by Janette Oke
It was a cold ride. The thing moved along at a crawl, and it was made all of steel, so there was nothing warm about it—at least not back where I was sitting.
By the time I got it home, I sure was glad to pull it up beside the granary and climb on down. It wasn’t nearly as easy to handle as a team, I can tell you that, and it took me most of the afternoon to get the chill out of my bones.
I did some thinking about that tractor that I hadn’t done before. Getting the tractor was fine, but I hadn’t thought much of where to go from there. I could tell just by looking that the farm machinery we had used behind the horses wouldn’t work behind that tractor. We’d probably need to replace nearly all the equipment we owned.
I wrote Willie a long letter that night, the first one in a while. I’d had a few letters from him, and I knew he was just as busy there in South Africa as I was back home.
He was pretty excited about his new life. Oh, he still missed Camellia terribly—and his family and friends, too, I guess, but he sure was excited about getting into the work he had been trained to do. God had given him a deep love for the black Africans he was reaching out to. They were so friendly and open, he said, and he knew he was going to love being a missionary among them.
I had already told him about Grandpa’s wild idea of moving two women into our house. I had even written later, admitting that it really wasn’t as bad as I had expected. But I hadn’t told him about the community social or our good harvest or the new tractor.
I told him, too, that Mrs. Foggelson was really doing well since she had reestablished her faith. Not that she was running around town preaching or singing on the street corner or anything like that, but she was growing in a quiet, maturing way.
I miss you, Willie, I wrote, and I’ll be glad to see you again. Four years, after all, is a long, long time. God’s blessing on your work; my warmest regards. Your best friend, Josh.
CHAPTER 24
Winter Ills
ANOTHER CHRISTMAS WAS APPROACHING. We all went together to the school Christmas program. Matilda had labored long and hard over it. The youngsters performed well, and the crowd of neighbors insisted that Matilda sing again. She sang two lovely songs and then she asked Mary to join her for one. Mary did, without protest, and the people clapped even more enthusiastically after the duet.
The program at the church on Sunday night was mostly Aunt Lou’s responsibility, though she had help from Matilda as well.
Little Sarah sang her first solo, “Away in a Manger.” She was doing fine, too, carrying the tune just perfectly until Jon jumped down from the bench beside Mrs. Lewis, who was supposed to be looking after him, and ran to get in on his sister’s act.
Aunt Lou didn’t know what to do. To dash after Jon would interrupt the song, but leaving him alone proved to be even more disruptive.
At first he merely stood beside Sarah, looking up in her face and rocking gently back and forth to the music. Then he decided to sing, too, but Jon didn’t know the words. His song was “Ahah-ah” at the top of his healthy lungs. Sarah frowned at him, but went on singing. It wasn’t long until Jon’s “Ah-ahs” were drowning out Sarah’s voice. She finally stopped mid-phrase.
“Go to Mrs. Lewis!” she hissed loudly at her brother. He shook his head and started to sing again.
“Then go to Mamma,” Sarah insisted, giving him a push. Jon still refused to budge. I could hear some snickers and caught a glimpse of Uncle Nat heading for the platform, but Sarah hadn’t seen him. “Go!” she insisted and gave Jon another push, a bit more forcefully.
“No!” hollered Jon. “Sing!” As he whirled around to escape his sister, he entangled himself in the decorated tree. It came down with a crash and Jon, frightened by it all, began to bellow as loudly as he could. By the time Uncle Nat arrived, his two offspring were both crying and the platform was a mess.
“Preacher’s young’uns!” Uncle Nat said to the amused congregation, rolling his eyes heavenward half in jest and half in exasperation, and scooped up his two errant family members while Aunt Lou tried to restore some order to the front of the church.
On Monday we took Matilda to the train; she was to spend her holidays at home. She was in a dither about seeing her family again, but that was normal—Matilda lived life in an air of excitement. She and Mary had become very close friends, and they hugged one another over and over. In fact, the only one who didn’t get a hug was me. I would have been embarrassed about it if I had. Us being right out in the eyes of people and all. I knew that few would understand how it was at our house. The house seemed a bit quiet when we returned. Mary served us a tasty dinner, washed up the dishes and then went to her room. Soon she reappeared with her small carpetbag in her hand.
“Your Grandpa has given me Christmas week off.With Matilda gone he says you can get along just fine by yourselves.”
I was a little doubtful. We hadn’t been doing much cooking for ourselves lately, and it would be rather hard now to fit back into the old rut.
“I’ve done extra baking,” went on Mary. “You’ll find it in the pantry.”
I nodded.
“If you should need me—”
“We’ll be fine. Just fine,” I assured her with more confidence than I felt.
She pulled on her heavy coat, and I finally realized it was cold out, and it was over a mile to the Turleys’.
“I’ll get Chester and give you a ride home,” I offered.
I didn’t wait for her to answer, just grabbed my coat and cap and headed for the barn.
I hooked Chester to the one-horse sleigh, and we set off. The afternoon was crisp and bright and the snow crunched under the runners.
“I’ll miss Matilda,” sighed Mary after a long silence.
I was on the verge of saying that I would too but checked myself just in time.
“She’s so—so alive,” went on Mary.
That was the truth. I was reining in Chester—as usual, he wanted to run.
“It won’t be long till she’s back.”
“Oh, I hope not!” Mary gave a deep sigh.
I didn’t go in when we reached the Turleys’, though Mary asked me to. “I’ve got to get home and start in on the chores,” I told her. Then I added, feeling suddenly shy, “We’ll see you in a few days. Have a real good Christmas.”
She turned to me. There were no rows of eyes watching.
“Thank you, Josh,” she whispered. Then she reached up, gave me a quick embrace, and she was gone.
It turned out that we did need Mary. Two days after Christmas Uncle Charlie became ill. We could have handled that, but the next day Grandpa, too, was down. I didn’t know what to do. I still had all the chores, and the two men were sick enough that they needed someone to care for them. In desperation I finally saddled Chester and headed back for Mary.
Mary flushed a bit when she saw Chester, but she laughed, too. “Well,” she said, “does he ride double?”
“How stupid of me!” I blushed. “I should have brought the sleigh. He can carry two, but—”
“It’s fine, Josh,” she assured me. “If Chester doesn’t mind, I don’t.”
She rode behind me, her arms around my waist as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
In the next few days, Uncle Charlie worsened, and though Mary nursed him with all of her skill and prepared him broths and chicken soup, he still couldn’t keep anything on his stomach. I saddled up Chester again and went after Doc.
After a few days on the medicine that Doc left, Uncle Charlie seemed to be able to make some headway. But by the time Grandpa and Uncle Charlie were beginning to show a bit of improvement, Matilda was back, and Christmas was over.
Things seemed to be fine for about two days, and then Matilda came down with chills and fever. School was cancelled until further notice, and Mary started her nursing again.
When it finally hit me, I couldn’t believe that anyone could feel that bad. My whole body ached, and I broke out in sweats and then shivered until
the bed shook. The mere thought of food was unbearable, and I was so weak that I could hardly turn my head on the pillow.
I don’t know how Mary made it through those days. She did send for Mitch to do the choring, but even so, I don’t think she got much rest day or night. Whenever I stirred restlessly, cool cloths were pressed against my fevered forehead and sips of water held to my chapped lips.
I drifted in and out of reality. Sometimes I had strange dreams where I was in heaven and the angels were flitting about me, brushing back my hair and cooling my face. Sometimes I was quite rational and Mary or Matilda would be there sponging off my face or back and chest. I think that Doc was there once or twice. I don’t remember seeing him; I just remember his voice giving somebody instructions.
I had no idea how many days were passing by. I only knew that when I was finally aware enough to ask, I couldn’t believe that so much of the month of January was already spent. From then on I had almost constant company. Mary came with broths and soups and Pixie lay at the foot of the bed. Uncle Charlie just sat there quietly and cleared his throat now and then. Matilda came with books and read to me for what seemed hour after hour in a voice filled with energy and excitement.
By the time I was able to sit up for short periods in the kitchen, Grandpa and Uncle Charlie were almost as good as new, and Matilda had been back to her classes for a couple of weeks.
I had never been that sick before in my whole life. And after those days in bed, helpless and sick and flat on my back, I was ready to admit one thing—I was glad there were women in the house.
It turned out that Mitch had to do our chores for the whole month of January and half of February. I maintained that I was well enough to get back to work, but Doc wouldn’t hear of it. My recuperation time did give me a good chance to get back into some books. I had been so busy using my muscles that I had almost forgotten how to use my brain.
I discovered, too, that the daily papers that arrived for Matilda to the post office weekly weren’t all that bad. To relieve the boredom, I began to sort through them and found some terrific articles under “Farm News and Markets.”
There was so much more to farming than mere sowing and reaping. I could see the possibility of the farm turning a tidy profit in the future, and the thought filled me with energy and excitement. Folks like Willie needed support in order to stay on the mission field. I didn’t say anything to the family yet, but I did do some talking to God. I was beginning to get a vision of the farm being used in God’s work by helping meet the financial needs of missionaries—especially Willie. I intended to do all I could to make the farm produce so that he would never need to worry about support while he served on the field.
CHAPTER 25
Chester
I WAS SITTING AT THE TABLE talking to Matilda about some strange ideas, to my way of thinking, I’d found in one of her books. I heard a commotion and went to the kitchen window to look out toward the barn.
I smiled. There was nothing to be concerned about. The horses were just frisking about. I looked at the sky, thinking that another storm must be moving in.
“Why are they running?” Matilda asked at my elbow.
“Just feeling frisky,” I answered. “Or could be a storm coming in. Horses often run and play before a storm.” We stood there to watch them for a minute.
Chester was really worked up. He loved to run, and any excuse for him was a good enough one.
Mary crowded in on the other side of me, her face lightened by a smile. “I love to watch them.”
The three of us stood there watching the horses rear and kick and race around the barnyard.
“He is so beautiful!” exclaimed Matilda. She held Pixie in her arms, gently scratching under one of the dog’s silky ears. But I knew that it wasn’t Pixie that she referred to. It was Chester, showing off out in the barnyard. “Look at him, his head thrown back, his tail outstretched—” The word ended in a gasp.
Chester, who had been doing a tight circle around the end of the barn at almost full speed, had suddenly gone down, apparently hitting a patch of ice under the snow where the eaves dripped in milder weather.
I didn’t even wait to comment, just turned and ran from the house. I guess I knew I should have stopped for my coat, especially since I had just been sick, but I didn’t.
As I raced toward the barn, Chester was still floundering in the snow, pulling himself up, then tossing back down. His feet were thrashing, the snow flying, and as I ran I kept wondering why he wasn’t back up on his feet.
I was almost to him when, with a snort and a flurry, he righted himself. I took a deep, relieved breath—and then I saw it. Chester’s right front leg wobbled at an awkward angle. He had broken a leg in the fall!
I skidded to a halt and whirled around with my back to the horse. My arm came up, and I buried my head against the fence, not wanting to see. Dry sobs wrenched my throat; then someone was gently nudging me. “Here put this on.” It was Mary, helping me into my coat.
Then she, too, looked at Chester, and I could hear her soft gasp.
I’m not sure when Matilda joined us. She came scurrying up beside us, her breath preceding her in little shivery clouds.
“Is he okay?” she gasped out.
Chester attempted to move, and I heard his pain-filled cry and Matilda’s answering scream.
“No! No!” she kept saying over and over. I put my arms around her. She clung to me, sobbing convulsively.
When Grandpa came, we were all still standing in a huddle trying to comfort one another.
“Hurt bad?” I heard Grandpa ask.
I muttered in answer, “His front leg.”
This brought a fresh burst of tears from Matilda. “I can’t bear it!” she cried. “I can’t bear to see him like that!”
I cast another glance toward Chester. He hadn’t taken another step. He stood there, shaking his head and snorting, totally confused by the pain.
Somehow I got control of myself. “Here,” I said to Mary. “Take Matilda to the house.”
Mary led Matilda, still crying, away.
For the first time I took a good look at Chester. His heaving body was still covered with snow. He trembled with each breath he drew and his leg just dangled there, supporting none of his heavy frame.
I moved toward him and reached out a hand to run down his smooth neck. He quivered at my touch, then tried to take a step. His whole body reacted to the pain, and I thought for one awful minute that he was going to go down again. Sick at the sight, I turned from him, and wretched. The illness I had just come through probably had something to do with it. But I had to get control of myself. I had to help Chester.
Grandpa hardly knew whether to go to Chester or to me. I nodded at him that I was okay and he moved toward the horse. He spoke to him in soft tones, rubbing his neck and trying to calm him, his hand moving gently down toward the injured limb.
Chester threw himself back, and the pain of the movement made him squeal again in anguish.
I whirled and headed for the house. I didn’t go to the kitchen, just to the back porch, and stopped there only long enough to check that there were shells in Grandpa’s big old Winchester.
I was turning to leave again when I heard the door open and close. Quick footsteps dashed after me, and I could feel a hand on my arm.
“No!”
I jerked my arm free and tried to keep on walking.
“Josh, listen!” But I still didn’t stop. Just as I reached the door Mary pushed herself ahead of me. She stood there, her back against the door, her slight frame heaving. She had been crying, too; the traces of tears were still on her cheeks.
She stood there, defying me, shaking her head and blocking my way.
“Don’t!” she pleaded again.
I reached out a hand and pushed at her. “Do you think I want to do this?” I almost screamed.
We both knew the answer.
“Then don’t,” she said again, not budging from the spot she guarded.
“He’s suffering!” I cried. “Can’t you see that? He’s suffering!”
Mary reached out and placed a hand on my coat front. Her eyes looked wide with fright and determination. “Yes,” she said and her voice rose to almost the pitch that mine had been. “Yes, he’s suffering. But life is full of suffering, Josh.You’ve suffered. I’ve suffered.” She took another deep breath and her whole body heaved. “For years—for years I watched my mother suffer—day after day—week after week. I loved her, Josh. I loved her. But I didn’t give up. I fought. I fought to save her. Chester is a fighter, Josh. A thoroughbred and a fighter. Chester isn’t done yet. He hasn’t given up. And we can’t either—not without a fight.”
With her final outburst, Mary took the gun from my unresisting hands and moved away from the door. I heard the sound of metal on metal as she hung it back on the pegs. The world was whirling around me and I was afraid I was going to be sick again.
Mary brushed past me and went out the door.
It was several minutes until I got myself under control. When I could think straight again, I thought of Mary’s plea to fight for Chester’s life. It would never work. Chester’s leg was broken; anyone could see that. There was no way we could save him now. If we tried, he would suffer and suffer and then we would need to destroy him anyway. Better to relieve his suffering now.