The River Rose (36 page)

Marvel's whole body was rigid, and her arms and legs thrashed wildly. Jeanne set the lantern down and grabbed her arms. She tried to hold Marvel still, but all she could do was keep her arms from jerking up and down. Jeanne saw that Marvel's jaws were clenched horribly, and she was afraid she might grind her teeth so hard they would break. With a groan she searched around the room for something to put in her mouth, and cursed herself for not asking Dr. Eames for the precaution. There was nothing. Marvel's convulsions went on and on.

Finally the spasms lessened in intensity, and Jeanne was able to let go of her biting grip on Marvel's arms. She jerked two, three times, then her body seemed to sink into the mattress. She had never opened her eyes, and they remained closed. Her mouth was slightly open, and Jeanne had to bend over her face to see if she was still breathing. Her respiration was fast and shallow. Jeanne could feel the sickening heat coming from her body; even the sheet and light quilt covering her were soaked with sweat. "Marvel?" she whispered.

She didn't stir or open her eyes, and Jeanne knew she was unconscious.

She flew out into the hallway and out the back door. Close by on the shore was the dying campfire, with lumps of sleeping figures around it. But Clint was sitting up, and he was staring right at her. Jeanne started to call out to him but he jumped up and started running. He reached her and started to grab her arms, but dropped his hands with a jerk. "Is she—" he gulped.

"No," Jeanne said in a dead voice. "Not yet. But I need your help."

He followed her into the cabin and Jeanne knelt by the bed. Clint knelt by her. Neither of them said anything. Clint thought that Marvel already looked dead. The skin was stretched across her face, and all childlike roundness was gone. It looked like a small skull. Her hair was in dank strings, and Clint could smell the sour odor of the very ill emanating from her.

"She's convulsing," Jeanne said. "I couldn't find anything to put between her teeth."

Clint reached into his pocket, drew something out, and went to wash it in the washbasin. He dried it off and returned to kneel by Jeanne's side. She saw then that it was three round strips of leather braided tightly together. "Leo's collar," Clint said. "Roberty and I are making it."

Marvel started convulsing. Clint put the leather between her teeth and slid behind her, cradling her upper body and holding her arms. Jeanne kept her legs from striking the bed so hard.

Again, it was a long seizure. When they were finally able to let go of her, they knelt again by the bed. Her breathing became more and more like panting. Jeanne felt of her forehead, and it was so hot that Jeanne thought if she licked her finger and pressed it to Marvel's flesh, it would sizzle, like a hot iron. She wasn't sweating now; she was just burning. She convulsed again, and then after a few minutes the spasms started again. Each seizure was longer than the previous one. Clint and Jeanne stared helplessly at each other. Both of them were as pale as death.

After some time Marvel jerked, and her head yanked around toward them, and they both started to grab her. But then she grew still and her eyes fluttered, and then opened. Her gaze seemed unfocused for long moments, but finally Jeanne could tell that Marvel was looking at her. Jeanne took her hand and said, "Hello, my darling. Just lie still and rest."

Marvel's mouth moved, but no sound came out. Jeanne started to tell her not to try to talk, but then she saw the thing that she dreaded even more than death. She saw fear in her daughter's eyes. "No, no, Marvel," she said in a desperate croak. "Don't be afraid, please don't be afraid. I'm right here, I'm here, everything's going to be all right, my darling one. You're strong, and the Lord is with us, always. Please, please don't be scared."

Jeanne leaned over her, her ear next to Marvel's lips. "Okay, Mama. I'll . . . try."

Jeanne collapsed back and she pressed her lips to Marvel's burning hand.

Slowly Marvel looked at Clint, and he thought that his heart would burst with pain. He managed to smile back at her. "Hi, sweet baby."

He saw that she was trying to say something to him, so he bent over her. "It was . . . like angels singing . . . and Jesus was there . . . when you . . . sang . . ." She seemed unable to go on.

Clint kissed her cheek and lifted his head to look at her. "When I sang 'Ave Maria.'" She nodded. With dread he made himself look into her eyes, and he saw the desperation, and the pleading there. "Then I'll just sing it right now, for you, little one. Just for you."

He rose to his feet and left. Jeanne lifted her head and saw that Marvel's eyes were closed. She still breathed.

AS SOON AS CLINT got outside the cabin, he leaned up against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut with anguish.
I can't do this! I would give that little girl anything, anything, even my life, but I can't give her the one thing she asked for!

Clint had not sung since Christmas. He saw himself standing beneath Marvel's window, opening his mouth, and a sorry pathetic croak coming out. He heard a weak travesty of the majestic prayerful song. He thought it would be so pitiful it was almost evil, like a monstrously cruel trick that the devil would play on a dying little girl.

As if he were unconscious, but still moving, he walked slowly down the hall to the side steps. He felt so weak, and so weary, that he thought it was as if he were an old, old man. He climbed up onto the dock and stood there, looking at the sky, bewildered. The moon was full, and there were countless stars, and the night was beautiful. Barely knowing what he was doing, Clint bowed his head and prayed.
Dear God, help me do this. Please. Help me sing for her. Not for me, but for her.

He lifted his head, filled his lungs with the sweet night air, and began to sing.

Ave Maria, Gratia plena
Maria Gratia plena
Maria Gratia plena
Ave, ave Dominus!

It was the strongest and best he had ever sung. He felt his spirits rise, and remembered that he had had this same feeling before as he sang well. It uplifted him, made him reverent, made him aware of a higher plane than this vale of tears. But now he prayed as he sang. He thanked God over and over again in his spirit. He forgot everything except music. Now he knew that the song wasn't coming from him. It never had. It was coming from God Himself.

The song was almost four minutes long, but to Clint, as he finished, he thought with amazement that he might have gone on singing for hours. Instead, he dropped to his knees and murmured, "Oh, thank You, God. Thank You, Christ Jesus. Why, why would You give me such a gift? I'm nothing. I'm a sinful, wretched man. How can You forgive me? I don't deserve anything but death!"

I already died for you, because I love you. I made you and fashioned you before the foundation of the earth, and I gave you this gift. I gave it to you because I am your Father, and you are my son.

Clint never knew whether God had spoken to him in an audible voice, or if He had put the words into his mind. It didn't matter. With wonder he prayed,
My Father . . . my Father. Forgive me, Blessed Father. Forgive me for it all. Thank You, thank You, from now until all eternity, thank You. Finally, now I understand . . . and I want to come home.

WHEN CLINT LEFT
,
JEANNE thought dully that he simply couldn't face it any more, and she didn't blame him. Marvel hadn't opened her eyes again, and neither had she had convulsions. She was so still and limp and bloodless that Jeanne kept her eyes fixed on her chest to watch it rise and fall in her quick shallow breaths. Jeanne wondered at her own calmness. But it didn't matter, really. If—when Marvel died, Jeanne was just going to lie down and never move again. She hoped that God would kill her. If it was slowly, by starvation or from thirst, then so be it. It was no more than she deserved.

Then the sound of heavenly music came floating into the room.

Ave Maria . . .

Jeanne sat transfixed, motionless. As the song went on, she felt as if she was not merely listening to it, but that she was breathing it in, that it was filling her, slowly but surely, with a kind of soft quietness. Her head stopped pounding, her jaw relaxed, her fingers lost their tension, she even felt herself settle down on her knees, relaxing her body. It was as if the music was warm oil, and it was being poured right over her. She saw Marvel's eyelids flutter, and she opened her eyes for a moment. Slowly they closed again.

Jeanne's mind was restful, tranquil, as Clint sang. She felt the presence of the Lord very strongly, for the first time in a long time. When he finished she laid her head down on the bed and prayed.

Oh, dearest Lord Jesus, my blessed Savior, please forgive me. I've been so angry, I've hardened my heart to stone. I've spit in Your face as surely as those who crucified You did. I'm sorry, so desperately sorry, please forgive me!
Instantly Jeanne knew she was forgiven. All of the terrible things she had done, particularly since Marvel had gotten sick, were gone from His sight just as if they had never happened. Jeanne sagged with relief.

Thank You, Blessed Lord. Now strengthen me, comfort me, let Your Holy Spirit fill me with Your boundless love. I know what I must do, and thank You for giving me the strength to do it.

She rose, and was slightly surprised that she didn't ache any more, either her body or her mind. Going to the window, she saw Clint kneeling on the dock, his head bowed, and her eyes filled with tears. It was the first time she had wept, and these weren't tears of sorrow; not yet. These were tears of joy, for Clint. She went down to the deck and called softly, "Clint? Please come back up to Marvel with me."

He looked up, and tears were streaming down his face, too. He wiped them away, and smiled at her. It was a beatific smile, gentle and kind. He rose and looked over at the campfire. Everyone had awakened when he sang, of course.

Jeanne followed his gaze and for the first time realized that Dr. Eames was there, asleep in a bedroll. That afternoon she had told him to leave her and Marvel alone, they didn't need him any more. Now she called out softly, "It's all right, she's still—with us. But you can all come wait in the hall. In fact, please do come, and pray for us."

Clint walked with her to the stairs. "Are you—are you sure you want me, Jeanne?"

"I'm sure. And Marvel asked for you, Clint. I'm so sorry, so very sorry."

"I know," he said sincerely. "Me, too."

They went back into the cabin and knelt by the bed. Both of them were sure of what to do. They laid their hands on top of Marvel's, and with the other they held hands, and then bowed their heads.

Jeanne prayed a simple prayer for Marvel's healing, and thanking God for many things, including Clint, and that he had found the Lord. Then Clint prayed, too. After that they silently prayed, their heads bowed and eyes closed. They felt Marvel stir the tiniest bit, and they both looked up.

She was looking at Jeanne, and she managed a whisper they could both barely hear. "I'm not scared . . . any more, Mama. I'm just . . . so tired." So slowly, as if it was against her will, her eyes closed.

"I know, little girl," Jeanne said soothingly. "I know. Sweetest Marvel, you know that the Lord Jesus is here, right here. Don't worry about me, I'm not afraid any more either. So if you get too tired, my love, you just go on. You'll know if that's what you need to do. The Lord Jesus will tell you if it's time for you to go home with Him."

Marvel gave no sign.

Jeanne and Clint wept again, but silently.

The hours passed, the night waned, they wept and prayed. The lamp flickered and hissed and went out. Finally dawn came, with dim fingers of first light creeping through the windows. Jeanne raised her head; she hadn't been asleep, just resting her head on the bed. Clint was staring at Marvel, and Jeanne's eyes went to her daughter's face, expecting to see her death mask.

Marvel was looking back at her. She smiled.

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