One evening Susannah brought out another of Anna’s letters, longer and more rumpled than any I had read over the intervening weeks. “This is her last letter. When I could still see, I read it over and over again, once word reached us of the ship lost in the storm. I wasn’t ready to share it with you before. But I sense that you will be leaving soon. You need to know the fullness of her story.”
And so I took up the letter, its words slightly blurred from old tears.
“Dearest Mama, how I miss Lily and Molly! I am glad they found their sweethearts during our travels together. I could tell from the faces and voices of their menfolk that their marriages are fortunate ones, that they will be well-loved. But journeying with Katherine and Isabella has been strained and difficult. And I can’t quite seem to shake the fortuneteller’s words.
“The other night, Katherine and I shared a difficult talk. Her faith is deep, yet also judgmental. Because she had praised how Jesus has gifted his people in surprising and beautiful ways, I dared to speak of how he sometimes works his healing touch through my own. Her face changed dramatically, and she turned away. ‘Healing powers are witchcraft, not the ways of the Lord,’ she intoned, as though reciting from Scripture. But I know no such words are in the Good Book. I spoke more timidly but persisted, ‘When the power comes, I feel his peace and presence. It is not my work, but his desire for others’ healing, as well as their openness to receive.’ Her look became even more severe. ‘Turn from this “gift,” Anna; it will be your demise.’
“Oh, Mama, I felt so heavy with disappointment. It is clear that Katherine’s faith is strong, but her rejection of what I shared was intense. The next morning, she walked far ahead of Isabella and me on the road, as though she wished to separate herself from us both.
“It is so hard to write what came next. I still don’t know quite how it happened. Isabella and I had stopped to gaze at some lovely roadside flowers. We were distracted and lost sight of Katherine. Suddenly I heard her scream. We lifted our skirts and went running as fast as we could, though with travel packs, running is awkward at best. It was a full minute before we came upon her.
“I think that she must also have been stopping by the roadside to admire some of the springtime color. But she did so beside a steep ravine, lost her footing and fell some thirty feet downhill. Even from a distance, I could see that at least one arm and one leg were broken, and her head had come to rest against a heavy tree trunk. Isabella and I quickly hid our packs behind a tree and searched for a safe way down to her. It was very rough going, with much slipping. Isabella fell a few feet, but she caught herself on a young sapling, thank the Lord. When we finally arrived where Katherine lay, her face was ashen, and she was shuddering with fear and pain. I put out my hands to her, believing that God would want to bring her some measure of comfort, perhaps even healing. Oh, Mama, she spit on my hands, and then spit on my face! ‘I want none of witchcraft’s touch, even in my pain!’ she cried. I felt my heart break within me, and I felt something else, most strange: the warmth that had surged to my hands vanished like mist in the wind. You see, Mama, she had rejected it outright. It shocked me, and I began to shiver a bit myself.
“Isabella and I prayed for help to come, as we knew no way to get Katherine back up to the roadside ourselves. After about twenty horrifying minutes, during which time Katherine fell unconscious, we heard hoofbeats and the crunch of carriage wheels on the track above. We screamed ourselves hoarse, praying to be heard over the road sounds. Presently, the wheels stopped. A young man peered down into the ravine and saw our frantically waving hands. There was a second man with him, older but clear-thinking, who worked together with the first to rig up a sort of sling with which to carry her. Very carefully they made their way down the slope and managed between them to get Katherine to the top. Isabella and I slipped and slid but somehow found our way up as well.
“We were very fortunate that the men were kind and generous—and their carriage accommodating. They placed Katherine gently on one seat and invited Isabella and me to accompany them to the next town, where they would seek a physician. Mama, I prayed and prayed and extended my hands all through that lurching, frightening trip, but nothing happened. Katherine’s condition worsened, and by the time we found the gentle doctor in Kenton, his face was grave and creased with worry.
“He spent a long time in the room with Katherine, ministering to her. I knew that he would set the bones in her limbs; they could heal over time. It was the blow to her head that troubled me deeply. If only she had welcomed the healing right away! It always seems to be most powerful just after a wound has been received. I sat outside with Isabella, and we tried to keep one another’s spirits up, yet our hearts were heavy.
“When the doctor finally emerged through the door, I knew before he spoke. She would not live. For a man who has seen much of the world, of illness and of death, I expected a more detached telling. But his eyes had tears shining in them as he told us, ‘Young friends, I am very sorry to tell you that Katherine will likely not last the night. The wound to her head is severe, and her spirit has already turned to embrace death.’ I intuitively knew what he meant by this, but Isabella cried out, ‘Embrace death! Doctor, what are you saying?’ He sat down next to her and gently laid his hand on her arm. ‘Those of us in the healing profession see many strange things. One of the things they don’t teach you in school but that you come to see early is that a person’s spirit often has far more to do with their healing than any medicine or care. Some people survive in the worst of situations, fighting and fighting for life to the surprise of everyone. Others die when they might have lived. I cannot say whether Katherine might have lived; injuries to the head are unique to each person. I can see, however, that she does not wish to fight, and I feel sorry for that.’
“Isabella began to cry quietly, and the doctor laid a tender arm around her shoulders. Later, after Isabella had spent some time with our dying friend, I also took my turn. As I entered the room, I recognized the labored breathing of one who is close to death, and I stopped short several feet from the narrow bed. ‘Katherine?’ I began. I took a few steps closer, and she raised her head just an inch or two from the pillow. Her eyes were clouded, yet no longer angry. She looked right at me as though trying to memorize my face. ‘Anna,’ she whispered. ‘The Lord holds you close now,’ I began, ‘very close.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I will stay with you by your side if you wish.’ ‘Yes.’ There was a long pause, a deep quiet broken only by her ragged breath. ‘My Bible,’ she said at last, with a weak wave of her hand. I had not noticed earlier, but the kind men who came to our aid must have carried Katherine’s pack up the hillside with her. I rummaged in her rucksack and found her dog-eared, much-loved copy of the Word. I turned to the Psalms and began.
“It was a very long, sad night, Mama. Isabella brought me some soup that the doctor’s wife had prepared, and he came in every few hours to take Katherine’s hand and to offer her some light medicine to ease the pain. Mostly I just read aloud in a halting voice, trying to keep my eyes on the Lord in that room full of pain and my own deep conviction of unnecessary loss. I did not read all of the Psalms aloud, Mama; perhaps it was wrong of me, but Psalm 73 speaks of feet slipping and slippery ground, and somehow I could not; it seemed too cruel.
“I believe that Katherine gave up her spirit to the Lord somewhere in the midst of the promises of Psalm 86; surely he has shown her mercy, as he promises in those passages. I love that psalm, and I did not look up until I finished it, to see her face. Though ashen, it was peaceful, Mama, very peaceful.
“I did not call out to the doctor or Isabella right away; I felt that some quiet space alone would be all right. I smoothed back her hair and straightened the coverlet. I even stroked her face. She had a lovely face, Mama; had you met her, you would have longed to sculpt her, I know. It was still before dawn, and the candlelight played on her hands and face with gentle, subtle shadows. I turned to I Corinthians 15 and read aloud to her