The Gatherers by Marla Fair – Chapter eight
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"…through the waters, I will be with thee….
"…the rivers, they shall not overflow thee….
":...thou shalt not be burned…."
The words washed over young Charles Ingalls like water, lapping at his bare toes. The curly-haired youth looked down at his feet where they rested on the shore and then tossed his head back and laughed. His younger sister, Lydia – who was standing close by – sputtered as a shower of droplets struck her face and darkened the light fabric of her summer dress. His hair was dripping. He was dripping, as was the white robe he wore.
He'd just been baptized.
Charles grinned at the soaking wet girl before turning back to the pastor who had moved on to the next sinner in line. Beside the reverend was an older man with gray hair. He was one of the elders of the church and had one of 'those' voices – the kind that rattled the rafters. As each repentant sinner emerged from the water and began to move away – beginning their 'new' life in Christ – Elder Gray read the life verse the church fathers had chosen for them.
For him, it was Isaiah 43.
"Goodness, Charlie!" Lydia sniped as she blew a sodden lock of hair out of her eyes. "He certainly has you pegged!"
The teenager took a hand and shoved the wet curls back from his forehead. "Sister, whatever are you goin' on about?"
Lydia poked his chest with a finger. "All that talk of passing through waters and not drowning, and not being burned…. The good Lord knows you've been in enough trouble already and you're only sixteen!"
"I haven't been in any trouble…."
"No, you just are trouble," his elder brother, Peter, said as he cuffed him on the head. "Come on, there's food and girls waiting at the church, and I'm ready for both!"
Charles hesitated. "I don't know. I…don't really feel like eating."
"Or girls?" Pete asked. His hand shot out, landing on the other boy's forehead. "You sick or something?"
Charles shoved his hand aside. "No. I don't…know. I think I just want to be alone." His voice took a turn toward anger. "If that's all right with you, that is!"
Peter lifted his hands in a sign of surrender. "Fine by me. Be that way! I'll eat your pie and flirt with all the girls too!"
Lydia watched their brother go before turning back to him. "Are you okay?"
Bein' baptized had been his idea. He believed and thought it was about time everyone else knew he did. He'd expected it to be a turn in the water and a dance up the bank to the picnic. Charles looked over his shoulder at the person bein' dunked by the pastor.
It'd surprised him when it was more.
"Charles?"
"I'm fine," he said, forcing a cheeky smile. "You know how all the old ladies make over a man when he's gone for a 'swim'. I'm just not ready to have my cheeks pinched yet."
Lydia let out a sigh. "You're hopeless." She smiled and leaned in to plant a kiss on his cheek. "Don't take too long or Ma will come looking for you."
Charles watched his sister skip away and remained where he was, uncertain of what to do. As he hesitated, he noticed Elder Gray heading his way. The older man had a concerned look on his face.
He'd take a walk. Yeah, that was what he'd do. It would clear his head.
A quick walk.
He was in the trees before the older man cleared the shore.
Under his robe he wore his dungarees, so Charles had to lift the white fabric to shove his hands in his pockets. Somehow hands in the pockets seemed to make thinkin' deeper, almost like a man had to rummage around to find the truth. He'd had to do a lot of studyin' to get baptized, and most of what he'd learned had been consoling and uplifting – even, and this was a word his ma liked – edifying.
Still, some of it was just plain confusing.
He'd been born into a Christian family, so believin' came to him natural as breathin', but unlike his sister and his other brothers, he had questions. God was good, but God let bad things happen – and to good people. That didn't seem fair. The law said a bad man was punished and a good man rewarded, and he wasn't really sure why God didn't see things the same way. He'd asked his pa about it one time and what Pa said confused him even more. The older man started talking about storms. He said there was three storms in the Bible and every man had to weather those same storms. There was the storm of perfection, and one of protection. It was the last one troubled him.
The storm of correction.
Charles hands dug a little further into his pockets as he passed deeper into the woods. He'd waited until his father fell silent and then asked, 'Just how does a man tell the difference?' How did he know if God was perfecting him, or protecting him, or correcting him 'cause he'd done wrong? How did he know which storm he was in? Pa said it didn't matter. The Good Lord Almighty was sovereign and He knew best. A good man – a Godly man – took what he was handed and made the best of it. So, if the crops failed, he was to thank God. If his ma or pa, or one of his brothers or sisters sickened and died, he was to thank God. If he had his own family, and they were wiped away in an instant like Job's had been….
He was to thank God?
"Have you lost your way?" an unexpected voice asked, startling him.
Charles pulled up just short of running into the man in front of him – a man who had come out of nowhere. He had a cloak with a hood that was pulled low over his face, and was leaning on a staff.
"Huh?"
"I asked if you'd lost your way?"
"No, I…." Charles turned and looked behind. The woods had closed around him. He really had no idea where he was. "Maybe," he admitted, chagrinned.
The man held a hand out, gesturing back the way he had come. "I'll walk with you as long as you need me."
The teenager frowned. "You don't know where I came from."
"But I know where you're going," the stranger answered, an unseen smile lighting his reply. "If you'll have me, I'd like to help you along the way."
He was growing suspicious. "Why would you do that? You don't know me."
"Not yet, but I know your parents well, and your grandparents."
"So you know where I live?"
The stranger nodded. "As you say."
Charles turned in the direction of his home, but paused. "I can make it on my own, you know."
"Can you? Are you sure?" This time white teeth flashed within the darkness of the hood. "The way of a fool is right in his own eyes, but he that hearkeneth unto counsel is wise."
"You know your Bible."
The man chuckled. "And its author."
The teenager stared at the stranger. There was something about him that made him want to trust him, but something that frightened him as well, as if there was some thing – some unseen power, maybe – lurking beneath that cloak.
"How about this?" the man suggested when he said nothing more. "I'll walk with you for a time and then let you walk on your own. If you need me again, you can call."
"Call you?" He snorted. "Out of the blue? What are you going to do, hang around just out of sight until I'm old?"
The man nodded. "Very old."
Charles stared at the hooded figure. "Did my Ma send you?"
"In a way."
"I knew it! I bet I know you too, or you wouldn't have that thing over your face."
The cloaked head nodded. "Ah, there you have me. You have known me since birth."
That puzzled him.
"Are you gonna tell me who you are?"
"Not now," the man replied, and started walking.
"Where are you taking me?" the confused youth asked as he ran to catch up.
The man turned and the light struck his face, revealing a pair of eyes ice-blue as the baptismal water had been.
"On the journey home, young Charles. On the journey home."
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"Charles? Charles, can you hear me? Open your eyes and look at me."
The wounded man wasn't going to fall for it. He bit his lip and shook his head.
"I must admit I'm a bit confused. Does that mean you can't hear me, or you won't open your eyes?"
Frowning hurt too.
"Who…?" Charles managed to rasp out.
"A friend. That's all you need to know."
It was a man. He thought the voice sounded vaguely familiar, but he knew that was impossible since he was in the middle of nowhere.
"…friend?"
"You've taken quite a nasty fall. Let me – "
"Didn't…fall," he spit out. "Pushed."
"Oh, dear! Now, who would have done that?"
There was a vague image in his mind – someone young. Angry. "Don't…know. Someone…."
"Well, it doesn't matter now. What matters is your healing." The man paused. "You're quite broken, you know."
Charles could feel it. It was like that time he'd fallen out of the tree after stupidly attempting to rescue a kite. Only this time it felt like every rib was broken.
He nodded. "I know."
"You do? That's half the battle then. It's hard to heal if you won't admit you're broken."
The farmer's head was reeling, and this time it wasn't from the stars. It seemed to him like the man was talking in riddles. He really didn't want to chance it, but he felt like he had to.
Charles opened one eye.
Apparently, he'd been talking to a fox.
"What…?"
"Oh, you have to pardon my friend. He's been very worried about you." A large hand fell on the fox's furry head. "Why don't you go tell Chala our friend is awake?"
He had to know. "Chala?"
"I'll introduce you as soon as you're better. Now, do you think you could sit up and take a little broth?"
Sitting up seemed tantamount to making the trip from Kansas to Minnesota again – on foot this time. "I don't…."
"I'll help."
Charles felt a man's large hands wrap around his ribcage. He braced himself for excruciating pain, but it didn't come. Strength seemed to flow from the stranger's hands. Before he knew it he was in an upright position; braced against the rocky wall he'd spied the first time he woke. The farmer closed his eyes, drew in a breath, and then opened them again and looked at his rescuer.
The first thing he saw was the man's face. Though it was cast in shadow, he got a good impression of it. It was a kind face; broad and well-lined, sporting a day or two of growth on the cheeks. The stranger's hair was grizzled – salt and pepper, some would say – and liberally sprinkled with silver. His clothes were homespun. He wore a linen shirt with suspenders, over a pair of rough brown pants jammed into a pair of lace-up boots so old they looked like they'd witnessed the Revolution. His leather vest had an odd cast; the color shifting from brown to black as he moved. Beside him on the ground was a heavy plaid coat – also brown and black.
When the man saw him watching, he smiled a gap-toothed smile.
"Good," he said. "Good. Now, can you tell me your name?"
Charles blinked. "Sure. I'm….Charles."
"Charles…?"
He thought a moment and then shook his head.
"It will come back, as all things do in time," the man said as he reached behind his back. "Now, let's see if you can eat something."
The aroma of the soup was heavenly, but it turned his stomach. He shook his head.
"Come now. Chala will be quite offended if you turn down her soup."
Charles looked at it. He could see a good many things floating in the broth, including clover and, maybe, a few twigs.
"Is Chala a rabbit?" he asked.
The man's aspect brightened. "Why yes! How did you guess?"
The farmer made a face. "So, Chala cooked the soup?"
"Heavens no!" The stranger laughed heartily. "It's her soup. She's sharing it with you."
Charles closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the stone. "I must be dreaming."
"There are more things in heaven and earth, dear Charles, than are dreamt of in your philosophy."
He cracked one eye. "From the God to Shakespeare?"
"Both are dear friends of mine." The man held out a spoon. "For those who love you? Won't you try?"
The farmer managed a half-dozen spoonfuls and then shook his head. At the gesture, Charles felt a pang of grief.
"Missing your young ones?"
Suspicion returned. "How do you know I have young ones?"
"A man of your age, in the prime of his life? Why would I think otherwise?" The stranger paused. "Now come, tell me about them. Do you have any girls?"
He was growing tired, but somehow not answering didn't seem to be an option. "Three. Mary's the oldest. Half-pint's next. And then Carrie, after her mother."
"Half-pint?"
Charles held his side as he chuckled. "That's what I…call Laura. My half-pint of cider."
"I see. And do you have any boys?"
The pain in his side wasn't half of what he felt in his heart. "No."
"Ah. Well, perhaps in time." He held the bowl out. "Would you like some – " A whimper and a thump made the man turn and look down. "What is that, Chala? You say I'm wearing our guest out?"
Charles gaze fell to the man's boots. Beside them was a gray rabbit, sitting on its haunches.
"You must forgive me. I forget how…fragile…men are. You need to rest." The man whistled. Momentarily the red fox appeared.
"Don't tell me…"Shungila?"
"Why yes!" The stranger smiled. "That is what the natives here about call him, though he prefers Gila." He turned to the animal. "If you would go ahead of us and turn the cover down, my friend."
Charles blinked. "Cover?"
The man moved, revealing a lean-to made of trunks and branches behind him. Beside it there was a large round cushion that appeared to be some kind of seat.
"You need shelter and healing. Not only did you take a bad fall, but I'm afraid that weapon of yours went off when it tumbled out of your belt, leaving a nice crease across your brow! It will be some days before you can travel. Our loving Father has provided for you. It is my hope that, in some humble way, I can assist you."
Charles touched his forehead and felt the bandage. No wonder he had a heck of a headache! He grunted as the man placed an arm around his middle and eased him to his feet. Slowly, painfully, they made their way to the lean-to. Laying down was near as hard as standing up, and by the time he had the cover pulled up to his chin, he was just about done.
"Rest now. We can talk tomorrow."
The farmer lifted a hand. "One thing…."
"Yes?"
"Tell me…who are you?"
"Who am I?" He chuckled. "I am afraid it would take more time than I have to explain."
"Who…? I mean, what's your name?"
"Oh. That's an easy one," the older man replied as he lifted the cover up so Chala could scoot in next to him and her warm, furry form nestled close against his neck,
"My name is Jonathan."
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to be contiued…