Sunflower

It was gentle, that first kiss, as gentle as the sound of the water in the creek sliding over the smooth stones. Caleb’s lips touched Analisa’s for a moment and then drew away, only to return a heartbeat later and linger this time. She let his lips capture hers without returning the kiss as yet, merely savoring the close contact. As this last sweet kiss ended, he wrapped his arms around her, pressing his palms into her shoulderblades, enfolding her against the hard wall of his chest.

“I want you, Analisa,” he whispered.

And suddenly she knew it was not a dream....

To my family and friends, for giving me the time to
write and for their enthusiastic encouragement;
to my Dutch friends, who helped with translations and recollections;
to the pathfinders, who are never afraid to seek change;
and to my dad,
who always believed I could do anything

Iowa, August 1870

August. Nothing moved in the oppressive humidity, not even the soft feather-light silk hanging from the cornstalks. The shimmering currents of heat, visible all day, had faded once the steel-gray clouds began to roll across the sky, obscuring the setting sun as they pushed and shoved against each other from horizon to horizon. As far as the eye could see, row upon row of tall, near-ripe cornstalks stood against the darkening sky, reaching up in supplication toward the rain trapped within the clouds. A narrow dirt road ran between the rows of corn like a long scar across the land. The passing of many wagons had packed the dirt hard into two long ribbons carved deep into the soil. In the spring, mud filled the ruts, but now, in late summer, the dirt road was cracked and dry, covered with a fine layer of dust that rose, when churned by hooves and wheels, to drift down upon weary travelers.

A clearing stood beside the road, an unplanted section that seemed to appear out of nowhere. Passersby on their way to the village knew that, once they reached the clearing and passed the tiny sod house set back from the road, the settlement was only four miles farther east.

Inside the soddie, Analisa Van Meeteren dried her hands and forearms on a cotton dish towel and hung it on a nail driven into the high wooden bench that served as a drainboard. Behind her in the one-room dwelling, all was in order. Her grandfather’s bed claimed the corner next to the stove. Its warmth drove the chill from his bones when the winter raged. On the same wall, at the foot of Opa’s bed, stood a pump organ, handcrafted in Europe and transported halfway around the world. It had been her mother’s most prized possession, a link to their old life in Holland. Analisa kept it polished to a high gleam and covered with an embroidered linen cloth to protect the finish from the dust and bits of soil that continually sifted down from the sod ceiling.

A rocker sat near the organ, its high back draped with another hand-decorated linen cloth. A wooden crate served as a side table to the rocker, its rough, unfinished surface in stark contrast to the hand-turned finished oak of the chair. Across from the organ was Analisa’s own high oak-framed bed, another object transported from the past. The bed was covered by a thick eiderdown comforter and a hand-pieced quilt with a bright red, yellow, and green tulip pattern of Analisa’s own design. A small pallet was stored beneath the bed for Kase, Analisa’s four-year-old son. The beds were near the front window where geraniums, growing in cans and chipped china dishes, lined the windowsill outside. During the summer months Analisa awoke to sunshine and flowers.

Blooms in similar containers outside the window above the kitchen bench caught her eye, and she reminded herself to water them tomorrow if the gathering clouds failed to produce rain. Wiping a forearm across her sweating brow, she gathered stray locks of hair off of the nape of her neck and tucked them into the loose knot atop her head. She secured the hairpins, which had slipped with the weight of her hair, and turned back to her work. She had soon washed the dishes and stacked them on the shelves on either side of the window frame. With strength born of necessity, she grasped the enameled dishpan handles and hefted the pan off the makeshift counter. The sudsy water sloshed close to the lip, but not a drop spilled as Analisa moved with practiced ease to the open doorway. She stepped up and over the sod threshold and out into the heat.

Analisa glanced skyward and watched the dark, heavy clouds roll across the sky, driven by winds too high above the earth to give the land ease from the heat. After tossing the murky water out of the blue enamel pan, she watched it soak into the thirsty ground. With the pan in one hand, she walked away from the house of sod toward the wood and wire fence bordering the yard. To Analisa it seemed that only the weather added variety to her life on the prairie, and even that often remained unchanged for weeks on end.

Four years had passed since Analisa had moved into the sod house, four years that seemed like a lifetime. Most immigrant families lived in the sod structures for a year or two, until they could rebuild a permanent dwelling of wood. Not so, Analisa. For four years she had battled the rigors of life in the soddie. She refused to think about those years as she momentarily stood idle, a rare occurrence in itself. Her long sleeves were rolled up above her elbows, exposing fair skin baked to a golden tan from working under the sun’s glare. Long hair, bound as it was in a loose knot atop her head, also showed signs of the sun’s power; the naturally honey-blonde hair framing her face had been bleached nearly white. At first she had tried to remember to wear a sunbonnet to shield her creamy skin from the sun, but more often than not, it hung forgotten on the peg near the door while she worked in the Vegetable garden behind the sod house.

Analisa looked across the rutted road that ran parallel to the rough fence. The corn was high and nearly ripe, thirsty for the rain, which was sure to fall within the hour. Over the past few years, she’d learned to smell the rain coming. Other signs were in evidence, too; the thick, humid heat, the clouds backing up on each other in the darkening sky.

Slowly her gaze left the cornfield and wandered to the road, following it eastward toward the village, toward Pella. A deep sigh escaped her, and Analisa shook her head, shaking off the heavy sadness she sometimes felt but refused to let affect her for very long. She knew very well that there was no going back, that nothing could undo the past five years since she’d left Holland. Before she turned to go back into the house, Analisa looked down the road to the right, toward the west, and strained to see more clearly. The setting sun, low on the horizon, sent rays of light radiating from its center, casting the figure in the middle of the road into silhouette. Analisa could clearly see a lone rider slowly approaching. She watched for a moment, to be sure that the heat and the sun were not combining forces to fool her into seeing an apparition, but the figure grew larger as the horseman approached. Without another thought, she turned and ran toward the house.

The metal dishpan clattered noisily against the drainboard as she thrust it away and closed the door behind her. A hurried glance around the room told her that everything was in its place before she had a chance to wonder why that should matter. She had more to fear from a stranger than his opinion of the tidiness of her home.

“Anja? What is it?” Grandfather’s voice startled her into action. Although his eyesight was poor, especially in the dim light of the thick-walled sod house, his sharp ears had picked up the sounds of her haste as she slammed down the dishpan and moved about the room. She forced a hollow calmness into her tone.

“There’s a stranger coming down the road is all, Opa, but not to worry. He is likely to pass by. It is nearly dark, and he’s on his way to Pella, I’m sure.” She answered him in Dutch. “I will take up your gun and watch to be certain that he means no harm.” It was hard to keep her voice light and easy with her heart lodged in her throat, yet she was reluctant to alarm the old man any more than she had to. With sure steps, Analisa crossed the dirt floor, stood on a smoothly carved wooden step stool, and drew the gun off of the pegs above the pump organ.

With the gun under one arm, she reached for a tin box labeled with gilt letters: Imperial Granum, the Unsweetened Wheat Food. Opening the lid, she dumped half a dozen shells into the pocket of her apron. Deftly she opened the breech-loading Sharps rifle and shoved a shell into the chamber. A quick glance over her shoulder at her grandfather prompted her to say, “Opa, please stay with Kase and don’t let him come near the doorway.” Her gaze rested for a fleeting moment on the small black-haired child playing with his carved wooden toys near his grandfather’s feet. Then Analisa wiped her brow and, with sure, calm movements and a face devoid of emotion, walked to the window above the drainboard. Analisa would not hesitate to use the rifle if the need arose.

Cornstalk walls closed in on either side of the narrow dirt road, miles of green that stretched for as far as the eye could see. To Caleb Storm, who had been traveling the lonely stretch since before the sun was up, the rows of corn seemed to be pressing inward, meeting at a point along the road ahead of him, trapping him forever amid the thick, strong stalks. Somewhere in his muddled thoughts, Caleb knew it was only an illusion, a trick of his tired mind, His head throbbing from more than the heat, he suddenly became aware of the small clearing on the prairie between the rows of corn, the clearing with a small sod house set back off the road. As if sensing Caleb’s need for rest, his jet-black gelding moved with a slow and careful gait until it came abreast of the opening in the rough wooden fence surrounding the open yard.

Pulling the reins to the right, Caleb nudged Scorpio into the dirt yard. A haze of gold surrounded the house like a halo, and in the waning sunlight Caleb discerned that the illusion was caused by a profusion of wild sunflowers that had rooted themselves in the flat sod roof of the dwelling. The blooms rose high above the house, some standing eight feet above the roof line and springing out of the ground along the base of the soddie as well. A picture flashed in his mind as he remembered a fairy tale his father often told him. The house might be the home of some elf or fairy creature. More than likely, though, the entire scene was just another mirage conjured by his feverish mind.

He dismounted slowly, surprised at his ability to do so without assistance. Caleb walked Scorpio nearer to the soddie, his eyes on the wooden door, which was closed against intrusion. As his gaze wandered the length of the dwelling, he thought he saw a flicker of movement behind the frame window to the left of the door, but knew that in his present state he could very well be mistaken. Caleb lifted his hat and mopped his forehead with a crumpled cotton bandanna pulled hastily from the back pocket of his closely fitted black trousers. He wiped the sweaty leather band inside the hat and replaced it. Scorpio followed his lead and walked to the long, rectangular water trough and drank deeply. Caleb could smell the rain coming, and somewhere behind him, lightning flashed. Within moments the distant sound of thunder rolled across the prairie. He plunged his sweat-soaked bandanna into the trough and squeezed the water out on the dry soil near his worn snakeskin boots. His mouth parched and dry, Caleb moved nearer the sod house, his destination the covered rain barrel near the door, which he hoped contained fresh water. With his next step, he froze instinctively as the door swung open far enough to reveal the dangerous end of a rifle aimed straight at the space between the brass buttons of his double-breasted shirt.

For a moment there was only silence, and in the stillness, lightning flashed closer, and soon after, thunder cracked. When no one spoke to him, Caleb tried to call out, only to find his voice too weak to utter more than a rasping croak. He pointed toward the water barrel and cleared his throat. “I need water for myself and my horse. If you could oblige, then I’ll be on my way.”

He took the lack of response to be permission and mustered his strength to walk the rest of the way to the rain barrel. The sod wall seemed to waver before his blurred vision, the sunflowers bobbing and weaving as they moved in a strange, enchanted dance. Rubbing a hand across his eyelids in an attempt to clear his sight, Caleb Storm felt helpless as the picture of the fairy house dimmed and he fell to the ground before the partly open door of the soddie.

As the sinister figure in black approached on horseback and turned into the yard, Analisa was filled with a cold terror that caused her heart to race while her hands held the rifle steady and her finger rested against the smooth metal of the trigger. She stood on tiptoe while she watched him through the window-pane. The rider was dust-coated and travel-weary. So much she discerned from his disheveled clothes and the tired slump of his shoulders. Ordinarily a lone traveler would have been welcome earlier in the day, but this rider, appearing out of the west at sunset, had a shining metal revolver strapped to his thigh.