Remembering Maggie:The Complete Bread Sister Trilogy (The Bread Sister Trilogy)
Remembering Maggie
The Complete Bread Sister Trilogy
Robin Moore
Table of Contents
A Message from the Author
The Bread Sister of Sinking Creek
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
About the Bread
Maggie Among The Seneca
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
About The Seneca
Up the Frozen River
Introduction
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
About the Story
Remembering Maggie:
How to Use This Guide
Remembering Maggie
The Complete Bread Sister Trilogy
Robin Moore
A Groundhog Press Collector’s Edition
Remembering Maggie
The Complete Bread Sister Trilogy
Copyright © 2013 Robin Moore
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Groundhog Press
Box 1311
Doylestown, PA 18901
www.robin-moore.com
www.amazon.com/author/robinmoore
This Collection contains the complete text of
Four books which previously appeared under the following titles:
The Bread Sister of Sinking Creek
Maggie Among the Seneca
Up The Frozen River
Remembering Maggie: A Guide to Living the Dream for
Teachers, Parents and their Children
A Message from the Author
These books are a tribute to the greatest woman I never met: Maggie Callahan.
Although Maggie is a fictional character, she certainly feels real to me.
Let me tell you a little about how she came into my life and how her adventures found their way onto the printed page.
I began writing this story in 1976, when I was living in a rustic cabin in the mountains of Central Pennsylvania. The cabin had no running water, no indoor plumbing, no central heating and no modern conveniences. I was 26. I had just graduated from Pennsylvania State University and was uncertain about what to do next. I knew I wanted to be a writer, but I did not know how to begin.
Then, in some mysterious fashion, Maggie’s story came to me as I was going about the everyday tasks of living in the woods. As I was chopping firewood or hauling water or hoeing beans in my tiny garden, Maggie was with me, whispering her story in my ear.
I did not know it at the time, but Maggie was teaching me about stories. Ever so slowly, I was learning the writer’s craft. I was learning that it is not the writer’s job to “make things up”. Instead, the task of the writer is to dive deep into the landscape of the imagination and return with a story to tell. It would be seven years before I finished my first book.
When I completed The Bread Sister of Sinking Creek in 1983, I sold it to HarperCollins (one of the largest publishers in the world). The book was a success and my writing career was suddenly off and running. Since then, I have been lucky enough to make my living entirely from works of the imagination, translated into spoken and written stories.
To celebrate thirty years in print, I have gathered all of the Maggie stories together, for the first time, in one collection. This e-book also includes A Guide to Living the Dream, with more than one hundred activities related to the books, especially designed for teachers, parents and their children.
I hope you and your family will bake some bread together and sit up by the fireside some moonlit night and read Maggie's story.
So, Maggie, we salute you. You've astonished us with your endurance, your inventiveness and your unconquerable will to survive. You have taken your place in the unbroken chain of women who made a home on the Pennsylvania Frontier.
If you're passing this way again, we'll be here.
--Robin Moore
And Now…
The Bread Sister of Sinking Creek
Book One
of
The Bread Sister Trilogy
Robin Moore
Chapter One
It was a hot afternoon, late in the summer of 1776, deep in the heart of the Pennsylvania wilderness. A hunched-over old man and a red-haired girl came riding single file up the mountain trail, with a string of packhorses roped between them.
At the head of the packtrain rode Herbert Johnson, a mountain tinker who traveled from one wilderness community to another, peddling the trade goods carried on the backs of his pack animals. He was gnarled, old, and worn down like the mountains he rode through. Despite the heat, he wore a long overcoat, blackened and grease stained from a thousand campfires. His eyes were small and close together, like a possum's, and they peered out from under the wide brim of his hat, searching the trail ahead. His chin whiskers pointed the way up the mountainside. Stepping along behind Mr. Johnson were his packhorses, heavily loaded now and roped together so they'd stay to the trail.
At the end of the packtrain rode Maggie Callahan. She was fourteen years old that summer. She was a fine-looking girl, with a touch of the Scotch-Irish in her features; the lines of her face were cut sure and clear, and her eyes were dark and direct. She wore her hair pulled back into a thick braid that trailed down the back of her dress, almost to her waist. The red of her hair picked up the sunlight and glowed like fire.
Like Herbert Johnson, she was filthy. Her ankle-length dress and the short blouse she wore over it were covered with dirt and stains. Her skirt had been snagged in so many places that she had given up mending it by the fire at night. She had an extra dress in her traveling sack, tied to the saddle horn, but she wanted to save that for a special occasion.
It surely was hot, Maggie thought. And quiet. She was amazed at how deathly still the forest could be on afternoons like this. The only sound was the monotonous creaking of the leather packsaddles and the labored breathing of the horses as they plodded up the mountain trail.
Maggie Callahan and Herbert Johnson were bound for Penn's Valley, which lay just north of the seven mountain ranges in the wild country of central Pennsylvania. The valley was so large and so impressive that on some of the old maps it was called simply "the Great Valley."
The Great Valley was where Maggie's new life lay. It was there that her Irish aunt Franny and her uncle Thomas had built themselves a homestead on forty acres of uncleared land. Here Maggie would make her new home.
Maggie had come nearly two hundred miles in the last fourteen days, and she was ready to leave the life of the trail behind her. More than that, she was ready to leave her whole past behind. She wanted the dark memories of Philadelphia to stay back on the other side of the Susquehanna River, wh
ere they belonged. For the first time in days, she was glad she had run away.
Maggie's thoughts flew ahead of them. Soon she would be sitting down to dinner with her aunt Franny's laughter and secrets, just as she had in the good days in Philadelphia. After all Maggie had been through, it would be good to be safe and secure and cared for for a while.
As the evening was coming on, Herbert Johnson reined his horse to a stop and swung around in the saddle. He shouted back along the packtrain, loud enough for Maggie to hear, "There she be, Miz Callahan. The Great Valley."
Maggie nudged her horse and rode up to where Mr. Johnson sat. Through the mountain pass before them, Maggie saw a green and lovely valley, shadowed and peaceful in the evening light. This was the valley she had dreamed about for so long. It lay before them like a broad, flat map. Here and there she could see the curling plumes of chimney smoke rising from the individual homesteads. Somewhere down in the valley, she heard a dog barking. Far in the distance, another range of mountains, purple in the evening light, stretched across the horizon.
Johnson clucked to his horse and they rode down into the valley, to a place where several trails came together. The tinker halted the packtrain, swung down, and walked back to Maggie.
"Come down off the horse now, Miz Callahan."
Puzzled, Maggie obeyed.
Mr. Johnson began to work at the strings that held her traveling sack to the horn of the saddle.
"This here's the fork of the trail," he was saying. "That trail to the west—just a footpath, really—takes you up along the mountainside to where your aunt Franny's cabin sets. This other trail—this one to the north—heads out along the valley to General Potter's place. That's where I'm headed. Now you take the trail up along the mountainside and you'll be at your aunt Franny's door in less'n a mile."
"Now, wait a minute," Maggie said. "I thought you were going to take me there."
"Never said that," Mr. Johnson replied. "Said I'd bring you to the Great Valley. Here you be. Now I have business at Potter's tonight and you've slowed me down aplenty already."
He unlashed Maggie's traveling sack from the horn and set it on the ground. He tied the horse's reins to the animal in front of it. Then he walked to his own horse, mounted, and rode away, as silent as could be, with nary a good-bye.
Maggie was thunderstruck. If she could have done anything to stop him, she would have. But she had already given him her mother's jeweled necklace in payment and there was certainly no point in chasing after him on foot. So she just stood, watching the packtrain disappear down the trail.
Maggie stood for some time, collecting her wits. She looked up the trail that hugged the mountainside. Then she looked at the sun, clipping low in the sky. It would be night before long. A shadow of fear began to creep through her.
Then she brightened. After all, hadn't she come nearly two hundred miles in the last two weeks? Hadn't she ridden the wearying trails and spent the night in mosquito-infested campsites along the way? She guessed, after all, that she could walk the last mile by herself. She swung her bag onto her hip and started up the trail up along the mountainside, through a thick hemlock woods. The trees rose like dark columns all around her. The heat of the day had lifted now, replaced by a cooling quietness.
Suddenly the silence was broken by the cawing of a pair of crows who flew over the treetops, warning the rest of the forest that Maggie was coming. Maggie tilted her head back and smiled. It was then that she realized she had left her bonnet tied to the saddle horn of the horse. But that didn't matter now; Franny would help her make a new one.
She walked for some time. Finally, up ahead, through the trees, she saw a clearing of land on the shoulder of the mountain. In the center of the clearing sat a modest log cabin. It was just as Franny had described in her letters, with walls of solid hewn logs, a hemlock bark roof, and a real stone chimney. The front door was standing open, as if in welcome.
Maggie suddenly felt a terrible weight lifted from her. She was home now! She was really home! She dropped her bag and dashed out into the clearing, knowing that in a moment she would be swept up into the warm and welcoming arms of her aunt Franny.
She burst inside the cabin—and stopped cold.
What she saw made her heart turn to ice. The cabin was empty.
There were a few broken pieces of crockery scattered about on the dirt floor. A torn piece of blanket hung from the rafters overhead. Branches and leaves had been blown in through the open door and were piled deep in the corners of the room. Maggie could tell that no one had lived there for a long time.
Maggie walked outside. There weren't more than a few armloads of firewood in the woodpile. Out back she could see where a space had been cleared for a garden. But nothing stood there now except a few of last year's dried cornstalks. They rustled in the wind and made a lonely sound.
Knowing it was a foolish thing to do, Maggie cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted off into the forest, "Franny? Franny? Uncle Thomas?" But her voice just died away in the stillness.
Maggie looked down. An old wooden bucket lay on its side in the weeds. She turned it over, sat down on it, and put her chin in her palm.
A bright thought flashed into her mind. She leaped up, stood in the doorway, and called out again. Maybe the neighbors would hear her cries and come up to fetch her. Maybe they would know where Franny was. Then Maggie remembered from Franny's letters that the nearest neighbors were the family at the mill down along Sinking Creek, and that was over a mile away.
A darker thought crept into her mind: Maybe her cries would attract animals, mountain lions or black bears, or maybe even a traveling hunting party of Iroquois Indians. For the first time since she had left Philadelphia, Maggie felt afraid.
It was then that she had the eerie feeling that she was being watched. She felt as though someone was behind her. She spun around and there, standing just a few paces away, was the wildest-looking man Maggie had ever seen.
He stood among the waving corn, stock-still. At first Maggie thought he was an Indian. Then she noticed that he had a long gray beard that trailed down the front of his hunting shirt. His hair was the same color, shoulder length and unruly. He was very old. He was dressed entirely in smoke-stained buckskins. A red-handled tomahawk and a sheath knife with a deer-antler handle were thrust into the woven sash he wore at his waist. Hanging at his right side were his hunting pouch and powder horn. Clasped in his hands was a Pennsylvania long rifle, slanting up and away into the darkness. On his head was a cap made from black bear fur, with a single red-tailed hawk feather that tossed in the breeze as he stood watching her.
But it was his eyes that scared Maggie the most. Peering out from under bushy eyebrows, they were sharp and angry. And cold as gray river ice.
Chapter Two
The old man stood out in the clearing for a long time, staring at Maggie. She was too frightened to move. When he finally spoke, his voice came out loud and gruff, like the growl of an old bear. "Are you a crazy girl?" he asked. Maggie would have spoke, but she couldn't get any voice up out of her throat, so she just shook her head.
"Well, tell me this," he said, "if you're not a crazy girl, what're you doin' hollerin' off inta the woods like a crazy girl for?"
Maggie managed to get some voice out of her throat this time, but it came out quavery and meek.
“Well," she started, "I was all by myself here and I was hoping someone would hear me if I shouted just as loud as I could—"
"I heared you," the old man said, cutting her off, "and so did all the deer on the mountainside." He set the butt of his rifle down on the ground and pointed with his chin to the high ground.
"Jest covered with deer trails up there. Them deer come down through this clearing every evenin' at about this time. Come to drink at that spring over there. So, knowin' that, I been waitin' by that spring, waitin' for a good long time, bein' jest as quiet as I kin be, hopin' the forest would send me a deer tonight. Then some crazy girl co
mes along and starts shoutin' off inta the woods."
Maggie swallowed hard. "Well, I'm sorry. I didn't realize—"
"Where you from anyways, to be so uneducated?" "From Philadelphia."
"Well, go back there. We don't need any crazy girls hollerin' off inta the woods around here."
Maggie took a deep breath. "But you don't understand. You see, my name is—"
"I don't care what your name is," the old man hissed. "You don't go shoutin' off inta the woods like that. Ruins the huntin'."
"I wish Franny were here," Maggie said to herself.
"What would you know about Franny Callahan?" the old man asked.
"That's what I've been trying to tell you! I'm Franny's niece, Maggie. I came here to live with her. Came all this way and now it looks like she's not here. Do you know where she is?"
The old man shook his head and chuckled. "So. You're Maggie, eh? She spoke about you. Why didn't you say so in the first place?"
"Well, I tried to, but every time I—"
The old man raised his hand. "Now, that's all right, you don't have ta explain—I sp'ose you're kinda turned inside out about all this. Well, I'll give it to you as direct as I ken. Your Aunt Franny and Uncle Thomas pulled up stakes and headed out to the Ohio Valley about four months ago, jest after the spring thaw."
Maggie shook her head.
"She wouldn't do that without writing me. She would want me to know where she was."
He nodded. "She probably did. But it could take six months or more fer that letter to git to ya. And even if she did write ya, how would she know where she was goin'? That's all wild country out there, girl. You could wander over that territory your whole life and never find 'em. When folks go west like that, they're gen'rally gone for good, never ta be seen again."