Wind Over Marshdale (3 page)

“Oh. Well, I'm really not interested in that sort of thing right now,” Rachel said.

“Oh my, you're not—queer, are you?” Mrs. Beatry asked, alarm in her voice.

Rachel almost choked on her tea. It took several seconds of coughing before she was able to reply in the negative. “No, no, I'm not.”

“Well, that's a relief!” Mrs. Beatry declared. “You did have a woman with you when you moved in. What was her name again?”

“Sherri. That was my friend Sherri,” Rachel supplied. “And not to worry. She's happily married.”

“Not that I'm prejudiced, but it does seem unnatural, don't you agree? And it wouldn't go well for you in a town like Marshdale. Just look at those two women for instance. That artsy one and the Frenchie. Of course, nobody is supposed to know, but it's difficult to keep secrets here.”

Rachel didn't doubt it for a minute. Not with people like Mrs. Beatry to keep the presses rolling.

“But dear me! I almost forgot why I came down in the first place. I wanted to mention the hot water to you. Did I already mention it to you? The hot water?”

“No… I don't recall anything like that.”

“Oh my, then! I must warn you about the hot water. The tank is rather small, you see. I've been meaning to replace it, but it's still in such good condition. It works perfectly fine, and I just hate to throw good money away when it's not necessary.”

“Yes?"

“It's not good to use too much hot water all at once, you see. It takes quite some time to heat up again if you do.”

“Oh,” Rachel nodded in sudden realization. “I'm sorry. I suppose I did use quite a bit just now while taking my bath. I'll try to remember not to overdo it again in the future.”

“There, there,” Mrs. Beatry beamed. "No real harm done. Oh! Look at the time. Thank you so much for the tea. A bit weak for my liking, perhaps.” Mrs. Beatry rose from her chair. “I really must be going now. Oh. And did I mention about the parking?”

“Yes. Yes you did. Thank you,” Rachel said as she led the other woman to the exit. She leaned for a moment against the back of the door after Mrs. Beatry had gone. Just what had she gotten herself into?

****

The woman peered in all directions before driving the stake into the soft earth with a mallet. A slight breeze whipped her skirt against her legs as it simultaneously lifted a curling red tendril of hair off her forehead. Bending low, she whispered a few words over the small erect piece of wood.

There! It was the last one. She had staked her claim to the town. Her town. She stood up tall and straight and let a smile spread across her lips. The people here had such feeble understanding. If only they knew the truth of what could be accomplished in the spirit realm.

 

A voice, a mantra low and anguished, joined that of the wind, at first carried away by the stronger of the two, but now returning, gaining in intensity and force. It was the secret lament of an elder, wrenched from his weakening frame. He stood upon the rounded hillside overlooking the salt flats below.

They were one an
d the same, the elder and he; m
erged together when time was stripped away. He felt the wailing crescendo of his own voice, dry
and harsh as it ripped from his belly
. Sorrow. Such deep sorrow.

He shook his head, then stopped, his posture becoming suddenly alert. It was faint, but unmistakable
—
the sound of pounding hooves. Buskwa Moostoos
—
the great bison. He took off at a run, but knew long before he was overtaken that he had no chance of escape. Perhaps it was the will of the Creator for him to become a sacrifice to redeem the people from their folly
.

Like a massive creature they moved forward
,
sweeping across the land as if the hills themselves had become alive
,
writhing. Gradually fading, the molten mass of bobbing heads and humps moved off until once again all that could be heard was the calming voice of the wind. There
was little
physical
evidence of the
old
man now. Only a smear of blood here and there blending with the trodden grasses. The once slender, graceful plants were now a trampled ruin, the occasional hardy soul lifting its head to let the hand of the Creator coax it back to life. It was the way of the land. The ancient way of the prairie.

This he could see, as he hovered over the l
and, disengaged from the body
, no longer
one with the elder.
A refreshing rain began to fall gently on the crushed plant life
, washing away the last traces of blood.

 

This time, Thomas's eyes fluttered open gradually. He felt a strange calm. A rightness to the dream that made sense in its aftermath but was slowly melting, just as the rains had washed away all traces of the human sacrifice.

It reminded him of Jesus. Of the way the gore and blood and ripped human flesh was somehow used as a cleanser for mankind—like the refreshing rain that poured down on the earth. It was a mystery, but one that he had come to accept in his own way when he'd found Rhea.

He could picture her now, at the camp meeting where they'd met. He had stumbled into the meeting, reeking of alcohol, looking for a place to crash. She was part of the organizing committee from a small home-based church, who had invited the traveling evangelist and his big tent to visit the reserve. She was willowy, tall, with long black hair that swished like a horse's tail, only in the most beautiful and elegant way possible. She'd prayed with him that night and he'd come back for more, admittedly because he found her attractive, not knowing that the second visit would change his life forever.

He'd met his future wife at that camp meeting, and also his lifelong friend, Jesus. When Rhea died of breast cancer two years ago, he questioned God, but he never abandoned Him completely. They'd come too far for that, and he knew that for her sake—and for the children they had conceived together in love, he would never turn his back on God.

Was God speaking to him now, through his dreams? Or was it just his mind, preoccupied as it was with the archeological site? It was the first time the elder had been in the dream, though, and the first time human blood had been spilled along with that of the buffalo.

****

Butterflies of anticipation flitted in Rachel's stomach. Today she would meet the rest of the Marshdale School staff. She'd already met a few people—the principal, the school secretary and of course, the obnoxious P.E. teacher, Steve Friest. Mr. Roust, the principal, seemed like a very scattered individual and Steve Friest was…well, enough said. So much for first impressions.

With an intake of breath, she stepped into the staff room, nodding to a woman with erect posture, a severe pony tail and glasses. For her efforts, she was greeted with several seconds of perusal down the length of the woman's nose. Rachel shifted her eyes downward. If this was any indication of how well she was going to fit in, things did not appear too bright.

Someone tapped her shoulder. “This seat taken?”

“Go ahead,” Rachel gestured, returning the woman's smile. “I'm Rachel, by the way. Rachel Bosworth.”

The other woman nodded, as she took the seat next to Rachel. “Kindergarten and Special Ed, right?”

“How did you know?”

“This is Marshdale, remember? Everybody knows the newcomers. I'm Rhoda Henry.” She extended her hand for a firm shake.

“Hi, Rhoda. Nice to meet you.”

Rhoda looked around the room for a moment before turning back to Rachel. “So? You nervous?”

“A bit,” Rachel admitted with a smile.

“This your first teaching job?”

“No. I taught for several years in the Toronto Public School system,” Rachel replied.

“Really?” Rhoda asked, her eyebrows raised. “By the look of you, I'd say you were fresh out of teacher's college. Oh, well. Probably just my own age creeping up on me. People seem to be getting a lot younger these days.” In truth, Rhoda looked to be only about thirty-five, with dark wavy hair and a very alert expression—kind of like someone who was perpetually about to share the most amazing secret.

Rachel laughed. “I'm not that young. I'm twenty-eight.”

Rhoda rolled her eyes. “A mere baby.”

“So what do you teach?” Rachel asked.

“Grade five. Actually, I'm about to teach grade five. I used to do your job—kindergarten and Special Ed. When the other grade five teacher retired, I asked for her position. Not that I didn't like kindergarten, but I was ready for a change, you know? Sometimes all those runny noses can get to you, plus I was beginning to wonder if I still remembered how to teach anything beyond colors and shapes. Anyway, feel free to pick my brain anytime. I'm not one for trade secrets, so whatever I can do to help, just let me know.”

“Thanks.” Rachel nodded. “I appreciate that.”

A small groan suddenly escaped Rhoda's lips. Rachel looked over at her new friend then followed her gaze to the doorway. Steve Friest.

“Watch out.” Rhoda's voice was barely audible.

“Already met,” Rachel responded, rolling her eyes.

“And you weren't smitten?” Rhoda chuckled.

“Hardly.”

Rhoda waved for another female teacher to join them. “Grace,” Rhoda did the introductions, “this is the new kindergarten teacher, Rachel. I'm sorry, what was your last name again?”

“Bosworth,” Rachel supplied.

“Right. Rachel Bosworth, I'd like you to meet Grace Acken. She teaches grade two.”

Rachel and Grace shook hands across Rhoda's body. Grace was completely opposite in appearance from Rhoda. She could only be described as a Viking woman. She was tall, sturdy—almost square in build—with long sandy-blonde hair, which she had pulled back into a haphazard ponytail.

“Um… who's the woman sitting over there at the far table?” Rachel ventured to ask. She pointed at the disdainful female who had greeted her first.

“Who? Eleanor?” Rhoda asked.

“Eleanor Thompson,” Grace filled in. “Senior English.”

“Oh,” Rachel nodded.

Rhoda leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “She might seem like a snob, but I choose to think she's actually just lonely.”

“I think it's the glasses,” Grace added for good measure. “She probably has vision problems and has to look down her nose at everyone.”

The two veterans exchanged an insider's smirk. Rachel didn't know what to make of it, but it was not the time or the place to ask. Mr. Roust, the principal, had finally arrived, rumpled shirt and tie askew, and was shuffling a stack of papers around on the table at the front. The secretary sat at the end of the table, ready to take notes.

****

“Dad, can't we just go back home?”

The question came with just a hint of pleading. Ryder paused for a moment from unpacking the box of personal belongings and looked over at his father, who was busy setting up a bed frame.

“Home? We are home, because we're together,” Thomas told his son. “We talked about this, Ryder. It's better for me if I can live near the site, and I don't want you and Whisper staying in the city without me.” The small family had moved often due to Thomas's work, but when Rhea got sick, he decided it was time to stay put, not only because the health care was better in the city, but also to provide some stability during such a stressful time. It was the first move they'd made since, and it wasn't going to be easy.

“We could stay with Auntie Joan,” Ryder mumbled.

Thomas directed a lengthy stare at his son that said “Absolutely not,” without actually uttering any sound.

“I know, I know,” Ryder shrugged, and turned back to the carton. “Auntie Joan might start drinking again. Her house isn't a ‘healthy environment.'”

“Ryder, I believe God has directed us here.” Thomas stopped what he was doing and surveyed his sixteen-year-old son. He looked more like his mother every day. He had the same dark hair that wanted to sweep down in front, the same slender build, the same aquiline nose.

He felt a sweep of emotion and took up his task with more vigor. “I know it's tough to leave all your old friends behind. It isn't always easy to do what the Lord asks.”

“I guess,” Ryder sighed. “If He really did ask…”

Thomas digested that. He knew this move was hard on the kids—especially Ryder. He wanted to reinforce the idea that God had led them here. At least he hoped so. “Remember? ‘God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of—'”

“‘Power, love and a sound mind,'” Ryder finished. “I know.”

“Good,” Thomas nodded. He needed the verse just as much as his son did. They continued working for a few moments in silence.

“But…what about Whisper's first day at school?” Ryder asked suddenly.

“What about it? I'm sure her teacher is very nice.”

“Yeah, but…”

“Is that what's bothering you? School?” Thomas eyed his son.

“Not so much for me,” Ryder explained, “but for Whisper. I mean, you know. I'm older and I've learned to…deal with things. This is her first time ever. I don't want to see her get hurt, you know?” He looked over at his father for understanding.

Thomas laid his hammer aside. “You're worried about prejudice, aren't you?” he asked candidly. “And I wish I could say it's not going to happen, but I think we both know I'd be lying.”

Ryder looked down at the small framed picture he held—a photograph of his mother before she got sick. “But it hurts, sometimes, you know?”

“We've all had to deal with racism, son. I came face to face with it just the other day at the town office,” Thomas said. “Marshdale is no different than anywhere else. Making new friends is never easy, but once the kids see what great people you and Whisper are, everything will be fine.” Ryder didn't look convinced. “Do you want to pray about it?”

Ryder shrugged.

“As Christians, it's how we react to things like racial slurs that count,” Thomas continued. “God's chosen people had to suffer through it; even Jesus was faced with it. But it's up to us to show people a different way. God's way of acceptance and forgiveness.”

“It's hard, Dad.”

“I know. ‘But we can do all things through Christ who gives us strength,'” Thomas assured. “Now let's finish this room. I'll take you out for lunch after. Deal?”

Ryder nodded. “Deal.”

Thomas just hoped he could live up to his own high standard.