Free Fields of Grace by Kim Vogel Sawyer

give Joseph to me.”
    Slowly, Ma shook her head. Tears poured down her cheeks. “Eli is right, Henrik. You cannot care for Joseph—the others on the ship will not allow it. And what if you became ill, too? Then what . . . what would I do?” A sob heaved her shoulders, and she adjusted her hold on Jakob’s still form.
    Clutching his hair, Henrik groaned. “But how can we let Joseph go into that room with the illness? He might not come out again!”
    “Henrik . . .” Ma begged him with her eyes. “We must tr—”
    “Trust?” The word burst from Henrik’s chest on a tide of fury. “We must trust , is that what you were going to say? Trust whom? Trust the doctor? Trust God?” Henrik laughed, a hollow sound completely devoid of humor. “What good has it done us to trust? Father is dead; Jakob is dead; Joseph is sick . . .” He leaned forward, staring in disbelief at his mother’s white face. “How can we trust ?”
    Ma’s face crumpled. “But, Henrik, what else can we do? We must trust. If we have no faith, then . . .”
    Henrik waited for her to continue, but the thought remained incomplete. Unable to look into Ma’s grief-contorted face any longer, he lowered his gaze. His eyes fell upon Jakob’s lifeless body. A pain more scorching than anything he’d experienced before sliced through his chest. If only they had remained in Gnadenfeld, Jakob would still be running, laughing, teasing. If they hadn’t boarded this ship, they wouldn’t have encountered the illness that claimed his father’s life and that might—right now—be draining the life from his remaining brother.
    Spinning from the sight of little Jakob in his mother’s cradling arms, Henrik pressed his fists to his eye sockets. Colors burst behind his closed lids, an explosion of pain and grief. They had left Gnaden-feld because of him. To save him from harm. But at what cost? Thrusting his arms downward, he stormed out of the dining room. He heard his mother’s frantic voice call his name, but he barreled around the corner and across the deck and thundered down the stairs two at a time.
    He nearly knocked over two men coming up, but he didn’t pause to apologize. He must find a place to hide from the wrench of guilt. Like a frantic animal, he paced the lower levels of the ship, seeking a cubby or closet that would provide refuge. But after several minutes of frenzied searching, the futility of the hunt brought him to an exhausted halt.
    He dropped onto his bunk and buried his face in the bend of his elbow. There was no place of escape. He would carry this burden of guilt to his own grave.

    “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . .”
    Lillian almost scoffed. How absurd the captain’s solemn utterance. Dust . . . in the ocean waves? A hysterical bubble of laughter threatened to escape her throat. But she held it in. Earlier that day, she had listened to the mournful wails of another woman whose husband had died of the fever. She would not resort to such undignified mourning.
    Sad-faced passengers surrounded Lillian and Eli. Henrik remained below, huddled on his bunk. Although Lillian worried he would later regret not saying good-bye to his father and brother, she didn’t have the strength to argue with him. So she allowed him to mourn on his own, alone.
    Her chest tightened, constricting her breathing, as she watched two sailors lift and suspend Reinhardt’s cloth-wrapped body over the side of the ship. At the captain’s nod, the men let go. A splash signaled the ocean receiving its gift and Lillian gasped, covering her mouth with one hand.
    Then the men lifted the smaller bundle. Unthinkingly, Lillian stumbled forward, reaching for her son. But strong hands cupped her upper arms, drawing her against a firm chest. A voice, low and tender—Eli’s—whispered in her ear. “Let him go now, Lillian. You must let him go.”
    The captain had allowed her the day to mourn. To bathe her son’s sturdy body, to comb his thick, sunshiny hair, to