Hear the Wind Blow (7 page)

He nickered again, but he didn't look so mean. "Maybe you're just tired of being tied to a tree. Most likely you're used to better quarters."

He watched me come closer. When I reached for the reins, he started pawing the ground again and looking skittish.

"Don't fret yourself," I whispered. "The captain's gone, and I'm going to take good care of you. I've always wanted a horse like you."

Though it took all my courage, I moved slowly nearer and untied the reins. "Stay," I said, "stay."

The horse shivered, but he obeyed. Holding the reins firmly, I started walking back to the house. The horse followed without making a fuss. Despite his evil ways toward people, the captain had trained the animal well.

One corner of the stable had survived the fire, so I tied the horse there and found hay for him. I also fetched him a pail of water, which meant going to the springhouse. James Marshall lay where I'd left him, as still as ever, his eyes shut, his face sunken, his skin bluish white. Most of the dead I'd seen looked peaceful, but not James Marshall. His face was twisted in pain and anger.

A terrible sadness fell upon me, shutting out everything but the dead man. Somewhere folks—his father and his mother, his sweetheart, his sister—waited for him to come home, worried about him, missed him. They had no way of knowing they'd never see him again, never hear his voice.

These thoughts put me in mind of Avery. What if he were dead and no one had told us yet? I shook my head. Surely I'd feel his passing. He'd come to me in a dream or send me a vision. If my brother had joined Papa across the River Jordan, I'd know.

To keep from fretting, I took the water to the horse. "Since I have no idea what the captain named you, I'm calling you Ranger." I stroked his muzzle, pleased with the name, for I knew it was one the captain would despise. "Ranger," I repeated, "Ranger. Like one of Mosby's company. You think you can remember that, Ranger?"

Ranger bent his head over the bucket and drank. I stayed with him a while, telling him about myself and my family and how he was now our horse. I was hoping he'd get used to my smell and the sound of my voice.

After a time, I heard Rachel calling me. Her voice filled me with alarm, for it rang with urgency and fear. Leaving Ranger, I ran toward the house as fast as I could go.

"H
ASWELL
!" R
ACHEL HURRIED
to meet me. "Where have you been? Mama's gone down to the river to wash. I couldn't stop her!" She pulled at me, frantic with fear. "I said it's too cold, but she told me to leave her be, she had to wash the blood away."

I ran toward the river, with Rachel leading the way. We found Mama up to her neck in the water. Her long hair floated on the surface, and her dress billowed around her. I plunged in and grabbed her hands, shocked breathless by icy-cold water.

Mama looked at me as if I were a stranger. "Is the blood gone? Is it washed away?" she asked.

"Come out of the water, Mama," I gasped. "You'll freeze to death."

"But is the blood gone?"

"Yes," I said. "Yes, it's gone."

"Are you certain?" She peered at me. "The Lord won't allow me into heaven with blood on my hands. I broke a commandment. I killed a man."

I kept pulling her toward shore. The current ran swift. I lost my footing a couple of times and fell, but I kept hold of Mama. Rachel stood on the bank, shivering and crying.

"Sweet Jesus," Mama prayed, "forgive me. Please forgive me."

Somehow I got her to the edge of the river. With Rachel pulling from above and me pushing from below, we got her up the muddy bank. Out of the water, the cold air hit me like a gust of wind from the North Pole.

"Mama, Mama," Rachel wept.

Mama pushed her aside and staggered on through the trees. Rachel ran beside her. "Mama, what's wrong? Be yourself, please, Mama, be yourself!"

But Mama didn't so much as look at Rachel. She was too deep in prayer to notice where she was or what she was doing. Somehow, we steered her to the root cellar. The fire had died down with no one to tend it. I got it going again and turned to Rachel.

"Get Mama out of those wet clothes and wrap her in a blanket. I'll fetch more wood."

For once, Rachel did as I told her. By the time I came back with logs from the woodpile, Mama was sitting by the fire, draped in blankets but shivering. Her long brown hair waved over her shoulders like a young girl's, but the grief in her face was an old woman's.

I stripped in a corner and wrapped up in my blanket. Rachel had hung Mama's clothing near the fire, and I put mine beside them. I was still cold, but at least I was dry.

Mama looked at me. "Haswell." She touched my cheek. "Why is it so easy to kill a man? In an instant he was gone."

While I tried to think of an answer, she went on talking, more to herself than me. "I only meant to stop him. Not kill him."

"Mama, it was the same as killing in war. The good Lord understands such acts."

Rachel put her arms around Mama. "He was a wicked man, and he's in hell right now."

"No," Mama whispered, "no, I didn't mean to send him there. I should have let him repent, I should have given him time to save his soul."

"Please stop fretting, Mama," I begged. "You did what you had to, that's all."

"But the trigger," Mama went on as if I hadn't spoken. "I just gave it a squeeze and it—" She broke off and began crying. "Oh, Haswell, I never dreamed I could kill a man."

I don't know how long Rachel and I tried to comfort Mama. Nothing we said reached her. It was like speaking to a tree or a stone. Finally, she fell into a troubled sleep.

Rachel found three good-sized potatoes and put them in the fire to bake. "I'll fetch a bucket of water from the springhouse," she said.

"No." I jumped to my feet, stumbling over the blanket. "I'll get it."

Rachel gave me a surprised look. "Fetching water is my chore."

"James Marshall is there," I said.

"I thought he was dead."

"He is."

Rachel's face crumpled. "I didn't want him to die. He made us so happy that night. Remember the singing? And Mama playing the organ?" Tears ran down her face, leaving streaks on her dirty cheeks. "I want to say good-bye to him, Haswell. And pray for him."

"We can't leave Mama," I said.

"You stay with her," Rachel said. "I'll go."

"All by yourself?"

"I'll take Sophia."

I watched her run off toward the springhouse, lugging the doll. It was her wish. She was far too obstinate to listen to anything I might say about the dead and their terrible silence.

I squatted down beside Mama and felt her forehead. As I'd feared, her skin was still burning-hot to the touch. A fit of coughing woke her and she looked at me.

"Haswell," she murmured. "I was dreaming of Burton. He came riding out of the mist and called my name." She stopped to cough, her gaze unfocused as if she were still seeing Papa. "I ran to him and it was springtime. We were young. Birds sang the sweetest songs. It was like heaven."

I had to lean close to hear her, for her voice was low and hoarse and she couldn't speak easily.

"That was a wonderful dream," I said. Her fever-bright eyes reminded me of James Marshall on his first night with us. Mama had nursed him through his illness. But how was I to nurse her?

"Yes, it was." Mama smiled. "I love your papa so much." Her smile faded and the troubled look returned. "But he shouldn't have gone off to war."

"He had to go, Mama. You know that."

She shook her head and frowned. "War means killing, and killing's wrong. It's wrong, Haswell."

I patted her hand and she began coughing again, harder this time, as if she'd never stop. "Where's Rachel gone to?" she asked when she could.

"To the springhouse, for water."

Mama nodded. "I'm so cold," she whispered.

"When Rachel comes with the water, I'll brew sassafras tea," I told Mama. But she was already asleep.

Just as I was thinking I'd have to go find Rachel, she appeared at the top of the steps, holding Sophia.

"Where's the water?" I asked.

She came down the steps and huddled beside me. "Why did he have to die?"

"Oh, Rachel." It seemed everyone asked me questions I couldn't answer.

"He looked so sad," she went on. "It fair broke my heart." The tears started then, and I hugged her tight. She was a skinny little thing, bony in my arms and shivering as if she'd never be warm again.

We sat together till she stopped crying. Then I put on my damp clothes and went to get the water. I glanced at James Marshall. He lay as still as before. If only he'd open his eyes and sit up and not be dead after all. But that only happened in dreams. He wasn't ever going to be alive again.

I carried a pail of water back to the root cellar, and Rachel brewed sassafras tea. We woke Mama when it was ready and got her to drink some, but she wouldn't eat more than a mouthful of the potato.

"I'm not hungry," she said. "You eat it."

Since we couldn't persuade her differently, Rachel and I divided Mama's potato between us. Though I wished Mama had eaten it herself, I didn't want to waste food.

***

The day passed slowly. Mama slept, coughed, woke, slept again. In a wakeful spell she told Rachel how to make soup with the carrots, parsnips, turnips, onions, and potatoes she'd stored in the root cellar.

"It would taste better if we had salt and a good beef bone," Mama said, "but we'll have to make do with what we have." She smiled at Rachel and patted her hand.

For a moment Mama seemed like her old self, and I let myself hope she was getting better. I listened to her give Rachel a few tips about making biscuits and peach cobblers, baking bread and deep-dish apple pies. Unfortunately, we had no flour, and so my stomach growled in vain for the delicacies Mama used to make for us.

Gradually her speech slowed and her voice dropped and she was asleep again, waking herself now and then with coughing spells.

"Is there any more of that medicine Mama brewed for James Marshall?" Rachel asked. "It might help her."

I shook my head. "I reckon everything burned up in the fire."

"I should have listened when Mama tried to teach me about herbs." Rachel sat with her knees drawn up tight and rested her chin on them. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "But I couldn't bear the way those things smelled. I always ran off. I knew how to make myself scarce, Mama said."

She raised her head and looked at me. "Why didn't I learn about remedies and cures and such? Grandma Colby's right about me. I'm a lazy, sinful girl."

I patted her shoulder. "Don't carry on so, Rachel. How could you know something like this would happen?"

"If Mama dies, it'll be all my fault."

"Mama won't die!" This time I shouted in her face and shook her. I wasn't about to let my sister say a frightful thing like that. It didn't bear thinking about, let alone saying out loud.

Rachel squirmed away from me and put some distance between us. "But what if she does, Haswell? What will happen to us? Where will we go? Who will shelter us?"

Rachel's voice rose so high she woke Mama. She reached out and grabbed my wrist with her hot hand.

"Rachel's right to worry," Mama whispered. "If I die, promise you'll go to your Grandma Colby. But be careful. War is everywhere these days. War and killing." She broke off and started another coughing fit.

"We'll all go to Grandma Colby's," I told her. "I'll put you on the captain's horse, and Rachel and I will walk alongside of you. You'll look like a queen."

Mama shook her head, coughing too hard to speak.

"Here, Mama." Rachel held out another cup of sassafras tea. "Drink this."

Mama's hands shook so badly she couldn't hold the cup, so Rachel carefully spooned it into her mouth. After a few sips, Mama turned her head away. "Enough, Rachel, enough." Gazing past us to the square of sky outside the root cellar door, she smiled. "Your papa's coming," she whispered. "Everything will be all right when he gets here."

Mama's head fell back and her eyes closed. Once again she slept. Rachel and I sat beside her and fed the fire to keep her warm. The sun slid down the sky, turning the clouds scarlet and purple, as if all heaven was afire. A preacher might have claimed it was the end of the world at last, but the colors soon faded to dull grays and lavender, and it was an ordinary night after all.

The next time Mama woke, Rachel and I tried to feed her the soup, but she turned her head away. We sat by her and ate our portions.

"Is it all right?" Rachel asked me.

"What? The soup?"

She nodded, her eyes on mine. "Is it as good as Mama's?"

I took another big swallow and smiled. "Why, it's delicious, Rachel. You're a very good cook."

Rachel sighed happily and went on eating. Though I never, ever would have told her so, the soup was flat and watery compared to Mama's, but that might have been because she'd had no salt or beef bone to put in the pot. I ate every bit, swallowing with zest, doing my best to make my sister feel good about something.

I went out a few times to fetch wood to keep the fire going. I also fed and watered Ranger, which meant another trip to the springhouse. James Marshall was as quiet as ever, keeping his thoughts to himself the way the dead do. I gazed at him a long while, pondering the mystery of life and death, of heaven and hell, but I can't say I came up with any new notions about these matters. The world just seemed to roll along while we got born and lived and died. Just a little while ago, James Marshall was alive, with no idea his life was almost over. It could be the same with me. With all of us. Alive now ... dead tomorrow.

I folded my arms tightly across my chest, feeling the living warmth of my own body. Even though I was looking straight at a dead man, I couldn't believe someday I'd be cold and still like James Marshall. How could I, Haswell Colby Magruder, die? How could the world go on without me?

Slowly I reached out and touched James Marshall's face. His skin was as cold as stone and just as hard. It no longer had the feel of human flesh.

I picked up the pail of water and went out, pulling the door shut tight. As I crossed the yard, the moon sailed out from behind the clouds. I watched it race across a patch of dark sky and duck behind another cloud, as if it were running from pursuers.