Three Books in One: A Covenant of Love, Gate of His Enemies, and Where Honor Dwells

by Gilbert, Morris

  Clay nodded, muttered, “I don’t care,” and the two of them left the warmth of the kitchen. Taking care that Clay did not see, Irons winked at Susanna, and she smiled slightly in return.

  Clay saddled a long-legged bay, and the two of them rode out of the stable. The air was chill and the horses were both spirited, so for the first mile they rode along at a gallop. Then they pulled down to a slower pace when they turned off the main road. Clay said nothing at all, but Irons spoke cheerfully of neutral things—mostly about hunting and horses and dogs.

  They rode for an hour, then stopped at a rough house set at the edge of a thick, dense woods. “Have to walk from here, Clay,” Irons said. “Looks like none of the Yancys are up yet. I told Buford we’d leave our horses here. He said he’d take care of them if we were late getting back.” Then he looked closely at Clay and remarked, “You look washed out, Clay. Why don’t we call this off until you feel better?”

  “Nothing wrong with me,” Clay said stubbornly. In truth, he felt terrible—but he dismounted in silence and waited for Irons.

  They put their horses in a ramshackle corral containing a cow and two mules, then plunged into the thick woods. At first the going was fairly easy, but soon the heavy trees seemed to close about them, slowing them down. They were both gasping for breath two hours later when Jeremiah pulled up, saying, “Here’s the creek. I think we can pick up something here. Why don’t you take this stand, and I’ll go on down a quarter?”

  “All right.”

  Clay watched as Irons faded away into the darkness, wondering how the man moved so quietly over dry leaves and dead branches. Then he moved to a large oak, put his back against it, and waited. The ebony sky was beginning to turn gray in the east, and half an hour later a rosy glow emanated through the branches of the tree he stood under.

  As Clay stood there in the silence that was broken now and then by the scurrying of small animals or the soft cry of a bird awakening, random thoughts came to him. He had been drunk the night before, reeling up the stairs and falling into bed without removing his clothes. Flashing bits of memory touched his mind briefly, like reflections in a pool broken by ripples of water. Some of them were from other nights spent in the fleshpots of Richmond—the sound of a woman’s voice enticing him, the clink of glasses in a bar, the crash of a chair thrown in a fight.

  But there were other memories, too … memories that he hated even worse. Memories of Melanie. Her face seemed to flash before his eyes, the way she had appeared to him once when he had brought her a huge bouquet of daisies—eyes bright and lips parted with delight. He shut his eyes quickly, giving his shoulders an angry shake. But he could not blot the images out for long. That was why he had sought oblivion in a bottle for the past two months. That, and his resentment and bitterness against his cousin Gideon.

  Time and again he had tried to pull himself up, ashamed that he had no more control. But the bitterness was a drug, no less potent or addictive than the rotgut he was drinking. Even as the dawn spread faint ruby gleams over the small creek that murmured a few feet away, he struggled again to cast the envy of Gideon away, but with no success. It ate at him like lye, and nothing seemed to make it more bearable.

  Grandfather is dying, he thought, staring at the creek without seeing it. My parents are worried sick about me. All I do is go around mean as a yard dog looking for somebody to bite!

  He glanced down the creek toward where he supposed Irons was stationed. The preacher knows better than to say anything, but if he only knew the truth … that nobody hates those nights in Richmond worse than I do! But I can’t quit!

  Suddenly a buck stepped out from behind a huge oak on the far side of the creek, his head held high and his ears working. As always at such a time, Clay’s breathing seemed to stop as if a huge arm had tightened around his chest. He did not even blink as the buck stood there, suspicious, needing only a single movement to send him back into the woods. Time stopped for Clay; the very creek seemed to pause as the deer waited, and the breeze in the tops of the branches of the tree Clay stood under seemed to stop as if the world held its breath.

  Then the deer took a step, halted, listened again—and walked delicately to the edge of the brook. He dipped his head, and Clay, waiting for such a movement, lifted his gun and pulled the trigger. The explosion seemed to rock the world, and the deer leaped sideways in a tremendous jump that carried him to the edge of the trees.

  But Clay’s bullet was in its heart. All of the animal’s actions were sheer reflex, and he dropped down lifelessly.

  Clay gave a yell, dropped his gun, and plunged toward the creek, pulling his knife from his belt. He had no control at such times and, in fact, did not want to control the emotion that welled up inside him. He reached the creek, took two giant strides, his heart beating madly—and then his foot went into a crevice by the brook’s edge and he fell headlong into the cold water.

  A cry of pain was wrenched from him, for the hole was not soft dirt but solid rock, formed by large stones that had been brought together by the action of the water.

  A shock of ragged pain flashed through Clay, for his full weight had been thrown against his ankle, which was held as in a vise by the stones. He pulled himself up, pulling his foot free as he rolled over. But when he looked down, he saw that the foot was bent at an unnatural angle—and the pain was like a knife.

  Sitting there with the cold waters of the creek soaking him, he held his ankle, clenching his teeth against the waves of pure pain that scared him. It was so great, that pain, that for a few moments he could not even pull himself out of the cold water.

  Then he tried to crawl, and a cry of pain escaped his lips.

  “Clay! You get one?”

  Irons’s voice seemed to come faintly from far away, and it was all Clay could do to cry out, “Irons! Help me!”

  He lay there on the bank, trying not to move the leg. Soon he heard Irons call out, “Clay? Where are you?”

  “Over here!”

  Then Irons was there, bending over him. “You didn’t shoot your foot?” he asked in alarm.

  “No—but I think I broke my ankle.”

  Irons began at once testing the leg with strong hands. “May be broken. But maybe not. I’ve seen some ankles twisted as bad as that without a break.” Then he shook his head. “Got to get you out of here, Clay.”

  “I can walk if you’ll let me lean on you, Preacher.”

  Irons looked doubtful, and when he had gotten Clay to a standing position, the first step brought a sharp grunt of pain from Clay’s lips. “This won’t do!” Irons protested. He helped Clay away from the stony creek bed and let him down on the soft earth. Standing up, he said, “I can’t carry you, so you’ll have to wait while I go for help.”

  “I’ll be all right,” Clay grunted. He cursed and slapped the ground with his palm. “What a stupid thing to do!”

  “We all take falls, Clay,” Irons said. He stripped off his coat and handed it to the injured man. “I’ll build you up a fire.” He quickly gathered a supply of deadwood from a fallen tree, kindled a fire, and got it burning.

  “Let’s dry your clothes out,” Irons said. “It’ll take me a few hours to get back here with help. Won’t do that cold of yours any good to stay wet.”

  “No, I’ll be all right.”

  Irons looked at him doubtfully, but Clay’s stubborn face told him there was no use in arguing the point. He turned and left at a fast trot, disappearing into the brush like an Indian. Clay looked after him, then picked up a rock and threw it at the creek angrily. Carefully he settled back and began to wait.

  And it was a long wait, made worse by the discomfort of his wet clothes and the pain of his injured leg. As the hours passed by, Clay was able to get the wood the preacher had pulled close without much effort, but soon he began to shake with a chill. Painfully he dragged the limbs to the fire, but no matter how close he tried to get to it, the chill seemed to grow worse.

  Finally he used the last of the wood, and
when that burned down to a blackened pile of ashes, he drew his coat around him and tried to sleep. He did doze off from time to time, but the chills became so violent they woke him up.

  Finally the sound of voices came to him, and he opened his eyes to see Irons and another man coming down the side of the creek bank leading a mule. “Clay?” Irons called out. “Are you all right?”

  Clay sat up and tried without success to keep his voice steady. “All right,” he mumbled and was shocked at how feeble the answer was that came out of his mouth. As Irons came to where he sat, he tried to grin. “Had a little nap while I was waiting.”

  The preacher looked at him with alarm in his eyes, then shook his head. “We had to follow the creek. Woods were too thick to get the mule through.” Then he turned, saying, “Buford, bring the mule up.” As the man came up, he added, “This is Buford Yancy, Clay.”

  Yancy was a tall, thin man with greenish eyes, tow-colored hair, and a freckled complexion. He nodded slightly, saying only,

  “Howdy.” But his hands were strong as he and the minister helped Clay to mount the mule. When Clay was set, he took the hackamore and turned the animal, speaking to him in a flat voice. As they moved along the broken stones of the creek, Irons said, “Should have made you dry those clothes out, Clay. Didn’t do you any good lying around wet all morning.”

  “I’ll be all right when I get out of the woods,” Clay said.

  But by the time they got to the Yancy cabin, he was weaker than he thought possible. He staggered when he slipped down from the high back of the mule, and he heard Yancy say, “He can’t ride that horse, Preacher.”

  Clay tried to protest that he could, but his head was swimming. Then he felt the two men, one on each side, guiding him across the yard, and they practically carried him up the steps.

  “Mattie!” Yancy called out. “Git the bed ready for Mr. Rocklin.”

  Clay’s vision faded as he went into the cabin, and he was lowered by the two men onto a rough bed. The mattress was rough cloth stuffed with corn shucks that rustled, but it felt better to him than the thick, fluffy feather bed he slept in each night.

  “Be … all right,” he mumbled, his tongue feeling thick and clumsy. “Jus’ need to rest …”

  The rustling of the shucks under him grew faint, and a soft blackness seemed to wrap him, like a warm ebony blanket. He felt secure as the sound of voices came to him from far away, like the faint cry of birds deep in the woods at evening.

  Sometimes he was aware of light, but it was a watery sort of light, as he had seen when looking upward while swimming beneath the surface of the lake. The sounds, too, were muffled, as though he were deep underground in a warm cave sheltered far off from the harsh sounds of the world. Sometimes he would awake, and someone would always be beside him. Once he saw his mother, her face surrounded by an amber corona of light. She spoke to him, and he tried to speak back, but he was too tired. Hands would touch him, and the coolness that came to his brow and body was like balm.

  Then, all at once, he opened his eyes and for one moment the room seemed fuzzy and out of focus. Then it changed, becoming clear and sharp. A young girl’s face filled his field of vision. She had hair so black that it glistened in the lamplight like a crow’s wing, and eyes that were large, almond-shaped, and of a peculiar greenish color.

  “Hello,” the child said, and she studied him so carefully that he thought she must be older than she appeared.

  Clay tried to get up but found that his arms seemed too weak to hold him. Even so, the fever that had burned in him was gone. He licked his dry lips and whispered, “Water …”

  The girl rose at once, picked up a glass from a table, and poured it full of water. Clay took it and drank thirstily, spilling some on his bare chest.

  “Better not drink too much,” the girl said. She picked up a cloth from the chair she’d been sitting in and, in a gesture much older than her years, reached over and mopped the water from his chest.

  Clay blinked at her, then asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Melora Yancy,” she said. “I’ve been helping take care of you.”

  “How old are you, Melora?”

  “I’m six.”

  Clay peered at her, then ran a hand across his cheek, feeling a heavy growth of beard. He felt clearheaded but weak. “How long have I been here, Melora?” he asked.

  “‘Bout three days. Your ma, she was here right after you come. She brung the doctor with her.”

  Clay sat up carefully, noting that he wore only the bottom of a pair of underwear. Hand me my pants, will you, Melora?”

  “You better wait, Mister Clay,” she said quickly. “Doctor said for you not to rush nothin’.” Then she said, “I’ll bet you’re hungry.”

  At her words, he was struck with a stab of hunger. “I sure am!”

  “I’ll feed you.” She disappeared, and he managed to sit up in bed. His ankle was heavily bandaged, and when he tried to move it, he was pleased to find that though it was painful, it was not broken as he had feared. Carefully he got to his feet, but the room swayed in an alarming fashion, and he sat down abruptly, grabbing the side of the bed for support.

  Melora came in with a plate, followed by a woman who had a cup in her hand. “You feelin’ better, I see.” She was obviously the mother of the girl, for she had the same dark hair and features. “You let Melora feed you, and I’ll send my man to tell your folks you’re all right.”

  “Hate to bother you, Mrs. Yancy.”

  Melora came close and handed him the bowl of stew, and he took a quick bite. It was rich and nourishing, and as he gobbled it down, the woman told him of the last few days.

  “The preacher came back with the doctor, and he bound your ankle up,” she said. “But you was so sick he was afraid to move you. He axed could we set with you until the fever broke, and we did. Your ma, she’s been here, and the preacher, too.”

  “I’m in your debt, Mrs. Yancy.”

  “Well, Melora here, she stayed with you most of the time.

  Fed you when you wuz awake and kept the cool cloths on you when the fever wuz burning.” She gave Melora a fond glance, adding with a smile, “Reckon she’s jest a natural-born nurse. Patches up every stray kitten and varmint that come on the place.”

  Clay suddenly grinned and stopped eating long enough to say, “Well, I fit in that category, I guess.”

  “Oh—I didn’t mean you wuz a varmint, Mr. Rocklin!” Mrs. Yancy said in alarm.

  “Been called worse than that,” Clay said. After the woman left to get her husband, he said, “Melora, I’m going to give you all my business when I get sick.”

  Melora was very serious and said at once, “You kin have some of my guinea eggs for supper. I’ll cook them for you myself.”

  He ate all the stew, then at once grew very sleepy. Melora pushed him down, then pulled the rough coverlet up, saying, “You sleep some more, Mister Clay.”

  When he woke up later, he felt stronger, and Melora fulfilled her promise by cooking him six guinea eggs, which he wolfed down. After he ate, she sat down and said, “I guess your ma will be comin’ to git you, won’t she?”

  “I guess so.”

  Melora said wistfully, “I wisht you could stay awhile, Mister Clay. It’s been nice takin’ care of you.”

  Clay reached over and took her hand. “Tell you what, Melora, I’ll come back and see you after I get well.”

  “Oh, you won’t either!”

  “Promise! And I’ll bring you a present. How about a new dress?”

  Melora stared at him wide-eyed, then shook her head. “I’d rather have a book.”

  Her request took him aback, and he asked tentatively, “Well, what kind of book?”

  “One with knights in it, and dragons.”

  Clay was amused. “I think I’ve got a few of those myself. My mother never throws anything away. Seems like there’s a box with all sorts of books I had when I was about your age. I’ll pick out the best one and bring it to you
.”

  Her strangely colored eyes glowed, and she hugged herself tightly. For the next hour she sat there talking to him. Clay had never been particularly drawn to children, but this girl’s mind fascinated him. He discovered that her primitive world of cabin and field was small compared to the glittering world inside her small head. She told him tales that she had made up, composed of fragments of stories she had heard from her mother and from one book that contained a few romances—but mostly they were of her own imaginings.

  Clay sat there for most of the morning, watching her small face as it glowed with excitement. He read to her out of the one book she possessed, then told some tall tales of his own. When his mother came in accompanied by Jeremiah Irons late that afternoon, he put his hand on Melora’s shoulder, saying, “I don’t know as I want to leave. My nursing has been so good here, I don’t think I can expect as good at home.”

  Susanna was relieved to see that Clay’s eyes were clear, for the doctor had feared pneumonia. She took a deep breath, then said, “Melora, thank you so much for taking such good care of my son. I’m sure God will reward you for it.”

  Clay walked out of the cabin and, finding Buford Yancy and his wife there with their other children, walked over and offered his hand. “Sorry to have forced myself on you two,” he said, taking the man’s hard hand. “I’m grateful to you all.”

  Buford Yancy nodded, saying, “Glad to be of help, Mr. Rocklin.” His wife smiled nervously, and Melora came up to say, “Don’t forget what we talked about, Mister Clay.”

  Clay stooped down and gave her a swift kiss on the cheek. “I sure won’t! Be back soon as I can!”

  As they rode back to Gracefield, Clay said, “That’s some child, that Melora. Took care of me like she was a woman grown.”

  “What was she talking about when we left?”

  “I promised to give her a book. Is that box still in the attic someplace, the one with the books all of us read when we were kids?”

  “Yes. I’ll get it for you as soon as you’re able to go back.” She hesitated, then said, “The wedding is next week. I don’t know if you’ll be well enough to go by then.”