The Miracle Worker

©2005 Ian Hobson

It was just an ordinary summer's day; or so Verity thought as she walked along with her woollen shawl around her shoulders and an arm through the handle of her woven basket. She rarely travelled alone; but now and again, if her mother didn't feel well enough to accompany her, she would walk by herself to the market town of Colgate to buy a few essentials like candles or salt. Behind her, as she left the village, the sun was barely showing itself above the eastern hills, but other villagers were also on the road. She stepped off the track to let old Joseph Shepherd go by on his horse-drawn cart.

'You going to market?' he enquired, as he passed. Then, as Verity nodded, he pulled on the reigns and slowed his carthorse to a stop to let Verity catch up and climb up onto the seat beside him. 'Plenty of room for two,' he said, taking Verity's basket from her and stowing it under the seat before jiggling the reigns to encourage the carthorse to set off again. 'Git along there!'

He smiled at Verity, noticing, not for the first time, how pretty she was. Verity smiled back, thinking how foolish she had been as a young girl, to be frightened of the old farmer, just because his face looked a little odd.

'So how are you, Verity? Keeping well?' Verity smiled and nodded her reply, pushing a strand of long dark hair back from her face. 'And your mother?' Verity tilted her head and frowned and pointed to her knees. 'Ah... bit o knee trouble, eh? Get a bit o' that myself.' As they travelled on, Joseph continued to chat, and Verity replied with smiles and nods and the occasional hand sign. Verity hadn't spoken since she was seven; since the time she saw her father killed by a stampeding bull. A passing physician had examined her the day after her eighth birthday, concluding that there was nothing physically wrong with her, but that the loss of speech was obviously caused by shock and that it would surely wear off in time. But almost ten years had passed since then.

Soon they reached the crossroads and, needing little encouragement, the carthorse made the left turn towards Colgate just as a horse and rider coming from the north overtook them. The rider was a young man, well dressed and well mounted, on a black stallion. He was a stranger to both Verity and Joseph, but he turned in the saddle and greeted them with a smile and a nod. 'How far to the next town?' he asked.

'Bout two miles,' Joseph replied. Verity nodded her agreement; suddenly wishing she had worn her best dress and shawl. The young man held Verity's gaze for a moment, wondering how such an ugly old farmer could have such a beautiful daughter. Then he waved his thanks and rode on, leaving the horse and cart behind.

The rider's name was Daniel Brook, and he was the son of a clergyman; though he had no ambition to follow his father into the church. In fact he had little ambition at all, having inherited a tidy sum of money from a rich uncle on his mother's side of the family. The money had been held in trust and he'd only been able to spend a little of it; but now that he was twenty-one, it was his to spend as he saw fit. There was a time when he would have thanked God for his good fortune, but he had a mind of his own and, perhaps as a reaction to his upbringing and his pious father's unyielding faith in God, he'd come to believe that faith was a waste of time and energy. He knew his money would not last forever but he planned to have a good time while it did, despite pleas from his family to do otherwise. He kicked his heals into his horse's flanks and leaned forward in the saddle as he went into a gallop.

Daniel had been riding since before dawn, having stayed the night at a roadside in. Rising early was one habit he'd picked up from his father; though unfortunately the innkeeper's routine didn't include making breakfast so early. So Daniel had left without any and was feeling very hungry; and his mind soon turned from how beautiful the young girl was, to thoughts of fresh-baked bread and slices of bacon.

Soon the town of Colgate came into view, with its church spire to the south of the town dominating the skyline, and a wide river meandering through its centre. Daniel slowed his horse to a trot as he began to overtake many people, most of them on foot, making their way into town; some carrying loads on their backs or pushing handcarts or leading packhorses. One man was carrying a sickly looking child on his back; a little girl in a tattered dress who stared at Daniel wide-eyed as he passed.

'Where is the horsy going, Father?' the little girl asked, as she watched the man on horseback ride on.

'Into town, just like us, Mary.' Still walking, the man swung the girl around from his back and into his arms and smiled at her. Mary put her thin arms around her father's neck and hugged him, and he hugged her back as he continued to stride along the road.

The man's name was John Barns, and he and his daughter had been on the road since before dawn. He was a farm labourer and he lived with his family in a tiny cottage belonging to a local landowner. His daughter, Mary, had always been a sickly child; thin and wasted and unable to walk. And the fingers of her right hand were deformed and useless. Yet she was always cheerful, always the light of his life, and at least she had survived; three of her siblings had not reached the age of two. There were times when both John and his wife had gone hungry in order to give the children what little food they had. There was never enough.

As they walked on, there were more and more people on the road. Colgate was always a busy, bustling place but on this particular day there seemed, to John, to be more people than usual. As they passed through the market square, some of the traders had set up their stalls and were beginning to do business. Mary's head turned left and right as she looked at all the people; she had never seen so many, and the noise of all their voices was almost frightening. She clung to her father as he made his way between the stalls. He seemed to be looking for something.

John had heard that there was a holy man in town. Apparently the man had been living in a cave on the outskirts, but on market days he would come into the square and kneel on the ground and pray for miracles. And it was said that his prayers had been answered; for a blind man had regained his sight and an old woman who could hardly walk had been seen running and skipping through the town.

John soon found what he was looking for. Surrounded by a growing number of onlookers was grey-haired old man, dressed in rags and sitting cross-legged with a wooden bowl on the ground in front of him. His right eye looked pale and lifeless, but he gazed steadily ahead with the other eye, and every now and then he'd mutter something to himself. John moved closer, trying to hear what the man was saying, but a short stocky man in front of John turned and said, 'He's no holy man. He's just a beggar.' The man left, so John took his place and shifted Mary's weight from his left arm to his right.

'What's the man doing?' Mary asked, innocently.

'I don't know,' replied John, in a whisper. 'Saying his prayers, I think.' He touched his finger to his lips to forestall any further questions.

As the holy man, or whatever he was, continued to sit, occasionally muttering to himself, more people came and peered at him, whilst others became bored and left. Eventually, as a wealthy looking woman dropped a silver coin into his bowl, the old man grinned and said something in a language that John did not understand.

'Speak English, why can't yer!' exclaimed a young lad, who stood just in front of John, causing a ripple of laughter. But the old man ignored him as though he had not spoken.

After a while longer, realising that the man probably was just a beggar, John was ready to leave. He'd hoped that the stories had been true; that the man really could do miracles, just like in the Bible. He put his hand into his pocket and fumbled with the one remaining coin he possessed. Then realising that the beggar's need was probably greater than his, he stepped forward and dropped the coin into his bowl. And as he began to walk away, the old man repeated the words he'd spoken before.

'The good Lord moves in mysterious ways,' said a voice to John's left. 'He's speaking Latin.'

John turned towards the speaker and saw that it was the young rider he had seen on the way into town. He was polishing an apple on his tunic and was about to take a bite when he noticed John looking at him. The young man smiled, first at John and then at his daughter, whose hungry eyes were on the apple. And then, with a guilty look, instead of biting his apple, he tossed it towards her. It was then that a miracle happened: Mary caught the apple in her right hand; the hand that until that day had been crooked and useless.

At first John was so surprised that his jaw fell open and then, as he found his voice, he shouted, 'A miracle!' Mary bit into the apple. People turned towards them, their attention suddenly taken away from the old man.

'What's a miracle?' asked a woman.

'My daughter's hand!' replied John. 'She can use her hand!'

'Couldn't she use it before?' the woman asked.

'No.' John gently lowered Mary until her feet touched the ground. 'Can you walk, Mary?' he asked. He let go of her but held out his arms in case she should fall. Mary seemed unsure what to do, but she was standing unaided.

'Give her room,' said one of the onlookers, and the people closest to John and Mary began to back away. Then as John took a backward step, Mary took a step towards him.

'A miracle!' exclaimed John, for the second time. He backed further away from Mary as the onlookers made room. Mary took another bite of her apple then walked slowly towards her father. The crowd began to applaud and cheer, and as Mary reached John he swept her of her feet and, with tears in his eyes, he hugged and kissed her.

'I can walk, Daddy,' said Mary through a mouthful of apple.

'How do we know she couldn't walk before?' The short stocky man, who had accused the holy man of being nothing but a beggar, had returned and was looking on doubtfully. 'Does anyone else know the child?'

'Good question,' said Daniel Brook. He too was sceptical; though slightly puzzled by the part he had played in this, as he was unsure what had compelled him to give away his apple.

'I do,' replied a tall man who was looking over the heads of others. 'Least, I know John Barns, and if he says the child couldn't walk before, then she couldn't.'

'But does anyone know the girl?' the short stocky man asked.

'I do,' said a young woman. 'Her name's Mary, and...' Suddenly the young woman's voice trailed away and a look of shock registered on her face. Everyone had turned to see who was speaking. Daniel Brook recognised her as the beautiful young farmer's daughter. John Barns knew her as
Verity Smith, the girl who had lost her voice when her father had been killed by a bull.

'How long have you been able to speak, Verity?' he asked.

'I... I just... just now,' Verity replied. Her shocked look was changing to a look of joy.

'Another miracle!' exclaimed John.

'Just hold on there,' said the short stocky man, looking accusingly at Verity. 'Are you saying the child couldn't walk before?'

'Yes,' replied Verity, hesitantly, 'she lives... in a cottage... near my village, and... she's never been able to... walk... or use her right hand.' She pointed towards Mary, who was still holding what was left of the apple in her right hand.

'And you're also saying that you couldn't speak before?'

'No... I mean... yes... not since I was little.'

'Well I don't believe a word of it,' said the short stocky man. 'You're probably all in it together. You three and this bag of old rags.' He gestured towards the old man who was still sitting on the ground with the begging bowl in front of him. In the excitement the crowd had almost forgotten that he was there.

For once, Ned Kettle could hardly believe his luck. He'd tried many professions over the years: builder's labourer, carpenter, monk, carter, fisherman, thief; and he'd spent time in prison for the latter. But finally, after almost dying from a mysterious sickness that had left him blind in one eye and completely deaf - he'd been forced to try his hand at begging. At first he'd made barely enough to survive but since he'd come to Colgate things had been different.

It had started with the man who had fallen over him as he sat begging on a street corner, one market day. The man had seemed dazed at first, having hit his head on the stone paving. But then he had jumped to his feet and gone running through the town as though something wonderful had happened. For some reason, this had resulted in more people coming and putting food or money into his begging bowl.

Then there had been the old lady. Strangely, she had been carried into the market square on a litter. Yet within minutes of putting two pennies into his bowl she was on her feet dancing and jumping about. Ned wondered if it was he, or the people of the town, that had gone completely mad. But he didn't much care, as he was making money faster than he could spend it. He'd even bought new clothes; though he didn't wear them for begging.

He eyed the crowd suspiciously with his one good eye. A moment ago there had been a most peculiar commotion over a little girl eating an apple. Now the crazy townsfolk were gathered around and gawking at him again, some of them on their knees as though in church, and... yes, some were digging deep into their pockets and putting more money into his bowl!

'The lord moves in mysterious ways,' he muttered to himself. Despite his deafness, he could hear his own voice; and this was a favourite saying of his, and about the only Latin he could remember from his monastery days. He grinned at the crowd and at the accumulation of coins in his begging bowl. This change in his fortunes was nothing short of a miracle.