Lorah’s Promise
By Ann Harris
Published by Pine Lake Books
Smashwords Edition
copyright 2010 Ann Harris
eBook ISBN: 978-1-926898-02-5
This book is also available in print form ISBN: 978-1-926898-00-1
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for
DAVE
Chapter One
BANKS OF ANGRY black storm clouds gathered overhead. The air was stifling hot. Not a bird sang; not a frog croaked. The only sound breaking the eerie silence was the creaking of the nine wagons as they bounced over the stony trail leading to the fast running river. Looking skyward, Lorah listened to the rumblings of thunder that sounded like a never-ending drum roll. She wiped the damp hair away from her hot, sticky forehead. “I be thinking a fierce storm is brewing, Da.”
“Aye lass, ‘tis a terrible angry looking sky,” replied her father. “I’m thinking we’d best be stopping a while by those trees over yonder.” He pointed to a thicket of trees across the river. Turning around and raising his arm, he signalled to the wagons full of immigrant families to follow him toward the trees. Slapping the leather lines, he urged Caleb, the ox, towards the sandy slope leading into the river.
Lorah felt a chilling as the hot wind became cool and large raindrops began falling. A sudden cloudburst drenched everything it touched. In seconds, the thin dress she was wearing became saturated, clinging to her body like a second skin. The rain ran in rivulets off her da’s broad brimmed hat, as he struggled to hold onto the slippery lines. Caleb twisted his muscular neck, and lowered his head in an effort to avoid the driving rain.
The ox hesitated on the edge of the fast moving water. Slapping the lines over his rump, Lorah’s da urged him forward. “Yah Caleb, go!” The obedient ox splashed into the water, stumbling on the slippery rocks. His muscles strained as he leaned into the yoke and pulled hard against the strong current. “Yah Caleb!” The reins once more slapped across his rump. The wagon swayed and rolled precariously as its wheels bumped over the rocks, water spraying up its’ sides.
“’Tis getting deeper, Da,” said Lorah, her hands gripping the side of the seat. She looked nervously at the rapidly moving water.
“Aye lass, we must be quick and get all the wagons safely across.” He turned and yelled to the following wagons, “Close up now, we must hurry.”
Sitting behind Lorah were her two sisters Alice and Mary, her brother James, and their mam Annie. Jostled around by the bouncing, they were now huddling together and trying to keep warm and dry as the rain blew into the open ended, covered wagon. The first flashes of lightning lit up the darkened sky. Alice squeezed her eyes tightly closed and clamped her hands over her ears as a loud clap of thunder followed.
When the wagons reached the far side of the river, the oxen, sensing shelter, needed no encouragement as they pulled the wagons at a faster pace towards the trees. The thick growth of towering cedars and hemlocks was a welcome refuge from the storm for the group of tired and wet travelers. Lightning flashed and thunder crashed overhead as each wagon pulled under the welcoming branches of the trees and out of the torrential rain.
“Come, James,” said his da, as he stepped down from the wagon. “Let’s help the other men tend the oxen.”
“Da, where are the Quinlans?” asked Lorah. Shielding her eyes against the biting rain, she looked back towards the river. “There be only eight wagons here in the trees.”
“Are you sure Lorah?”
“Aye. I went looking for Catherine, and their wagon isn’t with the others. ‘Tis worried I be, for she’s still not recovered properly from the fever she caught on the ship.”
“Hush, lass. Don’t fret. James and I will away and find them. Go help yer mam and we’ll be back soon.”
As Lorah turned back to help her mam, a bright flash of lightning and an ear splitting explosion of thunder made her jump. A crackling noise sounded close by. She heard the breaking of branches followed by a heavy thud of something landing on the ground. Looking to her left, she saw that a big hemlock tree had been struck by lightning and had fallen, just missing one of the wagons.
At that moment, she heard a high-pitched scream coming from the river. Her heart pounded. Then another scream. Gathering up the hem of her dress, she dashed through the wet grass, in search of her da. The jagged streaks of lightning and booming blasts of thunder scared her, but her desire to help kept her racing forward.
Reaching the river bank, Lorah gasped at the scene before her. The Quinlans’ wagon was tilted on its side, half submerged in the raging water. Two of its wheels were slowly spinning in the air. The torrential rain had swelled the flow of the river and the water had risen rapidly. The exhausted ox was lying in the mud, part way up the collapsed riverbank. Mr. Quinlan and Catherine were beside him, frantically trying to free him from the tangled lines.
Lorah heard her da call out, “Here, Patrick. Let James and me help.” He splashed through the water. Seeing Lorah on the bank, he added, “Lorah and Catherine can tend to yer wife and children while we right yer wagon.”
But Lorah just stood staring at Mrs. Quinlan, who was struggling to stand in the swift current, her soaking wet dress clinging to her body, her hair plastered around her thin, pale face. The distressed moans and cries from Mrs. Quinlan sent shivers up and down Lorah’s spine.
“Mercy!” exclaimed Lorah, as she looked at Mrs. Quinlan, cradling the limp, dripping form of her baby boy. She looked at Mrs. Quinlan’s terror-filled face. Her body was shaking and tears coursed down her cheeks. “Dear God, please let the baby be alive,” whispered Lorah, as she made the sign of the cross.
Mrs. Quinlan’s two other children were crying, clinging to their mother’s skirt. Their brown eyes were wide with fear as they watched the water swirling waist high around them. Oblivious of the raging water, Lorah slid down into the river. “Here, Mrs. Quinlan, give me yer hand.” Reaching out, the trembling woman grabbed Lorah’s wrist with one hand while holding her baby tightly to her chest with the other.
“Good,” said Lorah in a calming voice, not taking her eyes off of Mrs. Quinlan’s face. “Now hand me yer baby while you and Catherine get yer boys out of the water.”
Reluctantly, the distraught woman handed over the small wet bundle. A faint cry escaped the baby’s blue-tinged lips and his eyelids fluttered. “’Tis fine yer baby will be now, ma’am. Some warm milk and dry clothes and he’ll soon be well,” reassured Lorah. She sighed with relief as she looked down at the baby stirring in her arms. As she hugged him close, the heat from her body began to warm him up and the blueness disappeared from his lips. Shuddering, she recalled how she had seen many babies die on the sea voyage from Ireland, and how sad she had felt not being able to help. She thanked God that this one had survived.
The rain, lightning, and thunder were unrelenting. As Lorah and Mrs. Quinlan stood on the bank, more men arrived to help. After unhitching the ox and getting him on his feet, the men righted the wagon and pulled it up the bank using two of the other oxen which they had brought with them.
Shivering with cold, her teeth chattering, Lorah handed the baby to Mrs. Quinlan. Holding hands with the two little boys, she said, “Come now, let’s away to the wagons. For sure we’ll find some dry clothes and hot soup.” Seeing that they were still terrified, she added, “Can you sing me a song now?” The boys shook their heads. “For sure you can. ‘Tis as me mam says; a song be good for chasing away the thunder.”
As she guided the two small boys back to the trees, the anger of the thunder was becoming less, grumbling away in the distance, and the rain was finally easing. Lorah smiled at Mrs. Quinlan and Catherine. “The storm, ‘tis almost gone and I be thinking tomorrow will be a better day.”
Chapter Two
THE STORM MOVED on during the night. Next morning as the sun rose, the wagon train pulled away from the trees and rolled on, up the rugged trail towards their new home. They traveled for a few hours until the sun was high in the cloudless sky. A pair of vultures glided silently overhead, following the wagons as they rolled over the rocky ground. Their broad, black wings spread wide as they slowly circled, watching as Caleb stumbled to his knees once more. Struggling to find his footing on the uneven trail, he grunted and strained as he pulled the wagon up the steep incline.
Lorah and James jumped down to the ground, and leaning their shoulders against the back of the rickety wagon, they heaved and pushed, helping Caleb up the hill. “Come on Caleb, you can do it,” urged Lorah, as she wiped her sweaty forehead. “Just a little more and we’ll be there.”
When they reached the top of the slope and were back on level ground, Lorah’s da pulled on the lines. “Whoa there, Caleb.” He turned to his children and thanked them for pushing. “I be thinking that we’ll stay here a while and let Caleb rest.”
Nodding, Lorah took a tin cup and filled it with water from the wooden barrel hanging from the back of the wagon. Gulping down the cool water, she looked around as the rest of the wagons came to a stop behind them. One by one, the wagons emptied as the weary travelers stretched their tired, aching bodies. The journey from Quebec City had been long and hazardous. Often, when they had stopped for the night, black bears, attracted by the smell of food cooking, prowled close by, and the howling of wolves could be heard as they had neared the wagons, searching for prey.
After a short rest, the wagons continued their journey, rolling slowly around the mosquito infested swamps and on between the huge grey granite boulders of the Canadian Shield. Lorah sat wide-eyed and silent beside her da, their bodies rocking in unison as the wooden wagon bounced and swayed over the stony ground. To Lorah, it seemed like a lifetime since her family had set sail from Ireland in April of that year, 1868. Now, after eight weeks crammed in the ship’s hold with hundreds of sick and dying immigrants, followed by a long and gruelling overland journey, they were almost at their destination. She remembered the words her da had spoken on leaving Ireland. “To be sure, ‘tis a better life we’ll be having in the Dominion of Canada,” he’d said.
She had believed him. She had to. They had nothing to stay in Ireland for. Her mam was sickly and her da had no work.
“We have the faith and the love of family,” he’d told her. “’Tis fine we’ll be, lass.”
But now, Lorah was having doubts. Her heart was heavy. She longed for her friends. And she wondered whether she would ever be able to pursue her dream of becoming a nurse in this harsh new land. But I must, she thought. I must be strong for to honour me promise. Mam always says promises made must be kept.
The hot midday sun beat down unmercifully and Lorah could hardly breathe.
“Da, will you stop the wagon so as I can be walking awhile?” Lorah pleaded, wiping beads of perspiration from her hot, sticky brow. The constant swaying motion of the wagon was making her stomach churn, just like the rolling of the ship on the stormy Atlantic had done.
“Aye lass, ’tis a hot day to be sure,” answered her da, pulling on the lines to slow Caleb to a halt. Taking off his broad-brimmed black hat, he drew his tanned arm across the dust and sweat on his wrinkled, brown face. “I’m thinking that we must surely be nearing the end of our journey,” he said, as the other wagons stopped behind.
Stepping down from the wagon, Lorah gulped in some warm air in an effort to stave off the waves of sickness she was feeling. Pulling her damp, blonde hair away from her sun-burned neck, she wearily walked along beside the wagon. Shielding her eyes against the glare of the blistering sun, she stared into the distance searching for any sign of a village. A thick haze hovered over the cedar trees ahead and the acrid smell of smoke filled Lorah’s nostrils. As the wagons neared the trees, Lorah could see the burned out shells of a log barn and two small shanties. The logs were all charred and blistered and the grass surrounding the ruins was blackened. As the wagons slowly rolled past, she wondered if the family who had lived there had escaped.
Lorah squinted into the bright sunlight. Standing on tiptoes, she pointed. “Look! Houses!” she exclaimed.
“Where are they, Lorah?” asked her young brother James, jumping up suddenly and peering over his father’s shoulder.
Reining in Caleb, her da looked ahead at where Lorah was pointing toward a clump of cedar trees.
“Can you not see them small buildings, Da?” said Lorah, jumping up and down with excitement.
“Aye, I see them now, Lorah,” he replied. Dropping the lines, he turned to his wife. “At last Annie, me love. We’re nearly home!”
Lorah looked into the wagon at her mam, hoping to see a spark of excitement. But the hardships of time and illness had taken their toll. Her once happy mam now appeared so frail. Her brown eyes, which used to sparkle, now seemed lifeless, sunken deep into her sallow, weary face. Her grey cotton dress hung loosely over her skinny frame. A chill settled over Lorah. She hated to see her mother looking like this. Hiding her sadness, Lorah momentarily turned away. Blinking back unshed tears, she climbed onto the wagon. Gently touching her mam’s arm, she said, “Da’s right, Mam. It will surely be good to be at our new home. Alice, James, and I can help Da so you can rest and get strong again.”
A fit of coughing shook her mam’s thin shoulders. Lorah quickly bent forward and took Mary, the baby, out of her arms.
“Thank you, child,” she muttered in a weak voice.
As the wagons drew closer to the bend in the track, small, roughly built log shanties could be seen nestled amongst the cedar trees.
“Good day to you!” shouted Lorah, as she waved to the women working in their small gardens.
“Good day, and welcome,” they replied, stopping their hoeing to watch the wagons pass.
The small wagon train rolled on beneath the cool, shady archway of tall, majestic maple trees and into the little Ontario village of Maplegrove. Lorah wiggled impatiently on the seat beside her father.
“When will we be at our home, Da?”
“Hush now. Will you not have a little patience?” He slowed the wagon and came to a stop outside the blacksmith’s shop.
The Quinlan’s wagon pulled up alongside. Patrick Quinlan leaned forward. “Well Shamus, ‘tis time to say goodbye. Me family be terrible grateful for yer help away back at the river.”
“To be sure, Patrick, ‘tis glad we be that all is well. We wish you and yer family a safe journey on to Elmwood.”
Stepping down from the wagon, Lorah walked across to her friend. “I’ll miss yer friendship, Catherine. Maybe one day we’ll meet again.” She gave her a hug and waved goodbye to Mrs. Quinlan and the other families as they continued through the village.
Seeing the blacksmith, Lorah’s da said, “Good day to you sir, can you be telling us how far it is to the O’Grady home?”
“Follow that track, mister,” the blacksmith answered, pointing towards the fork in the road. “It’s the last cabin down by the river. Are you moving into the O’Grady’s old home?”
“Aye, we be taking over me brother’s place now that he and his family are moving on and building a bigger home. Me family will surely be glad to get settled in after our long journey in this heat.”
“Yes, it’s been unusually hot this summer and ripe for storms and lightning strikes.”
“Is that what happened to the barn and homes we passed away back?” asked Lorah.
The blacksmith nodded. “Yes, the lightning started a fire. The Walsh family lost everything, poor souls.”
“But they are fine?”
“Yes, the community will help them rebuild their home. Now, I must get back to work. Good luck to you!”
Lorah’s da smacked the lines across Caleb’s rump, and the wagon lurched forward. Grunting, the willing ox pulled the bouncing wagon over the rough ground, down the narrow dirt track which ended in a clearing. There in front of them was their new home; the one they had traveled more than three months to reach.
Chapter Three
WEEDS AND GRASS grew knee high around the small log cabin. Mounds of green mosses and yellow lichens covered the roof and clung to the edges of the window frame and the wooden door which was hanging on one hinge. The rough logs, weathered by the rain, were grey in color; a contrast to the green and brown mosses wedged between the logs to keep the wind from blowing through.
“Is this it?” Lorah and James, her eleven year old brother, said in unison. “Is this where Aunt Kate and Uncle Liam lived?”
“’Tis so tiny,” said eight year old Alice. “And what’s that?” She pointed towards a tall, box-like shed a short distance from the cabin.
“Let’s find out,” replied Lorah, jumping down from the wagon and setting off along the over-grown path.
Alice followed, skipping through the tall grasses. “Ahhh!” she screamed, leaping into the air. “Lorah! Help!”
Lorah turned just in time to see a long green and brown snake slither across the path and into the grass. Her skin felt cold. The hairs on her arms started to prickle. “Dear God,” she uttered, looking at Alice’s frightened face. Swallowing, she collected herself, and as calmly as she could, said “’Tis a snake. ’Tis for sure we scared him too!”
“I don’t like snakes,” whimpered Alice.
“Well now, you’ll have to get used to them, for this shed here …” said Lorah, opening the door, “is a backhouse! See it has a seat with two holes. I be thinking you’ll need company ‘til you get to accept them snakes sharing our garden.” Tickling Alice, she laughed.
The two sisters ran hand in hand back to the cabin, where they found James still muttering about how small their new house was.
“Hush. Be thankful you will have a roof to sleep under tonight,” Lorah’s mam replied in a tired voice. “Others must sleep under the stars ’til they can build a shelter.” Holding Mary, she carefully climbed down from the wagon. The difficult, dusty journey had been hard on her fragile lungs, and the lingering cough had left her exhausted.
“Come James, stop yer whining and help me make a fire,” called his da, as he strode over to the fire pit.
Lorah, her sisters, and their mam slowly walked towards the cabin door. Pushing it open, they peered into the dark, dingy interior. The one-roomed cabin, with its two small windows and dirt floor, was indeed tiny. It was damp and smelled of dead mice. Dust covered the rough pine table, wooden benches, the three small settle beds, and rocker crib. Spiders had spun lacy curtains across the two windows.
Over the next few days, the cabin began to feel lived in. The dirt floor had been swept clear of dead mice and flies. The windows, now free of dust and cobwebs, sparkled in the sunlight. Opening up the old wooden box they had brought with them from Ireland, Lorah sorted through their few treasured belongings. “Here, Alice,” she said, pulling out two coloured blankets and an old frayed patchwork quilt. Handing them to her sister, she continued “Hang these on the fence in the sun for a while.”
Later, standing by the window, they admired their hard work. The red and green blankets and the quilt now covering the beds added colour to the room. Lorah had placed the black leather bible beside James’ jar of multi-coloured glass marbles and Alice’s rag doll on the shelf her da had nailed to the log wall.
“But we still need something else,” Lorah muttered, pushing back golden locks from her forehead.
“What, Lorah? What do we need?” asked her sister, as she flopped down on the bed.
Glancing out of the window, Lorah said, “I know. Come on, Alice.” And beckoning to her sister, she ran outside. “Look at all them beautiful flowers. That’s what’s missing,”
They walked through the tall grass. Stooping, they picked a large bunch of bright yellow black-eyed Susans, white daisies, and sweet smelling purple phlox. Returning to the cabin, Lorah scooped a ladle of water from the wooden bucket, filled a glass jar, and placed it on the rough pine table. Stepping back, she nodded her head. “Aye, that’s better.”
That evening, after collecting kindling, Lorah filled the iron pot with water her da and James had carried up from the river. She hung the pot over the fire on the arm of the iron bracket, and then sat down on a log and picked up the book that Mrs. Flanagan had given her in Ireland. She seized every chance she had to read and learn. Each time she studied the words and read a page, she felt she was a step closer to keeping her promise.
Her mam looked up from stirring the steaming potato soup. “Lorah, will you stop yer day dreaming and collect some firewood?”
“But ’tis me dream of being a nurse I be thinking of.”
“’Tis food you need to be thinking of, not yer dreams, lass.”
Sighing, Lorah closed her book. “’Tis for sure I have much to learn. Is there a doctor in the village do you think? And will he be needing a nurse, I wonder?”
“So many questions in yer head! ’Tis growing up you must do before you follow yer dreams.” A fit of coughing gripped her. “But when the time comes, I have no doubt you will find a way.”
“I’m thirteen! Almost fourteen, that’s grown up.”
“You’re determined and stubborn, just like yer da,” said her mam, when the coughing subsided. “Yet he always finds a way to do what needs to be done. God works in mysterious ways, Lorah, and I’m sure He has a plan for you. Just believe in yerself and ’tis fine you’ll be.”
As Lorah collected firewood, she thought about what she must do to pursue her dream of nursing. First I must continue me reading and writing, she thought. Perhaps I can go to school. Her eyes sparkled at the thought. But then I be needing money for learning how to become a nurse, so I must have a job as well. A frown crossed her face. If only we’d stayed in Ireland … Her original plan of eventually attending the Florence Nightingale nursing school in England had been crushed when her family immigrated to Canada in search of a better life... Now I need another plan to follow me dream and honour me promise, she thought. But how am I going to do that? Popping a wild raspberry in her mouth, she hurried home with the firewood.
Chapter Four
THE NEXT DAY, Lorah and James filled wooden bowls with the plump, juicy red berries growing along the river bank. Stopping by the water’s edge to wash the raspberry juice stains from their fingers, they watched the brown speckled trout dart through the crystal clear waters.
“Look, James,” she said, with a gleam in her eye. “Look at them fish! Tomorrow we should come back and catch some for Mam to cook.”
They watched as the trout skimmed away over the smooth rocks, unaware of what was behind them. Snapping twigs and a soft grunting noise caused Lorah to glance up. What she saw chilled her entire body. She tried to warn James, but her voice froze. Yanking his arm, she frantically pointed at the huge black bear behind them. Paralyzed with fear, their eyes and mouths wide open, they watched the bear rear up on his hind legs and stare down at them, his glossy, black fur rippling over his large frame. Snapping out of her trance, Lorah scrambled up the bank. With her skirt billowing and her hair blowing in the breeze, she scurried down the path.
“Hurry, James, hurry!” she yelled, looking back over her shoulder.
“Slow down! If you run, the bear will chase us.”
“How would you know? We didn’t have any bears in Ireland,” she retorted. Berries tumbled out of the bowl as she hurriedly climbed over rocks and tree roots.
“Will you slow down?” James shouted. Carefully, he walked backwards, watching the bear, which was busily eating the berries Lorah had left scattered on the pathway.
Dropping her bowl, Lorah gathered up her long cotton skirt, tucking it into her pantaloons. “Quick, get into the river. Perhaps bears don’t like water.”
Splashing into the cold water, they slithered over the slippery rocks as the bear moved slowly along the bank towards them. Glancing back, Lorah lost her footing and slipped, sprawling on her back in the water. Thrashing around and choking, she struggled to stand.
“Hurry, we …”
A deafening noise, like a clap of thunder, sent them plunging down, head first, into the water once more. Lorah lifted her head, spitting out a mouthful of water. She whispered, “Was that a gun?” Waist deep in the river, water dripping off her face, she looked stunned. The frightened bear scampered off into the bushes.
“James is right. Never run from a bear. Besides, they fish for their dinner in the river,” shouted a voice from above.
Shivering, her saturated pantaloons clinging to her cold, wet body, Lorah looked up. A sun-tanned, muscular boy stood on a large boulder. Resting over his arm was a rifle.
Putting her hands on her hips, Lorah shouted, “How dare you be shooting at us! You could have killed us.”
The boy, his dark brown eyes twinkling, laughed deeply. “Nonsense! I grew up hunting bear and deer. Why would I shoot at you?”
“’Tis not funny,” she snapped, infuriated by his pompous attitude.
“But you look so funny. Do girls usually wear their skirts inside their pantaloons where you come from, Irish?”
Her face flushed with a sudden heat. Her blue eyes flashed defiantly at this arrogant boy standing there, looking down on them with a smirk on his face. Trying to retain a sense of politeness she said, “Thank you for yer help but we are fine. ’Tis true we come from Ireland, but me name is Lorah, not Irish!”
Placing his arm across his waist, he bowed low. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Irish.” Climbing down off the boulder and raising the gun over his shoulder he added, “I have to go, but I’m sure we’ll meet again. By the way, I’m Brendan O’Hara.” Whistling, he turned, and disappeared through the cedars.
Like an angry cat that had fallen into the water, Lorah clawed her way out of the river. “What a horrible boy!” she spat, pulling her soaking wet skirt out of her pantaloons. Wringing the water from her long hair, she gathered what composure she had left, and with a toss of her head, marched in silence ahead of James.
“Don’t be mad, Lorah. Be glad he scared the bear away.”
“Hmph! ’Tis terrible rude he be.”
James chuckled as he caught up to her. “But it was funny, to be sure. You standing in the river and showing off yer legs!”
Watching her brother squeeze the water out of his long sleeved shirt, she said, “’Tis true enough.” Grinning, she linked arms with him. “Let’s go home before the bear returns.”
Chapter Five
LORAH STAYED CLOSE to home for a few days. The thought of meeting another black bear scared her, and she wasn’t in the mood to meet Brendan any time soon either.
One morning after chores, needing some quiet time by her self, she decided to explore along the river bank nearby. Drawn by the sound of water tumbling and gurgling over the smooth pebbles, she carefully picked her way over the rough granite rocks. Following a hidden path, she discovered a small glade nestled amongst the cedars. A secret place, she thought. Sitting on a mossy rock, she drew her legs up under her chin, soaking in the quietness. She needed a place to call her own and this was perfect. Idly twisting the chain and locket that was around her neck, she leaned back against the rough bark of a cedar tree and let her thoughts drift back to Ireland; to Will; to the conversations and ambitions they had shared. Shortly, she spoke softly, talking as if he was beside her.
This is me secret place, Will, and ’tis so peaceful after our terrible long journey. She sighed deeply. We always thought the slums in Cork were bad, but they were a palace compared to the ship. And the daily rations of soup, she grimaced, all salty and greasy. Not like mam’s thick potato soup. Will, it was terrible sad to see so many of the tiny babies dying every day, and no clean water or medicine to give them. I still have nightmares about them skinny, lifeless babies taken from their mams’ arms. ’Tis a miracle we survived. A dark curtain of sadness crossed her face. Will, I need to be learning how to become a nurse more than ever now, but ’tis afraid I am. This new land of Canada is so beautiful, yet so isolated. We traveled for days without passing any villages. And the sun beat down unmercifully on us during the day. It was so hot, Will, that the heat shimmered in tiny wavy lines in the distance. And those pesky mosquitoes surely had a feast on all of us. When we traveled around the swamps, large black clouds of buzzing mosquitoes swarmed around us. We were itching and scratching until our arms and legs were red and bleeding. Sub-consciously, she scratched her arms. Night times were still hot and we couldn’t sleep much in the muggy air. Besides, big fat bullfrogs were singing and croaking all the night, making for a terrible noise. Oh, I wish you could have seen the little bugs they call fireflies. At night, when all was dark, the sky came alive with little points of light, stabbing the darkness, as the bugs danced and played above our wagon. She stood up and straightened her skirt. Oh how I miss you and wish you were here, Will, for I miss our talks and yer laughter. Now I must away, but I’ll return and tell you what happens tomorrow.
* * *
The early morning sun streaked through the window, casting shafts of light on the dirt floor. Lorah crept quietly across the room and slipped out of the cabin. She had been awake most of the night, too excited to sleep much, nervously wondering what today would bring. She stretched, stifled a yawn, and pulled her shawl tightly around her slim shoulders. Walking through the damp grass, she left silvery trails amongst the jeweled dewdrops. Wisps of pink and gray were disappearing from the sky as she stopped at Caleb’s pen to stroke his silky brown neck. Across the river, a rooster crowed his boisterous wake-up call. Her thoughts turned to the day ahead, as she stood watching the muscular ox contentedly crunch his corn. Today would be her first time going to school and her head was crammed with questions. What would the teacher be like? Would she be young and pretty, or old and crotchety? What would the other children be like? Not like Brendan, she hoped. But more importantly, what would she learn? What did nurses need to know?
The only schooling she had known had been given to her by Mrs. Flanagan, the lady her mam had worked for. Whenever Lorah accompanied her mam, she’d slip into her favorite room, the library. Here, the musty smell of old books blended with the faint, lingering odour of cigar smoke. Curling up in the soft folds of the comfortable, big brown leather chair, she would turn the pages of books, looking at the pictures and wishing she could read the words.
“Why are you so interested in books?” Mrs. Flanagan had asked her one day.
“’Tis the words I want to learn so they help me know things.”
“Why is that so important, my dear?”
“It’s because I want to be a nurse like that Florence Nightingale lady, and I need to know what books can tell me.”
“How do you know about Miss Nightingale?”
“I heard a fine lady down by the harbor talking about how this nurse had helped the soldiers and all in some war. I can’t remember the name.”