O, Columbia

A short story by Ruth Anne Acheson

Ruth Anne Acheson is an author and farmer’s daughter from the PNW, who, like Jo March, clutters her room with apples, poetry, and pencils. She enjoys classic literature, long walks, and writing books which glorify her Savior and amuse her readers. She writes at ruthanneacheson.substack.com

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July 1923

“Oh, Columbia, I long to hear you!

Away, you rolling river.

Oh, Columbia, just to be near you!

Away, I’m bound away,

‘Cross the wide Missouri.”

When she sang the song, she always changed “Shenandoah” to “Columbia.” Aunt Mamie Magnolia, born and raised in the Shenandoah Valley, might disapprove, but Violet McCallum had learned long ago that other folks’ disapproval shouldn’t govern her own life.

It had governed her brother’s life. Instead of going to college, he’d enlisted, become one of the boys in khaki, and, unlike so many boys she knew, Jacob McCallum hadn’t come home. He’d died there, on the fields of France, and now slept under red-stained soil.

Jacob had crossed the wide Missouri, leaving her alone with an empty ache in her chest where her heart used to be. It didn’t matter though. Her heart had been mended more times than she cared to count. Nothing mattered except the schoolroom full of bright-eyed children, the three R’s which she had to teach them, and the marks on their report cards.

The dust on the road to the Riverbey schoolhouse stuck to her shoes. The rain was too long in coming, and the earth was drier than the vodka the bootleggers sipped from their flasks.

Violet inhaled the parched air, tilted her head towards the blindingly bright sun, and willed lush Shenandoah green to infuse the sunbaked hills. “One inch of rain. It’s all we need.”

“Who you talkin’ to, child?” Aunt Mamie Magnolia stood by her front fence, carved cane in one molasses-colored hand and a basket covered in a gingham cloth in the other.

“I’m not talking to anyone.” Violet clutched her own basket more tightly, her nails digging into the woven straw handle. “I’m wishing for rain.”

“We ain’t gonna git rain for a long time.” Aunt Mamie tapped her cane against the dusty path. “My left earlobe says we ain’t gonna git rain ‘til that ole river’s lower than a snake’s belly scales.”

Aunt Mamie’s left earlobe had been right so many times in the woman’s ninety-two years of life that Violet couldn’t brush it off as a superstitious prophecy. She waved her basket in the direction of the ramshackle schoolhouse. “I should get to the school, Auntie.”

“You sure should.” Aunt Mamie reached into her basket with one wrinkled hand and withdrew a round, napkin-swathed object. “Here’s a berry pie to keep your biscuits and gravy company ‘til dinner hour.”

Violet accepted the tartlet and tucked it into her basket. “Thank you, Aunt Mamie. Have a good day.”

“I will, Vi. But what matters is if you have a good day.” The old woman turned and made her way back into her tiny, tin-roofed house, chuckling under her breath.

~

When she pushed open the creaking door and stepped into the classroom, she almost dropped her basket. A tall man reclined in the chair behind her desk, his eyes shut, his chest rising and falling.

Violet surged forward, basket banging against her shins, and shoved the man from her chair, sending him sprawling onto the floor in an ignominious heap of dust and dirty clothes.

The man scrambled to his knees, blinking and rubbing his eyes. “Who are you?”

Violet yanked her long ruler from the desktop and brandished it at him with an anger she hadn’t felt since Wesley Elliott rigged a booby-trap above the schoolhouse door. “I’ll be asking the questions. What are you doing in my schoolhouse?”

“If I don’t answer, are you going to hit me with that stick?”

Violet lowered the ruler just a bit at his tone, which was that of a schoolboy who knew he was in trouble.

“I came in here to sleep,” the man continued. “The building was unlocked and I haven’t slept inside for months. I’m sorry.”

The statement summed up the reason for the patched coat he wore, the dirt on his hands, and the pale skin peeking through a worn spot in his pantleg.

Violet set her basket on the desk and stood with the large, scarred piece of furniture between her and the man. “Get up.”

“So you can smack me?” His green eyes were bright in his dirty face.

“No.” She dropped the ruler onto the desk. “What’s your name?”

The man stood, brushing the dust from his trousers. “I’m Jack. You are?”

“Why should I tell you?” Violet averted her eyes from his hungry face and began digging in her lunch basket.

“Because I’d like to know.” He smiled, and Violet’s knees weakened like they had when Jim Riley kissed her in tenth grade.

“I’m Violet McCallum.” She pulled three biscuits from her basket.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss McCallum.” Jack lifted his tattered tweed cap from his head and extended his hand. His dirt-stained fingers, chipped nails, and calloused palms revealed him to be a hard-working man.

Instead of shaking his hand, Violet plopped the fluffy golden biscuits into his palm. “Here. For your lunch.”

“Thank you, Miss McCallum.” He smiled again.

Before she could brush off his politeness, a wave of giggly, childish chatter wafted through the open window, and Violet’s heart rate rose faster than the Columbia at flood season. “You’ve got to get out of here. Schoolteachers shouldn’t be conversing alone with strange men.”

He crammed the biscuits into his coat pocket; his eyes narrowed as he scanned the room. “Is there another door?”

Violet shoved him towards the cloakroom. “In here.”

Footsteps creaked up the front steps.

“Go, Jack,” Violet whispered.

For one moment, his emerald eyes locked on hers. And then he stumbled out the cloakroom door as a tiny, pink-clad girl skipped into the classroom. “Mornin’, teacher.”

“Good morning, Wenda.” Violet scooped up her basket, stepped into the cloakroom as casually as she could, and set it on the highest shelf.

A quick look out the tiny window told her what she already knew: Jack was gone.

~

All through the day, the strange, shabby man stayed in Violet’s thoughts. Jack’s green eyes were like her brother’s, and his hungry face reminded her of the homeless, jobless soldiers of the Great War she’d seen in the big cities.

“Miss McCallum?” Wenda placed a hand on her teacher’s arm. “Won’t you come out and play?”

“Not today,” Violet said. “I have…papers to grade.”

The little girl sighed. “That’s what you said last week.” But she skipped away, and soon the merry shouts of twenty-five children floated in through the schoolhouse windows.

Violet picked up yesterday’s math tests and flipped through them, idly reading a problem or two. Jack’s smile—bright despite his obvious poverty—kept returning to her mind, and with it came memories she couldn’t bear to think about.

A fly buzzed against the windowpane, and Violet rose from her chair to let the insect out of the schoolhouse. As she looked out over the prairies, her breath caught in her chest.

A huge plume of thick, black, dreadful smoke clawed at the perfect blue sky.

~

Jack was halfway through town, jogging through Riverbey’s alleyways, when he heard the screams. Smoke, carried by the brisk breeze, stung his nostrils and clawed at his lungs as the first shouts of “Fire!” rang out over the town. A bell clanged in the distance—the schoolhouse bell.

He stopped and, for the first time in his life, he looked back.

A thick cloud of smoke stained the sky, and a pang of fear raced through him. If the schoolhouse is in danger… He shook the thought from his mind.

“Come on! Don’t you know there’s a fire?” A man dashed up to him, grabbed his fraying coat, and tugged Jack back the way he’d come.

“But I—”

“No time,” the stranger said. His face was already streaked with smoke and sweat, and his shirtsleeves were soaked. “Grassfire near the school, and we’ve gotta get those kids to safety.”

Jack yanked his arm free from the man’s grip. “I’m coming.”

They dashed to the schoolyard, and Jack’s throat tightened. A shed near the school was already engulfed in angry red flames, and little tongues of fire surged through the dry grass towards the schoolhouse.

Jack scanned the crowd for Violet and spotted her herding frightened children away from the fire. He rushed towards her.

Her face was pale, and agony burned in her blue eyes. “Jack, what are you doing here?”

“I came to help,” he said. “What can I do?”

“I’m gathering the children who live closest to the fire. Could you escort them home?”

Jack nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

A tiny girl with a yellow bow in her hair tugged at Violet’s dress. “Teacher, the fire’s getting closer.”

Violet nodded. “Yes, Patsy. Stand with your sisters.” She’d assembled a band of dusty-faced children, all with the fire of fear in their eyes. The smallest clutched at the older children’s hands and clothes, like drowning men clinging to a lifeline. “Here they are, Jack.”

Jack drew a deep breath, heavy with smoke and swirling ash. He held out his hands to two girls with tear-streaked faces. “Let’s go.”

~

The fire had reached the schoolyard’s edge. Flames clawed at the old boards that had been discarded when the schoolhouse was built thirteen years ago. Tiny tongues of fire ripped through the dry grass, turning the stalks to ash.

Despite the men’s protests, Violet had joined the bucket brigade. Her dress was soaked, and smoke burned her lungs, but she was past caring. Nothing mattered—except the salvation of her school.

The flames edged nearer and nearer, like floodwaters rising to drown even the highest ground. The grassfire’s heat was unbearable.

“No way it can be stopped.” Gabriel Potter’s voice cracked as he spoke.

Sweat—or tears? —stung Violet’s eyes. “But—”

“No way,” Gabriel repeated. “Your school’s doomed. We’d be better off trying to prevent the fire from spreading to other houses.”

Violet dragged a hand across her gritty eyes and tried to pray. The God who ruled Heaven and earth might have taken her brother, but He could still call rain from a sky parched by months of heat and dry wind. “I see.”

“Come on.” Mr. Potter led her away from the flames that licked at the schoolhouse’s dry siding and crumbling foundation.

The school had been her lifeline when fear and grief threatened to drown her, and now she walked away, leaving it to the all-consuming, all-destroying fire.

~

When Jack wended his way to the schoolhouse that evening, he found a pale, stone-faced woman standing in the fire-scorched schoolyard. “Violet?”

Red-rimmed blue eyes met his. “It’s gone.”

“I know.” A lump rose in his throat as Jack looked out over the schoolhouse’s skeletal remains. Charred timbers clung to each other, leaving a ramshackle reminder of the building. A dry breeze carried the scent of ash and destruction to his nostrils.

She covered her face with grimy hands. “I couldn’t stop it.”

Jack put a tentative hand on her shoulder. Her dress, soaked by the water she’d carried to save her school, had dried in an awkward crush of wrinkles and streaks of smoke. “Nobody can stop fire, Violet.”

The sky overhead darkened as the sun edged behind the hills. Twilight encroached as steadily as the flames had, and smoke still stained the sun red. No clouds marred the stretch of yellow, red, and blue merging into purple, which meant no rain would come.

“May I walk you home?” His voice quivered over the words, like some school lad asking if he could escort his adored teacher to her house. Come to think of it, that wasn’t far from the truth.

Violet shook her head. “I’m fine.”

His mother—God rest her soul—had taught him to respect the wishes of a woman, no matter what, but Jack was not a man to leave a damsel in distress. “Let me take you. You’re in no shape to go home alone.”

“What is it you want?” Anger sparked in her blue eyes.

Jack held up his hands. “To help you. I want to mend the broken things.”

“Nobody can mend this. Are you blind?”

“No.” He could see the hurt she tried to disguise, the beauty which shone through the pain, and the hope that she held despite the grimness of the situation. He reached for her arm.

“Go home.” The scorched grass crumbled into gray ash beneath her shoes as Violet stomped away, out of his reach. “Wherever home is.”

“Are you pushing me away?” The question sprang from Jack before he could stop it.

So many folks—his pa, his stepsister, his friends—pushed him away when he most wanted to help them. And now another woman had discarded his offer of aid.

Violet locked eyes with him. “Jack, I’m not a silly schoolgirl.”

He swallowed. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“You’ll have to see, won’t you?” She strode away, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the charcoaled remains of her life’s calling.

~

Despite the smoke blotting the sky, the stars shone brighter than any glittering chorus ever could as Violet McCallum walked home. Despite the ruin which rocked her world, the sun still came up the next morning in a display rivaling the most dazzling flapper’s flashiest dress.

She stood in her tiny, slant-roofed bedroom, and stared into the mirror. The grit of the day before still stained her face, making her resemble a chimneysweep, and her dress was a mass of wrinkles and charcoal-stained cotton.

It felt like the day after she’d received the news that her brother had died. A tragedy had shaken her very foundation, and now she had to go on.

“I can start,” she muttered, “by cleaning off this grime.”

The cool water on her face brought clarity, both to her features and to the situation, and she made a plan. Having a plan had always helped her move on—she could get through anything if she had a plan to follow.

In her mind, she chalked her strategy onto an imaginary blackboard.

1. check on Aunt Mamie

2. apologize to Jack

3. teach school…somewhere

Violet combed and braided her hair, put on a clean dress of blue Swiss Dot, and double-knotted her shoelaces. “Off to Aunt Mamie’s.”

~

Jack wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but here he sat, eating breakfast across from a woman with glittering black eyes and sun-kissed brown skin. She’d grabbed his arm as he walked past her house, and after scolding him for something—he didn’t know what—she’d plopped him down at her table and began ladling out hot oatmeal and cream.

Halfway through his bowl, he posed the question which had been niggling at his mind ever since the woman had appeared in his path. “May I ask your name, ma’am?”

The old woman laughed, tapping her carved cane on the floor in time with the shaking of her body. “Oh, ain’t you a gentleman? I ain’t been called ma’am since I was thin as a fence post.” Her grin was bright in her dark face. “Mamie Magnolia’s my name. What’s your name, honey?”

“Jack Griffen, ma’am.” And blast it all, he’d told this old woman his last name.

She shook with laughter again. “Call me Aunt Mamie. No ma’ams here.”

“Yes, Aunt Mamie.” Jack swallowed his oatmeal, and faster than the Charleston’s beat, the old woman had replaced his bowl with a plate of eggs, bacon, and biscuits.

“Eat up, child.” She tapped her cane against his knee. “You ain’t eaten a proper meal in three days, and I aim to feed you good.”

His brows drew together. “How’d you know?”

A coy grin slipped onto her face. “My left earlobe, honey. Always right, it is. Never told me wrong yet, since the good Lord talks to me in that ear.”

He swallowed the word ridiculous with his bacon.

A knock sounded on the door and Aunt Mamie shuffle-tapped her way across the room to open it. Her cane thunked hollowly on the floorboards with each step.

When the door opened, Violet McCallum stepped into the room. Her lips were curved into a winsome smile, and her chestnut hair looked almost red against her dress. “Good morning, Aunt Mamie.”

“Morning, Vi’let.” The old woman’s seamed face lit up, as water does when sunshine catches on its surface. “Look who stopped by.”

Jack smiled at her. “I was given an invitation I couldn’t refuse.”

“You’re being well-fed, I see.” Violet’s shoes clicked against the rough wood floor as she moved towards the breakfast table.

He took a swallow of hot coffee. “First good meal in three days.”

Aunt Mamie lifted a clean cup and saucer from the sideboard and poured Violet a cup of coffee. “Sit down, child.” She set the coffee on the table and disappeared out the front door.

“Where’s she going?” Jack kept his gaze on his eggs and bacon.

“To accost some passersby, I suppose.” Violet took a sip of coffee. She, apparently, had no qualms about eye contact, and her keen blue gaze almost made him squirm.

Jack looked into her eyes; his breath caught in his chest. Those eyes made him want to swim the Columbia River or fight a wildfire all alone for her sake, and he couldn’t force the thoughts away. For all he knew, Violet McCallum had a beau. Perhaps she was married, though he saw no glint of gold on her left hand.

But her eyes had captured him. The pain, joy, and hurt warring with pride and fear: so many emotions inside two wells of deep blue.

“Oh, sweet Jesus!” Aunt Mamie’s breathless exclamation had them both on their feet before the tap of her cane reached the porch.

Violet dashed out the door to meet the old woman. “What’s wrong, Auntie?”

Aunt Mamie was panting as she reached Violet. Her short burst of speed had completely winded her. “Fire ‘gain.”

~

“Where’s the fire?” Jack slapped his cap onto his head and scanned the horizon.

A trembling, chocolate-brown finger shot upwards, towards the porch ceiling. “Ain’t out there. On my roof!”

Violet grabbed the old woman’s hand. Her heart pounded against her ribs, but she had to stay rational. “Come along. We’ll grab some things for you. Jack, go for help.”

Jack leapt off the porch into Aunt Mamie’s bed of prized peonies. “It’s all up under the shingles,” he shouted. “The attic’s on fire.”

“Go for help then,” Violet shot back. “Don’t stand there like a schoolgirl.”

He was off before she could apologize. She couldn’t waste time bemoaning her quick tongue, however. Smoke fumes already scorched the air inside the cottage.

“What do you need?” Violet yanked a basket from a pile in a corner.

“Cane.” Aunt Mamie jabbed the stick in question against the floorboards. “Bonnet, recipe box, teacup, and Eliezer.”

Violet stuffed the old felt bonnet, a Victorian relic, into the basket, pulled the hand-carved recipe box from its shelf, and gently settled the old woman’s favorite china teacup inside the bonnet’s softness. She glanced around the cottage but saw nary a sign of a ginger cat.

“Eliezer! Yoohoo, Eliezer!” Aunt Mamie’s cat-summoning was interrupted by a spasm of coughing and the thud of something falling in the attic.

“Come on, Auntie.” Violet clutched the old woman’s arm. “You need to get outside.”

“My cat’s gotta come too.”

“Eliezer’s a smart cat. He’ll find his way to you.”

Aunt Mamie’s cane stabbed into the floor. “I need my cat.”

Another crashing noise issued from the attic.

“Fine!” Violet handed the basket to Aunt Mamie. “You get outside, and I’ll find the cat.”

Aunt Mamie made her way out the door and onto the front porch, stilling yoo-hooing for Eliezer. When the tap of her cane was muffled by the grass, Violet breathed a sigh of relief.

But her next breath was tainted with smoke.

“Drat.” She hurried into Aunt Mamie’s tiny bedroom and peeked under the bed. “Eliezer? Here, kitty-kitty.” Violet passed from the bedroom into the small side room, where bunches of herbs hung from the ceiling and bright quilt blocks lay scattered on the floor. “Kitty-kitty?”

She bent to look underneath the chest of drawers, but no cat appeared.

When she stepped out into the kitchen again, she was hit in the face with a wall of smoke. The smoke made seeing impossible, and she stumbled over furniture and knocked several teacups to the floor.

A plaintive meow warbled from beneath the sideboard.

Violet dropped to the floor and inhaled again. The air was purer near the splintery floorboards, and her confused thoughts cleared slightly.

The ginger cat stuck his head out and looked at the woman sprawled on the floor.

His eyes were green, Violet noticed.

“Here, Eliezer.” The smoke clawed at her throat, and her eyes watered. “Come here.”

She heard the faint shouts of men. More crashes sounded in the attic, and bright sparks floated down from the ceiling.

She reached for the cat, but he darted back under the sideboard. “Drat you.” She yanked the neckline of her dress up over her mouth and nose, coughing.

Eliezer stuck his head out again, and Violet snagged his scruff. She dragged the cat from under the sideboard, ignoring his hissing.

The front door opened, and someone called her name. She knew the voice, but the world was growing hazy, and she couldn’t put a name to it.

“Vi, where are you?”

Her dead brother’s face sprang to her mind. Vi, come on! Look, Vi.

Eliezer’s claws raked down her arm, and the mental fog subsided enough for her to scramble to her knees. The cat bounded out of her grasp and vanished in the swirl of smoke.

Her cheeks were wet, and her lungs spasmed with each breath. For the first time since her brother died on the fields of France, the name of the Lord of Heaven and earth escaped her lips. “Jesus… h-help me.”

Another shower of sparks descended upon her as a beam crashed from the ceiling, and the world became a blur of fire and smoke and memories. The fire clung to the wood above her, its coals glowing in the smoke like many red suns in a sky blackened by destruction.

Violet made it a few more feet before the smoke consumed her. Her lungs ached, her eyes stung, and the heat ate into her bones. She closed her eyes and let the memories have their way.

“Oh, Columbia, I’m bound to leave you!

Away, you rolling river.

Oh, Columbia, I won’t deceive you!

Away, I’m bound away,

‘Cross the wide Missouri.”

~

The black smoke clogging Aunt Mamie’s cottage was the color of Jack Griffen’s hope at that moment. Wasn’t hope supposed to be a light and airy thing, though strong enough to cling to despite any circumstance?

But no.

“Violet!” His voice cracked and his eyes stung. “Vi!”

Aunt Mamie clutched his arm. “Can you see her?”

“No, blast it.”

“Where’s the fire?” A man wearing red suspenders dashed into the front yard, boots crushing the fragrant flowers lining the walkway. He carried two overflowing buckets of water.

“Roof, Gabriel.” Aunt Mamie’s voice was husky, though from tears or smoke, Jack didn’t know.

“I’d wager it was your stovepipe.” Gabriel sighed.

“Keep your wagers.” Jack ripped off his coat, tie, and restricting collar. “There’s a woman in there.”

Without preamble, Gabriel lifted a bucket and splashed it over Jack. “Well, go get her.”

Jack, now dripping wet and comfortably cool, yanked the other bucket from Gabriel’s hand. “I will. Get more men, more water. Hurry!”

Aunt Mamie’s trembling hands stilled slightly. “The good Lord ain’t done with that woman. He says so.”

Jack swallowed, drew in one last breath of clean air, and barreled into Aunt Mamie’s cottage. Sparks flared as he heaved the door open as wide as it could go.

“Vi!” He moved forward, wincing at every sound, every snap of flames on dry wood. “Where are you?”

A board crashed down in front of Jack, showering him with hot ashes and sparks of live fire. The smoke surrounding him made his lungs ache, but he called her name anyway. “Violet!”

The ceiling groaned under the fire’s weight and the roofing that had fallen. Nails released their hold on the wood, and a section of attic floor crashed into the kitchen, bearing a dancing company of flames.

“Vi?” Ash invaded his lungs and stung at his eyes, but he wasn’t ready to give up.

A gentle whisper in his soul halted him as he moved towards the bedroom, which hadn’t disappeared completely behind the flames. “When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned: neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.”

Jack turned away from that lesser purgatorio and made his way to the center of the kitchen, where the stove and old sideboard stood. His foot caught on something soft which loosed a choked noise.

“Can y-you hear me?” He bent closer. “I’m sorry…” He poured his bucket over her dress and tossed it aside. Tin buckets were of little consequence, compared to two lives.

A moan escaped from between parched lips.

“I’ve g-got you.” Jack gathered her into his arms and stood. His back screamed with the exertion on his already-weary frame as he took his first steps.

He nearly abandoned hope when he saw the pathway back to the front door. Purgatorio gave way to inferno, but the voice which had whispered before did so again. “Fear not: for I have redeemed thee. I have called thee by thy name; thou art mine.”

If he was going to die, he’d try to be okay with that. If the Lord of Heaven and earth was calling him to walk through the fire like Shadrach, Meshack, and Abendigo, then he’d walk through, trusting that the fourth figure would appear in the flames beside him.

Jack took another step. “The Lord shall guide thee continually and satisfy thy soul in drought…”

Another step. “For behold, the darkness shall cover the earth… but the Lord will rise upon thee, and His glory shall be seen upon thee.” Escape was so close he could smell it. The scent of fresh air, instead of smoke and ash and destruction, teased his fire-weary lungs and drew him onwards.

“For ye were sometimes darkness, but now are ye light in the Lord: walk as children of light.” The smoke bit into his lungs and sparks stung his face, but he moved onwards, unable to stop or go back. Inferno gripped him, clawed at his faith. Purgatorio taunted him with fear of what lay ahead. But Paradiso whispered into his soul with the words which stayed men’s souls when they faced death by fire.

“For God, who commanded the light to shine out of darkness, hath shined in our hearts, to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of G—”

Jack Griffen stumbled out onto the sagging front porch of Aunt Mamie’s cottage. Daylight filled his bleary vision, and clean air overwhelmed his smoke-clogged lungs.

He left Violet in the care of Aunt Mamie and dropped to the grass. As he lay there, panting and beating at the sparks clinging to his shirt, the helpful Gabriel dumped another bucketful of cold water over him.

It was like a baptism, one that put out the last sparks of rebellion in him and cleansed him of the sin staining his soul like smoke against a peerless blue sky. “To appoint unto them that mourn in Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness…”

He pulled himself upright and was met by a girl who stood barefooted among the blossoms of roses, peonies, and lilies. Her eyes were the color of the June sky, and though tears streaked the ash clinging to her face, she was smiling.

~

“Oh, Columbia, I love your daughter!

Away, you rolling river.

I’ll take her away, across the water!

Away, I’m bound away,

‘Cross the wide Missouri.”

When Violet McCallum had breathed enough clean air to think clearly, there was one name on her lips. “Jack, you saved my life.” Tears blurred her vision, but, for once, she let them.

“Of course I did.” Jack’s green eyes shone like gems in his dirty face. “I couldn’t let my favorite schoolteacher…” He cleared his throat. “I couldn’t let it happen.”

She threw aside every bit of dignity and flung her arms around his neck. He smelled like smoke and was damp with river water, but she didn’t care.

“Thank you.” Violet pulled back so she could look into his eyes.

“You’re crying.” He traced a finger down to her cheek. He didn’t seem to care about her damp, holey dress; her singed hair; or the smoky odor hanging around her.

She tried to laugh and sniff at the same time, which resulted in a snort. “I am.”

The snap of flower stems and the thunk of Aunt Mamie’s carved cane announced the old woman’s presence in the front garden. “She won’t mind if you kiss her,” Aunt Mamie declared.

“Is that so?” Jack arched an eyebrow at her and grinned.

Her brother’s face flashed through her mind—his last goodbye to her, his touch on her arm as he leant in, and the gentle brush of his lips on her cheek. Goodbye, sis. Hold down the fort ‘til I come home.

Violet closed her eyes and waited for the sea of memories to subside. Even as the wave drew back from the shore, a stronger one washed over her. “It burns like blazing fire, like a mighty flame. Many waters cannot quench love, nor can the floods drown it.”

She stretched up on her toes and kissed his cheek.

Even as her lips grazed his skin, words poured over her soul, as if she were standing under a cataract of whitewater. “Deep calleth unto deep at the noise of Thy waterfalls; all Thy waves and billows are gone over me.”

Aunt Mamie’s voice—and the chunk of her cane as she stumped away—came faintly to her ears. “Here’s happiness, for sure and certain.”

~

Needless to say, Aunt Mamie’s house was gone. Every beam had been consumed, every trace of life—from the tin spoons to the bottle of whiskey “for doctoring purposes”—was no more. But the old woman had the important things. Even Eliezer, the gingery cat, was discovered under a neighbor’s rosebushes.

Violet wasn’t as badly injured as Jack had feared. Tiny burns from hot sparks marked her skin, and her long hair was replaced with an in-Vogue bob (to get rid of the singed ends), but hope had come back to her blue eyes.

They spent long evenings, cool after the day’s heat, walking over the hills. Violet sang about the Columbia, not only because a river rushed by below Riverbey, but because the river itself sang a song, a ballad of wild water and the blue sea far ahead.

July edged into August, and the high, barren hills surrounding Riverbey stayed brown and dry. No rain fell.

One particular evening, in the coolness of the twilight after a day of scorching heat, Jack and Violet walked to the charred frame that served as a reminder of where the schoolhouse had once been.

Violet made her way over the blackened grass where her pupils had once played. Tears welled into her eyes, but she wiped them away and faced the wreck with a straight spine and the glitter of hope in her eyes.

“It’s a mess.” Jack’s hands settled on her shoulders.

“We can rebuild.” She swallowed and shook her head. “Eventually.”

They stood, listening to the evening song of a redwing blackbird, watching the wind rustle the seared grass.

Jack grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the schoolyard’s edge. “Look, Vi.”

Violets, purple flowers with golden centers, had sprung from the ashy ground.

Violet knelt in the sooty soil and touched the petals. Hope was there, blooming despite the fire that had ravaged the earth around it. “We went through fire and through water, but Thou broughtest us out into a wealthy place.”

“Rain,” Jack said. “I smell it.”

Violet looked up. “Aunt Mamie could tell us.”

“Tell you what, honey?” As if summoned by Violet’s words, the old woman appeared in the schoolyard. Her skirts swished over the ground, and tiny plumes of ash shot up from under the tip of her cane.

“If it’s going to rain.” Jack shaded his eyes with his hand and peered into the west.

The old woman tilted her head, her brown eyes on the sky. She smiled. “As sure’s you live, it’s a-coming. My left earlobe says so.” Her cane jabbed into the charcoal-colored soil twice to emphasize her point. “Them clouds there? Them’s rainclouds.”

Violet lifted her face in time to meet the first droplets tumbling from the slate-gray sky. The rain met the hot, thirsty earth and tiny plumes of dust and ash shot skyward. And then the dust was dampened into nothingness, and the ground darkened under the onslaught of water.

Jack Griffen held up his hands and bowed his head. Words from the Psalms filled his mind and found a place on his tongue: “’Thou, O God, didst send a plentiful rain, whereby Thou didst confirm thine inheritance when it was weary.’”

“Good words, those.” Aunt Mamie’s head nodded in time to the raindrops.

Violet felt the rain stream down her face, mixing with the joyful tears that overflowed. “Then shall we know, if we follow on to know the Lord: His going forth is prepared as the morning, and He shall come unto us as the rain…”

Mud took the place of dust and ash, and the scent of rain-wet soil rose all around them. Thunder rolled over the prairies and echoed in the canyon. The Columbia’s song grew louder as the rain danced on its surface.

And Violet McCallum, the woman who had buried hope with her brother in the fields of France, lifted her face to the beautiful gray sky. The rain washed over her, flooding the ground with new life.

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