M. Wren: A Gift Upon the Shore

A book is not the work of its author alone. I’ve had a great deal of help with this one, and everyone who so willingly offered their support and expertise deserves to be recognized if only with a few words.

For their expertise in a variety of fields, my thanks to Glen Mills of the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry; Bill Rogers of the Lincoln County Extension Service; Itzy of Kickass.to; pharmacist Carol Griggs; Morris Kauffman, of Kauffman Quarries, Inc; Lee Crawley Kirk, who provided information on livestock in general, Jane Thielsen on horses in particular, and all the Finks of the Fink Family Farm on goats in particular; and Meg Portwood, FNP, who not only provided medical expertise and textbooks, but patiently read parts of the manuscript.

My thanks also to Kaj Wyn and Don Berry, who listened and asked the key question.

And to Jean V. Naggar, the adroit matchmaker, who insisted on certain standards, and she was right—as she always is.

And above all, to Ruth Dennis Grover and Katharyn Miller Renfroe, who not only didn’t laugh when I devoted more than three years of my life to this endeavor, but offered the tangible and emotional support I needed—sometimes desperately—to complete it.

I will call it the Chronicle of Rachel.

It will be written simply, simplistically, with the cadence of the King James Version. The story of Rachel Morrow as told by her acolyte and apostle Mary Hope.

I can hear Rachel laughing at that—a gentle, comprehending laugh with a hint of cynicism in it, but no bitterness.

I think of Rachel’s laughter as I put my back to the sea, and with the cautious pace dictated by age and arthritis, I make my way east across the beach toward the bank. It’s forty feet high here, with salal and clumps of mimulus clinging to its striated layers of earth and clay and the cobbled ledges of buried beaches. I’d never be able to climb that slope if it weren’t for the path that winds up through the ravine cut by the Styx. Not the River Styx. The small, stubborn creek Styx.

I pause at the foot of the path, my cane and moccasin boots sinking into the snowy, dry sand where the tide hasn’t reached since winter. The air is weighted with dew, and on this April day, the early-morning sun shines clear as white wine on the blue-green face of the Pacific, makes rainbows in the spindrift arching off the breakers, but it will be half a day before the sun reaches this spot. At my knee, Shadow stands panting from her sprints along the edges of the waves, black and white and russet fur sea-wet, long nose pointed into the wind. The family thinks I call her Shadow because she is so often beside me, but in fact I named her for her ancestor, the first Shadow, whose ancestors were bred to herd sheep in the Shetland Islands, a place so hopelessly far away now that I’ll never know if anyone, anything, still lives there.

I draw my brown wool shawl closer as I set off up the path.

Yes, I will call it the Chronicle of Rachel, but it will of necessity be my story. I am the viewpoint character. And I can delay it no longer. Last night I read something in Miriam’s eyes that served notice to me. I must do it for Rachel, for all her hopes.

And for Stephen, that he may be emancipated, and his children and his children’s children. Generation unto generation.

When at length I reach the top of the path, I stop to catch my breath, then, with Shadow at my heels, I walk into the sun across the unmowed grass, passing the house on my left. No one is there now. A covered breezeway connects the east wall to the garage. Rather, the church. I can hear voices singing in three-part harmony: “Rock of Ages, cleft for me…”

I don’t attend the family’s religious services. Early on I attended a few of them and found them annoying on many counts, not the least of which is that they were boring, even the daily morning and evening services that usually last only an hour. And they all remind me too much of the Doctor’s sermons and his morbid visions of hell.

Jeremiah’s hellfire lacks conviction. Despite his youth, he tends to long-winded and edifying parables. Miriam is more a preacher in the evangelistic tradition. I attended, out of curiosity, the first service she conducted. That was five years ago when Jerry had pneumonia. In his absence, Miriam flowered proudly as our resident high priestess, like her namesake, the sister of Moses. When Jerry recovered from his illness, he decided that perhaps it was possible for a woman to serve as preacher. For morning services, at any rate.

He decided that? Let’s say he thought it was his decision.

But I avoid the services, whoever is preaching, and on this spring morning I sympathize with the children, who have no choice but to be confined in the church. The family hasn’t done much to improve the structure since it was a garage—and for a while a chicken house and rabbitry, then a storeroom—except to put in two windows, a crude altar, a pulpit, and three hard benches. They replaced the garage door with a standard door, and on the peak of the roof mounted a wooden cross.

I hum along with the hymn as I walk on toward the barn and the labyrinth of pens and sheds and rabbit hutches around it. Cassandra, the grande dame of our goat herd, is at the watering trough. Since Shadow is with me, I don’t venture too close to Cassandra, although I’m worried about her. She’s pregnant and near term. At the chicken coop, I try to count the chicks, a hopeless task; they move so constantly. There are at least thirty. The rabbits are proliferating handily: two of the does have litters of seven. In the pigpen, Diana happily nurses her squealing litter of ten.

I turn and walk back toward the house and church. I can hear no music now. Miriam is probably giving one of her lessons. She has, so I’ve been told, made the morning service a Bible school for the children. Not only are they confined to that bleak building on this splendid morning, but they must be catechized by Miriam. But it gives them practice in memorization.

And I’ll have them for three hours later this morning.

Stickeen and Diamond have joined us. They’re both Agate’s heirs and have his wolfish look, and they’re still puppyish enough to tempt Shadow into a romp. I stop to watch their game, but a few minutes later I’m distracted by the opening of the church door.

The service must be over. I watch, unnoticed in the shade of an alder copse perhaps thirty yards away, while the family files out of the church, Jerry leading the exodus. Jeremiah. I find it difficult to think of him as Jeremiah. I will always, I suppose, think of him as Luke’s boy. He has the same narrow head, deep-set blue eyes, and long bones, although his hair and beard are a wan brown. Jerry is thirty-one years old and our Elder. Since he’s the only adult male here, he holds that office by default, really. I never remind him of that.

Miriam follows him, her imperious posture making her seem nearly as tall as Jerry, and she has Luke’s copper red hair. The sun fires it, a candescent cascade falling to her waist. All the other women cut their hair short for convenience—in that, they’ve taken my lead—but I can’t blame Miriam for letting her hair grow long. It is her glory. She’d be beautiful without it, but with it she is ravishing. Yet this Ishtar, this Astarte, this veritable Venus—and the first time I saw her she was standing on the verge of the sea—considers vanity a sin.