Sufficient Grace (27 page)

She's really panting now and keeping up a stream of prayer. ‘Oh God, oh Lord, oh Lord.'

The boys' fort is the closest, so we struggle toward the stacked bales. As soon as I settle Naomi down on the hay, I shake out Grandma's give-away bag. There's a half-finished quilt and scraps from her patchwork basket, a couple flower-patterned baking aprons, and — wrapped in the blue wool coat her boys
gave her for Christmas — Grandma's worn leather Bible. The hay is warm but scratchy, so I spread out Grandma's blue coat and help Naomi slide over onto it. The slippery lining is cool to the touch, and Naomi's forehead is next to boiling, so I think it may give her some comfort. Grandma's Bible props up Naomi's head. I wrap the pieced quilt around her body and hope that it will calm down her shivering.

She is hot and cold at the same time. ‘I'm so thirsty, Ruth. I'm so cold. I'm so cold and thirsty. Oh Lord.'

Oh Lord, I don't know what to do.

Even though I don't want to leave her, I feel like I can't just stand and watch her suffer so. I climb down through the opening in the haymow floor and look around the barn for anything that might help us through. I don't know if what I bring is better than what I leave behind; I can't even see clearly for the tears in my eyes. My arms are shaking as I climb back up the ladder, but I've got some help tucked in my pockets: a rusty skinning knife, some baling twine, and an icicle I broke off the side of the barn. Maybe she can suck on the ice.

As my head rises through into the haymow, I struggle to catch my breath: there is much more than hay here now. Blood is weeping from Naomi; she is still, so still, laying on her back with her legs surrendered and spread wide.

At first I fear she is dead, but then the baby takes hold again. Naomi's body tenses with the next swell of pain, and I hear her praying again.

‘Help, Lord. Give me help.'

I guess that I'm the closest thing to an answer to prayer that she's going to get, so help I do. Daddy will only reach in and pull when a lambing ewe starts to roll her eyes into the back of her skull, but Naomi's way past that now. There is a head: black hair slick with blood. We try to rest, but the rhythm is too powerful; it is a heart beating, in calm, steady control, all from the inside of Naomi.

And then, it is all over all at once. With a great rush of blood and water, into my hands slides a tiny baby: eyes, nose, arms, fingers, legs, knees, feet, toes. She don't scream; not the momma nor the baby. Naomi lays panting, spread out like a field-dressed kill. She is so little, the baby: her elbows work, and she has long, dark eyelashes. She is a tiny kitten, curled up in my hands, tender and mild in this quiet night. The barn swallows have stopped their swooping and no scurrying mice can be heard. The only sound is the barn creaking in the wind. We are three little girls alone: just me and Naomi and this still, silent child. I use the twine and the knife. I offer the baby to Naomi, but Naomi won't touch her. Naomi won't hold her.

She can't even look at her. ‘I won't name her. I don't want to have to forget her name.'

Still, I can't just lay this nameless baby down. Someone has to tell God and Grandma who she is so that they can recognise her face. The light is fading, so I raise her up high to get a better look at her. I still can't get a good enough hold on her features, so I walk toward the hay chute and struggle to slide open the heavy door.

It is windy and cold; snowflakes swirl around me as I stand high above the farmyard looking out into the dark, deep night. I talk to this girl.

I hold her out toward the woods. ‘These are our trees.'

I hold her out toward the farmstead. ‘This is our home.'

I hold her out toward the river. ‘This is our water.'

Finally, I hold her out toward the heavens and tell Grandma and God. ‘This is our baby; hold her now.'

And then I let go.

30

WRAPPED IN A
FILTHY QUILT
,
I GUARD FROM HIGH ABOVE THE
farmyard. I watch now, as God does: too far away to hear, too nearby not to see. From the north, two angels are flying through the snow. Their strong wings are tucked beneath plaid barn coats, their golden halos darkened by orange hunting caps, their holy feet shrouded in boots. Snow flies before them as they roar across the cornfield, circling broken stalks with shouts of joy. Their snow machine screams over the icy gravel road and slides to a halt in the middle of the farmyard. They have found her; they are here to take the sacrifice.

They stand. The quiet angel bends to retrieve the body; the fierce angel knocks the body out of the arms of the quiet angel. Words are spoken, loud words, but I still cannot hear. Their words are spoken with puffs of smoke; their breath is hot to the cold night air. I think they voice a blessing that must be spoken by the two over the one. Pain comes with this sacrifice: the quiet angel is now on his knees, weeping over the body of the one. The fierce angel's hands knot into fists. His eyes sweep the farmyard; his eyes see all. They burn through the snow and melt the ice. They burn straight through my body. His eyes see all that has gone before and all that is yet to be.

The fierce angel snatches the sacrifice and pushes away the quiet angel. They wrestle for the body; the quiet angel will not let go. He must be fighting for a blessing too. He pleads with the fierce angel for mercy; he begs as if he is asking for his own life.

We are shrivelled leaves clinging to the trees until the wind and our sins sweep us off the branches. Our righteousness is like a leper's rags, filthy and unclean. No one knows our names or hopes to hold us; we call no name and never reach out our hands. For the Lord has hidden His face and allowed our wasting; we are dry and dying because of our sins.

We must come before God the Father stained with the blood of the Child. Fierce Angel roars away through the snow, the sacrifice balanced on his lap. Quiet Angel kneels in prayer next to a red stain in the snow, but as he raises his eyes to heaven, he sees only me.

To put back together again something broken is harder than it was first to make it new. I wasn't there when Naomi was conceived, somewhere in the dark jack pine forest, the tall trees swaying with jagged broken tops and long brittle needles. That final push and groan was not in me, but at the moment she was made she was whole. Now she is shattered and unwound and wrecked. What it will take to bring her back — unbreak her — is beyond what my mind can imagine. And all I have are my small hands.

The wood framing the hay chute is solid, so I push my fingers into its hardness. It brings me back to this world. Turning away from the gaze of the angel — Reuben — still kneeling on the snow, I look for Naomi and I see her. She has wrapped herself in Grandma's coat, and the wool sticks to her where it is wet with blood. She does not whimper. The hay beneath where she rests is red. I do not know the way, but if there is one, I will find it. I've walked pathless before.

‘We got to get you help. I'm going to get help.'
And I rush over to her and hold her head to my knees. She is not weeping but she is not here. Eyes open, she pushes her head into my legs, like a baby calf nudging for more milk.

Her blank eyes and her low breathing are all that I have to know that she is not dead. But when I turn to leave, she grabs my knees and pulls me down on the hay; her clinging is so tight. Her nails push into my arms. There is no pride in Naomi now; she is silent and broken before the Lord. The gifts of the Spirit are not present and neither is her soul. She cannot bear even my eyes upon her, and hides her face in my chest; my eyes burn holes into her heart, so I look away, up into the beams of the barn. High above in the eaves are the mud nests of sparrows, abandoned for the winter. The birds have spackled them together with mud and spit and hay; here they will lay their eggs and raise their young. Their homes are safe spaces, refuges in which to rest, but they are just earth and water. They would crumble easy enough.

All I can do is hold this girl, keep her safe and tight. I rock her body and brush away her tears, warming her and humming and praying in tongues. I am in my right mind, even though the Spirit is pushing hard to take hold. Naomi thought she was chosen, but I know now for certain: I am the one to bear the load.

I am not afraid of blood. I have seen enough blood in my life, so I'm not afraid of the blood. It smells of life and it smells of death; it spreads and spreads and spreads. Her soundless, almost breathless crying is more than enough: it is repentance and she will be justified before God. His tears drip down his face and roll off his nose. There is no weeping in heaven; the angels must come down to earth to cry. Quiet and peace, peace, peace descends on our souls. There is sin and there is blame, but they are not here in this lofty place. We have been given a way. Even in the midst of my confusion, I remembered. I opened the mouth and looked before she flew. I opened the mouth to check for fangs.

Obey the Word of the Lord, or you will be killed. That is my sentence; I have pronounced it myself. Thus the Lord speaks and thus speaks the prophets, they who speak the Word of the Lord.
Therefore it is your life for his life, your people for his people.

And we three sit together in the hay: my brother, me and what is left of Naomi.

Reuben pulls away from our crying tangle of arms and legs and crouches nearby. Stuttering, he holds his hands across his face. ‘Why didn't you tell me?' He sways on his haunches, wiping his eyes. ‘I knew — I guess I knew some — but I didn't know about her.'

‘What do you mean?' My head pounds, and I taste salt.

‘We could have fixed this.' Steam rises off Reuben's jacket. ‘He said you weren't being hurt, and that he'd never touch Naomi. And Samuel said he'd tell the truth — about the fires — he'd tell that most of them was just me.'

I can't quite keep my mind still enough, but my brother's words try to slip into gaps in my memory: times the boys weren't where they claimed, gasoline smells on their clothes. The barns left by our grandparents were hand-hewn and hard-won: trees taken with axe and crosscut saw, logs skidded on ice with horses, fieldstone basements made of field rock. The boys burnt them, and then Reuben traded me to Samuel. He traded me to save his own skin. He traded me to keep Naomi safe.

I cannot look at him. He is not my brother.

Reuben clambers up and starts screaming, roaring with no words, directing his sound at the barn roof. He hits his head with his hands over and over; his grief is breaking him into noise. He screams until he stops.

When he is finished, and the sound again is only the hay-chute door rattling against its iron clasps and the wind outside and the creak of the barn timbers, I release my hold on my tender Naomi and turn my face to Reuben.

‘There was nothing to be done.' I am certain of this, and hold my eyes hard on him. ‘Nothing happened here. Nothing that was your fault.'

It is made so as I speak it. I stare at his eyes and keep him still. And the wind stops moving outside and the eaves still their groaning and the chute door stands silent.

I begin to remake Naomi, to push everything back into place. But Reuben breaks again, with his knocking at his head and his screaming. He did not move before, so why must he shake so now?

Reuben screams at God and swears against His name. Then he screams against the Enemy while rejecting God's way. And he screams until he falls down on the hay, slumping with his face buried between his knees. After he has sat there awhile, next to the gently rocking Naomi, he lays down in the hay. He is curled up like a baby, with his hands cupping his groin. He is finished. And now I know what I had hoped against: he is all he is, and he is not enough.

I cannot clean Naomi with my brother stretched out beside her. I will preserve her dignity. So I wait. There is no hurry here.

As we rest in the silence, I mumble prayers unto heaven; the Spirit indwells my soul. I can see my hands moving, fluttering in front of my face, but I am not making them move.

There is no sound except the language of angels.

31

AND MY EYES REMAIN
GIFTED FOR THE SEEING
.
THE SPIRIT
shows
me the fierce angel. He has four faces: the rage of a man, the power of a bull, the lust of a hound, and the cruelty of a bird. I see him, screeching and flying like a bird across the silent fields. His wings swoop over the cornstalks that lie flat and shake with fear before him. He is the avenger: he brings pain disguised as love; he changes his squawking call to that of the hawk. He is blue on black on white on snow: he is Samuel.

And now he moults his feathers. He flies high above the frozen world, twisting in the wind and the snow. Sharp feathers from the jay fall like blue fire from heaven as he stretches his wings wider and wider until he bursts through the overstretched skin. He is born again: his new, broad wings scrape the sky with black, glossy feathers, and his sharpened talons leave scars. Upon his head are no feathers — he is red-naked above the neck. He is black on red on red on snow: he is vulture.

And he flies past the dark, standing pines. They drape their branches across the river; they shadow the ice with their arms. He does not bring it, but he delights in death. The stench of his food will call enemies to the nest; he must be careful to hide it well. His favourite is the eye; it is the choicest morsel. He is helped by decay; he patiently waits until his beak can break a softened hide. He vomits the carrion. Here the body will be well hid; her odour will call no one. Here he will keep his silence; his hunger is satisfied, for now.