Streams of Mercy

by Lauraine Snelling

  Solberg started measuring for the lid, but Devlin was not interested in building lids. He had set himself to a different task. He spent some minutes digging through the odd lumber to choose exactly the right piece of wood. He sawed the right length, braced it into clamps, and rapidly sketched guidelines on its face.

  What kind of wood chisels did Trygve own? And adzes? A hand adze would make it go faster. In a drawer he found good chisels, even a veiner. He chose what he needed, honed them on the whetstone and strop in the corner, and set to work.

  Almost two hours later when Solberg finished the lid and hinged it into place, Devlin had his own masterpiece close to completion. Solberg watched in silence as Devlin put the finishing touches on the feathered wings at the top of a pole, the two snakes intertwined around it. Devlin laid the bas relief caduceus on the coffin lid. Perfect.

  They paused briefly to admire it. Solberg whispered, “Thank you.”

  Devlin held the carving in place on the lid as Solberg drilled and screwed it down tight from the back.

  The reverend walked over to the side and shook out his shirt. “I’ll go tell Astrid this is ready.”

  Devlin nodded and tugged into his own shirt. He was still wet with sweat. He stepped outside into exquisite heat. In the depths of winter, when your spit freezes before it reaches the ground, you forget about the heat of summer. He walked to the hospital and continued on beyond it. He walked past the mill, past the tent, past the train. Past responsibilities that he was supposed to be shouldering right now. He continued down to the river shore.

  Peace.

  Manny was not there with his elephants just now, but their tracks and droppings were everywhere. The streamside willows all looked mangled and shaved. The cattails were growing nicely, with fresh green spears—the ones on the far shore, that is. On this shore they had become elephant fodder.

  He heard a rustle off to the side. And another. The dogs! He knew a little something about dog packs. These mangy curs were stalking him! He opened his pocket knife and cut himself a stout willow withe from the mangled grove. He slapped it a couple times into the open palm of his left hand. Good. Good! Let the straggly beasts try something now!

  He turned quickly and started walking firmly toward the nearest dog, the alpha bitch. She snarled and wheeled away. He turned immediately toward another mutt. The dog disappeared beyond the mangled remains of the willow thicket. Devlin walked back to the train without being challenged or stalked.

  But what if he had been a defenseless child?

  His weapon was still in his hand when he was passing the train and Stetler was stepping down out of his personal car. The man stopped and froze, wide-eyed, staring at the branch in Devlin’s hand.

  A thousand thoughts raced about in Devlin’s mind, chasing each other through his brain. How imbued with the spirit of Jesus Christ was he, really? His seminary training never mentioned situations like this.

  Stetler eyed him warily. Most of his attention was on the switch. “Mr. Devlin.”

  “Mr. Stetler.”

  “What are your intentions?”

  “I do not know. Meself has just come from building a sturdy coffin for one of the two founding doctors of this hospital where ye brought yer pestilence. Ye might say, mixed feelings.”

  “A doctor . . .” He drew a deep breath and licked his lips. “I was coming to find you. I need your help, Mr. Devlin. Our train engineer respects you. I need you to convince him it is now safe to travel. We have to get back on our schedule, and he is afraid to go.”

  “The quarantine has not been lifted, sir, and many of yer people be yet too weak to travel, let alone perform. Some will never perform again if their limbs be affected, as diphtheria sometimes does. How will ye assemble a show worth the price of admission? How can we let ye go to bring death to some other town?”

  “I must!” The man looked desperate. “We have no money, Devlin, no income! The very survival of this circus depends upon bringing in money to keep going. Do you realize how much the elephants eat, just the elephants?”

  “Aye, a whole willow thicket, for starters. Ye have no elephant trainer, no—”

  “I know he is weak, but he is on the mend. Mr. Devlin, please. I need you!”

  A moment ago a thousand thoughts had raced through his head. Now ten thousand thoughts did. He wanted to wreak godly vengeance upon this pitiless man. Jesus said, “Love your enemies.” He wanted Stetler to pay somehow for the death of a splendid physician who was such a boon to this community. Jesus said, God “sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.”

  “Frankly, sir, if ye leave now, I do not see how ye can make it.”

  “That’s my concern.” His voice softened. “Devlin, we’re at the end of our rope. We can’t make it if we don’t get going. We lost so much, but . . .”

  He threw away the stick. It thudded against the rail ties. “The stick was for a dog pack, not yerself. I shall speak to yer engineer. Where is he?”

  “At the ice cream parlor.”

  “Eh, breaking quarantine. Perfect.”

  He turned his back on Mr. Stetler and took his time walking over to Rebecca’s soda shop. Halfway there he stopped in midstride. The headache was gone. Sometime in the last few hours, it had evaporated. He still felt weary, but that headache had left. Curious. He continued.

  The engineer was sitting off in the corner at one of those delicate little wrought-iron tables. The treat in his ice cream dish was only half eaten. He looked up as Devlin came over and sat down across from him.

  Devlin smiled. “How ye going, Mr. Ranson?”

  Mr. Ranson smiled wanly. “How did you know I was here?”

  “Where else would a refugee come if there be no tavern in town?”

  The man laughed bitterly. “Refugee. Yes, I am that. Did Mr. Stetler send you?”

  “He did. He seems to think he must have ye to run the train.”

  “He’s right. I’m the only one can do it.”

  Devlin walked over to the counter, ordered a dish of strawberry ice cream, and returned to sit down across from Mr. Ranson. “Just how old might that locomotive be, anyway?”

  “Older than the transcontinental railroad. Older than the war. During the War of Secession, it ferried Southern troops to the battlefront.”

  Devlin called upon his history knowledge, which, regarding the United States, was scant. He could list the complete royal succession in England, however. With exact dates. “Let’s see. That war ended in 1865, correct?”

  Ranson nodded. He stared at nothing. “Our little old locomotive is a relic, Mr. Devlin. That big bonnet on the stack. Wood-fired. Four two four. The boiler is about rusted through. Not many can operate those old ones anymore. Especially not this one. She’s downright cranky.”

  “Then me hat’s off to ye.”

  His ice cream arrived. Rebecca smiled wanly at him and left. She looked so sad. Obviously, she knew. No doubt the whole town knew by now.

  Devlin dipped into his ice cream, surprised at how hungry he was. No surprise. Breakfast had been hours ago. “I cannot imagine that Mr. Stetler can put together a decent show, since so many people have died, and so many are weak from illness.”

  “Most of us, we did two or three jobs, you know. Like me. I’m the engineer, but I’m also a clown. Can you picture me in a big red rubber nose?”

  Devlin laughed. “And the lion tamer told me he be a clown first, then changes to his new role.”

  “Sam. Good man, Sam. And that new kid is really good with animals.”

  “Manny.”

  “Manny. And there’s another young man from town, a Johnny.”

  “Johnny Solberg. The reverend’s lad.” Devlin paused. “I was with his father less than an hour ago. John and I built a coffin. For Dr. Elizabeth. She just died.”

  “Doct—” Ranson stared at him. “At the hospital? Now you see why I’m not going back. If the doctors themselves are victims . . .”

  “The crisis is nearly past, as we see it.
No one from the train has died lately. No new cases. The old cases be getting better. ’Twill be a long haul, of course, getting one’s strength back, but the worst be behind us, for which I praise God.”

  Ranson studied him closely. “You think the train is safe?”

  “As I understand it, two to seven days after exposure and ye’re home on the pig’s back. The local folk who were not innoculated—who did not receive the antitoxin—be still in a modicum of danger. Yerselves, the circus, most likely be past it.”

  “I’m scared, Devlin.”

  “Ye need be no longer, I should think.”

  “I really do love running that locomotive. Making her behave when she hates to.”

  Devlin grinned. “’Twould be quite a kick. And ye keep her in such fine shape. The paint is fresh, no rust that shows. Did ye build a whole new flywheel? It looks so.”

  “You noticed! No, I found that in a scrap yard. I told you the engine’s old, didn’t I?”

  Devlin lapsed into silence. Sometimes silence did great things in a conversation.

  Ranson asked, “Are you sure it’s all right to be on the train?”

  “No, ye can never say ‘I’m sure’ about something like that. But everything points to it being safe again, aye.”

  “I might go back. I really do love to mess with that old locomotive.” He picked up his spoon and scooped some ice cream. He studied it for a moment and popped it into his mouth.

  “I trow ye have some time. ’Twill take at least a day to gather in all yer elephants and goats and horses. And the blessed camel.”

  He cackled. “Mr. Kabrhel—he’s our Slovak cook—says the townspeople, the farmers, have been true to their word. They give us all the milk we need and buy the rest. Honest people. And giving.”

  “Godly people, aye. Easy people to get attached to.” Anji.

  Mr. Ranson scraped the last from his dish. “Think I’ll go tell Mr. Stetler I’m back on.”

  “He’ll deeply appreciate it. Ask him for a raise.”

  Mr. Ranson cackled again. “I just might!” He rose to go. Devlin stood, they shook hands, and Devlin sat down again.

  What did he just do? Stetler had no business leaving, yet he had to leave. Most of the town would say good riddance, especially all those children who were homebound. And Devlin had just cajoled the engineer into helping a man who was his enemy. Enemy? No, not exactly, but a man whom Devlin did not—could not—respect. And that sort of person is even harder to forgive than a true, fierce enemy.

  He finished his ice cream and headed back toward the hospital a little bit refreshed, a little bit ready to resume his duties, and a whole lot grateful that the headache was gone.

  “Mr. Devlin! Yoo-hoo!” Little Maxine, the girl who was a part-time postal helper, flagged him down from the post office door. “You’ve a letter, sir.”

  “A letter? Indeed. Thankee.”

  He accepted the envelope and studied it a moment. She went back inside.

  From the Diocese of Michigan. What had the Diocese of Michigan to do with him? He wandered over to the bench in front of the general store, sat down, and slit it open with his pocket knife.

  It was not from the diocese. Rather the diocese had forwarded it to him from a parish named St. Patrick on the Lake, a letter within a letter. He opened the envelope from the parish and read the two-page letter. Read it again. Read it again.

  And his soul descended into turmoil again. It was their search committee. They were asking him to come to their church and sit down with them. He would preach for two weeks, meet with the vestry, and conduct a question-and-answer session with the congregation in a parish meeting. With all that, both he and the parish would decide if this was a good fit for both them and him. If the fit seemed good, he would become the rector of St. Patrick on the Lake.

  A parish of his own. But Anji was here, not on Lake Michigan somewhere. He was trained in the priesthood. This was what he had prepared for. But Anji . . . why must life be so terribly complex?

  He stood up, confused and heavy-hearted. A parish. Anji. A parish. Anji. But he had destroyed the relationship with Anji. Or had he?

  CHAPTER 26

  Lord, how do I get through this day? All I want is to hide in some dark place and cry my eyes out. I don’t want to deal with any more death or sickness or . . . Astrid dried her eyes again, and again, and again. Would they never stop? She sat at her desk with the door closed, wishing she had a lock to put on it.

  A knock. Miriam’s voice. “Astrid, Reverend Solberg and Father Devlin are here with the coffin. Do you want me to release the body?”

  Astrid sniffed again. “No, give me a minute, and I’ll be right there.” Should she take Thorliff to the storage room to see the body one more time? No. What good would it do? They had wrapped her in sheeting. All that was needed was for them to place her in the box. Fighting the strain of doing what she knew she must do, she used her arms against the top of the desk to help get her upright. Out in the hall, she looked around. Where was all her staff? Was there another emergency no one had told her about? But when she turned the corner to the storage room, everyone was lined up, most with tears trickling down their faces.

  “We’d salute if we were military,” Miriam said. “But at least we can see her onto the wagon, if that is all right with you.”

  Astrid nodded. What fine people worked in this little hospital! She opened the door and, after sucking in one more deep breath, entered the dimly lit room. All the others followed her in and lined the way to the door. The men had set the coffin on sawhorses by the cot. Sorrow hung in the room like the densest fog. Glancing at the open door that provided the light, she saw Trygve and Daniel standing just outside the door, bareheaded, hats in their hands. If only she could go to her Daniel.

  “We lined it with a quilt,” Reverend Solberg said, his voice catching on the words.

  Astrid nodded and picked up one corner of the sheet under the wrapped body. Devlin took one corner, Solberg another, and Deborah stepped forward to take the fourth. On three they lifted and settled the body in the coffin.

  Astrid folded the quilt over her dearest friend, sister, mentor. “I know this is only a leftover husk of our Elizabeth, but even so, we honor you, dear friend.”

  “Let us pray.” Reverend Solberg bowed his head. “Lord God, into your hands we commend our dearest Elizabeth. We rest in the assurance that we will see her again and that you are God and you do not make mistakes. Please comfort Thorliff, her children, and all the family. Give them and all of us your peace. We thank you that you sent your Son to the cross, that we might know for sure that we have an eternal home with you. Please bring healing to all our people and keep us steadfast in this battle against the enemy.” He paused. “Amen.”

  Everyone echoed the amen. The two men set the coffin lid in place and nailed it down. Astrid laid a hand on the carving and nodded her thanks to Father Devlin. It must have been he who did this. He was the carver, not John. If only they could all go to the burial at least. She started to take hold of one of the boards under the coffin to move it to the wagon, but Miriam nudged her aside.

  “Please let us.” Miriam, Deborah, Mrs. Geddick, and Dr. Johnson assisted Devlin and Solberg as they moved the coffin to the wagon bed just outside the door and slid it into place. The shriek of wood against wood echoed the cries of their hearts.

  “We are going along,” Trygve said. “We will walk.”

  Astrid started to order them not to and instead nodded. She watched as John and Devlin climbed up to the wagon seat and clucked the horse forward. Turning back into the room, she looked to the new nurses. “Please scrub this room down. The mops, pails, and carbolic acid are in the storage closet. Try not to disturb Mr. Bjorklund. Miriam, show them where that is, please.”

  “We know, Dr. Bjorklund,” Rose Kendricks said. “We’ll take care of it.”

  “I have coffee made if anyone wants.” Mrs. Geddick took Astrid’s arm and patted it. “You come. You did not eat today.
I fix you a plate.”

  “Ja, I will. I need to wash my hands first.” Coffee. Would coffee help this time? At least Thorliff was asleep. She had decided to not waken him. He would probably be furious with her at some point, but right now her responsibility was to help him survive this scourge.

  When she sat down at the table where the others were sitting, Mrs. Geddick set a plate in front of her.

  “Now, you eat. You must stay strong.” She laid a hand on Astrid’s shoulder and gently squeezed, then looked up at the others. “Please eat. Dr. Elizabeth would want you to.”

  Someone started passing the stew around, and obediently they all helped themselves. Finally someone asked the question they were all thinking. “How are we going to manage?”

  “We got through it when she was so ill, and we will again. As my mor would say, ‘God will provide. The Lord gives and the Lord takes away, blessed . . .’” She was forced to clear her throat. “‘Blessed be the name of the Lord.’” Several of them finished the verse with her.

  “I wish Ingeborg were here,” Deborah said. “Not being here must be so terribly hard on her.”

  “Ja, it is. And that she can’t hold and comfort Inga. That is tearing her up the most, I think.”

  “Poor little Inga. Roald is so small he won’t remember, but Inga can’t have her pa or her grandma to comfort her.”

  “Ja, thank God for Thelma.”

  Astrid dutifully ate what was on the plate, not even registering what she had swallowed. Now the hospital depended on her alone.

  As the others returned to sleeping or treating patients, she went to room one first. A barrage of coughing met her from the hallway. Thorliff’s dull eyes opened when she picked up his wrist. He coughed again and a glob of ugly hit the sheet. She cleaned that up and dropped the muslin square in the pail by his bed. “Good. Time for the steam room for you. I’ll ask Dr. Johnson to come help me move you there.”

  His eyebrows rose.