“No? Your father was never of the opinion you would shun a fancy education and world-class connections to hide out in a backwater hollow. But you were never far from the Charity’s reach. He never believed that you hated him. In the end, he was right.”
The scope of the plan became clear. Magnus created a situation that would torch Michael’s chosen career in the States and make it feel like returning to Ireland was a free choice. A law-abiding pillar of the community needed to fall from grace. Magnus knew he had enough loyalty not to expose the Charity. The only gamble was whether Michael’s love for Jessica was greater. In Magnus’ eyes, she was a disposable and inconsequential item. Michael couldn’t see that Liam viewed her any differently. Or that he was as innocent as he pretended to be.
Liam righted the chair and brushed the dust from his sleeves. “I’ve no doubt in our choice of you.”
Michael braced himself against the table as his world spun dangerously out of control. No one was safe from the tentacles of his father’s and uncle’s manipulation. Through either greed or love, the unthinkable happened. Liam still protected Magnus. It was one thing to harbor a man known to kill, it was another to be the man that killed. In the hollow of a man’s chest where hearts lay, the Charity found the space to corrupt.
His challenge wasn’t simply proving his leadership or that he was in control. It was in accepting how the world worked.
BELFAST, NORTHERN IRELAND
AOIFE SPENT THE week picking up the charred pieces of her life. The flat that was once her home now lived up to its name. Neighbors stood with hunched shoulders and mutely watched as bulldozers scraped the picked-over remains of homes still cherished, nothing more than memories. Plastic milk crates of salvaged odds and ends sat at her feet. Neighbors offered the occasional pat and rub on her back as empathetic strangers offered whatever weak solace they could. After the second dump truck of debris rumbled away, and while the bulldozer still did its undertaking, Aoife shook her head and rallied. With barely a nod to others, she gathered her crates, turned, and trudged down the street.
The cramped room in cellar of Saint Peter’s was cold and damp. Pipes ran the length of the ceiling and light bulbs in cage-like fixtures dangled from black cords. The room was infrequently used to house people in urgent need. Even the shelter where Aoife volunteered used it as a last resort. The oval braided rug tossed over the center of the linoleum floor failed to provide cheer. Cinderblock walls framed rectangular windows wedged close to the ceiling. If she bothered to look out, the view would be of a herd of comfortable shoes and thick ankles clomping by. The moldy smell hinted the room did not enjoy even the brief moments of sunlight that had graced her flat.
Aoife hoisted the crates on the creaking metal cot and immediately cursed the soot and grit she had neglected to dust off her belongings. The process of recovery was exhausting, and she let her head sink to her chest for a few precious seconds, gathering the strength to move the crates again. With more effort than she thought she had in her, she brought the load down the hall and into the ladies’ loo.
One by one, she took out the odd china plate, teacup, and figurine and gently washed the soot down the drain. When the crates were empty, she did the same to them. Only after she received an odd look from another woman did she glance in the mirror and see she needed to give the same care to herself. The only identifying clues to her former self were the streaks of pale and freckled skin revealed by tears she struggled not to shed. Pity for herself or others was intolerable.
A sudden movement startled her. Aoife crouched down and reached for the knife strapped to her inner leg before she realized a woman had simply burst into the loo for a quick pee before the start of the afternoon’s service. Her nerves were shot, and she calmed herself with the tasks of settling in. She put her cleaned world on top of her cot, pulled the curtain around, and trudged up the worn stone steps to the sanctuary.
Barely two dozen people waited, a bigger crowd than usual. Women with rosaries laced through clasped hands dotted the sanctuary, kneeling in pews. A few men sat fidgeting with hat brims soiled from years of Sunday wear. Aoife didn’t have to hear them to know they came praying for better days. From the side entrance, she saw a group of nuns from the nearby Sisters of the Holy Cross Convent huddle together with rosaries rubbed by arthritic fingers. She looked at their smooth faces made round by their wimples and was glad for her choice not to be one of them. Their lips moved in a chorus of silent prayer and Aoife knew that this rare excursion to the outside world was testament of the love they had for Father Storm as he approached his retirement. Aoife genuflected, blessed herself with care, and took her place in the front pew on the right side of the aisle.
A bell chimed announcing the beginning of the mass. One boy and one girl dressed in matching albs entered from the vestry. The congregation stood as a stooped and shrunken Father Storm shuffled to the altar, paused in momentary prayer in front of the giant gold-hued crucifix, and turned to greet the altar servers. The reason for his imminent and requested departure from the pulpit was again made obvious when he startled at seeing the young girl. He stood, hesitant and confused, blinking in disbelief for too long before he remembered himself and the changes that had crept into his church as he aged.
Recollecting his purpose if not the year, he raised his right arm to bestow the opening blessing. The curvature of his back, an inevitable result of age and chronic lack of calcium, made it impossible for him to raise his arm any higher than his head. His head seemed to protrude more from the center of his chest than sit atop his neck.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” he intoned moving his hand through the air in a valiant attempt to make a cross.
“Amen,” Aoife replied and blessed herself in unison with Father Storm.
“The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all.”
“And also with you.” She took comfort as her voice mingled with others.
“Today, as you know, is bittersweet. The last that I will be on the altar alone with you, for soon the Bishop will be here and I will have the honor of saying high mass with him as I bid you all farewell.”
A light murmur rippled through the nave as the congregation acknowledged his announcement, punctuated by a loud sniffle from one of the sisters. His voice was strong and did not hint at a waver as he continued. “The next week’s services shall be celebrated with others as I am honored so many wish to share the altar with me before I retire. I shall miss you all, as my work here is not yet complete. Only this very week was the need for my calling made even clearer. The destruction of homes and displacement of some of our own brought so much sadness.”
Aoife stared at her hands, hoping no one turned a pitying gaze at her. Her well of tears was dry, and she wondered if feelings of revenge would fill it. She fingered a tissue and listened.
“The refrain I hear again and again from tired and hurting souls is, ‘Why, Father? Why does the Lord allow such destruction and pain?’” He paused for a moment, making sure he had the attention of all before continuing. “I answer them with what men of God have been saying since the beginning of time. ‘Because Satan never sleeps,’ I say, ‘Satan’s powers are stronger than we can imagine and sometimes the serpent wins the battle, but God will win the war,’” he proclaimed, pointing a shaking index finger upward.
“Let no man question that Satan sleeps beside us at night, waiting for us to doubt the Lord Jesus Christ within us. God made man in his image and gave us the power of free will knowing that our faith is strongest when chosen by ourselves not for ourselves. When we doubt, Satan slips inside our flesh and tarnishes the perfect reflection of God’s image.
“Jesus was God’s incarnate on Earth and we truly love Him by name, deed, and face. But Satan does not want us to know who he is because once we do he fears we will reject him, so he changes. He changes his form to suit his means. He transforms into flood, fire, disease. These w
e can see. And, he transforms into powerful forces of temptation and greed. These we cannot see as they manifest in the hearts and souls of men—but they do manifest—and separate us from God.
“Be aware of the Angel of Darkness, for he will come cloaked as the Angel of Light and win your souls through his sleight of hand. Did the serpent prod its way into Eve’s womb while she slept, or was he captured between her welcoming thighs? Beware! He is among us. He lives with us, breathes with us. He has tricked all of us, even me, into doing acts we thought were good but were evil.
“Did we help an innocent man escape persecution, or did we help a murderer escape capture? Did we help a mother protect a child, or did we let a father shirk his duties? I have been fooled! I have been tricked so you, too, must be ripe for his harvest. Beware!”
These last words echoed over the small congregation, stunned into silence. Sounds of wooden benches rustled, bodies shifting in physical and spiritual discomfort. The priest’s uncharacteristic tirade prompted Aoife to steal a glance at the sisters, each with mouths open, not in prayer but in amazement.
“As we prepare to celebrate the mystery of Christ’s love, let us acknowledge our failures and ask the Lord for pardon and strength,” Father Storm seemed to catch himself and brought the service back into focus, reciting the Penitential Rite.
“Amen,” she answered, weaker this time. The ceremonial mass continued and comforted her as she knelt, stood, blessed, responded. She sat silent in rote acknowledgement of age-old cues.
The fluster of the parish had calmed from the aging priest’s lapse and she watched as men and women file up to the altar to receive communion. A round white wafer dubbed “the Lamb of God” during the Eucharist blessing culminated the most solemn moment of the mass when the average person is said to become one with God by ingesting a piece of Christ’s body—bread for His body and wine for His blood. At this weekday mass, most of the women were older, but a few younger ones carried a baby on one hip while holding the hand of another squirming to be free.
Without exception, heads were bowed and all were silent in their prayers, seeping in the closeness of the Holy Spirit. Male communicants dutifully stepped aside, letting the women go before them, politeness and tradition winning over impatience and fatigue. The sermon had droned on longer than usual with Father Storm’s thanks to the ladies and men who helped with every aspect of the church and his meandering reminiscences of them.
Mentioning her by name, Aoife accepted her acknowledgement with a slight nod of her head and a smile that kept her from nodding off. The crackly feeling of nerves and concern she had at his earlier rambling faded into the folds and shadows of her exhaustion and she waited, as was her custom, to be the last to receive communion.
“Body of Christ,” Father Storm intoned, holding a round wafer in the air in front of a communicant’s face.
“Amen,” would come the inevitable reply, and then a wafer would be placed on their tongue or into their cupped hands.
She was close enough to the altar to hear the blessing and acceptance repeated for each person. The repetition and tradition lulled her. A few minutes later a gentleman tapped Aoife on the shoulder, indicating her turn to enter the aisle in front of him. She nodded but motioned him to go before her.
“Body of Christ.”
“Amen,” he replied, blessed himself, gave a slight genuflection, and returned to his seat via the side aisle.
“Body and Blood of Christ, Aoife, my child.”
Aoife’s eyes snapped open. Father Storm had broken the round wafer in two equal pieces and placed the half circles together in such a way that they formed the outline of a fish, oval body and two tail fins. The verbal and symbolic pieces of the venerable code demanded her response. He looked her directly in the eye and waited.
“A-amen, Father,” she said, voice shaky, and accepted the wafer on her tongue.
She knelt back at her pew, and clasped her hands together both to pray and to hide their tremor. The sounds of the concluding service surrounded her.
“Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”
“Thanks be to God.”
Mass concluded, a few congregants approached Father Storm, bidding him love and best wishes for his long overdue retirement. The sisters flocked around him in tribute. Their simple gray knee-length dresses and modern, abbreviated wimples gave them the appearance of hens fluffing their plumage, even though such an unhumble act would never be their intent. Father Storm bestowed blessings and acceptance of their unspoken wishes.
Only the Reverend Mother had authority to speak in their order. All others had taken the vow of absolute silence. Older, but not as stooped as Father Storm, she gave their promise that they would see one another again after the Bishop’s visit. Father Storm assured them that he would be in town for another few weeks while a suitable retreat was found for his retirement, and he would welcome a chance to visit them at their seaside convent.
Half an hour passed before he could approach her. “Aoife. How are you faring?” he asked, sitting in the pew in front of her. He situated himself sideways, his hunched back making it nearly impossible to sit in the pew correctly. He turned his head to talk quietly with her and to keep an eye on the door.
His concern touched her. “I’m doing well enough, Father. I’m waiting for another housing voucher and will soon be on my way again.” She nervously looked at the altar and side entrances, tuned to any movement.
“Mrs. Reynolds has been assigned.”
She hesitated, unsure of where the conversation was heading. “I heard. It’s been a good week for her in spite of losing her home. She found her cats and her photos and now a home. Prayers answered.” She looked around the empty cathedral and back at the priest. “You wanted to speak with me, Father?”
Father Storm’s eyes moved back and forth as he scanned the back shadows of the nave. “I retire in a little more than two weeks time and have heard they do not have a suitable replacement for me yet.”
“You will be hard to replace, Father. You are this church.”
He chuckled and patted her hands with fingers gnarled with arthritis.
“You were not the target, Aoife.”
His directness took her aback. “I know that.”
“The Bishop does not know who to place here. He kept me here for as long as he could, but I am long past my welcome.”
“You’ve done great things here. You’ve saved many a soul and many a life.”
The old priest closed his eyes and a look of pain flashed across his face. “I’m not sure all I’ve done has been in His name. There have been times when I have been used. I have been the agent of evil even while praying every night for purity and guidance.” The afternoon sun angled through the stained glass windows, peppering the interior with multi-colored flecks. The Virgin Mary stood over them, arms forever outstretched in offering a mother’s welcome and instant forgiveness for a child’s thoughtless acts. Jesus rose close by, bare feet stepping over the stones of his intended tomb.
Father Storm looked past them to a distant point.
“I have been here since before the Troubles began. It was a young man’s game then. Even a green sagart could pour his passion into his faith and build a life. I did that here, in this cathedral. There are two roads to take when you marry the church. One is the road of words and ideas. Living by scripture and the word of our Lord has brought me much solace. I have been lucky to share this peace with others. The other path is the path of man struggling to do God’s work on Earth. That path, I’ve since learned, is fraught with Satan’s tricks.”
He grasped her hands and looked into her eyes. “Satan walks these aisles. He wears our cloaks and drinks our wine while he schemes to take our souls. I’ve smelled him. I’ve seen him. He wants my soul. I don’t know how to stop him from getting it.”
Aoife could hear the panic that etched the old priest’s voice and tried to quell her own. She had been attending his services ever since she was a baby. He ch
ristened her, gave her first Holy Communion, and confirmed her as a soldier of Jesus Christ. The church had always been at the center of her life. Father Storm was a rock and a comfort to her as he was to so many others. But recently, she could see something soften and break inside of him. A quaver, a doubt had trickled into his thoughts and drained out in his sermons.
The confidences of others he vowed never to betray floated like dust in the air. The mind that was once a vault was now a sieve, and she knew the price they would all pay if he broke completely. She tried to redirect his fear. “You, above all others, are safe from Satan. Are you afraid that an idle mind is the devil’s playground? You mustn’t worry about your soul. What’s bothering you, Father? Is it that you are afraid there will be empty days after you leave here?”
“I thought I was doing God’s bidding, but I have sinned. I will burn in hell for what I’ve done. I must confess.”
Aoife pulled her hands away and gripped the back of the pew, knuckles white with effort. “Nonsense, Father. You’ve told me yourself that the Bishop has heard your confession many times and that his absolution comforted you on many nights.”
“The Bishop!” Father Storm spat on the floor. “He is nothing but a man! He knows only about matters of this world and not of the next. I must confess to someone who understands what it means to seek purity.”
“Why are you telling me these things?”
He began to weep. “Because when I confess I fear they will come after you.”
A movement caught her attention and Aoife turned her head to see one of the nuns craning her head around a pillar, undetected until now. Aoife looked at her, eyebrows raised, and rolled her eyes upward in an exaggerated expression of exasperation. The nun leaned forward and bobbed her head with understanding, tapping her finger to her temple, and looking at the aged priest as she did so. Aoife gave a look of sadness and shrugged her shoulders.
“What is your plan? Who are you intending to talk to?”
The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2) Page 27