The Miracle Worker (standard:drama, 2591 words)
Author: Ian Hobson	Added: Feb 28 2005	Views/Reads: 4816/2725	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
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...

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young girl had been, 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, mostly 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, 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?' asked the woman. 

'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 crazy 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. 


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