Child of the Storm (6 page)

“
Not the shooting
part,
”
he said.
“
Won
’
t let us do that.
”

“
You signed up?
”
Marie asked.
“
Did you really sign up, or just
thinking about it?
”

“
Signed up, so there
’
s no taking it back. Me and a few
others, all together.
”
His brow wrinkled.
“
I
’
m torn Marie. If not
for the two of you, and that you need me, I
’
d have no regrets at
all. Terrible thing to say, but it
’
s so. Tired of the
bottled up anger. Tired of watching everything I say and do in case it offends
someone who can
’
t be pleased with anything about me.
You know.
”

“
I do know,
”
Marie said. The
candle
light
dipped but came back up again.

“’
Course you do,
”
he said, almost too low for Celeste to
hear.
“
Still, it
’
s done. Can
’
t take it back even if I wanted
—
and sitting here with you, that
’
s what I
’
d do.
”

“
How long?
”
Celeste asked.
“
How long would you be away?
”

His
head rocked back and forth a bit, maybe to say he didn
’
t know at all and was afraid to know
that himself.
“
They say that the armies are locked
together like tired out boxers.
Neither with enough strength
to knock out the other.
We
’
d be the fresh
strength to tip it the right way. It
’
s what they say, but
I can
’
t know for sure. Maybe home before the
year is out.
Maybe longer.
But at least they
’
d feed and shelter me, give me a new
uniform and boots to wear, so I could send any pay home. You
’
d be provided for and maybe there would
be a little left over. Things could change and be better. Guess that
’
s what I need to believe. Need to
believe that those dreams of yours that brought me to you in the beginning
—
that brought us Augustin and Celeste -
those dreams will get me home soon.
”

“
You said you didn
’
t believe in all that.
”
Her mother
’
s voice was soft, like she was talking
to a child.

“
Guess I
’
m a believer now.
”
His eyes closed.
“
Best leave me to sleep out here
tonight.
”

“
What about the bears
in the woods?
”
Celeste asked.

Marie
rose. The
candle wick
drowned in the pool of yellow
wax. She held out her hand to Celeste.
“
The bears won
’
t trouble him tonight. They
’
ll sleep too.
”
She led Celeste in and took an old
blanket back out to Bernard. Celeste watched her from the window as she covered
him up to his shoulders, then stood for a while longer, looking into the tree
or maybe at a star before coming in again to bed Celeste down beside her in
Augustin
’
s old bed.

Over
the next days, her father worked from before sunrise until there was too little
light to work by, fixing things that were broken or nearly so, stockpiling
firewood, clearing away brush, readying the garden and Neighbor for a spring
planting he wouldn
’
t see. For much of it, he had Celeste
at his side. He explained the reason for everything he did.

“
There
’
ll be days when you
’
ll have to be older than your years,
”
he said to her as they sat together on
the roof, looking for spots where rain might find its way in sooner or later.
She handed him a nail even before he reached out for it.

“
I know how tired your
mother will get and so do you. Watch her and watch for things that might need
doing. Odette will come by I
’
m sure, and Sandrine
promises to check in as she comes and goes from town. Most times it will just
be the two of you. Don
’
t speak to strangers or let them in.
Don
’
t wander far. And be strong and
cheerful for your mother.
”

“’
Specially if she gets
tired or sad,
”
Celeste said.

“
And you know the
signs. Stay close to her especially then.
”

“
You
’
ll write to us.
”

“
You know I will.
”

Before
they climbed down again, her father stood on the roof and look about.

“
Looks different from
up here.
”
He helped Celeste to her feet and held
her hand to keep her steady on the pitch.
“
Same things.
Different angle of seeing.
”

Celeste
could see the Climbing Oak, Neighbor and the front yard with a turn of the
head. She looked up and saw the sky.
 
Things were all around her that
were
always there but she
’
d never noticed.

“Learning something new
always opens a door,” her father began. “Step through, and you find another
world of things linked up with what you just learned.”

Celeste nodded. That
much she knew.

Her father continued. “That
can really stir you up and could scare you to death, because it challenges you
so. But that’s the choice you have. Stick yourself in the mud, or accept a life
that shakes you up. One or the other, but
be
careful
about picking the first one. It’s the hardest in the long run. It can be mighty
hard to get out of the mud once you’re sunk in too deep. And there will be
plenty who want you buried up to your neck in the mud. Plenty who’ll help you
stay that way.”

Celeste wasn’t as clear
on this other part.

“Try to remember that, child.”

Before
the week was out, her father was gone.

One
day was much like the other. So much more the same than they had been before. A
day would have rain or not, would be bright with the sun or veiled with the
thin lazy clouds passing like cattle through a field. Spring was warmer than
winter and summer hotter than spring, but it came on slowly and was no
surprise.

There
was always much to do, but always the same things. Celeste sewed and cleaned
for her mother. She tended the garden and drew her pictures for the letters
back to her father. Only the letters brought any sense of change. The letters
were sometimes short, dashed off in a free moment and in a longing for home.
Other letters were long and filled with characters and strange things and
stranger ways.

By
summer, Bernard was placed on a ship and sent across the ocean to where the war
continued to grind hopelessly on. Once the ocean lay between them, word was not
as frequent, which wore on Marie. Celeste
’
s eighth birthday
came and went, but the war did not end.

When
there was news of the war, Celeste grasped what she could of it and passed that
along to Neighbor since he was too occupied to follow the news for himself. She
fed him with news as she kept his sleeves stuffed with corn shucks and silk as
her brother had taught her to do. His silence was a sign to her that all was as
it should be and the war would end soon
—
though
he wouldn
’
t say when. She told him anything that
came into her head since he was good with secrets and knew all about the
weather, new growth and harvest, life and death.
King of the
seasons.
New as morning.
Old
as dirt.

What
little money arrived from Bernard, Marie would draw off the least they would
need to get by on, which was not much and grew less as the months went by, and
she squeezed all she could from the garden, from the small amount she made from
sewing, and from doing without. The rest she saved and put into the hands of
Odette whenever she came around. They had an arrangement since Odette
understood more about complexities and getting around obstacles.

“
I
’
ve few enough talents,
”
she said to Odette as Celeste sat with
them at the table, drawing a pig from memory.
“
I don
’
t mean to just bury them while he
’
s away. Not if I can find a way to do
more.
”

Odette
looked at the money and at Marie.
“
You look thinner than
last time. Just be sure you don
’
t waste his greatest
treasure while storing up another.
”

“
I
’
ll fatten up if I need to once I know
he
’
s coming home.
”

Celeste
labored over the hooves of her pig, licking her lips.
“
We can have bacon with our eggs,
”
she said without looking up. Only not
from this pig, she thought. Not from one she knew.

That
evening, Marie worked on another paying quilt. Celeste sat at her feet beside
the basket of scrap fabric.

“
Hand me that piece
over at the side,
”
Marie said to her.
“
The yellow one.
”
She didn
’
t stop to point but
continued with her stitching and merely nodded and cast a glance over her
glasses at the basket.

Celeste
drew out the piece of fabric and laid it on her mother
’
s knee. She smoothed it out, over and
over, feeling the fabric
—
feeling
deep into it, deep into the memory it held for her.

“
This was from that
dress you used to wear when I was only little,
”
Celeste said.

“
You remember it?
”

Celeste
said she did, and pointed to the table set in the middle of the room where
Bernard would do his reading and she did some of her indoor drawings.
“
Round and round the table. It
’
s like I can still see you two dancing.
”
She continued to look, her eyes
tracking the memory around the table as her hand touched the fabric. When she
looked back to her mother, she had stopped her work and was looking at the
piece of cloth. She drew it out from under Celeste
’
s hand.

“
Maybe this isn
’
t the piece I need for this quilt.
”
She set it aside and looked into the
basket.
“
How about that piece peaking out there.
The sort of
cream colored
one with the little stain.
Maybe I can clip that part out and make it do.
”

Celeste
picked out the fabric and handed it to her mother.

Marie
considered it.
“
Should be able to make that work, don
’
t you think?
”

Celeste
shrugged.
“
You want me to put that other back in
the basket?
”

“
No, I
’
ll hold onto it here a while. Need to
make up my mind what to do with it first. But why don
’
t you fish through the basket and see
what else you find with a memory stitched into it. That was nice how you found
one just now. So see what else you find in there while I give my fingers a
rest. Never known of a child to have such a powerful memory for things, and to
be so tiny. We
’
ll have to watch that your head doesn
’
t pop from so many stored up memories
as you get older.
”

“
Don
’
t think I keep them all locked up in my
head,
”
Celeste said.
“
Mostly they
’
re just out there in this or that. All
I do is read them. Sort of like a story.
”

So
for the next little while, Celeste fished through the basket and found a few
that spoke to her. She told her mother about each one, and not one of those
bits of fabric went back into the basket, or into any paying quilt.