After a while Xanthe started, then said apologetically, “Oh, I almost forgot . . . I have a message for you, Puppy.”
“Yeah?” David’s face lit up, and Xanthe, for the hundredth time at least, envied the melting brown eyes and impossibly long lashes.
“Here, I wrote it down . . .” She fidgeted, going through the pockets in her breeches and overcoat. “The drones, they can’t handle all the traffic, so we can’t get hard copies . . . here.”
Eagerly David read: Glad to hear from you, Puppy. For now, just stay home and keep watch. That’s what we’re all doing here.
“Oh, thank the Lord,” David breathed, pointing to the sentences for Xanthe to read. “That means my captain isn’t reporting back for duty. They must have a really bad feeling about the Global Union Task Forces and that creep, Luca Therion, too. I hate to call him my commander in chief.”
“What’s the rest of it mean, David?” Xanthe asked curiously.
And, Puppy, you’ll be glad to know that me and your two brothers have come home. If we don’t meet here, then we’ll all see you at our Father’s house. Love from all, Mama Noc.
David frowned. “I’m not . . . sure . . . this isn’t any code we talked about . . . and—love . . . ?” Suddenly his face lit up like a child’s at Christmas. “They—Captain Slaughter! And that old savage, Rio, and Lieutenant Darmstedt! Xanthe! This means they’ve all been saved! My whole team! Thank God! Thank God!” He jumped up, drawing Xanthe with him. Easily, for he was a strong man, he gathered her up in his arms and whirled her around, laughing. “My captain! My comrades! Zoan did it, that scoundrel!”
Xanthe couldn’t help laughing as David whirled her around and around. She threw back her head and then arched backward and threw her arms into the air.
Finally David set her down, but kept her in the circle of his arms. “The Lord is so good, Xanthe,” he said in a low voice. “There’s a time for mourning, but He always gives us a time of joy, too.”
Breathlessly she nodded. “I’m beginning to see that, too.”
They stared at each other, but Xanthe was very conscious of Kyle, so she broke what was becoming a tight embrace. “I—I’m so glad for your team, David. We needed some good news. By the way, how’s your grandfather?”
They returned to their seats on the porch steps. David answered in a low voice, “He’s not doing so well. But he insists on wandering around, praying, almost every day. He’s weak, and I think he’s getting another cold. Grandma’s afraid that he’ll get pneumonia again.”
“Maybe I should take him into town to a doctor,” Xanthe said worriedly. “It should be all right if he just wouldn’t start preaching.”
“Don’t even suggest it!” David exclaimed. “You might give him the idea, and if he set his mind on it, a whole battalion couldn’t stop him. Yeah, we’ve already talked about him needing to see a doctor.” He snorted, a dry sound of amusement. “Riley even offered, as cool as winter, to kidnap a doctor and bring him up here. Grandpa politely refused. I don’t know what Riley would have done with the doctor anyway. And I was kind of scared to ask.”
“Yes, I can understand that,” Xanthe said dryly. “He’s not the kind of man that you would ask a lot of personal questions.”
David stared off into space, deep in thought. “You know, he and I decided to go with my grandfather every day and stay with him, watch over him, while he’s out walking and praying. But you know what? Riley won’t let me go. I mean, he doesn’t forbid me or anything like that. He just jumps up and gets there first. It’s funny because I think Riley is really wanting to be with Grandpa, to watch him, be with him, listen to him pray. Riley acts like he couldn’t care less about God.”
Xanthe said, “Oh? Like your team acted? Like I did?”
David smiled down at her. “You know, you’re pretty smart . . . for a girl.”
She smiled up at him for a moment, and he noticed the richness of her lips. He had always liked her mouth. It wasn’t soft and pouty looking, the way some men liked; it was firm and decisive, just as Xanthe herself was. Aside from her eyes, they were her best feature. He stared at her and struggled within himself, for he wanted so badly to kiss her for a long time.
As she watched him, realization slowly dawned in her eyes.
Xanthe knew, in an instant’s revelation, that David Mitchell loved her. A wave, a surging tide, of longing and passion swept over her, and she blushed hotly and averted her eyes.
The moment seemed to last a long time, but like a fragile bubble, it popped when Kyle roared up to the porch and announced, “I want to go show Bruvver Mitchell my car. Bye!”
“Whoa, there, hoss!” David said, jumping up. “I think maybe you better let me and Aunt Xanthe come with you.”
“Okay,” he relented, adding, “but you can’t ride. You’re too big.”
Busily he pedaled off. Mannie was no longer riding, but Benny the Bear was sitting patiently, if precariously, in the passenger seat.
David had to carry the car some of the way, and Kyle ran ahead impatiently, yelling loudly long before they reached the Mitchells’ cabin. Xanthe visited with the Mitchells for a short while, but soon it was time for her to leave. David walked her back to the Vulcan.
She seemed a little nervous and immediately started to get in the vehicle when they reached it.
But David had decided that he would—must—say something to her, something that wasn’t a joke, something to let her know how he felt about her. Gently he took her arm and pulled her to him.
She seemed reluctant at first, but then she smiled up at him, and he got his kiss. It was long and sweet.
“Xanthe, please don’t go,” he said huskily, holding her tightly.
“Stay here with us . . . with me . . . I—”
Quickly she put her fingers against his lips. “No, don’t—don’t say—anything else, David. It’s—it would make it too hard.”
He nodded, understanding. “It is hard. And, Xanthe, I just think that the time is growing short. I hope, and I’m going to pray, that soon, you’ll come be with us. With me.”
Xanthe glowed. This—David—was like an impossible dream.
It was the sort of wonderful thing that she could treasure and hold and think of in the days to come.
She merely told him, “Take care of yourself.”
“You take care of yourself, too, Xanthe,” David said.
As she drove through the darkening woods, she fought her longings, fought hard. She wanted more than anything to stay with David Mitchell. She dared to imagine marrying him, living in bliss in those cabins, surrounded by friends and love and security . . .
But Xanthe St. Dymion knew that the days ahead held no such promise.
TWENTY-TWO
IT WAS THE NIGHT of the full moon, and Merrill Stanton thought he had never looked out upon a world so lovely and so peaceful. Snow had fallen gently all day, blanketing the woods and fields, softening the spiky outlines of the bare hardwood trees, mantling the evergreens with thick white cloaks. Now, in the darkness, the brightness of the snow had faded to a dusky silver-blue sheen. The faint light of the candle Merrill was holding streamed out, and where the light touched the snow were occasional flashes, as if God had carelessly strewn precious jewels on the steps of the humble cabin.
It’s hard to believe that evil is out there . . . hiding . . . lurking in the darkest shadows . . . but it is, isn’t it, Lord? That’s—that’s what You’ve been trying to show me, to tell me, to make me understand, that it’s not just a picture book, it’s not just a fairy tale, even though I do feel like that’s what we’re living sometimes . . . the Woodcutter’s Cottage, the Forest Deep and Dark . . . and the Big Bad Wolf— “Oh! What is this? Just—just look at this!”
His wife’s wrathful mutterings interrupted Merrill’s thoughts. He could tell by her tone that she was utterly frustrated, and he sighed as he turned and walked into the small kitchen, which was much like the Mitchells’. Somehow he knew that whatever he said was
going to be wrong. It was amazing that he could know that, but he couldn’t figure out what the right thing to say was. He and Genevieve had been married for almost thirty-five years, and he still didn’t know how to handle his wife when she got upset like this. He sighed deeply and plunged in. “It smells really good, Genevieve,” he said with false heartiness.
“Smells good! Oh, yes, but just look at it!” she said scathingly. She was holding towels, folded into fat pads. On the towels was some sort of round black pot that she had just taken out of the oven. In the pot was a brown substance.
“Yes, looks delicious,” Merrill observed.
Genevieve slammed it down onto the table. “You don’t even know what it is.”
“Of course I do!” he blustered before he could stop himself.
Genevieve already looked triumphant. “Oh? So, go ahead. What is it, Merrill?”
“It’s—uh—is it—no, wait, I know,” he said desperately. “It’s one of those—uh—Christmas puddings, isn’t it? Like—like Tiny Tim had? The—uh—British—things?”
She was staring up at him accusingly, her cheeks reddened with the heat of cooking. She had a smudge of flour on one cheek, and her eyes were sparkling. “No, it’s not a Christmas pudding, Merrill,” she said ominously. “You wouldn’t know a Christmas pudding if you sat on it. And neither would I.”
“Oh. Umm—is it—”
“Oh, never mind! It’s a German chocolate cake! I mean, it’s supposed to be! But I never made one from scratch before. I always had the freeze-dried kit things, and you just popped them in the laser oven and there they were! But this—this—how am I supposed to know how to get the coconut and glaze separated from the cake? It gets all—tumbled up together, and won’t—do right!”
“But, Genny, it smells really good, really! Can’t we try it? I mean, it might taste just fine.”
“No,” she said, her shoulders suddenly sagging. Slowly, as if she were very old, she pulled out the armless wooden chair and sat down. “I was trying to make it for Allegra. It was always her favorite, you remember? I wanted to make her a pretty cake with maybe a sprig of holly on top for a garnish . . . but this isn’t pretty.
It looks like—like—pudding.”
Merrill sat down in the only other chair at the table. “Didn’t you know,” he said quietly, “that that’s exactly what they garnished the Christmas pudding with in those olden times? You know I’ve read Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol at least a hundred times.
The puddings, they were ugly old lumps, but they sprinkled them with sugar and then surrounded them with sprigs of holly and put one on top, a little bit of lady holly, with berries on it . . .”
Genevieve began to cry.
Merrill held her. He knew that she wasn’t crying over some silly cake. It was because of the death of Neville, their son-in-law.
And it wasn’t really a deep grief because of him; they hadn’t known him very well. His career in the marines had meant that he didn’t have much time off, and since he and Allegra had married, they’d been stationed here and there and finally assigned to Twenty-Nine Palms, more than a thousand miles away.
But Allegra was suffering, and so her mother was suffering, too.
Genevieve wept a long time, and Merrill didn’t say any more.
There wasn’t anything to say.
Finally she straightened and wiped her eyes with the corner of her makeshift apron, a square of white sheet tied around her waist.
“He’s evil, you know,” she said in a curiously colorless voice. “That German general. That von Eisenhalt. Neville died because of him.
Perry died because of him. Many, many people are going to die because of that one man.”
Merrill sat back in his rickety chair, studying her. Genevieve didn’t often say such things. She was a very practical, down-to-earth woman. He was the fey one, the one who mooned around, thinking of fairy tales and dreaming of ancient days and reading dusty, forgotten books.
“You know, Genevieve,” he said quietly, “I think the Lord told you to say that. Just that. I think I needed to hear it.”
She had been staring into space rather vacantly, but now she focused on her husband. “Maybe,” she said cautiously. “I’ve been thinking of it a lot these past few days. Of that man. Of the evil that’s been loosed in this world. We’ve seen it now, Merrill. It’s touched us.”
He nodded. “Yes, it has. And the Lord has been—showing me some things, telling me some things. I’ve had a hard time—working it out. But what you just said . . . it kind of confirms it.”
She propped one elbow on the table, rested her chin on it, and leaned forward to listen carefully. That was one thing Merrill had always loved and appreciated about his wife. She listened. She paid attention. It made him feel important, that he really mattered. He took a deep breath. “I think,” he said slowly, “that God has been telling me why He brought us here.”
She nodded, her face taking on a faraway look again. “At first I thought it was just to get us out of Hot Springs. That was purpose enough for me. But that’s not it exactly, is it?”
“That may be part of it, but I think there’s more.” Merrill hesitated and then said, “I think we’re here because of Jesse Mitchell.”
“What do you mean?”
Merrill shifted uncomfortably. “I know how weird this sounds, but I think God has been telling me that Jesse Mitchell is a key. He’s like a—pivotal piece, a lightning rod, maybe.”
“I don’t understand, Merrill,” she said gently.
He explained it to her, groping for words, but talking, talking, and all the while praying, while the nebulous ideas got a firm hold in his mind. Eventually she—and even Merrill—completely understood.
“You have to talk to the others,” she said firmly. “Especially Brother Mitchell.”
It was before dawn when the knock came on Merrill’s door. He and Genevieve were barely up; Merrill was still struggling with getting the fire started in the cookstove. Unlike Jesse, he wasn’t skilled at leaving a fire arranged the night before so that he’d have a good bed of coals in the morning. He had to start over again every morning.
Genevieve hurried to the door and cracked it, then opened it wide.
“Good morning, ma’am, sir,” Riley Case said, shifting uncomfortably. He was fully dressed and had his ever-present rifle. Without further pleasantries he said, “Brother Mitchell’s not going out today.
He’s sick.”
“Oh, no,” Genevieve said, turning to her husband. “Merrill, we have to go up there and talk to them right away.”
“Well, let’s get dressed first,” Merrill said mildly, but his kind blue eyes were worried as he came to the door.
“Talk to them?” Riley repeated. “You’re a pharmacist, aren’t you, Mr. Stanton? Don’t you think you could do something besides talk to him?” He was a little sharp, and Merrill was surprised. Riley rarely showed any emotion at all, and the fact that he was so worried about Jesse Mitchell showed that he must care very deeply for the man.
“I’ve got some medicine, Mr. Case, but I think that my wife and I have some—um—plans that will help Brother Mitchell even more,” Merrill said soothingly. “Now, if you would excuse us, we’ll get dressed and go right up to the Mitchells’. And, Riley, would you please meet us there? What we have to say concerns you, too.”
“Yes, sir,” Riley said, though with a trace of impatience. He started to leave, then turned and said gruffly, “I haven’t talked to
Mrs. Saylor. Maybe you’d like to let her know. Whatever.” He jumped off their porch and hurried away.
Genevieve watched him go, a thoughtful look on her face. But Merrill didn’t notice and merely said, “Let’s hurry, Genevieve, since we have to go get Allegra and Kyle.”
“Mm, yes,” she agreed.
In about half an hour they had gathered together in the Mitchells’ cabin. Jesse had been in bed, but when the Stantons arrived, he insisted on getting up. He was pale and
hoarse, and he had a deep, racking cough. Noe fussed, but she knew he would do whatever he wanted to do anyway, so she made him put on a Ty-wool sweater and tied a rather ludicrous red-and-green muffler around his neck. Then she made him some sassafras tea with honey, and the sweet scent permeated the small room.
Allegra was pale, with shadows under her eyes, and she seemed to have lost some weight. Riley steadily refused to look her way as he brooded by the fireplace, set apart, as he always was. David sat holding Kyle, who was unusually quiet. He kept casting sad glances at his mother, though she tried to smile and act normally. However, as most children will, he could sense something was wrong.
Brother Mitchell smiled wanly at the group sitting at the table. “I hope you came to pray for me, sisters and brothers,” he said. “Prayers of the saints heal the sick.”
“That’s the first time he’s admitted he’s sick,” Noemi muttered.
“Yes, we’ll pray for you, and I’ve got some medicine that will do you good, Brother Mitchell,” Merrill said firmly. “I hope you’ll take it.”
“I sure will,” Jesse croaked. “Lord God made medicine, too.”
“Good,” Merrill said briskly. “But before we pray, Brother Mitchell, there’s some things I’d like to—uh—talk about.”
Jesse was very tired, and unbelievably he almost flinched when Merrill said that. However, he reached out and drew the Bible toward him. He had no choice. He was a minister to God’s people, and a sore throat and aching head didn’t stop them from needing to hear the Word. “Of course, brother. What would you like to study today?”
Merrill glanced uncertainly at his wife. She nodded firmly to him, and while he still seemed to be groping for words, she said with faint exasperation, “No, Brother Mitchell, today it’s going to be my husband who ministers to you.”
Real pleasure lit Jesse’s fever-dulled eyes. “Why, that’s good news, Brother Stanton. Real good news to me. I could use a good word from the Lord.”
“I—I—” Merrill stopped and said helplessly, “I can’t help it, Genevieve, it’s like—preaching to Moses or something.”
Fallen Stars, Bitter Waters Page 33
