As the day wore on I saw open fields with few outbuildings and no people. The sun warmed my skin and my spirits after my vision and outburst in the barn. Later in the afternoon I sought a shady place beneath a tree to eat my bread. Susannah’s wheat loaf was nourishing and flavorful, and I felt glad for fresh bread after my dry fare on the boat.
Then in the distance I began to hear the regular rhythm of a horse’s hooves. After a time it became clear that they were coming closer. I hid myself behind the tree out of habit, unsure of myself. Soon a man appeared on horseback: neither old nor young, he smiled to himself as he rode and hummed a quiet tune. I sensed an old, buried pain, but mostly he was a man of peace, of grace.
“You there, come out from behind that tree; I won’t hurt you.”
I jumped. I had learned not to trust men and their promises. I stayed back.
“This is the road to Lady Susannah’s house. If you are a friend of Lady Susannah’s then you are a friend of mine.” Still I hesitated, though his voice seemed trustworthy and inviting.
“We are distant cousins, though she calls me ‘nephew.’ I serve as vicar some twenty miles from here. She does not know that I am coming, but I make these visits every now and then when my parish schedule allows.” He reined in his horse and dismounted. He walked slowly toward me around the oak tree. As he drew closer, he extended his hand in greeting. “Allan Donaldson. And you are . . . ”
I took his hand, and the grip was gentle, yet firm. Searching blue eyes looked into mine. “I’m Gabriela, sir.”
“How did you come here, Gabriela? It is a very long walk from the nearest town.”
I was not sure that I wished to tell him my story. The vicar of my town had been the first to call me witch, to move the tide toward rejection and fear. I only said, “I came by boat. Your aunt’s beach was the first I had seen in many hours, and last night’s storm was about ready to break.” He did not need to know why I was traveling.
He peered more closely at me. “So you are on a pilgrimage,” he stated simply. “I am glad of it. Are you staying with Susannah?”
“For now, sir.”
“Very good. Her hospitality is unequalled, despite her blindness. I know no one with a wider heart. Would you accompany me for the last of my journey?”
It seemed safer to say yes, so I nodded. He led his horse beside us as we traveled in silence for many minutes. Every now and then I glanced his way, both wary and curious. His face was creased from sun and wind, and the gray at his temples implied age, but his eyes were young, even merry at times, as he watched a hopping sparrow or caught sight of a rabbit along the roadside. He wore a pewter cross, heavier and more masculine than the one in my pocket, around his neck. I realized with a start that he must have known Anna.
Before I thought, I asked aloud, “Sir, what was Anna like?” He turned abruptly toward me, startling the horse. “What do you know of Anna?”
I reached in my pocket and pulled out the cross. I opened my fingers slowly, watching his face as I did so. The merry eyes disappeared behind a fog of pain and remembrance. “Were you on the boat? Did you know her?”
I looked up, meeting his eyes directly for the first time. Suddenly I saw Allan, dancing near the old barn, a lovely, green-eyed lass in his arms. They were laughing and young. I could not speak for a moment. Anna was so vibrant and beautiful; no wonder so many struggled to accept her death.
I looked away. “My sister found her cross washed up on shore several years ago. She cleaned it, cherished it, and wore it daily. I never met Anna.”
“I am amazed that Susannah even spoke of her.”
“It was because she also was startled by the cross. I have been out walking much of this morning, as she retreated to her room after our conversation. I understood that she needed time and space to grieve once more.”
Allan looked as though he wished to say something more, and then thought better of it. He resumed walking, his step slower and heavier, no longer humming.
We walked on in silence until the barn. He cared for his horse, drawing water from a nearby well I had not noticed earlier. He also took time to milk the cow, who seemed to recognize him and relax in his presence.
It was close to evening by the time we approached the house. I carried one of his saddlebags, while he managed the second along with the milk pail.
Susannah appeared in the doorway as we came within yards of the house. Her earlier turmoil seemed to have passed, and she smiled in greeting to Allan as she held out her arms. He set down his burden and embraced her. I stood aside, glad that the reunion seemed a joy to both. He had told me the truth. It had surprised me in recent months how many people lied when they were afraid—or lied when they wanted power over you. But here were two faithful people, two people who clearly loved one another and who had loved the vibrant, gifted Anna, now gone from their lives.
Susannah turned her head toward my steps. “Gabriela, it would seem you have met Allan. He is a good man; you need not fear him.” She seemed to be reading my thoughts, but I let it pass. Together we went inside to see about preparing the evening meal.
I watched Susannah and Allan, their easy movements, their gentle affection, and thought once more of my mother and aunt. Family can be such a complex gift, fraught with conflict and pain, and yet at times it shines with an inner light of understanding, like a moonglade over the water. I missed my sister with a deep ache and said little.
At dinner, Allan offered a thoughtful grace, even including me—and my pilgrimage. After an interval while all of us relished the rich soup, he spoke to me for the first time since our conversation about Anna on the road. “Few women would travel alone in these days. You are fortunate to have found my aunt as a safe haven.”
“I know it well, sir. I saw her home in a vision yesterday morning and see her as a direct answer to prayer. God has been very faithful to me, even in my bleakest times.”
“Where is your sister, the one who found my cousin’s cross? Did she not come with you?”
I shared again the story of Anna’s death, leaving out any mention of special sight or healing power. He wore a puzzled expression, seeming to recognize that I was not sharing all I could, but he did not press me. As the evening wore on, we talked of the storm, of the coming autumn, of Susannah’s need for extra provisions beyond what she had been able to store so far. She invited me to stay as long as I needed, provided that I would help her in her daily chores and preparations for the long, cold season that would come all too soon. I agreed, grateful for a place apart from village rumors and furtive looks. Allan looked relieved; I saw that he was worried for his aunt but respected her need of independence, of her own place and ways. It would seem that my coming had been provident for more than just myself.
My stay at Anna’s grew from hours to days, then weeks. I helped with the milking, the food storage, the harvest. Allan came as often as he could be spared, but the bulk of the fall preparations fell to Susannah and me. I wondered who had helped her in years past, what she might have done had I not come. I wanted to ask, but I also imagined that prying questions on my part would lead to more incisive questions on theirs, questions about plans and pilgrimage that I preferred to ignore for the present. Here at Susannah’s home I was welcome.
