Heart of the Wilderness (16 page)
As much as Kendra longed to return home, she did not wish to disgrace her grandfather, so daily she tried her hardest to evade the dreaded demerits.
She enjoyed the classes, even though they were a puzzlement to her in the beginning. She wished she could just read and do sums, but the teachers seemed to expect all manner of strange procedures. Kendra did discover what a report was and once she knew, she did the assignment well and on time.
Her favorite place was the library, and while other girls often seemed to think of the room as some specialized form of school torture, Kendra could not get enough of the books on the shelves and would gladly have spent her recess times buried in a book rather than shyly standing back from the games on the playground.
But rules were rules. Each girl had to have daily exercise, so Kendra reluctantly made her way to the backyard as well.
Kendra did not feel at home with her new roommates. She was not used to having the company of other girls. And the girls from the school already had their special friends. Nor were they inclined to befriend someone new. Instead, they teased and giggled and picked on Kendra when no one else was around to admonish them.
Kendra never fought back. Never told her superiors. Instead she withdrew, becoming more and more the butt of cruel jokes and girlish pranks.
In spite of her determination to comply with the wishes of Papa Mac, Kendra was unable to shake her deep loneliness. Day after day she yearned for home. At first it was just a hollow, empty longing somewhere deep inside her. A feeling of not belonging with all the busy, noisy girls who already had their friends and did not really need or welcome a young stranger. The shared bedroom seemed crowded and stuffy at night. The clothes she wore were uncomfortable and stiff. Her shoes hurt her feet constantly. She could not remember all the rules. People frowned at her and prompted her and gave her orders that she could not understand. She just didn’t like it. She didn’t like it at all, and she longed with all her heart to go home to Papa Mac and Nonie and Oscar.
Day by day her longing increased until it was so painful she couldn’t sleep at night or swallow her food at mealtime. She became pale and listless—even her schoolwork suffered for lack of concentration. Miss Bruce always seemed to be fussing at her for one reason or another, and her teacher, Miss Spooner, fretted and stewed and sent repeated reports to the office of Mrs. Adams. At length Mrs. Adams herself called the girl in.
“Are you not feeling well, Kendra?” she asked.
Kendra shook her head. Her eyes looked dull, her face, tanned and healthy at her arrival, now looked wan and pale.
“Where are you sick?” asked the woman.
Kendra could not answer the question. She felt sick all over. Right from the very depth of her soul—the very pit of her stomach—the very core of her being.
At last Mrs. Adams, as the head of the institution, felt it her duty to notify George McMannus. In her letter she tried to assure him that she was sure the illness was nothing serious. That the girl would soon perk up again. They now had her on tonic morning and night.
But Kendra did not improve. Most of her food was still left on her plate, and when a staff member insisted that she clean up the plate, she promptly brought it all back up again. She was not forced to eat again.
Mrs. Adams was about to send off another letter when there was a knock on her door.
George McMannus stood there. It was already the trapping season. He could ill afford the time to make a long trip to the city. But he had to check on Kendra. He had to know what was ailing his little girl.
“I’m taking her home, Maggie.”
George had just tucked his granddaughter into the bed made for her on Maggie’s cot and sat beside her until she dropped off to sleep. She had lost weight and looked so pale that he feared there must be something terribly wrong with her.
“Shouldn’t she see a doctor first?” asked Maggie, who agreed that the child was not well.
“Mrs. Adams said that she had her thoroughly checked by the school physician—twice. He could find nothing wrong with her.”
Maggie sighed and poured buttermilk into two tall glasses.
“I should have kept a closer eye on her,” she berated herself.
“You couldn’t. Not with Henry needing you full time here,” George quickly responded. He sat in reflective thought for a few minutes and then went on. “I’m not sure that it would have helped anyway. I have a feeling she is just pining for home.”
“So what will you do?” asked Maggie. “She does need schooling.”
George sat stroking his beard. Maggie noticed that it showed faint streaks of gray. They were all getting older.
“Mrs. Adams said that Kendra is a smart little thing. She already has the basics. With extra books to study, she feels that Kendra will be able to get most of what she needs. At least she won’t be illiterate.”
“She reads everything,” chuckled Maggie. “I heard her reading that
Almanac
while I was getting supper on and you were feeding Henry.”
There was silence for many minutes. With a sigh, George broke it with, “Henry’s getting weaker, isn’t he? I could scarcely get him to swallow a little soup.”
Maggie nodded her head. Every day it seemed that Henry lost a little more of his strength. Tears moistened her eyes.
“It’s hard,” she said. “Hard to just watch him waste away day by day.”
George nodded. He didn’t know how Maggie kept on going. She must be worn to exhaustion.
“Can I ask for further hospitality?” he asked her, sorry that he could be a burden but hoping he might be able to give her a hand with Henry’s care for a few days and let her get some much-needed rest.
“Of course,” replied Maggie. “You know you can.”
“I need to do some shopping for books for Kendra. And a globe. Mrs. Adams said that it is important for her to have a globe. Get the feel of the world around her. Especially since she is so isolated. And history books and . . . There is so much she needs that I can’t get for her out there. Mrs. Adams said she should have a weekly newspaper. Wouldn’t do much good. The mail only comes in about once a month. Sometimes less if it should storm or the rivers flood.”
He sighed deeply and rubbed at his beard again.
“I’ve not done right by her, Maggie,” he said with remorse.
“You’ve tried,” responded his friend. “You’ve done your best. No one can do better than that.”
“But she looks so frail. So pale. They said she hasn’t been eating— or sleeping. That she just sat around looking forlorn and forsaken.”
“That’ll all change quickly,” Maggie dared to promise.
“You should have seen her when they brought her to the office. I’ll never forget her eyes. They—they looked like she couldn’t believe I was really there. Like I was a ghost or something. And then she just threw herself into my arms and hung on. Like she was afraid to let go. She didn’t even cry—just clung to me. I—I—it was almost more than I could take.”
He brushed the back of his hand against his cheek. “If I had only known—how bad it really was—I would have come for her sooner,” he finished.
“But you didn’t know.”
Silence again. He stirred restlessly in his chair. “No,” he said at last. “I didn’t know. I figured that she would adjust and be happy. I thought that I was the only one—suffering.”
“You missed her, didn’t you?” said Maggie softly. It was not really a question but an observation.
“Terribly. I—for the first while I thought that I was going to—to go stir crazy. And that dog of hers sure didn’t help. He kept pacing the cabin, whining and moaning, and then he would go to her bed and cry like she was dead or something. I couldn’t stand it. I spent as much of my time away from the cabin as I could find excuses to leave.”
“You’ll both be much happier with her home again,” Maggie assured him.
She looked toward the door that led to the bedroom. Henry had not really been able to offer companionship for many months. Years. And yet he was still with her. She knew he would not be with her for much longer. He was so weak. She knew it would be better for him. But my! How she would miss him. Just to know that he was there brought her a measure of comfort. Just to be able to talk with him. Tell him about her day. Even if he couldn’t understand or respond. She did not look forward to being alone.
“We weren’t made to be alone,” said Maggie softly and reached into her apron pocket for a hankie.
They left for home as soon as George was able to find the needed books and school supplies for Kendra. George remembered their first trip and the excited, chattering young girl. Now she was quiet, studying everything about them with wide, haunted eyes. He tried to draw her out, tried to coax back some of her former merriment, but she did not respond. George hoped that once they got back to Bent River Crossing and Nonie and Oscar, she would return to being his beloved Kendra again.
“Look,” said Kendra, and for the first time on the entire trip George heard excitement in her voice. “There’s Nonie!”
“Where?”
They were still some distance from the Crossing, but they could see a number of figures moving about the shore. George found it hard to believe that Kendra could actually pick out Nonie.
“Right there,” insisted Kendra, “by that clump of willows.”
And she was right. When the wagon neared the small post, a lone figure moved silently from among the willows across the river and waded right into the water toward them. Kendra didn’t wait for Nonie to come to her. She jumped from the wagon before George could even summon her to be careful and plunged into the stream to wade toward Nonie.
They embraced each other, the elderly lady in her deerskin garments and the young girl, whose thin face made her large green eyes look even bigger and greener. The shallow, cold waters of the Bent River swirled and eddied about their skirts. The tears that had not been free to fall when Kendra had welcomed her grandfather were now released. Nonie just held her, one hand on the blond head, the other pressing Kendra to her as she rocked back and forth. “Nayeea, nayeea,” she cried over and over. George recognized it as Nonie’s prayer of thanks to the spirits for bringing back the child.
“I suppose we’ll have to go through that all over again,” he muttered to himself. “If the old woman has her way, she’ll make a pagan of the child.”
George promised himself that he would watch more closely and try to keep Nonie from putting foolish notions in the young girl’s head.
Kendra was anxious to get back home to the cabin. George knew that the main reason was to see Oscar. The girl could hardly wait to hug her dog again.
“Do you think he will remember me?” she asked her grandfather, apprehension edging her voice.
“Oscar?”
She nodded.
“Do you remember him?” asked George, teasing her a bit to try to get her to talk more.
Kendra nodded her head. “Of course,” she said. Her voice was little more than a whisper.
“Well, dogs have even better memories than humans do,” said her grandfather. “Guess there’s not much chance that he will have forgotten you.”
