The Secret of Sentinel Rock (11 page)

Emily realized she’d never thought of her mother as being older, maybe because Kate was so much younger than all her brothers and sisters. Grandma Renfrew had been in her forties when Kate had been born, and Kate in turn had been in her forties when she’d had Emily. Aunt Maggie, the oldest of all Grandma Renfrew’s family, was already in her seventies, and Emily agreed that Aunt Maggie would probably know the people in the ­photograph.

Emily held the picture up. “Gee, could I keep this one?”

“Well, I don’t know,” said her mother, looking at Aunt Liz for ­help.

“Just for now?” Emily ­pleaded.

“How about you can keep it until you talk to your Aunt Maggie on Sunday. Then when we find out who all these people are, and if they’re related, we’ll get some more copies made and you can have one for yourself, okay?” Aunt Liz patted Emily’s back and handed her the ­photograph.

“Okay.” Emily smiled and raced upstairs to hide the picture under the window ­ledge.

•••

For the rest of the day
Emily helped her mom and aunt finish cleaning out the attic. Kate explained to Liz about the arrangements she’d just made with Gerald Ferguson to keep renting the land for the rest of the year. He was to seed the crops and harvest them. In the fall the place would be put up for sale, but sometime before this summer they’d have the ­auction.

Emily helped her mother and aunt carry some of Grandmother Renfrew’s special belongings into one of the bedrooms. These were the articles they thought some of the other family members would like as keepsakes. Everything else was to be sold. Emily helped haul the items to the granaries outside, except for the cushioned chairs, footstools, and other ­fabric-­covered pieces that might be damaged by mice. These they left in the enclosed veranda on the main ­floor.

Emily’s hands were kept busy, but her mind worked overtime trying to figure out how Emma’s family could possibly be linked to hers. She was certain they had to be associated in some way, certain her own grandmother’s name had been Elliott, and that her family had originally come from Scotland ­too.

Her mother and Aunt Liz confirmed this when she asked them at lunch time, but they didn’t know what other family members had immigrated to the same area in those years. Disappointed by their lack of interest and knowledge, Emily left them on the second floor while she inspected the attic once ­more.

Next time Emily saw Emma, she’d question her closely about her background, and the possibility of other family members joining them. Maybe together they’d figure out the ­connection.

Chapter ­Eight

Emily never had the opportunity to ask Emma
about family connections the next day. In fact, the other girl barely had time to acknowledge her arrival. And Emily was stunned by what she ­saw.

Everything was quiet and still when she neared the homestead. Even the air was calm, and the drone of the insects hushed as she tramped along the trail through the bush. She noticed a change in the seasons again; the sun angled lower to the ground, and goldenrod and yarrow bloomed by the waysides. Autumn colours tinged the overhanging leaves, and the wild grass was bowed and faded as she walked through the tangled ­clumps.

When she reached the clearing, there was no sign of human activity in the yard or garden. Only the animals languished in their pens. There was an occasional squeal from a piglet and the mild clucking of hens as they foraged for food in the underbrush. But today, there were no sounds of axes ringing in the thicket beyond, nor shouts of motivation to the sluggish ­oxen.

Cautiously, Emily approached the house. She thought she heard whimpering inside. She peeked between the slats in the shutters and she caught sight of Jack and Sandy on the other side of the cabin floor. Both writhed in pain on their straw mattresses. Geordie moaned in a corner where he was curled up in a blanket, clutching his stomach. On a cot along the back wall of the hut, Emma’s grandmother lay still. Although Kate and Bella appeared to be asleep, Emily sensed that none of the occupants seemed aware of their surroundings. Except ­Emma.

As she pressed a cloth to her mother’s forehead with one hand, she rocked the baby’s cradle with the other in an attempt to stop the little mite’s crying. Emily saw the beads of moisture on Emma’s pinched face, and the exhaustion that sapped her ­body.

Just then Emma’s father groaned on the bed where he lay beside his wife. Emma reached out to feel his forehead, then scuttled over to a basin on the table. Wringing out another cloth, she rushed back and laid it across her father’s ­brow.

Emily watched Emma go to the woodbox, find it empty, then head for the door. When Emma stepped outside, Emily called gently to her from the side of the ­house.

“Emma. It’s me. What’s happened?” She touched Emma’s ­arm.

Emma crumpled against her, and sobbed. “Oh, Emily. Everyone has some sort of sickness. I think they caught it from the people who came through here a few days ago.”

Emily hugged Emma to her. As the girl wept Emily gently rubbed her tight shoulders. At last Emma’s shaking sobs subsided. A few moments later she straightened up and wiped her damp face with her ­apron.

Then she explained as she pulled Emily towards the woodpile. A caravan of covered wagons with a dozen families immigrating from England were travelling farther west. Many of them had been sick and some had died on the trail. They’d picked up some sort of influenza in Manitoba, but they’d thought they were over it when they stopped with Emma’s family to ­rest.

Emily shuddered at Emma’s story. The thought of people sick and dying with no doctor available for miles around appalled her. How sad to think of people being buried in some strange land while their families left them and moved on. It was so different from Grandmother Renfrew’s funeral with all the relatives and friends gathered around. And knowing she could visit her grandmother’s gravesite easily seemed comforting in ­comparison.

As Emma continued the story, the girls filled the wheelbarrow with split wood from the huge woodpile. They worked quickly, knowing the needs of the people inside the sod house depended on them. As she tried to grasp what Emma told her, Emily could hear Molly’s faint cries through the stillness of the ­day.

The Elliotts had offered fresh water and food to the ­travel-­weary bunch, and a place to rest and do laundry while they regained their strength to continue their trip. Then, on the second night of their stay, one of the little boys had fallen ill. The family left immediately for Wolseley, twenty miles away, in search of the doctor they’d heard was ­there.

“We didn’t know how to help them,” said Emma, grabbing a stick of wood and throwing it into the nearby wheelbarrow with more force than was necessary. “And Wolseley is too far away travelling with oxen. I don’t think they could have gotten there in time to save the wee child.”

“But the worst….” Emma took in a deep breath and looked skyward as tears threatened to overtake her again. She continued in a shaky voice, “The worst thing is…that my family is sick now, and I don’t know what to do.”

Emily hugged Emma again to her, trying to comfort the distraught girl. All the while her mind was reeling at the implications. She remembered vaguely hearing about flu epidemics from history classes at school, and something her grandmother had said once. But she didn’t have any idea how to help. She only knew she
had
to help. Emma’s whole family was in grave ­danger.

A soft breeze began to blow, and overhead in the trees the song of a meadowlark seemed to calm ­Emma.

“What have you tried so far?” Emily asked gently, her arms still around the quivering girl’s ­shoulders.

Emma recounted the symptoms and her actions. Chills and then high fevers and delirium. Some had stomach cramps and nausea. She’d combatted them as best she could by keeping a hot fire going in the house and placing cool compresses on everyone stricken. She’d kept them all covered with blankets, except to wash them. She’d fed them a vegetable broth and tea. But there were just too many of them sick, and she’d run out of camomile and hadn’t had time to pick ­more.

“I have to keep running out for firewood and water,” Emma said. “There’s never enough.”

Emily could see the circles of fatigue under Emma’s eyes, the pallor and thinness of her body. “I can see you haven’t had enough sleep either.” She helped Emma push the clumsy wheelbarrow along the narrow bumpy ­track.

What could she do to help? If only she could remember what her grandmother had taught her about medicinal plants. Emily knew there was a book back at the stone house that might help, but if she returned for it, she knew she’d be too late. The time changed too quickly in Emma’s ­world.

Just then the wheelbarrow toppled over, spilling all the wood. The girls cried out in dismay. Then quickly they righted the heavy conveyance and loaded it up again. As Emily scrambled for a couple of blocks she felt something scrape her arm. She winced and examined the scratch, then looked down at the brambles lying trampled on the ground.
Rose bushes
. Of ­course.

Emily grabbed Emma’s hand excitedly, and pointed to the little red berries on the prickly stems. “There’s our answer. Rosehips!”

“What?” Emma looked at Emily through dull, tired ­eyes.

“There are tons of vitamins in these berries. They can’t hurt. We’ll make a tea from them,” Emily explained. “Come on. I’ll help you get this wood in, and you go for water while I pick some of these.”

They pushed the wheelbarrow hard and it rumbled towards the house. Emily didn’t even wonder if the other occupants thought it strange that pieces of wood were flying into the woodbox seemingly unaided. Everyone was too sick to notice or remember if they did notice. She continued to help Emma fill the box, then grabbed a basket off a shelf and headed back outside with Emma at her ­heels.

Emma’s steps seemed to quicken and her spirits improve as she headed for the well. When she returned, Emily brought the berries into the house and helped Emma brew the tea. While it was steeping, Emily rocked Molly to sleep in her cradle, then began wringing out fresh cloths so that Emma could wipe the sweating ­brows.

She helped Emma wherever she could. At one point she laid a cool hand across Geordie’s forehead. She was startled to see his eyes pop ­open.

“Are you an angel?” he asked, a blissful grin on his face as he stared up at her. In his delirious state he seemed to be able to see ­her.

Emily just smiled, and Geordie dozed. Sometime afterwards his fever seemed to break and he rested more easily, drifting into an almost normal sleep. Once Emma was able to spoon tea into everyone else’s mouths, they settled more comfortably. Later Emily insisted Emma rest for ­awhile.

“I’ll keep watch and if I need you, I’ll call,” she assured Emma. The other girl plunked herself into the rocking chair, and instantly nodded ­off.

Emily was too overwrought to rest. Her mind shuffled through remedies and instructions she’d learned over the years from Grandmother Renfrew. She’d spent many hours wandering the meadows and hills of her grandparents’ farm, listening as her grandmother rattled off the names of each plant and the properties they provided for natural healing. Emily had even gathered some, dried them, and then labelled them in a notebook, but that didn’t do her any good now. If only she could remember which ones to pick! Maybe if she were outside it would come back more ­easily.

Noting that Emma was wakening again at the sound of Molly’s whimpers, Emily motioned to her friend that she was going back out to pick more rosehips and camomile. As she gathered the berries and flowers into the basket she’d brought along, Emily looked about her at the surrounding vegetation. She knew the plants and trees were filled with good nutrients and ­medicine.

Suddenly remembering the sweltering day she’d seen the oxen escape to the slough, she thought of the willows that draped over the banks. White willow bark – that’s what she needed. Emily grabbed her basket and ran to the slough, mumbling instructions to herself on how to prepare the mixture. It was important to remember exact proportions, or they could be harmful instead of ­helpful.

Emily quickly found a stand of the right trees and stripped a little bark off the base of several trunks, using a sharp stick to get it started. This proved to be too slow, so she broke several branches off and stuck them into the ­basket.

More remedies were surfacing in her mind as she worked. Raspberry leaves and the inside of poplar bark. Even sage and stinging nettle would be good. Emily practically flew about the area gathering every kind of plant, root or berry she could think of that might help. As she worked, she went over the recipes in her mind, knowing it was vital to use the proper amounts of each and to prepare them ­correctly.