Short Stories by Phoenix Hocking

A MIGHTY FORTRESS

BY

PHOENIX MARYGRACE HOCKING



Marigold Grimsby tilted her head slightly and began to sing, “A mighty fortress is our God, A bulwark never failing….”
Considering that Marigold was barely five years old, she had no idea what a fortress was, let alone a bulwark, but she sang anyway, her high voice piping into the church like an underage angel.
The Grimsby family went to church every Sunday, Annie saw to that. And they looked the part of your typical American family, or at least what your typical American family once looked like. Mother, Father, two point five children. Since Annie was exactly half-way through her pregnancy with her third child, she smiled, the description most apt.
The sermon this Sunday morning couldn’t hold Annie’s attention. For one thing, it didn’t apply to her, as it was directed towards single people and the virtues and value of
abstinence. Annie folded her hands over her belly and allowed her mind to wander.
Horace Grimsby, incompetent sheriff’s deputy turned now-famous sculptor and painter, sitting quietly beside her, ruled over his brood with a marshmallow fist. Horace and Annie, married fourteen years come Valentine’s Day, resided in a small and modest home in an older, established neighborhood with their son Emery, who was twelve years old, and daughter Marigold, who was barely five. Theirs was a happy unit, relatively unspoiled by the fame of the renowned head of the family.
Horace came upon his fame suddenly, and totally unexpectedly. Quite frankly, he was a lousy deputy. He wasn’t very bright, for one thing. It’s not that Horace was stupid, but the educational system had failed him miserably, and even though he was a high-school graduate, his reading comprehension rested at about the seventh grade level, with his speech not being much higher.
He never cared much for school, for learning dates and events that didn’t mean squat to him. He couldn’t tell you the various parts of speech, nor do one single problem in geometry. Ah, but he could work with his hands, and if the school system had just left him alone in woodshop he would have been perfectly happy.
Horace came into the sheriff’s department totally by accident as well. It really was a case of him knowing somebody who knew somebody who agreed to give him a job. But he was a lousy deputy. He didn’t care about fighting crime and cared less about the criminal, but he was a hard worker who put in an honest day’s work, and then came home to spend hours in his shop, whittling, sculpting, or painting.
And just as being a sheriff’s deputy was thrust upon him by accident, his fame as a sculptor bore down upon his life as unexpectedly as a train might bear down upon a hobo fallen asleep on the tracks.
It was Annie’s fault.
Generally, Annie never went into the shop where Horace spent so many hours. She’d asked, of course, just what in the world he was working on out there, but he dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “Ah,” he said, “it’s just stuff I do to unwind.”
But one day, early one morning after Horace went to work, Annie stole out to the shop to look around, and what she saw stunned her into wide-eyed wonder. The shop was filled to overflowing with the most beautiful artwork she had ever seen. Now, Annie was no connoisseur of art, but even she could tell that this was the work of a Master.
The shop was scrupulously clean, with not a wood shaving on the floor nor an open paint can anywhere. The various pieces were arranged on shelves along the walls, from the smallest figurine to life-size pieces that were so detailed as to look not just real, but alive. There seemed to be no medium in which Horace was not proficient. Whittled wood, stone and marble, clay pottery, oil, acrylic, chalk and charcoal, watercolor. Annie simply stood in the middle of the shop and stared. And then she began to cry, overwhelmed by the beauty surrounding her.
Carefully, she chose the figure of a woman, about twelve inches high. The woman was carved out of white alabaster, each detail of her hair and face and clothing such that one could almost stroke the folds of fabric, feel the silkiness of her long hair and read the laugh lines around her eyes. The woman’s arms were opened wide, thrust upwards towards Heaven, and she seemed to be singing. Annie wrapped the figure carefully in her apron, and stole away.
It was still early in the day, and Horace wouldn’t be home for hours, so Annie packed the thoroughly padded figurine in a suitcase and caught the train for New York, just about an hour’s ride away. Her high-school friend Melinda worked in some fancy art gallery and Annie thought perhaps she might know if this piece was really as good as she thought it was.
It was.
Melinda gasped when she saw it and immediately took the piece in to her boss, who gasped as well and rushed out to meet Annie, fairly bursting with praise. And that’s how Horace Grimsby quit his job as a sheriff’s deputy and began to paint and sculpt and whittle full time, earning more money in a month doing what he loved than he had in a year doing a job he hated.
Now, it was some years later. Emery certainly showed as much promise as an artist as his father and Marigold didn’t seem to be far behind, though talented in a much different way.
Part of Annie’s mind registered that the sermon was over, and she stood obediently with the rest of the congregation to recite the Lord’s Prayer and to sing the closing hymn. Not being particularly musically inclined herself, Annie sang softly, content to listen to the angelic voice of her small daughter beside her.
Marigold loved nothing more than to sing hymns. In church, in preschool, around the house, before eating, sleeping or making her bed, Marigold sang. She sang in the bathtub, on the playground, in the car. She could hear a song once, just once, and it was in her head, words and music, forever. Ah, but not just any song. Songs she heard on secular radio she remembered not at all. In fact, hearing some of the music that blared from the speakers in public places almost brought her to tears, grimacing at what she called “the ugly sounds.”
But hymns? Contemporary Christian music? Yes, those she heard and remembered and sang. Marigold may have only been barely five years old, but her voice was older, more refined, more disciplined than her age. And though she may not understand the meaning of all the words, the Spirit of them entered her heart and shone there like a beacon on a foggy day.
It was that Sunday afternoon that things began to go awry. Home from church, lunch already served and eaten, Horace and Emery went to the shop to work on some project or other. Annie busied herself with cleaning up the luncheon dishes. And Marigold went in and lay down on the couch, curling up with an afghan over her, her head on a small pillow.
Dishes washed, wiped and put away, Annie made herself a cup of tea and sat at the kitchen table, pondering her good fortune and praising the good Lord for her good life. She was a happy woman, was Annie Grimsby. An honest and loving husband, two exceptional children, and another on the way. Life was good.
She almost missed the small sound coming from the living room, a plaintive cry so low as to be almost indistinguishable from the hum of the refrigerator.
“Mommy.”
Annie listened again, then decided her ears were playing tricks on her. No sound came from the living room. No sound at all…
“Mommy.”
Well, yes, there was a noise, but it didn’t sound like Marigold at all. This sound was low and hoarse and pained, not the high lilt of her youngest child. Annie leaped to her feet and dashed into the living room.
Marigold still lay on the couch, covered to her chin by the afghan, shivering with cold and positively beet red in her face. “Mommy,” she whimpered, “I don’t feel good.”
Stiff and cold, Marigold complained of a headache, then began vomiting. Annie gathered her in her arms and rushed for the car, calling Horace as she ran. Quickly, all four piled into the car, Annie cradling Marigold in her arms as the young child lie unnaturally still, except for bouts of pained heaving and shallow breathing.
Horace turned on the lights, blared the horn and beat all speed records getting to the hospital. One look at the young child, practically comatose in her mother’s arms, brought doctors and nurses running, quickly quarantining the whole family in a single room.
After that, much was a blur to Annie. Doctors rushed in and out, jabbing her daughter with needles and listening to her chest. Low conversations took place in the hall Hocking - 7
way, and Annie heard the one word that struck fear into her heart, “meningitis.”
A team of wild horses could not have pried Annie from her daughter’s side. Annie held Marigold’s cold, limp hand in hers, and prayed. She held her head while she vomited bile, and she prayed. Gently, Annie caressed Marigold’s forehead, softly crooned hymns to her, and she prayed.
Afternoon became night became morning. Annie barely registered when Horace took Emery home, the boy having fallen asleep on the chair in the corner, tears still glistening on his cheeks. Horace, more quiet than usual, his face pale and worried, picked Emery up and gently carried him to the car.
Annie was alone with Marigold, though the nurses continued to check on the child throughout the night and into the morning. Doctors continued their probing and prodding and low-voiced conversations. Horace and Emery came and went throughout the day, bringing her food she barely touched, and relieving her long enough to attend to the needs of nature.
And yet Annie felt as alone as if no one in the world existed except herself and her child. Annie remained vigilant, awake, unswerving in her devotion. Marigold slept. She slept and she slept and she slept, her breathing shallow and steady, her face a pale shadow of itself.
Annie didn’t know how long she had been at the hospital. Was it days? Weeks? Months? She hadn’t changed her clothes, brushed her teeth or combed her hair. All she did was sit at Marigold’s bedside, singing softly to her daughter’s still form, and praying mightily in her soul to God.
Horace placed a hand gently on Annie’s shoulder. “Hon?” he said, softly.
She put her hand over his. “Yes?”
“Hon, you have to eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I know,” Horace said gently, “but you won’t be any good to her if you get sick, too.”
Annie said nothing, just watched her daughter breathe.
“Please, Annie,” begged Horace. “Please, just take a few minutes and go down to the cafeteria and get a bite. I’ll stay here with her, I promise. I won’t leave her side for an instant.”
Wearily, Annie nodded. “Okay,” she said, and her voice carried the entire weight of the world.
As soon as Annie left the room, Horace hit his knees. It wasn’t the first time in this entire ordeal that Horace had prayed, not the first time he had cried out to God for the life of his child, not the first time he had cried himself to sleep, desperate in his helplessness.
But this was one prayer he could not pray in front of his wife.
“Oh, God,” Horace prayed. “I know that our lives are in Your hands. I know that everything You do is according to Your plan. Lord, this is Your child, even more than she is mine. You gave her to us, and I thank You for that, Lord. I thank You for the few years we’ve had together.” And here Horace’s voice choked and hot tears burned his cheeks. “So Lord,” he continued, “Lord, I give her back to You. I don’t want this sweet child to suffer any longer, so Lord, if You’re going to take her, take her quickly and without pain.”
He couldn’t go on, but just hung his head and let the sobs wrack his body, great heaving sobs that tore his soul open and laid it bare at the foot of his Maker.
Gradually, slowly, Horace became aware of a hand stroking his hair. It was a soft hand, a small hand, and Horace looked up, expecting to see Annie beside him. But no one was in the room but he and his little girl, quiet and still upon the bed.
For the first time since his daughter became ill, Horace felt at peace. He had given his child back to God, and though his heart beat with an unbearable sorrow, there was a calm peace that pervaded his soul. He didn’t understand the peace, didn’t quite fathom how such a thing could be, but was grateful nonetheless. Horace pulled the chair closer to the bed and placed his hand on Marigold’s pale forehead. No longer burning hot, Marigold’s breathing had become deeper and a soft snore escaped her lips.
Exhausted, Horace closed his eyes and moved his hand to cover hers.
He slept. At least, he thought he slept. It was a strange dream in which he saw his daughter climbing a tall ladder up into the clouds. The clouds parted to reveal a man, shining white, arms outstretched to receive her. Then the clouds came together, and they were gone.
Horace awoke, startled awake by a sound both familiar and strange.
“Daddy?”
The voice was hoarse and soft, but…praise the Lord, the voice was Marigold’s! Her brilliant blue eyes watched him with a strange faraway look. “Daddy,” she said, “I had a dream.”
“And what did you dream, Sweetheart?” Horace said gently, speaking softly so as not to break this precious moment.
“I dreamed I went to Heaven and I met Jesus there,” she said.
“And did Jesus say anything to you?” Horace asked.
“Yeah,” Marigold answered. “He said He loved me, and so did you.”
Horace felt the tears hot on his face again, “Oh, honey, you know we do!”
Marigold looked past him and said, “Hi, Mommy.”
Annie rushed into the room, gathered Marigold in her arms and wept. “Oh, Sweetheart,” she cried, over and over again. “Oh, Sweetheart, you’re back!”
And Horace, arms protectively around both wife and daughter, looked up to Heaven and silently prayed, “Thank You, God. Thank You.”


The End