The Wishing Star (10 page)

At night she would kneel beside the loft window and whisper, “Star light, star bright—” Then she would pause, unable to put that nameless wish into words.

Then one cool, breezy evening, Tom spoke, his voice wavering only slightly. “I'm not goin'. I'm growed, and it's time I found my own way. I'd rather work at the livery for a year or so, then I'll . . .”

Studying his face, Jenny could only guess at the things he dared not say. But secretly she was applauding him. For the first time, Tom had stood up to Pa. As she stared at him, he straightened his shoulders, and a hint of a smile gleamed in his eye. Jenny didn't need to grin at him; he knew how she felt. She turned away, sad for herself but glad for him.

Pa watched them all for a moment. Jenny felt his eyes upon her. He broke the silence. “So be it. I can't be a-hangin' on to you if you've made up your mind. The rest of us will be goin'.” Thoughtfully he studied Tom and then added, “It'll be lonesome for you. You'll be needin' to find a place to board, and that'll cut into your wages.” But Tom's jaw was set, and Pa said no more.

****

On the warmest day of the spring, with the door open wide to catch any passing breeze, Jenny worked in the stifling cabin. She was fretfully begrudging the errand which had taken Nancy to the store. As she wiped perspiration from her face, she was even begrudging her mother's tasks outdoors as she washed and hung laundry on the bushes.

But while Jenny was lifting pans from the high shelf, she found the book.

“Oh, there it is!” she exclaimed with satisfaction. Hugging the book like an old, dear friend, she settled down on a bench and stroked the dusty cover. “For sure I thought he'd chucked you for good.”

She studied the cover. It wasn't like the dark, somber book that belonged to her mother; this one was bright green with the figure of a woman on it, outlined in gold. Jenny traced her finger over the shiny illustration, again wondering about it. She ached with longing to open it, to read those enticing passages. Jenny ran her fingers over the gold letters of the title,
The Greater Key of Solomon
.

She peeked once, then was immediately lost to her surroundings. “Raphael,” she murmured to herself. “I wonder who he is?” Her finger followed the words down the page, fumbled and turned the next page, and the next. The title of one chapter caught her attention, and excitement coursed through her as she continued, “This chapter is about how to render yourself master of a treasure possessed by a spirit. That's what Joe was tryin' to do. I wonder if he's read this book.”

As she continued to stare at the page before her, she recalled her father talking about reading the book. For a moment her heart contracted as a picture arose in her mind: Jenny and her father, miraculously changed, working together as friends with the book between them. Jenny and her father, together with Joe Smith, digging up treasure—gold, silver, more than her mind could conceive. Her eager eyes again sought the words.

When the page before her dimmed, she realized the afternoon was gone. Then to her horror she discovered that the darker shadow was Pa! By his silence she knew he had been watching for some time.

“Why you lick your lips like that when you read the words?” he asked. He had lifted the razor strap down from the wall beside the washbasin. Jenny's vision exploded like a bubble. She tried to focus on the battered tin bucket. “Answer me! Why can't you leave my book alone?” he shouted.

His first blow knocked the book across the room. It spun out of sight under the edge of the bed quilt. She tried to see it even as she willed it to stay hidden.

When the blows had ceased and the scent of his alcohol-laden breath filled the room, when the blood was warm and wet on her legs, Jenny knew she would be staying in Manchester when Pa and the others moved on.

When Tom saw Jenny's bleeding legs and listened to her, he turned and without a word left. When he returned, he had a promise of a position for Jenny with the Martin Harris family. Harris owned the livery stable where Tom worked. She took comfort in that.
It's a link to Tom
, she thought as he told her Mrs. Harris needed a girl.

June found Jenny settled in her new home. Some days she regretted her position as hired girl in the household, especially when she stirred the wrath of Martin Harris. While his stern words condemned the dust in the corner and the weeds in the garden, his wife patted Jenny's shoulder, saying, “Never mind a word he says. He knows we couldn't be gettin' along without you.”

It was true. Mrs. Harris was lame this spring, and limped slowly about her house and garden. They expected Jenny to fill the gap.

When her family had left, Jenny had watched the wagon lurch away from the little house behind the livery stable, carrying them away from her. As she thought about that scene, even now, the tears blurred that final picture. If it hadn't been for the pain in her bruised body and Tom's restraining hand on her shoulder, she would have run after the wagon, begging for her old place beside Nancy. If the tears hadn't filled her eyes, would she have been able to find in Ma's face the tenderness she longed for?

She recalled the day Pa had used the razor strap on her. She could still see how Ma had turned away when she saw the blood. Tom had washed her legs and rubbed in the ointment. Not Ma, not Nancy. Had her sin been too much? She didn't need to be told they thought she deserved the hurts.

Nowadays it helped to have Tom and the hard tasks at her new home. They wiped out the miserable, lonesome thoughts.

Tom had been given a spot in the loft at the Harris home, and he took his board with them. During the evening hours, he split logs and stacked them under the eaves to pay for his keep.

As the summer passed, Jenny continued to nurse the one secret she hadn't dared share with even Tom. She promised herself that she would. But as time drifted by, she forgot how Ma had turned away and how Nancy had scorned her. The guilty secret didn't seem as frightening nor as important now.

Come evenings, Jenny took out Pa's green book and looked at it, no longer trembling with guilt for stealing it. She still promised herself once in a while that she would share her secret with Tom.

As autumn approached, the Sabbath day became a high spot in Jenny's week. After the breakfast dishes were done and the dinner roast shoved into the oven, Jenny was free to change her dress and go with Mrs. Harris to the Presbyterian church.

Not that church had become important—however, for this one day Jenny would be beyond the disapproving eye of Mr. Harris.

On that first Sabbath, Mrs. Harris had seen Jenny's perplexed frown as Martin Harris settled down on the porch, still wearing his carpet slippers. In the wagon Lucy Harris snapped the reins along the backs of the team and tried to explain her husband's newest beliefs. Jenny's eyes grew round with wonder.

“Why does he keep joinin' so many churches?” she asked. “I've heard of the Quakers, but what's a Restorationist and a Universalist?”

Mrs. Harris shrugged and forced a weak smile, but Jenny could see the pain behind her eyes. “Child,” she said, “some people just never seem to be satisfied with settlin' for the truth. My husband Martin, he's a good man, been raised with true religion. But he's so restless, he's never made a commitment of himself to the truth. So he keeps lookin' for something new—and he always seems to find it.”

Jenny stared at her new mistress, dumbfounded. Her own mother had taught her to honor the Bible and to read it instead of Pa's green book. But no one had ever talked about truth in this way.

“You mean,” she stammered, “there's just one truth, one power?”

They had reached the church, and Mrs. Harris turned and looked Jenny square in the eye. “Lots of powers, child—some good, some bad. Only one truth.” Her eyes softened. “Maybe someday you'll understand.” She turned and limped ahead to find her friends.

In church, Jenny was becoming conscious of the people around her. She heard the pastor read the black book, using words she still couldn't understand. But her neighbors and school friends, the grocer and the man who had worked with Pa at the foundry were all changed. On the Sabbath day laughing faces were sober, thoughtful. School-yard folly was forgotten. Dirty shirts were exchanged for clean, and tousled hair was neatly braided.

Somehow there was a tie between this place, the words that man was reading, the serious faces under smoothed hair, and the truth of which Mrs. Harris spoke. She saw responses from the parson's listeners, and the quiet atmosphere of the church became shivery with intense feeling. Although Jenny didn't quite recognize it, the feeling awed, even frightened her.

Sometimes she was nudged into thinking thoughts about sin, about evil, about her soul, about heaven and hell.

She pushed aside that sense of foreboding and thought of her desire for spirit power. There were lots of powers, Lucy Harris had said. Which power, she wondered, was the one she wanted?

For some reason she couldn't understand the parson's words about sin and evil. But it made Jenny think of the stolen green book, the pictures of spirits, and the words of power. Again she felt the mingled fear and fascination and remembered the strange glitter in Joe Smith's eyes.
He knows
, she thought,
of the gold of the treasures guarded by the power of the spirits
.

Often at night, when Jenny was in her room under the eaves, seeing the moonlight, listening to the crickets and feeling alone, she found she couldn't sleep. Wide-eyed she would lie in the drift of moonlight, missing the sounds of her family's soft breathing in the room, lonesome for the warmth of Dorcas beside her.

One night, when the moon was high and the Harrises had set the rafters to trembling with their snoring, Jenny heard the creak of the barn door. She crept to the window, heard the distant clank of shovel against stone, and saw dim shadows slip through the yard.

The next day she followed Tom to the barn. “Tom, you're diggin' nights. Why can't I go with you?”

He looked astonished, then glanced quickly around. “Hush. I don't want Mrs. Harris to know. Look, Jen, I gotta get it across to you; this isn't fun, it's serious business. We can't risk a young'un messin' it up again.”

“You're still blamin' me for not findin' the treasure over at South Bainbridge, aren't you?”

“Well, let's put it this way,” he said shortly. “There's enough chance you did it that none of us will risk it again.”

She studied him curiously for a moment before she said, “Look, I'm older now. Trust me. From the way you said that, there must be some in the bunch knowin' about last time. There's no one else around except the Smiths.”

He nodded, “You're right.” He closed his lips tightly and turned to lift a forkful of hay to the cows. Jenny studied his expression. Tom wasn't going to say more.

She tried to find a way to break past the barrier. “Tom, you're shuttin' me out on purpose. We're all the family there is now.” She let the lonesome feelings tremble through her voice.

He rumpled her hair. “Aw, Jen. You're the best sis I could have, but you can't be out followin' the fellas.”

“Do you really think you'll be findin' something this time?”

He said nothing. In frustration she turned away.

The matter would probably have ended with Tom's stubborn silence if it hadn't been for the trip to Palmyra. It stirred afresh her desire to be in on the digging.

The Harris farm lay tucked between the two villages of Manchester and Palmyra, New York. Jenny knew Manchester well—it was a wonderful place with its shops and mills. But she had never been to Palmyra.

The day Martin Harris declared he was going to Palmyra, Lucy Harris elected to go with him. Mr. Harris sighed in resignation. “Might as well take Jenny. I'll not have the time to tote you around, so ye better have company.”

Martin Harris was unusually talkative on the ride. Watching his face as he described the building of the Erie Canal, Jenny was surprised to see his dreamy, contented expression. It was unlike the employer she had come to fear.

When the wagon reached the Palmyra side of the bridge, he said, “This is a great country, this United States of America. Just watch. The nation will be great because our democracy is based on the laws of nature. We'll steadily become more perfect and our people will be purified. One day the whole world will come running after us to follow our example.” He waved his whip at the canal. “This Erie Canal is part of the dream. Sure, it costs, but it makes progress possible on a grand scale. It costs in lives and money for us to be moving westward. It's brave men doing it. There's not a power on earth can stop the progress once the Lord wills it. Manifest Destiny, they are calling it. This canal's been open less'n two years, but look at the boats.”

When they reached Palmyra Jenny gaped at the crowds, whispering, “It's so big! Bet it's bigger'n New York City.”

Harris laughed. “Less'n four thousand people.” But sobering, he said, “That's a goodly lot though, and it's a fair town. You ladies be at your shoppin' and get back to the stables. I wanna be outta here before midafternoon.”

As they climbed out of the wagon, Jenny spotted one of the stores and exclaimed, “Look! That shop has just books!”

Mrs. Harris glanced around and said, “Oh my, it does. Funny I never noticed it before.” She studied Jenny curiously and added, “I don't claim to be all that interested in reading. If there's time later, I'll let you have a look.”

With her mind filled with that one thought, Jenny trailed around the shops with Mrs. Harris, trying to be patient.

Finally, Jenny's arms loaded with parcels and Mrs. Harris's bag bulging, the woman announced her shopping completed and they turned toward the stables. Halfway back, Mrs. Harris stopped to talk to a friend. When Jenny shifted from foot to foot, the woman said, “Be off to the book shop, and then go on to the wagon.”