Hear the Wind Blow (22 page)

"Good boy." Full of pride in his behavior, I stroked his nose. "I'll walk alongside you and keep you company every step of the way."

Ranger laid his ears back and gave me a skittish look, but he didn't balk. He was a darn fine horse. The best ever.

After powerful hugs and teary good-byes from the aunts, Rachel and Avery took their places in the buggy. Dry-eyed, Uncle Cornelius watched from the porch, raising his hand solemnly in farewell at an appropriate moment. Grandma Colby scurried about like a chicken, raising a cloud of dust as she shouted advice concerning everything from when to plant corn to how to break a horse to the plow.

By the time we finally left the house, I swear I could have lain down in the grass and slept till the next morning, I was that tired from all the commotion. But Avery and Rachel seemed eager to press on, so I roused my energy and kept going.

O
NCE
W
INCHESTER LAY
behind us, my spirits rose somewhat. Ahead was the winding road home, twisting in and out of forests and cutting between fields. If all went well, we'd be at the farm before dark.

The sun was warm on my back, and birds sang all around us. Wildflowers sprang up, splashing the tall grass with blue and red and yellow. Now and then a butterfly flew past my face, close enough for me to feel a flutter of air from its wings.

In the buggy Rachel chattered to Avery. She must have told him everything that had happened from the day he left till the day he returned. Every once in a while he asked her questions and she spouted answers. It seemed to me she strayed from the literal truth on more than one occasion, but I didn't call her on her embellishments. I figured Avery had the sense to know what was true and what wasn't.

While I trudged along beside Ranger, I felt the sun beat down on my head. It was the hottest day so far, one of those spells we get in springtime. The road was dusty. Soon my skin was gritty with sweat and dirt. Gnats circled my head, just waiting for me to stop so they could bite me. If I licked my lips, I could taste salt.

We'd taken the short way home, but it was still a long journey. I had plenty of time to ponder what lay ahead. How would Avery feel when he saw the ruins of our farm? And what would we do about Mama and James Marshall? I dreaded the prospect of opening the springhouse door and seeing their bodies. I'd stumbled across enough dead soldiers to know how they'd look and smell. It turned my stomach to think of Mama and James Marshall lying there in the springhouse since February. Some things are best not seen or even imagined. I did my best to concentrate on the farm work that lay ahead, but my mind kept returning to the first task we'd face—burying Mama and James Marshall.

True to my guess, it was late in the afternoon when we rounded the road's last curve and stared up the hill at our farm. Our shadows slanted long and dark toward the house, like ghosts rushing home before us.

The chimney still stood. Vines had already begun climbing it, their leaves a vivid green against the rosy old brick. The mockingbird that always nested nearby perched there, singing his song.

Beyond the chimney, the mountain ridges rose one after another, almost transparent in the distance. The setting sun lit their wooded slopes, brightening the soft reds, golds, and greens of the leaves. Closer, the willow near the house lifted its long branches in a breeze. Its narrow leaves rose and fell like Mama's hair when she brushed it, swishing softly. Mama's lilacs bloomed and dandelions sprang up in multitudes, as if someone had scattered gold coins over the lawn.

"Oh, Lord," Avery whispered. "It's true. Papa's work and his Papa's before him—all gone, nothing left."

He urged Ranger forward. With me beside him, the horse picked his way through ruts and puddles and muddy places.

"You say you left Mama and the soldier in the springhouse?" Avery asked.

I looked where he pointed. The springhouse door was open. The stones I'd put there lay scattered in the tall grass. My skin prickled all over with goose bumps. Had Rachel been right last winter? Had Mama waked up after we left and pushed the stones away?

Avery jumped out of the buggy, with Rachel behind him, her face lit with hope. I left Ranger to graze and hurried after them, longing to see Mama running toward us, arms flung wide to greet us.

But she didn't appear. I slowed to a stop behind my brother and sister. In this world the dead do not return to life.

From several feet away we stood and stared at the springhouse. Weeds had sprung up around it. Thistles and milkweed swayed in the breeze. Somewhere in the woods a crow called. Could animals have gotten into the springhouse?

"Stay here, Rachel," Avery said. "You, too, Haswell."

We did as he said, glad to let him do the looking.

Slowly Avery approached the open door. He hesitated a moment and then looked inside. Rachel held my hand with all her might, waiting.

At last Avery turned to us. "No one's here."

We looked at each other, puzzled. My throat and mouth were too dry to speak. Who would have moved Mama and James Marshall?

"Where can they be?" Rachel's eyes filled with tears, and she clung even more tightly to my hand.

Avery shook his head and gazed around him. Then, without a word, he strode off through the weeds. Rachel and I followed him. At the edge of the woods, he stopped. We were standing in the family burial ground, overgrown already with briars and vines and spiky thistles.

"There." Avery pointed to a new wood cross beside Papa's tombstone. Dropping to his knees, he brushed the weeds away. On the cross was Mama's name, carved as deep as a knife could cut. The earth was mounded over her body, not sunken yet like it was over Papa's grave.

While Rachel stared wordlessly at the cross, Avery turned to me. "Who did this, Haswell? Who buried Mama?"

"I don't know." I stared around in confusion. "Where is James Marshall? Why isn't he buried here, too?"

"Maybe someone found them in the springhouse," Avery speculated. "Someone who knew Mama but not James Marshall."

"He buried them both, but he didn't make a marker for James Marshall," I guessed.

We poked around in the weeds, looking for a fresh mound of earth, but there was no sign anywhere of a second grave.

"You suppose he's buried with Mama?" Avery asked.

"That could be," I said slowly.

Rachel tugged at my hand. "Remember that letter James Marshall wrote to his father?"

"What?" I stared down at my sister, genuinely puzzled.

"The letter you left in my room before you ran off to find Avery," she said.

So much had happened since then, I'd forgotten all about James Marshall's letter.

"Well, I did what you said," Rachel told me. "I wrote Mr. Marshall how James Marshall died and where his body was. He must have come here to fetch him."

I looked at Rachel with new respect. "That must be it," I said. "But before he took James Marshall home, he buried Mama."

"That was a kind deed," Avery said thoughtfully. "We must thank him for it someday." He knelt down slowly, his legs stiff from riding in the buggy, and began to pray over Mama's grave.

Knowing he wanted privacy, I led Rachel back to the buggy and unharnessed Ranger. Glad to be free, he cantered across the field as if he were chasing his shadow.

While Rachel wandered through the tall grass picking dandelions and violets to put on Mama's grave, I went to the springhouse. The doors were open to the sunshine, and the spring water smelled clean and fresh. I filled a bucket for Ranger and another for us.

Rachel and I climbed down into the fruit cellar under the house. The air smelled of smoke and damp earth, but it seemed no one had used it for shelter during our absence. I supposed it was too well hidden by the ruins of our house to attract notice. The potatoes we'd left behind were moldering in an old basket, but we figured they were still edible.

While Rachel fetched more water from the springhouse, I got a fire going on the dirt floor. I built it near the door, hoping the smoke would blow outside.

Rachel stuck potatoes in the fire to bake. Just as I'd hoped, most of the smoke drifted out the door, but not all of it.

By the time Avery joined us, the sun had slipped behind the mountains and only a little light remained in the sky.

More silent than usual, Avery busied himself bringing things from the buggy. The blankets were a welcome sight, for the evening air brought a chill with it.

"It was nice of Grandma Colby to give us these," I said, wrapping one of the blankets around my shoulders. "Do you think she's softening up a little?"

"She said they were old and she didn't want them," Rachel reminded me.

"Some people talk like that when they don't want to admit to doing a kindness," Avery told her. "Like remembering your doll and giving us the buggy so you wouldn't have to walk."

"Yes, but she claimed it was on account I'd dawdle and fuss." Rachel frowned at Avery. "She also said I didn't have a brain in my head."

It was clear Rachel wasn't ready to see much good in Grandma Colby. I guessed she must be too young to understand human nature the way Avery and I did.

I poked a potato out of the fire. "Here, Rachel, this one's done. Don't burn your fingers. It's hot."

We ate the potatoes silently. They had a musty taste, but we were too hungry and tired to complain. At least the aunts' bread was fresh, and the preserves were sweet and sticky.

When we'd finished eating, I grabbed a couple of apples and went to see Ranger. He was cropping grass, but he looked up when he heard me coming. I held out an apple, and he took it delicately with his big teeth. While he munched contentedly, I gazed past him at the mountains. In the dark, they looked like low-lying banks of cloud. I gave Ranger the second apple and rubbed my face against his. Then I left him to the starlight and ran back to the cellar.

To ward off the cold night air, we bundled up in our blankets and huddled close together around the dying fire.

"Well," I said to Avery, "what should we do now?"

"What I said before," he answered. "Try to eke a living out of the land."

"How will we do that?" Rachel asked.

"We can start by cutting up the rest of the potatoes and planting them. They've all sprouted eyes," Avery said. "We also need to cut a smoke hole in the cellar roof so we don't choke to death. We'll be snug as rabbits in a burrow down here, even in the winter."

"Maybe we can scrounge up enough unburned wood to build a cabin," I suggested, thinking of Polly and Henry's home.

"Will we ever have a nice house again?" Rachel asked sadly.

"I don't know," Avery said. "The important thing is we've got each other. Even Grandma Colby says the Magruders are a stubborn bunch. We'll manage somehow."

"No matter how stubborn we are, it won't be easy," I said.

"No, it won't be easy," Avery agreed.

Rachel sighed and hugged her doll. "Sophia and I are tired," she said. "We don't want to talk about Hard Times anymore." With that she curled up in her blanket and closed her eyes.

Avery reached over and stroked Rachel's hair. "So pretty," he whispered, "just like Mama."

But Rachel was already sound asleep. Avery and I settled down beside her. For a while we reminisced about the old days before the war, laughing at things that happened long ago, family stories of the farm and our parents and the folks we'd known.

Avery dozed off first. While he snored softly, I stared into the fire, little more than glowing embers now. I wondered how Polly and Henry were and if the widow was treating them well. Someday I meant to ride down Farmville way and see Polly again. But that would have to wait a while. I had plenty of work to do here first.

In the gully the spring peepers were singing up a storm, their way of courting. An owl called, a fox barked, a mockingbird trilled a few notes. Ordinary sounds, sounds I'd heard all my life. I snuggled closer to Avery, safe at least for now. Hard Times lay behind me, Hard Times lay ahead. But at that moment, peace settled on me as gentle as moonlight shining on the mountains and fields of home.

M
ARY
D
OWNING
H
AHN
is a former children's librarian and the author of the Scott O'Dell Award novel
Stepping on the Cracks,
as well as numerous other critically acclaimed books for young readers. She lives in Columbia, Maryland.