19 
He had written many letters in his mind to Penelope in the past few years. Long letters that would have filled pages and pages with hurt, and anger, and in some cases, longing. The one he now wrote bore no relationship to any of those imaginary letters.
Bay City, Michigan
Dear Penelope,
I am honored by your kind invitation, and I regret to hear about the state into which your father’s plantation has fallen. However, you need to know that the man you say you once loved no longer exists.
He stared at the paper for a few moments, debating whether or not to include the next sentence that his mind had begun to compose. Finally he put pen to paper and finished the letter.
I have fallen in love with this North country of Michigan as well as its inhabitants. I doubt that I shall ever have an occasion to visit Richmond again.
Kind regards,
Isaac Ross
He knew she would consider the abruptness of the letter to be rude, but he simply did not know what else to say. Twenty minutes later, he was on his way back from the post office, feeling nothing but relief. The way he figured it, if Penelope had truly loved him, she would not have waited so many years to tell him so.
Whether it was the occasional swallow of broth she had managed to get down Fallen Arrow or her and little Standing Bear’s presence, her grandmother seemed to have gained a small amount of strength since they’d been living with her.
Fort Wilkins had not carried many delicacies, but it had carried some. Those it had carried, Skypilot had purchased in abundance.
One of the things he had packed was a small jar of orange marmalade. This would be a new adventure for her grandmother. Moon Song had never tasted marmalade until she had eaten in Katie’s kitchen at the lumber camp. She well remembered late one night after finishing cleaning up a large supper, she and Katie had sat down and eaten a piece of Katie’s good bread with a smear of marmalade and a cup of tea. It had been cozy and intimate and one of her fondest memories of her months in the lumber camp.
“I think you will like it, Grandmother,” Moon Song said as she gave her a taste of it.
Fallen Arrow had always possessed a great sweet tooth, as did the entire tribe. These were not a people who used salt or any other condiment. Their main flavoring, whether it was on meat, rice, or cornmeal, was always the maple syrup and maple sugar they loved so much.
Grandmother’s eyes opened wide. “What is that strange flavor?”
“It is from a yellow fruit that comes from far away. The white people call it an orange.”
Fallen Arrow poked a finger in the jar and licked it off. “It has a strong flavor,” she said. “But it is very good.”
“Yes, Grandmother,” Moon Song said. “It has strong flavor and it will help make you strong too.”
She felt her eyes fill up with tears, and it surprised her because she had not cried since she’d come home. She must be more tired than she realized. Quickly, she dashed the tears away before her grandmother saw them.
Fallen Arrow sat up for the first time that night after eating the entire jar of marmalade, started asking questions, and listened with her full attention about Moon Song’s time in lower Michigan.
Late that night, as Grandmother slept, and as she lay beside the newly named little Standing Bear, Moon Song felt such gratitude in her heart for having two of the people she most cared for in the world beside her.
She wished Skypilot was near so that she could tell him about her grandmother’s improvement since she’d arrived and Ayasha’s new, strong name. She tried hard to convince herself that her world was complete without the big timberman.
Perhaps, if she were lucky, in time his image would fade.
Skypilot passed the painted rocks in daylight as he went north along the shore in the Temperance, a brand-new steamship. With astonishing ease, they steamed right past the agonizing trail that he and Moon Song and Isabella had trudged.
The town of Marquette came up on the left, and the Temperance stopped for two hours to drop off supplies and to take on passengers. It had been several weeks since he’d seen Father Slovic, and he wanted to stop and see if there was any word on how Isabella was faring. With any luck, the priest might also have word of Moon Song.
He wasn’t sure that Father Slovic would be there, but when he arrived, he was greeted with great joy by Mrs. Veachy, who said that Father Slovic had been desirous of seeing him again. He was home and did indeed have news for Skypilot.
She led him into the study, where Slovic was bent over several books open in front him. His quill was working furiously.
“Studying for Sunday’s sermon?” Skypilot asked.
“Skypilot!” Father Slovic stood up from his chair and shook his hand. “I had hoped to see you again. You are an answer to my prayers.”
“I’m glad to see you too, although I’m pretty certain I’ve seldom been the answer to anyone’s prayers.”
“As all good men of God should feel,” Slovic said. “Those men who believe themselves to be God’s gift to mankind are usually anything but. Please have a seat. I have word of Isabella that will interest you.”
“How is she faring?”
“She told me that she was concerned the illness that overtook her during your journey might return. At my suggestion, she chose to spend some time with the Sisters of Charity in Detroit. They run an establishment there that cares for people who have various forms of . . . insanity, both mild and severe.”
“Do you know if it is helping?”
“I know that they are taking good care of her. There is a new doctor there. His method with Isabella is basically to make certain she has drawing material and plenty of it. I stayed a few days on some church business, and when I went to check on her, her room was covered in the most extraordinary drawings. She seemed much calmer in spirit and says she believes she is making good progress.”
Father Slovic walked over to a chest of drawers and pulled out a long tube wrapped in oilcloth. “I asked Isabella for this, and she was gracious enough to give it to me. I showed it to a friend of mine in Detroit while I was there who is an avid collector of art. He wanted to purchase it, but when I refused, he said that I should put it away carefully and keep it safe.”
“What is it?”
Slovic unrolled the scroll of canvas on a table near a window. “Come look.”
It was an oil painting done in sepia tones. It was of Moon Song bending gracefully over Skypilot, offering him a folded birch bark cup of tea. The expression of longing and love as he looked up at her, caught in the shadows of light from the campfire playing across his face, was staggering. Isabella had somehow captured exactly what had been in his heart at that moment.
If there had been any doubt left in his mind that he was head-over-heels in love with Moon Song—and there was none—that picture would have erased it.
“It’s a perfect depiction of where we were, and yet it is done so simply.”
“I know,” Slovic said. “My friend confirmed my suspicions, which is that this woman is a rare talent.”
“Will she ever be able to be sure of her sanity again?”
“I’m not entirely certain she was ever insane,” Slovic said. “Sometimes I think that a true artist, the kind through whom our Lord allows his great creation to be interpreted, is not like the rest of us. We see only with our eyes and we experience life through somewhat duller senses. A true artist, one like Isabella, sees the world with an entirely different set of eyes, and it affects their heart and mind. I’m not sure but what there isn’t always an element of madness in the greatest artists. Isabella did not have the ability to absorb the death of her husband and child and go on. Her mind retreated into that madness and she created an alternate world in which she could live, a world where Moon Song had stolen her baby and all she had to do was reach out and take him back.”
“You mean she rewrote the script of her life? Like some theatrical play?”
“It’s a theory the doctor and I discussed.”
“Did she agree to that theory when you were there?” Skypilot asked.
“No,” Slovic said. “I didn’t even bring it up. I think simply keeping her in artist materials is the best course for now.”
Slovic rolled up the oilcloth and carefully placed it in a drawer.
“My friend says that I should put this away and keep it for my old age. He says that there is a very good chance that Isabella’s works will be worth quite a lot of money someday.”
“Is that what you intend to do with it? Sell it?”
“Of course not.” Slovic laughed. “I am a Jesuit, remember? The Lord will take care of my needs, which are small. This, I will use at the right time to help my parishioners.”
As interesting as this conversation was, Skypilot had limited time, and there was something he wanted to know much more than anything else.
“Have you heard anything of Moon Song?”
Skypilot felt his pulse quicken. “Please tell me.”
“Ah.” Father Slovic lifted a finger into the air. “You have discovered that you cannot live without her. You must have her at all costs.”
He had never heard Slovic sound sarcastic before, but the man was certainly skirting along the edge of it.
“Yes, actually, I have. I need to know if she and the baby are well. Did they make it to her grandmother’s? Do you know where she is?”
“They are fine,” Slovic said. “But before I tell you how to find her, please tell me—do you ever plan to preach again?”
“I have no ambition in that direction at the present.” Skypilot was puzzled. “But what does that have to do with finding Moon Song?”
“It has a great deal to do with finding Moon Song. I have been working in this country for a long time and have grown weary of some of my own people’s foolishness.” Slovic gave a great sigh. “I like you, Skypilot, but I had great hopes that you would go away and stay away from my country.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Why on earth would you say that?”
“Because I think you have no idea how much power you could have were you to start preaching again, and these native people are already plenty inundated and confused by our various forms of gospel.”
“What do you mean?”
“In the last mining town I visited over on the Keweenaw, there was already a Methodist church, an Episcopalian church, and a Catholic church to minister to a very small town at war with itself.”
“The Indians watch as Cornish men do battle with the Irish. They watch as the good churchgoing miners get roaring drunk every Friday and Saturday night. They watch as the same families go to their separate churches on Sunday and sing songs about Jesus.
“I show them my Bible, which I call sacred, and it is sacred. They then show me their writings that they preserve upon birch bark books that they also call sacred. I see their dances and songs of faith, and they hear us singing songs and lighting candles and sprinkling incense about, and they see no difference.”
Skypilot glanced at his pocket watch. He had less than a half hour before he needed to be back on that ship, and yet Father Slovic showed no signs of slowing down.
“Do you realize that before the Europeans began to settle here, dishonesty was practically unknown among the Chippewa? So was selfishness. They greeted their visitors, gave them food and drink, and helped the first Europeans as they were used to doing for one another. I have to admit, I have not always felt justified in trying to teach these people the white man’s religion. That’s what they call it, you know, the white man’s religion. As though Jesus himself was white.”
“Father Slovic”—Skypilot glanced at his watch again—“I am grateful to you and for your hospitality, but exactly what are you trying to tell me?”
“That if you come into my country among my people teaching the gospel with words that you do not back up with godly actions . . .” Father Slovic’s eyes blazed. “I will despise you, and so will Moon Song’s people.
“Unless you know in your heart that you can live a life of dignity and honor here, unless you believe that you can pledge yourself to that girl for the rest of your life, then don’t stay and add to the tears that have already been shed in this country. Don’t be yet another man who comes here as a Christian only to dishonor the Lord’s name.”
Skypilot felt the heat and impact of Slovic’s words and knew they came from harsh experience. One of his teachers in seminary had once said that the biggest stumbling block ever presented to people receiving the gospel was Christians acting badly.
“If she’ll have me, I won’t leave her. Ever. I will also try to live as close as humanly possible to the teachings of Jesus.”
“Well, then.” Slovic picked up a pen. “You have an education. Have you ever considered teaching school?”
“I did a little teaching this past winter when I was laid up at the lumber camp with an injury. There were three children in camp. Why?”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“A great deal.”
“Then here is the name of an acquaintance of mine who is in charge of a school at the Minnesota Mine near Rockland, Michigan. It is at the base of the Keweenaw, near the center, so I’d suggest you find water transportation to Ontonagon. If you get off there, it will put you about twenty miles from Rockland instead of trying to walk in from Copper Harbor.”
Father Slovic scribbled the name on a piece of paper. “They’ve been without a teacher for over two months. It is near the end of the school year, but you might be able to do some good in the next few weeks. The building they have is not much, and you’ll have to share it with the Methodist church that meets there. Most of the parents I met are not particularly interested in their children’s education. The children fight among themselves, Cornish against Irish, as do their parents. It does not pay a lot, but it does come with room and board and a chance to live close enough to see Moon Song from time to time. My advice is to spend the summer and winter there before you make a permanent decision. Make sure you have what it takes to stick it out before you do more damage to her than what has already been done. You need to, at the very least, experience snow like you have never experienced before in your life.”
“I’ve cut timber in the Saginaw Valley. Trust me, I have experienced snow.”
“You really have no idea what you are talking about, but you will. The Saginaw Valley is mild compared to the snow and cold we experience here. I’ve written a note on the bottom of this address recommending you.”
The warning whistle of the steamboat blew. As Slovic was seeing him through the kitchen to the door, Mrs. Veachy triumphantly pulled a pan of small, crescent-shaped pies from the oven. “I hoped to have these finished for you in time.”
“Ah,” Slovic said. “Mrs. Veachy has made some pasties for your journey.”
“Pasties?”
“The Cornish women make these every day for their mining husbands. They time it so that the pasties are coming hot out of the oven as their husbands go out the door. They put them inside of their coats to keep them warm as they walk to the mines.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He tucked two of the savory-smelling, cloth-covered pasties in his pocket. “But are either of you going to tell me where Moon Song is?”
“No. I’ll get word to her through some of my Chippewa friends where you are,” Father Slovic said. “If Moon Song wants to find you, she will. If she doesn’t, you’ll never see her.”
The mining town of Rockland was little more than a few dozen log cabins huddled along the main trail, and the structures that supported the mine work along with one church/school, a general store, and a boardinghouse. Also, two larger frame homes with Gothic overtones rose apart from the rough log cabins. He assumed those were the homes of owners or overseers. Even around these loftier homes, the grounds were muddy, raw, and bare. Tree stumps were everywhere.
It was as though the earth did not exist to produce any living thing here but only to vomit up copper. The forests had been denuded all around. Smoke curled from a few chimneys where there must be cooking going on because it was far too warm to need a fire for warmth. These few acres compared to the sweeping grandeur of the lakeshore he had seen as he had sailed around the tip of the Keweenaw to Ontonagon was like comparing the pockmarked face of the moon he had glimpsed once through a friend’s pair of strong field glasses to paradise.
Although he appreciated Father Slovic’s note of introduction, he arrived at the Minnesota Mine footsore from walking, disoriented by how much his original plans had changed, and doubting in his heart whether the position was available. He also wondered if he would be up to the job. The teaching position here, at least the way Slovic had described it, didn’t seem all that welcoming a proposition. Perhaps going into the copper mines would be preferable, although he knew nothing about mining, and the idea of going so far underground did not seem at all attractive.
Slovic’s acquaintance, a Mr. Harvey Turney, turned out to be one of the foremen of the mining operation, and when Skypilot handed him Slovic’s recommendation, he studied it, frowned at Skypilot, then studied it some more.
“You don’t look like a teacher. You look more like a lumberjack.”
“I’ve been both.”
“And it says here that you go by the nickname of Skypilot?”
“That’s what they called me in the lumber camps. It kind of stuck. My given name is Isaac Ross.”
“I’ve heard that the shanty boys in lumber camps call preachers Skypilots. Are you a preacher?”
“I used to be.”
Mr. Turney spit a long stream of tobacco juice at a scroungy cat slinking by. Skypilot didn’t know if that expressed the man’s contempt for cats or for preachers. The cat stopped just long enough to hiss at Harvey Turney, so he chose to believe that this interchange involved a long-standing feud between the two.
“The former teacher here lasted three days.”
Skypilot felt his stomach sink. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Got the kids a two months’ vacation, which is what they were aiming for. They’ll be all cocked and primed for you.”
He knew it was too much to hope for, but he had to ask. “Did the teacher leave any lesson plans behind?”
Turney switched the wad of chaw from one side of his cheek to another. “Don’t know about that, but there’s a pile of books still there unless them hooligans set fire to them.”
Skypilot’s stomach sank even further.
Turney handed the recommendation back to him. “Well, you got the job. If nothing else, you’re big. That might scare them a little. Boardinghouse is over there. The pay is room and board and fifty cents a day if you teach. The pay is nothing if you don’t show up.”
That was less than half what he made in the lumber camps, and the way Turney spoke, it sounded nearly as dangerous. Slovic had said he should give it a year. He wished Moon Song knew what he was sacrificing for her.
He stopped himself. Sacrifice? He did not like the fact that that word had just cropped up. Tonight he would have to spend a good long time on his knees praying for forgiveness for seeing this opportunity that the Lord had handed him as a sacrifice.
“School would usually be closing in a couple weeks,” Turney said. “But since it’s already been closed all this time, let’s plan on you keeping it open through the end of July. Teach the mean little beggers a lesson for running the teacher off. You can give ’em August off for summer vacation. Start back in September if you’re still around.”
“I appreciate the job,” Skypilot said politely.
Turney gave a rough laugh. “You won’t for long.”