Divine Intervention

Divine Intervention

A low voice, almost inaudible, bade him come in.

After wiping the soles of his shoes on a mat before the door, he
opened it. He shooed away a big gray goose that was attempting to work
its way around him and entered the humble dwelling. The interior of the
small thatched cottage was dim after the brightness of the day. Dust
motes danced in the only light in the room: rays of sunshine peeking
beneath worn curtains to lie in golden bands upon rough walls. As his
eyes adjusted to the comparative darkness, he located the small figure
huddled on a bed in a corner.

"Thank you for coming so quickly," said the woman in such a quiet tone
that he had to struggle to understand her words.

The ruddy-faced man, tall and broad-shouldered, was filled with dread
as though God Himself had spoken. He had imagined this day for quite
some time and now that it had come, he still wasn't certain how he
would react to the question she was, in all probability, going to
ask.

Maybe I can delay this and get her mind off the question, he thought
miserably.

His usually vigorous stride reduced to a shamble, he made his way to
the woman's bedside and took a seat in the plain wooden chair sitting
next to her cot. He settled himself uneasily against its straight back.
Gazing into her face, he reached for her hand.

Her thin skin bore not a trace of color. Lines around her mouth
attested to the pain and the blue-green eyes that reminded him of the
sea were clouded. He curved his lips into a smile, hoping that it
appeared genuine.

"Good day to ye, Doireann. I came as soon as I could. Is there
something I can get for ye, lass? A glass of water or a nice cup of
tea?" He started to rise but sank back into the chair as her bony hand
grasped his sleeve.

"Tully," she said in a voice so faint that he strained to hear its low
tones. "There's nothing you can do save what you know in your heart
that I need."

The anguish he felt was evident in the grim look on his face and the
dejected slump of his shoulders. How could he do what she asked of him?
Yet, how could he refuse? This battle had been going on for so long and
he knew how it would eventually end. But at his hands? Why his hands?
Even as he pondered the question, he knew the answer. Because they were
best friends and because she had nobody else? Abruptly he stood,
flinging the chair to one side. He began to pace the length of the
small room as his mind took him back to a better time?

Tears filled his eyes as he remembered days when Doireann and he had
run, laughing, through the green fields and down to the sea. They would
walk along the edge of the water, shrieking in mock terror as the
wavelets covered their feet with warm, wet curls of salty liquid that
soaked the hems of pant legs and skirts. Occasionally an unusual shell
or a beautiful piece of sea glass would wink at them and they would
stoop to retrieve the treasure. How simple life had been.

Years had come and gone since then. Adulthood, with all of its
inherent responsibilities, had injected itself into the simplicity of
their lives. So many changes had taken place that it boggled the mind
to think of them. Yet they had remained friends through them all.

Now, alone and desperately ill, Doireann needed him more than ever. He
understood, intellectually, her overwhelming need. But there were
things he had promised never to do under any circumstances. How could
he face the remainder of his life if he broke those vows? How could a
merciful God allow this cruel choice to be thrust upon him?

Agitated, he returned to the bed. The frail woman held out a small
pillow and, reluctantly, he took it from her. Indecision, pity and
fright warred within his body, mind and spirit. Those sea colored eyes
met his; they were steely with determination. Minutes ticked by as the
two friends contemplated each other. Ashamed, he turned his eyes away
and looked around the room. More minutes passed in silence as he stared
at the small pillow she had pressed into his hands and still he could
not bring himself to a firm decision.

A small choking sound interrupted his inspection. Dropping to his
knees, he clasped Doireann's delicate hand. Her face was suffused with
an almost healthy glow and her eyes were fixed on a spot somewhere over
his shoulder. He bowed his head and began to pray for his friend?"Yea,
though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no
evil?"

As he felt the hand within his own go slack, he raised his eyes to
look at Doireann's still face. Peace shone upon her features and he
knew, without doubt, that she was no longer in pain. The yoke of that
cruel choice had been lifted from his shoulders. "Thank you, God." He
murmured. "I am sorry that I doubted your mercy. Forgive me."

He closed Doireann's blue-green eyes and crossed her hands upon her
chest. In silent prayer he walked the short distance to the main street
of the village.

Making his way to the church, he entered and walked slowly to the bell
pull. Laying hold of the cord, the newly ordained priest, Father Tully,
began pulling it. Almost immediately the sonorous peal of the bell
filled the air, notifying the villagers that a neighbor had died.

The bell went on ringing, and the day being still and calm, the sound
of it must have travelled across the field, down to the sea, so that
men fishing in the bay would have heard it too.