So there had been others on the run before me? And people sang of them? It seemed incredible. Susannah had asked what I longed for: what I longed for was to know and to find my home. But with Anna’s death, my old home had closed up behind me, and I did not know where my new home lay. Would I always be running? And where is home for those who breed distrust in others simply by being who they are? I was too tired to make sense of anything but the questions, and after offering the others my small gifts from the market, I nodded off before the fire, Ebenezer’s soft head at rest on my palm.
Dozing by the fire, I dreamed. Once again, I saw the wind-lashed boat, the stricken faces. Far in the distance, I saw the tail feathers of the albatross, journeying on. One sailor seemed determined to row in the direction the bird had taken, and the others seemed too tired and discouraged to resist his intentions, though one muttered, “They journey for thousands of miles over sea. He will not lead us to land, mate.” One girl cried quietly, but the other watched the bird with bright eyes, still hoping. The storm was abating around them, but their world was only water, water everywhere.
I awoke briefly to discover that Susannah and Allan had both retired, leaving me with Ebenezer by a dying fire. They had covered us both with heavy quilts to ward off the cold, and I felt too bone-tired and heart-heavy to move. I stroked Ebenezer’s head gently before falling to sleep once more. For much of the night I journeyed dreamless through dark and discouragement, hearing in the distance the lapping of waves and a soft sobbing. But just before dawn a light broke over the dreamscape of sea: in the far distance, a patch of sand; and farther still, a trail up a steep-sided hill that led to twisted trees and snow-capped mountains beyond. Now all the sailors were rowing in earnest, rowing with joy. Land! Land! The albatross was perched on a towering crag, just to the east of the beach. His eyes gleamed like pearls in the early light as he watched their approach and surveyed their safe landing. Five figures straggled to shore and collapsed, just beyond the high water mark. Only Anna knelt and spread her hands in a brief prayer of thanksgiving before also falling faint to the sand.
I awoke to the smell of baking bread and to the sounds of Susannah’s breakfast preparations. I could not shake the memory of Anna’s upraised, grateful hands, nor the vision of the steep hill with mountains beyond. In those first moments of hazy consciousness, a conviction grew within me: Anna was alive, far from home, but alive!
Despite the dire fortune she had been told and the lost cross, she and her four companions had come safely to land somewhere far distant. Should I tell Susannah and Allan? Yet what purpose could it serve? Who would believe the tangled dreams of this wind-borne sister? I held my peace.
All through that winter, I raised my hands in prayers of thanksgiving, much as Anna had done. I was warm and safe, beloved and encouraged. Susannah taught me a few of her carving tricks, and I coaxed the rough-hewn form of an albatross from a bit of driftwood over the long dark nights of midwinter. She taught me new recipes, simple preparations, ways of combining just a few ingredients for nourishment and delight. I knew in my heart she was seeking to prepare me for a long journey ahead, one with few provisions and unpredictable circumstances.
Sometimes in the evenings I would read aloud to Susannah from Anna’s letters, coming to love and understand this vibrant, faithful young woman through her own words. I looked for clues in her letters as to where she had been: town names, plans, descriptions of vistas, and landmarks. They were few and far between. Besides, her point of embarkation would not necessarily have been anywhere near the deserted beach to which I imagined the party had come after storm and despair, guided by a wise old bird. Who was I to think that I could find her? To travel alone as a young woman, even one well-trained in cooking, wise in boating, versed in healing, was a foolish plan altogether. But it was only midwinter. Perhaps the coming months would reveal God’s deeper plan.
Soon snow insulated us in our cottage world, with only brief forays out to tend the cow. Then came ice and wind, and it became clear that spring would be late in coming this year. At intervals, in the quiet evening, I would sometimes feel compelled to extend my hands toward Susannah, inviting the light to return to her shaded eyes. Over time she could see vague forms and outlines as she had not for two years or more. It helped her to navigate her home more confidently, to take up her old craft with less anxiety. I watched in wonder as she coaxed the figures of two dancers from a glossy, rich piece of wood; by the end, I recognized them as Allan and Anna, just as I had seen them in my vision in the fall. Her artistry revealed both their joy and Anna’s radiant spirit.
When the refreshing rains came at last, I knew that it would soon be time to journey forth. Allan had not come often over the winter, and his brief visits had clearly been for Susannah’s sake, with little time for me. On his most recent trip, he had at least begrudgingly thanked me for the bit of sight Susannah had regained. I rushed to assure him that was the Lord’s work, not mine. He neither agreed nor disagreed, only looked at me thoughtfully. I knew he nonetheless wanted me gone.
One evening Susannah brought out another of Anna’s letters, longer and more rumpled than any I had read over the intervening weeks. “This is her last letter. When I could still see, I read it over and over again, once word reached us of the ship lost in the storm. I wasn’t ready to share it with you before. But I sense that you will be leaving soon. You need to know the fullness of her story.”
And so I took up the letter, its words slightly blurred from old tears.
“Dearest Mama, how I miss Lily and Molly! I am glad they found their sweethearts during our travels together. I could tell from the faces and voices of their menfolk that their marriages are fortunate ones, that they will be well-loved. But journeying with Katherine and Isabella has been strained and difficult. And I can’t quite seem to shake the fortuneteller’s words.
“The other night, Katherine and I shared a difficult talk. Her faith is deep, yet also judgmental. Because she had praised how Jesus has gifted his people in surprising and beautiful ways, I dared to speak of how he sometimes works his healing touch through my own. Her face changed dramatically, and she turned away. ‘Healing powers are witchcraft, not the ways of the Lord,’ she intoned, as though reciting from Scripture. But I know no such words are in the Good Book. I spoke more timidly but persisted, ‘When the power comes, I feel his peace and presence. It is not my work, but his desire for others’ healing, as well as their openness to receive.’ Her look became even more severe. ‘Turn from this “gift,” Anna; it will be your demise.’
“Oh, Mama, I felt so heavy with disappointment. It is clear that Katherine’s faith is strong, but her rejection of what I shared was intense. The next morning, she walked far ahead of Isabella and me on the road, as though she wished to separate herself from us both.
“It is so hard to write what came next. I still don’t know quite how it happened. Isabella and I had stopped to gaze at some lovely roadside flowers. We were distracted and lost sight of Katherine. Suddenly I heard her scream. We lifted our skirts and went running as fast as we could, though with travel packs, running is awkward at best. It was a full minute before we came upon her.
“I think that she must also have been stopping by the roadside to admire some of the springtime color. But she did so beside a steep ravine, lost her footing and fell some thirty feet downhill. Even from a distance, I could see that at least one arm and one leg were broken, and her head had come to rest against a heavy tree trunk. Isabella and I quickly hid our packs behind a tree and searched for a safe way down to her. It was very rough going, with much slipping. Isabella fell a few feet, but she caught herself on a young sapling, thank the Lord. When we finally arrived where Katherine lay, her face was ashen, and she was shuddering with fear and pain. I put out my hands to her, believing that God would want to bring her some measure of comfort, perhaps even healing. Oh, Mama, she spit on my hands, and then spit on my face! ‘I want none of witchcraft’s touch, even in my pain!’ she cried. I felt my
