plants had formed a tight network of roots and fibers; getting through to black dirt was not as easy as it used to be. Gustie needed the dirt itself on her hands, and she dug through till she had it. She resisted the urge to spread it across her face as she used to do. She just sat quietly, her eyes remaining closed, and felt the release of tension that had been mounting inside her for weeks, culminating in the nightmare.
Gustie sensed her presence and looked up over her shoulder. Dorcas stood there, arms crossed over her breasts, watching her patiently. The fringes of her shawl flapped in the wind. Wisps of iron gray hair flurried about a round, deeply lined face. She looked as she always did, except when she smiled which was seldom, very stern.
“Come and eat.” Dorcas nodded her head slightly, turned and walked down the other side of the incline.
Gustie hiked after her marveling that with all of the old woman’s girth and age, she could still walk faster and with more ease over this lumpy prairie ground than Gustie could, and Dorcas never got winded. Maybe it’s her moccasins, thought Gustie.
Gustie stopped. My goodness. I forgot Biddie. “Dorcas, wait, we can ride.” She lifted her skirts, turned back at a run, and almost twisted her ankle.
The mare greeted her with a snuffle of affront at being a second thought. Gustie snatched up the reins and hauled herself on to the wagon seat. Dorcas was nowhere in sight. A gentle shake of the reins and the horse moved leisurely up and over the rise and down the other side in an arc that took them back toward the lake, but farther east, along the southern shore.
In front of Dorcas’s cabin a tripod stood over glowing sticks. The smell of beans drifted up from the black kettle hanging from its center, and coffee steamed from a pot that sat directly upon hot rocks.
Gustie pulled Biddie up behind the cabin. Dorcas’s workbench—a board laid across two tree stumps—evidenced her recent fish cleaning. Scales stuck to the wood and scattered over the ground caught the light in prismatic specks. A few yards away black birds fought over fish heads and entrails. Gustie unhitched the mare and led her down to the lake. While the horse drank her fill, Gustie washed her hands and splashed the cold water on her face and neck.
Even though Dorcas had told her more than once to just come in, she could never get used to walking into someone’s home without knocking. Gustie rapped softly on the door of the cabin before carrying in her bags of flour and vegetables. When she opened the door, she was greeted by the sharp scent of herbs and roots. The spotted calf skin still hung on the wall to her left over one bed, and the red cowhide, its edges crackling with age, still covered the opposite wall. Gustie felt like she had come home.
She made a second trip out to her wagon for the eggs and coffee. As Dorcas took them from her, she tipped her head slightly, and peered at Gustie through squinty eyes. “Not so bad this time. Hmm?” There was nothing wrong with Dorcas’s vision, Gustie knew. Squinting helped her come to conclusions.
“No, just last night. No school, so I came right away.”
Dorcas took two plates and spoons outside. “Good. That’s good. Always good to come early and stay long.”
Gustie followed her with two cups. “Not too long. I’ll wear out my welcome.”
Dorcas spooned beans onto each plate. “When you are not welcome, I’ll drown you in the lake. Feed the fish.” She pointed with her chin toward Crow Kills.
Gustie lifted up her skirt to wrap around the hot handle of the coffee pot and filled their cups. As Lena and Will would have said, it was the kind of coffee you could stand your spoon in. Gustie loved it.
They ate outside on the small porch that fronted the cabin. Dorcas settled on two wood boxes that were stacked against the outside wall, and Gustie sat down on the step and leaned against one of the poles that supported the small overhanging
Gustie sensed her presence and looked up over her shoulder. Dorcas stood there, arms crossed over her breasts, watching her patiently. The fringes of her shawl flapped in the wind. Wisps of iron gray hair flurried about a round, deeply lined face. She looked as she always did, except when she smiled which was seldom, very stern.
“Come and eat.” Dorcas nodded her head slightly, turned and walked down the other side of the incline.
Gustie hiked after her marveling that with all of the old woman’s girth and age, she could still walk faster and with more ease over this lumpy prairie ground than Gustie could, and Dorcas never got winded. Maybe it’s her moccasins, thought Gustie.
Gustie stopped. My goodness. I forgot Biddie. “Dorcas, wait, we can ride.” She lifted her skirts, turned back at a run, and almost twisted her ankle.
The mare greeted her with a snuffle of affront at being a second thought. Gustie snatched up the reins and hauled herself on to the wagon seat. Dorcas was nowhere in sight. A gentle shake of the reins and the horse moved leisurely up and over the rise and down the other side in an arc that took them back toward the lake, but farther east, along the southern shore.
In front of Dorcas’s cabin a tripod stood over glowing sticks. The smell of beans drifted up from the black kettle hanging from its center, and coffee steamed from a pot that sat directly upon hot rocks.
Gustie pulled Biddie up behind the cabin. Dorcas’s workbench—a board laid across two tree stumps—evidenced her recent fish cleaning. Scales stuck to the wood and scattered over the ground caught the light in prismatic specks. A few yards away black birds fought over fish heads and entrails. Gustie unhitched the mare and led her down to the lake. While the horse drank her fill, Gustie washed her hands and splashed the cold water on her face and neck.
Even though Dorcas had told her more than once to just come in, she could never get used to walking into someone’s home without knocking. Gustie rapped softly on the door of the cabin before carrying in her bags of flour and vegetables. When she opened the door, she was greeted by the sharp scent of herbs and roots. The spotted calf skin still hung on the wall to her left over one bed, and the red cowhide, its edges crackling with age, still covered the opposite wall. Gustie felt like she had come home.
She made a second trip out to her wagon for the eggs and coffee. As Dorcas took them from her, she tipped her head slightly, and peered at Gustie through squinty eyes. “Not so bad this time. Hmm?” There was nothing wrong with Dorcas’s vision, Gustie knew. Squinting helped her come to conclusions.
“No, just last night. No school, so I came right away.”
Dorcas took two plates and spoons outside. “Good. That’s good. Always good to come early and stay long.”
Gustie followed her with two cups. “Not too long. I’ll wear out my welcome.”
Dorcas spooned beans onto each plate. “When you are not welcome, I’ll drown you in the lake. Feed the fish.” She pointed with her chin toward Crow Kills.
Gustie lifted up her skirt to wrap around the hot handle of the coffee pot and filled their cups. As Lena and Will would have said, it was the kind of coffee you could stand your spoon in. Gustie loved it.
They ate outside on the small porch that fronted the cabin. Dorcas settled on two wood boxes that were stacked against the outside wall, and Gustie sat down on the step and leaned against one of the poles that supported the small overhanging
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