Then Widow Range took sick. She and her daughter lived a scant two fields away from us and Tildy asked my help to nurse her
and Pa said I was to go. So I gave him back the keys and went to sit with Tildy. But like my Ma the widow sank fast and died swift as the sun did sink. Tildy begged for me to go to church with her and stand vigil till the morn and I went with her and Padre Filton into the church as
night fell down upon us. That long night passed in dull-dead numbing coldness. I heard no outside sounds, no moans no skirl of wind but only the praying padre thanking his god for the ironwood and ironstone that kept us safe from harm.
We buried Widow Range, like Ma, soon as we could when the sun had risen above the mountains. Me and Tildy did the digging but it took all three of us to drag the heavy holding stone across the grave. Padre wore his leather gauntlets but me and Tildy had to do without, and sore rough bleeding work it was. But still he took the full toll into his strong-gloved hands when the burial was done.
He then took us in his wagon and dropped us to our homes as he went on his praying rounds. And that night with the keys once again beneath my head I heard
voices calling in the dark and the loudest one sounded like the Widow Range.
I took care to go to Meeting with Pa and the bairns the next meeting morn but left the service before time, pleading my bowels. I walked then to Widow Range''s grave and saw her capping stone was out of line. I''d helped lay it and knew full well it was not the same.
And now, tonight, I sit and wait the voices. My shutters are opened wide, my bedroom door unlocked, my binding keys thrown deep within the spring. The house is open to what may come and I am also ready. I will heed this call. I will leave the confines of my father''s house and join that which waits outside. And as I go I call to the bairns, my sisters, to come and join the free.