A Missing Boy
A Missing Boy
Autumn bullies London harshly. She rudely washes away the warmth of summer with cold rain and clammy skies. She rarely bothers to convert the few trees to delightful colors, robs the grass of its green, then leaves no promise but a bleak and dismal winter. Lincolnshire, though, she brushes across gently.
Susanna strolled down the narrow lane near the fens, tasting and smelling and watching the rapid advance of autumn. Dry grass crackled near the stone fence. It was much too early in the evening for hedgehogs to be out. She watched a moment before glimpsing a familiar tail and face; little Sammy’s cat was out prowling.
The various brown hedge sparrows had already left Lincolnshire, but the busy little blue tits with their white faces still skittered about in the trees. And the rooks were in for their autumn roosting.
Susanna’s father had always referred to any black bird as a jackdaw, but Susanna had learned the differences. Rooks were smaller than ravens and larger than jackdaws. Rooks had bald gray faces to match their gray beaks. Their voices were far less annoying than ravens’, and they roosted. Susanna had heard of their vast, communal autumn roosts even when she lived in the city. But now here she could watch them.
From miles around they came, by twos and tens and bunches, to settle in the old oaks by the fens. Noisy, jostling, bickering, constantly jockeying for the perfect position, they reminded her of nothing more than a giant conclave of village aldermen. Thousands of black-clad, balding, petty officials—the notion tickled her fancy.
She sat to rest a moment on a stile beside the lane. This may have been a serious mistake, taking a walk. She had been in bed ill too long; she was still too weak to walk so far. Ah, well. If she got too tired she would simply wait beside the lane. The hired girl knew which direction she had taken. The girl would tell Sam, and Sam would come looking for her eventually.
The hired girl had become a necessity, with Susanna so frequently ill. She couldn’t properly manage tiny children when she was bedridden. Having grown up with a houseful of domestics to handle all the daily chores and children, she was once used to extra help. But the manse at South-wark had been a thousand times bigger than this little hovel, with a thousand times more furnishings to care for. And in London when one hired, one could pick and choose from a score of applicants. Out here in South Ormsby Susanna had almost no choice, and frankly she hadn’t liked any in the whole lot. Still, this girl was better than none.
More rooks than Susanna could have imagined were flocking in now from near and far—just like troubles. Winged black shadows that couldn’t simply visit occasionally and alone, they came in bunches from unexpected directions to flutter down into the naked black trees. A chill breeze shifted and rose. She had best start back.
Her hem brushed the dead weeds and picked up some burrs as she stepped out into the lane. She’d let little Sammy pluck them out. He delighted in jobs of that sort.
He was getting old enough to begin reading and ciphering. How could she teach him to read when he couldn’t speak? How would she know he had learned his lessons if he didn’t recite them aloud? Perhaps she should teach him to print his alphabet and write first. Would that work? It sounded inside out, but what else could she do? Sam the optimist kept saying to wait; everything would work out just fine. Susanna didn’t want to wait much longer. The boy was bright and quick and ready to learn now.
With two more rest stops she finally arrived at her door. She had just added new dimensions to the meaning of “weary.” A cup of hot tea, dinner, and to bed. It sounded so good.
The stew bubbled softly well to the side of the fire. Susanna had supervised its start several hours ago. Now, at its end, it smelled delicious. The maid had spread the great linen cloth over the table and set the bowls and spoons about, all ready. Susanna really ought to cut that tablecloth in half; it reached to the floor; but there might be a day when their table would be long enough to fit it. Better too big than too small. Besides, it looked more elegant than did the bare oak slab table.
Susanna glanced around. “Where’s Sammy?”
The maid looked up from husking broadbeans. “Sammy? Uh—There’s Emilia. And the baby’s sleeping.”
“I see Emilia. Where’s your brother, Emilia? He’s not lost, is he?”
“No.” Already, at less than three, Emilia was building sentences from her endless stream of words. “The cat is lost.”
“You mean Sammy went out to look for the cat?”
Emilia nodded. “We want it. Pway wiff it.”
Susanna glared at the maid. “You let him wander off?”
“He didn’t say nothing ‘bout leaving, mum.”
“Of course he didn’t! Mind the baby.” Susanna grabbed Emilia by the hand and walked out to the ditch. “Sammy? Saaa-meee! Clap your hands!” She listened. That north breeze was picking up; it rattled the brown leaves on the willows beyond the ditch.
“Samuel, where are you?”
She tried the back of the house. No response. With Emilia in tow she hurried to the crossing. No answer. Fears, like a roost of rooks, came flocking in to weigh down her heart.
Here came Mrs. Crittendon up the road. The stocky little widow might be crabby and short, but she was good with children.
“What’s wrong, Mrs. Wesley?”
“My Samuel’s wandered off to find his cat. I’m afraid he’s lost.”
“What kind of cat?”
“The cat’s not lost. I saw it down by the fens. Little Sammy is lost.”
“Ne’er mind. I remember your cat. Pretty thing. Sammy’s lost, you say. The mute. I’m on my way to Hodells’ right up yonder. Hodells and me, we’ll pop out and look around, too. Getting chill; don’t want the lad out all night.” And she waddled off up the road.
Within minutes other neighbors had popped out as well. A lost child was a matter of immediate community concern just as was a juicy bit of gossip, though probably not more pressing.
“Samuel, where are you?”
Susanna had come to the end of her endurance. She plopped down on the little stool by the front door and gathered Emilia in close. The child’s arms were frigid; Susanna had been dragging the poor tot about without so much as a summer-weight shawl.
Sam came boiling down the street at a dead run, and Susanna had never seen his face quite so tight and drawn. “Have they found him?”
“Not yet, that I know.”
“I heard from Mayhews that he’s lost, as I was coming back from the glen. Harold’s talking about dragging the south side ditch tomorrow.” Sam’s voice cracked. He glanced at Emilia and paused to compose himself. He squatted beside Susanna’s stool.
“Samuel belongs to God regardless the outcome of this.” It sounded so brave. Susanna dwelt on the words as they left her lips. They tasted bitter.
“I know,” Sam whispered. “I know. But he’s our firstborn, Sukey, and our only boy. Must God have him just yet?” He looked at Susanna, and his burning eyes bespoke fear so loudly that Emilia stared at him and cringed against her mother.
“I don’t know how far this hue and cry has spread, but I can walk no farther. Perhaps if you wish to pray on your feet you can look with Hodells near the rookery. He might have gone somewhere out that way.”
Sam nodded and rubbed his face. “When one of my congregation loses a child I glibly counsel him to be strong. I’ll remember this next time.” He hugged Susanna and broke a cardinal rule about displaying affection in public; he kissed her forehead. Then he was off again, with a boyish energy born of fear, not youth.
“Oh, Samuel, please; where are you?!”
Susanna hugged her Emilia a few minutes, then stood up.
“Come, dear, let’s go inside. It’s getting cold out.” Too cold for a boy not yet six years old, who has no wrap or shelter against the night.
The stew still simmered, but the aroma had lost its savor.
“Shall I feed Emilia, mum?” The maid murmured in tones contrite, as well she should; she had let him wander off.
“Please. I’ll eat later, with Sam.”
The maid had opened the shutters along the fireplace wall. Susanna stood at the open window and felt the curious contrast of cold wind before and warm room behind. She offered up prayer, as one must do, for God controls all, but her prayer felt dry in her heart. That would never serve. Didn’t God say, “Because you are lukewarm I shall spew you out of My mouth?” Fervent prayer avails much; dry, cold supplications were no doubt worthless.
Sam never made dry, cold supplication. He was a model of enthusiasm under any circumstance. In a way, Susanna envied his mercurial highs and lows, but not at times like these. Sam tended either to blow up or fall apart in extremity even as Susanna, neither hot nor cold, could calmly and effectively continue on.
Still, she felt frustration and fear no less keenly than he. They welled up in her now. When Sammy most needed her, her weary legs and laggard heart refused to let her seek him. Frustrating! Lincolnshire was more woods than meadows, with bogs and fens to snare the innocent and unwary. She had heard tales of grown men becoming hopelessly lost in the wilder tangles.
She sat down on the wide sill, because her legs would hold her no longer, and gazed out across the fields beyond the tiny rectory. The meadow grass lay pallid in its annual death, beaten down by rain and cattle, devoid of green.
Her fear and frustration boiled over, exploding as words. “Samuel Junior, where are you?!” They rolled out across the empty lea on the waning, chilly breath of autumn.
“Here I am, Mother.”
Susanna felt her mouth drop open and could not close it. She wheeled so rapidly on her perch she nearly fell off.
The voice—that wonderful, plaintive, gentle child voice—came from where? The very middle of the room, it seemed. An angel? Nonsense. No angel would appear to a woman as practical and ordinary as Susanna.
The long tablecloth jiggled slightly. Weary legs forgotten, Susanna dived to the floor. Together her long, slim mother-hand and a chubby son-hand lifted the linen hem. Apprehensive blue eyes peeked out.
She scooped Samuel up, gathered him in, and together with the prodigal’s father could sing, “For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.”
And not just the rooks of fear and frustration, but even the rooks of her sorrow for a son who could not speak—all of them flew away.