Reflections

Flowing, dammed, or iced, the river was strong. It'd kept their family's extra grain moving from their field to others' mouths, bringing them duits and groots and stuivers. It'd watered their cattle and sheep and kept the animals going to the butchers, bringing their family guilders and comfort.

Now, there were only two Gauws left for it support: herself, Betje, and Jooris, her brother. Even in the cold surrounding them on this Sunday afternoon, she trusted its frozen top to keep her family well. The remnants, at the very least.

"It's good," Famke murmured, sitting across from Betje, the small sleigh making them face each other and their boot-toes touch. "Being here once again, with my sister and brother. It would only be better if Mother and Father were here. And my Leendert. He'd come to love this water as we do."

Famke sat with her back to the great horse drawing the sleigh. The old gelding's golden backside and black-feathered pouf ornamenting the base of his tail framed her: auburn-haired, black-capped and veiled, cheeks and nose flushed, ruff quite white about her throat, hands in a beaver-fur muff, burgundy skirts swelled around her in her seat.

She and Famke looked too similar for Betje's taste. This once-Gauw acted so at ease on the river despite being away from it for nearly ten years. She'd left them, Mother and Father asking her to choose another suitor, one who would stay in their village instead of taking her away to Amsterdam. She'd married her Leendert anyway.

She hadn't visited for their funerals, nor that of Jooris's wife.

And what was there to show of their marriage? No children accompanied her nor her husband.

It was only the three of them once again: Famke, Betje, and Jooris, who was stationed behind Betje directing their sleigh among the ice-skaters and others upon the river.

Betje closed her eyes and listened to the laughter, the barking of dogs, the shouts all ringing around her ears alongside the high whine of the sleigh on the ice and the chipping clops of the gelding's hooves.

There came a yelp, and Betje's eyes opened. Jooris gave a shout, his whip cracking wildly by her ears. The gelding suddenly swerved to the left, the right, then left again. Betje gasped as Famke did the same, both of them waving off their muffs to grab onto the sleigh as Jooris steadied them.

"Keep the dogs away!" Jooris shouted. "Betje, we'll lose Daaf yet taking him out like this. Too many children, too many hounds and house pets getting on the ice!"

"Daaf?" Famke said. "No, this isn't our little Daaf, is it, Betje?"

Our little Daaf.

"Of course, it is," Jooris said, snorting. "We won't have another like him, sturdy old boy."

"You forgot what he looked like?" Betje asked, placing her hands back into her muff. She narrowed her eyes at her sister.

Famke gaped at Betje, then turned her face up, probably looking at Jooris. "No! Well...I suppose I haven't thought too much of Daaf. Not as a grown horse, at least. He was just another farm horse we'd plow that awful west field with."

"He's been a good horse," Jooris said. "He served our parents well, and us. So Betje and I have given him rest from the fields."

"Isn't he beautiful now?" Betje asked. "He sports such a fine harness. Looks just like one of those well-bred beasts the new-money merchants like to parade about."

Tamke lowered her head. Betje heard her sigh. "You still haven't forgiven me? Leendert came from a family of merchants. Of course he would follow the trade."

"You didn't have to follow him!" Betje snapped. "You didn't have to leave all of us and never come back until now. What else could you have forgotten, if you don't even recognize Daaf?"

"I think of him often as that little colt we snuck onto the ice, Betje. Do you remember?" Tamke had her own eyes narrowed back at Betje.

But Betje remembered. She and Tamke, Tamke her twin, had crept into the barn night after night after their family's mare had birthed her own twins during the late summer. One was strong. The other became Daaf. They'd petted the small foal, braced him between them so he could nurse because his legs still trembled even days after he'd been born. By the winter, he was still smaller than the other foal, but he had grown and was well. They'd placed a rope about him a few days after the river had frozen, and had led him onto the ice. They'd braced him there, too. Kept him from falling and from attempts to stamp the ice to pieces.

She and Tamke had laughed so that night.

"I haven't forgotten, Betje. And I still love you and Jooris and Mother and Father. I love Leendert, too, but I've missed you all."

"Stay, then," Betje said. She sighed and took a hand from her muff. Holding it to Tamke, she murmured, "Let us all enjoy your visit. And plan for many more. You mustn't ever leave us for so long again."

Tamke grabbed her hand. Looking up, she said, "It's gotten too cold for me, and Daaf, too, I think. Shall we all go home, Jooris?"

Jooris hummed, then the whip snapped. Daaf slowly turned their sleigh and began to steadily walk back the way they had come.