Fields of Grace (20 page)

The sickle’s blade had required sharpening twice already, but the area around the sod houses, including a large patch for a garden, was neatly cleared, with the grass stacked into sheaves to dry. Eli planned to show the boys how to twist the long, thick blades into fat “logs” that she could use in her oven in place of buffalo chips.

As soon as the houses were completed, Eli intended to start clearing the fields to receive his red wheat kernels, but first he must travel to McPherson Town or Newton to purchase a plow. The journey would take most of a day and he would go to town alone, he had already warned her. His cheery whistle reached her ears, and she realized she would miss having him near on the day he chose to complete that errand.

The bucket’s weight on her arm reminded her she had been standing in one spot for too long. With a little jerk, she started her feet in motion. She moved cautiously, careful to avoid sloshing water over the rim—she mustn’t be wasteful. Carrying water from the creek that ran a quarter mile from the sod houses was her least favorite chore. Eli had promised to dig a well before the ground froze, and she would welcome that convenience. When she passed the tent, she retrieved a dipper, dropped it into the bucket, and then carried it to the sod house, where Eli thumped the final sod square into place.

“Ah . . .” He licked his lips as he reached for the dipper. His Adam’s apple bobbed with his noisy swallows. He downed two full dippers before backhanding his mouth and calling, “Boys! Come and have a drink!”

After a few moments, Joseph and Henrik trotted from the direction of the creek. Each dragged a branch behind him, and they dropped the limbs before reaching eagerly for the dipper. Their tanned faces and sun-streaked hair made them seem like strangers to Lillian, but their eyes—dark brown like Reinhardt’s—remained familiar. Joseph’s eyes sparkled with a vitality he had lacked in Gnadenfeld, while Henrik carried a resigned air that brought sadness to Lillian each time she glimpsed it.

She watched them gulp the water, taking turns with the dipper, and she tipped her head as unbidden thoughts attacked her mind. One son embraced the new land with both arms; the other held it at bay. Joseph seemed to have been given something through their travel adventures; Henrik had left important parts of himself behind. Two sons—two extremes. How might she bring Henrik to Joseph’s joyous acceptance?

The boys, their thirst satisfied, turned back toward the creek, but Eli held out his hand.

“Wait. I wish to speak to you about something important.”

The teasing tone he’d used only moments ago had disappeared. Lillian held her breath, wondering what serious topic he might introduce.

“Tomorrow is Sunday—the Lord’s day. ” His gaze bounced from Lillian to each of the boys as he spoke. “We have labored hard this past week, and I am
sea stolt
of your uncomplaining attitudes and good efforts.”

Lillian’s heart swelled as Joseph stood taller, his shoulders squaring with Eli’s words of praise. She, too, was proud of how her sons met the challenges without complaint.

Eli continued. “I think, in honor of the Lord’s day, we should take time for a service.”

“A service?” Joseph held his hands outward, peering around. “But we have no
Kjoakj
!”

Eli ruffled Joseph’s hair. “
Ach
, boy, we do not need a church building to have a service.”

Joseph hunched his shoulders and grinned.

Henrik folded his arms across his chest. “What kind of service will we have?”

Eli took in a breath. “A simple worship service. I was thinking we could read a passage of Scripture, pray together, and”—he grinned openly at Lillian—“your mother could lead us in some hymns.”

The service, although different from any held in a church, appealed to Lillian. “I like the idea, Eli.” She turned to the boys. “Is it not a good idea? Since it may be months before we have an opportunity to attend a real church service, we should start our own practice of worship together.”

“For sure.” Joseph nodded hard.

Henrik dropped his crossed arms and slipped his hands into his pockets. “It would be fine.” His voice held no enthusiasm.

“Goot.”
Eli rubbed his palms together. His enthusiasm was enough for all of them. “And after our service, we will rest—no working, just like in Gnadenfeld. But today is not Sunday, and still there is work to do.” He flicked both hands at the boys, as if shooing them. “Gather more limbs. Your mother wants a roof on her sod house!”

18

T
he month of August melted away beneath a sweltering sun. Every day, from sunrise to late afternoon, Henrik trailed behind Eli and forked into piles the grass Eli whacked off with the sickle. Joseph then wrestled the piles into sheaves. Even though they stopped for frequent water breaks, Henrik’s throat always felt parched. There were times he wanted to lift the bucket’s rim to his mouth and drain it dry. Yet he believed no amount of water could replace the sweat that had poured from his body to be absorbed by the rich black dirt.

But after today’s work, the land would be completely cleared. Eli could then use a plow and turn the soil to receive seed. All across the claim, drying grass stood in bundled sheaves, reminding Henrik of a pen rendering of Indians’ tepees from a penny dreadful Joseph had discovered along the road. Wouldn’t Joseph whoop with excitement if a real Indian brave stepped from behind one of those sheaves?

After long weeks of seeing no one except his family members, Henrik might even welcome a visit from a red-skinned man. The longer they worked this land, the more he yearned for Gnadenfeld, Susie, his friends, his school . . . and the life he’d known before.

He stopped for a moment, leaning on the pitchfork’s handle while Eli kept moving, his swing of the sickle so rhythmic the man more closely resembled a steam-powered machine than a human. Henrik examined his hands—his blistered, calloused hands—and he wanted to moan. Not because of pain. He could bear the physical discomfort. But his hands had become the hands of a farmer. Not of a teacher.

Joseph panted to Henrik’s side. His face, tanned brown by the sun, shone with perspiration. “Do you think it is almost time for Ma to bring the water bucket?”

Henrik squinted at the sun. Perhaps an hour had passed since Ma’s last visit to the field. “Maybe.”

Without breaking stride, Eli called over his shoulder, “Your mother will bring the bucket soon, boy, do not worry. She will not forget us.”

Joseph quirked his lips into a grin. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he said, “That is
Onkel
Eli’s way of saying ‘return to work.’ ”

Henrik held back a disparaging grunt. Eli had a way of telling one what to do without giving direct orders. Ma said he was being diplomatic; Henrik saw it as manipulation. Either way, he didn’t like following Eli’s commands. He would turn eighteen in two more days, which marked the beginning of manhood. He was old enough to make decisions for himself. He would leave this homestead and find a college!

Joseph plodded to the closest pile of freshly raked grass, his face aimed toward the sky. Henrik followed his brother’s gaze and spotted a hawk circling far overhead. Henrik envied the bird’s ability to spread his wings and soar above the earth, unburdened by cares and work and worry.

Snatching up the rake again, he jammed the prongs into the grass and viciously swiped the fallen blades into a pile. Life—his life—was weighted down. How could he soar with the burdens he carried? His home in Gnadenfeld . . . gone. His father and dear little brother . . . gone. Susie . . . gone. His opportunity to attend university . . . gone. In the back of his mind, his mother’s words whispered,
Eli promises you will become a teacher
. But here he was, raking hay instead of studying books.

“Here comes Ma!”

Joseph’s cheerful shout shattered Henrik’s musings. He dropped the rake and sauntered to meet Ma. Joseph dashed ahead of him and received the first drink. In his haste, he sloshed water down his front. “Be careful, Joseph!”

Ma clicked her tongue, lowering her brows in displeasure. But she aimed the silencing look at Henrik, not Joseph.

Henrik clamped his jaw to hold back further words of complaint. Joseph handed him the full dipper, and Henrik cupped it with both hands to be certain every drop of water found its way to his mouth. After three dipperfuls, he passed the dipper to Eli, who drank noisily but without spilling.

Eli swiped the droplets clinging to his mustache and beard with the back of his hand and grinned at all of them. “Nothing like cold water on a hot day to revive a man.” He glanced at Joseph’s blotchy shirt front. One brow arched higher than the other. “Were you unable to hit your mouth, boy?”

Joseph ducked his head, his expression sheepish.

Eli laughed and ruffled the boy’s hair. “It felt good, did it not, to get a little splash of water on your skin?”

Joseph shrugged.

“
Nä-jo
, then I think you should enjoy it again.” Quick as a gopher darting into its hole, Eli plunged the dipper into the bottom of the bucket and slung its contents over Joseph’s head.

Joseph took a backward step, his arms held away from his body and his mouth open in surprise. Eli stood with his hands on his hips. A wide grin split his sunburnt face in two. Henrik stared at the man, unable to believe what he’d just witnessed. Eli was no child to play games. Yet by his teasing grin, it seemed he had just challenged Joseph.

Joseph burst out laughing. He ran his hands down his face, flipped the water from his palms, and laughed again. Shaking a finger at Eli, he said, “
Onkel
Eli, I will get even with you.”

“Oh-ho, you think you can pull one over on Eli?” Eli shook his head from side to side, his twinkling eyes never wavering from Joseph’s face. “We will see, boy; we will see . . .” He turned and strode to the sickle, lifted it, and returned to work. Joseph, still giggling, trotted back to the field, too.

Henrik glanced at Ma, and at the look on her face, a chill went down his spine. Admiration, appreciation, and—he swallowed— affection. Ma’s blue eyes shone with affection for Eli. He’d seen her look at Father in that way. But at Eli? He spun and stomped to his rake.

He raked with a vengeance, fury giving him energy that defied the heat and the long hours of labor. Eli had effectively drawn Joseph and Ma to his side. But Henrik wouldn’t be drawn in. Eli had stolen his only opportunity to absolve his guilty conscience for Father’s and Jakob’s deaths. Couldn’t the man understand the only reason they boarded that ship for America was because of Henrik?

He paused, pressing his forehead against the end of the fork’s handle. If he were solely responsible for taking care of Ma, he could make it up to her. But Eli saw to Ma’s needs. And Ma seemed perfectly content to allow him to provide for her. Raising his face to the clear sky, Henrik sent up a silent question:
How, then, will I
ever be able to release this unbearable burden of guilt?

Lillian lifted the tray of
Perieschkje
from the clay oven, careful not to place her thumb on the flaky pastries near the edge of the black baking pan. Back in Gnadenfeld, she had stuffed her
Perieschkje
with finely chopped pork and cabbage. She had no cabbage or pork with which to fill her folded-over tarts, but chopped and boiled dried beef, mixed with wild onions and mushrooms, served as a substitute. She held the tray of well-filled miniature pies under her nose and inhaled. If they tasted as good as they smelled, her family should voice no complaints.

Her family
. . . She had seen Henrik’s reaction to Eli’s playful moments earlier that afternoon. How she wished Henrik would begin to see them as a family. Certainly, it wasn’t the same as when they lived in Gnadenfeld. No ornery Jakob filled her days with laughter and fun. No strong husband cradled her in his arms at night. Now unending work made the days slip by, and exhaustion helped her sleep, despite aching for Reinhardt’s presence. But Eli was a good man—a man who worked hard to create this farm for them, a man who could be a father to Henrik, if only Henrik would accept him.

She set the tray of pastries on the trunk that served as their table and dropped a length of toweling over the top to keep the flying bugs from sampling their dinner. The wind tried to carry the towel away, so she weighted the corners with rocks. That task complete, she entered her sod house and brought out plates and cups. Setting the table, she once again marveled at Eli’s cleverness. He had fashioned four stools by tearing apart his own travel trunk.