An Angel Walked – Children’s Corner

“Have you seen her feet?” The hushed voice of the nurse dropped even lower. “I’ll show you.”

Nurses see many tragic things. This must be most unusual, I thought, to affect the girl in white in such a way. I followed.

A tiny wizened face turned to us from the white pillow. I did not notice the age lines or emaciation at first. Dominant as always were her eyes, alert and interested.

She had never been conspicuous in church. Only by accident had I noticed her earnestness in following the services, the radiance in the little aged face bowing in prayer or nodding an unspoken Amen. Her lips had formed the words of the hymns, and one felt that she joined an angel chorus in her mind, though she made no sound.

Now she could attend church no longer. Her laboured steps could not carry her to the services she loved, so when she lay in the hospital, with few visitors, I felt that I must go to see her.

“Sophie, here is a visitor,” the nurse cheerfully announced. “She is a nurse too. Do you mind if I show her your feet?”

Brightness bloomed in her face as she stretched a hand to me.

“Oh, my friend! It is so good of you to come. Yes, of course, nurse, show her the old stubs. They are good for nothing now, but to remind me that angels walk with men.”

The feet. They were purple and swollen beyond much semblance of humanity. The darkened colour served to make more distinct the white scars that marred toes, insteps, ankles. The scars were very old, I could see, and I wondered what ordeal had brought them. It was a relief to have them covered again.

Sophie smiled.

“Put them away. No one would want to look at them long. They’re no good now, but many and many the mile they have walked. Thirteen children I raised, and worked in the fields besides, so you see they have done their work. Let them rest.”

As I held her shrunken hand, the question must have shown on my face.

“You would like to hear a story, yea?”

The forests of Russia, long ago, were thick and dark. Even in the little village, safely shut in by walls and lighted by candles, one could sometimes hear the wolves. No one risked the narrow forest roads at night, and even in daylight the men never went out less than two at a time. But the villagers were comfortable and safeÑif they had shelter, wood, and food.

The people of this village belonged to the land, and each family was required to serve their lord for a certain time, to pay for the privilege of living.

At the castle, a long day’s drive from the village home, Sophie looked anxiously out over the snowy fields. After so much time there was still no dark speck coming out of the forest, to grow into her father’s team and sled.

She was no longer needed, or even wanted, in the castle. Her term of three months’ service had been broken by a trip home to care for a dreadfully ill mother, so she had stayed on at the castle two weeks later than the other village young folks.

It would have been such a merry ride home with them, she thought. Those now at the castle were strangers, and uninterested in her, sometimes even mocking her village ways. She was eager to get home, and her father had promised to come for her.

With sudden decision she whipped her babushka over her head and tied it firmly. Long since she had put on her felt boots and overboots. Now, as a “town” girl giggled and pointed at her rustic clothing, Sophie gathered her small bundle of belongings and started out, her determined little chin set.

At first the road was broken. Wood sleds had been out since the new snow. Her feet were as light as her heart as she thought of home and her family.

Long before the tracks ended, the castle fell out of sight. The fields were fewer and the forests were closing in. Before Sophie lay an unbroken trail, a winding white ribbon between dark walls of green. She hesitated, a little doubtful, then reassured herself aloud.

“Father promised he would come for me this morning. Surely, just around a bend or two, I will hear the bells of his sled.”

She stepped briskly into the deep snow. It was light and fluffy, quite fresh, and it was not hard walking, even though it came well above the tops of the felt boots. The sun shone, and once in a while the harsh note of a winter bird assured her that the snow had not covered all life.

She was very strong in spite of her small size, and she delighted in the rhythmic swing of walking. It was an hour or more before the stillness of the woods began to oppress, and she slowed, a doubt stirring about the wisdom of going farther.

Snow had begun to work between the tops of the felt boots and her legs. The boots were old and not as snug as they should have been. There was a wet band around the thick woolen stockings where the snow had melted. She dug out some snow, but could feel the wetness going down inside.

“Perhaps I should go back, but they don’t need me, and there is hardly space for an extra in the girls’ room.”

As she stood thinking, a faint sound vibrated through the forest. Not sure at first what it was, she turned to listen. Again the distant sound came, and she knew.

She could not go back. There were wolves behind her – far away, but between her and the castle.

She gasped a little but without wasting a moment went on, every step an emphasis to the prayer she whispered, “Lord of heaven, be with me, help me!”

Walking was no longer fun. Her ears were straining, both for the jingle of bells and for the wolves. Sometimes she found herself running and breathless. Then, fighting panic, she walked again.

For long minutes there was silence except for her own breath and footsteps. Silence – perhaps even a half-hour, until the moaning cry came again, always a little closer.

“They aren’t hunting in earnest or they would come faster,” she thought desperately.

Her feet were all wet now inside the boots, and she was tiring. The sun commenced to slip down the western slope, toward early nightfall. A pain pierced her side. When she slowed, attempting to ease it, the eerie call would again spur her on.

Her feet were so cold. If only she could rest – she was getting so tired. It was an effort to push her feet through the snow, and she could no longer lift them very high. The trail behind her was erratic, for she could not walk steadily.

A low branch draped itself over the road. She would go that far at least, before she stopped. Upon reaching the branch she set another goal, farther on.

Like a refrain, her prayer went on and on. She had no more strength to say it aloud. “Father, help me. I need thee. Help me. Send an angel to help me. Lord of all, be with me”…over and over, with a little change of words, but always the cry, “Help, Lord!”

Her strength failed until she could barely reach a fallen stub. As she leaned against it, with sobbing breath, faintness almost overwhelmed her.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, and a soft, kind voice spoke in her ear. “You cannot rest now, Sophie. Go on.”

Stupid with weariness, she turned, but no one was there. Save hers, there were no tracks in the snow. In bewilderment she pushed away from the stub, and from somewhere came renewed strength.

One step after another, one after another, while her mind forgot to listen for the wolves. Her prayer now was partly a plea and partly, faintly, questioning.

“Lord, help me. Oh, Father, was itÑwho was it? No one was there! Oh, be with me, Lord. I know it must have been.”

And a throbbing of her heart would send a surge of warmth to her cold hands and almost to her numbed feet. They were no longer cold, which was a relief, though somewhere in the fog of her brain, a warning note tried to get through.

She was tiring again, forgetting the wolves, forgetting everything but shoving first one foot then another through the snow.

The sun was down. In the growing darkness the upward rise looked familiar. It was familiar. She had climbed it many times and rested for a while on the log bench at the top, above the village. If only she could get that far.

It seemed an age before she stumbled into the snow-covered seat and fell upon it. Below, the village lights gleamed out on the whiteness.

It was too far. Sophie’s head sank and she felt blackness creeping about her. A hand seized her shoulder and shook her into wakefulness.

“Sophie!” Again the clear, gentle voice was insistent. “You cannot rest yet! Go home!”

Against her will, she was raised to her feet and started down the road. Her rebellious legs could not tell when her feet touched the ground, and she stumbled again and again before finally falling against a door.

All at once, her father’s face was above her, filled with consternation, lights about her, voices exclaiming, and arms bearing her into warmth that was almost unendurable.

Sophie put her hand out to me again.

“My father never forgave himself. He had good reason not to come, for my uncle had died and was buried that day. I should not have left the castle at all until he came, so it is not his fault.”

She smiled a little, remembering.

“It was a year before I could stand on my feet. They were frozen solid, and it is a miracle that I did not lose them both. My father would hold me and rock me, night after night, when I could not sleep for the pain.”

“They were pretty good feet after a while. Oh, always they were sore, and hurt when it was cold, but I could use them. Now it is time for them to rest. And someday soon”

The light in her face was pure glory.

“There were no tracks alongside mine on the snow. Someday soon I will see the angel who walked with me!”