Marna (3 page)

Both parents stared at her, Emery with surprised
pleasure and Hertha with startled disbelief.

His lips spread in a wide grin, Emery patted his
daughter's shoulder clumsily. "You're a good daughter,
Hessie. Egan will make you a fine husband. He'll see to
it that your Maw and Paw are taken care of, too."

Hertha's face blazed with anger, and she lashed out,
"You mean that he'll supply you with whiskey and
whores." She stepped up to him and stared unafraid
into his small, glittering eyes. "I won't have it. I will not
allow you to sell my daughter."

Emery's face went black with fury at her unexpected
impertinence. Raising his knotted fist, he thundered,
"Who is asking your permission? I have only given you
a choice. The girl can either marry Traver or go to
work for him in one of his whorehouses. Either way, he
gets her."

Hertha's face went white. "You wouldn't do that
Even you wouldn't sell your daughter into sin."

Emery threw back his shaggy head, and his laugh
was a hideous sound in the room. "Wouldn' I just," he
roared. "You watch me."

He clapped his hat on his head and slammed out the
door.

On Hester's fourteenth birthday, in a quiet ceremony, she married Egan Traver. Hertha cried bitter
tears through the preacher's words, while Emery, at her
side, snored drunkenly.

As Mrs. Egan Traver, Hester moved out of the
shabby little house and into fine rooms above Egan's
gambling parlor. Hertha saw her daughter only three
times after her marriage. On the last visit she announced
she was with child. Hertha gazed at her with stricken eyes. "Oh, Hester, you are so young. Promise me that
you'll take care of yourself while you're waiting."

Six months later the young girl was dead. A premature birth had left her hemorrhaging, and a drunken
doctor had been unable to help her.

The night after the funeral Egan Traver appeared at
the Akers' door. In his arms he carried his blanketed
baby girl. Silently he laid the child in Hertha's arms.
Hertha was struck by the grief in his eyes. This man
had truly loved her daughter.

"Hester wanted her to be called Marna," he murmured, leaning down and kissing the baby's cheek. He
brushed away a tear and pressed some money into
Hertha's hand. "Take care of her, Hertha. Don't let
Emery get his hands on her."

Hertha nodded mutely, and Egan Traver closed the
door behind him.

Hertha had thought she would be unable to look at
her granddaughter, much less raise her. How could she
tend this baby who had caused her own child's death?
But at its first wailing cry she had turned back its
blanket, and the little helpless piece of humanity had
gone straight to her heart. It was as if she were gazing
down on Hester fourteen years earlier.

The baby flourished, and gradually Hertha's grief
dulled to a point where she could live with it.

Emery spent more time at the taverns and less time
at his job as a cooper. Many times Hertha was hard put
to make a nourishing meal for herself and baby Marna.
There were times when she was tempted to spend some
of the money Egan had slipped to her. It lay safely
hidden between the pages of her Bible, one place she
knew Emery would never look. But always when she
picked the Bible up to remove a few dollars, a small
voice would whisper, "Wait, Hertha, you will need it
more later on."

Sighing, she would lay the big tome back on the
shelf. Their bowl of soup would be a little thinner that
night.

In the mid-1700s a revival in religion came about in
Philadelphia. From it, a new kind of preacher emerged.
He was a preacher who did not stay in one church but
moved from place to place, preaching wherever people
would gather to listen. Many of this new breed found
their way into dimly lit taverns to preach in their dramatic and emotional way.

One night one such man stood on a tabletop in a
tavern in Philadelphia. In a loud and threatening manner he warned his unwilling audience that they would
spend eternity in a burning hell unless they stopped
their drinking and whoring. In a dark corner, a whore
on each knee, sat Emery Aker. As he steadily poured
rum down his throat, he became quarrelsome and
began to call out insults to the preacher. When the man
singled him out and asked why he wasn't home with his
family, Emery became enraged and jumped to his feet.
He grabbed up a solid oak stool and, before he could be
stopped, brought it crashing down on the preacher's
head.

The preacher wilted slowly to the floor, his head
cracked open.

Speechless by the swiftness of Emery's action, everyone crowded around the dead man. Not too drunk to
realize he'd hang for the man's murder, Emery slipped
out the back door and hurried home.

Barking orders to Hertha to pack their clothes and
some food, he took down his rifle and primed it. To
Hertha's anxious and alarmed queries, he would only
answer, "I'm fed up with this town. We're goin' to a
place called Kentucky. We're gonna homestead. There'll
be no more bosses standin' over me."

At his insistent prodding, their few clothes were shoved into a pillowcase, and food and gear were
strapped together. She was careful to stow the Bible in
the grub sack.

Hertha closed the door behind her without regret. So
much pain and misery had gone on within the walls of
this house. She grieved only at leaving that lonely grave
behind. She stepped off the rickety porch and stopped
short. Emery was slinging their belongings over the back
of their neighbor's mule. Hertha hurried to him, grabbing his arm. "Emery Aker, we're not going to steal our
neighbor's mule. We'll walk."

He jerked away from her, whispering fiercely, "Walk?
Are you out of your mind? Do you know how far we
have to travel?"

Before Hertha could answer, Emery grabbed her and
tossed her astride the animal. With the baby in her
arms, she could only grab at the rough mane and hang
on as Emery sent it into a jiggling run with a crack on
its rump.

They moved swiftly and silently through side streets
and alleys. Gradually the loud song and braying laughter of the taverns faded away. As they hurried along,
always keeping to the shadows, it came to Hertha that
Emery was running away from something-or somebody. In all likelihood some irate husband, she guessed.

Whatever the reason, she was glad to be leaving behind the dirt and squalor of Philadelphia. A small stirring of hope began to beat within her. Maybe at long
last Emery would change and they could lead a normal
and decent life.

Her arms tightened around baby Marna, and she
prayed silently that Hester's baby would know security.

Soon the streets gave way to pastureland and homesteads. When Emery disappeared into the darkness of a
barn and emerged silently astride a strong, spirited
horse, the small hope of a better future dwindled and died in Hertha's breast. Her husband was in serious
trouble and wanted to leave the territory fast.

He motioned her to follow him, and wordlessly she
nudged the mule. What use was there in questioning
him? His answer would only be a hand across her face.

In the bright light of the moon she watched Emery
peer over his shoulder every several yards. Again she
wondered what terrible thing he had done to cause him
to fear pursuit. The spring night air was cool, and
Hertha shivered. Holding the baby close, she wondered
what end they would all come to.

After the third day on the trail Emery began to lose
his hunted look and to become once again his usual
callous and brutal self. Each day they made early
camp, and Hertha barely had time to set camp in order
before he was pushing her toward the spread-out bedroll.

All camp duties fell to Hertha, from the chopping of
the wood to the carrying of water from nearby streams.
Emery spent his time sprawled out on a blanket, talking
of the big farm they were going to have in Kentucky.
According to him, everything was going to be fine from
now on.

One night as he talked and laid his plans, Hertha
asked timidly, "Do you have much money on you,
Emery?"

He glared at her darkly, blurting out, "Don't worry
about it, woman. A man don't need much money in this
new country we're goin' to. He raises all he needs."

From his blustery tone she knew he had little, if any,
money. She sneaked her hand into the pocket to which
she had transferred Egan's money. She knew now why
she had never spent any of it.

On the sixth day they had their first human contact.
All that day they had climbed steadily. Around noon
they rode out of the forest and into a level clearing. It
was dotted thickly with black, charred tree stumps, standing starkly against the new green grass pushing up
around them. Hertha let her eyes run the long, narrow
strip to where a small barn stood, leaning dangerously
toward the ground. A man of medium height and
weight moved desultorily around the building, aiming
an occasional half-hearted kick at a stone. He stopped
often to squint toward a long, low cabin sitting at the
edge of the forest. As Hertha and Emery watched him,
the door swung open and a woman, lean and angular,
stepped out on the porch. Cupping her hands to her
mouth, she called loudly, "Come and eat."

The man hitched up his pants, spit out a wad of
tobacco, and moved toward the house. Emery grunted
in satisfaction. "Good, they're gonna eat. Maybe they'll
invite us in for a bite."

Urging the mule to catch up with him, Hertha called
to him anxiously, "Don't ask them for food for us. Ask
them if they can spare some milk for Marna."

If Emery heard her, he gave no indication.

As it turned out, the man and woman greeted them
warmly and invited them to share their meal. As Marna
noisily emptied a bottle of freshly strained milk, the
woman remarked how grateful they were for company.
"It was a long winter with never a visitor," she complained. "I thought I'd go crazy with only Luke to talk
to."

Hertha smiled in sympathy. "I guess it could get awfully lonesome out here."

The woman sighed. "You can't imagine. I told Luke
we're gonna sell this place and go back to civilization.
There ain't no way I'll spend another winter here."

Hertha looked at the disgruntled speaker with interest. "When do you plan on selling?"

"Just as soon as someone comes along and gives us
our price."

In a voice the men could not hear above their discussion of horses and trapping, Hertha asked, "What is
your price?"

The woman looked at Hertha speculatively for a
minute, then answered firmly in an equally quiet voice,
"A hundred and fifty dollars for the land and buildings,
or two hundred dollars with the stock and furniture
thrown in."

Hertha ran a measuring glance around cabin. There
were few pieces of furniture, but it seemed to be sturdily constructed. There was at least one cow, she knew,
and a dozen or so scrawny chickens had scattered
under their feet as they walked across the grassless
yard.

She threw a glance at Emery, still conversing loudly
with the husband, and scooted her chair closer to the
wife. "Do you think you and I could do some business
without the men?"

"Indeed we can," the woman answered quickly. "I
handle all our dealin's. My old man don't know beans
when it comes to handlin' money."

Hertha gave a short, bitter laugh. "Neither does
mine, although he thinks he does." She gave the woman
a long, searching look. The woman gazed back encouragingly. Deciding that she could be trusted, Hertha
spoke rapidly, "I don't want my husband to know I
have any money. He'd be furious if he found out. So
would you please pretend that you are willing to sell
us this place on time?"

Compassion flickered in the woman's eyes. She had
not missed the pinched, unhappy look in the narrow
face, nor the large bruises on her legs and arms. It was
plain that this gentle woman lived in hell with her overbearing husband. She reached over and patted Hertha's
knee. "Tell him anything you want to, honey. I'll back
you up."

By nightfall the Akers owned thirty acres of forest
land and ten acres of cleared land. They also owned a
cabin that was in fair shape and a barn that might fall
down with summer's first storm. There were a dozen
and a half scraggly hens and one rooster. The cow had freshened a month ago, her calf a bull. Rounding out
the livestock were a sow and six baby pigs.

Just before the couple left, Hertha slipped some
money into the wife's hand and whispered, "Would you
please buy me some seed at that post you spoke about?"

The knowing hill woman climbed on her horse and
picked up the reins. Then, as an afterthought, she spoke
down to Emery. "If you'll come down to the post tomorrow, I've got some seeds you can have for plantin'."

When her surprised husband inquired what she was
talking about, she gave him such a look he quickly
snapped his mouth shut.

As the Akers stood on the porch, waving good-bye to
their new acquaintances, Hertha was almost happy. At
least they had a roof over their heads, a start. Time
would tell what Emery would make of it.

The next morning, well after the sun was up, Emery
hitched the stolen mule to a plow and started to break
ground. It took but half an hour of fighting the bouncing plow as it bit into hard virgin soil mixed with roots
and stones to send him back to the cabin. Standing in
the open door, he ordered gruffly, "Hertha, you go plow
while I go fetch the seeds."

It was close to nightfall when Hertha heard him finally returning home. Her arms feeling as though they
were pulled from the socket and her back one dull ache,
she set the meager supper of salt pork and cornpone on
the table. As Emery staggered up the path and lurched
into the main room, she wondered how he had managed to get drunk without money. He threw the bag of
seed on the table, and she grabbed it up eagerly. At
least he hadn't bartered it for drinks.