During the night, Tildie worried. The children snuggled beside her in the pile of animal skins which served as their bed. Older One snored softly from across the way. The stars twinkled through the hole at the top of the tepee where poles crossed and smoke could drift out. Her prayers seemed to go around in circles rising no higher than the little opening to the sky visible above her. The worry weighed them down.
It all boiled down to whether or not she could trust the almighty God who had given her work when her parents and brother died, guided her to Aunt Matilda’s home, and given her strength to put up with John Masters’s taunts. God had stood close in times of trouble before, but now He seemed distant. Present troubles cast menacing shadows so that she could not see Him. Reason told her that her thinking was faulty, but fear told her there was no help, no end to this predicament. Sleep came eventually, without her soul settling into peace.
The morning surprised Tildie. It mocked her with cheerfulness. Older One chanted a sing-song melody. Birds twittered in the trees. The bustle of the Indian camp echoed the busy noises she had heard the previous morning. Evie chattered her toddler nonsense to the doll Older One had made for her. Mari hurried to help stir the pot of mash. Boister followed another lad down to the stream.
Surely there should be some sign that a man had died, or lay dying. Tildie’s eyes turned to the tepee harboring John Masters. Had he made it through the night? She started toward the tepee, but Older One turned her back, just as she had turned the children back the day before. Older One put a bowl before her, and Tildie knew she was to grind the corn. She sighed and sat down in the shade of a tree. As her hands worked the round grinding stone across the rough stone bowl, her mind kept returning to the injured man in the tepee.
After several tries, Tildie escaped Older One’s interference and reached the tepee where John Masters lay. She went in cautiously. An old woman sat in the gloomy space and nodded solemnly at her entrance. She did not, however, offer anything more than the acknowledgment of her presence. Tildie knelt beside the broken man.
“John,” she spoke after a moment. “John, do you hear me?”
He groaned and stirred slightly.
Contradictory feelings overwhelmed her. This despicable man had caused so much misery. She’d tried not to hate him, but now that he lay helpless before her she realized how great her anger and resentment had grown. She blamed him for taking over her uncle’s home and making it a place full of strife. She blamed him for her loving aunt’s withdrawal and neglect of the children. She blamed him for every uncomfortable moment she had experienced since she arrived, uninvited, on his doorstep. She even blamed him that they were prisoners in this Indian village. This accusation skittered around the fact that she didn’t really believe they were prisoners.
Still, John Masters was despicable, and that was his own fault. He was hateful, proud, a bully, and a lazy, foul-smelling vermin. He deserved to die, and she knew he would go to hell. She looked at the miserable shell that struggled to breathe, sweated with fever, and smelled of death. Her emotions battered against the cold hatred she felt for him. The careful reserve she had used to deal with this man crumbled, and she cried.
“John, can you hear me?”
“Curse you, girl,” he muttered. “Nobody asked you to come.”
“John, you’re going to die,” she sobbed. “Aunt Matilda is already dead.”
His eyes opened and he looked at her, really looked at her. She knew he saw her and his mind was clear.
“You’re going to die, John, and you are the lowest man I have ever met. I’m sure there’s someone out there worse than you, but I never met him. You took advantage of a widow’s grief. You stole her homestead and ran it down to nothing. You treated her badly, you treated her kids badly, and you even treated your own little girl badly. You’re scum.”
“Thought you was all goodness,” John protested with just a touch of irony in his whispery voice. “Ain’t right to talk to a dying man like that.”
“You’re going to go to hell.”
“Reckon so,” he gasped.
“You don’t have to,” she whispered.
“You gonna preach?” The scornful twist to his lips reminded Tildie how often he’d belittled her faith. Still, she was compelled to speak.
“Aren’t you scared? Aren’t you ashamed? How can you die and face God, knowing He’s going to toss you in hell? It’s not make-believe or women’s talk, John. You’re going to find out too late that all the religion you’ve been scoffing at is true.”
Tildie wiped the back of her hand across her eyes, not knowing why she even stayed beside this worthless man who had caused her nothing but grief, who had been the ruin of her aunt’s family.
“Too late,” his voice bubbled as he repeated the phrase. A trickle of blood oozed out of the corner of his mouth.
“It’s not,” said Tildie firmly. “You’re still breathing. Just admit you’re bad and ask for forgiveness. Christ died for you—even you. You can go to heaven if you just say it.”
Tildie clenched her fists in her lap. Tears ran down her cheeks, and she no longer tried to stop their flow. He looked at her again. A searching look, but she couldn’t meet his eyes. She crossed her arms over her middle, and rocked back and forth as she sobbed.
She saw his eyes close and watched him through blurry vision. His lips moved but no sound came out. He coughed. He seemed unconscious, then his lips moved again. His hand moved toward her, but she cringed away, and it fell limp by his side.
Tildie angrily wiped the tears from her face. She did not want to cry for this man. She took deep breaths, trying to stop this ridiculous emotional outburst. Why was she bawling over this reprobate? She hated him. She felt glad he was dying. She screwed her eyes shut and willed herself to stop, holding her breath and tensing every muscle in her body. She tried to call out to God and found there were no words. Pray for me, Holy Spirit, she demanded. I can’t. I can’t.
At last peace descended on her. With slow, calming breaths she returned to her surroundings and opened her eyes to look down on John Masters’s face. He was dead, and in his death, the perpetual sneer that had marred his features vanished. He looked calm, at peace.
As she looked at his face, she knew. He had taken Christ as his Savior at the last possible moment. He wasn’t going to be punished for all the pain he’d inflicted on Aunt Matilda and the children. He’d escaped punishment. He’d cheated. That’s what she felt, even though her mind told her she was wrong to feel that way. God had chosen to be merciful to another wretched sinner.
Tildie rose to her feet and turned away. God was good. His ways were right. She should be happy. Instead, she felt cold and alone.