Bittersweet Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #5): A Novel (27 page)

Having been through the blood, Ellie would trust her heavenly Father through the fire.

It was with a lighter heart than she had known for some time that she arose, ready to go about the day’s duties.

But Papa—where was Papa?

When it seemed the porridge must simmer to a thick goo and the coffee to a black and bitter brew, Ellie went to the door, searching for some sign of her father’s whereabouts. And saw nothing.

Stepping out, Ellie raised her voice and called, “Dad! Breakfast’s ready!”

Nothing.

Quickly now, impatiently, Ellie stepped off the porch and headed in the direction of the cow barn; the cows had not been turned out, so she knew the milking was not completed.

Ellie paused in the doorway of the low building, taking in at a glance the six milk cows in the shadows of their stalls, three to a side. The sun streamed through the wide door and illuminated the walkway in the center. In that spot of sunshine, beside a tipped pail of milk and Wrinkles the cat daintily sipping—lay a darkly huddled and motionless figure. Papa!

With a cry, Ellie sped to his side. Kneeling in the noisome mix of the cow barn, she grasped her father’s shoulder, tugged and turned him, while Wrinkles mewed and moved away, to sit and lift a milk-covered paw to his tongue for a fastidious cleansing.

The exposed face was flesh and bone only, all life having fled. And though the flesh and bone were dearly loved and cherished, Bran Bonney was gone. With his departure had gone the animation, the expression, the reason, the spark that made him unique. All, all had fled when the man Bran Bonney forsook his earthly tabernacle for his heavenly.

Having helped at deathbeds and burials, Ellie knew death when she saw it. Gently she laid this stranger’s—this beloved stranger’s—
head back, back onto the ragged bit of straw that was his temporary bier.

The cat ceased his ablutions, ambled over, tail aloft and waving, to rub against the bowed figure. Automatically a hand went to the silky head; piteously the broken voice cried:

“Oh, Wrinkles! Whatever shall we do now!”

W
ithout an axe you were nothing. Homesteaders, heading into the bush, were advised to have two of them, perhaps three. For if one should break or be lost, and you had no replacement, life was at a standstill.

Clearing the bush was hard. And yet it had to be done to prove up the land. Every man jack of them—coming to farm, to grow grain, to make his livelihood—worked harder at it than he could have imagined. Swinging an axe from dawn till dark was hard, hard work and was only accomplished grimly. It was a hard land; it was a hard life.

On the prairie, if there was any chopping to be done, it was just willow roots, and then one could put in the plow, sow, and reap. In the park belt, called the parkland, there were trees to contend with, thick stands of trees: pine, cottonwood, poplar, birch, all intertwined with bush—hazel, pin cherry, chokecherry, willows—until you couldn’t see fifteen feet. At the end of a day’s
work, you still faced the same near-impenetrable tangle of growth to be tackled on the morrow. Exhausted, the hewer and chopper and digger of stumps fell into bed.

Men gave up, succumbed, overcome by the harshness of the bush. The weak wilted, overwhelmed with the struggle against early frost, hail, drought, flies, climate extremes, and trees, trees, trees. For those men who endured, the hardships left their mark; slowly their bodies bent, their hands twisted, their skin darkened and hardened, their eyes lost their sparkle. And yet, if you looked closely, those eyes were filled with a quiet determination. Falter, maybe, but go on they would, revived again with the advent of spring and the possibility of a good crop.

Struggle—the name of the game. In early days it was between man and the elements as he came in pursuit of furs; then it was between the invading white man and the native; then between the immigrant and the soil. From it all was born a people of resilience, tough, resourceful.

And friendly. As Birdie walked the dusty roads and byways of Bliss, it was often to the ring of the axe as homesteader after homesteader spent his day and his strength in clearing his land. And yet he would pause to wave, to speak, to listen. A warm invitation would be given to stop in at the house and get acquainted with “the wife.” Birdie encountered not one rude or impatient person along her route. Her admiration for the homesteader grew, as did her understanding of the unimaginable obstacles each had grappled with and was still grappling.

She spent an interesting thirty minutes with Marfa at the Polchek homestead. George, clearing land with a couple of younger brothers, had paused, wiped his brow, leaned on his axe, and waved as Birdie passed by, heading toward the cabin set back from the road, almost hidden in bush.

“Come in, come in,” Marfa urged, holding open the screen door with one hand and cradling the baby with the other. Her gaping dress revealed her present occupation—nursing small Bonney. The young Polcheks had waited too long for his appearance to be anything but attentive to his every need.

“I’m so glad you’ve come,” Marfa said, settling herself in a rocking chair after seating her guest and automatically pulling the teakettle from the back of the range to the hot front lids. “I’m glad we had a chance to get acquainted at the picnic, but there’s so much more to talk about. I’ve been out of commission for a while due to the baby’s birth and all. But I hear there’s a possibility Bliss may have its own Penny Reading Society. Is that right?”

Thrust into it, Birdie had no trouble enlarging on the reason for her call. “I don’t know whether or not we can call it a Penny Reading Society,” she explained eventually, “because small though that cost is, it may make it difficult for some folks.”

“You’re right, of course. Sometimes we don’t have two cents to rub together,” Marfa admitted ruefully, herself appearing well-fed and contented, and small Bonney the picture of health and happiness.

“Do you have any preference concerning what we should read?” Birdie asked. “And do you have any books you’d care to submit to the group? For borrowing purposes, of course. I thought it would be a good idea to distribute what material we can, for additional reading at home.”

Marfa looked doubtfully toward a small shelf of books. “Most of mine are already borrowed,” she said, “and have been the rounds. But yes, they can be handed out again and yet again. Just step over there, if you wish, and take a look.”

Birdie did as invited. “Shakespeare!” she said, eyebrows lifting as she noted
Macbeth
.

“Yes, and perhaps you can be the one to interpret him for us.” Birdie lifted the slim volume and opened it. Someone had underlined it in numerous places. She read:

“It seems to me that some of it doesn’t need interpreting,” she said thoughtfully as she turned to the first page, which was inscribed “W. N. Kruger.”

Birdie hadn’t supposed Big Tiny, Wilhelm Nelman Kruger, to be a thoughtful man. But she had no time to wonder further, for with an exclamation Marfa was buttoning up the bodice of her gown.

“Someone’s coming, and I think it may be Vonnie,” she said. “Would you be kind enough to take wee Bonney for a moment? Just until he belches—”

Setting the book on the table, Birdie reached for the baby, somehow positioned him over her shoulder, and automatically, as though she’d done it all her life, began the timeworn practice of jiggling and patting. Marfa was hastily adding wood to the range, obviously with the intent to make tea.

“Yoo hoo, it’s me!” Vonnie’s light voice sang out as she put her face to the screen and peered inside.

“Come on in!” Marfa invited, hurrying toward the newcomer and ushering her in and to a seat.

“No tea, please,” Vonnie said, noting Marfa’s efforts and fanning herself.

“You remember Birdie Wharton? From the picnic? Bliss’s teacher?” Marfa asked.

“Of course. Good afternoon, Miss Wharton. Do sit down, Marfa. It’s too hot to flutter around so. I’ve come for a very particular reason.” Vonnie’s eyes sparkled, and she smiled delectably. “A very particular reason.”

“Well, then...” Marfa responded and took a seat, looking doubtfully at Birdie and the baby.

Bonney chose just then to emit a fine and satisfactory belch. Marfa smiled fondly, and Birdie, pleased at the success of her ministrations, continued standing, rocking back and forth slightly, humming inaudibly in the soft ear pressed against her lips.

Vonnie paused, a bit impatient perhaps, allowing time for attention to turn from the baby to herself.

“Yes, Vonnie?” Marfa asked.

“Tom and I are getting married
!” Vonnie had leaned forward in her chair and spoke in rapturous tones. If she had expected hand-clapping or huzzahs, she was disappointed, for her announcement
was followed by silence. Even Birdie, sensing the dramatic, ceased her humming and turned toward the pair sitting at the side of the oaken table. Marfa was staring, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, at her guest.

Vonnie’s laughter was a trill of triumph. “Don’t look so astonished!” she said.

“You and... who?” Marfa asked.

“Tom! Tom Teasdale! Surely you guessed, the day of the picnic, that something was going on!”

“No, no, I didn’t,” Marfa said slowly. “After all, Tom’s been our friend for a long—”

“Well, it’s gone beyond friendship now, I can assure you,” Vonnie said firmly. “And—”

Was Vonnie a little defensive? A bit too emphatic? Even Birdie, not knowing her well and all at sea concerning whatever currents were surging between the two young women, sensed it.

“And,” Vonnie continued, “we’re not waiting to get married. After all, it’s the custom here—women don’t wait long, don’t have a chance to wait. There’s always someone begging marriage. I’ve had several other opportunities. As for Tom, we all know he’s long overdue to have a wife and a home of his own.

“Well, anyway,” she said when the silence dragged on, “I’ve come to ask if you’ll stand up with me.”

Another silence. An uncomfortable silence.

Vonnie sighed and leaned back. “I know you very well, Marfa,” she said. “Your first thought is for Ellie. I never could compete with your affection for Ellie, though I never understood why. Well, I’ve talked with Ellie—”

“And what did she have to say?”

“Not much. What can she say? She’s freely given him up. I think, myself, he should have been freed a long time ago. Poor guy—tied as it were. Well, he’s grasped the fact now that he’s free. What did she say? Just wished us happiness. Can you do the same?”

“I, I’m not sure, Vonnie. I’ll have to...” Marfa’s voice faded away while she grappled with the news.

“You’ll have to talk to Ellie. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so. It’s a... a very awkward place to be in. I’m not sure I can see happiness ahead for you and Tom. And feeling that way, it would spoil the day, not only for me but for you. For, as you say, you know me well.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Vonnie erupted, rising to her feet impatiently. “Just forget it, Marfa! I might have known! Marfa and Ellie—always sticking together! Well, never mind, if you’re that reluctant. I’ll try and see if Flossy can come home; she’ll stand up with me, I’m sure. And if Flossy can’t make it, then—how about you, Miss Wharton?”

Birdie, startled, looked up from her contemplation of baby Bonney’s tiny fingers. “Oh, no, thank you. I... I don’t think—”

“Never mind. It was just a thought. Someone’ll do it—maybe Molly or one of the Nikolai girls; there are always several of them still around, though the ones I knew are all married and gone, I suppose. Maybe I’ll ask my mother to do it. But it would have been
nice
if one of my friends—”

“I’m sorry, Vonnie,” Marfa said miserably. “I’m sure, after I get used to the idea, I’ll be able to wholeheartedly wish you and... and Tom every happiness.”

“Thank you; I’m sure we’ll be very happy.”

“When is the wedding taking place?”
Gracious
! Though the exclamation never passed Marfa’s lips, her face spoke for her. Speaking calmly, she looked dismayed.

“Sunday after next,” Vonnie continued imperturbably. “We’ve talked with Parker Jones and have it all set up. It’ll be at my parents’ place, of course, with just a few friends and family members present. Do you think,” Vonnie’s blue eyes had a certain pleading in them, “you could at least come?”

“I’ll come, Vonnie. Of course I’ll come. It’s just that—”

“Say no more.” Vonnie, in her mercurial way already forgetting her chagrin, was all smiles and spoke lightly, “I understand.”

Marfa saw Vonnie out the door and turned, speechless and shaking her head, to take wee Bonney from Birdie.

Just before Birdie put
Macbeth
back on the shelf, the book fell open, and she read, “So foul and so fair a day I have not seen.”