Edge of the Wilderness - By Stephanie Grace Whitson Page 0,46

side to join the small group gathered around Simon.

“We want to hear everything,” Miss Jane said.

Samuel and Nina Whitney murmured their assent while the children sat quietly on the braided rug, miraculously well-behaved and quiet in the face of Aaron and the reverend’s homecoming.

“You talk first, Aaron,” Simon said, smiling up at his son. He kissed Hope on the cheek and then let her down with the other children while Meg nestled back against him.

Aaron sat down on the couch next to Gen. He studied the floor for a moment, obviously struggling to organize his thoughts. “Crow Creek is—” He shook his head. “I can’t begin to tell you. The worst place possible. The idea of farming there is ludicrous.” Aaron looked at his father and shrugged. “There isn’t much anyone can do.”

“Wrong,” Simon interrupted gently.

With a look in his father’s direction, Aaron nodded. “We’re fairly helpless to relieve the physical difficulties.” He continued, “Although we helped plow up a few new acres for planting in the spring, it will all be pointless unless the drought breaks.” He paused, thinking. “I got to know a few of the old men.” He looked around the room. “There aren’t many boys my age. Most of them have died. The rest are too sick to do much.” The situation Aaron went on to describe was worse than anything the group had imagined. Aaron finally gave up with a helpless shrug. “You can’t really imagine it until you’ve been there.”

“But,” Simon spoke up, “we have witnessed some amazing things spiritually.” He looked at Aaron. When their eyes met, something passed between them.

“Yes,” Aaron confirmed. “Father told you how we put up a booth—you know,” he said as he held his hands over his head to illustrate for the children, “poles set in the ground with brush for a kind of roof. As soon as we had it finished there was a crowd ready to attend the first meeting.” Aaron grinned at Gen. “Amos Huggins would have been amazed if he could have heard the hymn-singing.”

“Amos Huggins?” Nina Whitney asked.

Miss Jane explained, “Amos helped translate many of the hymns in the first Dakota hymnal.” She lowered her voice almost reverently. “He was among the first killed in the uprising. He had just returned from having the hymnal printed. They found his body on the road.”

“Singing is one of the favorite parts of the day,” Aaron said. “We sing hymns at every meeting. And they love to hear Father teach.” He looked at his father with unabashed pride.

“Tell them about the trip back to St. Anthony,” Simon broke in.

“Perhaps over supper,” Miss Jane interrupted. “You men must be starving.” She was already headed for the kitchen. “We’ve a roast turkey in the oven and the first harvest of squash.” She motioned to the children. “Come along—time to set the table.” Aaron got up to help her, but she pushed him back. “You get unpacked and talk to the grown-ups.” She flashed a huge smile at him. “I declare, you’re very nearly an adult, anyway. I can’t believe how you’ve grown!” She herded the rest of the children into the hall and toward the kitchen.

Simon pushed himself up out of his chair. He sighed. “Miss Jane is right, Aaron. We’d best be getting unpacked and cleaned up.” He patted the sides of his vest. “I think there’s at least ten pounds of road dust in these rags.” He walked by the couch and patted Gen on the shoulder. “It’s good to be home.”

Gen closed her eyes and put her hand on his. “I’ll go help Miss Jane with dinner.” She walked to the door with Simon, kissing his cheek when they parted. From the doorway, she watched him trudge up the stairs. “Simon,” Gen called from below. When he turned to look back at her, she said softly, “There’s plenty of time for you to lie down before dinner. You must be exhausted.”

He nodded. “Perhaps I will.”

“Where’s Father?” Aaron wanted to know. He bounded into the kitchen and swept Hope up in his arms. “I knocked on his door before I went out to the garden nearly an hour ago.”

“I’ll check on him,” Gen said quickly. She flew up the back steps to Simon’s door, knocking gently at first, then with more force. When there was no answer, she turned the knob and called softly, “Simon. Supper is ready. Simon?” When the only answer was soft snoring, Gen pushed the door open a little farther. Simon was