Wind-Borne Sister. Melinda Holland
they deserved some small tokens for these long weeks of care and comfort and safety. For myself I chose a few skeins of bright yarn, hoping to knit a warm scarf over the long season ahead. Rachel, Bronwyn, and I shared a small lunch of fresh bread and cheese in a clearing near the main road. I felt happy and relaxed in a way that I had forgotten, glad of my new friends, of the grace of anonymity.
And then it happened, all in a flurry of neighing and crashing, of confusion and cursing on the road just beyond. A horse had been startled, and it reared, tipping over the heavy cart behind. At first it seemed a minor incident: the driver had managed to escape much injury and was busy trying to unharness horse from cart and calm the poor animal. But then someone called out for help, sharp and clear in the autumn air. A small boy had been struck by a corner of the cart as it overturned and was bleeding profusely from the crown of his head.
Before I even knew what I was doing, I was up and running into the street, hurrying toward the boy, gripping the cross in my pocket. I knelt down at his side, heedless that my skirts would be dirtied by mud and blood. He looked about nine years of age, his face contorted in pain and fear. I didn’t take time to ask questions, only put out my hand to his head where the wound was deepest and began to pray. I felt the old grace returning, the warmth of light in my fingers, the deep peace of healing. In my mind I pictured the little boy running, dancing, delighted, as the watchful, loving eyes of Christ looked on. Though there was shouting and muddle all around me, I only saw his little face, first pain-filled, then puzzled, then peaceful. I shut my eyes and kept praying, letting the healing grace do its work, relinquishing my need to hide in this greater need to serve.
Unexpectedly, Allan’s face came into view. “Brie! What has happened?” Beside him stood a weeping woman I took to be the child’s mother. She knelt down beside me and gently lifted him from my touch. His eyes opened and he murmured, “Mama.” And then I must have fainted, for I saw no more.
I awoke in the spare room at Rachel and Bronwyn’s. Someone had lent me other garments, for my own could be seen hanging on the line beyond the window. It was nearly dusk, and with disquiet I remembered my headlong rush to the boy’s side, in full view of my new friends and a dozen or more townspeople. Was he all right? I wondered. It wasn’t always certain what could be healed and what not. I rinsed my face in the nearby basin and went out to the sitting room.
Five faces looked intently at me as I appeared: Rachel and Bronwyn, Allan, and the little boy and his mother. The child seemed well, looked alert and coherent. Yet alongside my great joy at his recovery, my stomach dropped in anticipation of the conversation to come.
Allan broke the silence, “Have you trained in medicine, Brie? This child had quite an injury, and yet he seems now right as rain. You mentioned nothing of that to Susannah and me.”
I shook my head, wordless. Bronwyn spoke up gently, “I told you, pastor. She was not applying poultices or giving him herbs; she was just placing her hands to the wound and praying.”
“But you said he was bleeding profusely. There is still a stain on the street. And yet now all we see is a tiny scar on his head. This cannot be.”
Rachel looked at me with a hesitant glance, deep kindness mixed with fear. She held out my cross to me. “I found this in your pocket as I washed your garments. I did not want it to be lost.” I took it from her and was surprised at the warmth that rushed up my arm.
But Allan was still questioning. “Brie, what did you do? How did you do it? The first townspeople to come upon Michael were not even sure that he would survive his injury.”
I could not hide. “I prayed,” I answered simply. He looked disbelieving, so I continued. “Sometimes when I pray, a warmth comes to my hands; sometimes healing is worked somewhere between the prayers and my hands and the person who is hurt. I do not understand it any better than you. It is why I ran away from my old village. The people feared and mistrusted this power that God sometimes wields through me. I do not know how it works; I only know that it is.”
For the first time, little Michael spoke up. “I heard the horse, and then the cart fell, and I felt a sharp, tearing pain in my head. I fell on the ground hard, and I heard people call out as they knelt beside me. They turned me over, and all I could see were the clouds above and a cloudy kind of darkness in front of my eyes, too. Then this lady came. She was whispering—it did sound kind of like church talk—and she put her hand on my head where it hurt so bad. And then it was like sunshine. Does that make sense? It was like sunshine breaking through this awful pain, pushing it back, like a man who is winning a fistfight. And the lady just kept touching me and saying those gentle words. Finally there was more sunshine than pain, and Mama came.”
All five faces turned to me, uncertain, wondering, ill at ease. It was hardest to see the look on Allan’s face. I could not read it, but I knew that he no longer felt at peace with me. I did not wish my work undone; little Michael was going to be fine, and that counted for much. But I did wish that the accident had never taken place to draw me out into the open, to make me a spectacle once more.
Then Allan seemed to make up his mind. “Brie will return to Susannah’s tomorrow. When asked, you will tell others that Brie had received some training as a midwife, that by good fortune she had some strong herbs with her that helped to staunch the bleeding. Michael, do you understand?”
“Pastor, why do you want me to lie? I know it was the sunshine in her hands, not the herbs at all.”
Allan smiled. “You are an honest lad, Michael. I am glad that you are well and will live to remember this day. But Brie’s sunshine, as you call it, could put her in danger, if other people know about it. What I am asking you to do is to help protect her. Can you do that?”
Michael nodded solemnly, and his mother held him tight. She had said nothing throughout the whole conversation. But now she turned directly toward me, with a look of fierce gratitude and yet also a shielded suspicion. I had seen that face before on other mothers, other fathers. You gave me back my child; I must thank you. But I don’t trust what you have done or who you are, and so I must push you away. I both understood and dreaded that look. Above all it was isolating.
Allan and I left early the next morning, before the sun was fully up. He did not want questions from passersby or strange looks and whispering. To their credit, both Bronwyn and Rachel rose to see me off. Bronwyn clasped my hand, and Rachel reached for a quick hug. I felt so surprised and blessed by those little gestures of care, for in the past I had met with only distance, even ostracism.
The journey back to Susannah’s was even quieter than the journey out, weighted with heaviness and my own sorrow. Allan seemed distracted, and I did not press him. I worried what conversation would greet me in Susannah’s home. I tried to enjoy the beauty of the morning; despite the clouds, rays of sunlight danced on golden leaves in the early hours. But by midday, the rain had begun, and we were soaked and chilled by the time we reached the small dwelling on the cliff. What lay in store for me?
When we reached Susannah’s house, Allan asked me to give them time alone. I was glad for the opportunity to wash and warm myself in the bath that Susannah had drawn as she heard the horse’s hooves in the distance. However, I worried what the outcome of their conversation would be. Allan’s eyes remained shadowed and troubled when he looked upon me. How would Susannah respond to his account of Michael’s healing? As I toweled my hair dry near the door, I thought I heard his voice raised in anxiety, even fear, as her calmer voice prevailed, seemed to steady him. As I dressed, I prayed. Gracious God, you brought me here to this sheltering place, and I praise you for that gift. If it is time to go, I know that you will go with me, yet I would wish to stay. I looked again upon the sculpture of the woman just touching the hem of Jesus’ garment, needing to be encouraged by her look of wonder. Then, taking a deep sigh that said even more than my prayer, I opened the door and stepped into the next room.
Three heads turned my way: Susannah’s, Allan’s, and even Ebenezer’s, who ran to me and butted my ankles with his sleek head. At least I was assured affection from that quarter. Susannah spoke first, inviting me to sit close to the