14 
Skypilot had never had the chance to examine an Indian dwelling up close before. He was intrigued by the workmanship and the intelligence that had gone into making this one. There was a fire pit in the center, just like the woodstove in the middle of the logging camp bunkhouse, with an opening at the top—again, just like the bunkhouse.
He had anticipated that the log structure he and the other shanty boys normally lived in would be the better shelter, but now he wasn’t sure. That shanty at Foster’s camp was better than most, but the walls still leaked moisture. The smell of dozens of dirty bodies and unwashed feet never went away. He wondered if the cattail mats he saw layered upon the outside of this longhouse might not be better insulation in the long run than the green logs that grew frosted in the winter with condensation from the men’s breath. He and his lumber camp buddies knew the value of wearing layers of clothing, trapping the air between each layer for maximum warmth. It stood to reason that layering cattail mats over a longhouse would have the same effect.
He sat Isabella down on a sleeping bench.
Then he took the cast-off bearskin outside and shook it out. The thing was filthy—but at least it would provide a bit of cushion.
The minute he and Isabella entered the longhouse, Moon Song disappeared to look more closely at that canoe she was so excited about. He was excited too, except that he had never been in a canoe and wasn’t looking forward to getting into this one.
“Is it usable?” he called out of the longhouse opening.
“I can fix.”
“You know how to repair a birch bark canoe?”
“No.”
“Then how in the world do you think you can . . .”
“I help Grandmother build one.” Her hands explored the ragged edges of the hole. “I think I know how to repair.”
Moon Song peeled and split the shallow black spruce tree roots that she ripped up out of the ground. Then she drilled holes through the canoe with the tip of her knife as well as through the new birch bark patch she had cut off of a tree. She threaded the root strips in and out, so close together that they almost overlapped.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Skypilot asked.
“Get sap from spruce tree.”
“How much?”
She nodded at the iron kettle beside her. “Fill it up.”
An hour later, they had a fire built, the patch had been stitched onto the canoe, the sap had melted, and Moon Song had feathered the end of a small branch and used it as a brush with which she’d redaubed not only the patch but every seam in the canoe.
He inspected the lightweight bark boat. How could it possibly withstand the punishment Lake Superior could give it? “Will it hold all of us?”
“Yes.”
“Won’t the lake tear it apart?”
“No. We fine.” She laid down the brush. “Canoe dry while we sleep.”
There was still supper to accomplish—more fish. Afterward, she cleaned out the small iron pot, then put all the fish bones, skin, and heads into it, along with anything else she deemed edible, including the leftover mussels that Isabella had ignored, covered it all with water and set it to simmering on the coals. It was a noxious-looking liquid.
“What’s that for?” he asked.
“Fish broth. Drink in morning. Very good.” Then she left him to go hunt some more moss for the baby.
Moon Song was grateful for the sleeping benches. This made it possible for her to put the baby in between her and the wall of the longhouse, with her back to Isabella, her knife at the ready in case the woman tried anything else. She felt sorry for Isabella, but Ayasha came first.
She could tell that Skypilot didn’t know what to do about Isabella. Finally, he tied her to the bench, for fear she’d awaken and try to do some damage to one of them. That cloth rope was not going to hurt her. In fact, she doubted that it would do a thing to hold her back if she wanted to escape.
Moon Song slept little during the night. The wolves kept howling. Her instincts had been correct. The wolves had regrouped after the loss of their leader, they were near, and they were hungry. The shelter they were in wouldn’t keep out a determined animal, but it had afforded enough protection to make them think twice.
She also slept little because she was planning what had to happen tomorrow.
The canoe would be fine. It was a well-built craft to begin with, and she had repaired it well. She knew Lake Superior’s moods and knew she could make many miles safely in that canoe if the weather held. Her greatest concern was Isabella. It was a risk to take that crazy lady with them. It took skill not to accidentally tip a canoe over. If Isabella suddenly decided to jump out, and who knew what she might get in her head to do, she could capsize all of them.
Toward morning, she decided that if they were going to get safely to Marquette, they would have to leave Isabella behind. Her fear was that Skypilot would not allow it. If so, she would be forced to leave without him, even though she desperately needed his strength for the long canoe voyage.
The next morning, she and Skypilot carried the canoe to the water, slid it in, and tethered it. The fishing was good, and they caught several large trout, enough to feed them and leave some behind for Isabella. As they ate, she kept an eye on the white woman to see if there was any spark of sanity coming back into her eyes. There wasn’t. It was as though her body was alive but the rest of her was dead. Isabella did at least feed herself, but the whole time she did, she sat there staring into space.
“She stay here.” Moon Song nodded toward Isabella. “We go on alone.”
Skypilot’s head jerked up. “You can’t be serious.”
“Of course not.”
“She stay here. We will have others come get later. One, two days maybe.”
“We can’t leave her here by herself for two days,” he said. “There’s no telling what she’ll do.”
“In canoe she is a danger.”
His jaw set stubbornly. “I won’t abandon an innocent woman. We have to take her with us.”
“You ever paddle a canoe?”
“No. I’ve paddled small rowboats, but I’ve never even been in a canoe.”
“Canoe tricky.”
“I’ll stay here with her, then.”
She frowned. “You think the townspeople listen to this Chippewa woman? You think they send help because Moon Song say so?”
He hesitated. “I don’t know.”
“You are strong. We get to town faster.”
He looked relieved. “If it’s only muscle you need and someone the people from town will listen to, I’ll go and you stay.”
The man had never handled a canoe in his life. He had no idea what he was talking about. They could stand here and argue, or he could find out for himself that there was more to this than he realized.
“You do that.” She stood up and crossed her arms. She could hardly wait to watch him try.
“You mean now?”
“Here.” She picked up one of the paddles she’d found beside the canoe.
He took it and looked at it doubtfully. “You do mean now.”
He finished the last piece of fish and then followed her down to the lake.
It took exactly six seconds for him to turn the canoe over and get dunked. He came up out of the water, spluttering, and then righted the canoe. She could tell he was angry, and couldn’t help rubbing it in a little.
“You want help?” She smiled. “I hold it steady for you.”
“You will not!” His face was grim. “I’ll get the hang of this if it kills me.”
She stood back and watched as he tried several more times and overturned it each time. His bulk, lack of experience, and the buoyancy of the craft made it a difficult task. She kept quiet as Skypilot learned a lesson, and it was an important lesson to learn. It hurt her to see this good man struggle, but a canoe could save a life or take it. One clumsy move could capsize everyone.
Finally, he was in the canoe, but barely. He sat like a child, with legs outstretched before him, grasping the sides of the canoe, trying to balance himself. So far so good, but he had managed to get himself into a difficult position from which to paddle.
“Here.” She handed him the paddle. “Try Indian way of sitting on knees.”
She held the canoe steady while he repositioned himself, then she gave it a gentle shove out into the water.
It was hard not to feel sorry for him. He knelt in the middle, trying to paddle while the canoe acted as though it had a mind of its own. It didn’t take long before he was going in circles. When he floundered close enough to shore, she waded in and caught the nose of the canoe.
A lesser man would have been cursing by now, but instead, Skypilot simply admitted defeat.
“You were right,” he said. “This is much harder than I imagined. You pretty much grew up in one of these, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you really think we can leave Isabella alone here?”
“Only choice.”
“I’ll try to talk to her.”
She waited while he had his little talk with the crazy lady. She could hear him reassuring her that they would send someone soon to come back and get her.
Moon Song wasn’t convinced that Isabella cared whether they came back or not. From what she could tell, the woman would lie on that sleeping bench until she starved to death unless someone made her get up and move.
“I think she understands what we’re planning to do,” Skypilot said. “At least she nodded that she did. I removed a couple of the sleeping benches and braced them against the door when I left. If she’ll leave them there, I think they’ll be sturdy enough to keep the wolves out if they come sniffing around later on.”
“We hurry.” Moon Song tied a long piece of white cloth to a branch that hung out over the water. “There,” she said. “Make easy to find longhouse.”
Once again, she held the canoe while he climbed in.
“You sit in front,” she instructed.
“In front? I figured you would want to be in front since you’d be steering.”
“The person in back steer.” She leaped in, positioned herself in the back, pulled the paddle from the bottom of the canoe, and began to paddle. She saw Skypilot reach for his.
“No,” she said. “Wait. Get feel for canoe. Then you help.”
Skillfully, she set the canoe’s nose out into the lake. The water was calm. If the big timberman in front of her could keep from capsizing when he started to help, they would make good time.
“You think you can paddle now?” she asked. “Without falling out of boat?”
“I hope so.”
“Try.”
He dipped the paddle in and gave a mighty shove, making the canoe tip to one side. She sighed. She was afraid of that.
“Not so hard. Long way to go. Make muscle last.”
It took a few more instructions, but eventually they worked out a rhythm, and soon the canoe was skimming across the water.
“You do realize there are things that I’m good at, don’t you, Moon Song?” His voice, usually so filled with confidence, was subdued. “I’m not a complete dunce about everything.”
“Oh yes!” she said brightly, as though praising a small child. “You read marks on paper very, very good.”
He laughed out loud. “That doesn’t amount to much in a situation like this, does it, Moon Song?”
“You fight wolves good too.” Her voice grew husky at the memory. “You save our lives.”
“You’ve also fed us and saved our lives,” he said. “I am sorry if I’ve ever treated you like you were ignorant.”
She didn’t say anything.
“I have treated you like you were ignorant in the past,” he said. “Haven’t I?”
She thought back. Had he? He had been kind, but he had frequently treated her like she was one of the children he had taught at the lumber camp during his convalescence.
“No, ma’am.” He glanced back at her, and that glance made her feel warm inside. “You are most definitely not a child.”
Hour after hour, they paddled, fueled only by that morning’s fish broth and desperation. By early afternoon, he was hungrier than he had ever been in his life. Moon Song, however, never complained. Even the baby did not cry. Finally, they stopped at a small spit where there was some sand upon which they could pull the canoe.
That was when he discovered he could not get out of the canoe. Usually, the only time he ever knelt was in prayer. Spending so much time kneeling in the canoe had left his legs numb. Moon Song was already out of the boat, of course.
It was a little hard not to resent that fact. Everything she did seemed to be so effortless, even carrying the child with her everywhere.
“Get out,” she said.
“I’m not sure I can. I’ve tried. My legs have gone to sleep. I can’t get them to move. The only way I’m going to get out of this canoe is if I fall overboard.”
She gave the canoe a yank to one side, and he did exactly that, fell out into the water. It was sudden, and the water was shocking, but he decided it really was the only way. It would take a much bigger man than himself to lift him out of the position he was in.
Now he wasn’t just hungry, he was hungry and wet. It seemed like he’d been hungry and wet forever.
He hoped Moon Song had planned for them to eat, but the only thing she seemed to have on her mind was nursing and changing the baby. He waited, hopeful. She’d made things to eat practically materialize out of thin air before.
“Aren’t you hungry?” he prompted.
“Yes.”
“Do you have any ideas?”
“No time to hunt or fish. You walk around. Drink water. We leave soon.”
He did exactly as she instructed. He walked and got plenty of blood back into his legs. He drank water, and he ignored his hunger, or tried to. It was hard. He had seldom been truly hungry in his life unless he was waiting on a meal that was late. But there was no meal coming. No time in the future that he could depend on that there even would be food. Hunger would simply have to be ignored, indefinitely, while they paddled to Marquette.
By the grace of God, there were no storms, heavy winds, or catastrophes. Just mile after mile after mile of blue sky, blue lake, and eventually, groaning muscles. After discovering that his legs had become paralyzed from kneeling for so long, they stopped approximately every hour so that he could stretch for a few minutes. Moon Song took the opportunity to feed Ayasha and allow him to toddle about and get a bit of exercise.
The sun sparkled off the water like diamonds, shining in his eyes, nearly blinding him. He coped by perpetually squinting, watching through his eyelashes, trying to save his eyes from the constant onslaught of sun.
During one of their stops, Moon Song dug around in the bank of a little rivulet that emptied into the lake, and there she found some sticky mud, which she smeared all over his face and neck.
“There. That better?”
The coolness of the mud upon his already burning face felt wonderful—until it began to dry. Then it just itched. Moon Song ignored her own skin but shielded the baby by rigging a small canopy of balsam boughs.
He was sick of seeing nothing but trees and lakeshore. Years ago, in Richmond, he’d sometimes longed to be someplace where all he had was God’s beautiful handiwork all around him. Sometimes he had even fantasized about living at the edge of a lake in someplace wild, just him, the Lord, and nature.
This fantasy had been fueled partially by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem “Hiawatha,” which had become immensely popular ten years earlier. Longfellow had touted the beauty of the Michigan North country and wrote a poem about a lovely Indian maiden, and primeval forests, and sparkling big seawater.
He was in the heart of what Longfellow had called Gitche Gumee, and he had his very own Indian princess paddling along behind him. All right, so she wasn’t exactly a princess, but she was Chippewa and she was beautiful.
Unfortunately, his particular Indian “princess” had spent the biggest part of the past few days telling him what to do in order to survive.
He scratched his sunburned nose. It wasn’t quite the idyll that Longfellow had described.
Longfellow hadn’t mentioned mosquitoes or no-see-ums. He didn’t talk about what hunger felt like when the lining of your stomach rubbed together. Living in the lumber camp looked like the lap of luxury in comparison to what he was presently going through.
He had thought he was roughing it when he went north and got a job as a lumberman. He had thought sleeping in a sawdust-filled bunk was rough. He’d even felt a little sorry for himself when the axe had blistered his hands and he had to buy itchy, leather-lined wool gloves until his hands got calluses. What he wouldn’t give for a pair of those gloves now!
His hands had grown tender during the weeks of relative inactivity. Now, he had to paddle, no matter what. He pulled his shirtsleeves down far enough to cushion the paddle and endured.
The first sign of civilization came around nightfall. At first there were a couple of unoccupied fishing shacks, obviously built by white men. Then there was a pier and many houses way out in front of them.
After being a castaway for so many days and under such trying circumstances, he had almost begun to doubt the fact that such a thing as a town existed. Marquette, with its stores, houses, and churches, seemed unreal, like a mirage when it began to appear.
He glanced back to see if Moon Song was as excited and relieved as he was at this oasis of civilization ahead of them.
All he saw was a stalwart woman, rowing in an unbroken rhythm. No person he had ever known, male or female, had one-tenth of Moon Song’s grit. She’d done everything he’d done, and she’d done it while carrying a baby on her back.
He remembered Penelope swooning over things great and small, which had become the fashion among well-to-do ladies of the South for a while. A doctor friend mentioned once that he attributed such behavior to corsets that were so tight they brought on a lack of oxygen, but Skypilot thought it probably had more to do with the fact that Penelope’s friends swooned, and so she swooned.
It was supposed to make a man feel big and strong, and it worked. He’d caught Penelope in his arms more than once when a comment or scene overcame her.
He could just imagine the look of contempt in Moon Song’s dark eyes if she ever witnessed such behavior.
The town didn’t come a minute too soon. Moon Song felt as though she would drop. In fact, her fatigue had grown so great she had begun to despair of having the strength to continue one more hour. The lack of food and the constant labor had left her feeling weak and disoriented. When they nosed up to the pier, Skypilot was able to crawl up and out of the canoe, but she sat stationary, hardly able to move.
Her legs hurt. Her arms hurt. Her back hurt from carrying the baby continually on the cradle board. Had an experienced rowing partner been in the canoe, she would have felt more comfortable taking the cradle board off and leaning it up against the side of the boat. But with Skypilot and his great bulk and inexperience? Never. She had to be ready to be thrown into the water and swim at all times.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Now it is me who cannot move.”
Skypilot helped her out of the canoe, and both sat on the pier getting their bearings and absorbing the fact that they were here. Wondering what came next.
What came next was a middle-aged man in a black robe who walked over and stood staring down at them. She’d had some contact with the Black Robes in the past and respected them. The Jesuits did what they could for her people, even though what they could do was seldom enough.
“My name is Father William Slovic,” the Black Robe said to Skypilot. “It looks like you two have had a long and arduous journey.”
“We have.”
“My housekeeper can provide you with food and shelter.”
Food and shelter sounded mighty good to Moon Song, but she had no energy left for talking. All she wanted was a place to lie down and rest her raw hands. She knew how to endure, and she would never speak of her pain, but her hands hurt terribly.
“We would appreciate anything you could do for us.” Skypilot dragged himself to his feet. “My name is Isaac Ross. My friends call me Skypilot. This is Moon Song and her son, Ayasha.”
“When you are rested enough to follow me, I’ll take you and your wife to my home.”
It was an understandable assumption, but Skypilot did not feel like he could ignore it.
“She’s not my wife.”
“Well, we can fix that.” The priest rubbed his hands together.
“You don’t understand,” Skypilot said. “We were in a shipwreck east of here a few days ago.”
“The Belle Fortune?”
“Yes.”
“We were anticipating the arrival of that ship, but when it didn’t come, we hoped that it was merely delayed.”
“It was most definitely delayed,” Skypilot said. “Permanently.”
Moon Song was surprised at the bitterness she heard in his voice. He was always so strong of heart. The fatigue must be getting to him too.
“There were many souls lost?”
“At least forty.”
“Did anyone besides you survive?”
“One woman. Isabella. She was the wife of Colonel Hatchette, who was to take over command of Fort Wilkins. We had to leave her behind.”
“How far behind?”
“A day’s journey by canoe. Isabella has not been right in the head since losing her husband and child. We were afraid to bring her with us for fear she would capsize the canoe.”
“Can you draw us a map of how to find her?”
“Yes, plus we tied some white cloth to a tree limb that you can see easily if you go by boat.”
“We’ll get a group of men together immediately to go get her.”
“Tell them to pack some food,” Skypilot said. “They’ll need it. And so will she.”
“I will take care of it,” the priest said. “How do you happen to possess a canoe?”
“Moon Song found it, repaired it, and trained me how to use it. Both Isabella and I would be dead by now if it wasn’t for this amazing woman.”
“Ah. I see.” The priest looked back and forth between the two of them. “Well, now. Please come with me. While my housekeeper tends to your needs, I’ll get some men together to rescue this Isabella.”
Moon Song had never been so grateful to see another woman in her life as she was the priest’s housekeeper. Mrs. Veachy was middle-aged and portly, and told Moon Song that she had been providing hospitality to stray people the priest brought home to her for the past three years.
Moon Song was almost beyond caring what happened. Her arms and back ached. Her baby needed to be fed. Her stomach was beginning to growl yet again.
“You’re safe now, dear,” Mrs. Veachy said. “As soon as we get some food down you, you can have a nice bath and then get some sleep. I’ll be happy to take care of this little pumpkin for you a few hours.”
Moon Song was grateful for Mrs.Veachy’s ministrations. The first thing the housekeeper did was ladle up two large bowls of thick, nourishing beef soup with plenty of fresh bread and butter. Moon Song had to caution Skypilot not to gorge—she had known true hunger, but she suspected that he had not. She did not want him losing his supper from eating too much. As soon as she’d finished her food, Mrs. Veachy saw to it that she had a good bath, and soon she was tucked away beneath clean-smelling blankets on a bed filled with fresh straw that felt like heaven. She had no doubt that Ayasha would be well taken care of by that bustling, kind woman. She gave herself permission to sink into blessed and complete oblivion.
It was after noon when Skypilot awoke to voices. He threw on his clothes and went outside to the kitchen.
Father Slovic was standing in the middle of the room, still in his black frock coat. The tail end of it was wet and his black boots were mud splattered. Three other men were with him, along with a bedraggled Isabella, who was sitting at the kitchen table, eating what appeared to be a bowl of bread and milk.
Mrs. Veachy was seated in a rocking chair, holding Ayasha, who was sound asleep.
“Did you have any trouble finding her?” Skypilot asked.
The three other men waited respectfully for Slovic to speak.
“No trouble finding her, although we were a little surprised to find her pointing a rifle at us.”
“A rifle?” He was dumbfounded. “Was anyone hurt?”
“No,” Father Slovic said. “It was broken.”
“But where would Isabella find a rifle?”
Isabella sat eating, as though unaware that they were talking about her.
“She hasn’t spoken a word yet, but I’m guessing she found it lying around the camp. Part of the annuities the Indians got this year from the federal government in return for the lands they ceded is food, clothing, and a rifle,” Father Slovic said. “Each brave was given a gun and a pouch of shot to help him hunt and feed his family during the winter. The rifles were so cheaply made that many blew up in their hands. More than one warrior has been maimed by them this year. That’s why the Chippewa abandoned that fishing village so fast and ended up leaving behind a damaged canoe. I recognized it when you came in. The owner had a son who was blinded by that rifle. They brought him here to see our doctor.”
Skypilot was concerned. “Did the doctor help?”
“He tried, but the young brave will never see again. Others will try to keep his family from starving.” The Jesuit’s jaw clenched. “I’ve sent letters of disapproval to government officials, but I doubt it will do any good.”
“I’m so sorry.” Skypilot felt sick over such greed and injustice.
Moon Song entered the room. “I take baby now.”
She had been transformed. She was wearing a long, ruffled gown. Her hair had been washed and brushed. He did not know what had happened to the clothes that Delia had purchased for her, but without them, she looked like a different person from the one with whom he’d escaped from the steamship.
The three men who had gone with Father Slovic eyed her hungrily. Whether they were good men or bad, he did not know, nor did he intend to leave her alone with them long enough to find out. He was grateful she had not been there earlier. Hopefully, she had not heard about the defective guns her people had been given.
“Ayasha good baby?” Moon Song asked Mrs. Veachy.
Mrs. Veachy handed him to her. “He’s been an angel.”
Skypilot noticed that Ayasha was dressed in diapers and a long blue dress, the kind most white baby boys wore until they were old enough to wear britches.
“Father Slovic says that woman there has no man.” One of the men pointed at Isabella. “Is that true?”
“Her husband and baby were killed a few days ago,” Skypilot said.
“I don’t care if she’s only been a widow a couple of minutes,” the man said. “I’m laying my claim on that woman.”
“Leave her alone,” Slovic said. “She’s not right in the head yet.”
“Don’t matter none to me,” the larger one said. “She’s kind of draggy-looking right now, but I bet she’ll clean up good.”
“It’s time for you to go home,” Slovic said. “I apologize. My friends here mean no insult, but there are a lot more men than white women in the Upper Peninsula. When one shows up, sometimes there are brawls.”
Isabella gave no indication that she had heard a word. Instead, she merely shoved her empty bowl away from her.
“Would you like some more, dear?” Mrs. Veachy said.
Isabella reached for a lead pencil lying on a side table near a large Bible, and began to draw on the priest’s snowy white tablecloth.
“Isabella!” Skypilot scolded. “Don’t draw on the priest’s good tablecloth.”
She ignored him while her pencil flew.
“Leave the poor child alone,” the Jesuit said. “If drawing gives her a sense of relief, then that tablecloth is a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”
Skypilot noticed that Mrs. Veachy didn’t look quite as willing to make that sacrifice, but she held back her words. Soon, even she did not seem to care about the sacrifice of a tablecloth for the awe she felt as she saw it transformed.
This was no child’s drawing. It was a professional sketch, and it was fascinating to watch it come to life before their eyes. This reminded him of the picture she’d drawn of her husband on birch bark, only much, much better.
Mrs. Veachy was an impressive housekeeper, and the tablecloth had been starched and ironed to within an inch of its life. On the hardwood table, it made an almost perfect drawing surface.
With a few deft strokes, Isabella was turning the tablecloth into a priceless canvas. All stood there, amazed, as a baby’s face emerged, laughing, happy. Skypilot could almost hear him giggling.
In one corner, she drew the same baby’s face asleep, his eyes closed on rounded cheeks, innocent, mouth poked out as though in deep thought while he slept, a tiny hand curled under his cheek.
While they marveled at that picture, another emerged from the other corner, the same baby looking all dewy-eyed as though he had just awakened from a nap.
Isabella drew feverishly as she immortalized image after image of her child on the makeshift canvas of the linen tablecloth. From time to time she would stop, grab a paring knife off the sink, and sharpen the end of the pencil. Then she would start in again, shading, forming, creating a masterpiece of a mother’s love . . . and grief.
“We will have to purchase another tablecloth after today, Mrs. Veachy,” Slovic said. “Or do without. We shall never wash this one. It has become a holy thing.”
“I agree, Father,” the housekeeper said.
Isabella didn’t stop until every square inch of the kitchen table was filled with images of her child, studies of his hands, his tiny feet, a dimpled knee, a perfect, shell-like ear. It was as though she was driven to immortalize every feature, every wisp of hair. It was almost magical watching her create those images, and Skypilot was unable to turn away, as was the priest and Mrs. Veachy. By the time she finished, the pencil was nothing but a nub.
She rose from the chair and stood looking at the entire space of the four-by-four-foot square. It was as though she were trying to memorize every detail. She gave one last flick of her wrist, perfecting an eyelash. Then she crumpled to the floor.
Moon Song had hung back, clutching Ayasha to her heart as the rest in the room gathered around Isabella while she drew.
Now, as the Black Coat and Skypilot carried Isabella into a room off the kitchen where Mrs. Veachy said she usually slept, Moon Song went over to see what it was that Isabella had done.
What she saw broke her heart.
The poor woman had captured every nuance of her baby’s face and expression. She wondered if this is what Isabella had been brooding about all this time. Had she been trying to remember? Trying not to forget what her child looked like?
There were no similarities between her baby and Ayasha at all except their ages. Isabella’s baby had light-colored hair and light-colored eyes. Ayasha had dark hair and dark eyes.
She had hated Isabella for the terror she’d felt when Ayasha was missing. But would she have been any saner than Isabella had she lost little Ayasha? She didn’t think so. If anything, she might have been worse. In her heart, she forgave Isabella. It was something that the Jesus in Skypilot’s book had said a person should do. Forgive. She understood the wisdom in forgiveness. Especially when a person, like Isabella, couldn’t help what she had become.