The Marriage Cure

by Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy

  The Marriage Cure

  By Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy

  Published by Astraea Press

  www.astraeapress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  THE MARRIAGE CURE

  Copyright © 2011 LEE ANN SONTHEIMER MURPHY

  ISBN 978-1-936852-42-0

  Cover Art Designed By Elaina Lee

  Edited By Audrey Jamison

  For Sarah Mink Neely, my great-grandmother (Grandmammy), who handed down her heritage to me with love.

  Chapter One

  Johnny Devaney

  If he had stayed at the fort, he would be dead by now, finished off by disease or drink. His brother likely was dead and if so, that left him alone in the world without family or even friend. He had no destination when he left Gibson behind, nothing but a vague idea that he wanted to return to the wild Ozark wilderness they traveled through en route to the fort. That country had been more like his native Tennessee, with deep woods and clear running streams, so he followed the waters of three rivers, the Neosho, Spring, and Shoal, heading in a general northeastern track, but he had no idea what he would do if or when he reached the Ozarks.

  Once he might have hoped to build a new life, to start again in a different place, but the desire for such things died with his family. From the day that his father died in a puddle of blood in his cornfield until the night that his youngest brother, James, the one they all called Seamus Usdi, expired lying in the frozen mud on the banks of the Mississippi River, his heart numbed, dulled to emotion when the pain grew too great to bear. Between, he had lost others, all he once held dear, even the wife that he did not. He could not remember what it was to laugh or to sing though once he had done both. Leaving the fort had been his first inkling that he might still want to survive, if he had not, he would have stayed and died. He might die, anyway, for he felt sick in body but he dogged on, mile by slow, hard mile.

  His head ached, pounded as if the pain might cause it to burst open. It felt as if it had been cleaved in two with a sharp axe. In spite of that he continued, finding it harder to make each step. His body hurt; muscles and joints aching with deep pain to his weary bones. The tiny cave tucked into one of the rugged bluffs that lined this portion of the Shoal River had been damp and cool but he passed the night there, so he could be out of the sudden, fierce thunderstorm that pounded the valley with force. Since early this morning, when he crawled out to continue his trek, Johnny stumbled with a slow gait.

  Although he felt cold for most of the day, when the afternoon sun shone full on his back, grimy beneath his worn buckskins, he burned and he wondered if a swim across the river might cool him or ease the pain in his head. Last night’s rain had the river running full but he did not hesitate, stepping into the waters and wading out to the deeper channel where he swam, sleek as an otter, to the opposite bank.

  The effort sapped his failing strength and the water left him shaking with a chill, coughing, as he lay prone on the muddy bank. Unless he gathered his wits and found strength to go on, he would lie here and die. That was not what he wanted and so he whispered,

  “A Dhia, cunamh orn.”

  Two things surprised him, even in his misery. He still wanted to live and he sought God’s help. God had seemed far distant for more than a year, and he would not have thought he had a scrap of faith left in any deity—but he must or he would not have called out to him now. Nor would he have thought that he could have any desire for survival left, not when he had lost all he ever held dear or cared about but it was there, a spark of desire to continue with life. Whether it was his own strong will or help from the Almighty, he struggled until he regained his feet, moving from the riverbank toward the cover of the trees.

  Johnny leaned against a sturdy oak, so broad he could not put his arms around it. His swim did nothing to ease his headache or other ills, and he admitted, for the first time, that he might be ailing, that he might have the fever that killed men by the score each week at Fort Gibson. He could not recall ever being so weak, but he thought if he had a hot meal and could stretch his aching bones before a warm fire for the night, he might prove his theory wrong.

  He inhaled and caught the aroma of woodsmoke, proably no more than a mile away. That meant people, a cabin, the food and fire he so desired. He hesitated for a moment but moved forward, toward the smell of smoke, propelled by need great enough to overcome his fear of rejection. On the tedious and terrible trek from Tennessee, he learned fast that the milk of human kindness did not always flow to all. Many of the cabins they passed shut their doors to them, some refused outright when desperate people begged for a drink of water, a sip of milk, or a warm blanket.

  He followed the woodsmoke to a small clearing tucked between two hills, with a cabin, a fallow field with girdled trees, a garden patch, a lean-to that served as a barn, a large spring behind the cabin, and a lone grave to the side, covered with stones, cairn fashion. There was a garden patch already green with tender young plants—potatoes, he thought, and cabbage, maybe herbs as well. Out of sight but not far, a cow bawled and over it, a woman fussed in a voice both strident and loud. He followed the sounds, around the edge of the hill.

  “Oh, ye wicked creature.” The woman flicked a switch at the cow’s broad rump with no effect. “Fool cow, won’t ye come out of there and come home?”

  A red and white mottled Jersey cow stood in a large patch of new growth weeds, chewing cud as if the woman did not exist. She slapped at it with her switch but the Jersey didn’t move, not even when she tugged on the lead rope tied to a halter around its neck.

  “Ye’ll get the milk sick, amadan, and give it to me.” The woman had her back toward him but he could see that she was young, probably younger than he was. Her hair, the vibrant shade of autumn leaves at their peak, trailed down her back in a single braid.

  Farm raised, Johnny knew how to make the animal do her bidding, and despite his ailments, he stepped forward, grasped the animal by the tail, and twisted it over the back with his right hand. The Jersey bawled with displeasure but began to step forward.

  “Hup!” Johnny cried. “Hup, cow, hup!”

  As the cow moved out of the weeds, he grasped the rope and led it back toward the cabin, taking the switch from the woman’s hand. She stared at him, blue eyes wide with surprise but then she smiled.

  “Thanks be to you, sir. Who might ye be?”

  “Johnny Devaney, far from home,” he said, allowing her to take the rope from his hand. He watched as she led it into the lean-to and tied it to one of the tree bark covered posts. “Might your man be at home? I would like to ask if I might spend the night in yer barn.”

  Her smile broadened. “Ask if ye like but ye’ll have no answer from him. He’s dead near about a year. My mammy named me Sarah Elizabeth but they call me Sabetha, born Mahoney, now Trahern. Ye’re welcome to stay and take a bite to eat with me. If ye hadn’t come along, I’d be all night long trying to get that fool cow out of the weeds.”

  He could not speak for a moment, silenced by her hospitality, moved by her kindness. No one had spoken to him with such friendly courtesy in many months and he had forgotten how nice people could act. Her gentle invitation attacked the tight walls that he had built around his heart, and the assault on emotions he
thought dead moved him almost to weeping. Until now, he thought he had cried out his life’s limit of tears. He swayed and reached out to one of the shed’s posts to support him. Johnny struggled to speak the right words.

  “Wado.” He thanked her but that would not do; she wasn’t Tsa-La-Gi so he tried again. “Go raibh maith agat. Thank you.”

  “Come in, then,” Sabetha said. “I’ve cornbread baked and a bit of rabbit stew.”

  Johnny took two steps and faltered. He thought he might fall down, so close to warmth and sustenance but as he swayed, she came to him. Sabetha slipped an arm around his waist and steadied him. He sagged against her, grateful for her support, more so when he shivered with violent chills.

  “Johnny?” Her voice sharpened. “What’s amiss, man?”

  This would be where she turned her back on him, he thought, where she ordered him to go away and he had no place to go but into the woods where he would die, sick and alone. However, he would answer her before he had to leave.

  “I’ve a fever on me,” he said, shaking so much he could barely spit out the words. “I fear I may be sick.”

  Her left arm tightened about his waist as she touched his face with her right hand.

  “Aye, ye are. Ye’re burning, Johnny. I feel the fever heat through your clothes. Let’s get you inside and warm then.”

  He tried to nod but gave up and put the effort toward walking inside the cabin. The woman steered him into a rocking chair beside the fire and bustled about while he gaped at the first home he had been inside in longer than he could remember. It was small but pleasant, with the field stone fireplace dominating most of one wall. Across from it, a hand-hewn table with two benches stood and behind it, a corded bed beside a low wooden chest completed the furnishings. Strings of leather britches beans, dried pumpkin rings, and herbs hung from the ceiling. Rough rungs against one wall led, he thought, to a loft. A few dishes, pans, and such household plunder lined the top of the mantelpiece. A few rag rugs dotted the hard earthen floor and the cabin felt cozy. It evoked memories he would rather forget, as a rush of homesickness enveloped him. Every small thing felt familiar from the whispering sound of the low fire to the lingering aroma of baked cornbread. Surrounded by four walls and covered by a roof, he felt sheltered although he hurt no less.

  “Ye’re wet through,” she said. “Let me get these dirty clothes off from you and give ye a bit of a wash. Ye’ve traveled long and far, haven’t ye?”

  Her hands felt capable as they stripped first his leggings and then his sodden, grimed shirt, done before he could gather his wits to reply.

  “I have.”

  Although it was far from cold in the cabin, he began to shiver again without his buckskins but she washed him like a child, a warm cloth scrubbing away the long weeks of the trail. The pungent stink of strong lye soap flared his nostrils and he coughed with the same harsh coughs that racked him after he swam the river. The woman, what was her name, he couldn’t quite remember worked with quick motions and before he could think, she pulled a worn linen shirt over his head, leaving the neck open and the buttons on the cuffs undone. After wearing nothing but buckskins for too long, the shirt felt soft against his skin, reaching down to his thighs. He sighed at the decadence.

  “That fits ye well enough,” she said, surveying him. “Ye were full of ticks but I’ve got them all, I think, and ye’ve no lice, which is a blessing. Let me comb out your hair; ‘tis tangled.”

  He had had lice, many of them, when he left Fort Gibson but he had covered his hair in bear grease, left it for the first few days he traveled, and then combed it out as best he could. By then, the bugs had smothered to death. Washing his hair in the river with a bit of soap root removed most of the grease but left it tangled. She moved a big wooden comb through his hair with slow, certain motions and he relaxed, savoring the feel of her hands. They were gentle as she combed his hair, and then tied it back from his face with a rawhide strip.

  Johnny felt no better, though, but worse. Although her kindness and care eased his spirit, his ills increased. He thought he probably would die of the fever but it was a mercy that he would not die alone.

  Sabetha put her hand across his forehead then cupped her hands to his cheeks.

  “Yer fever ‘tis high, Johnny. Tell me where ye’re hurting.”

  He tried but such lethargy seized him that he could not seem to form words or force them out without difficulty. She placed one hand upon his belly and he managed to shake his head no, then she moved on, her touch light, to other body parts. When she finished she asked,

  “So ye’ve pains in your head, back, legs, and arms, then?”

  “Aye. Ta tinneas cinn orm. Ta tart orm.”

  He spoke his father’s tongue, confused and weary and he did not expect her to understand but she did because she held a cup of water to his lips and helped him drink. He savored it, the coolness sliding down his dry throat and easing it a little.

  “I have willow bark tea steeping for ye to drink, too,” she said as she took the cup back. “The willow bark will ease yer head and I’ve put both coneflower and sage in it for the fever, as well. ‘Twill be ready soon, mo chroi.”

  This time, he spoke Tsa-La-Gi but he hoped she understood. “Wado.”

  He could not think for the pain in his head, beating like a living thing and his mind drifted without focus. By the time she brought the hot tea, he had trouble rousing enough to drink it but she held it to his lips, urging him to sip the brew with a soft voice. He could taste the honey she stirred into the tea to ease the bitter taste of the willow bark and with her urging, he finished the cup. It seemed important that he should remember her name, and he found it again, whispering it so he would not forget.

  “Sabetha. Sabetha.”

  “I’m here, Johnny,” she said. “Let me walk ye to the bed so ye can rest. Ye’ll feel a bit better, then, I’m thinking.”

  Through his mental fog, her hands touched him, lifted him, and he tried to move with her, struggled to move his feet the short distance to the bed and somehow he made it. Beneath him, he felt the soft shuck mattress and when he moved, he could hear the faint rustle of the dry corn shucks that filled it. When she pulled a woolen blanket over him, he reached for it and grasped it hard, fingers clutching the blanket to him.

  Something soft and cool touched his forehead and he realized that she must have put a wet rag there to ease the fever. She spoke to him, but it was hard to make out the words. He didn’t know the sense of them. He tried to understand, however, because she was so kind.

  “Have ye family, Johnny? Is there someone I can send for to come, someone who will worry?”

  He had family, once. However, they were gone; all but one brother if Fort Gibson’s many plagues had not killed him too.

  “A dhearthair,” Johnny told her, “Degenali. My brother, Davey Devaney.”

  He spoke the word in three different languages. He hoped she understood at least one.

  “Where is yer brother, then?”

  “Fort Gibson,” he muttered. “In the Nations. If I die, tell him so.”

  He could say no more, too weak and much too sick to focus on words. As he shifted in bed, the corn shucks rustled again and he moaned because moving hurt.

  “Shhh,” Sabetha said, bending over him, bathing his face with a cool rag. “Ye’ll not die, Johnny, not if I can help it. Rest, man.”

  She said he would not die and he wanted to believe that, to hold it and keep it as a beacon to light his way but he still thought he would. At Gibson, he watched too many die of this fever, writhing in pain and crying aloud with the suffering. He knew death stalked him, hunted him as he did the deer, and he had no doubt it would find him. The woman, Sabetha, meant well, but he doubted she could be strong enough to keep death away or to fight the intruder who made him so sick. He tried to tell her but the words jumbled and refused to make sense so she shushed him.

  “Hush now, Johnny dhu,” Sabetha said, her voice sweeter than the honey in the
tea. “Ye must sleep, and I’ll sing ye to sleep if ye’ll lie still.”

  He nodded as the sickness devoured him at a fast pace, unable to do more than lie there, with a good bed beneath him and listen. When she began to sing, in a high, clear voice, grief clenched his heart like a tight fist and he almost wept. The words were familiar to him, an old song that his father sometimes sang to the children and so he slept, drifting away with the music, fever and all.

  Chapter Two

  Sabetha Mahoney Trahern

  Whoever he was, this Johnny Devaney, there was something about him that captured her attention and engaged her emotions. She, wary under almost every circumstance, and shy around strangers, felt drawn to him, found she tended him in his illness like kin. He was very ill and despite her brave words, she was not at all sure he would survive. Johnny’s skin burned beneath her touch, hot and dry in a way that worried Sabetha. Such fevers, in her experience, sapped strength with rapid force, and road weary as well as sick, the stranger in her bed had little left to lose. When she pulled his worn moccasins from his feet, Sabetha eyed the toughened skin, the many old calluses with sympathy. He’d walked far to find her valley, hard miles judging by his appearance. He had few possessions besides the moccasins and buckskins; a knife with a handle carved from a deer antler, a possibles bag with a little salt, less sugar, a flint and steel, and a string of beads.