Where the Broken Heart Still Beats (13 page)

Sinty-ann studied the pretty, yellow-haired young girl who looked up at her with such tender concern in her clear blue eyes, and a familiar chord played softly across her memory.

"Lucy," she said finally. "My mother's name was Lucy. Like you."

Oh, what I would not give to write about a happy occasion in this unfortunate book! Although Grandfather reminds us every day that we have much to be thankful for, the truth is that our lives are quite dismal except in the smallest of ways, like a pretty sunset or a sweet smile from Sarah or Prairie Flower.

I'm sure Mr. and Mrs. Bigelow have little to be thankful for, except perhaps for the fact that they were here at the wedding and not at home when the Comanches swept in and set fire to their fields and cabin and destroyed everything they own. The Indians stole their horses, of course, but killed all the other animals. The Bigelows' two Negroes, old Ed and his wife, managed to hide until it was over and did survive. We saw the smoke during the wedding celebration, and the men immediately set out on their horses to investigate. They met the frightened Negroes on the road, almost too upset to give a complete description of what had happened.

So now the Bigelows must start over. Jedediah gallantly offered them his newly completed cabin until they can rebuild their own. Unfortunately the reason his cabin is available is that he left at dawn to join up with his regiment. Martha, utterly inconsolable, has come back to live in our sad household.

Mama still mourns the death of little Daniel. The truth to tell, she has not been herself since he died, and at times I fear she is not quite right in the head, convinced as she is that it was somehow all Cynthia Ann's fault.

Ben is in a bad temper because he wanted to go with Jedediah. Of course with but one arm he has been refused, even though he rides as well as anyone and shoots nearly as well.

And, hard as it is to believe, Cynthia Ann is grieving afresh because she is certain it was her people who are responsible for the ruin of the Bigelows' farm. But she does not grieve for the Bigelows (and I cannot truly blame her, because Mrs. Bigelow treats her horribly). She is mourning because her people passed so close by and did not know that she was here!

Before he left to join his regiment, Jedediah reported rumors circulating among the traders that Peta Nocona had died from an infected wound and that Pecos had been taken by a fever. It was also rumored that Quanah had gone to live with another band of Comanches, the Quahadas. Cynthia Ann showed little interest in this news, possibly because she did not trust Jedediah to report the truth, possibly because she chose to hide her true feelings—but news of Comanches nearby is a different matter. The intensity of her grief at this shows me that she is still much a part of them, and they are part of her, far more than she is of us or we of her.

And so, with all this misery around me, I do not know what to do or where to turn or to whom to speak. I cannot talk to Mama or to Martha, and Cynthia Ann is beyond my reach. Finally I went to Grandfather and told him how I felt. He is a kindly person, indeed, but what could he say but "This too shall pass, my dear Lucy. Pray, and this too shall pass." Although I wish deeply to believe that Grandfather is right, and I continue to be faithful in my prayers, somehow I feel that God is not now, and has never been, much concerned with the fate of the Parker family.

Sinty-ann watched as Uncle showed off the apparatus. "It's a hand gin," he told the women—Anna and Lucy and Martha, and now even Sarah. "See, you crank it like this." He demonstrated, dropping a fistful of cotton bolls in the top of the wooden box and turning the handle. "Much better than picking out the seeds and hulls with your fingers, eh, Martha?" He shoved the contraption toward her.

"I suppose so," Martha answered in a listless tone that had become familiar to Sinty-ann. Ever since soon after the wedding when Jedediah left to fight the war, Martha had been gloomy. This was not the way a Nerm woman behaved when her husband left on a raid. Sinty-ann remembered well how proud she had felt when Peta Nocona had ridden off with the other warriors! The dangers were great. Men were often killed or badly wounded. But their women did not carry on like this!

Sinty-ann turned away. She would learn about the hand gin later, as she had learned about the walking wheel used for spinning cotton into thread and the loom for weaving thread into cloth. The loom and wheel had been stored in the shed, forgotten, until Uncle got them out and told the women they must learn to use them—"the way it was in the old days," he said. Because of the war, he explained, they would have to make their own cloth or do without. The loom and wheel had not been used in many seasons, not since Uncle's wife had died. None of them knew how to spin or weave, but they soon learned.

The war was the cause of much misery—Sinty-ann understood that. She saw that she was not the only one to suffer.

"Sinty-ann," Uncle said to her privately. "I haven't gone back on my promise to you. But it's impossible now. When peace comes, then we'll go. You understand?"

She nodded, observing the worry in his eyes. "Uncle," she said, as he was turning to leave, "when you kill a deer, please give the skin to me."

He said he would. Not long after their conversation, he brought two fine deer hides. She immediately set to work, removing the hair, smoking the skins to make the rain run off, stretching and rubbing them with soap (at last she had found a use for their soap) until the skins were as soft as cloth. Then she cut them up and stitched the pieces with sinew to make leggings and a shirt.

The women watched curiously as she worked, but only Lucy asked a few careful questions. "It's quite handsome, Sinty-ann. What are you going to do with it?"

Sinty-ann brushed the questions aside. It was her secret.

They looked astonished when she handed the finished buckskin suit to Ben without a word. Ben seemed completely confounded, but finally he managed to mutter, "Thank you," and left to try it on. She had sewn it so cleverly that the emptiness of the right sleeve was not apparent.

As soon as Lucy had a chance without the others around to hear, she whispered, "Why did you give that suit to Ben?"

"He is unhappy because he cannot go to fight," Sinty-ann explained. "I know how a man of the People feels when he cannot fight. And so I make him a present."

"But he killed the panther!"

She shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I remember the panther in my heart."

I am doing my best to appear brave, for everyone's sake, and because my father wishes it so. Papa has joined Col. Clark's regiment and leaves tomorrow.

For the past two weeks, since Papa made his decision to fight for the Confederacy (although at forty years of age he would not have been conscripted), we have all been quite busy making his uniform—ginning, carding, spinning, dyeing, and weaving the cloth before we begin to cut and sew. Martha, Mama, Cynthia Ann, and I took turns, shifting from one task to another, working night and day with little rest. Even Sarah takes her turn now. A bleak and cheerless Christmas it was.

But at last we finished, and my father looks very handsome in his new outfit. Were it not for the sadness that accompanies his departure, I should be quite proud of him.

With Papa gone, there will be only Ben and Grandfather to keep the farm going, and we all do our best to make up for the privations we suffer. I did miss having sugar in my tea, but now we have no tea, so missing the sugar will no longer be important.

Martha feels that life is most unfair, for she has seen a husband off to war and now a father, and therefore judges her suffering to be twice as great as anyone else's. It is a momentous event when a letter arrives from Jedediah, which happens infrequently, and then she goes off by herself to read it and comes back drenched in a mixture of joy at having heard from him and misery that he is far away and in grave danger.

Mama, needless to say, is despondent. Papa's leaving is one more blow for her to bear. She will have nothing to do with Cynthia Ann or even Prairie Flower. I am sure it seems unjust to her that her own infant sickened and died while the little daughter of a woman she has come to fear and despise blooms with good health. Sometimes Cynthia Ann forgets and calls her little girl by her Indian name, although I think Prairie Flower is such a pretty name and suits her well. Every time she slips and says Topsannah, Mama rebukes her, if only with a sharp look. Prairie Flower is the only soul in this household who is unfailingly cheerful, perhaps because she is the only one too young to understand all that is happening. Were it not for her sunny disposition, I am sure we would all wither away.

Although Cynthia Ann has learned to spin and weave (along with the rest of us!), she much prefers to work with animal skins and has made a beautiful buckskin suit. I supposed she was making it to take to her son when at last this dreadful war is over and Grandfather allows her to go back for a visit to her people. We were all amazed when she gave the suit to Ben. Ben was more pleased than he let on and now seems more kindly disposed toward Cynthia Ann, but I fear that nothing will soften Mama's heart.

Cynthia Ann has promised to teach me how to prepare the skins, for I have in mind to learn to make buckskin gloves to sell. They wear well, and I believe it is a way for me to earn a penny or two for the family. God knows we will need every cent in the difficult days that lie before us.

Last evening as we rushed to finish Papa's extra shirts, an activity that served to keep us from our weeping for a time, Grandfather told us that he has written to Cynthia Ann's younger brother, Silas, Jr., who lives several days' journey to the east of here. (There is also a sister in east Texas, but I know little of her, and of course Cynthia Ann knows nothing of her at all.) Grandfather expects a visit from Silas as early as next month. Cynthia Ann made no response to Grandfather's announcement.

"Do you remember your brother Silas?" I asked her.

"He was just a little boy," she said after a time. "Running, playing, laughing. Like Topsannah. That's what I remember."

And so we wait for Silas's letter, too.

Now all of us will be waiting and praying for letters and must listen to Ben's angry muttering that because of a rattlesnake he is not able to go. But Mama is positively grateful to the snake since it means keeping her oldest son at home!

Cynthia Ann has been with us now for nearly one year. In some ways everything is changed, in others ways all is the same. She is able to speak our language very satisfactorily but chooses to say little. She seems less wild than a year ago, but is she really? Grandfather believes yes, Mama most definitely no.

We can only pray and wonder what the coming year holds for us all.

Silas came in winter. Cynthia Ann was out on the gallery when the rough wooden cart drawn by a team of oxen clattered into the yard. She stared at the squarely built man and the boy perched on the seat next to him. Both carried rifles. The boy, with big ears and a shock of sun-bleached hair, swung down first. Silas followed slowly.

This is my brother, Cynthia Ann thought, mildly curious.

She believed he noticed her standing on the gallery, although he gave no sign. Instead he crossed the yard to the corral and greeted Uncle, shaking his hand. Something about the way he walked, a swing to his broad shoulders, the way he held his head at an angle, all this reminded her of someone. Her father, she decided. The boy, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his pants, looked nothing like him.

Silas turned, pushed his shapeless hat back on his head, and gazed up at her. "Cynthia?" he asked. "That you, sister?"

She stepped down the two wooden steps from the gallery and walked toward him. "I am Cynthia Ann," she said.

They looked at each other. Silas took off the hat and clutched the brim in his two hands.

"You well?" he asked finally. She nodded once, and he seemed satisfied.

Just then Prairie Flower skipped around from back of the cabin and beamed at the newcomers. "My child," Cynthia Ann said.

Now Silas turned his attention to the little girl who hugged her mother's legs. "Had one the same age," he said; "Lost her a while back." He pointed with the hat at the boy. "This here's my wife's nephew, Joseph."

Joseph regarded them with squinted, suspicious eyes. He turned to his uncle. "That your Injun sister?" he asked.

"This is your Aunt Cynthia. You be respectful, hear? She'll be coming home with us."

It was the first definite word she had had that she was to leave here and go there. The decision had been made without her, but it came as no surprise. She would be willing enough to go, to get away from Anna and all her raving about how Cynthia Ann was possessed and had caused the baby boy's death.

Cynthia Ann had not tried to persuade her otherwise. Among the People many babies died soon after birth. That was why women always hoped for a captive child to adopt when the warriors returned from a raiding party. That was why she herself had been adopted by Speckled Eagle and Calls Louder. When a child died, the women grieved, howling and cutting their flesh with knives, and then they laid aside their grief for the dead child and went on with the business of living. But somehow Anna had not been able to do that. The grief had stayed buried inside her and gnawed at her until it burst out in anger and bitterness.

Later, Uncle came to talk to Cynthia Ann. "This is no good," he said, gesturing toward Anna, walking slowly to the henhouse wrapped in her ragged shawl, her chin sunk against her chest. "No good at all. Maybe you'll be happier with your brother. I'm sorry to see you go." He turned and left abruptly.

If she could not be where she belonged, then it was all the same to her if she stayed with Uncle or if she went to her brother Silas. But it made a big difference, it seemed, to Lucy, who burst into tears when she heard the news. "But I thought he was just coming to visit!" she cried. Although Cynthia Ann had begun to believe that she could never feel anything again, that all of the joys and sorrows had left her with the exception of her precious Prairie Flower, she
did
feel something when she saw how deeply Lucy was touched.