The Prologue

The family stood together around the long table, heads bowed, as Father gave thanks. The table was set with a simple banquet, the bounty of country life: creamed corn, fresh steamed green beans, sweet potatoes cooked to perfection, homemade bread slathered with hand-churned butter and blackberry preserves, roasted chicken, canned peaches, and Mother’s unbeatable rhubarb pie.

“Lord,” Father said, “thank You for blessing us with good food and good health. Thank You for helping the crops grow tall, for the garden thriving, for the old cow still giving milk. Thank You for keeping the raccoons and foxes out of the henhouse. Thank You for protecting our goats from the thieves that bothered the Parsons’ and the MacDonalds’ herds.

“Lord, thank You for Mark’s recent engagement to Rebecca, the miller’s daughter.” A tall young man smiled broadly, his cheeks reddening in joy and pride.

“Thank You for Mrs. MacDonald teaching Theresa how to make her own candles, so she doesn’t use all we have when she stays up late writing to her soldier.” Theresa blushed and smiled, just as Mark had done, her thoughts flying to thoughts of her own far-off fiancé.

Her father continued, giving all his children a fond look as he spoke. “Thank You, Lord, for helping Pippa find a spot for a garden of her own, to have the sunflowers and daisies she’s always wanted.” The dark-haired girl’s smile lit up her face like sunshine on her beloved flowers.

“Thank You for not letting the twins get into more trouble than they can get themselves out of.” Two small blond children wriggled and squirmed under their father’s gaze, remembering their latest escapade.

“Thank you for keeping the baby healthy and well, and for her first steps this past week.” She gurgled in her mother’s arms, putting a smile on the woman’s face.

“Lord, thank You for giving Helen and myself the energy to keep up with our children. Thank You for all the blessings and challenges You give our family, both big and small, and thank You for helping us to remember You as we go through our day.

“Thank You for giving us profits on the produce and the pies at the market, enough for necessities and some extra. Thank You for protecting our home and our family from fire, disaster, and the Sickness that has reached the town. Thank You, Lord, for the food we now share. Bless the food and drink of Your servants. Amen.”

Raising their heads, the eight members of the family smiled as they sat and helped themselves to their hard-earned banquet. They loved their country life, full of joy and hard work and bright sunshine. They were happy, all of them, together.

- - -

Chapter One:

Pippa didn’t understand how life could change so quickly. Last week, her main worry had been the aphids she had found on one of her tall sunflowers. Now she was dressed in black, listening to a strange pastor’s voice as he said kind nothings about six of the people dearest to her heart. Now she was standing in the over-bright sunshine, holding little Martha’s hand, watching her mother and father and siblings be buried beneath the green sod. Pippa didn’t understand. Everything had changed so quickly. Everything was wrong. Pippa didn’t understand.

She had no one to blame. It was Sickness, the same foreign plague that had taken a third of the town. No one knew what caused it. No one knew where it came from. All they knew was that the people had no resistance to it. The town’s only Physician had been the first to die, soon followed by the beloved priest. There was no one to save the people from the illness, and no one familiar to bury them when they died.

Pippa had tried to tend to her family. No one would come, although Father sent Mark to ask for help when both were still well. Martha had been the first to grow sick, skipping into the house from her play complaining of a headache. They had put her to bed with a warm washcloth on her forehead and thought nothing of it, but the next day the little girl was dangerously feverish. Over the next three days, all but Pippa fell prey to the illness. The help Mark had begged for had never came, and Pippa was left to care for her family all on her own. No one came to help. No one came.

Pippa had no medical or magical knowledge; the family was hardy, rarely sick. Even the animals were generally healthy. All she could do was bring them water and keep warm washcloths on their foreheads, which she remembered her mother doing when she had the influenza as a child. The first few days, she had tried to milk the cow and feed the animals, but she soon gave up. She dared not leave the house, rushing from one bedside to another hoping that there was something, anything she could do. She could not stop to grieve when baby Marie died, nor when mischievous Matthew followed. She could not understand Theresa’s fevered last words. She was not near Mark or Father when they passed in their sleep. Mother, too, died during the night; Pippa had slept in the hardwood rocking chair by her bedside after crying herself to sleep, hoping for good news on the morrow. She found little consolation when Martha tumbled out of bed asking for some milk, suddenly well and hungry. There was no milk to give the girl, and no one to turn to for help or comfort. Those she had depended on were dead, and those she had hoped would help had never come.

Pippa had held her sister as the two made the long, solitary walk along the road to town. Martha, only four, could not make the three-mile trip on her own two feet, and it was Pippa’s first introduction to life as an adult. She wished desperately that she could return to childhood, safely held in her mother’s strong embrace. Instead, she tightened her thin arms around her sister and kissed her cheek as she marched on, refusing to cry.

At the funeral, once the visiting parson’s speech had ended, some tried to comfort her—those who had dared attend. The only thing known about the Sickness was that it was contagious, so the family’s dearest friends had abandoned them. When they had needed help, no one had come. Looking around her, Pippa felt no gratitude for the few who had arrived now, simpering and clucking their tongues remorsefully as they told her nonsensical things they thought would console her. Her mother and father had never spewed such nonsense, and Pippa hated it. Pippa hated everyone at that moment.

She had not realized that she was digging her fingers into her palms in rage until little Martha withdrew her hand from her sister’s with a sound of protest. Immediately Pippa felt remorse, and crouched beside her little sibling. “I’m sorry, Mar,” she said softly, picking up the little girl’s hand and giving it a gentle kiss. “I didn’t mean to hurt your hand.” Martha looked at her solemnly, and after a moment she nodded her forgiveness. Pippa was examining it for signs of a bruise when she heard a gruff cough from behind her.

Pippa jumped, pulling Martha close to her as she looked back. A tall, rough, bearded man stood behind her, looking uncomfortable in a fine suit and expensive hat, which he twisted in his hands as he spoke. “Miss Dawson?” the man asked awkwardly, staring at his feet.

“Yes?” Pippa answered hesitantly, slowly standing up. She lifted Martha into her arms.

“Joe Halverson. I—I’m so sorry to hear about your family.” He looked up now, and Pippa surprised herself by believing him. Most of the mourners had seemed to her insincere and almost didactic in the smoothly comforting way they had offered their condolences, but this man was different. Perhaps it was because of the dirty workboots he wore with his high-priced suit, reminding her of her father. Perhaps it was his awkwardness that made her think he, unlike the others, hadn’t prepared a soothing speech in advance. Or perhaps it was simply the sad smile he gave her that told Pippa he understood what it was like to lose someone dear. In any case, she knew he meant every word, and for the first time in the three days since she had shown up at the parsonage, Pippa felt as if someone cared.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. Martha gave the man a large smile and held out her arms. His face lit up like a lantern, and Pippa hesitantly allowed him to take the little girl.

“Hello, there,” he murmured, smiling broadly at the tiny child. Martha was small for a four-year-old, and her pretty, cheerful face enchanted everyone.

Cheerfulness was a rare commodity, Pippa thought wryly. It was only available to those too small to know better. She felt suddenly glad that Martha was young and easily distractible, her tears often solved by a hug or a bit of maple sugar candy.

After a moment, the man remembered that he had come on an errand. He handed the tot back to her sister, nodding his thanks to Pippa, who visibly relaxed as she took the little girl back into her own arms. Pippa had grown unsurprisingly protective of Martha, refusing to let her out of her sight even for a moment. She had offended the visiting parson’s wife when she insisted on giving Martha a bath herself, instead of allowing the older woman to do it. Pippa didn’t care. This was her sister, her treasure. She wanted to be with her at all times.

“I’ve come with an offer,” Pippa realized Mr. Halverson was saying. “Mother and I own a dressmaking shop, and we’re short on girls right now, so if you’d like…well, it’d be a way to support you and your sister, unless you’ve got family….”

Smiling at his countryside use of “mother” for his wife, Pippa took a moment to realize he was offering her a job. “W—what?” she asked, unsure if she had understood.

“You could stay with me and Mother, if you’d like. Wouldn’t even need to find lodging.”

Pippa stared at him, her amazement showing plainly on her face. “Sir, why are you doing this?”

Joe Halverson scuffed the toe of his boot along the ground, shoving his hands in his pockets. A small cloud of dirt rose by his foot, and he looked down at it instead of meeting her eyes. He looked like an overgrown schoolboy, self-conscious and unsure of his place in the world. “I had a daughter once,” he said softly. “Me and Mother, our only child...” He paused to smile shyly, remembering his own little girl. “She looked like the little one here, but she died when she was about your age. A fever. Common, usually easy to beat. Not like this Sickness, but bad enough.” He paused again, searching for the right words.

“You see—well—Mother and I talked it over, when we heard about your folks. Most of the kids whose parents died have family to take them in, but a few don’t. Mother and I, we don’t have any kids. Not any more. So we decided we’d do what we can to help.”

Pippa still didn’t understand, not completely. “You’re offering me a job, just because you want to help?”

Joe nodded. “You see, my Emily—my daughter—” He seemed at a loss, having to explain. Pippa got the feeling that he’d spent more words this morning than he usually used in a week. “We loved her. If anything’d happened to us, we’d have wanted someone to take her in. Well, we don’t have her any more, but at least we can help someone else’s kids.”

Pippa nodded slowly. “Okay,” she said.

A smile spread across his large face. “You’re accepting?”

Pippa gave another small nod. “Thank you,” she said quietly. She set Martha down and took her right hand. “Mr. Halverson, Martha and I have a bag at the visiting parson’s that we’ll need to get, but if you give me directions to your shop we’ll come as soon as we can.”

Mr. Halverson smiled at her, looking as if he couldn’t be happier. He seemed more relaxed, somehow, and Pippa realized his shoulders had been raised the entire time they’d been speaking. He had been nervous. “I’d be happy to drive you to the parson’s place, if you’d like,” he offered. Then he looked around, and suddenly Pippa remembered she was at the funeral. For a few minutes, while talking to him, she’d forgotten where she was.

It seemed Joe Halverson had forgotten, too. “Oh,” he said, as he saw the people still gathered on the hill. “I’m sorry, miss. I suppose maybe you have to stay for a while, talk to people. I can wait, if you’d like.”

Pippa glanced at the mourners. She didn’t recognize any of them, so she knew none were close friends. It was doubtful that many had known her parents and siblings well, or even seen them except when the family came to sell their crops and pies at the market. “No,” she said firmly. “I’m ready to leave now.”

Mr. Halverson nodded, accepting her decision without comment, and they left. It was the first time in Pippa’s life that she was glad to leave a sunlit, grassy hill on a warm day.

Author’s note: This is my current masterpiece, the story closest to my heart. I chose not to break up the prologue and chapter one, so that the FictionPress numbering of the chapters would match up. I don’t know how long it will be before the next chapter is up, but in the meantime I’d love it if you would give me a critical, constructive review. This story, more than any other, needs as much feedback as possible. I want to polish it until it’s publishable. It will be very long, a novel, and I’ll likely edit each chapter several times before putting it up, so please have patience. It’ll be slow going, but I hope it’ll be worth it.

FAQs are below. I’ll try to answer questions I get or simply questions I think readers might have, and eventually—I hope!—the answers will be incorporated into the story itself, so readers aren’t confused.

What religion are Pippa and her family? They stand for prayers before meals, and they have a priest. Pippa didn’t like the visiting pastor.

They are Orthodox Christian. The pastor came from out of town because the local priest died, and Pippa doesn’t like him for reasons that aren’t his fault. He’s unfamiliar, his sermon was impersonal, and everything he does seems strange to her because he’s not Orthodox.

This Sickness, is it like the Black Death of Europe in the Middle Ages?

No. It is simply a highly contagious, very deadly disease that is spreading to many of the towns in Pippa’s area. The people have no resistance to it because it’s foreign.