Bridge to Cutter Gap / Silent Superstitions / The Angry Intruder (5 page)

“Howdy-do,” he said, head tilted to one side.

“I'm so sorry about your father,” Christy said.

“It ain't your fault,” the boy said. “Near as we can figure, Pa was cuttin' across Pebble Mountain when a high wind come up. A big tulip-poplar tree bumped him right on the head.”

“How'd you find him, Creed?” Mrs. Spencer asked, running her hand over his tangled hair.

“Me and Rob and John was huntin' squirrels out thataway. Bait-em—” he turned to Christy, “that's our old hound dog—well, he nosed Pa right out. Tree was still on him.”

Within minutes, a crowd began to form in the tiny Spencer cabin. Apparently word traveled fast out here in the mountains, even without telephones. Most of the people gathered seemed to be relatives of Mr. Allen.

The cabin was nearly full when Christy heard the stomping of feet and the whinny of a horse. A big-boned man strode inside and the crowd parted. He had a shock of reddish, messy hair—hair that looked as if it had not seen a barber in a very long time. His features were rugged. Deep lines etched his face—or maybe it was just the long shadows cast by the kerosene lamp.

“That be Doc,” Mrs. Spencer said.

“I'll be needing more light over here,” the doctor said to Mrs. Spencer. His eyes fell on Christy. He stared at her for a moment, an intense gaze that seemed to go right through her, and for some reason Christy felt a blush flare in her cheeks.

“Neil MacNeill,” he said in a deep voice.

“Christy Huddleston. I'm the new—”

Before she could finish, Dr. MacNeill had turned his back on her. Mrs. Spencer brought another lamp close so he could begin his examination. He took off his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves. The figure lying on the old post-and-spindle bed had not moved.

Mr. Pentland made his way through the crowd to Christy's side. “Doc MacNeill's the only doctor in the Cove,” he explained.

Christy nodded and smiled up at him. She wished she could let him know how glad she was to have a friend in this awful situation, but an eerie silence had fallen on the room. All eyes were watching the doctor. The lamp cast giant shadows, dancing like monsters ready to spring from the walls. Only the draft of cold air seeping through a crack at Christy's back told her that this was all actually happening.

The doctor slid his fingers over Mr. Allen's head, feeling and probing. He took the patient's pulse, checked reflexes, opened the eyelids and stared intently into the eyes.

Finally he spoke, his face grim. “Bob's bad off,” he said to a woman near the bed.

“Who's that?” Christy whispered to Mr. Pentland.

“That's Mary Allen, Bob's wife,” the mail-man answered. “And the man with the beard next to her is his brother, Ault.”

The woman's face was rigid with fear. “Is he goin' to die, Doc?”

The doctor's voice was gentle. “Don't know the answer to that, Mary. He's in a coma now, like a deep sleep. There's some bleeding inside his skull. If I leave the bleeding there, Bob will die.”

He paused, looking around the room, as if lost in his own thoughts. For a moment, his eyes met Christy's. She thought she saw the glint of tears in them.

He probably blames me, too,
Christy thought. She felt like an outsider, the cause of all this horror. If she could have left, if there were anywhere for her to go, she would have.

“There's one chance of saving Bob, though,” the doctor continued. “I could bore a small hole in his head, to let the bad blood out and try to lift the pressure. Mary, I want to tell you the truth. I've never tried this operation. I saw it done once. But it's a risky procedure. It's up to you, Mary. Will you let me try it?”

“I say no,” the bearded man who was Bob's brother exclaimed. “Life and death is in the hands of the Lord. We've no call to tamper with it.”

“No, Ault, you're wrong,” Mary said. Her voice was firm. “We can't let go so long as there's one livin' breath left in Bob. We've got six young'uns to feed. Will you try, Doc?”

The doctor seemed unsure for a moment. Christy could see his problem. There wasn't much chance for the injured man, with or without the operation. With a mountain cabin for an operating room, no nurses, little light, what chance did he have? Still, if Bob Allen died during the operation, it was likely that some of these mountain people would blame the doctor.

“All right then,” Dr. MacNeill said at last. “We'll go ahead.”

He's made a courageous decision
, Christy thought. Had there ever been such an awful setting for an operation? A baby crying, the smell of chewing tobacco, a crowd of people, dirty pots and pans by the hearth. It was hardly sanitary.

“We'll use the kitchen table,” the doctor said. “Fairlight, I'll need boiling water and a hammer and awl. And somebody get me a couple of saw horses and two or three boards. That will have to do for an instrument table. Those of you who aren't helping, stay out of the way, clear to one side. And no wailing or crying.”

Soon the doctor's instruments were sterile, and he was prepared to operate. As some of the men lifted Bob Allen onto the makeshift operating table, Christy heard a scuffle at the door.

Suddenly Bob's wife dashed through the cabin. In her raised hands was a razor-sharp axe. She lifted the axe high over her head and gave a mighty heave. Christy clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream.

With a crash, the axe bit deep into the floorboard under the table.

Christy stared at the axe in stunned disbelief. But the doctor continued his work, unconcerned. Then Mary took a string and tied it around one of her husband's wrists.

“All right, Mary,” said the doctor. “That's fine. That should be helpful. Will some of you take care of Mary until this is over?”

Mrs. Spencer led Mrs. Allen to a chair in a corner. “What was she doing with that axe?” Christy demanded of Mr. Pentland. “And the string . . . Is she crazy?”

“It's to protect Bob during the operation,” Mr. Pentland explained matter-of-factly, as if he were surprised that Christy didn't understand. “The axe is to keep him from bleedin'. And the string is to keep disease away.”

Once again Christy felt that she'd entered a world where she didn't belong. Here people still believed in omens and witchcraft. It was as if these people had been born a century earlier.

“I'll need some help here,” the doctor said, but no one moved forward in response.

He glanced over his shoulder. “You—do you have any nursing training?”

There was no answer. Christy realized that he was speaking to her.

“Me? I . . . no,” she stammered. “I'm a teacher.”

“That'll do just fine. Come here.”

Once again, as she had been at the station and this morning at the General Store, Christy was aware of many eyes on her. She joined the doctor at the table. He was sharpening a razor on a strip of leather.

“You've got a strong stomach?” he asked.

“I . . . I don't know. I suppose so,” Christy said.

The doctor gazed at her steadily, and for a moment she thought she saw a hint of a smile. “We'll know soon enough, I expect,” he said. “I'm going to shave Bob's head. I just need you to hold it steady.”

Carefully the doctor washed his hands in a basin. As he began shaving Mr. Allen's head, Christy tried her best to hold it steady while keeping her hands out of the way. Already, watching the smooth skin of the man's skull appear, she felt woozy. She wondered how long she would last in her new occupation as nurse. She felt herself swaying. To steady herself, she looked up at the ceiling.

“You still with me?” the doctor asked as he reached for his scalpel.

Christy swallowed. Her stomach did a somersault. “I'm fine,” she lied.

“Good. Now, I'm going to be making my incision. Then I'll carefully drill the hole through Bob's skull. You may not want to watch.”

“You may be right,” Christy said, managing a weak smile.

“Bet you weren't expecting this when you set out for Cutter Gap,” the doctor said.

“I'm starting to get used to the unexpected,” Christy said.

“That'll serve you well here.”

Christy glanced down at the thin red line trailing his scalpel. Quickly she looked away.

She met the gaze of Mrs. Spencer, who was holding Mrs. Allen's hand. Mrs. Allen rocked back and forth, her face taut with fear.

“Steady now,” said the doctor. “Keep a tight hold. Your legs holding out?”

“It's my stomach I'm worried about.”

“Don't think about it,” the doctor advised. “So you walked all the way here?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Christy could see the doctor setting down his scalpel and reaching for a thin, pointed, metal tool. “With Mr. Pentland,” she answered.

“In those frocks,” Dr. MacNeill said, “I'm surprised you made it this far.”

“So am I, now.”

The doctor laughed slightly, then fell silent. “No movement,” he commanded, his voice tense.

The room went still. Christy held Mr. Allen's head, his skin oddly cool against hers. Dr. MacNeill's breath was labored. A baby cried, then stopped, as if it understood the importance of the moment.

Christy tried not to think about what was happening just inches from her own hands. A man's skull was being opened. His life hung in the balance. Here, in this primitive cabin in the middle of nowhere, she was helping a doctor try to save a man's life.

If he died, it would be her fault.

There was only one thing to do now.

Christy closed her eyes and began to pray.

Six

T
hat's all, Miss Huddleston.”

Christy looked up at the doctor in surprise. How long had he been working on Mr. Allen? How long had she been praying?

“I can finish up here,” Dr. MacNeill said. “You get yourself some fresh air. I suspect you could use it.”

Slowly Christy released her hold on Mr. Allen. “You're sure?”

“Quite sure. And thank you. You did a fine job.”

Christy allowed herself a momentary glance at the patient. Mr. Allen's face was a ghastly white in the glow of the kerosene lamp. She caught sight of the incision the doctor had made, and her stomach climbed into her throat.

She reached for the wall. “I'll be . . . going then,” she said, making her way dizzily through the crowd.

Outside she breathed deeply of the cold air, trying to shake off the effect of the nightmarish scene. She shivered with the realization of what she'd just done. Was it only yesterday morning that she'd hugged her mother goodbye? How she longed for just a moment in the Huddlestons' warm parlor, with its shiny piano and cozy, welcoming furniture. She'd never appreciated the cleanliness and beauty of it all. Not until now . . .

Christy sat down on the porch steps. Around the yard, people milled in small groups. From time to time they would glance at her curiously, but no one approached.

A small crowd had gathered around Mr. Spencer, who was leaning against a tall pine, singing a song while he strummed a goose quill back and forth across the strings of a box-like instrument. It had four strings, and was shaped differently from a guitar, with a slender waist and heart-shaped holes.

The simple melody seemed to wing its way into her mind and heart.

Down in the valley,
valley so low

Hang your head over,
hear the wind blow.

Hear the wind blow, love,
hear the wind blow;

Hang your head over,
hear the wind blow.

“You feelin' poorly, Miz Huddleston?” came a low voice. “You look a little pale.”

Christy looked up to see Fairlight Spencer. The bare feet in the snow sent a shiver through her. But all Mrs. Spencer's concern seemed to be about Christy.

“I'm fine, thanks,” Christy said. “The fresh air is doing me good. But you . . . aren't you cold?”

“Land sakes, no. This is pretty near spring-like to me. Warmed up considerable since yesterday.”

“Tell me, Mrs. Spencer. What is that instrument your husband is playing?”

“That's a dulcimer,” she replied. “Jeb, he loves to play.”

They fell silent. Christy stared up at the tall peak nearly blotting out the winter sun. “It's beautiful here,” she whispered. “I feel . . . like I'm in a whole different world.”

Mrs. Spencer stared at her, as if she were trying to climb inside Christy for a moment and know what it was like.
She's only ten or so years older than I am
, Christy realized, despite all the children and the lines of worry near Fairlight's eyes.

Mrs. Spencer looked away, suddenly self-conscious. “Sorry,” she apologized. “I guess I was just wonderin' what it would be like to come from your world. Is all your kin back in Asheville?”

Christy nodded. A sudden ache of homesickness fell over her like a shadow. She fingered the locket around her neck. “Would you like to see them?”

“I'd be right honored.”

Christy took off the locket. Mrs. Spencer cupped it in her hand gently, as if she were holding a soap bubble.

“It opens—see?” Christy showed her how to unlock the silver heart.

Mrs. Spencer studied the pictures inside. “A mighty fine-looking family,” she said. “Would that be you? There, lookin' all serious-like?”

Christy laughed. “That was at the church retreat last summer, right after I decided to come here. I suppose I was feeling pretty sure of myself.”

Silence fell between them again. Gently Mrs. Spencer returned the necklace to Christy.

“Mrs. Spencer,” Christy said, “I think Fairlight is such a lovely name.”

The mountain woman looked pleased. “I'd be right honored if you called me by my front name.”

“Good. And you can call me Christy.”

A few feet away, some of the children began a wild snowball fight. “You'll have your hands full, over at the mission school, I expect,” Fairlight said. “The Cove is full of youngsters.” She grinned. “Some of 'em is more trouble than others, mind you.”