The Fiddler's Secret (8 page)

“If that happens, you need to make another choice. Are
you going to throw away what you care about—to say it doesn't matter? Or will you decide it
does
matter, and you're going to stick to what you believe? That's when you need to ask God to help you.”

Libby's stomach tightened. It sounded too much like a hard assignment in school.
I don't want to be tested
.

As if hearing her thoughts, Pa spoke again. “Let God wrap His arms of love around you.”

Libby knew what that meant. Letting God love her was like being a little girl again. Having Pa hold her on his lap. Or feeling Ma's arms around her, even when she felt afraid.

I can handle that
, Libby decided. Crossing her arms over her chest, Libby hugged herself to remember God's love. In that moment her fear disappeared.

When Annika finished writing for Peter, she looked at Pa. The concern in his eyes didn't go away.

Then Peter spoke up. “We should have a secret sign.”

“What do you mean?” Pa signed.

“You know how the early Christians helped each other?”

Pa knew, but he let Peter tell them. “When I was little, Mama and Papa told me how Christians hid in the catacombs of Rome. Other people were scared to go there because that's where people were buried. But Christians weren't scared. They were safe there. And they had a secret sign.”

With two quick strokes, Peter drew a simple fish on the blackboard. “The early Christians spoke a different language than we do.” He explained that the five letters in their word for fish stood for five words: Jesus Christ, God's Son, Savior. The fish helped Christians recognize one another.

Pa's smile was gentle. Careful to not spoil the fish Peter had
drawn, Pa wrote on the board, “Your mother and father taught you well, Peter.”

“It can be our secret sign,” Peter insisted. “When we draw a fish, it means that one of us has been there.”

But Libby felt uneasy again, even afraid. She didn't like Peter's game. It seemed too serious, too much like something they might need to use.

Once more she looked toward the windows. Just then something caught her attention. Something half seen out of the corner of her eye.

Libby glanced toward Caleb, then realized that Pa blocked Caleb's view of the window.
What is it? How can there be a shadow with the fog hiding the sun?

Libby jumped up and hurried over to the window. When she looked out, there was no one in sight. Trying to cover up her strange move, she turned and pretended she was helping Annika.

But later as they left Pa's cabin, Caleb asked, “What was wrong with you? It's like you were half here, half not here.”

“You think so, huh?” Embarrassed again, Libby put away her plan of telling Caleb what was wrong. Not for anything would she do it now. “Maybe I saw more than all of you!”

Standing at the railing with Caleb, Libby turned her back to him. At least things had gone well with Annika.
If she wants to marry a man of God, she sure would have one with Pa
.

Then Libby remembered.
Pa didn't tell us what he wants
. That was all right because Libby thought she knew.
But what does Annika want?

Again Libby felt uneasy.
A time of testing ahead? Pa never goes looking for trouble. He wouldn't warn us unless he thought it was important
.

Libby drew a deep breath and felt a gentle wind touch her arms. The breeze was blowing the fog away. As the sun appeared, she noticed a small stream flowing into the backwaters. Then the
Christina
's engines started, and Libby heard the flutter of wings. Two large, dark brown birds flew up from along the creek.

“They're eagles!” Caleb exclaimed. When he pushed the blond hair out of his eyes, Libby knew her anger about his teasing was gone.

As the eagles spread their great wings, Libby saw their white heads and tail feathers. Rising higher and higher, the eagles soared against the bright blue sky. Libby watched until they disappeared from sight.

“I wish I could fly like that,” she said softly.

Just as softly came Caleb's answer. “You can. That's your pa's verse.”

Libby looked at him, not understanding.
What do you mean, Caleb?
she wanted to ask.

When he didn't say more, Libby thought about the verse her mother had underlined. The verse she had marked with
Elizabeth
, Libby's name. And the verse Pa had given in class—“
All things work together for good to them that love God
.”

Like a stream of living water, the words flowed through Libby's mind, bringing comfort.
I love You, Lord. So that means Your promise is for me. But does Pa also have another special verse?

Standing there, she searched the sky.
How can I fly like an eagle? Soar up in the clouds?

“What do you mean, Caleb?” she finally asked. “What is Pa's verse?”

Turning, Caleb faced the stream from which the eagles had flown. “They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength,” he said softly. “They shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.”

In that moment Libby's wish during class became a prayer.
Help me be strong, Lord. I'm scared of hard times. But if they come, help me remember that You love me. That You can work things together for good. And help me to run, walk, soar with the wings of an eagle
.

After lunch Libby found Caleb, Jordan, and Peter on the main deck. She also noticed Mr. Kadosa. “There's the fiddler,” Libby said. “Let's go talk to him.”

The musician sat on a large crate near the edge of the deck, looking out over the river. Libby walked up behind him. “Mr. Kadosa?”

When he did not turn, Libby raised her voice. “Mr. Kadosa?”

Still the fiddler paid no attention.

Is he hard of hearing?
Libby wondered. Not wanting to touch his arm or shoulder the way she would with Peter, Libby walked around in front of the fiddler. “Mr. Kadosa?” she said again, facing him now.

The fiddler jerked to attention. “Good afternoon!” he said, greeting her warmly.

For the first time Libby saw his face in the sunlight, and he looked younger than she thought. Just below the jawbone on the left side of his neck was a small area of red, roughened skin from the chin rest of his violin.

“I'm Libby,” she said. “Captain Norstad's daughter.” She pointed to each of the boys. “Caleb Whitney. Jordan Parker. Peter Christopherson. We want to thank you for your wonderful concerts.”

“Concerts?” he asked. “More than one?”

“We heard both of them. The one on the deck and the one in the main cabin.”

“Tell me,” the fiddler said. “Which one did you like best?”

Libby smiled. “The one on the deck.”

Mr. Kadosa smiled too. “I gave to them the fun.”

Just then Peter moved forward. “Do you have a family?”

When Mr. Kadosa started to answer, Peter held out his slate. “Please. I can't hear.”

Taking the slate pencil, the fiddler began to write. “I have a boy as nice as you, but he is younger.” Mr. Kadosa held up his hand and spread his fingers wide.

“He's five years old,” Peter said.

The fiddler nodded, then erased his words on the slate and wrote again. “I teach him to play the violin. He makes many screeches.”

Mr. Kadosa held his hands over his ears and made a face. Peter laughed.

“But my son will learn,” Mr. Kadosa wrote. “He will learn as I learned.” Pointing to himself, the fiddler forgot to write. “He become gut.”

Good
, Libby thought.
Mr. Kadosa's son will become a good fiddler
.

“Please,” Mr. Kadosa said as Libby and the boys started to leave. “Call me Franz.”

Strange
, Libby told herself.
I know Mr. Kadosa is a concert
violinist. Probably the best violinist I'll ever meet. But I heard him first as a fiddler, and that's how I think of him
.

Even so, Libby felt more puzzled than ever. She had wondered if the fiddler had a secret. Now he didn't seem mysterious after all.

When Libby went to her room, she found Samson lying in one of his favorite places, right outside her door. From five months of experience, Libby knew that sometimes Samson parted his mouth in a grin and said “Wooof!” from deep in his throat. By contrast, Wellington was a yappy little dog.

As Peter followed Libby up the stairs, his terrier followed him. With one look at Samson, Wellington stiffened. In the next instant, he planted his four spindly legs for battle. At the terrier's sharp bark, Samson lifted his head.

Wellington backed away, then danced around to one side of the large Newfoundland. Samson turned his head, and the small dog started barking in earnest.
Yap, yap, yap!

Still watching the terrier, Samson stood up. That made Libby nervous. “Hold your dog!” she told Peter, then remembered he couldn't hear.

But Peter seemed worried, too, and scooped Wellington up in his arms. A minute later the terrier jumped free. Landing on the deck, he took up his battle position. Circling Samson, he yapped with every move.

Just then Caleb and Jordan came up the stairs. “What's going on?” Caleb asked.

Seeing the small dog stand off against the big one, Jordan grinned. “I'm bettin' on Wellington.”

“No!” Libby exclaimed, unwilling to believe her dog could lose. “Samson's being careful. He doesn't want to hurt Wellington.”

At that Caleb laughed. “How many for Wellington? How many for Samson?”

Planting his four paws, Samson lifted his head. From deep in his throat came a low
woooof!

Wellington backed away. Looking relieved, Peter glanced at Libby. Just then the terrier ran straight for Samson.

Samson stood his place. As the terrier circled around him, Samson waited. But his head moved left to right, and his eyes followed the smaller dog.

Yap, yap, yap!

Again Samson raised his head. Backing away, Wellington faced his opponent.

Samson waited. Once more the smaller dog rushed in. Suddenly Samson put one giant paw on Wellington's back and pushed the small dog to the deck.

Instantly the terrier's barking changed to whimpers. As Wellington yelped and squirmed, Samson held him there.

After a moment Samson lifted his paw. Wellington yipped again, leaped up, and scampered away.

When Peter caught him, the little dog shivered and tucked his nose into the crook of Peter's elbow. The next time Wellington lifted his head, he did not bark at Samson.

Later that afternoon Libby took out her pencils and drawing paper. While living in Chicago, she had taken lessons from a famous artist. Whenever she could, Libby practiced. Now she perched on top of a barrel and sketched deckers. She started with the children, then drew a mother or father.

Remembering Pa's school lesson, Libby looked for immigrants. Often they wore a piece of paper pinned to their shirt
or dress. The paper helped other people tell an immigrant when to get off a boat or train.

As Libby drew, she listened.
What do they want?
she asked herself.
What do they
really
want?
Often Libby couldn't understand enough of their language to know.

She was hard at work when she heard a rude voice. “Hey, there!” Libby looked up to see Jordan crossing the deck.

“You, boy!” the man called.

Jordan froze. His shoulders stiff, his face gone blank, he turned to see who was calling.

A short, thin man stood behind him. With his hair slicked down and his collar high around his chin, he seemed to have no neck. But he spit out his words as if he owned the whole world.

Then the man's eyes widened with surprise. “I know
you
! You're Micah Parker's son.”

For one instant Jordan cringed. Then, almost without drawing a breath, he straightened, standing tall. “Yessuh, I am Micah Parker's son,” he answered respectfully. “And proud of it.”