Another Chance (24 page)

Sarah
sought a new challenge. Suddenly, an idea struck her, one she could not believe took so long to surface. Little Turtle had refused to teach her Lenape, but Bowl-Woman might help. Returning to the kitchen, she smiled at the cook. "What is the Lenape word for spoon?"

"
Emhan is,
" the woman said.

Sarah
repeated the word then touched the outside of a clay pot.

"
Siskewa hos
," the cook responded.

She tried to mimic the tones
. After the third attempt, she succeeded. Bowl-Woman smiled with delight when Sarah finally succeeded. She gestured to the bread.

"
A' pon
."

This time she managed to pronounce the word the first time
. Enjoying herself, she tapped the table. Before Bowl-Woman responded, Little Turtle crashed through the back door and began speaking Lenape before his feet stopped running.

"Excuse me," the housekeeper said, as she nodded to
Sarah and left the room.

Whirling around, Little Turtle faced her
. "You're not wanted here." Having said that, he raced out. The slam echoed in the silent room.

Sarah
stood riveted to the spot, unsure of what to do. Where had Bowl-Woman gone? Looking through the doorway and down the hall, she saw only the edge of the mirror and the side of the settee. What had caused Bowl-Woman to leave?

Glancing back at the kitchen,
Sarah saw dirty plates stacked in a large cast iron kettle, onions lying partially peeled on the table, and several other uncompleted chores. Should she tackle these jobs? What if Bowl-Woman disliked anyone interfering in her house? Sarah surely did not need another enemy at Long Meadow.

Completely useless inside, she strolled from the warm kitchen into the crisp fall day
. She pulled her shawl around her shoulders and neck, and stared at the clear blue sky. A sense of loneliness swamped her. With nothing to do and no one to talk to, how would she ever occupy her time? She thought of returning to her own time, and considered walking back to the inn. Wolf's words rang in her ears. She
was
a liability for Benjamin. Her presence might cost him his life. To prevent harm from coming to him, she must avoid her lifeline home.
Hopefully, the soldiers will be caught soon, and my path will open again
. Instead of the idea pleasing her, the thought deepened Sarah's depression. Once again she wondered if she was ever satisfied.

Breathing deeply, she ambled to the front of the house
. Women worked in the fields just beyond the stone monument marking the grave of Wolf's father. Sarah could offer her help. Then, she recalled White Owl's comment that she was a guest, and the women might feel awkward with her present. Unsure of her position and unwilling to gawk while they worked, she drifted in the direction of the cabins an area she had not visited.

As she walked, she wondered where Little Turtle was
. Had he and his grandfather gone to check on the boys that guarded the plantation?  Should she seek them out?  She liked White Owl, but her latest contact with the boy was not one she sought to repeat. A few other men, she knew, had left early for a hunting trip. Between the Battle of the Brandywine and the following skirmishes, the little game remaining in the area had been killed or frightened away. The braves would be scouting far outside their property for the animals.

Kicking a small stone that lay in her path, she watched as the pebble curved off to the right and caught sight of the first cabin
. Surveying the section, she noticed four other roofs. From her vantage point, a couple of the buildings appeared larger than the one in front of her. Since she saw only the chimneys and the peaks, she could not be certain of their sizes.

There seemed no order or plan t
o the arrangement of the homes, how different from the straight or gently curved roads in her own time. The outside walls were constructed of hand-hewed logs held together with a mortar-type fill. Large pane glass windows graced either side of a stout wooden door. No curtains showed. A pitched roof with cedar shakes topped the one-story building, and a chimney secured each side of the house.

She walked along the sparse leaf-covered tract, for one could hardly call this a road or even a path
.

At the next house, a small glass window nestled a few feet above the door, suggesting a room or a sleeping loft
. All the houses appeared sturdy and substantial. Unlike the semi-bare, open center area, a bark chip walk led to the front door of each cabin. On either side of the pathway, herbs grew, and the aroma of mint, basil, and thyme filled her nostrils. She took a deep breath and enjoyed the mixed smells.

Drawn to the nearest house, she ran her fingers over the concrete-like material used to join the bark-covered wood
. "Ouch!" she exclaimed. She stared at the splinter sticking out from the tip. Placing the end of her finger in her mouth, she rubbed her teeth against the shaving trying to remove the sliver.

As she sucked and nibbled at the tiny fragment, she noticed a cabin tucked behind the other four
. While the neighbors' gardens had disturbed earth spots suggesting the women had picked the herbs, the beds before this home flourished, almost to the point of over-growth. Some plants had gone to seed. Sarah wondered why the homemaker had failed to gather and store them for next spring's planting.

Her eyes moved along from the ill-tended yard to the house,
Sarah saw a woman sitting hunched over on the outside stoop. Dull, lifeless hair hid her face.

"Hello,"
Sarah called, drawing near.

The woman did not move
.

Maybe, she doesn’
t understand English. Damn, if only I knew the Lenape greeting.

Sarah
walked closer. "Hello," she tried again, unable to think of any other word.

The woman showed no sign of having heard
.

Could she be deaf?

Bending so their faces were at the same level, Sarah sought eye contact with the woman. The long, uncombed hair covered one side of her face and made the task difficult, if not impossible. Sarah twisted her head to the side as she sought without success to peek beneath the thick, black mane. Reluctant to give in without receiving some acknowledgement, Sarah reached out and touched the woman's shoulder. Instantly, the Lenape woman recoiled.

Startled by the abrupt response,
Sarah drew her hand back as if scorched by an unseen fire. "I'm sorry."

The woman drew into a tighter ball, binding the bear skin robe tightly around her, and began to shake
.

"I'm sorry,"
Sarah said again. Instinctively, she extended her hand, before pulling back. "I won't hurt thee," Sarah said in a soft, quiet tone.

The Lenape woman made no response, but
Sarah saw the quaking lessened. Although her legs began to cramp, Sarah sensed a sudden movement might frighten the Lenape woman. With as little motion as possible, Sarah shifted so that her knees touched the ground and bore her weight. Even from this vantage point, she could not see the woman's features. Sarah had no idea how old the woman was or what expression filled her face.
What shall I do?

While she knelt there,
Sarah remembered Wolf speaking about the woman who had been raped.
Could this be she?
Recalling the name, she said softly, "Quick Rabbit."

Still no reaction
.

I must find out
.
Yet, she was reluctant to leave the woman to discover the truth.
Someone should be with her. Then, she realized no one on the farm had time to spare, no one except her. Can I help her?  I have no training in counseling or psychology.
As far as she knew neither did anyone living here. Or anywhere else,
she added.

While in grad school,
Sarah had taken attended a series of lectures on rape prevention, but the classes had not prepared her for what to do after the fact. Resting her elbows on her upper thighs, Sarah searched her mind for any article or TV show that focused on treatment, but she remembered nothing. If she had her computer, she could go on line. She hated not being about to find professional answers.
Well, I'll have to think what might help me and hope it will help her.

Slowly,
Sarah rose and dusted off the front of her skirt. Looking at the woman, she thought,
I have made all these plans and don't even know if you're Quick Rabbit. But I'm going to find out--right now.

With a determined stride,
Sarah headed for the main house. She would find someone and get an answer. As she rounded the corner of the first cabin, a muffled cry that sounded child-like caught her ears. Stopping, she listened. She heard a thump, then immediately another sniff. Tall grasses sheltered whoever was making the noise. Perhaps she could help. If not, he or she could answer her question about the silent woman.

She walked down a slight grade
then eased her way through shoulder-high weeds, sliding the fluffy cat tails aside. While still partially hidden by a willow tree that stood beside a small half-dried creek, Sarah saw the source of the weeping.

Little Turtle whirled around as she stepped into the open area
. "
E kaliu
," he lashed out before rubbing his knuckles between his lips and his nose. A six-inch knife dangled from the fingers of his other hand.

"Since I don't know what thou said, I'll just ignore thy comment
." Sarah spied a large boulder near the edge of the stream; she walked over and sat.

"Go away," the boy said
. "I don't want you here."

"Is that what thou said before?"

Instead of responding, he lifted his head and looked away.

"That's a nice knife," she said, trying to encourage an answer
.

He shifted his eyes toward the sky
.

"My father bought me my first knife when I was eight,"
Sarah went on as if she were having a normal conversation.

Twisting to stare at her, he said, "I
've had one since I was five!" He glanced away.

"Thou is a man
. I am only a female." The words nearly choked her. While not a militant feminist, she had never denigrated her sex or her ability. In one short sentence, she had done both. If her words helped break down the wall, she would forgive herself.

"Not only a woman, but a
white
woman," he scoffed.

She almost rose and marched away, but controlled her initial impulse
. Instead, she jammed her hand in her pocket and pulled out her own penknife. She tossed the closed red case in the air, once, twice, three times. Each time, Little Turtle stared at the object a little longer. Gripping it lightly in her right hand, Sarah flicked open the longest blade with her thumbnail and forefinger.

At her action, the boy eased away from the tree and stepped closer
. Sarah ignored his movement, bent over to her right, and cut the stem of a cattail. The child inched nearer. With care, Sarah wiped her knife with her apron before pushing the blade back in its metal sheath. Next, she pried open the smallest steel knife and began cleaning her finger nails. From the corner of her eye, she saw the lad advancing, slowly. Again, she cleaned the sharp edge and slid it back into the case.

"What's that?" He slipped his own blade into the leather sheath he wore tied to his waist
.

"A penknife
." She slowly rolled the case back and forth across her palm.

He focused on the knife but crept within two feet of her
. "My father has one he uses to sharpen his quill pen, but his has only one blade."

"Would thou wish to see mine?"

He stared at the knife for a long time. His face showed his desire to examine each portion.

"Here
." She picked up his hand and dropped the knife on his open palm.

Turtle squatted down
. After pulling out the first blade, he yanked the can opener out. He examined both sides, touched the two pointed ends, and asked, "What is this?"

"A barrel opener,"
Sarah said, pleased with her quick thought.

"Oh
." The awl and the file came next, followed by all the other sections. He held it out and focused totally on the penknife. "May I keep it?"

"No, for that is the only knife I have
. I have practiced with this penknife and feel confident with it in my hand," she added.

Little Turtle opened and closed each part again
. Finally, he said, "I will trade you mine." He lifted his knife from the sheath.

"Thou has a very fine blade, but I have no place to keep an open knife
." Sarah did not wish to destroy the budding relationship, but what the boy wanted was impossible for her to give. She had spent too much time renewing her skill with her penknife to have to start again with a new blade.