Homecoming

A mellow glow from the oil lamps cast halos of light around the room. The walls appeared to close around them as shadows wavered on the flickering lamplight.

Hattie was seated in her rocker with her Bible open on her lap. It was her habit to read from the Good Book at the beginning and end of every day, always starting where she’d left off. He had no idea how many times she must have read the entire Bible straight through.

She never missed a day, not even when times were at their lowest ebb and things seemed hopeless.

The girl was seated across the room on the upholstered settee, one of the only pieces of furniture that the Ellenbergs had brought with them when they immigrated to Texas. Elegant and finely crafted, it was as foreign to the rough interior walls of the log home as the girl seated on it.

Hattie had braided the girl’s long hair in two thick skeins that draped over her shoulders. The creamy yellow of the shiny taffeta gown complemented the tawny glow of her skin. Every so often, her eyes would close and Joe couldn’t help but notice how long and full her eyelashes were when they brushed her cheeks.

Hattie had taken time to change the bandages that hadn’t survived supper. Barefoot for lack of any shoes that fit, the girl sat pressed against the arm of the settee, cradling her wounded hands in her lap. Dozing off and on, she was the picture of peace and contentment.

If Joe hadn’t known who she was and where she’d been found, he might have taken her for a rancher’s daughter, a shopkeeper’s wife, a Texas plainswoman.

But he knew who she was and he knew better than to take her at face value. Though she looked innocent enough, until she proved herself, which he was convinced would be never, she was not to be trusted.

Not even when the sight of her or the thought of her plight threatened to soften his heart.

Suddenly dog tired and sick of worry, Joe settled into a comfortable side chair and soon began to doze, slipping in and out of consciousness as Hattie read—

“‘On that day Deborah and Barak son of Abinoam sang this song:’”

Joe shifted, fought sleep until he glanced over at the girl. Her eyes were closed. She hadn’t moved.

“‘Village life in Israel ceased, ceased until I, Deborah, arose, arose a mother in Israel.’”

His mother’s voice lulled and soothed him. He remembered her reading to them all evening, to his father, Mellie, him.

“‘When they chose new gods, war came to the city gates…Thus let all Your enemies perish, Oh Lord! But let those who love him be like the sun when it comes out in full strength. So the land had rest for forty years.’”

He had no idea how long he had slept before he woke and realized his mother was beside him, shaking him awake.

“It’s time we all got some sleep,” she suggested.

His attention shot across the room. The girl was sound asleep on the settee, her head lolling on her shoulder.

“I’m going to put her in Mellie’s room,” Hattie whispered.

He knew it would come to this, that this strange girl gone Comanch’ would be settled in his little sister’s room.

If there is a God in heaven, He’s surely mocking me now. He’s brought the enemy to our very door, Joe thought.

Hattie’s tone was hushed, almost reverent.

“For the time being, I’ve decided to call her Deborah. We can’t just go on referring to her as ‘the girl’ until Jesse discovers who she is.”

“Why Deborah?”

“It came to me tonight, as I read from the Book of Judges. Deborah’s song is a song of victory over the enemies of Israel. God’s enemies.” She paused, touched Joe lightly on the arm.

“This girl was taken by our enemy and nearly lost forever. Now she’s been found.”

Shadows filled his mother’s eyes. She sighed. “You know God’s enemies are always destroyed, don’t you, Joe?”

He heard the worry in her voice, saw the sorrow in her eyes and knew he had put it there. He wished there was some way he could explain why he could no longer bring himself to believe at all. He couldn’t imagine believing as deeply and unquestioningly in God’s presence and power as she did. He wished he could tell her when and where he’d lost his way, but he knew then that she would blame herself and he wasn’t willing to lay that burden of guilt at her door.

There was simply no way he could put his thoughts and doubts—not to mention his anger—into words that wouldn’t hurt her and so they remained unspoken between them.

His attention fell upon the girl again. Their voices had awakened her and once more she sat poised and regal as a queen, watching them. The barriers of language and customs made her appear aloof and proud, strong as the woman Deborah, the prophetess and warrior woman of the Bible.

He wondered if the girl had fought against the regiment that raided her encampment. Was the dried blood on the front of her Comanche garb that of one of the soldiers? Or that of her Comanche captors?

The answer, he decided, might always be a mystery.

A thought came to him as he rose to his feet.

“I’m going to nail the windows shut.”

“You’re going to what?” Hattie frowned.

“Nail the windows shut in Mellie’s room.” He nodded at the girl. “She might try to get out.”

“Joe, I don’t think—”

“Don’t talk me out of it, Ma. We can’t be too careful.”

“Are you planning to lock her inside the room, too?”

Slowly he nodded. “I hadn’t thought of it, but that’s not a bad idea.”

“Look at her. Her hands are burned and bandaged. She’s dead on her feet. Who knows what all she’s endured over the last few days.”

He didn’t plan on changing his mind no matter how much Hattie protested.

“I can see there’s no talking you out of it,” she mumbled.

“Not in the least.”

“Then you’d best be getting a hammer and nails. I’m putting that child to bed.”

Since Mellie’s death, the door to the small room once filled with her things had remained closed. Hammer and nails in hand, Joe opened the door and paused just over the threshold. His mother had been in earlier, gotten it ready for their “guest.”

He took a deep breath, pictured his little sister with her legs folded beneath her, seated in the middle of her bed on a blue and white quilt handed down from their grandmother Ellenberg.

Mellie loved to make up stories for the origin of each and every piece of fabric. She’d drag him into her room with her white-blond ringlets bouncing and a dimpled smile that lit up a room. More often than not, that smile shone just for him. She’d beg him to pull up a chair and listen as she spun her tales.

Tonight, a single lamp burned on the dresser and beyond the lamplight, the room was cast in darkness. Mellie’s smile was forever extinguished and she’d taken the light with her.

The windows were open to the cool night air until he closed and nailed them shut. Then he went back to the front room where Hattie waited on the settee beside the girl.

His mother pointed to herself and repeated her own name over and over. “Hattie. I’m Hattie. Hattie.”

When she noticed Joe in the doorway, she waved him over.

“Joe.” She pointed to him and repeated his name.

Then she pointed to the girl and waited for her to tell them her name.

Hattie waited. The girl remained silent.

“Hattie. Hattie.” His mother tried again.

“She’s not going to say anything, Ma.” Joe sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m turning in.”

Hattie refused to give up yet. She pointed to herself and said her name twice more. Then she pointed to the girl and said, “Deborah. Deborah.”

The girl said absolutely nothing.

Joe rolled his eyes and walked out.

His mother tapped on his bedroom door a few minutes later.

“She’s all settled.” Hattie looked exhausted, but there was a new enthusiasm for life, a sparkle in her eyes that he hadn’t seen in them forever.

“I really would prefer you didn’t nail her door shut, son. I’m afraid I’ll be up all night worrying if you do. What if there were a fire?”

“I won’t lock her in if you’re going to lose sleep over it.”

He already figured he’d be losing enough sleep of his own.

“Thanks, son, for giving in on this. We have to do everything we can to help her.” She took a deep breath. There was no denying the tears that shimmered in her eyes. “I can’t help but think that, if things had turned out different, if Mellie had been taken captive instead of…well, instead of being killed…I like to think if she’d been found that someone would have opened their home and hearts to her the way we’ve done for this poor child here.”

Joe knew he may have opened his home to her, to Deborah, but it was only because his mother wanted it. Even in the shadowy hallway, his mother’s scar was visible.

He might open his home, but never his heart.

Hattie said good-night and disappeared behind her own door. Joe lingered in the hall, listening. He was about to close his bedroom door when he heard soft footfalls in Mellie’s old room. Then a soft thump or two and he knew without a doubt, the girl was trying to open the window.

He crept closer and halted outside the door, held his breath and listened. The footsteps stilled, but he heard the hush of breath directly on the other side of the door. The girl was standing there, separated from him by thin planks of wood.

If she thought he was going to give her the chance to walk out, or worse, to try and kill them in their sleep, she had another think coming.

Barely breathing, he waited until he heard her bare feet against the floor again. He waited to hear the bed ropes creak, but the sound never came.

He walked back to his room, pulled off his boots and grabbed the pillow off his bed. Then he went into the sitting room, picked up the rifle he kept by the front door and carried it back into the hall and stopped outside the girl’s door.

The pillow hit the floor. He hunkered down, lay the gun on the floor and stretched out beside it. He wasn’t a stranger to sleeping without the comfort of a bed. He’d spent weeks sleeping on the ground during roundup.

But tonight, he doubted he’d sleep at all.

Eyes-of-the-Sky stood in the middle of the small place where the woman had left her. She’d been forced to change into another garment. The woman gave her to understand, with gestures and signs, that this one was meant for sleeping. The cloth was light as air and the color of a billowing cloud.

In this private space there was a place to sleep, soft and high up off the floor. There was a container of water on a big wooden box that hid clothing from view. The woman, who kept pointing to herself and repeating, Hattee-Hattee, had taken the glass that held a flame captive when she walked out. Now the room was drenched in darkness.

Though Eyes-of-the-Sky could look outside and see the huge shelter where they kept the horses, the stars in the sky, the sliver of moon beyond the big slick glass, there appeared to be no escape. She tried softly pounding on the wood around the glass, but couldn’t make it move. She knew if they heard her break the glass, the man would come running.

She’d known when the man, Joe, was outside the door. She heard his footsteps, heard him breathing slow and steady. Her breath caught in her throat. Her heart began to pound.

Wadding the soft white fabric in her hands, she knelt and slowly crept to the door on hands and knees. She lay on the floor, pressed her cheek against the wood and tried to see through the crack between the door and floor.

It was too dark to see anything, but she knew that Joe was out there. She could not see him, but she sensed his presence.

Tonight, there was no escape.

She waited a few moments more, then she crawled back to the sleeping place, pulled off a covering and wrapped it around her shoulders.

So tired she could barely sit upright, she pressed her fingertips to her temples. The white woman had not stopped talking all day. The sound of her words was tormenting. She knew not what the woman was saying, and yet the longer Hattee-Hattee spoke, the more the words wormed their way into her mind.

Tonight, the woman had sat in a chair that rocked back and forth, holding a heavy block on her lap and chanting a tale of some kind. The words had flowed over Eyes-of-the-Sky, over and through her until she was forced to rub her fingers in circles against her temples.

It was all too much. Too raw and foreign and confusing.

Finally, when she could no longer fight her exhaustion, she stretched out on the wood beneath her. Every bone in her body ached. She longed to sleep, but her troubled mind would not quiet.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the Blue Coat raid all over again, smelled the blood, the smoke. Heard the screams.

Not again.

The confusing thought came out of nowhere.

Not again.

She stuffed her fist against her mouth, refused to cry. She refused to show weakness, even here, alone in the dark. She would not shame those who had gone before her.

She would bide her time. She would remain on alert and wary of these strange people with their gruff language and their big wooden lodge from which there was no escape.

Most of all, she would be on guard against the white man with bitterness in his eyes. She’d seen the same look on the faces of the Comanche warriors who had no hope for the future. Men who had lost all hope for the Nermernuh.

She feared him far more than she did the woman. He had nothing to lose.

She promised herself never to give in. As soon as she was stronger, she would try to run, to find who, if any, of her people were still alive.

But now she was so very weary. She closed her eyes on a sigh.

Daybreak was soon enough to start planning an escape.

Chapter Six

H attie rose early the next day and nearly stumbled over Joe asleep in the dim morning light of the hallway. She woke him gently, half-afraid he’d awaken with a start and grab his shotgun.

He was mumbling and grumbling his way to his own room when she knocked on Deborah’s door and then slipped inside the bedroom.

Deborah’s eyes were suspiciously red and swollen, as if she’d cried herself to sleep. It was the first and only sign of vulnerability and loss that was apparent.

Hattie noticed Joe didn’t look as if he’d fared much better. When he sat down at the breakfast table, there were dark shadows in the hollows beneath his eyes and he moved as if his back was stiff as a cedar plank.

Hattie was amazed at how the girl shadowed her all week. Deborah was complacent and willing to do whatever task she was shown though she’d yet to utter a word.

Those first few days, Joe didn’t trust the girl enough to do anything that involved straying too far from the house. He was convinced she would try to escape, but time wore on and Deborah continued to placidly follow Hattie around, silently doing her bidding.

Hattie knew it was better to let her hardheaded son come to terms with the situation in his own time, so she didn’t push. She waited him out and sure enough, a week after they had brought the girl home, he began to fall into his old routine and ventured farther from the house and barn.

They’d been hit by spring showers for the past two days, but he’d still ridden out to cull the Rocking e cattle from the commingled herds closest to home.

Driving in a few head at a time was a chore he could accomplish on his own, but time was near when he’d be forced to ride into Glory and contract a few extra hands to help out.

It was an expense Hattie knew he’d like to avoid, but a necessity. There was no way he could single-handedly round up all their cattle that spread across the open range.

While he was gone, she and Deborah worked side by side putting in the vegetable garden. It was a backbreaking chore, and yet it was another sign of spring that always filled Hattie with delight after a long winter inside.

Deborah never gave any sign that she understood, but Hattie spoke and gestured to her continuously as she taught the girl to move slowly down the paths between the furrows and flick precious seeds out from between her thumb and forefinger, depositing them into holes they’d bored into the dirt with thin sticks.

“This is one of the greatest gifts God has given me, outside of my Joe, that is,” Hattie told her. “And Orson and Mellie, rest their souls. I love digging my hands deep into the soil, feeling the richness of the earth. Out here, beneath the open sky, I like to pause and listen for God’s word as I work. As the Good Book says, ‘And he said, I heard thy voice in the garden.’”

Though Deborah never refused to work, there were times when Hattie would stand and stretch her back and legs, only to discover the girl staring off toward the horizon, her lovely features a study in sorrow.

In those poignant, silent moments, Hattie let her be and waited until Deborah turned to her work again. Hattie would offer up a prayer and ask God to look down upon the girl, to grant her swift healing and acceptance of this new life He’d given her.

The rain had run them out of the garden earlier this morning and now, inside the kitchen, Hattie worked at the sideboard, up to her elbows in bread dough. Her joints ached and she grew more and more tired as the day wore on. By the time she was mixing a double batch of dough in the huge crockery bowl, her head was pounding. She was punching the dough down when she heard Joe’s whistle. He was still a ways off, but letting her know she should run out and stand ready at the corral gate.

If she didn’t hurry, there was a risk of an ornery cow breaking away and trampling the newly seeded garden.

She worked the bread as fast as she could, knowing by the sound of the bawling cattle that Joe wasn’t that close yet.

Punch, knead, fold, press. She was working so fast she felt dizzy. She glanced over her shoulder at Deborah, who was sitting in a straight-back chair with a mixing bowl in her lap, busy creaming together butter, sugar and eggs for currant cakes.

Hattie thought she had plenty of time—until she heard Joe’s deep voice carry across the yard with greater urgency.

“Ma! The gate!” he hollered.

Another wave of dizziness hit her. She called over her shoulder, “Deborah!”

The girl immediately looked up at the sound of her name, stopped stirring and waited expectantly.

Thrilled, Hattie smiled. It was the first time Deborah had shown any response to her name. Usually all she did was mimic Hattie’s motions.

“The gate. Go open the gate.” Hattie nodded toward the door. Deborah had seen her open the gate and had stood back as Joe drove the cattle into the corral for two days now.

“Open the gate. Gate,” Hattie told her with greater urgency. “Joe’s back.”

By now Joe was yelling and whooping to beat the band. The bawling of the cattle intensified as they drew nearer to the corral.

Hattie held up her flour-coated hands and, like a general facing his troops, barked out the order. “Go open the gate!”

The girl set down the bowl, shot to her feet and ran out the door.

Hattie took a deep breath and her light-headedness subsided. She caught herself smiling as she kept watch through the window over the dry sink.

Gate.

Eyes-of-the-Sky knew the word. She knew many of the whites’ words now, though she refused to give her captors any sign that she was learning. For the first few days, the words had been nothing more than a confusing jumble that made her head ache, but as time wore on, distinct sounds began to separate themselves and she began to understand.

The foreign tongue almost seemed a part of her somehow. At night, the words invaded her dreams until she dreamed both in Nermernuh and in the white man’s tongue. She dreamed odd dreams filled with Nermernuh and whites, faces she knew so well and others that were unfamiliar. Unsettling dreams that left her feeling anxious and confused.

On the first day of her arrival, when they took away her clothing, it became clear to her that she was a slave, and that she now belonged to the woman, Hattee-Hattee. From sunup until the evening meal, she worked with Hattee-Hattee and did everything the woman told her to do.

In this, she realized, the whites were no different from the her people. Whenever the warriors returned to the encampment with captives in tow after a raid, their possessions were taken from them. They were beaten, whipped, even burned and tortured by their owners.

That was the Comanche way and, knowing she was now a slave, Eyes-of-the-Sky was determined not to shame herself by crying or showing fear. Among her people, things always went easier for those who showed courage and strength of will. Weak or cowardly captives were tortured by the women, if not killed outright. She never let herself forget that Hattee-Hattee, no matter how kind she appeared, had the power of life and death over her.

For now, she would obey. She would pretend to have accepted her fate.

In the beginning, the man remained close by, watching her, making certain she did not try to escape or attack the woman.

Whenever she turned around, he was there. Whenever she followed Hattee-Hattee from one place to another, he was there. Sometimes he would speak to the woman and then leave them for a short while, but he soon returned. He was always watching.

As a slave, she had no right to deny him anything. When he decided to use her in any way he pleased, that was the way of things. She would do what she must to survive.

She had endured the Blue Coats’ attack. She could endure him, too, if that was her fate.

Lately he had begun riding out before the sun rose and would bring more cattle back to the enclosure near the dwelling. She thought him crazy for collecting worthless cows.

She was sitting in the place where the food was prepared—the kitchen —when she recognized his whistle. It was his way of letting the woman know he was nearly there, that he had returned with more cattle.

It was Hattee-Hattee’s task to meet him at the corral, to lift the rope, push the heavy wooden gate wide, so the cattle would run into the enclosure.

But today the woman was making bread, the food that she enjoyed most of all. She loved the taste of it in her mouth, the warm comfort and softness of it. The magic way it melted on her tongue. She loved to inhale the scent of it as it grew plump and hot inside the iron beast with fire in its belly—the stove. The woman’s hands and arms were covered in the white powder— flour. Mixed with yeast, it magically became bread.

Outside, the whistle grew sharper, louder, as the man brought the cattle closer and closer to the house. So close that she could feel their hooves against the earth.

Hattee-Hattee was speaking to her, saying the words Joe and gate among others that she didn’t understand. Suddenly, Hattee-Hattee turned to her and commanded her to go.

She leaped to her feet and ran for the door, then outside into the blinding sunlight. Shielding her eyes with her arm, she tripped over the edge of her long garment and almost fell headlong down the steps but regained her balance just in time.

The long skirt was always in her way. It was a useless garment, one of flimsy, shiny cloth, not of sturdy, tanned buffalo hide. It was easily soiled and torn. Not only did all the whites’ garments have to be washed, but Hattee-Hattee would sit with them on her lap and repair them after all the outdoor and kitchen work was done.

Across the open yard, the first of the cattle neared the corral. She grabbed handfuls of the long gown in her hands, lifted it high above her ankles and started running.

Joe whooped and slapped his hat against his thigh to keep the cattle moving, then wiped his sweaty brow with his shirtsleeve.

The first thing he noticed when he scanned the yard was that the women weren’t in the garden. Nor was his mother waiting at the corral gate. He was close enough to be heard from inside the house, so where was she?