They had a plan, and so the men who had gathered in Curiosity Freeman’s barn set out into the rain. The river had been high many times, and it had even breached its banks once when Daniel was a boy. It was hard to imagine anything worse, and yet they must.

Ben Savard lent Daniel the use of a horse—his own horse, in fact, a big sorrel he called Florida. Daniel turned her toward the village and set off at a trot. He had to get the word out about school being closed, and it also fell to him to ask for volunteers to help with the sandbags. Too little and too late, but it was action. It was something.

And if his shoulder screamed to the heavens, he would get this done.

He headed straight for the trading post, the most logical place to find men who could be compelled into action. Daniel was wondering if there might be sacks somewhere in his mother’s cellar and if Hannah would be able to put her hands on them when he first heard it.

A far-off sound, but big. Some large animal crashing through the underbrush. The hair on the back of his head stood up. Daniel turned in the saddle but found nothing that could account for such a noise, as big as the sky and swelling.

An odd memory came to him. One of the stories his grandfather Hawkeye had told about his years in the West. He had lived among the Crow for a few seasons, and hunted buffalo with them. The best stories were of the stampedes. A thousand buffalo pounding across the prairie so that dust rose like storm clouds. A hundred men in pursuit, because without the buffalo they would not survive the winter.

A hundred men. The hundred-year water.

The sound was louder now, and more distinct. The roar of an angry bear.

Daniel kicked Florida hard and galloped down through the village to pull up in front of the meetinghouse, where he leapt off and ran up a short flight of stairs. The alarm bell was housed under a small roof, open to everybody in case of emergency.

Now Daniel yanked the bell rope with all the power of his good right arm, and he kept yanking. The noise was tremendous, even through the rainfall, and the effect was immediate. Men came running into the lane from the trading post in their shirtsleeves. Joshua Hench appeared in the door of the smithy, a load of empty burlap bags over his arm. And from inside the meetinghouse came a half dozen men. The Quaker elders, who had been sitting in silence, as was their habit, while they prayed.

All across the village people were looking up at the sound of the bell. The first indication that they were in real danger, but from their windows they would see only more rain.

Daniel stopped the bell with his hand and then bellowed from the bottom of his lungs.

“Get to high ground! Get everybody to high ground! Flood!”

Chapter VIII

The storm bullied its way in and settled down on Paradise, merciless and unrelenting. Cold, but not cold enough to give way to snow. A miserable weather, in which nobody would want to be out. Nobody but Callie Wilde, who was exactly where she needed and wanted to be, in her apple orchard on the sloping hillside that ran down to the Sacandaga.

Callie worked steadily despite the weather and the low light, pausing now and then to wipe the streaming rain from her face and clear her eyes. She could not make room for the storm, not today. Not in the cusp between winter and spring after two years of crops lost to black rot.

Everything depended on the harvesting of this year’s scion wood and the grafting of the Bleeding Heart, her best hope. Her only chance to turn things around.

She had found the tree by accident; a gift of fate. It began as an aimless walk on a Sunday afternoon in September with no thought but solitude and, if she was lucky, a few hours not thinking about the loss of her crop. The Spitzenburg to fire blight; the Seek-No-Furthers and Reinettes and Newtons to black rot. The end result was a few bushels of sorry fruit, hardly enough to make pressing worthwhile.

As she wound her way along the banks of the Sacandaga, moving in and out of the forest and bush, she had asked herself for the first time what she would do if the next crop failed. It was a question she had always refused to consider, but now it stood before her and would not be ignored.

As this thought came to her, she looked up and there it was: a wild apple tree in a sunny patch of bristlegrass gone to seed. Just six feet tall and just as wide, its branches garlanded with fruit: small lopsided apples of a size that fit exactly into her cupped palm. Streaked red yellow at the crown deepening to a deep, rich true red. Wasps buzzed as they fed on the fallen fruit.

She picked up an apple and studied it. No sign of blight or mildew or rot, but that meant very little. It could be mealy, woody, bitter, without any taste at all, or simply inedible, as wild apples almost always were. It was silly to hope, and so she hesitated, picking up an apron full of fruit and studying each of them.

In time hunger and curiosity got the upper hand and Callie bit into the nameless apple from a solitary tree.

A crisp bite through tough skin into fine-grained flesh that gave up a mouthful of juice, sweet and tangy, with a hint of … she took another bite, and held the fruit in her mouth. Pear. Hints of pear. Nothing like any of the apples she grew or had grown.

Callie walked home at a steady pace. Levi was in the barn shoveling hay, his thoughts so distant that she had to call his name twice before he heard her. Levi was a hired hand, a freed slave who had been on this farm since Callie could remember, and who was as dear to her as a brother. Without his help she would have had to give up the orchard long ago. He had been trained by her father but he also had a feel for the work. Sometimes Callie caught Levi standing motionless in the orchard, his head cocked to one side and his eyes closed. She had the idea, silly but still somehow right, that he could hear the trees talking to him.