Toby: The Rose Series, #1

By William Zemsky

Toby, a war orphan living in northern France as the adopted daughter of a local blacksmith, carries a secret: a locket and a letter in a strange script she believes to be the only clue to her origins.  Outwardly well adjusted, Toby excels at school and loves riding horses. But then, a strange encounter at a local farmer's market launches her on an all-consuming search for a birth parent who seems to be looking for her as well.

In this emotional coming-of-age novel you'll follow a courageous young girl as she journeys across the Atlantic to America where, separated from her benefactor and pursued by mysterious enemies, she seeks refuge first among the Atawara Gypsies and then with a Cheyenne Indian shaman woman.

These strange and exotic experiences bring a spiritual dimension to her quest for her roots, and ultimately lead her to discover a centuries-old heritage that she could never have imagined.   

Book I of The Rose Trilogy. (Book II, Three Deaths and a Tango; Book III, Los Conversos)

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Zemsky
• Release date: Jul 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223521952

William Zemsky

william Zemsky grew up in Berkeley Califirnia (to the extent that anyone ever grows up in Berkely), graduated from UC and eventually became an architect. He now lives in Portland Oregon where he paints watercolors, plays tennis, studies jazz guitar and cultivates a garden of herbs

Book preview

PROLOGUE

At first the room seems deserted. Moonlight filters down through shifting dust. Grey formless shapes huddle amidst debris on the floor. Then one of the vague shapes moves and unexpectedly the room is no longer uninhabited. Several people are here: victims, refugees, survivors. It is the war years.  One of the refugees, a young mother, lifts her head. She is beautiful in spite of the harsh conditions. She holds her small daughter close in her arms. The child sleeps. It is all the mother can do to shield the child from the cruelty that rages around them, thick and searing like some unholy river. She gazes about her at the small band with whom she shares this hiding place. Most are wounded. All bear the mark of the relentlessly pursued. The last council has been taken and they wait their inevitable end.

Silently the mother rises. Her face carries the deep marks of the disease that through unavoidable neglect and constant exposure will soon end her life. The child wakes and starts to cry. The mother whispers something and gently presses her finger to the child's lips. Silence returns. The mother sets the child on her feet and reaching into a deep pocket draws out a soft cotton belt in which she has sewn a letter and a small gold locket. She has written the letter to her daughter who is still too young to understand the conditions of her birth. In that darkest hour it is an affirmation of life. It is written so the breath of love might pass between the mother and her child, who, through no doing of their own must forever remain strangers. She ties the cotton belt around the waist of the little girl. A gust of wind blows in from the street. The mother looks about the stark shelter. Not a single window has escaped unbroken. Little eddies of dust churn here and there. The mother carefully bundles the child against the cold. Then rising she fastens her own thin coat about her.

Hand in hand they leave the building. Not a word is spoken. If anyone of the group marks their passing, not a sign is given.

Outside the streets are deserted.  Slowly, travelling by foot and keeping to the back streets, they leave the city and make their way north through the Norman countryside.  It is occupied territory.  All travel is forbidden; people found without the proper passes are routinely shot. Miraculously they are not discovered. For six nights they walk northward, hiding each morning. There is almost no food, only the little scraps that the mother manages to steal. It is extremely cold. Often it rains. Winds whip their faces and drive the chill deep into their bodies. The mother is wracked by a cough that often leaves her unable to walk. Yet from some unknown reserve she rises again with the child and sets off northward, away from the city.

The mother knows that the end is near. It is early morning. Together they enter a village. For a moment a small flock of song sparrows darts above their heads. But no one from the village is about as they walk to the entrance of a small church. The mother leads her daughter through the weathered doors. She takes her in her arms for the last time and kisses her once. Carrying her farther into the darkened chapel, she sets her on one of the worn pews near the back. Her last words spoken, she whispers to the child,

Wait here, and turns and walks painfully back towards the door. She pauses and gazes back on her beloved child. For a moment her ashen face is caught deathlike in the thin light that filters into the quiet chapel. Slowly she turns, walks out of the church and disappears into the thick woods that surround the village. Her body is never found.

All that might connect her to the child is a letter written in a strange language, and a small golden locket with a picture of a striking woman and her baby.

The child knows the graveness of the moment. Her eyes betray fear and sorrow. Her whole being quivers in restraint. She wants to run after her mother, to cry out and bury her head in the thick folds of her mother's dress. But with her people children are taught never to cry out. It is a question of survival. She remains nearly motionless. Sitting cross-legged on the smooth wooden pew, legs tucked beneath her once colorful skirt, she watches a thin wedge of sunlight slice through the narrow crack in the door. Her head is wrapped in a worn bandana; her small hands cradle a carved wooden doll she has carried from Paris. Occasionally she whispers to the doll. 

A few people enter the church. Old women dressed in black and bent with age hobble in to light candles. Kneeling on the ancient prie dieus, they place their gnarled, wooden canes to one side. A priest enters the chapel from a door by the altar and disappears behind the drawn black curtains of the confessional. One by one the old women rise and enter. When they leave, they return to their prayers. No one notices the child sitting straight and still near the back.

Quietly the door opens again. Several nuns enter the chapel. They pause at the stone holy water font and dip their fingers in the water. One by one they cross themselves and walk slowly up the center aisle to seats on the left side. Waiting her turn, one of the younger nuns sees the child. An older nun, standing near her, cautions her against looking idly around. The younger nun dips her hand in the water and crosses herself. She enters the aisle and kneels. As she starts to rise her head turns quickly and she finds the small child gazing softly back at her. Again the older nun's thin voice can be heard above the silence,

Move along, Sister.

The priest leaves the confessional, crosses to the altar, and prepares for Mass.

During the service, the young nun glances back toward the child. If the solemn evocation of the ancient prayer has any meaning for the child, she gives no sign. She remains nearly motionless. When the Mass ends the nuns rise and pass out of the church. When the young nun reaches the door, she turns and looks back one last time and then goes out. The older nun hurries on unaware of the child.

Soon the chapel is deserted. The old women have gone home to prepare the midday meal. Still the child waits, slowly rocking her doll. Perhaps an hour passes. Then the chapel door opens and the slim form of the young nun slips inside. She hesitates while her eyes adjust to the darkness. She sees the child still sitting on the worn wooden bench near the back. She quietly genuflects as she passes in front of the altar and goes to the child and sits down beside her.

At first they say nothing. The little girl also gazes intently into the eyes of the young nun. Slowly the nun extends her hand and caresses the dirty cheek of the child. Then her hands settle back into her lap. Cautiously the child puts out her own small hand and touches those of the young nun. A wave of understanding passes between the two. The child is drawn gently into the lap of the young nun. At first the nun does not hear the child crying. She lifts the small head and looks into the mournful face. Tears stream down the dirty cheeks, and the child trembles in her arms. The young nun holds the child deep in the folds of her dark robes and rocks gently back and forth stroking her hair. She cannot speak as she fights back tears. Finally she whispers softly,

Blessed child, blessed one. You're not alone. There, there cherished one, don’t cry.

The child stops shaking.

Little friend, who are you? Where do you come from? Where is your ... mother? the nun asks.

Again the child dissolves into tears. Sobs shake her frail body. It is then that the nun understands beyond a doubt that the child has been orphaned. In a hushed voice she reassures the child that somehow she will take care of her. But what can she do? She belongs to a contemplative order. The cares and troubles of the secular world lie clearly outside her religious vows. She remembers how unsympathetic the Mother Superior was in helping the few refugees that managed to penetrate the high walls of the convent trying to escape the war. But she also knows she cannot abandon this child. The feeling is deep and clear. How long she remains there comforting the child, she does not know. What she feels welling inside of her is a calmness and sense of direction that has always eluded her in her religious practice. She takes the little girl by the hand and looks around for any belongings. She finds none. Together they walk toward the door. As they pass the altar she starts to genuflect. Perhaps fearing that she might startle the child, she hesitates. Then the child drops to her knees as she has seen others do. The nun kneels beside the child and crosses herself. She cannot express the joy she feels at that moment. Later she will only say that she felt God had taken a personal interest in the fate of the small child.

Hand in hand the two leave the church and start down the street. As they pass through the village, heads turn at the sight of the normally austere sister and the young child hurrying along. Soon they have left the village behind and are climbing a narrow path that leads up a steep hill. As she looks up, she is met by the imposing form of the Mother Superior who is clearly on her way back down the hill in search of her missing charge. The older woman calls out in a voice bristling with authority,

Sister Therese, where have you been? And who in the name of Our Blessed Virgin Mother do you have with you?

Sister Therese kneels to make her obeisance. Receiving permission to speak, she begins to tell how she has found the child sitting alone in the church.

Ma Mère, she was there when we arrived for Mass and she was still there when I went back an hour later. She has been orphaned and has no one to look after her.

The Mother Superior puts out her hand and stops the young nun from speaking further. 

There, there, my child. You must remember your vows and not forget yourself entirely. What were you planning to do? She cannot stay with us. We have rules as you well know. They don't include harboring lost children. You must return the child to the church and leave her there. Her mother is probably looking for her at this very moment. Now, off with you, or must I go with you to the church and help you to see your duty? 

The young nun slumps crestfallen before the Mother Superior. As she turns to start back, her eyes fall upon the child. She stops, then slowly turns back to face the Mother Superior.

In all respect, Ma Mère, if we don't care for her she will perish, and our prayers will be for nothing. Could we not find a place for this one child? As in all matters, Ma Mère, I am your obedient servant.

When she speaks, there is no hesitation, nor is there the slightest trace of defiance. Yet her voice carries a simple authority that even the experienced Mother Superior cannot help but acknowledge. The young nun kneels there on the mountain at the foot of her spiritual superior. The Mother Superior is clearly shaken by the simple but hauntingly powerful way in which the young sister has spoken her few words. She looks down at the child for the first time. The little girl, standing motionless behind the kneeling nun, returns her gaze. The three remain frozen there on the side of the hill as the fate of the child is decided. Finally the massive shoulders of the aging Mother Superior sink. The woman bends down before the lost and lonely child. She speaks now in a low voice.

And the child shall pass amongst you and remind you of your service to His creation.  She swoops the child up in her arms.

Come then, we mustn't be late, she says and turning, starts up the hill.

CHAPTER 1

These events I have described are as clear to me today as if they had just happened. Like a dream the scene comes back again and again; the details are sharp and clear. The ache in the dying mother's eyes is as real to me as my own heartbeat. I can smell the warm air of the old church and feel the smooth wooden benches.

The haunted expression of the young nun will never leave me. Outside in the thin spring light, the honeysuckle and wild roses bloom as delicately as on that spring day. I always witness the scene from several meters above the ground, following the nuns and the small child up the hill and into the ancient convent. Perhaps it is partly this sense of being removed and slightly above the events that makes it so hard even now for me to believe that this is my story. Yet in my heart I know it is. For even as I write I can feel the soft cotton belt I have worn for so long. Inside are the letter and the gold locket.  I did not always have a memory of these events. For many years the only connection I had was a kind of ache to know who my parents were and where I came from. It took  nearly a year with the old woman before I began to recall my earliest years. But I do not want to get ahead of myself. The tendency to rush on is almost irresistible. Yet I have always heard the fullest response to my real questions in the details of my life. My life seemed to demand from me that I learn patience almost from the very beginning. Even as an infant when our people were so ruthlessly pursued, there were times when the normal needs of a small baby could not be met. I can still hear my mother as she held me in her arms and gently pleaded with me for patience.

Soon, soon, she would sing, making a song from the desperate need for silence.

Soon, soon, my little one.

Soon, soon, my dear

You will have your bye and bye

With Daddy standing near,

Now, hush hush, my little one

Hush hush, my dear,

Do not cry and do not fret

Dry up every tear

For you must wait my little one,

You must wait my dear

Then you will have your heart's content

Forever and a year.

I wish you could hear the melody of the mother's song. It is so sad and calm. Perhaps you might understand how I felt when as a child I stood alone before those two women on that cold windswept hill. I sang the song very softly over and over to myself and waited for I knew not what. When Mother Superior picked me up in her arms, I knew somehow I would be cared for. My mother's song dropped from my lips as we started up the hill.

I remember the light high and clear as we walked along. The path was flanked on either side by hedges of hawthorn. Lines of trees made a cathedral dome over our heads with their age-old branches. Honeysuckle and wild roses lay in garlands over the prickly hawthorn. When the hedges had a break, or when it grew less thick, we glimpsed sharp little meadows that clung to the hill where the moss covered ground was white with daisies and blue with gentian. Occasionally we spotted a cow grazing in the rich pasture or smelled the heady fragrance of an apple orchard in bloom. We continued on without a word. As we approached the summit of the hill, I saw a tall wooden gate flanked on both sides by high stonewalls. Mother Superior turned to the young nun as we passed through the gate.

Very well, Sister Therese, we shall care for this child. It shall be a test of our vows. We must not forget our duties in any way. And yet we must not neglect the child either. I am afraid we're being called to stand up and sit down at the same time. We must pray for guidance. Go to your cell and pray.

Just before Sister Therese turned to go, she looked up at me. I was riding high in the arms of the Mother Superior. I tried to reach out to touch her. Our eyes met and Sister Therese seemed to reach out for me, but at the same time she moved away in obedience to her religious vows. I sank back into the arms of the Mother Superior and watched Sister Therese disappear into a large ivy-covered building. Mother Superior walked with me to another smaller building. We entered the darkened interior and paused to allow our eyes to grow accustomed to the dim light. Near the back of the room a very old nun was bending over a wood-burning stove preparing the daily meal. As we approached, the old woman glanced up. She carefully set down the dark stained wooden spoon she had been using to stir the soup and wiped her hands on a clean white apron. She was very old and her eyes were so weak she could not see me until we stood directly in front of her. At first she could not believe her eyes. Then all at once she clasped her hands in front of her like a young girl and declared joyfully, 

You've brought a child to stay with us! But what is your name dearest one?

I said nothing and looked out impassively from the safety of the Mother Superior’s arms.

This is Sister Marie, Mother Superior said, mediating between us. You shall live here with her and she will care for you. Sister Therese will move in here with you, Sister Marie, and help. Besides, she added a little gruffly, you have needed some help in the kitchen and this is a good opportunity.

Reluctantly, the Mother Superior surrendered me into the arms of the old nun. I accepted the change and put both of my arms around the Sister Marie’s neck. She held me there while the Mother Superior gave detailed instructions for my care. I was to sleep in the room behind the kitchen with Sister Marie and Sister Therese. I was to eat in the main room with the sisters. One of the two nuns would be excused from hourly religious duties until I felt sufficiently at ease to remain alone. I was to have the run of the small grassy courtyard that stood directly behind the kitchen. She looked down at me resting in the arms of the old nun.

In the meantime, she said, she can spend the day with you in the kitchen. It is God's will that we care for this child, Sister Marie, so we must try very hard to care for her well. But I don't think it will be very hard with this child.

Then she turned and left the building. For a moment, Sister Marie just stood there; her weak old eyes glistened brightly. A small smile lit her face.

The sisters turned a small pantry that stood off of the kitchen into a bedroom for me. The room actually shared a wall with a large open fireplace, that kept it warmer than the rest of the often drafty cloisters.  A door led outside and a small window looked out on a well-tended garden. They stuffed two mattresses with extra hay for my bed and covered me with blankets and feather puffs. I became most attached to an old, soft, woolen cloak that Sister Marie gave me. For a while it went everywhere with me. I dragged it behind me as I wandered through the halls and chapels. Many of the sisters pretended to scold me for dragging it along the floor, but I soon noticed how they always ended by shaking the old cape out and returning it to me. Even though they were not particularly used to caring for a small child, they still found time to play with me. The painful memories of my lost mother began to sink down within me and be buried by time. The nuns somehow found a way to comfort a small child. More than that, they helped me to grow. My need to develop patience became the principle instrument of my education. There were certain times of the day when silence was absolutely necessary in order to not disturb the duties of the sisters.

At first, the Mother Superior had either Sister Marie or Sister Therese stay with me. Then, slowly but firmly she insisted that I remain quietly by myself in my room. Being alone terrified me and I struggled. Whenever Sister Therese would leave, shutting the crooked wooden door behind her, I would be seized by a terrible certainty that I would never see her again. I was too well trained by then to cry out. I would sit on my bed and rock my doll. After what seemed an eternity, Sister Therese would slip through the door as she did that morning in the church. Kneeling beside me near the bed, she would take my head between her hands and gently shake me. Looking me in the eye, she would scold me for being so afraid.

You see, silly goose, we didn't forget you. We would never do that. What do you take us for?  I would break into tears, and, throwing my arms around her thin neck, I would hold on as tightly as I could. Gradually the fear passed. 

We almost never left the cloisters and for the most part I knew no other children my age for more than a year. I remember little of this period. Each day was much like the last. The religious practice that ordered the sisters' lives was far beyond my grasp. Of course, it had its effect. From almost the beginning, I began to sit quietly upon awakening.  I was just imitating those women around me whom I loved and revered. But it became a practice I keep to this day.

I spent a lot of time outside. There were some fields attached to the convent that the sisters worked daily in silence. I would follow after them, playing in the dirt or sleeping in the mown hay at midday. I took a special delight in riding on the old farm wagon pulled by an equally old dapple-grey mare. I think the love that the sisters showed cradled me and I recovered from the terrible loss of my mother and family. Within the protection of the convent I grew to be happy and well, although I was at times shy and even afraid.

I know now that outside the walls, the war raged on unabated, but it did not touch me. Not, at least, for a while. There must have been terrible pressures as more and more people were victimized by the horror. However, the first time someone happened to penetrate the high walls and reach the life within the convent, was for me the most wonderful occasion.

I vividly remember the day. I should explain first however, that I loved the special treat of going to the dark paneled office of the Mother Superior. Despite her authority and great responsibility, she somehow found time for me each week. Whenever I would be called to her chambers, she would greet me at the door. Then, sitting me on her lap, she would examine me always asking how I felt; seeing if I had grown. After this she would reach into one of the many drawers in her desk and pull out a piece of hard candy. This was the best time of all. I would sit in her lap, sucking the candy and listen while she told me wonderful fairy tales or recounted the lives of the saints. I fell asleep each time, for I never remember leaving her room. And I would wake up in my bed not knowing how I got there. But when I reached into the small pocket sewn on my dress, I would find another candy and remember the Mother Superior.

One day when Sister Therese and I had just come in from the apple orchard, Sister Marie ran up to us and spoke with some excitement.

Hurry, the Mother Superior wants to see all of us in her chambers as soon as possible.

Oh, dear, what has happened? Have we done something wrong? Sister Therese was nearly always afraid that we had offended the Holy Order.

Don't ask so many questions and get the child ready! Sister Marie said sternly, but not without a glint in her eye. 

All I understood was that I was going to see the Mother Superior and I was very happy. I had never gone there with anyone else before and for a moment I was afraid that there would not be enough candy for everyone. But then I decided that I would share whatever was given with my two friends.

It's all right, Sister Therese, I reassured her, we can all go and I will share my candy with you. So don't worry. 

Sister Therese picked me up in her arms and walked back into our room.

Oh, thank you Toby, that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.

Sister Therese picked me up in her arms and walked back into my room. Oh thank you, Toby: that's the nicest thing anybody has ever said to me.

I did not quite understand why she was so pleased and secretly I hoped that the Mother Superior would have enough candy for everyone. As it turned out, I had no need to worry. After washing me and helping me to change to a clean dress, we all walked to the Mother Superior's chambers. We knocked, but instead of greeting us at the door, the Mother Superior called, from within the room, Enter, please do come in. 

When I walked through the door, to my great surprise, I saw the Mother Superior sitting at her desk with another child on her lap. At first I was madly jealous. What was she doing in my place? But even then, something helpless about the little girl pulled at me;  her face ringed with dark curls, her eyes wide with hurt and confusion,.  I knew I had nothing to fear.

Come here, Toby, the Mother Superior called from behind the desk. I want you to meet our new friend. We are going to call her Rachael until she remembers her name. Rachael, this is Toby. God willing, you will be good friends.

Gently the Mother Superior lifted Rachael from her lap and put her down on the floor. For the briefest moment a look of terror clouded the delicate features of the small child. With tears staining her unwashed face, Rachael clung desperately to the long robes of the Mother Superior. I think she was afraid that she might be abandoned. The Mother Superior spoke to her.

Rachael, would you like to go and play with Toby?  Rachael solemnly shook her head no.  The was rest of us could do nothing.  We stood there and watched. Mother Superior, smiling softly, picked up the frightened child and held her in her arms again.

We found her wandering alone down by the Deux Pommiers. I am afraid that she has been abandoned.  When the Mother Superior spoke, she did so with no reproach in her voice, only a great sadness. Carefully she explained to Rachael how she could stay there at the convent with us until her parents could be found. Twice she put her down only to have Rachael cling to her robes. Each time the Mother Superior took her back into her arms and without the slightest impatience continued to reassure her. Then, reaching into her bottom drawer, the Mother Superior drew out two lemon drops and placed them in Rachael's hand.

Would you like to share this candy with Toby? she asked.  Rachael looked into her hand at the bright yellow candies. Then she gave an almost invisible nod. The Mother Superior put her back on the floor again. For a second Rachael hesitated, but with a gentle push she started around the large oak desk to where I stood. But when she reached me she did not give me a candy. Instead, she just stood there and stared at me. Then abruptly she turned and ran back to the Mother Superior. Mother Superior looked down at her and gently caressed her head.

Go on, you share your candy with Toby. It's all right.

Somewhat reluctantly Rachael turned and walked back to where I stood but again did not give me the candy. She looked in her hand at the two lemon drops and returned to the other side of the desk.

If you don't share your candy with Toby, Rachael, you will have to eat it all alone.

My heart sank at the mention of my not getting a lemon drop. Almost as if she could read my thoughts, Mother Superior looked up at me and winked. Rachael seemed to consider the Mother Superior's words carefully. Finally she came to a decision. She walked back around the desk for the third time. This time when she reached me she held out her hand and offered me one of the candies. She had held them so tightly and for so long that they were quite sticky and a little fuzzy.