A Clearing in the Wild (36 page)

Mules can be a trouble at times, but they are more reliable than a horse. We scouts had moved ourselves and were back living in lean-tos to be closer to the work sites while the men labored at their tasks. I assured Christian that the exercise of plowing would be good for the baby I carried, since I could do little to help them in the woods.

After a time of cleaning his ear with his finger, his newest sign of being in thought, he consented, saying we’d repay the Woodards for the use of their mule by giving them wheat. We couldn’t spare any of our animals; they were needed for dragging logs.

“It would be better to plant oats,” Sarah told me. “Wheat doesn’t grow well here. We usually order flour in.”

“They grew wheat near Steilacoom,” I remembered.

“Even in a short distance the climate affects what grows.”

“We have wheat seed,” I said. “No oats.”

She shrugged.

I didn’t share the conversation with Christian. But we borrowed the Woodards’ plow and mule, and I began the work, pulling the heavy straps over my shoulder, gripping the plow handles while wearing my leather gloves. The Woodards’ mule had plowed fields before. I could tell he didn’t like it.

A mule being asked to do what he doesn’t like consumes one’s energy completely, allowing little time to think of anything deeper than how far the wheat field furrows sink. I longed for that distraction as I watched the men begin to question once again their ability to complete their labors in time. Plowing fields kept my mind from disappointing thinking.

I’d seen the men plow fields back in Bethel. And I knew it would take me long hours of being jerked by the single-bottom plow when it might strike a rock or it would pitch over and fall, and I’d have to hoist the handles and blade up, hoping the mule would stand firm. We put
blinders on him to avoid distractions from birds swooping overhead or any other skittering thing that might shake an animal’s confidence and make it bolt. A dried leaf could do it; a bear would surely cause a stir. Both the mule and I did best when kept from distractions.

I’d tethered Andy with a long vine of cedar root I braided into a sturdy rope so he wouldn’t go wandering off too far from the edge of the field I worked on. The rope was another gift of the landscape brought to my attention by the Chehalis women I saw now and then. Maybe when they’d seen my makeshift cedar cape, they’d decided I had potential and shared bits of their experience with me.

Andy explored the ground for ants and salamanders and other insects with names I didn’t know. He particularly liked the slugs, the slimy finger-length creatures the color of the scorched flour I used to treat Andy’s diaper rash. Their little antenna broke the monotony of their bodies, and Andy loved to touch them. Slugs and his wooden toy horse and goat, Charlie and the live goat kept him company. He even napped in the shade of the tree he was tethered to. At least we’d never found a snake here; only spiders kept us on our toes.

I’d pounded cedar bark with a rock into a kind of mat. He lay on that now as I worked. I found that the best time, his napping time, when I didn’t carry this nudging worry over him in the back of my mind. The river flowed close, and while it no longer crested near the banks, it was still wide and hungry and would easily consume an adventurous child. I wondered if my mother had worried like that when I was little and Bethel was being built. I planned to write her when the others arrived, bringing precious paper with them. What paper we had we’d used up, so I couldn’t even make the notes I wanted, to remind myself of how I felt with all we did here. I’d have to be like the Indians and memorize the tales. At least that’s what An-Gie said they did, and thus she’d found little need to read or write.

The mule’s tail swatted at flies and tiny bugs, and the animal occasionally looked back toward me, though I knew he couldn’t see me with the blinders on. I’d “gee” and “haw” him to turn right or left, and we’d jerk forward. Sometimes I sprawled in the earth as he’d skip ahead before I was ready; sometimes I’d fall into the furrow and have to shove the plow off of my leg, then sweat and ache to get it upright again. My left wrist still gave me sharp pains when I tried to lift or twist with it too much, a remembrance of our Andy’s birth.

The soil beside the river was rich and dark, and the plow turned over deep chunks of dirt within the furrows. I’d sink down nearly to my knees at times. I’d pulled the wrapper up between my legs and tucked it into my apron’s belt so I wouldn’t trip on the hem. The dress was threadbare, though I washed it only once a week, grateful that the breezes dried it through the night.

By June we’d returned the mule, and I’d broadcast the seed. I convinced my husband we were sending it out the way Christians and Muslims of old must have done it. If all went well, we’d have a crop by fall, and the gristmill stones Christian’s parents were bringing would grind our own wheat first.

The men slept out under the stars now as they worked on huts yet farther away from the original Giesy claims. Christian and I slept again in a lean-to so we could see the moon as it slivered through the tree tops. We spoke of our own growing family and how pleased his parents would be when they arrived, knowing that at last their firstborn son had made them grandparents and would soon do so again. It was almost like being in Bethel.

“When will you begin our home?” I asked one noon while I fed Christian hard biscuits and a jerky stew with mushrooms and
wapato
chopped in. The field I’d plowed was on the Giesy claim he’d singled out for his parents and brother. I would have plowed “our” fields, but
the seven miles between the sites made that difficult. There were two river crossings needed to reach our claim even riding the mule, something I didn’t relish with Andy, the mule, and a plow to manage too.

“Time enough to build ours,” he said. “There’ll be more hands here by October, and we’ll build ours then. Not before.”

“Can we go back so I can see where our hut might sit? I like to imagine what it will look like and what the view through the windows might be.”

“Women,” he snorted. “What does the view matter?”

“Each window offers something special; each woman’s home will be different from the others, individual. I like thinking of how we’ll place things there. Besides, we take little time for imagining, for doing anything except work. This can’t be good, not in a land that is as flashy as a feather cape.”

Christian dipped the hard biscuit into the stew, sucked on it. “Why is it so important for you to stand out? Perhaps we should consider building one large house for several families. That way there’ll be no argument about who got the best site, whose house is bigger or better. It borders on envy to want such things.”

I knew our leader thought envy to be one of the deadliest of sins. Now my husband swirled my opinions into our leader’s stream, combining desire with sin rather than with imagination. I wished I’d kept my thoughts to myself. Living in one large family house forever did not seem like a wise idea to me. Envy wouldn’t be the only deadly sin that would ripple the surface of that river if that were to be my fate.

“The other side of envy is … compassion,” I told him. “Being aware of what others need.”

“
Ja
,” he said after a moment’s thought.

“I simply wish to be the wife of Proverbs 31,” I continued. “She bought fields, burned a late candle on behalf of her family, and was
praised for clothing her household with scarlet and having coverings of tapestry and her clothes made of silk and purple. Her children sang her praises and so did her husband.”

“Proverbs 31 also says, ‘Favor is deceitful, and beauty is vain: but a woman that feareth the L
ORD
, she shall be praised.’ ” He could always silence me with his better understanding of Scripture. He continued. “I worry that at times you seek favor from the wrong places, Emma. Favor is deceitful.”

I felt my face grow warm despite the cooling breeze.
Should I simply suffer in silence or should I speak a piece?
I took a deep breath.

“This place is rich with beautiful flowers, with trees that tower so high I get dizzy looking up at their tops reaching to the sky. Game is plentiful for food and skins, and even the river that I give wide berth to, even it offers up those things we need: fish and a way to get from here to there when the vines tangle our paths. I can’t believe such abundance is meant not to be noticed. You sing the praises of the timber and the soil that will grow grain that we’ll grind and sell to others, people living on Puget Sound, people coming here because of this land’s rich resources. I can’t believe I was created to pretend I don’t notice that these gifts are wrapped in a landscape of loveliness.”

“
Ja
, you notice. But then you start to compare, to put your own mark on the landscape by saying, ‘Here is my view. It is prettier than your view.’ Or ‘Here is my house. Even the pegs are sturdier than yours’ or ‘My door is wider’ or … 
Ach.
” He brushed the air in disgust. “It is dumb talk you make. We are called to live together, one as the other, no one standing out. We have come here to prepare a way for others. We will be as one, brothers and sisters together.”

“Chosen,” I said. “Does God not pick us out then, see us as special? How can recognizing what makes us different be sinful?”

“He chooses us to serve Him,” Christian said.

I could hear the irritation in his voice and knew I should stay quiet, bite my tongue, pitch the thoughts of what I’d say next and would likely later regret. But it was not my way to remain silent, not my way to be like other community women, and I couldn’t help but believe that Christian knew that of me and had “chosen” me because of it.

“So some are not selected. How do we know? How do I know if I’m of the elect if I don’t name the things that make me stand apart from … unbelievers, from those not chosen?”

“Those selected for His service have trials,” he said. “Remember Moses. Remember Mary and Jacob and Ruth. They all found trouble as a part of their decisions to be obedient.”

“But see, they stand out, those men and women of the Bible, and we don’t think unkindly of them,” I said.

He coughed. “They weren’t selected for their talents, nor for the best of anything they made nor for the most exquisite view nor for gathering the most people around themselves. They were and are unique,
Liebchen
, because of what they lived through, because of how their faith deepened by the things they faced and overcame. Our Lord reminds us that we do not choose Him, but He chooses us. He’s chosen us to follow Him here to Willapa to be in service to Him. And when the others arrive, they too will see that we are all chosen to be together.”

I wanted to believe that this place was specifically meant for us, but I didn’t want to be “chosen” for the trials I had to face. We’d had our share of them already, with the weeks of dreary weather, heavy rains, and dark skies that stole our energy like maple sap taken from its tree.

“The Lord uses trials to turn people around, Emma.”

“I wonder, then,” I ventured, “if He wants us to leave here, since progress has been so slow on the huts. Maybe it’s His way of turning us around?”

Christian stared at me.

I remembered what our leader told me, about women needing to support their husbands, that suffering in childbirth was our penance for disobedience and betrayal. “Maybe we’ve taken a side road and are here in Willapa not to serve God but to serve our leader. Maybe that’s why things have gone so slowly.” My heart pounded. It was the most direct I’d been with Christian in challenging his thinking.

“We have lessons to learn from this time, Emma. Remember, all the scouts chose this place. All agreed as we have worked: agreed on which huts to build, even when to wait out the weather. We even agreed on who should go back to bring out the other Bethelites and how they should return. We discuss, and then the Lord moves us toward His way.”

He swirled the water of our uncertainty now, convincing me where I’d earlier encouraged him. I supposed that is what marriage looks like, that exchange of hope between people who love.

“
Liebchen
, whenever you doubt that we belong in this place, you make yourself think of those early signs of certainty. They are memories that not only comfort but help move us ever forward.”

“As when I stumble behind the mule in the field.”

“
Ja.
” His voice had softened. “You don’t question whether you should be behind that plow. You pick yourself up and keep going. That is what we faithful Germans know to do.”

“Emma, bring the corn drink,” Christian shouted to me.

“Can it wait?”

“No,” he said. “Bring it now.”

I had enough to do at the river, washing the men’s shirts. I’d spent the day chopping at weeds in the grain field, a lost cause. Fall approached, and I wondered if we’d even have a crop given the strength of the weeds and the short stems. And I hadn’t seen Charlie the seagull all morning, and Andy kept asking, “Charlie? Charlie?”

My husband’s words annoyed. Why bother me when I worked, making me pull the rope on the corn drink to bring it to the men? Surely they could get it themselves. I pushed against my knees and stood. That’s when I noticed we had company.

The men arrived with furtive eyes, silent as snails. They were Americans, they said. They spoke only English but told us that from now on, we should only speak our German so if the Indians approached they’d think we were French or British, anything but American. They’d come through the eastern part of the Territory and told stories of the Yakima tribe’s uprising. “Dozens of other tribes are angry with the wagons pulling across the mountains and taking their lands. Government won’t protect us. You’d best use what resources you’ve got to secure your people. Your strange language. That’s a weapon here.”

“Is it just in the western territories?” Hans asked. “Not a problem
in the prairie places, then?” I knew he thought of the Bethelites making their way from Missouri.

“Everywhere.” The American took a swallow, letting the corn drink pour down like streams separating his thick beard. He wiped his face with his palm. “You folks got people coming across?” I nodded. “Worry for ’em,” he said. “Unless they act like foreigners, French or Germans or whatevers, they’ll arrive without their hair if they arrive at all.”