Remembering Maggie:The Complete Bread Sister Trilogy (The Bread Sister Trilogy) Page 3

  In the eerie moments between sleeping and wak­ing, Maggie wasn't sure whether she had just been with Franny or not. Then her head cleared and she realized that it had all been a dream and that Franny was out west somewhere, hundreds of miles away.

  Maggie looked outside. It was very dark. Dark as midnight. Seeking some light to comfort herself, the girl picked up a dead hemlock branch, with the dried needles still clinging to it, and tossed it onto the glowing embers of the fire. The branch burst into flames. The firelight leaped and danced on the cabin walls.

  Maggie sat back against the wall and looked over the cabin. It was as though she were seeing it for the first time. Even in its run-down state, she could tell that Franny had once lived there.

  The entire western wall was dominated by a huge stone fireplace Uncle Thomas must have built to Franny's careful specifications. The main chamber of the fireplace allowed plenty of room for hanging stewpots or setting up a roasting spit that could be used to turn and brown a duck over the coals.

  Then Maggie spotted Franny's bake oven—a square chamber set into the rock wall. Maggie knew how carefully it had been constructed. It was similar to the one they'd used in Philadelphia. She knew the inside was bell-shaped and that the inner walls were plastered with clay, baked to rock-like hardness. She knew the bricks that formed the floor and walls of the oven were carefully made from pressed clay gathered from the creek bank. She knew all this without having to look inside.

  Maggie rose and walked across the room, placing her hand on the rough stone around the oven. And there, standing propped up in the shadowy corner just as the older woman had left it, she saw Franny's peel. Maggie knew that this long-handled, paddlelike tool was what Franny had used to lift her bread loaves in and out of the baking oven. She reached for it. It felt good and smooth to the touch. Uncle Thomas must have carved it from hard maple.

  Maggie had an eerie feeling holding Franny's peel. It was almost as though she felt the physical presence of her aunt nearby. Then the dream flashed into her mind. And she remembered Franny's words.

  "Look past my nose," Maggie said to herself. "Now what's that supposed to mean?"

  Her eyes fell on her traveling sack, which lay against the cabin wall. She thought about how care­fully she had packed it the night she had left Philadel­phia. She had included things she thought she would need—an extra change of clothes and a few cooking provisions. But she had never gotten to use any of them. She sighed at the thought of carrying that heavy bag all the way back to Philadelphia with her.

  She realized that the heaviest thing of all was the ten-pound bag of wheat flour she had brought, figur­ing to make bread on the trail. She thought about the other provisions that would go to waste—the bag of salt, the crock of honey. She thought about her bread knife, sharpened and stowed away in its canvas sheath—all things that wouldn't be used.

  Suddenly Maggie really did see what she was look­ing at. She looked down at the peel in her hands, then back at the traveling bag.

  "No," she thought, "it won't go to waste. I've got everything here I need to bake bread. I'll carry that flour back as bread loaves."

  From there on out, Maggie moved without think­ing. Her hands and mind did all the things that needed to be done, as though she were guided by some strong inner force.

  She threw another branch on the fire and set to work. She knew that she must first mix her spook yeast starter. Maggie dipped into her pouch and pinched out a generous ball of spook yeast, added a few drops of honey, and set it to ferment by the fire. She mixed her bread dough right in the flour bag by adding some water from the bucket and kneading the mixture with her hands.

  She took her clean apron out of the bag and spread it across an old wooden box. She dusted the surface of the apron with flour, then rolled the huge ball of bread dough out onto it. The yeasty smells of the starter had begun to fill the cabin. Maggie thought of nothing but the bread. She added the spook yeast to the dough, knowing the life of the yeasties would now sink into the dough. She rolled it into a big ball, covered it with her apron, and set it near the hearth to rise. It would be ready by dawn.

  Maggie suddenly felt tired. She lay down on the floor by the hearth and fell instantly asleep, knowing she would be rising early to stoke the baking fire.

  At dawn Maggie began her baking fire by scraping a few glowing coals onto a piece of wood and care­fully transferring the embers to the bake oven. She used all the wood lying around the cabin to build on that fire until it was a roaring blaze. When she went outside for more wood, she saw no sign of the old man. She knew he must have gone hunting already.

  When Maggie piled on the split hardwood, the flames shot up the flue with a roaring sound, like wind howling on a winter night. It was good, Mag­gie thought, knowing she needed to get the bricks

  inside the oven red-hot before the bread could be baked.

  While the fire roared, Maggie checked her dough. It had risen overnight, as the spook yeast worked within it. She kneaded the bread down, using the familiar motions Franny had taught her so long ago. She felt the dough spring back under her hands, taking on a life of its own. She felt Franny's spirit working with her on the dough. And she remem­bered what her aunt had said: "I'll always be with ye in spirit, Maggie."

  Maggie rolled the dough up into three perfectly round loaves, then covered them and set them by the fire to rise a second time.

  She was sweating freely now. The fire in the bake oven made the room quite hot, even though Maggie had the door propped open.

  The oven was ready. Maggie used a branch to rake the burning wood from the oven and sweep it into the fireplace. Then, with a water-soaked rag wrapped around the end of a stick, she swabbed the inside of the oven clean of dirt and ashes.

  Maggie peered into the fierce heat of the oven. The bricks radiated an incredible amount of heat. She used the last of the flour to dust the paddle of the peel and the floor of the oven so the dough wouldn't stick to those surfaces. The last thing she did before placing the loaves in the oven was to use her sharp knife to cut a cross into the top of each loaf—"to put the blessin' of God on the bread," as Franny used to say.

  She lifted the loaves onto the peel and, ever so gently, slid them into the scorching heat of the oven. She sprinkled water on the wooden oven door to keep it from burning and lifted it into place, closing the oven up. She knew the loaves would bake quickly now, browning and doubling in size.

  Maggie wiped the sweat from her face with the corner of her apron and walked out into the cool air. It was already midmorning. She felt the sun coming up into the clearing, casting off the dark shadows made by the towering hemlocks. She sat on the door­step to rest.

  A thought floated into Maggie's mind. Franny had always told her that if something was troubling her and she couldn't find an answer on her own, she should take her troubles to the bread. That was ex­actly what Maggie had done. She had taken her trou­bles to the bread. And in working the dough, an answer had come to her. It was so simple, she was surprised she hadn't thought of it before.

  Chapter Four

  Shortly before noon, Jake came back to the cabin with two squirrels and a string of fish slung over his back. As he was coming into the clearing, his nose began to twitch.

  "That's the Callahan bread," he said to himself. He quickened his pace. The old man came through the cabin door just in time to see Maggie pull the last of the rounded golden loaves from the bake oven. Jake's mouth dropped open.

  "Girl," he said at last, "I didn't know you had the bread-bakin' gift! Whyn't you tell me?"

  "Well," Maggie said, "I didn't think it was impor­tant."

  "Not important! Girl, I haven't had a decent taste of bread since Franny left and you think it's not important!"

  The old man knelt down and examined the bread loaves.

  As Jake watched, Maggie cut a steaming slice and handed it to him. He took the bread and held it under his nose with his eyes closed, bathing his weathered face in the fragrant
smell. He took a bite, eyes closed, chewing like a man who had died and gone to heaven.

  "It's the Callahan bread," Jake said, "sure as any Franny ever baked."

  Jake silently devoured slice after slice until he had eaten almost half a loaf.

  "Don't eat so much," Maggie warned him. "Hot bread's not so good for your stomach."

  Jake patted his belly. "Right you are, girl, right you are. Jest tastes so good, a man fergits himself."

  Maggie had a piece of bread. It did taste good hot, she had to admit.

  "Jake," she said, "I've been thinking. What was it people used to call my aunt?"

  The old man brushed the crumbs off his beard.

  "Oh, you mean 'The Bread Sister.'"

  "The Bread Sister," Maggie said the words to her­self, to get the feel of them. And you said her bread as as good as money in this valley, and that she would trade for things she needed?"

  "That she would, girl. That she would. Like I said, people'd move heaven and earth for that bread."

  "Well then, why don't I do that?"

  The old man stopped chewing. "Do what?"

  "What you said. Why don't I stay on here and bake the bread and trade for the things I need to live? I could take Franny's place as the Bread Sister."

  "I was right," Jake said. "You are a crazy girl. Now, as much as I'd love ta have you here bakin' this bread regular, I still know in my bones that that would be a bad idee."

  "But why?"

  "Well, lotsa reasons," Jake said. "Oh, now your aunt could make it that way, it's true. But she had quite a few things in her favor, you know."

  "Like what?"

  "Well, first off, she didn't have to do it alone. She had a man, which you don't, and a good one at that. Second, Franny was a growed woman, which you ain't."

  "I know about hard work," Maggie put in.

  The old man shook his head, "Even allowin' that, yer still jest a girl and a lightweight at that. Franny knew how to do things you can't even imagine. She could skin a squirrel, chop a load of firewood, even fire a flintlock if need be. You know how to do all them things?"

  Maggie shook her head.

  "No, I didn't think so. And all that wouldn't be so bad, girl. Except that you have no way of knowin' what it gets like up in these mountains come winter. It ain't like settin' up housekeepin' in Philadelphia. Why, I've lived in these mountains for years now and I'm still thankful when every spring rolls around and I'm here to see it. Now you think you're gonna mas­ter all them skills I been learnin' all my borned days? You think you're gonna learn all that before the first snow flies?

  "No, Maggie, it would be a cruelty for me to pretend you could. Franny would skin me alive if she ever found out I let you freeze er starve ta death up on this mountainside. So back you go, bread bakin' er not!"

  Just then a shadow fell across the doorway, blocking out the morning light. The old man and the girl turned and saw someone standing in the doorway.

  He was huge. Not just tall, but broad and solid like an oak barrel. Even though he was dressed simply in a farmer's shirt, vest, and knee breeches, Maggie no­ticed that he had his hair carefully arranged into a fashionable queue plaited down the back of his neck. His face was flushed red and his eyes, peering through spectacles perched on his nose, were wide and angry.

  In his hand was a flintlock dueling pistol, pointed directly at Jake's chest.

  "Don't move, Mr. Logan." His voice sounded overly loud in the tiny cabin. He stepped over the doorsill and into the room. As he did, his spectacles slid down his nose and he had to poke them back up again. The big man shifted his eyes to Maggie. He motioned to her with his free hand.

  "Well, child, don't just stand there like a duck in a thunderstorm. Move over here by me. I'll protect you."

  Maggie didn't know what to do. "Has he harmed you?" the man asked. Maggie shook her head.

  "Well, it's fortunate for you that I happened by. This man could have done you great harm. He is the only criminal who inhabits this valley and the only human danger we face. Except, of course, for the red savages."

  It was then that the big man caught sight of the string of fish and squirrels hanging from the rafters, where Jake had left them.

  "Ah," he said, "poaching again?" He gave a high, hysterical laugh that filled the cabin. "I've caught you red-handed, you rapscallion, and now you will re­ceive the punishment you so richly deserve.

  "I have among my papers at the house a formal complaint drawn up by the leading citizens of this valley. You seem to have a poor understanding of property rights. We are landholders in this valley now. That means that we own not just the land but everything upon it—the plants, the animals, even the water that flows in the ground."

  He gestured with the pistol.

  "The days are over, Mr. Logan, when you can wander the valley at will, shooting animals and pick­ing apples and frightening people with your rude and uncivilized ways.

  "So, by the power vested in me as deputy consta­ble, I will now escort you to General Potter's house, where you will receive thirty lashes at the public whipping post."

  Maggie cut her eyes back to Jake to see how he was taking all this.

  "Better watch that pistol," Jake said evenly. "It could go off and hurt someone."

  The big man glanced down at the pistol, then quickly back at Jake. It was then that his nostrils caught the scent of the bread.

  "Is that bread I smell?" he asked.

  "Yes, it is," Maggie spoke up. "I baked it. You see, my name is—"

  "Whatever your name is, young lady, you are safe with me. I can't help but wonder about the bread though." His eyes fell on the loaves.

  "These rounded, golden loaves, they remind me of Franny's bread." His eyes glazed over. He seemed to have forgotten the pistol in his hand. "Haven't had any bread here for—how long is it, now?"

  Maggie stooped and sliced him a steaming chunk and carried it to him. The man popped it into his cavernous mouth and began chewing with his eyes closed.

  It was at that moment that Jake made his move. He silently slid across the room, snatched up his rifle, and was gone.

  Maggie saw it all.

  "Ah, yes," the man was saying, "food of the gods. I have always said to my good wife Maura, there is nothing like fresh-baked bread to make a house a—" He opened his eyes and glanced around. "Now where is that rapscallion?"

  He grew even redder in the face and turned and dashed out the doorway. He glanced around the borders of the clearing.

  "Logan!" he bellowed. "I know you're out there. I know you can hear me." He shook his fist at the trees. "I swear to you that this is not the end. I swear, by the trust the citizens of this community have placed in me, I will bring you to the whipping post. There is justice in this valley!"

  His oration finished, the man heaved a great sigh and stepped back into the cabin. He sat down on the doorstep and began wiping his forehead with an enormous handkerchief.

  "He's eluded me again," the man said. Then he glanced up at Maggie and stood up rather formally.

  "I know this all must be quite confusing to you," he said. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Joseph McGrew. I own the mill down on Sinking Creek. I was Franny's nearest neighbor.

  "When I saw the chimney smoke this morning, I thought Franny might be back. So I came up here to investigate. A deputy constable must pay attention to these things, you know. You aren't hurt in any way then?"

  Maggie shook her head.

  "Good. Now perhaps you will answer some ques­tions for me. Who are you and what brings you to this green and verdant valley?"

  Maggie took a deep breath. "My name is Maggie Callahan and I came here from Philadelphia to live with my aunt Franny—"

  "Ah, yes, Philadelphia. I remember it well. My wife and I used to be on the great stage in Philadel­phia." He sang a snatch of an aria, very loudly and very terribly. "Unfortunately, we encountered a few hostile audiences. Maura and I were obliged to leave town on short notice."

&nb
sp; He swept his arms in an impressive gesture.

  "Then we turned our faces to the challenge of the frontier. We've built a home here in the savage wil­derness. And this will be a great community some­day. With banks and churches and schools. And places of culture, too. Where I can personally per­form the works of the great playwrights for the de­lighted audiences of the future. Now, of course, I'm heavily involved in the mill business—but that's only a phase in the great master plan. After all, don't you think there's as much good to be done in business and politics as in the arts?"

  Maggie nodded.

  Then McGrew clapped a hand to his forehead.

  "But what am I thinking of? Here I am, rambling on, and you must be fatigued. Come down to the house with me now. Any visitor is a treat to us. Especially a Callahan who brings such delicious breadstuffs to our table." McGrew suddenly stopped himself. "Forgive me. You don't mind bringing these to our table do you?"

  Maggie shook her head. She was very confused by all of this. She remembered Franny had mentioned McGrew in her letters and said that he was a good man. So she gathered up the extra loaves in her apron and picked up her nearly empty traveling bag. McGrew picked up the string of game.

  "By the way," McGrew said, "you do know about your aunt and uncle moving on, don't you?"

  Maggie nodded. "Jake Logan told me." "Just as well," McGrew said, "I hate breaking bad news."

  They walked down the path toward Sinking Creek. On the way, McGrew asked about Maggie's circum­stances in coming to the valley. He talked about his theatrical career. As they strolled along, he sang in a loud voice. Birds and squirrels scattered before him as he walked. Maggie wondered what Jake would say about McGrew's way of traveling in the woods. But then, she thought, there were probably a lot of things the two men disagreed about.

  Chapter Five

  When Maggie saw Sinking Creek for the first time, she was surprised at how small it was. In some places the creek was so narrow that a nimble person could easily leap across it. But it was clear and ran with a musical tone.