Chapter 12
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Combridge” she smiled and carefully brought the flower to her nose. “It’s beautiful! And today is my birthday!”
“Is it?” the little man looked surprised. “And how old are you today, Catherine?”
“Nine,” was the happy reply.
“My,” Mr. Combridge stood up straight. “They’re all growing up on you, eh, Michael?” The girl’s father looked up from the farmer’s booth.
“Every year,” he smiled.
“I told Papa I’d never get too old,” the little girl smiled, reassuringly.
“Every age the good God blesses you with will only make me happier.” The hunter laid his gentle hand on her curly head.
“And I think nine a splendid age,” said the farmer. His eye then caught a woman with one of his squashes, waiting for his attention. “Oh, excuse me, Catherine,” the man apologized. The little girl nodded with a smile.
“Happy Birthday!” he offered, as he quickly left to help his customer.
“God bless you, Patrick!” Her father waved goodbye to the busy farmer who returned his greeting with a similar prayer.
“That was very nice of him to give me the rose, wasn’t it Papa?” Catherine looked up at her father.
“Yes,” he nodded, “You should ask Our Lady to pray for him.”
“Oh I will,” she agreed, looking happily at her flower, “at our prayers tonight.” The two of them walked on for a time looking at all the different tables and stands. Michael felt a small hand slip into his and squeeze it hard. He returned it gently, while his daughter leaned against him as they walked. Catherine was quite enjoying this outing with her father. She rarely went to the marketplace and was therefore able to enjoy what most adults considered an ordinary chore.
As she waited for her father, who had stopped to talk with the butcher, Catherine noticed something peculiar about her 'unexpected flower gift.' The rose’s stem was wrapped with colored paper and string. Her cheeks colored slightly in embarrassment.
“Mr. Combridge and Papa had me thinking that he was surprised that it was my birthday.” She rolled her merry eyes at her own ‘surprise’ and began looking the flower over. When Michael was finished, he felt a slight tug on his sleeve.
“Papa,” Catherine asked him, “may I take the string off my flower?”
“If you want.” As he watched her untwirl her present, he asked, “What will you do with it?”
“I’m going to make a string of beads.” By this, she meant a Rosary.
“Why?”
“For Richard,” the girl said. “He doesn’t have one.” Michael smiled. Generosity was good, especially in a child.
“May I see your beads, Papa?” Catherine asked unexpectedly. Somewhat confused, her father nevertheless obligingly took off his cap.
“I want to make sure Richard’s is just as big as yours,” she explained. Michael reached into his hat and pulled out his rosary. “I want him to a have a man’s string of beads,” she added, eagerly taking the father’s rosary. After looking it over, the girl gratefully handed it back.
“Thank you.”
“Not at all,” Michael smiled. He returned the rosary and put his cap back on. Catherine eyed him curiously.
“Papa, why do you keep your rosary beads in your hat?”
Michael laughed. “I guess I’ve always done that.” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “My father used to do the same thing and I must have gotten it from him. I find I’m less likely to loose it that way.”
Michael walked over to the bread-stand. He nearly dropped a loaf when his daughter pulled sharply on his arm.
“Papa, look!” Catherine called out in excitement. “It’s Peter!” They saw their cart come around the corner. The young driver quickly scanned the area, like he was searching for someone. The hunter raised his long arm, but the eleven-year-old had already spotted them and was on his way over. One look at his son’s face, and Michael knew there was trouble.
“Where’s Richard, Peter?” his younger sister asked him when he had stopped the cart. Instead of answering, the boy just looked at their father.
“What happened?” The man asked. Peter drew a deep breath.
“Richard left.” He answered. His father asked why. “He wanted to go to Fishersbrooke and I wouldn’t take him. So he’s gone off on his own.”
Michael’s eyes searched his son’s. There was fear. A fear that the boy may try to hide from the world, but could not escape the penetrating look of a father.
“How long ago was this?”
“Um,” the boy tried to think back quickly. “Three hours at least. I hurried back as fast as the bench would let me.” The hunter looked back at the cart.
“Help me unhook the horse, Peter.”
Immediately, the boy jumped down and rushed to his side. Catherine stepped out of his way. She silently watched her father and brother work. She knew better than to ask any questions. Without knowing why, she was afraid. Before long, the animal was unfastened and the cart was removed.
“He was walking on foot,” said Peter hastily, “so he can’t have gotten too far.” Michael looked down at him. The boy was shaking. There was more. More than Peter was telling him. The hunter laid a consoling hand on his son’s shoulder.
“Take your sister,” he said, “and stay here until I get back” The two children watched their father mount the horse. As the hunter took the reins, the boy ran up to him.
“Father!” He put his hand on his knee. The man stopped. Peter licked his lips. Why wouldn’t the words come? His father waited, but time would not.
"There's something..." Peter hesitated. Why was he afraid to say it? Perhaps something within him was scared... that he had done the wrong thing.. or of what might happen.
“I’m sorry,” the boy said at last. He meant it, although he wasn’t being clear. Fathers, however, speak a different language.
“You would have my pardon, son,” the tall man said gently, “if there was something to forgive.” His eyes turned to his daughter, who had come besides her brother.
“Stay together,” Michael repeated, “And watch the bench ‘til I return.” With that, the hunter turned the horse away and rode off through the marketplace.
Suddenly, Peter’s face changed. In an instant, the fear that had silenced him gave way to a new terror.
“Father!” Peter yelled. “Father, there is something you must know about Richard!”
But the swift horse had carried its master too far away. The poor boy's cries were hopelessly lost amidst the loud and busy market's din.
“What about Richard?” Catherine asked. Her brother’s tone worried her; to such an extent, that her new rose and even her very birthday vanished from her mind. She tugged on his sleeve, straining to grab hold of his attention.
“What is it, Peter?” she demanded.
The boy looked anxiously at the rapidly diminishing image of their father. What trouble had Peter sent him hurrying into?
“Never you mind, Catherine!” He insisted, finally taking his sister by the hand. “Just pray!”
“For Richard?” she asked.
“For all of us!” Peter stammered, as he lost sight of his father who had disappeared into the woods.
