to sea and storm, to wind and journeys home.
And then he is running, running away down the promontory, leaping to catch the wind as it rises to receive him, bearing him onward and away. I stand to watch, to gaze in wonder at this grace-filled flight, this mystery of wind and feather and the artistry of God. After the first flapping movements, he settles in, riding, gliding, soaring; it seems so easy and yet it is the work of great strength, of muscles and sinews shaped just so to receive the wind-swells and vagaries of thermals.
I walk closer to the cliff’s edge, mindful of my own risk and yet needing to see him for as long as I may. It takes my breath away, this windborne dance, this wistful ride, this lonely wanderer who is not alone. Can’t I come with you?
I watch until the albatross is a faint speck in the distance, a whisper of wings over wave. I blink to clear the tears and realize I can no longer see him.
I sit back down under the tree, lost in wonder and a surprising grief. The encounter replays itself on my mind’s eye, and I smile. I have been blessed by beauty, by something far beyond my careworn, circumscribed world. I feel the fatigue of days and stretch out for a nap. In my brief dreams I also skim the sea on strong, silent wings, ever journeying.
I awake with a start and realize that I need to make my way homeward. Susannah will be worried. I pack up my things and then look toward the spot where I first saw the albatross. Among the rocky outcroppings, something shines. Carefully, picking my way over sharp stones, I make my way to the spot. And there, alongside bits of shell and seaweed, is a pearl. I pick it up and balance it in my palm; it reminds me of the bright eye of the albatross, gazing at me with intensity and interest. It seems he has left me a gift, something by which to remember this meeting. I place the pearl in my pocket and find my way back home.
Allan came for a visit in mid-autumn, wanting to check on our provisions and preparations for winter. He was pleased at how my presence and work had allowed Susannah to be ready sooner, and he showed his gratitude with an offer. “Would you like to come with me to town, Brie? Perhaps there are some things you would like to see or do or buy.” I remembered my own village, the stares and distrust, the whispers and doubt. But then I realized that no one would know me in this new place. Surely a short visit need not have any incident. I agreed, and at the end of Allan’s visit, I left with him for Lanford.
We talked little on the day’s journey on horseback, lost each in our own thoughts, I suppose. I wondered whether Allan were recalling rides with Anna; his gaze held a bittersweet look that was full of reminiscence. By sunset we were on the edge of town, hearing the shouts of children playing, the rumble of cart wheels in rutted roads.
I was to stay with a pair of unwed sisters not far from Allan’s parsonage. Their sweet hospitality encircled me, and I slept easily that night. No dreams, not even the rush of wings. In the morning light I smiled to myself. Perhaps the struggles of my early life need not characterize the days to come.
Rachel and Bronwyn invited me to walk with them to market after our modest morning meal. The wind was chilly and dark clouds scudded above, but the mood of the townspeople was lively; market day afforded a break in the routine, abundant color and energy, and sometimes, welcome treasures. I felt impressed by the scope of the market: bigger and brighter and more varied than anything I had known at home. No one really noticed me, intent on their own search for provisions and for deals as the dark sky boded winter’s approach.
I chose some orange-scented tea for Susannah, a corded bookmark for Allan; surely they deserved some small tokens for these long weeks of care and comfort and safety. For myself I chose a few skeins of bright yarn, hoping to knit a warm scarf over the long season ahead. Rachel, Bronwyn, and I shared a small lunch of fresh bread and cheese in a clearing near the main road. I felt happy and relaxed in a way that I had forgotten, glad of my new friends, of the grace of anonymity.
And then it happened, all in a flurry of neighing and crashing, of confusion and cursing on the road just beyond. A horse had been startled, and it reared, tipping over the heavy cart behind. At first it seemed a minor incident: the driver had managed to escape much injury and was busy trying to unharness horse from cart and calm the poor animal. But then someone called out for help, sharp and clear in the autumn air. A small boy had been struck by a corner of the cart as it overturned and was bleeding profusely from the crown of his head.
Before I even knew what I was doing, I was up and running into the street, hurrying toward the boy, gripping the cross in my pocket. I knelt down at his side, heedless that my skirts would be dirtied by mud and blood. He looked about nine years of age, his face contorted in pain and fear. I didn’t take time to ask questions, only put out my hand to his head where the wound was deepest and began to pray. I felt the old grace returning, the warmth of light in my fingers, the deep peace of healing. In my mind I pictured the little boy running, dancing, delighted, as the watchful, loving eyes of Christ looked on. Though there was shouting and muddle all around me, I only saw his little face, first pain-filled, then puzzled, then peaceful. I shut my eyes and kept praying, letting the healing grace do its work, relinquishing my need to hide in this greater need to serve.
Unexpectedly, Allan’s face came into view. “Brie! What has happened?” Beside him stood a weeping woman I took to be the child’s mother. She knelt down beside me and gently lifted him from my touch. His eyes opened and he murmured, “Mama.” And then I must have fainted, for I saw no more.
I awoke in the spare room at Rachel and Bronwyn’s. Someone had lent me other garments, for my own could be seen hanging on the line beyond the window. It was nearly dusk, and with disquiet I remembered my headlong rush to the boy’s side, in full view of my new friends and a dozen or more townspeople. Was he all right? I wondered. It wasn’t always certain what could be healed and what not. I rinsed my face in the nearby basin and went out to the sitting room.
Five faces looked intently at me as I appeared: Rachel and Bronwyn, Allan, and the little boy and his mother. The child seemed well, looked alert and coherent. Yet alongside my great joy at his recovery, my stomach dropped in anticipation of the conversation to come.
Allan broke the silence, “Have you trained in medicine, Brie? This child had quite an injury, and yet he seems now right as rain. You mentioned nothing of that to Susannah and me.”
I shook my head, wordless. Bronwyn spoke up gently, “I told you, pastor. She was not applying poultices or giving him herbs; she was just placing her hands to the wound and praying.”
“But you said he was bleeding profusely. There is still a stain on the street. And yet now all we see is a tiny scar on his head. This cannot be.”
Rachel looked at me with a hesitant glance, deep kindness mixed with fear. She held out my cross to me. “I found this in your pocket as I washed your garments. I did not want it to be lost.” I took it from her and was surprised at the warmth that rushed up my arm.
But Allan was still questioning. “Brie, what did you do? How did you do it? The first townspeople to come upon Michael were not even sure that he would survive his injury.”
I could not hide. “I prayed,” I answered simply. He looked disbelieving, so I continued. “Sometimes when I pray, a warmth comes to my hands; sometimes healing is worked somewhere between the prayers and my hands and the person who is hurt. I do not understand it any better than you. It is why I ran away from my old village. The people feared and mistrusted this power that God sometimes wields through me. I do not know how it works; I only know that it is.”
For the first time, little Michael spoke up. “I heard the horse, and then the cart fell, and I felt a sharp, tearing pain in my head. I fell
