The Midwife's Touch

By Sue Harrison

A rare gift determines one woman’s destiny in the breathtaking debut of a new trilogy from the international-bestselling author of the Ivory Carver Trilogy.
 
At just six years old, it becomes clear that China Creed’s birthright, passed down from her mother’s side of the family, is the power to grant wishes with only a touch. In their small Ozark town, where superstition runs rampant, the only person who can be trusted with her secret is the Cherokee midwife and healer who makes China her apprentice.
 
After the tumult of the Civil War, a new doctor arrives in town who is curious about the lovely young woman who can birth babies and banish hexes. As his interest in her deepens and China’s life is torn apart by her mother’s death and accusations of witchcraft, she will have to decide if her secret—and her heart—are finally safe in his hands.
 
In this epic nineteenth-century tale of alienation and avarice, survival and sacrifice, China will travel from the backwoods of Missouri to the mansions of Manhattan, as she searches for a future where she is finally free to trust, to love, and to touch . . .
 
Praise for the writing of Sue Harrison
 
“Mythic storytelling.” —The Washington PostBook World on Mother Earth, Father Sky
 
“Under Harrison’s hand, ancient Alaska comes beautifully alive.” —The Denver Post on Cry of the Wind
 
“Harrison expertly frames dramatic events with depictions of prehistoric life in the Aleutian Islands.” —The New York Times Book Review on Mother Earth, Father Sky
 
“Harrison once again displays her first-rate storytelling talents . . . A warm yarn from the frozen North and as authentic as all get-out.” —Kirkus Reviews on Song of the River

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Feb 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781504075886

Sue Harrison

Sue Harrison grew up in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula and graduated summa cum laude from Lake Superior State University with a bachelor of arts degree in English language and literature. At age twenty-seven, inspired by the forest that surrounded her home, and the outdoor survival skills she had learned from her father and her husband, Harrison began researching the people who understood best how to live in a harsh environment: the North American native peoples. She studied six Native American languages and completed extensive research on culture, geography, archaeology, and anthropology during the nine years she spent writing her first novel, Mother Earth, Father Sky. An international bestseller and selected by the American Library Association as one of the Best Books for Young Adults in 1991, Mother Earth, Father Sky is the first novel in Harrison’s critically acclaimed Ivory Carver Trilogy, which includes My Sister the Moon and Brother Wind. She is the author of the Storyteller Trilogy, also set in prehistoric North America. Her novels have been translated into thirteen languages and published in more than twenty countries. Harrison lives with her family in Michigan.

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The Midwife’s Touch

A Novel

Sue Harrison

As always for my husband Neil, for his wisdom and courage

and

For these strong, wise women who gave me hope during hopeless times and supported me from the beginning of my writing career

Rhoda Ackerson Weyr (1938-2021)

Loretta A. Barrett (1940-2014)

Maggie Crawford

In memory of my mother

Patricia Sawyer McHaney (1928-2015)

For her love, kindness, and strength

A Plea for Understanding

Dear Reader,

Within this narrative, I abandon Secrecy and claim Truth as my most potent ally, not only for me but for anyone who possesses strange abilities or misunderstood talents.

To place my story into context, please consider three remarkable women of the ancient past—the Queen of Sheba, Eleanor of Aquitaine, and Joan of Arc. The Queen of Sheba so mesmerized King Solomon that their liaison forever changed the future of northeast Africa. Eleanor of Aquitaine became the queen consort of France and then of England at a time when the two nations were bitter enemies. Joan of Arc, an uneducated peasant girl, led French soldiers to victory against the most powerful armies of Europe.

Did charisma place these women in positions of great influence? Was it intellect or beauty? I believe we must ponder another gift. Name it as you will–blessing or curse–I also possess this odd power.

I will never be a grand lady or a saint, but a cast pebble creates wide ripples.

As you read these pages, please open your mind to unexpected realities. Faith is not a feeling. It is a persistent and hard-won decision.

China Deliverance Creed

part I

home

From Ma Mère’s Song:

Something you covet deep to the bone.

CHAPTER ONE

Taney County, the Southwest Missouri Ozarks

December 23, 1851—As Told to Me by Mrs. Jesse Settle

Milksnake Hollow glides lithe as a cottonmouth between Grit’s Hill and Prophet’s Mountain, following the course of Deer Lick Creek. The nearest town of notable size–Springfield—lies north, a gateway to those lands where wealth is more than a cankered wish. Within that Hollow, in an old four-square cabin, Yvette Creed writhes upon the bed, delivering her firstborn, a child of prodigious lungs and a tight grip.

Yvette’s husband, Parnell Haddeus Creed, planned to celebrate the birth with a jug of moonshine, but on that day, whether due to poor planning or lack of moderation, he was down to the last sip in his last jug.

When the midwife came from the bedroom, Parnell was sitting in a kitchen chair, a chaw of tobacco tucked inside his lower lip. The midwife was Cherokee, dark as river clay. Folks called her Miz Settle. Her Christian name was Jesse.

Your wife’s good, Mr. Creed, and you got a healthy daughter.

A daughter? Sheeit.

Miz Settle washed her hands in the basin atop the dry sink then turned and fixed him with a hard stare.

What?

Midwives get paid, Mr. Creed.

You deliver me a daughter and still expect money? And here I am, trying to make a living upon a rock acreage, half of it vertical.

Where you live ain’t my problem, said Jesse Settle. Keeping my body and soul together, that’s my prime concern.

Parnell rubbed his forehead. How about a chicken? Yvette’s got a red-feathered hen. Lays good.

The midwife sat down in the other kitchen chair. All right. Fair deal.

Parnell went into the bedroom to see his wife. A small woman, she lay in the center of their bed, her dark curls damp with sweat, her eyes a deep glimmering black.

She tried to smile. I lived through it.

You done a lot of hollerin’.

Her face turned red. It hurt.

And for all that you birthed a girl.

She’s beautiful, Parnell.

The baby, wrapped tight in swaddling, was lying in the cradle Parnell had made from green hickory, no mean feat, hickory being an ornery wood, hard as iron. Likely to him, all babies looked the same. Maybe that’s why he startled when he saw the child for the first time. She had dark eyes like her mother, but her hair shone pale, nearly white. Parnell reached into the cradle and picked her up.

She’s got my hair, he said.

She does.

He kissed the baby’s forehead and swayed back and forth. You know I expected a boy.

"It’s not her fault she’s a girl.

True. Anyway, she’s pretty as a china plate. Never seen a better baby. For a girl, I mean.

Yvette held out her arms. Give her here, Parnell.

He turned his back on his wife and went out to the front room. Right pretty, ain’t she? he said to the midwife.

She is.

He tucked the baby into the crook of his arm and walked over to the pie safe where they kept their crockery and tins. He took out a small Spode plate, blue and white with a gold rim. In the center of that plate was the image of a strange-looking house like none ever known in the state of Missouri.

He held up the plate so the midwife could see. My wife’s prized possession, belonged to her mother. He carried the baby and the plate to the bedroom doorway and said to his wife, She’s prettier than this here plate of yourn, Yvette. Don’t you think?

Parnell, she said, drawing out his name like a plea.

What do you love most, Yvette? This baby or this plate?

Her eyes went to the plate first, and he raised his arm as if to dash that Spode china against the foot of the bed, but she said, Why, neither one, Parnell. I love you most. Maybe I don’t tell you enough.

Maybe you don’t. He took extra care, though, when he gave her the baby.

Yvette turned the child toward her husband. Look here, little one. That’s your papa, a brave, strong man who will protect you from anyone with intent to harm.

Hell, Yvette, said Parnell, why do you always think somebody’s going to do you harm? This here is Taney County. We’re all good folk.

She gave him a trembling smile and set the baby to suckling.

Parnell watched a moment then said, "Here’s her name—China. That’s what we’ll call her."

Yvette made a face.

I thought you’d like that, said Parnell.

Angèle is a beautiful name.

Your ma’s name? I ain’t gonna have no daughter of mine named after some fancy French woman. The baby’s name is China. I said that and I meant that. Ya hear?

She sighed. I hear.

I did want a boy, Parnell said. "Ya know, to carry on my name." He lifted the Spode plate, smiled at it.

His wife’s face took on a look of resignation, her mouth set in a grim line.

Parnell dropped the plate. It broke into three pieces. I’ll leave that for you to clean up, Yvette.

He nudged the pieces under the bed with the toe of his boot and left the room, closing the door. He looked at the midwife. You know what a man wants at a time like this?

I don’t believe I ever wasted a thought upon that, she said.

You’re uppity for all your Injun blood.

She didn’t reply.

A man wants shine. That’s what a man wants. Not any old shine, but the pure stuff, stout as oak, clear as water, Mort Dibbler’s shine.

At the dry sink he batted aside the flour sack that curtained off the storage area. He pulled out three jugs, uncorked each, and lifted them in turn to his mouth. Empty, he said. He heaved a giant sigh and dug into the biscuit tin where Yvette kept his money. He opened his palm toward the midwife.

Twenty cents. All I got to my name. Whatever does my ol’ woman do with all my money? She pay you without me knowing?

Jesse Settle stood up. She did not.

Twenty cents won’t hardly buy a jug of the worst stuff, but maybe Old Man Dibbler will give me a deal when I tell him about the baby. Parnell donned his red-wool coat and walked out on the front porch.

He left the door open, cold air funneling in, and Jesse saw him stop with a jerk.

What the hell? He started laughing. Then he shouted, Come out here, Miz Settle. I need me a witness.

Jesse Settle wasn’t a young woman; she wasn’t an old woman either, but her legs ached, and she was tired. On the other hand, Parnell Creed owned a quick temper. She joined him on the porch where she saw a pyramid of gallon jugs. Parnell was counting out loud. Fourteen total. He grabbed the top jug, jostled it, and said, It’s full. You brung these?

How could I bring ‘em? I been in this cabin for twelve hours with your wife. You know that.

He uncorked the jug and took a swig. Dibbler shine.

The sharp yeasty tang rising from the cork bung told her he was right.

You know what, Miz Settle? I’m thinking this is a mean prank. Somebody stacked them jugs on the porch right when Yvette was workin’ hard to push out my baby. They’re stole, and I ain’t about to hang for something I didn’t do. You yourself know I’m an honest man.

She did not deign to agree. Take them back to Mort. Maybe he’ll give ya a reward.

How’m I gonna do that? I don’t own no buggy, and if I load them on my mule, he’s likely to throw a snit and break ‘em all.

Carry over one or two. Tell Mort he can pick up the rest.

Parnell raised the jug in both hands and took another drink. If that ain’t a joyous sup, I don’t know what is.

He sat down in the rocker Yvette kept on the porch. That year of 1851, December 23 fell into the new-moon-time of the month. Night already lay dark as pitch over the Hollow. Jesse Settle could not see Parnell’s face, but she could tell his next words came to her through a smile.

I got me a pretty wife and a new daughter. I’m a blessed man, Miz Settle. I wish I didn’t break that Spode plate.

It weren’t a necessary thing, Jesse said.

Parnell snorted but gave no contradicting argument. I’ll buy Yvette another one someday. When she gives me a boy.

He drank more shine, then set the jug beside the rocker and picked up two full jugs by their curled handles. I’m off to the Dibbler place. Tell my wife.

When Miz Settle was satisfied that Yvette and her baby were well recovered, she put the red-feathered chicken in a flour sack, slung it over her shoulder, and took for home. A thin glaze of snow crusted the ground, and it picked up the faint glow of stars. In her right hand, she carried her punched-tin lantern, which cast a fitful light. The hen squawked every now and again, and Jesse tried to allay its fears by crooning a song. She walked about a mile before she came upon Parnell Creed. He’d shed his wool jacket and left it in a heap on the ground.

When he saw her he said, I worked myself into a sweat. I’ll get my coat on the way home. He set down the jugs. Them two handles is about to break through my finger bones. Maybe I should drink some off.

If you get drunk, Jesse told him, you’ll wind up lost.

Lost? Me? I been wandering these woods since I were two years old. He already sounded drunk. Here, you carry one.

I got my chicken and I got my doctoring bag and I got my lantern. I ain’t carrying no jug of shine.

Shouldn’t of gave you that chicken.

He made a grab toward the flour sack. Miz Settle sidestepped, and he fell. She went on ahead, stopping when she was out of reach. You all right?

Yeah.

You need to go back home, Parnell. It’s too cold out. I’m your witness that you didn’t steal that shine.

Just what I need, a Red Injun for my witness. You think they’d believe either one of us?

Maybe not you, said Jesse.

He snarled, got back up on his feet, and took a few running steps toward her. She easily outpaced him. She had no intention of dealing with a drunken Parnell Creed, him being known for his intoxicated violence.

God helps children and fools, she said to her chicken. Maybe he helps drunks, too. That night, she wasted no further thought upon Parnell Creed.

Early the next morning, Mort Dibbler, the old man himself, found Parnell lying in a foot of new snow half a mile inside the Dibbler property line. Two jugs of shine sat on the ground next to him, each well-sampled. A wide smile was frozen to Parnell’s cold dead face.

On January 11, 1852, the Widow Creed dedicated her new daughter to the Lord during the Sunday morning service at the Milksnake Baptist Church. As per her late husband’s request, she christened the girl China, but she added a middle name she deemed appropriate.

The congregation’s gray-haired widows—twelve strong on a healthy Sunday —agreed that, in their long Lord-blessed lives, China Deliverance Creed was the most beautiful baby they’d ever laid their eyes upon.

CHAPTER TWO

China Deliverance Creed, Age 6 Years, 8 Months

August 1858

I lie awake on my prickly straw tick. The heat of the day lingers. I got into chiggers that morning, and they left a ring of welts under the waistband of my pantalets. Ma Mère painted their bites with coal oil, her medicine for every malady, and the smell of it in the close hot space pummels my skull into a fierce ache.

During the warm months, if Ma Mère and I aren’t camping out in our cave, I keep my straw tick near the attic vent, which lets in an Ozark breeze. One of the vent slats has warped, and the gap gives me a view out. I like to see the fireflies beam their tail-lamps in the dark.

As I watch, Ma Mre walks into the clearing twixt our cabin and the cowshed. I recognize the woman who comes to her from the woods, and I clamp my hand over my mouth to hold in my surprise. Miz Jesse Settle. I’ve never heard much good about Miz Settle, maybe because of her dark Indian skin, or maybe because she’s rumored to be a Goomer Doctor, and thus a woman of odd powers.

Goomer Doctors are necessary. After all, if some wicked crone throws a spell, you need to have that goomering removed. Yet, who wants to spend time with an old woman who works in a battleground haunted by hags, haints, and booger dogs?

The minute Miz Settle appears, Ma Mère escorts her to the cowshed. A crack in the door lets out the feeble glow from Miz Settle’s punched tin lantern. She and Ma Mère stay in there for a goodly long time.

When my mother returns to the house, I slide from my straw tick and spy down at her through the gap between the attic floor and the stovepipe. She draws a handful of coins from her skirt pocket and dumps them in the biscuit tin, and then, with a great sigh, she goes to bed.

The next morning, when Ma Mère is milking our cow, I climb down from the attic and flit around the cabin, battering like a blue bottle fly, trying to detect any change due to Miz Settle’s visit. All seems in order until I open the lid of Ma Mère’s sewing box, and there lies a square white cotton bag, no larger than the palm of my hand. I drop the lid like it’s poker hot. That Goomer Doctor must’ve paid my mother to sew charm bags. Ma Mère and I don’t wear charm bags, although she does believe in the medicinal properties of asafetida, camphor, and green pennies. I myself hold a great dislike for asafetida, purely for its stink alone.

I’m still standing there by the sewing box when Ma Mère comes in. She’s hefting a full milk can, carrying it by the handles, the weight of the thing forcing her into a straddling walk, one foot on either side of it.

Stay out of there, China, she says as she sets down the can.

I saw you last night with Miz Settle, Maman. Are you making charm bags for her?

It’s nobody’s business if I do or I don’t. She holds up her hands. The knuckles are gnarled with rheumatism, her fingers heading off in peculiar directions from their middle and top joints. I can’t make bobbin lace for Mr. James’s store like I used to. I can scarcely tat. I need some way to support us. Miz Settle gets good money for her charm bags, and you know she’s a Goomer Doctor, which means she’s doing the Lord’s work, no matter what anyone else might say. And I’m doing the Lord’s work when I keep us fed.

The held-back weeping sound in her voice scares me. Teach me to make lace, Maman. Teach me. I’ll do it.

She smiles, which eases my heart. I will teach you, but not yet. Your fingers aren’t long enough and neither are your fingernails.

I spread my fingers wide. The nails are bitten to the quick. With bobbin lace you need long fingernails to separate the threads.

That evening, we sit out on the front porch, me on the steps and Ma Mère in the rocker. We wave fans of folded newspaper to keep away mosquitoes. I say a silent prayer that God will grow my fingers and help me stop biting my nails. I’ve finished the third repeat of that prayer when Ma Mère begins to sing. She sings in our secret language, words that are ours alone, and I am not to speak them to anyone except her, nor am I to say Ma Mère or Maman when others might hear. More than once, I’ve asked why. She always says, Secrets are for keeping.

Ma Mère’s singing, trembling and deep-of-throat, sends shivers up my arms. When she’s done with the hymns, she says, One last song, and it’s ever the same, and I always join in.

Something you covet deep to the bone.

But nothing alive with will of its own.

Nothing too large. The earth stakes its claim.

Nothing unseen. The eyes play the game.

Afterward, I fetch a comb and a brush, and Ma Mère starts in on my hair, which flows in cream-colored curls to my waist. Hair-brushing is the only time my mother comes nigh unto touching me. She never holds my hand. She never kisses my face. She seldom gives me a hug. Even if I cut myself or scrape my knees, she keeps a rag between her fingers and my skin. I long for her touch, and, in that regard, I live a starving life.

In September, Ma Mère sends me to school. I walk the three-mile trail to town each morning. Each afternoon I trudge home. I entertain myself during those long walks by whistling and chattering to the birds. I’m good enough that they answer me, another secret language, but one that even Ma Mère does not speak.

The schoolhouse is located at the eastern end of the town of Milksnake. We little ones, first grade through third, are taught in the cloakroom, which is long and narrow with pegs on the walls for coats and caps. Shelves above hold our lunch buckets. A two-door cabinet stores primers for reading. We youngers have no desks, only benches, and most of us do not own a slate.

Our teacher, Miss Otten, speaks with a stutter, which the older children mimic when she’s not close enough to hear. Her eyes are brown like her hair and round like her face, but those eyes carry kindness.

The only new thing I have for my first year of school is a pair of blue mittens Ma Mère knit with ribbed cuffs that almost reach my elbows. My wool jacket, cut down from an old red barn coat, is stained and faded, but the mitts brighten it nigh unto beautiful. After our first snow, Ma Mère lets me wear them to school.

Within sight of the schoolhouse, I cross my arms over my chest, the palms of my hands flat against my shoulders to show off my mittens’ high ribbed cuffs, but no one seems to notice. The boys are playing a game with a black leather ball, big around as a baby’s head. The girls gather in a huddle near the door. A grade-three girl stands in the middle. Her name is Mary Preck but everybody except the teacher calls her Polly. Her yellow hair makes my nearly white braids seem pale and dull; her blue eyes shine brighter than my brown; my skin compared to hers is far too dark from the sun. She owns three dresses plus lace-trimmed pantalets that peek out from underneath, clean and starched.

I push my way up the steps toward Mary-Polly who holds a doll in her arms, not a rag doll but a real store-bought wax-head doll. In Mr. James’s general store, I’ve seen dolls for sale, but nothing like Mary-Polly’s. That doll purses her pink lips into a bud and gazes at the world with perfect blue eyes. Her little feet are shod in black leather shoes with white uppers. She wears a pink coat that buttons up the front and a frothy blue dress underneath. Her yellow hair curls like lamb’s fleece.

Mary-Polly shows us the doll’s lace-trimmed drawers and her pink cloth belly. I can’t breathe for the want of that doll. When I’m finally able to take my eyes off her, I notice that I’ve crowded in beside my friend, Hazel.

I never-ever seen a doll like that, Hazel says. She smiles, and I wonder how she can, since the doll belongs to Mary-Polly and not to her.

Hazel grabs my hand, and I notice she’s not wearing mittens. I take off my left mitt and give it to her. Then we stare at Mary-Polly’s doll, each of us wearing one mitten and with our bare hands clasped for warmth. After school, I let Hazel wear that mitten home with the promise she’ll bring it back the next day. Then I make the long trek to our cabin.

The smell of new-baked bread greets me while I’m still on the porch. I open the door with a smile on my face. Ma Mère spreads a warm slice with lard, and I eat it as soon as I’m out of my coat. While I eat, my mother pulls the blue mitten from my coat pocket then searches for the other.

Her face turns red. China Deliverance Creed, surely you did not already lose one of your new mittens? Although, Ma Mère’s accent is barely discernible most of the time, when she’s upset, her words take on the cadence of our secret language. Do you know how much that yarn cost?

No Ma’am, I don’t know how much the yarn cost, and no Ma’am, I didn’t lose my mitten. Despite the stern look on her face, I can tell she almost smiles at my answer, despite my sassiness. I lent one of my mittens to Hazel. She don’t have none.

"She doesn’t have any."

No, Ma’am, she don’t.

China, that was truly kind of you, but you’re my child, and Hazel is not. I must provide for my daughter first. You understand?

Yes, Ma’am.

You could’ve frozen your fingers. Hold your hands over the stove until they’re warm.

I do her bidding, although my hands are already warm from that slice of bread. As Ma Mère says, arguments are truly won when they’re avoided.

That night after our lard, jam, and bread supper, my mother starts knitting a new pair of mittens. For Hazel, she tells me. She crimps her lips as she always does when the pain of her rheumatism flares, but her four needles flash quick as sunfish. She makes the blue ribbed cuffs first and then knits the rest of each mitten with stripes of whatever leftover colors she has until I worry that Hazel’s mittens might be prettier than mine. By morning, there, on the kitchen table, lay a pair of striped mittens with bright red thumbs.

Now you take these to Hazel and be sure you get your other mitten back.

On the way to school, I put my blue mitt into my pocket and wear Hazel’s. When Hazel sees me walking down the iced mud of Milksnake’s main street, she comes running, her hands palm-to-palm in a prayerful fold and stuffed into my other blue mitten.

You got another pair?

Naw. Ma made them for you.

She stands there with her mouth wide open, and finally she says, Them be the most beautiful mitts in the whole of Milksnake Holler, China.

I pull my blue mitten from her hands and tuck it under my arm. She puts on the striped ones. As we walk to the schoolhouse, Hazel says, This is the best day of my whole life.

They’re only a pair of mitts made of leftover yarn.

"But they’re from you. And lookee here. She opens the top button of her ragged jacket. Snugged up against her chest lies a doll like Mary-Polly’s, the same pink coat, the same curly yellow hair, the same wax face. It was in my bed this morning under the quilt. Pa come home last night from working four months on the railroads up in New York State. When I showed the doll to Ma, she said he must’ve brung it. I never-ever thought I’d have such a thing."

I’m on fire with jealousy, but the pure joy in Hazel’s face soon converts me to selflessness. She walks halfway up the schoolhouse steps, takes off her striped mittens, and hands them to me. Then she slowly pulls that doll from under her coat. She holds it up, face out. Anyone who looks our way can see it.

Then I spy Mary-Polly walking down the road toward the school.

Hazel shouts, Polly! Look! I got one, too. My pa brung it for me.

Mary-Polly breaks into a run, her face burning bright red. When she gets to Hazel, she grabs the doll and begins to scream until even the boys stop playing and turn to see what’s happening.

Hazel opens her mouth, but not one sound comes out, and I realize what Mary-Polly is screaming. You stole my doll. You stole it. It was gone this morning when I woke up. You stole it!

The teacher comes outside. W-w-what’s wrong? She has to ask again before Mary-Polly stops yelling.

She stole my doll, Miss Otten.

Who stole your doll?

Hazel.

It’s mine, Hazel says in a soft, halting voice. My pa brung it for me.

The teacher looks at Mary-Polly who makes her eyes go wide. My doll was gone this morning, Miss Otten. Ask my mother. She’s mad as a hornet.

You b-b-believe Hazel’s doll belongs to you? the teacher asks.

Yes, Ma’am. Mary-Polly tips the doll upside down. Look. See? She points to three initials embroidered on the petticoat in a pink-thread script. MLP. Mary Luna Preck, my initials.

Hazel’s face turns white as if every drop of her blood has drained out. Then she gags and throws up over the stairway rail.

See, she stole it, says Mary-Polly.

The teacher gently clasps Hazel’s two long braids and holds them back out of the way. When did you get the d-d-doll, Hazel?

By then, Hazel is bringing up yellow bile, and I answer for her. She woke up with it in her bed this morning, Miss Otten. She thought her pa brought it. Yesterday, he came home from working four months on the railroad.

The teacher turns to Mary-Polly. You can rest assured Hazel did not walk a mile through the woods in the middle of the night to s-steal your doll.

Mary-Polly turns to me and stabs her finger into my cheek. Her nail cuts my skin. Then she did it. China Creed took it. She’s a thief like her pa was.

I shout into her face. He was not!

How do you think he died?

That is enough! the teacher says. M-M-Mary, take the doll home and leave it there.

I swipe my hand against my cheek, and it comes away bloody, but the hurt is nothing compared to Mary-Polly’s accusation. My pa was a thief?

Mary-Polly turns on her heel and flounces away. The teacher helps Hazel into the schoolhouse. I walk down to the yard and scoop up a riff of snow, press it against my cheek until the bleeding stops.

Hazel stays at school the whole day, and, when she leaves for home, she puts on the mittens my mother made, but her every breath sounds like a sigh. That evening, I tell Ma Mère what happened. I expect her to jump in on Hazel’s side, but she only scurries around the house with a wet dust rag and runs it over every log in the walls and even stands on a chair to wipe the elbow of the stovepipe. Cleaning like that, it’s what she does when she’s upset.

Finally, she says, That Polly Preck is a rude girl, but I think you and I need a new rule.

What kind a rule?

A rule to ensure no one ever thinks you’re a thief.

I ain’t a thief, Maman.

I know, but you need to be careful, China. Don’t be touching other people’s belongings. Actually, it would be best if you don’t touch other people. Touching is rude.

I want to ask about games like London Bridge and Red Rover, but there’s something else I need to bring up. Polly Preck said my pa was a thief. She said that’s why he died.

He was not a thief, China.

Then how did he die?

He died happy. That’s how he died.

CHAPTER THREE

Spring comes to us late, and we can’t put in our cold weather crops until April. We dig up bulrush shoots from the creek swales to tide us over, but every night I go to bed hungry. One night I dream that the moon squeezes through the gable vent and floats into the attic.

Open your mouth, it says, bold as a raven.

Who would argue with the moon? I open my mouth, and it pops down my throat. It fills my belly as if I’d eaten a fine meal. With my stomach full, I sleep so hard that the next morning Ma Mère has to call me three times before I wake up.

I don’t bring a lunch bucket to school that day, just a handful of dandelion greens in my skirt pocket. For supper, Ma Mère cooks our greens in salted water. After, out on the porch, she doesn’t sing but only sits and rocks.

To fill the space where music belongs, I say, Last night I dreamed the moon came into my room, Maman.

She smiles at me. Were you afraid?

Me? No. I ate it up.

And what did it taste like?

Butter and cream.

Her eyes get worried. Oh China, she says in her softest voice. Oh, my baby girl.

She cups her hands around my face and kisses me three times, her touch sifting into my soul as fine and pure as white flour.

The next morning when I come down from the attic, I stop in amazement. Our kitchen table overflows with fresh bread and cheese and sparkling jars of deep red jam.

Maman, I say, where—

She hands me a slice of bread. We have good neighbors.

In May, our cow births a little brown heifer calf. That means we have milk again. We harvest new peas. We walk the pole beans, chopping out weeds. School is over, and it looks to be a good summer, but three days into June all things turn inside out.

It’s early morning when the Goomer Doctor walks into our cabin without even a rap upon the door. Maman is still in the barn, milking, and I sit chewing on a hard biscuit. Seeing the old woman suddenly in front of me, I draw in and choke. She slaps her hand against my back to get me breathing.

Big bites, she says in a rusty voice, not good.

You scart me, is all.

You be a rude child, I see. When she says rude, she softly rolls the r.

No, Ma’am. I’m very polite. Of course my contradiction proves she’s correct. I amend my statement. Mostly, I’m polite. Except when I choke.

At that moment, Ma Mère comes inside, a bucket of milk in each hand. She doesn’t look at all surprised to see the Goomer Doctor.

China, you’re eating but haven’t offered Miz Settle anything?

I feel ornery enough that I very