Chapter 62

The Creek

Wind blows spray under the canvas. In spite of the tent and its run-off trenches, our little piece of ground grows wet. I sit on the suitcase, shelter my letter book under my petticoat, and draw my skirt around my legs. Grandpa tries to secure the tent flaps, but the wind has its way.

I scoot to one end of the suitcase to make room for him beside me. He puts his arms around me and gathers me against his damp shirt. In spite of wind and rain that refuse to stay outside the tent, I feel safe.

Breathing in his smell and feeling the strength of his sheltering arms, I recollect when we first came to be on opposite sides. He plunked me at the boarding house, and I was angry he left me with strangers. But Mrs. Grome was not a stranger. He knew her from fifty years ago when she tended soldiers from both armies. He trusted her.

When the downpour’s fury eases to a drizzle, I keep my head against Grandpa’s chest. My fury has eased, too.

As daylight’s remains struggle through the treetops, we crawl from the tent. The only rain drips from the trees. My clothes aren’t drenched, but they’re considerable damp.

“Can we go further before we stop for the night?” I ask.

He puts his finger to his lips and cocks his head. “Hear that?” He hurries along the muddy path, and I follow, my feet squishing with every step. We don’t go far before I hear a splashing, whooshing sound I know well. Living beside a stream all my life, the sound of rushing water is not new.

We follow the path up the next rise before we see a creek. Muddy water, teeming with broken branches and other debris, surges between its banks. Trees wearing brown-water skirts ruffled by the swift current show how high the water has risen.

Grandpa points to the opposite hillside, where steam rises from trees and wraps the summit with fog. “Yonder’s the path home. Looks like we’s stuck here a spell.”

Grandpa moves the tent to higher ground, while I hunt firewood. I gather dead branches caught on other branches off the wet ground. I find a few dry needles in the shelter of low-hanging pine boughs. In the end, I need to tear a couple pages from the back of my book to get the fire going.

I hear a rifle shot, and know Grandpa got meat for supper. When flames crackle, I search out mustard greens and a few mushrooms to add to the game.

Dampness permeates everything, even clothes in my suitcase and the pages of my book. While supper cooks, I set things close to the fire to dry. I scrape mud from my shoes, right glad they are not fancy high-heeled ones.

When my suitcase is re-packed, it serves again as my chair, because the ground is far too wet for sitting. My stomach is rabbit-meat full and I wear dry, smoky-smelling clothes. Through the treetops, I see stars in the night sky. It’s not a bad place to wait out the stream, but I hate a delay when Mama needs me so.