15 

Another ship is due in soon.” Father Slovic rose, black robes rustling, and paced the floor.

The Jesuit was a tall man and wore his wavy dark hair parted in the middle. He was slender to the point of emaciation and had a craggy face that seemed to be permanently windburned. There was an air of restlessness around him, as though he were aware of having too much to do in too little time. Skypilot guessed his age at anywhere from forty to sixty. His face was not young, and his eyes had the look about them of someone who had seen too much, but his movements were that of a younger man.

“I hope it makes it here safely.”

“I’m sure the steamboat captain will take you north to Copper Harbor, or on his return visit take you back down to Bay City, whichever you prefer.”

“I’ll have to go on to Copper Harbor,” he said. “I promised my boss that I would see Moon Song safely with her people before coming back.”

“Do you know which tribe she is part of?”

“She says she’s Chippewa.”

“What do you know about her?”

Skypilot told Slovic the story of her coming to the lumber camp and their journey together. He left out the part about the stiletto as well as the kiss they had shared.

“Thank God you and your friends were there for her. Did they treat her well?”

Skypilot was not Catholic, but he definitely had respect for the dedication he saw in this Jesuit priest.

“I have thanked God many times that she was able to find her way to us, and yes, she was treated very well.”

“Good.” Slovic nodded his head thoughtfully. “Good.”

“How long have you been here in the North country?” Skypilot asked.

“I have been here most of my adult life, although I was born and raised in Slovenia.”

“So far away,” Skypilot said. “It cannot have been an easy ministry for you.”

“I did not become a Jesuit because I wanted ‘easy.’ I prayed to God for a people to serve who needed me, and the Lord saw fit to give me the native tribes of this area.” The priest fingered the large cross he wore around his neck.

“Mrs. Veachy tells me that the people around here call you ‘the Snowshoe Priest’ because of the hundreds of miles you travel every winter to check on the various tribes. She also says you’ve learned the languages of several Indian tribes and even written a book on those languages.”

“I have been blessed with a strong body and a mind that picks up the tongues easier than most,” Slovic said. “I believe the Lord deliberately gave me the gifts and strength I needed to minister to these particular people.”

Skypilot thought back to his own aborted ministry, and how easily he had been rejected by those he had once hoped to serve. How unwilling he felt to go back to such a life. How had this man done it? How had he stayed the course all these years? Especially here where things were so primitive?

“But what about the blackflies and mosquitoes? What about the blizzards? The wolves? The snakes? The loneliness? The resistance to your message?”

He was truly hoping for an answer. Something profound. Something to make sense out of his own reluctance to go back into the ministry.

“Why would any of that matter?” Slovic’s voice sounded puzzled, as though he did not understand the question.

Skypilot started to clarify and then realized he had already been given his answer.

What would any of that matter, indeed?

What did danger, discomfort, and discouragement matter when one felt called to carry the message of Christ?

He felt infinitely inferior to this man who had devoted his life to the unforgiving North country. Slovic had a steely quality in his eyes that spoke of the endurance it took to walk long distances to far-flung villages in spite of much danger and hardship. Compared to Father Slovic’s, his own ministry in Richmond looked like child’s play. Bible study and books and social events. None of these particularly strained a man’s emotional, spiritual, or physical resources. Everyone spoke English. It wasn’t until he preached an unpopular sermon that things got difficult.

“I used to be a minister,” he confessed.

The priest stopped and stared at him. “Used to be?”

“I’m just a timber cutter now.”

“Oh?” Slovic said. “Tell me about this journey you have had from minister to timber cutter.”

This was not a casual question, and Skypilot knew that the priest would not accept a casual answer.

“I was in Virginia, back before the war.” Skypilot closed his eyes, remembering. “I was foolish enough to preach against slavery to a people who had spent their lives defending it. I was young and at that time was still arrogant enough to think that I could make a difference with my words.”

Slovic threw his head back and laughed. “The arrogance of our youth. I remember it well. What happened after this brave sermon?”

Skypilot smiled. “Oh, the usual thing when a young preacher thinks he knows more than the older leaders of a church. Within three days I lost my job, my home, my reputation, most of my friends, and my fiancée.”

“Ah.” Father Slovic sat down in the chair beside him, crossed his hands over his stomach, and gazed at him with calm, wise eyes. “But did you lose Christ?”

Skypilot thought it over. “No,” he answered truthfully. “My faith in people was damaged, my faith in myself was destroyed, but my faith in the Lord was unshaken.”

Father Slovic smiled. “Then you really lost nothing of importance, did you?”

The fire crackling in the grate was the only sound in the room.

“No.” The truth of this dawned so bright it lit up his soul. “I lost nothing at all of importance.”

Slovic leaned forward. “A true minister of the gospel does not have to possess a pulpit or be an eloquent speaker. He does not have to have the Holy Scriptures memorized or be able to dissect various doctrines. There is a simple powerful holiness in giving a cup of water to someone who is thirsty. Or a bite of food to someone who is hungry. My guess is that you have done much of this.”

During his lifetime, especially during the months he helped escaping slaves, Skypilot remembered giving many cups of water, many bites of food.

“I have.”

“Then you never left the ministry at all, did you?” Slovic said. “You simply carried it with you.”

In spite of having no church. No pulpit. No congregation. In spite of having no “reverend” or “pastor” to hang in front of his name, he was still . . . a minister?

“Living a life of service to others,” the weathered-looking priest said, “is the most powerful sermon of all, don’t you think? My ‘church’ encompasses thousands of acres and includes hundreds of souls—many of whom are not Catholic or even religious in any way.”

The priest’s words struck a chord in his heart. Suddenly, Skypilot felt the need to move, to do something with his hands. He got up and put another log on the small fire in the kitchen grate. “I thought this trip was going to be a simple, up-and-back journey. I planned to take Moon Song to her people and then get back to my life.”

“And instead?”

“It’s turned out to be more complicated than I ever dreamed. As I’ve been walking those many miles to get here, I’ve discovered that I’m not sure what kind of life I want to go back to. Bay City is not my home, but it’s easy to find work there. I could drift along, working in the woods until a tree took me down, but I know that a man’s years on this earth should have more impact than simply making a living, eating, and sleeping.” He moved the log a bit with the poker, and flames licked over it. “The problem is, although I have the skills and the knowledge, I have no desire to be a minister again—at least not the kind of minister I was before. I lost the desire to preach a long time ago.”

“Then don’t. Instead, simply find a way to serve the people the Lord puts in your path,” Slovic said. “For instance, this Moon Song woman. Is she a Christian?”

“No.”

“Have you taught her about Christ?”

Skypilot thought back. Had he?

“I’ve read several biblical stories to her—some of which were about Jesus.”

Slovic nodded approvingly. “Have you treated her well?”

“I think so. I’ve certainly tried to.”

“Not every white person who professes Christianity has treated the Indian well.” Slovic steepled his hands and gazed at Skypilot, his brow creased in thought. “It has made my job very difficult.”

They spent another night with the priest and Mrs. Veachy, waiting for the expected steamboat to arrive. When Moon Song awoke the second morning, she felt like her old self again. Two good nights’ sleep had given her all her strength back. Her spirits were high with anticipation of the last leg of the trip, which would take her back to her people. As she entered the kitchen, she saw the Black Coat and Skypilot in the process of tacking the tablecloth Isabella had drawn on to the kitchen wall.

“Good morning,” Slovic said. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes.”

“Ah. That is wonderful.” He put a couple more tacks in. “I’m putting this up where your friend can see it whenever she wants. It appears to give her comfort.”

“Isabella like that.”

“Mrs. Veachy went to some neighbors to purchase eggs. She’ll be back soon to fix breakfast.”

The door opened, and Moon Song expected to see Mrs. Veachy walk through the door with an apron full of eggs. Instead, an elderly Chippewa man came in. He was not of her tribe and she did not know him.

She expected the priest to exclaim at the sudden appearance, but Slovic merely nodded toward a cabinet against the wall. “It’s in there.”

She had not yet braided her hair this morning and was wearing white woman’s clothing, so the old man did not greet her. He seemed too intent on his mission to look to the right or left.

He opened the cabinet door as though used to rummaging inside the priest’s furniture, and brought out eight loaves of bread, which he put into a large sack he’d brought with him. Then he nodded his thanks and disappeared.

“That’s the man who owns the canoe that brought you here,” Slovic said. “Since it had served its purpose, I gave it back to him. He was grateful for the repairs.”

“Thank you.”

Mrs. Veachy came through the door with a basket of eggs in her hands. “Did Crooked Foot get his food?”

“He did.”

“Oh good. His wife has been so ill, and she loves my bread. Perhaps it will help.”

“I’m sure his son will be grateful for it too.”

“Do many Chippewa live near here?” Skypilot asked.

“There’s a settlement nearby,” Father Slovic said. “The government is insisting that they learn how to be farmers. Last year’s potato crop did fairly well. It helped get them through the winter.”

It made Moon Song’s heart ache to think of those fine braves who had once roamed this land being forced to turn themselves into dirt farmers in order to live. They were growing potatoes now? In a brave’s mind, that would be women and children’s work. No wonder her people drank!

When Isabella entered the room, she looked as rational as she had been the first time Moon Song had seen her. Her hair was brushed and her face washed. Mrs. Veachy had evidently loaned her a dress too. It was not fancy, but it was a vast improvement on the stained red dress she had been living in.

However, the most arresting thing about Isabella was the fact that there was a person behind her eyes again. She took one long, lingering look at Ayasha and then her eyes sought Moon Song’s.

“I remember what I did now,” she said. “And I apologize.”

Then she went over to the tablecloth that the priest had tacked to the wall and traced the largest picture of her child with one finger. “Good morning, little one. Mother will never forget you.”