A Bride for Donnigan (31 page)
“Why did she do that?” asked Sean. “She knows him. He’s just another horse. He wouldn’t hurt the foal.”
“Parents can be very protective,” said Donnigan. “A new mother will often give her life to save her young.”
Sean nodded his agreement. He had seen new mothers protect their babies before.
“Guess she’ll take good care of him, huh?” he commented as they prepared to leave.
But Donnigan continued to ponder their conversation even after they had turned their mounts and were on the ride home.
Reproduction? It was a strong drive. Animals risked their lives to fulfill the inborn command of God. And that was just to bring an offspring into the temporary world. How much more important that one reproduce spiritual children—children who could be taken to heaven for that eternal life that the Bible spoke of.
That was
his
job—as a parent—and yes, he would be willing to give his life to see that it was accomplished—that his children not be barred from the heaven God had prepared.
Yet, what he was doing—what he was struggling to accomplish—somehow seemed to be falling short. And Donnigan did not understand why.
Of all of the children, Eamon seemed to need the tightest rein. Donnigan often felt at a loss as to how to properly guide the young boy. To discipline after the fact seemed like shutting the barn door after the horse got out. If he could only instill in his son a
desire
to do right. But how? Eamon seemed to thrive on controversy—on bucking authority—on testing his parents. Why? Why? Donnigan asked a dozen times a day. Why so much defiance in a child who was loved?
Eamon was not all bad. In fact, he had many good qualities, and Donnigan and Kathleen continually pointed them out to each other and to the young boy, reminding themselves daily to keep those good points ever before them. But so often the rebellion seemed to struggle with the good.
Another thing that caused Donnigan concern was small Timothy. He followed Eamon everywhere he went, copying the actions of the older child, taking whatever order Eamon cared to give.
If Eamon said, “Here. Throw this rock at that old gobbler,” Timothy threw the rock. If Eamon handed him a stick and said, “See if you can hit hard enough to break that window glass,” Timothy broke the window glass. When Eamon was disciplined for telling Timothy to do such things, he became more clever. He began to say, “Do you think you can tie the goat up by her tail?” Or “Do you think you could make an
A
on the house with this red paint?” Of course Timothy always thought he could, and Eamon could stoutly declare, “I didn’t tell him to do it.”
It was a bad combination and one that worried Donnigan and Kathleen.
“Mama, come quick. Eamon is hurt!”
It was Fiona screaming as she ran into the kitchen. Kathleen dropped the bread dough she was kneading and rushed to follow the young girl, her eyes wide with terror. What had happened?
“He played in the fire,” Fiona shouted over her shoulder as they ran.
The fire. Donnigan and a neighbor man were getting set to butcher one of the farm pigs. A tub of boiling water was needed for dipping the carcass so they could scrape away the tough bristles. All the children had been thoroughly warned time and time again to stay away from the fire.
Kathleen found the boy in the garden shed, curled in a ball, trying hard to keep from screaming over his damaged hands.
“Oh, dear God,” she said after taking one look. Then she turned to Fiona, “Go get your father. Quick!”
She managed to get Eamon to the house. He had given up on being brave and was crying in pain by the time she laid him on the kitchen table. The palms of his hands were fiery red with smears of black soot across them. Kathleen could already see angry blisters beginning to rise.
“Oh, dear God,” she cried again. “Both of them. Both of them.”
Donnigan arrived and took over. Kathleen felt sick to her stomach. She moved along the table and tried to calm the boy by speaking to him, pushing back his unruly hair, and running her hand over his flushed, tearstained cheeks.
The other children began to gather, eyes wide, voices one minute filled with excitement, then silenced by the enormity of the injury.
“He’s hurt bad,” Kathleen heard Brenna whisper.
“He shouldn’t have played in the fire,” responded the motherly Fiona as she wiped away her own tears.
Timothy just stared—wide-eyed. Then he started to cry. He backed away from the cluster and ran sobbing to the boys’ shared bedroom. Kathleen wanted to go to him, but she felt that she was needed where she was.
They cleaned up the damaged hands as best they could, applied some healing salve generously, and bound them with white strips of a sacrificed pillow case.
“I wish he could see a doctor,” said Donnigan.
“But that would take hours,” responded Kathleen.
“Let’s just do the best we can,” said Donnigan, shaking his head. “I hope we can keep the infection out of them. If we see even a hint of it—we’ll have to take him to Raeford by stage.”
Kathleen nodded. They would need to be most vigilant in watching the boy.
The story came out later. Eamon had said to Timothy, “Do you think you could drop this big rock in the hot water?”
Timothy had accepted the rock and taken the dare.
But as Timothy approached the fire and its boiling tub of water, he had stubbed his toe on a piece of firewood left to stoke the flames.
Eamon, who was near his side to watch what the boiling water would do to a stone, saw the younger boy fall forward. He lunged to push him aside, and in so doing lost his own balance, falling with his hands right in the hot coals.
So it was Eamon who took the consequences of his own disobedience. And young Timothy saw firsthand the cost of defying orders.
The hands were slow to heal. Donnigan worried. First, that the hands might not heal properly at all. Then, how the disobedient, rebellious boy would accept having his natural independence totally taken from him. He had to be dressed, he had to be fed, he had to be groomed and cared for. He could not so much as take himself to the outside privy.
At first he found it very hard. Fiona hadn’t buttered his bread right. Brenna hadn’t cut his pancake the right size. His shoe came untied the way Sean had tied it. His bed had wrinkles. People were never there quickly enough when he needed them. He grumbled and complained about almost everything. Donnigan would just say quietly, “If you hadn’t damaged your hands, you could be doing things for yourself.”
Gradually the boy seemed to settle into his circumstances and accept his temporary handicap as his own responsibility.
“I’ll sure be glad when I get these bandages off,” he would declare, but he didn’t chafe and fuss as before.
Kathleen, who daily changed the bandages and clipped away dead and damaged skin, watching closely for signs of infection, knew that she would be glad also.
As Eamon waited for his hands to heal, his attitude changed considerably toward the other members of the family. There seemed to be some special bonding taking place between him and each of his siblings. Sean helped him with his clothes and did his farm chores while Eamon tagged along to supervise. Donnigan always insisted that Eamon at least go through the motions of choring. He didn’t want him sitting around sulking and being bored.
Fiona took her nursing duties seriously, mothering the boy and making sure that everything that he needed was done just right. Brenna made little games of what she did. “Open your mouth wide so the bumble bee can come in,” or “Shut your eyes tight while I wash the freckles off your nose,” she would tell him, and then giggle when he obeyed.
Timothy tried to help his older brother, but almost everything that he attempted didn’t turn out quite right. Timothy likely taught Eamon more about patience than any other family member. For Eamon did adore his younger brother, in spite of the fact that he often led the smaller boy into trouble.
“When you get all better—” Timothy would often say, and then follow the words with some elaborate plan. Eamon would look at his damaged hands and his eyes would cloud. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Kathleen heard him say on more than one occasion. “We might get hurt.”
Kathleen figured that Eamon had experienced quite enough “hurt” for some time to come.
By the time Eamon’s hands healed enough to use in some fashion, he seemed to be much quieter of spirit.
“Maybe God has used this terrible accident to bring Eamon a—a miracle,” Donnigan dared to say to Kathleen as they prepared for bed one evening.
“Oh, I do hope good will come of it,” breathed Kathleen as she slipped her long gown over her head. She moved toward the bed and threw back the covers.
“But it is so hard—so hard to see his hands scarred like this,” she said with heaviness.
“Better his hands than his soul,” replied Donnigan.
Kathleen nodded her head in agreement.
“Now,” she said to her husband, “what are we gonna do with Rachel?”
Donnigan was poring over the Scriptures again. It seemed to Kathleen that he spent most of his evenings reading portions, scribbling down notations and cross-checking verses.
