Christy

by Catherine Marshall

  “You won’t. You’re the type who never folds while the crisis is going on, only afterwards.”

  “How could you know that?”

  “I can tell. You have stamina and determination.”

  I wanted to believe him, but doubt must have shown on my face.

  “I wouldn’t ask you to help, only there’s no one else. Alice Henderson is at Big Lick. Mary Allen is too emotional, too ignorant anyhow. Bob will have all he can do just to keep his wife out of my way.”

  As we walked on down the hill, I asked, “Where is Little Burl now?”

  “At home. Can you ride that horse over there in the pasture?”

  “Prince? I’m still not comfortable with him. But I’ll try.” As the doctor bounded off toward the pasture, I picked up my skirts and ran for the house. I was going to have to tell someone where I was going with Prince or leave a note for David.

  A few minutes later the churchgoers were beginning to stream out of the door as the doctor and I rode side by side out of the mission yard. Our destination was about two miles away on Blackberry Creek where Bob Allen had set up the only water-powered mill in the Cove.

  The six children in the lively Allen family were each delightful in his or her own way. I had never seen so much individuality in one family: Among them, Rob, at fourteen, was already a blossoming writer; Creed was the snaggle-toothed clown with the gift of mimic; Delia May was a dainty fairy-like little girl; and, of course, Little Burl who had captured me from that moment when he had come racing down the hill “to swap howdys.” I could see him now with his jerking cowlick of red hair, the pug nose peppered with freckles, the blue, blue eyes, in the puckish face.

  Dr. MacNeill was riding ahead leading the way. Prince was behaving well today. He seemed to sense that this was no pleasure trip but some special errand, and was making it easy for me. Maybe David was right about how smart this horse was. I patted Prince’s neck in approval.

  The doctor flung over his shoulder, “What happened to Little Burl at school? Was he in a fight?”

  “Not exactly. He discovered something the big boys had hidden. Lundy Taylor tackled Burl and kicked him in the stomach. First there was a red mark on his stomach and then it turned black and blue. But that was days ago.”

  “I know.”

  I waited for some further statement, but none came. The doctor’s silence was ominous. Immediately my over-keen imagination was painting the picture of a gaping incision in a little boy’s abdomen. Miss Alice had often had to help Dr. MacNeill with his operations. How had she reacted at first to having to be an anesthetist and an operating room nurse? Had her stomach ever rebelled at the sight of blood? Had she ever had to dash for air?

  Yet what more could I say? The doctor simply did not understand my problem. I had already given him quite a discourse on my stomach during that first Sunday afternoon’s visit to his cabin and he had only laughed at me. No, I was caught in circumstances which neither Dr. MacNeill nor I could help. So—where was I? Panic rose in me. I fought it back, tried to swallow it, only to find the fear like a dark wave of emotion washing over me.

  Then the unexpected happened. Another series of thoughts—quite apart from the fear ones—swirled upwards as though out of some deep cavern from the depths of a sea of churning memories and ideas. The new ideas surfaced into my conscious mind with peculiar clarity. And whereas the panic had been so chaotic these were orderly thoughts, presented to me with slow deliberation . . .

  It was not a case of Miss Alice adjusting. You know that. You have watched her listening and waiting. Get your attention off the problem—yes, even off your stomach—and look at Me. I am greater than any problem. Light follows light. You are about to discover this for yourself.

  Then my own mind took over again. Had I prayed? No, not consciously. Then how odd that I no longer felt alone in my difficulty. And this intimate understanding of all that had been troubling me, with humor thrown in. The humor was the last thing I would have expected.

  But whatever this was that I was experiencing seemed to require some kind of response from me. That was not hard. Gratitude bubbled up. I found myself saying “Thank You” in every way I could think to say it. The problem, so heavy before—where had it gone? My body felt light, almost weightless. It was only with the greatest effort of will that I reined in my buoyancy. The pace Dr. MacNeill was setting seemed intolerably slow now.

  After all, it was June in the mountains, beautiful June. The rhododendron was in full bloom with great heads of fluffy blossoms trailing down the hillsides; higher up, compact masses of the flowers in every conceivable shade of rose set against the purply-blue of the background peaks. I wondered if any painter had ever caught—or ever could—these colors on canvas! Spring! Why should anybody ride sedately in the spring?

  I looked at the back of the doctor’s head jogging up and down, up and down, up and down. The last words I had spoken aloud must have been my explanation about the blow that had caused Little Burl’s hemorrhaging. How much time had passed since then? A minute? Five? Ten? I had not the least idea. Here we were, two people riding within a few feet of one another, with Dr. MacNeill oblivious of what had been happening to me. Yet this interior experience was as real as those red hairs on the back of the doctor’s neck. The doctor needed a haircut.

  Once we reached the Allens, everything happened quickly. Little Burl’s face showed his joy that Teacher had come to be with him. “You’ll stay right with me? Hit won’t hurt?”

  “Of course not. I’ll hold your hand.” He looked so tiny in that big bed with the raccoon “Scalawag” curled up beside him. (Creed had generously lent his pet raccoon as his contribution to the occasion.)

  Then there was Mrs. Allen, more distraught now than she had been at the time of her husband’s head operation. “Something awful wrong in Burl’s belly,” she kept moaning over and over as Dr. MacNeill completed preparations for the operation.

  There was the sickly sweet smell of the ether as it dripped into the cone I was holding. “I’m going to tell you a story now, Burl. It’s about the wicked Hoptoad and the Little Yellow Dragon. Now this was a beautiful little Yellow Dragon and he lived right down there by the edge of your own Blackberry Creek. He was very happy because he loved that gurgling water. Only one thing was wrong, the poor little dragon couldn’t speak . . .”

  The light from the kerosene lamp laid a shadow across the small face, such a white face, so still now. For a moment there was only the sound of the boiling and bubbling of the water in the washpot on the open fire and the doctor’s swift movements.

  But not for long. Dr. MacNeill had been right about Mrs. Allen. Somewhere behind us, she began wailing, “He won’t never wake up. I know he won’t never wake up. I knew we was a-goin’ to have a grave dug before the year was out. That diggin’ tool somebody left inside the house the week afore last—” Finally in desperation, the doctor ordered her taken out of the room.

  Since the kerosene lamps and the firelight were such inadequate light for operating, we left the cabin door open. But then chickens wandered in. One rooster got close to the kitchen table doubling as an operating table, flapping his wings, about to hop up on the table. So Rob was delegated to get the rooster out and then to stand guard at the door to shoo away all chickens.

  At the moment of the first incision, I reached out for help. Even as I was shrinking from the sight of the blood, the gift of a beautiful objectivity was given me. With it came that strange welling up of joy and gratitude I had felt before, this time appreciation for the skill of the hands moving so deftly, the hands that were going to save a child’s life.

  Then about halfway through the operation, Mary Allen, hovering outside the door, must have thought that the operation was taking too long and become terrified. Thrusting her husband aside, she came running back into the room, moaning and sobbing, close to hysteria. Running after her, Bob caught her just as she was about to fling herself on top of Little Burl. Though Bob forced his wife outside again,
there was no way to stop her loud intermittent wailing.

  Then as I watched Dr. MacNeill expose the pocket of pus in the wound, almost a cupful, once again I found myself hanging onto that strong Presence for myself and for the small still form on the table.

  Finally there was the doctor’s “Almost finished now. You see how much infection there is.” Then he noticed that I was not looking at the wound but at Little Burl’s face. “Don’t worry. His heartbeat’s strong. And you’re doing great—”

  But when the operation was over, Dr. MacNeill would not relax. “He’s still in some danger,” he confided to me. “I’m leaving a drain in to take care of residual pus and blood clots. Burl’s had fever for several days and complained that his side hurt. There was such localized tenderness that he didn’t want anyone to touch it. His mother did all the wrong things—gave him an emetic and Apple Brandy.”

  After what seemed like a long time, the child began to come out of the ether and the blue eyes struggled open. Finally there was a weak grin at seeing me still there. “I came for another piece of that Scripture cake, Burl. And we didn’t finish the story of the Yellow Dragon.”

  The little boy floated in and out of consciousness, clinging all the time to my fingers. “Can’t risk any heaving or straining of the abdominal walls from nausea,” Dr. MacNeill said softly. “That’s one reason we’ve got to watch him every minute.”

  But then, finally, Little Burl had fallen back into a deep natural sleep. “He’ll be all right now for a while. Let’s take a break. I’ll ask Bob to sit by his bed.”

  We were both glad to stand in the yard and breathe deeply of the good air. “Christy, I need to talk to you about something,” the doctor said unexpectedly. “Let’s go down to the mill where we can have privacy.” He led the way down the path to Bob’s one-room mill, built tall about Blackberry Creek among the alder bushes and the willows. It was a picturesque place—with its water wheel almost as tall as the building and the dam and the millrace with the water turbulent, almost thunderous from the spring rains, racing down the flume.

  Dr. MacNeill opened the creaking door and stood aside for me to enter. Inside, the last rays of the sun were filtering down through a deposit of the grainy corndust lying heavily on the windowpanes, hanging in the air.

  “Was it blockade whiskey Little Burl found hidden?” The question was so abrupt that I knew Dr. MacNeill was struggling with something. He did not even suggest that we find seats.

  “Little Burl found the hiding place. Later, David poured out the whiskey.”

  “I thought so.” He sighed and leaned against the grain sacks piled against the wall. “Well, then, I understand why David is on such a rampage against liquor. I heard only the last few sentences of his sermon, just enough to gather that he really declared war on moonshining this morning.”

  Something about the doctor’s inflection struck me peculiar. “Well, why on earth wouldn’t you understand? Especially after the operation you’ve just done? After all—”

  The doctor held up a restraining hand, his mouth half-smiling at me, but something more serious in his eyes. There was the same impression I had gotten that afternoon in his cabin: he was amused at my intensity and vehemence; he would deal with me patiently as with a child. And there in the old mill I reacted with exactly the same annoyance I had felt the other time.

  “No, let me talk first,” he interposed. “There’s an awful lot that you and David need to know before you judge. But there’s something I have to tell you, Christy. You’ve got to hear this from me before you learn it from someone else. I was the one who warned the blockaders that David was on his way to the federal marshals.”

  My lips formed the word, “You?”—but no sound came. “Sorry if I’ve shocked you. And no, Christy, I have not lost my mind. Really I haven’t. I had good reason for informing. Naturally I’ll talk to you and David about it whenever you want to talk.”

  Talk! I wanted to talk right then. “Dr. MacNeill, I don’t understand. I don’t understand anything about this.” My words were lashed with disillusionment, even anger.

  At that moment the door flew open. It was Festus. “Burl’s wakin’ up. Papa said for you to come, Doc.”

  After that, there was no time for further conversation. Dr. MacNeill decided that he should stay at the Allens’ all night, and Mr. Allen courteously rode with me back to the mission house.

  Dr. MacNeill looked the picture of composure lounging there on David’s couch-bed, smoking that pipe of his with the wide silver band on the stem. Certainly, I was thinking, he did not seem like a man with anything sinister on his conscience. I had been given the only comfortable seat in the bunkhouse, an old leather-covered Morris chair. Yet I was far from feeling easy, any more than I had at any time during the three days since the doctor had told me that he was the informer.

  I had tried to withhold judgment until we could hear the doctor’s side of the story, but I could not help remembering his words to me that Sunday afternoon when I had dried off by his fire—with that telltale note of contempt in his voice—“If you’d really like to see some reform for your mission . . .” It was beginning to look as if he did not want to see any reform.

  “In tipping off the stilling men”—here Dr. MacNeill looked down at David who was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall—“I was simply choosing the lesser of two evils. The choice was, let this particular still go a little longer—or risk more feuding and killing.”

  “Just a minute,” David parried. “I don’t follow that. In my book, letting the moonshining go on leads to killings.”

  “Didn’t Bob Allen come to your bunkhouse one night to tip you off about the still?”

  “No, he didn’t. I mean, yes, he came to my bunkhouse. But all Bob did was offer to help me find the still. Bob didn’t know where it was.”

  “I see.” The doctor leaned back, sucked at the stem of his pipe. “All right, I’m glad to get that straight. The fact remains that the stillers thought Bob tipped you off. So if you or the Revs had found the site and Bird’s-Eye and his cohorts had been taken by the law—”

  “So Bird’s-Eye is one of the culprits?”

  “Sure.”

  “Who are the others?”

  “Hold it. I’m coming to that in a minute.”

  David leaned back and the doctor continued. “Even if you got Bird’s-Eye behind bars, there’d be plenty of others left on the Taylor side of this fight. Regardless of what information Bob Allen gave or didn’t give, he’d still be the number one target. You see, it’s the Taylors and the Allens who’ve had the basic quarrel all along. And I figured that with two accidents and two major operations in their family recently, the Allens have had enough trouble for awhile.”

  I shivered and looked at David. His face was a study of conflicting thoughts and emotions. I did not understand all these family loyalties and quarrels and I wondered if David did. I had the same impression of hopeless tangle that Dr. MacNeill had given me when he had first ripped open the subject that afternoon in his cabin.

  “There are some other factors,” the doctor went on. “One is Bob Allen’s brother, Ault. How well do either of you know him?”

  “I’ve seen him a couple of times,” I answered.

  “He’s not the man Bob is,” David added. “Drinks too much, for one thing.”

  “And let’s add that when Ault’s had anything to drink, he has the quickest trigger-finger in the Cove. Ault considers himself the head of the clan too, and that gives him an additional excuse. So if the still had been found and the shooting had started—well—let’s just say that we’re sitting on a powder keg. It only takes one match.”

  “Let’s get back to the main issue, Doctor. I don’t see how your line of action—or rather inaction—will solve the matter of twenty to thirty gallons of liquor a day pouring into the Cove, a lot of it peddled by our schoolboys.”

  “Stalling isn’t going to solve anything, I grant you that, except that it gives us a litt
le time. The solution has to come from strategy worked out between us. Believe me, basically I’m on your side.”

  David took a deep breath, sat up straighter, as if some of the pressure was off his chest. But before he could make any comment, the doctor hastened on. “But I would like to go on record as saying that I think you’re off on the wrong foot, David. The type of sermon you preached Sunday isn’t right strategy either.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because it won’t accomplish what you hoped.”

  “I didn’t see you there, Doc. Were you?”

  “No, I wasn’t there.”

  “Then how can you judge the sermon?”

  “So far I’ve heard three detailed versions of it. But I’m really not concerned with the sermon itself. The sermon may have been great. What I am concerned with is the people’s reaction to it.”

  “Well—?”

  “That isn’t great and you may as well know it now.”

  David looked a little nonplused. “That may be. I wasn’t preaching it to get a high popularity rating. But by precisely whose reactions are you judging, Doctor? That might make a difference, you know.”

  “That’s my point. Even those who are fondest of you think the kind of blast you let loose Sunday hurts more than it helps.”

  “Why? Because they’re afraid too?”

  “No, that’s not why. I’m no theologian, so I can’t analyze it for you. All I know is, when you accuse people, a wall goes up. Then the last thing they’re interested in is changing their view or their actions. All they do then is crouch behind the wall to defend themselves.”

  I thought of Miss Alice and wished that she had been there to hear David’s sermon; her opinion would have been more unbiased than anyone’s.