Lesia's Dream (6 page)

Just a few more steps. Clutching the spade in both hands, she raised it over her head.

The creature hissed. Its back arched in warning.

It had to be now! Taking a deep breath, Lesia struck hard. And missed.

Suddenly her eyes began to sting and burn. Her nose and mouth filled with an odour so foul it made tears run down her cheeks. Bozhe, Bozhe, she was choking!

A piercing scream sliced through the air. Rubbing furiously at her face and gasping for breath, Lesia realized the scream had come from an outraged Sonia. Her sister had followed her.

Ivan and Papa were still laughing the next morning.

“Imagine eating
that!”
Ivan said. They rocked back and forth with laughter over their bowls of soup. Paul had told the two men about the black-and-white creatures that could turn the air foul with a single spray, but Papa and Ivan had neglected to tell the women to watch for them. And, in spite of Lesia's efforts to wash their clothes and scrub their skin, the putrid smell clung to them like an unwelcome guest.

Chuckling, Papa headed out to the garden. Lesia grabbed the seeds she'd brought from Shuparka and quickly followed him. Perhaps his good mood would make him more agreeable.

“No. Absolutely not.” He'd crossed his arms and
frowned before she'd even finished asking the question.

“But we're down to the last few potatoes. Mama was sick again this morning.” She set the seeds on the ground. “We need to buy flour. And Sonia needs fresh milk.”

“No more debt, Lesia. Absolutely not.” His jaw was set in that all too familiar look.

“But this debt will pay for itself.” She repeated the argument she'd given Ivan. “We'll have food to eat, and eggs or cream to sell. We can buy supplies. We can pay Andrew the five dollars we owe him. And start paying back Master Stryk.”

“No more debt,” Papa said again.

“We have to do something.”

“Ivan and I are going to see if we can find work on the railroad.” He wouldn't look at her.

“But you know the promise we made to the Canadian government,” Lesia said. “We have to show improvements on the land. We have to break ten acres this summer. Or build a house. Mama's in no condition to work. And I can't do it all by myself.” A lone bee droned near her ear. Lesia brushed it in the direction of her bee skep.

“Do the best you can. I won't be gone for long. I'll help you when I get back.”

“Why don't I go out to work?” she asked. “I'll dig
seneca roots and sell them, or work as a hired hand. You can stay here.”

Papa shook his head. “Ivan and I can make more money.” This time he did look at her.”I'm sorry.”

“If you'd let me buy a cow, I could make money too,” Lesia said impatiently. The bee was back. She cupped her hand around it and nudged it towards the skep again. “Or bees. I'm waiting for a swarm to settle, but Andrew said there are people who sell entire colonies.”

“No more debt!” Papa glared at her. “You borrowed from Master Stryk against my wishes. You borrowed from Andrew and the Korols against my wishes.”

“I didn't borrow from Andrew or the Korols,” she retorted. “That food and those … those … extra things were gifts!”

“We must pay them back.” Papa's jaw was set. “And no more borrowing. That's my final word, Lesia.”

Defiantly, she stared back at him. “Then at least clear one more acre before you go. And dig a root cellar. Please!”

Her father nodded. “Very well,” he said slowly. “But then we leave.”

After days of rain, Lesia should have been cheered to wake up and see the morning sun glowing through the white muslin in the doorway. It was warm and bright—the last day of May and the first dry day in a week. But all she could think about was the hollow pit in her stomach. The few potatoes that were left had been set aside for Mama and Sonia. Papa, Ivan and Lesia were living on soup—a thin, watery blend of gopher and rabbit bones, potato peelings and greens—or whatever they could hunt.

And with the rain, hunting had been meagre.

“Ivan and I are going to start digging the root cellar today,” Papa told her. “You check the traps and then work the land south of the vegetable garden.”

Lesia picked up her tools and headed outside. The air was early-morning fresh. She lifted her face and let the sun's warmth wash over her.

Dearest Baba, are you enjoying the same sun in Shuparka?

While she welcomed the sun, the rain had at least given her a little reprieve. It had prevented the men from leaving and had given her time to weave a few baskets and practise her reading and writing. Soon she would be able to write to Baba, she thought, coming to a sudden stop beside the garden.

The rain had also made the sunflowers and cabbage sprout! Lesia grinned. The tiny seedlings
marched in rows, along with beets and hemp and something called kale. A hearty green, Paul had called it when he'd given them the seed. Soon they would be eating their own food. Mama would be so pleased!

Scrambling down the bank to the shallow creek, she took a breath and waded into the icy water. The rain had made the water level rise; it was deeper than usual. She grappled for the trap, found it and pulled. Nothing! With a grimace of disgust, she reset it and tossed it back into the water. The water was good for bathing and drinking, she thought as she filled the tin can she had brought from the dugout, but not so good for fishing. Maybe Ivan was right. Maybe their neighbour was trapping all the fish for himself.

The rabbit trap was empty too, sprung by another coyote that had left bits of fur and dried blood behind. If only Mama could manage to eat gopher, Lesia thought as she headed for the south field, the grass rustling against her knees as she brushed against it. If only they had more potatoes. Or some flour.

In the distance was the farm she had admired the day they'd first arrived. She could see a man—their neighbour—checking his cows. A baby calf. He looked up. She waved her arm and yelled out a greeting.

He turned away.

He hadn't seen her, Lesia decided as she picked up her axe. Perhaps he didn't want to see her?

There are many Michals in the world, and they would like us to liue beneath them.
Baba's words floated through her mind. But Baba had also said that all people are equal in the eyes of God.

Canada would give Lesia a chance to prove that and more.

The rain had left the ground moist and heavy, and with each stroke of the axe, grass and soil and flower petals rained into the air, a colorful blend of purple violets and orange lilies and white lupins.

On and on she worked, hacking and chopping, separating rock from soil, until the sun was high in the sky. By then, she was dripping with sweat and her muscles, well rested after days of inactivity, were tightly knotted. She reached for the tin of water she'd taken from the creek. It was all she could do not to empty the can completely.

Her stomach growled with hunger. Bozhe, to sit in the shade of the dugout and eat a real meal instead of watery soup! Instead, she sat by her rock pile, dipped two fingers into the tin of water and dabbed her cheeks … the nape of her neck. Aaaaaahhh. Warm but refreshing.

There was a rustle from behind. Lesia froze.

It was an animal. Was it a skunk?

Putting the tin down, she pulled herself to a crouch and slowly turned. Her body was stiff; she was ready to run. There was another rustle. Then a flash of brown-gold. It was a prairie chicken.

Mama loved fowl! Maybe, just maybe, if she was fast, she could kill it. Lesia grabbed a large rock and aimed.

Feathers flew. A howl of protest sounded from the innocent bird. Stunned, it thrashed about and attempted flight.

Grabbing her axe, Lesia lifted it over her head and lunged forward. She struck out once, twice, unsure if she was hitting the ground, the bird or both. But she would
not
let it get away The prairie chicken flapped and screeched. Bile rose and lodged in Lesia's throat. She had never killed anything in her life. The closest she'd come was plucking feathers from the old hens in Shuparka.

Finally, the creature was still. Dead.

Tossing the axe aside, she forced her feet to move forward, to look at what she'd done. Her blows had severed the chicken's neck. She had decapitated it. But her other blows must have hit the ground because the body was in one piece.

It was a good size. More than enough to feed five.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she bent down. The nearby grass was splattered with droplets
of blood. More blood pooled on the ground under the bird's neck, and blood trickled through the feathers of the bird's wing like beet juice staining a piece of bread.

Lesia reached out. The bird twitched and flopped. Horrified, she jumped back. Of course it was moving. That happened after birds were slaughtered. Frowning at her foolishness, she forced her hand forward. There was its head, off to the side. And its eyes watching her.
Don't look.

She lifted it by its feet. They were slick. Warm. More blood drained to the ground. Lesia swayed. She would
not
be sick. She took a deep, steadying breath.
You must do this.

Anxious to show the others her catch, she began to run. The chicken flapped and splattered blood on her apron, but Lesia's squeamishness was gone. Tonight they would eat a prairie chicken. It was going to taste wonderful roasted over the fire!

“Look,” she yelled when the dugout was in sight. “Look.”

Sonia saw her first. Her scream of delight alerted Mama and Papa.

“What have we here?” Papa beamed.

Lesia lowered the chicken and allowed Sonia to touch the feathers that were clean. “Dinner,” she said proudly.

Mama looked incredulous. “You killed that yourself?”

She grinned. “There was no one else to kill it for me, Mama.” She looked around the clearing. “Where's Ivan?”

Papa pointed.

She followed the direction of Papa's finger. Ivan was standing behind the dugout, where the root cellar was going to be. And he wasn't alone.

“We have company,” Papa said.

“His name is Wasyl Goetz and he's looking for work,” Papa explained. “He needs money.”

Didn't they all? She studied the man. He was taller than Ivan, with broad shoulders, sandy brown hair and a thin stubble of beard.

Ivan glanced over, saw the prairie chicken and grinned. Wasyl Goetz turned. His eyes widened. She recognized the desperate yearning in his eyes: hunger.

The two of them walked towards her, and Lesia tried not to stare. His sheepskin coat was worn, his pants were torn at the knees, his shoes were held together with string. He carried a faded red blanket tied into a bundle, and a rifle over his shoulder. What she could do with a rifle!

“Well done,” Ivan said. “We'll eat plenty tonight.”

An embarrassed silence fell and Wasyl Goetz stared at the ground.

“You'll stay, of course,” Mama said to him.

“Thank you.” He looked up, smiled shyly. “I have a few potatoes in my bag. You would like to cook those to go with the bird, yes?”

Extra potatoes! Lesia could scarcely stop herself from laughing out loud. Mama could make pyrohy.

“You keep them,” Mama said generously. “Let us feed you.”

Mama did make pyrohy—out of the last of their own potatoes. Lesia refused to think about what they would eat tomorrow. Instead, after the bird was strung up over the fire, she listened to Wasyl tell Ivan and Papa about his experiences searching for work.

There was little left on the railroad, and it was tough in the city, too. Thousands of Ukrainians had marched in Winnipeg demanding jobs. “They yell over and over again—work or bread, work or bread.” He shook his head. “There is so litde work that men are organizing in protest. And things are just as bad in the homeland.” Wasyl shook his head. “It's not a pretty picture.”

“How so?” Ivan asked.

“Word is the army is mobilizing on the border between Russia and Galicia,” he said. “Talk of war is at an all-time high.”

“If there is a war, what will that mean?” Lesia asked.

Papa reached over and adjusted the spit that held the chicken. “War is never good.” His eyes had a sad, faraway look. He'd watched his father march off to fight in the Austro-Prussian War. It had been the last time he'd seen the man alive.

“War may not be good, but it always brings opportunity.” Ivan's blue eyes darkened with excitement. “And that can be a good thing.”

“Absolutely” Wasyl nodded vigorously. “War means Ukrainians can fight to regain their homeland. And maybe the Canadian men will join up—that'll mean more work for those left behind.” He and Ivan shared a grin.

Though she sat in the warmth of the fire, a cold chill crept down Lesia's back. This talk of war was frightening her.

“Enough!” Papa said firmly. “Canada is a peaceful country. There will be plenty of opportunity without war.

“There's no opportunity in the city,” Wasyl said again. “That's why I'm walking to Teulon. A farmer there is looking for two men to till and plant his field.”

Papa and Ivan exchanged looks. “Just two?” Papa asked.

Wasyl nodded. “An Icelandic fellow who has a half section and enough money to take on two men for a month. Met him in Winnipeg.”

“How do you know the position will still be open when you get there?” Ivan asked.

“He's holding it for me.” Wasyl flexed one arm and chuckled. “I have a reputation as a horse! I work harder than two men together. I was doing pretty well until my last job. That boss was harsh. He worked me fourteen hours a day and fed me just once. At least I was in the barn with the cows. After he went to bed, I'd fill up on milk.”

The three men laughed.

“How much did you make?” Lesia asked.

The laughter ended abruptly. Papa frowned. Ivan looked disgusted. “That's none of your business,” her brother said.