The Marriage Cure

by Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy

  By the time that dark fell, she despaired that he would not see morning. A rising wind groaned around the corners of the cabin and distant thunder growled. Soon, rain pattered on the roof and buffeted the walls as she waited and kept watch in hopes to keep death away, afraid that she could not.

  Chapter Three

  Sabetha Mahoney Trahern

  In the long spaces, she listened to the rain and strained to hear his breath. Sometimes she could not hear it and had to lay her head upon his chest to listen for his heart to know if he lived. His heartbeats were slow, faint, and erratic and Sabetha’s fear expanded. If she could rouse him, she believed he would live but if not, she feared the worst.

  She sang to him, the old milk songs of her childhood, the rousing ballads her father loved best when he was deep in drink, and every song she could recall until her voice cracked and her mouth got dry. Before, he responded to the songs but now he did not and lay still as a stone. His eyelids failed to flutter and so she gave up music and talked to him, instead.

  Although Sabetha had talked long hours to Johnny before, now she poured out her heart to him, her thoughts and her hopes. She had nothing more to give; her herbal medicines had not cured him, her cold compresses did not lower his fever, and so she sat, rocking in the chair at his bedside, talking and praying aloud.

  “I’ve done all I can for ye,” she said, her voice weary. “I’ve nursed ye and tended ye for near two weeks but ye have to fight, Johnny dhu. Ye must try. I don’t want to give ye to the ground, to see ye buried. Ye’ve had a hard life, I know, but ‘twill be better. Ye’re young, man, and ye can be strong again. Yer brother might come to find ye or ye can go to find him. Ye need not be alone is this life. Oh, mo chroi, won’t ye open yer eyes and look at me?”

  On and on, she spoke, drawing upon her own pain, her own losses to draw a link to his. Sabetha could not count the hours that she talked beside his bed but near the middle of the night, she realized that the rain beat with greater force upon the roof and that the wind howled fierce. Through the chinks in the cabin walls, she saw lightning and heard the mighty voice of the thunder echo from the hills. The cabin shook with the force of the thunder and she heard the sharp crack, smelled the pungent ozone as lighting struck a tree not far away.

  She fell silent, listening, and felt a hand touch her shoulder in a gesture she remembered very well.

  “Ye’re not alone, inin,” Padraig Mahoney said, his voice as firm and strong as when he lived.

  “Da,” Sabetha said. It was not the first time she had sensed her father’s presence or heard his voice but he brought immeasurable comfort to her.

  “Slán agus beannacht leat.” With that benediction, he was gone.

  Although Johnny seemed no better, the visit encouraged her. Sabetha settled back at Johnny’s side, singing once more, softer songs now, quiet lullabies. As she sang, the air in the room thickened and she felt the fine hairs on the nape of her neck prickle. She was not alone but this was not her father, dead before she left Kentucky.

  Sabetha raised her head and saw them, two women at the foot of the bed. One was a very old woman, gray hair in two tandem braids with vibrant eyes and the other, a generation younger but not young, stood tall and smiled. They were Cherokee, she realized, and knew, without knowing why or how, that this must be Johnny’s grandmother and mother.

  “If ye’ve come for Johnny, ye’ll go away empty handed,” Sabetha said to them. She was not afraid but she took his hand in hers and possessed it. “He lives and he will live. Ye can’t have him.”

  The women nodded, the older saying something she could not understand in her native tongue. Then, Johnny’s mother spoke,

  “We come to help, not to take him to the Night Land.” Her voice was soft but clear. “We come to sing away the Raven Mockers for we love him too.”

  Then she joined her mother in song, a rhythmic chant that sounded powerful to Sabetha. The spiritual visitation did not seem odd to her, with her Gaelic blood, she knew such things were true and even as a young child, her own mother called her youngest daughter fey. Their appearance wasn’t disturbing but the last words, “we love him too” silenced her. Sabetha knew she felt something strong for this young man but until now, hearing the word in his mother’s spirit voice, she had not dared to name it. Could she, she wondered, love a man she scarcely knew and the answer came from deep within that she could and did.

  They remained with her, the two women, until almost dawn. Worn and exhausted, Sabetha slept a bit in the chair, relieved by their presence. When they faded away, she did not feel as alone and with renewed hope, she touched his face but it still burned with fever. Something had shifted, though, she was certain and so she waited, silent now.

  Just after the first light of dawn began to turn the darkness of the cabin into a gray half-light, Johnny gasped aloud and shuddered. He exhaled with force and she rose, standing over him, heart rising to choke her throat. It was either the end or a new beginning but until she put her hand against his forehead, she was not sure which. However, his skin felt cool beneath her touch and when she checked, running her fingers beneath his shirt, she found him sweaty. His fever had broken and as she touched him, his cheeks, his hands, his body to be sure of it, his breathing evened and grew stronger. As she wiped away his perspiration, he moaned a little and moved but he did not wake. She straightened the covers, tucked them about him, and then wept, face in her hands sobbing aloud with relief and release.

  Johnny Devaney would live and she loved him. Nothing else mattered for the moment, nothing but helping him grow well and strong. For the first time since he came and fell ill, Sabetha let herself relax into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  ****

  Johnny Devaney

  In the occasional lucid moment, Johnny knew that he was ill and that the woman, Sabetha, cared for him as if he were family. Everything was a blur of pain, of dry hot fever, and thirst but her hands would touch him, soothing him. Sometimes she gave him water or tea to wet his burning throat and she often put a blessed, cold wet rag across his forehead. Although he could not always understand her, the sound of her voice was an anchor to hold him to life and he liked it. He listened for it when he could pull himself out of the depths of fever to hear it.

  Often he drifted into dark, strange places. He dreamed of great rattlesnakes, he relived terrible moments on the nuna-da-ul-tsun-yi, and he heard the great wings of Raven Mockers, hovering to snatch him into death. Sometimes he could not remember where he was or what had happened to him, unable to distinguish this time of sickness from another. There were moments when he could not remember his name or anything but the searing darkness and misery that consumed his body. He suffered terrible dreams, nightmares about his lost brothers and called for them, he thought, shouting until his throat hurt too, just another of many pains.

  Johnny thought he dreamed of his mother, She-Who-Sees-Light and his grandmother, Dances-At-Morning and that he heard their voices singing over him as well. Real or imagined, their presence comforted him but most of all, the red-haired woman’s presence soothed him.

  He had trouble opening his eyes and his eyelids fluttered like butterflies in a spring wind. Once he could see, he made out a grease lamp on the chest beside him; the flame sputtered almost out and then he saw the woman, asleep in a rocking chair beside the bed. For a moment, he could not remember why he was in this cabin or tucked into this bed but the memory of his illness surfaced. Uncertain of how long he had lain here, fevered and sick, he tried to speak but his throat was too dry to do more than whisper. He spoke the first language that came to his tongue,

  “Ta tart orm,” he gasped but he did not think she heard him so with effort, he tried again, making his whisper as loud as he could. “Ta tart orm.”

  That roused her; her eyes flew open, wide and blue and she smiled at him. She slipped a capable arm beneath him and raised him up enough to drink from the cup she offered with the other hand. The cool water tasted sweet and he drank deeply,
trying not to gulp. As she gently lowered him back to the bed, he thanked her.

  “Tapadh leat.”

  “Ye’re welcome, Johnny. Conas ata tu, man?”`

  “Tuiseach.” he said, and then changed to English. “I’m that tired but the headache’s not on me anymore.”

  “That’s grand, then,” she said. “Yer fever’s gone but ye’ve been quite sick.”

  He knew that, he could feel it in his weary bones and his weakness. Johnny tried to remember her name, could not and then he did. She was Sabetha. He said it aloud, feeling the shape of it in his mouth.

  “Sabetha.”

  “Aye?” She grasped both his hands in her own. Her grip felt strong and sure. He must have been sicker than he realized because despite her smile, he saw tears in her eyes. “Do ye remember coming here at all?”

  Johnny searched his mind and remembered disjointed snatches. He remembered following the rivers from Gibson, a headache that threatened to burst his skull asunder, and this woman.

  “A bit but not all.” Talking took more effort than he liked; he must have been sick indeed. “How long ago did I come?”

  “Near two weeks ago.” She released his hand to cup his cheek with her fingers. “I’ve not seen anyone so sick as you were that lived. Ye’re very weak, a chara and ye must rest.”

  She called him friend but he had a dim recollection of her calling him mo chroi but that might be wrong, could be the fever distorting what he heard. He liked the feel of her touch on his face and he lifted his fingers to touch the back of her hand but he struggled to do it.

  Johnny closed his eyes and let the heavy fatigue close his eyes. He slept, conscious of her touch and presence.

  When he woke again, he felt no stronger but he was hungry. Something cooking over the hearth emitted a rich aroma that made his empty stomach rumble, and he attempted to rise up using his elbows but could not manage. His head whirled and he sank back prone, dizzy and spent. He would not stop, however, and tried again, until he pulled his shoulders up enough to prop his head higher. Gasping to catch his breath, drenched with sweat, he managed to grin when Sabetha came in, a bucket in one hand.

  “Osyio.” He choked out a greeting before he remembered she would not know Tsa-La-Gi. “Dia duit.”

  “Dia is Muire duit. Whatever are ye doing?” Sabetha asked. “Ye’ll have a setback or kill yerself sure.”

  She might be right but he would not admit it even though he had not yet caught his breath and he felt as shaky as a storm-tossed leaf.

  “I’m hungry,” Johnny told her. “Ta ocras orm. What have ye cooking?”

  “Prairie chicken,” she said. “Ye may be hungry but ye’ll have to go slow with eating at first. Ye will have broth now, maybe a bite of the meat. I might make cornmeal dumplings tomorrow but ye can’t put too much in yer belly now.”

  His appetite raged and he thought he would like very much to eat chicken, broth, and dumplings but he could wait. So he asked for broth and she brought it to him, in a cup with a spoon and fed it to him. That made him feel silly, a man fed like a wee wane but he liked it, too. Johnny doubted he could hold the spoon or feed himself. Her ministrations touched him, melted away some of the layers of bitterness and hardness that protected him from pain. She was right, after all. After a cup of broth and a tiny piece of chicken, he was full. That made him sleepy again, and she supported him as he wallowed back down into the bed.

  When next he woke, he was not sure if it was day or night but when he stirred, the corn shuck mattress rustled and she came.

  “Conas ata tu?”

  “Tam me go maith,” he told her, hoping that the expression that slanted his lips was a grin and not grimace.

  Sabetha laughed. “So ye’re fine, are ye? Good, ye can come help me hoe the corn before the weeds take it over and milk the cow come evening.”

  “I’m willing,” he said and meant it. “But I fear I might die trying.”

  She sat down on the edge of the bed. “Ye can help soon enough. Are ye thirsty or hungry?”

  He was both, but his stomach ached, empty, and so he told her, “I’m hungry.”

  “That’s good,” Sabetha said. “Do ye think ye can eat the chicken and dumplings, then?”

  He did and could, sitting propped upright with two pillows and a rolled-up blanket. Dizziness assailed him when she positioned him but the awful spinning sensation passed and when he settled, she brought the food and fed him, one small bite at a time. The tender gamey prairie chicken melted on his tongue and the thick, broth-soaked cornmeal dumplings went down easy. He washed the meal down with sassafras tea, pungent and spicy although Sabetha held the cup to his lips; when he tried to hold it himself, his hand trembled and could not grasp it.

  He felt better though, for eating, if not stronger, and the food lay easy in his belly, warm and comfortable.

  “Tell me about how I came to be here,” Johnny asked, still supported by the bedding.

  Sabetha settled into the rocker, tucking her skirt beneath her, which hid her bare feet.

  “Are ye sure ye feel well enough?” she asked and when he nodded, she continued. “I couldn’t get me fool cow out of the weeds and ye came out of the woods, made her mind, and got her to the barn. Then ye asked if ye could bide the night then all but fell over. ‘Twas when I realized how sick ye were and brought ye inside, cleaned ye up and put ye to bed. Ye came far, didn’t ye?”

  “I did,” Johnny said. He had not wanted to talk to anyone beyond necessity in months, stumbled over his words when he told Davey he was leaving, but he wanted to tell this woman where he had been and what happened to him, to them all. “I’m from Tennessee. Would ye be from there yerself?”

  “Kentucky,” Sabetha replied. “It’s none so far. I came here when I married, ‘twas why I came and then Henry died so here I am.”

  He imagined her saying marriage vows, then walking or riding into this wild land with a man, that pretty face alight with anticipation. Although he liked the image of her just fine, he felt unreasonable dislike toward this Henry, dead or not. She must have left her family behind, he thought, but at least she did not watch them die, one by one in horrible ways.

  “I’d be there yet if it weren’t for the soldiers and for President Jackson.” He spat the last, Old Hickory’s name, with venom that burned in his throat. “He wanted us gone, wanted to take our lands and he did.”

  “Are you Cherokee?” she asked and he stared, surprised to hear the English name of his grandmother’s people, Tsa-La-Gi, on her tongue.

  “My mother was half; my grandmother all,” Johnny said, with a nod. “My father was Seamus Devaney from County Armagh; he came to Americky as a young man. I am but one of six wanes who lived, my brothers Samuel, Davy, and wee James, two sisters, Kate and Mollie. But they all–and maybe Davey–are dead now.”

  Speaking their names hurt more than he thought it would. As he said each name, he saw them; his mother, father, and siblings, then felt a fresh stab of pain at their loss. Tears burned in his eyes, his throat ached as he held back sobs, and he stopped talking, caught up by grief.

  He remembered everything, too much, in such detail he couldn’t bear it. Johnny relived each death, each terrible moment along the trail and found he could not yet speak about any of it. If he pronounced it aloud, it would be real not nightmare. He would be forced to face it, to accept it and he could not, not now, weak and barely over being ill.

  “Johnny?” Sabetha said, taking his hand. “Man, ye look terrible. What is wrong, mo chroi? Do ye feel sick?”

  He did; his food that he enjoyed so very much bubbled with uneasy turmoil in his stomach but it was his heart that hurt. The tears he had held back since that April morning a year distant burst out of him, pouring down his cheeks and with their release, he sobbed like a bereft child. His keening echoed in his ears, shamed him, but Sabetha did not hesitate. She moved from the rocker to the bed, facing him, and gathered him into her arms, soft and as welcoming as the home he once had, the fami
ly he now mourned.

  “Johnny,” she said, her voice soft in his ear, a small comfort in his sorrow. “Oh, Johnny, it’s sorry I am for yer loss, man, and yer trouble. Och hone, och hone.”

  In her embrace, in her arms, he found the surcease he sought and wept harder for it. When his storm of grief ended, Sabetha released him, fragile and frail, to lie against the pillows.

  “I will tell ye when I can,” Johnny said, his voice hard to find and harder to use. “Go raibh maith agat, Sabetha.”

  “Ye tell me what ye can, when ye will,” Sabetha said. “Are ye well? ‘Tis good to weep but ye’re still weak.”

  “I’ll do,” he said and he knew he would. For the first time since he lost family, land, and pride, he realized that he would do; he would live, somehow, and that to die would be wrong. He would live and live for them all.