The Marriage Cure (5 page)

****

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 whis
per
.
He spoke the first language that came to his tongue,

“
Ta tart orm
,” h
e g
asped 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
.
”
h
e said, and then changed to English
.
“I'm that tired but the headache's not on me anymore.”

“That's grand, then,” s
he 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
sick
er 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,” s
he 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
,
” h
e 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,” h
e 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 uprigh
t 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?” s
he 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?” s
he asked and he stared, surprised to hear the English name of his grandmother's people,
Tsa-La-Gi
, on her tongue.

“My moth
er 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.