SOLOMON
MY TRAIL wound through land of old woman Marge. Her cabin sat on north side of Neahkahnie. Marge died from exploding heart many weeks ago. Her wild daughter returned and lived in cabin. She was bad seed. As I passed cabin I heard a cry. Small child was inside, behind curtains. I left her basket of blackberries like I used to do for Marge.
“I am Solomon,” I said loud. She did not come out. Then I hid behind the oak. She came out, looked around like scared animal, snatched up basket, and rushed back inside. She was alone. I stayed and waited for her mother to return. She did not.
Under night sky, the face of my Ruby was in the stars, Fiona’s voice in the rustling trees. Those talk-too-much dead women wanted me to help that child. They said she was a gift.
“I am old,” I said, “tired of children and their children ways. I need no gifts.” They shushed me and said she was my last journey. “Be awake,” they said. They say a lot.
The child watched out the window. No bad-seed mother returned. No light came on in cabin. I felt her fear, heard her cries, moved to porch, and said, “I am Solomon. You sleep now. Do not be afraid.” I laid my old body down on hard stairs. Her cries stopped.
“This child is a gift,” my Ruby said again in the treetops. Fiona whispered in the wind, “This child out of the shadows is salvation.”
“I accept,” I said to the sky. The child was my journey. The great Wolf stood in the far-off trees, waiting while the talk-too-much dead women worked their plan through me. Wolf is patient.
***
For three nights I returned, slept on hard porch. She slept inside. Every day the basket was empty. Every day I filled it with berries and smoked salmon. Three nights is long time. I am old. I tapped on door and said, “Child.”
She slowly opened door. She was no taller than Imogene when she arrived from Ireland. This child from darkness had brown eyes of a lost doe and wore rags. She was dirty and smelled of a dead woman’s house. “Come with me,” I said and held out my hand for her to take.
She looked at my hand, my face, my clothes, my hair. Then she pushed the broken screen door open and whispered, “I’m Tula May.” She stepped out on porch, looked right, then left, then slipped her hand into mine. “I hided in Grandma’s cellar. A mean man took my mommy.”