You see. I know what to do. Come, unwrap her.”

  Maang-ikwe took down a large, porcelain dishpan and filled it with cold water from the pump. She laid a clean towel down on the kitchen counter and motioned for Mauve to place Pearl there.

  “Undress. We wash.”

  Mauve did as instructed. Pearl rubbed her eyes and fussed. Maang-ikwe soaked a cloth with the cool water, wrung it out, and gently wiped it over Pearl’s little body until she began to cool slightly to the touch.

  By then Jenay had steeped some tea. She had fetched some ice from the icebox and chiseled away a few chunks to cool it down. She tried spooning some into Pearl’s mouth, but Pearl protested and clamped her mouth shut.

  “Mix with sugar. She take it,” Maang-ikwe instructed.

  Soon, Pearl’s little body cooled, and she took up some of the sugar/herb tea. Mauve dipped a clean cloth in the remaining tea and dabbed it on her daughter’s red rash, which had spread from her chin to the whole side of her face and down her neck.

  “Now, you nurse and rest.” Maang-ikwe directed Mauve to her rocker, which she pulled back from the low fire in the fireplace. “When she warms, we do again.” She lovingly rested her hand on Mauve’s shoulder. Her eyes were solid black and determined. “All will be well,” she told Mauve. “Gitchi-manidoo not give me medicine for no reason. He help me heal this wioshkobi, sweet, little one.”

  Mauve obeyed and nursed and rocked her daughter.

  Jacque had held back, quietly watched the proceedings. When Mauve finally got Pearl to sleep, she tipped her head back and rested too, but she didn’t fall asleep.

  She heard Jacque ask Jenay in a whisper, “Do we need to inform the doctor or the constable, you think?”

  “I suppose,” Jenay whispered back. “Let’s hope this hasn’t spread too far.” She paused. “The girls never had the measles. What will we do?”

  Mauve’s heart sunk. What if the disease spread to other children? To Oshki’s sisters?

  “Maybe they could stay with Vanessa and Michael?” Jacque suggested.

  “Yes. I’m sure they’d be welcome.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll get through this.” Jacque spoke up. “Life is full of unexpected scourges we’ve learned to weather one way or another.”

  “I pray to God we do,” Jenay said.

  Mauve could hear their footsteps retreating into the kitchen. She prayed in her heart.

  Dear Lord, hear our plea for Pearl. Protect her from this scourge. Let not the glow of her life be extinguished yet, but let her be stronger because of this . . . may we all be stronger as we learn to trust in You. Amen.

  Mauve wiped the tears from her cheek with one hand, and cuddled closer to her daughter, breathing in her comforting baby scent. She couldn’t lose Pearl. She didn’t know how she would survive Pearl passing from her world and from Oshki’s.

  Please God, be merciful, she begged and surrendered to a quiet sob.

  Two days later

  “Maang-ikwe is a wise woman,” Mauve’s mother told her. They were seated in the living room at Jacque and Jenay’s. “I couldn’t do anything more. You girls all ‘ad the measles . . . and ye were t’ worst o’ t’ lot. Ye were five.” Ellie looked lovingly at Mauve. “Ye were sich a determined little thing, even then. No childhood illness was goin’ ta kick ye in t’ fanny.”

  Mauve smiled. “I’m glad you’re here, Marm.”

  “O’ course. The shop can wait. ‘Sides, yer da can handle ‘at place with ‘is hands tied behind ‘is back. ‘Specially now, with our rations runnin’ so low.”

  “Is Da coming to see us?” Mauve’s eyes got misty. Her father had always been her champion and her strength, before Oshki.

  “Since Alex hasn’t ‘ad them yet, we thought best to wait till the catchin’ phase passes.”

  Mauve nodded and looked at Pearl, who slept peacefully in her arms for the moment. The rash had spread and covered her entire face, upper body, and limbs. The cool, tea bath had helped reduce the redness and the itching. Her fever had lowered to a minor increase in temperature.

  “Should just be a couple more days, unless . . .”

  Mauve studied her mother. She appeared to be holding something back. “Unless?”

  “Well, some can get pneumonia or weaknesses and sich.”

  “I thought Pearl was getting better.” Mauve felt tired, and she heard the desperation in her own voice.

  “An’ she is. She is.” Ellie petted Mauve’s unruly hair. “Don’t ye worry none. Pearl’ll be fine.” She changed the direction of their conversation. “Barby brought home a paper sayin’ ‘at school is canceled till further notice. I guess ‘bout one third of t’ children ‘ave it—t’ measles.”

  “Oh my,” Mauve commented. Other parents feared for their children too. She didn’t feel quite so terrible. Shared misery was a form of comfort, but then she thought of something. “Do adults get this sickness too?”

  “Yes, they can, but most get it when they‘re babes or children. Your da told me ‘at t’ natives were ‘ard ‘it some years back with measles. It ripped through t’ reservation taking babes ta grown men. They don’t ‘ave what ye call re-sis-tance to t’ stuff.”

  Mauve thought of Maang-ikwe. Maybe that is why she knows what to do.

  “O’ course Alex is glad to not ‘ave school, but t’ girls miss it, I think.” Ellie linked her hands together in her lap and leaned back for the first time against the cushions of the sofa, making herself comfortable.

  Mauve was grateful her marm had visited them the evening before. When Jenay had inv
ited Ellie to stay last night, Mauve’s mother had accepted.

  Celeste and Lizzy would be staying with the Parsons, so Marm had one of their beds.

  “I niver been away from yer da; it felt mighty strange to wake up t’ just me own soul under t’ covers.” Daughter and mother shared a smile.

  “Has anyone succumbed to the illness?” Mauve hated to ask, but she had to know.

  “Not that I know of.” Ellie reached out and smoothed down Pearl’s reddish crown of hair. “Let’s not worry none. Come, lean back and take a rest with me.” Ellie propped another cushion behind Mauve on the high-backed sofa.

  “It does feel good to lean back. I’m so tired . . .” Mauve barely got the words out before her eyes closed.

  She could feel her mother wedge another cushion under her arm to support her as she held Pearl. Marm leaned back next to her.

  Before she drifted off to sleep, Mauve prayed mothers would not lose their children to the war of measles here in their own households, here in their own homeland. She thought how hard it must be to lose a son to a foreign enemy, but one so close to home and one so intimate was another matter entirely.

  April 1916

  Western Front

  Oshki took up his pencil and wrote before the sun no longer lit his trench sufficiently. He had eaten well tonight, for once. The men had picked off a couple of stray squirrels who weren’t smart enough to take cover. Along with the meat and some half-rotten potatoes, they had made a kind of stew. One fella had had some hard-tack biscuits left, which he’d passed around.

  His heart had just about given out with the news of Mauve’s last letter. Before he nestled in his foxhole for the night, Oshki set his thoughts down on a wrinkled scrap of stationery.

  April 12th, 1916

  My Dear Mauve,

  It broke my heart to hear of Pearl’s illness. How terrified you must have been, my love, to see our sweet daughter in the grip of such a malady. I am glad my great aunt was there to help administer some treatment. I would trust Maang-ikwe with my life.

  I imagine what our daughter looks like: hazel eyes, sweet smile, chubby baby face, and a flaming halo of hair like her mother. I dreamt of her last night. We walked hand in hand through the young wheat fields, the green heads parting before us with each step. She was five or six.

  Pearl kept asking me, “Daddy, when will you be home?” I had no answer for her, except that I didn’t know, but she kept asking. With each passing question, I aged. By the time we reached the end of the wheat field, I was an old man. She remained the same, as if outside of time, outside of the governing rules of life.

  Then she asked me, “Daddy, why are you so old?”

  I answered, “War has made me age.”

  She turned to me and asked one more question. “Will you be here to watch me grow?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  And I awoke to the sound of weapons firing. Burns is dead. Shot twice through the heart by a sniper when he tried to advance into the next hole. Remember me writing about Burns? He was the poetic one and could quote whole sections of Robert Burns by heart.

  For auld lang syne, my dear,

  For auld lang syne.

  We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,

  For auld lang syne.

  The verse resounds in my heart when I think of my fallen friend. I feel like a little of the light around us has been extinguished with his death. I am so tired of watching good men die.

  I pray for the chance to watch Pearl grow.

  All my love,

  Oshki

  April 1916

  Near Lens

  Luis sat in in the carved-out shell of a tunnel which served as his chambers. He was lucky not to be directly in the open trenches, but it made him feel bad. He had a “cushier” bed than the men of his platoon. He had been under Major Lefebvre’s command for over a month now. He missed the moving around he’d done as Von Wolff, but nothing else.

  I wish I could simply stay Lt. Wilson.

  A questioning voice broke through Luis’s thoughts. “Lt. Wilson?”

  “Yes.”

  He put away his writing things. He couldn’t send a letter home, but he had begun to write them as Lt. Wilson. He never could as Von Wolff. Someday, maybe someone in his family would look at them. Luis squinted in the dim light to see who it was.

  “Ah, Private Nelson.”

  Luis’s troop consisted of a mix of British and Canadian men. He kept himself from forming a bond with anyone, which was wise for an officer in command, but he liked most of the men. There wasn’t a bad egg among them.

  “Sir.” Private Ronald Nelson stood at attention for a moment.

  Luis stood and saluted. “Yes, Private Nelson.”

  Ronald Nelson scuffed his feet a bit and hemmed and hawed before addressing the reason for his disruption. “Wall, ya see. I’ve been waiting fer leave. I was told that was comin’ up.” He tipped his head. “See, thar’s this girl.”

  Of course, there’s always a girl.

  “Yes, Private. I’m aware of your coming status. One week. Been here quite some time now. It’s well-deserved, I’m sure.” Luis finished tucking his papers back in his leather satchel and turned his attention to the dirty but good-looking lad in front of him.

  “Can ya give me a date, sir?”

  Luis sighed internally and rifled through his calendar. He found Nelson’s name in a list of men to go on leave starting next week.

  “Next Friday, Private,” Luis said.

  “Fine. Fine.” Private Nelson’s grin just about split his chin off. “Thank you, Lt. Wilson, sir.” He stood at attention and saluted crisply.

  Luis tapped his hand to his head in recognition, and Nelson turned and exited as quickly as he’d come. Luis heard his shout of “Yahoo!” from outside.

  It’s all petals in the wind, Nelson, just petals in the wind, Luis told the exuberant lad in his thoughts.

  How easily happiness floated away, like spent flowers. There one day and gone the next. Well, Luis wouldn’t begrudge him his taste of it.

  Luis thought back to his brief, stolen, happy moments with Gretchen. He hadn’t allowed himself to think of her in months, but her memory rose to meet him again. He could almost smell her scent in the air, like the floral, orange scent of neroli.

  I have to bury her and leave her there, Luis encouraged himself. He didn’t have the luxury of mourning, of grieving what he’d lost. He had a job to do.

  Decisively, Luis tucked his satchel under his arm and went to find Major Lefebvre. He needed to know how to proceed.

  “Wilson.” The major looked away from his reflection in the chipped scrap of mirror hanging on the planked, wooden supports of the trench wall.

  His hand was poised an inch away from his face, a razor blade in his grip, and soap lathered on one cheek. A small wash basin of foamy water stood on a ledge alongside the mirror.

  “Sorry, sir.”

  The major went back to his shaving. “Well?”

  “Ah, are there any new directives yet, sir?”

  Major Lefebvre slowly scraped the razor under his chin and spoke to the mirror. “As it happens, I planned to speak with you this morning.” He carefully finished cutting the last bit of stubble from his face and used a nearby towel to wipe off the excess soap trails. He turned and looked Luis full in the face. “Your choice, Wilson. Von Wolff again or Lieutenant Wilson . . . permanently.”

  A line of sweat started to bead up under Luis’s collar. “What are you saying, sir?”

  Can I finally put Von Wolff behind me? He hoped so.

  Major Lefebvre tilted his head to the left and raised his shoulder at the same time. “Just as I said, Wilson. Choose where you want to serve. I’ve been watching you these last weeks. You’re good with the men, a fine leader. I’d hate to lose you to the other side again, but there’s something in you which seems not to be quite . . . satisfied. I think, at heart, this is not who you are. Am I right?”

  Lefebvre raised his
eyebrows, his face set, like he already knew Luis’s response.

  Luis felt his hope wick away like kerosene in a lit lamp. The truth settled in him like lead. The major’s right. This is not who I am anymore.

  He had been feeling unsettled. He had thought it was just memories of Gretchen, well, Nicole. It turned out he had never really known her either. And, apparently, he didn’t even know his own heart. Someone else had to tell him his identity. He had become good at being a spy. It was what he knew. What he did. Who he was.

  “I hate it, but I think . . . you’re right. This is not where I can serve the best.” Luis looked around the hole before settling on the major’s eyes. “I’m not really Lieutenant Wilson.” He paused and said the dreaded truth. “I am Lieutenant Gunther Von Wolff.”

  “I want you to be sure. I’ll give you another month to decide. In that time, we’ll establish exactly how you can leak us information, what your task will be, and how we can get you back to the spot we want you in. We need an outlay of their trenches. We need to press them back. They’ve been waiting for the right moment to take higher vantage points of the area from us. We need to strike before they do.”

  Something lodged in Luis’s brain. “If I go back, under whose authority will it be?”

  “Mine, Wilson.”

  Luis had guessed right. Major Lefebvre planned a rogue tactic, and Luis would be a part of it.

  He acknowledged the fact. “Yes, sir.”

  “Go, get the men drilling now, Lieutenant. We must stay active and sharp.” Lefebvre saluted Luis.

  “Yes, sir.” Luis followed suit, turned on his heel, and went to do his duty, at least for one more month.

  The secret of change

  Is to focus all of your energy

  Not on fighting the old,

  But on building the new.