sea foam that made her seem much older.
As I savored the last bite, she resumed the focus she had laid down earlier. “Brie, tell me your story. How have you come to be here?”
I felt afraid. She had shown me such gracious care; I did not want to risk losing that. I was already beginning to feel at home here on the hill above the sea, among her stone-sculptured stories. The silence stretched between us.
“I can tell that you are afraid. I will not hurt you. What is it, Brie?”
I knew that the best way for her to understand was to show her. I reached into the pocket of the apron that she had loaned me and cupped the cross. My fingers also brushed against the scrap of paper I had found in the bow of my boat: peace to you, peace to you . . . I leaned into trust and gazed with love upon her eyes, marred by the cataracts and other disease. I felt her confusion, then her own fear. I saw a little girl running, running fast and frantically down a hillside, chased by a bull who had escaped from the pasture. The bull was caught, but the girl did not know, and in her running, she lost her footing and fell face-first into a bramble full of sharp, cutting thorns. They tore at her face, her clothes, and especially her eyes. I felt the stinging pain in my own eyes, then concentrated on a deep wave of healing, of light, of hope. The way forward seemed a tangled mixture of resistance and longing. Suddenly I heard her gasp.
“I see a bit of light. From both eyes I see a bit of light! What is it that you are doing, child?”
“This is why I had to leave. The people of my village distrusted me, called me witch. I am no witch, Susannah. I did not seek this power. Sometimes it has come as protection for me, as a distraction. Sometimes it is solely for the other, to soothe a burn, to soften a bruise. Most of the time I see in my mind the source of the pain: I saw you running away from that crazed bull and the way you fell into the brambles . . .”
I heard her sharp intake of breath but kept speaking. “It started the day I buried my sister. We were alone by then. I did not know my father well, killed in the war. He visited once when I was about eight. I remember his kindness, as well as the way he sat staring into the fire with pain in his eyes. Before he left again, he prophesied that God had a long journey ahead for me, but would always go with me. Perhaps this is the journey that he meant.
“Our mother died two years ago, succumbing to a winter influenza. I thought my sister and I would always be together. But then she fell prey to fever after stepping on a rusty nail while playing in the fields, and she never rallied. Amidst her fever, she told me that she saw our mother dancing on the arm of a tall, red-haired man with long sideburns. She had never met our father, but that’s who she had described. After she died, the one thing I kept was this pewter cross that Anna always wore around her neck. She found it on the shore the summer she was four and treasured it always.”
I handed the pewter cross to Susannah, and saw with surprise that her hands were shaking. She fingered it with care, even with tenderness, and I saw her straining to see out of eyes that were now slightly less thick with fog. “Anna, my Anna. . .” Her voice held a faraway quality of wistfulness and pain. She did not speak for several minutes, and I waited, feeling that something strange and somber had been reawakened for her.
At length she began. “This cross belonged to my daughter, Anna. She was lost at sea many years ago, as she journeyed home after remarkable travels. I still keep her letters; perhaps later I will ask you to read them to me. Some said they saw the ship in the storm, that they were close, so close to home. I did not want to believe that she could die within sight of our land . . . Her body was never recovered. But I know this is her cross.”
She handed the pewter pendant back to me. “Look on the back: do you see the tiny initials, ALM? Anna Leigh Mason. My husband worked it for her; he was a gifted metalworker in his day.” Her voice shook as she continued, “Anna shared in her letters that she had begun to experience a gift of healing light, a strange ability to bring comfort to others, to know their pain. We wanted to believe her, but it seemed so strange . . . James and I understood art, bringing life out of metal and stone, but to restore life in the place of disease and scarring? Today you have shown me that she spoke truth.
“Gabriela, I want to know more of your story, I do, but this has been overwhelming. I need to rest. Please know that you are welcome in my home; I do not fear you. You may stay as long as God calls you to be here. Please make yourself at ease here, in the house, the grotto, the fields around. Tomorrow I may ask you to help me with chores and tasks. For today, explore, rest, let your soul be blessed that there is none here to fear you or wish you gone.”
She rose and walked to a flight of stairs at the side of the house. “I’ll be upstairs for much of the day, I think. We’ll meet again over supper, perhaps around six?” And then she was out of sight.
A great turmoil of emotions whirled in my heart and spirit. I felt wonder and fear at this strange interweaving of our lives, having lost beloved young women named Anna. I remembered how Susannah had called me Anna when I arrived. Did I remind her of her child?
I thought also of this strange healing gift. Learning that Anna had also been chosen to serve as instrument for its expression comforted me immeasurably. I was not alone; I was not so strange in my gifting. Yet I wondered also about the cross; was it necessary for this gift, or was it only that in holding it, I focused better on God’s voice, God’s invitation and revelation for the other in need? I did not know.
I missed Susannah’s presence. She had a gentle, quiet heart that radiated peace. Yet I understood her need to grieve and reflect alone. She had not shared how long ago the boat had gone down in the storm; she did not tell how her husband had died. Had he also been on board? I knew from my own life that, once awakened, those sorrowful memories needed a bit of space to be held and then laid to rest once more.
Susannah had recommended a day of exploration and rest. I put on my boots, gathered up my water and a generous portion of bread from the table, and left by the door to see what the day held in store.
The storm had left in its wake a gentle morning with feathery clouds and scattered sunshine. The autumn chills had not yet settled in, though I pulled the blue cloak Susannah had loaned me tight around my shoulders when the winds blew. I followed a rutted track down from the house, a winding way that led away from the sea and back toward fields and copses. After a few hundred yards, I came to a disused barn, with one cow grazing in a field nearby. She raised her head to regard this unexpected visitor and then resumed her chewing. Inside the barn I found a milking stall and old equipment on one side and what appeared a smithy’s forge and tools on the other. A sturdy wall separated the two, keeping the hay well away from the fire and smoke.
And then I saw him, saw as I often did before the healing power came. He stood before the forge, pounding as though for dear life. His face was contorted with pain and sorrow, and the tears and perspiration mingled on his cheeks and chin. The ringing of metal against metal resonated with his grief: Anna, Anna, Anna. Or was it my own? For I realized that I was on my knees, sobbing for my sister, for her sweet spirit, for her wise ways and quicksilver grin. Anna, my Anna. Why did you have to go? The ringing forge pounded in my head, but I reached out a hand to the man, willing his release from this grief. Did he see me? Was he even there? Or was it all a vision in my mind of things as they once were? I did not know. I sat alone, bathed in tears and sound and memory, letting time seep away.
Then the old cow stuck her head in the doorway with a lowing sound of inquiry and confusion. I shook my head to clear it. I no longer saw the smithy nor the light of the forge. I was still tired from my sea journey. I brushed my skirt free of the dust and dirt and gently stroked the head of the old cow: “Good girl; all is well.” And I walked on.
