Land of a Thousand Dreams

by BJ Hoff

  God had been so good, leading her to Nelson Hall, to these generous new friends who had taken such an interest in her. At times Finola could almost pretend that at last she had a family—a family of her own!

  Gemma and the other women had certainly been kind to her over the years. They had taken her in when she was lost and ill, nursed her back to health, given her clothing and a room of her own—sure, they had indulged her and pampered her as if she were a younger sister, rather than the stranger she was.

  Yet, with the Seanchai and his household, Finola felt a different kind of belonging. A unity, as if they were each a part of something larger. The Seanchai himself, Annie, Sandemon—and now Sister Louisa, the vinegary nun for whom Finola had quickly come to feel affection and great respect—each was a part of God’s family. They loved Him and endeavored to serve Him—and that, according to the Seanchai, made them family in the truest sense of the word.

  One day early in their friendship, Finola had attempted to refuse yet another invitation, feeling shy and uncertain—afraid she might impose. The Seanchai had touched her hand in the brief, hesitant way he had, saying, “Finola, you do not presume. You are one of us, not a guest. A member of our family. God has made us one,” he’d gone on to explain, including Annie and the sister and the smiling Sandemon with a sweeping gesture of his hand. “We are His children. United, with God…and, so, with you.”

  Still stroking the little cat, Finola closed her eyes and gave a sigh. Of late, she found herself wishing more and more that she had an identity to bring to her new family. A name, a past—at least a remnant of memory of who she was and where she had come from.

  As long as she was…incomplete…she was different from the others. No matter what the Seanchai said, she could not be like them. Even Annie, rejected and unwanted, had a name, remembered her beginnings, her yesterdays. Would an unhappy past not be better than no past at all? Yet, no matter how hard she tried to remember, the DARK TIME remained closed to her. A black, empty cavern, barred and unsearchable.

  A torrent of emotions warred within her as she sat there thinking. At times like these, when she tried to remember, a strong pall of dread would invariably sweep over her, warning her off, holding her back.

  Yet in spite of the sense of foreboding, an urgency was growing deep within Finola—a need to know. She yearned to have a name like others, a full, complete name that would identify her as a person. And she yearned for a past, not only a present.

  She spent most of her days feeling somewhat bewildered, as if she lived suspended between the real world as she knew it and a dream she could not recall. She longed to be whole, not only for herself, but for the others. For her new family. Especially for the Seanchai.

  She was coming to know him, the great and small things, the subtle and distinct things, that made him so completely, uniquely himself. He seemed to want to know her as well, and Finola wanted him to know her, wanted it with a desperation she did not understand.

  But how could he come to know her when she did not know herself?

  Small One’s wee, rough tongue lapped at Finola’s wrist once, then again. She glanced down at her little friend. The cat was almost asleep, curled into a warm, trusting ball of contentment. Finola went on stroking her, half envying such innocent peace and tranquility.

  Was this what it was like, then, to be a child? To be held close, in a mother’s lap, warm and wanted, protected and cherished?

  She thought of Annie—wonderful Annie, with her huge zest for life and her bursting love for the Seanchai. Annie had been rejected, the Seanchai said, mistreated and cast out. An unwanted thing. A stray.

  Ah, but no longer. For the Seanchai had taken her in, given her a fine home—indeed, he was now working to make Annie his own child, to give her his name and the legal right of inheritance. Annie was a fortunate child indeed!

  A thought of the Seanchai’s face came unexpectedly, his strong, craggy features and wounded eyes. As she had in the past, Finola wondered why such a generous, kindhearted man had no wife, no children.

  His injury was recent, according to Sandemon. But what about before the injury? Finola wondered. Had there never been a special woman who shared his life? The wheelchair would surely make no difference to a woman who knew his great heart! Such a man should have a wife—and children, to warm his world, to fill the spacious empty rooms of Nelson Hall with happy laughter and contentment.

  Children. A great, aching sorrow swept over Finola. She wished she had the memory of being a child, the recollection of having a father and a mother. Her childhood—however happy or miserable it might have been—seemed forever lost to her. She did not know what it was like to be a child. She could not remember…and she feared she never would.

  That evening, in the marble-tiled entryway of Nelson Hall, Annie Delaney confronted Sandemon with her most recent complaint.

  “Is the sister to be taking all her meals with us, then? I thought she was to be an em-ploy-ee, not a member of the family.”

  “The sister,” replied Sandemon, “will dine with the scholars more often than not, just as soon as we have others besides the O’Higgins twins. For now, however, she will dine with us.”

  He ignored her mutter of annoyance, studying her. The child wore a presentable dark wool and an even darker frown. Her unruly black hair had grown long and was forced into thick braids in an attempt to make it appear less unkempt. Despite all efforts, however, a number of stubborn, wiry strands invariably managed to escape their confines and stick out at ridiculous angles about her face. Somehow, it did seem that every endeavor to turn this one into a young lady met with failure.

  By now he had grown accustomed to the child’s sly digs at Sister Louisa. She seldom missed an opportunity to make known her antagonism to the nun, even to cast some veiled, incredible allusion on the sister’s character. The truth was, of course, that the child did not so much dislike Sister Louisa as she resented the discipline that the nun had readily enforced upon Nelson Hall and its inhabitants.

  The sister had made quick work of establishing herself as headmistress, if not of the entire estate, certainly of the Academy itself. Even Sandemon found the woman’s relentless standards somewhat tiring on occasion. Yet, her unyielding insistence on adherence to the rules would doubtless prove good for the scholars—certainly for young Annie.

  Admittedly, he and the Seanchai might have been somewhat lax in matters of discipline, perhaps had indulged the child to a fault. She had quickly become precious to them, this fey Belfast street urchin. Abused by her stepfather and rejected by her mother, she had made her way to Dublin in search of Ireland’s rebel poet and her childhood hero—Morgan Fitzgerald.

  In short order, Annie Delaney had stolen the great man’s heart—and Sandemon’s as well. So taken with the girl was the Seanchai that even now he was preparing to battle the courts for the right to adopt her as his daughter. For his part, Sandemon did try to keep a firm hand, but it took little more than a trembling lip or a gap-toothed smile to melt his heart. Small wonder the child had soon come to recognize her power over them both!

  But the precocious mannerisms both he and the Seanchai found so endearing did not affect Sister Louisa in the least. The nun had made it clear from the beginning that there would be no exceptions made for Annie Delaney, no matter how much the Seanchai might dote on her. The child had reacted with predictable rancor, and by now the relationship between the two had become an ongoing conflict of uncommonly clever wits and tenacious wills.

  Now, as his gaze scanned the sharp-featured, puckish face, Sandemon managed to suppress a smile. “You should be pleased to know that the Seanchai is a most progressive, liberal employer. He encourages his employees—like Sister Louisa and me—to dine at the table with the family.”

  “Why, it’s perfectly fine for you, Sand-Man!” the child declared. “You’re not simply an employee, after all—you’re more like family! Like me. But Sister is only a teacher! Isn’t that so?”

  Still con
trolling his amusement, Sandemon inclined his head. “Thank you, child, for including me as family,” he said dryly. “But we both know the gentry would be horrified to find me eating at your table. Surely Sister Louisa is more deserving of such a liberty than I. Besides, the Seanchai finds her interesting and—”

  “—intellectually stimulating,” finished the child with a terrible scowl. “Though I can’t think why. They argue a great deal, it seems to me!”

  “They do not argue,” corrected Sandemon. “They discuss.”

  Annie sniffed. “Well, she assumes too much, I’m thinking. It is obvious to me that the Seanchai would much rather talk with Finola than a sour old nun, and just see how she monop—monop—”

  “Monopolizes,” Sandemon offered helpfully.

  “Aye, monopolizes his time. No doubt that’s why he whisked Finola off to the library after dinner, so Sister couldn’t interfere.” She stopped, pulling her mouth into a pout. “And I don’t think that’s a bit fair either, his taking Finola off alone so. She came to visit me as well as himself!”

  Sandemon lifted his eyebrows in rebuke. “That is a spoiled and altogether childish thing to say. The Seanchai told me he had something of importance to discuss with Miss Finola, that they would require privacy.”

  As he might have expected, his words triggered an immediate interest in the child. The petulance in the dark eyes gave way to eager curiosity. “What do you suppose they’re talking about, Sand-Man?” She raised herself up and down on the balls of her feet as if unable to contain her energy. “Do you know?”

  “No, I do not know,” he said firmly. “And even if I did, I would not confide it to a curious child.”

  The scowl returned. “How many times must I remind you that I am not a child?”

  “Endless times, it would seem, so long as you insist on behaving like a child,” he replied mildly. “Now, then, Young Miss, we will see to the horses while the Seanchai and Miss Finola have their talk. Come along.”

  The black-marble eyes danced with mischief. “Perhaps the Seanchai wanted Finola’s advice on how to get rid of Sister Louisa,” she suggested saucily, breaking into a grin.

  “You are a most impudent child,” Sandemon said, taking her by the hand as they started for the front door. “I shall applaud the sister’s every effort to tame you.”

  “You’d encourage the nun to break my spirit?” retorted the child with a toss of her braids.

  Sandemon lifted both brows in warning. “I would encourage the sister,” he said as sternly as he could manage in the face of her gleeful grin, “to break your bad habits. And as quickly as possible, for the sake of us all.”

  Annie knew Sandemon was only pretending to be annoyed with her. The black man was seldom vexed, unless, of course, she’d done something really sinful.

  While he feigned impatience with her ill feelings for the nun, Annie suspected Sandemon himself found Sister Louisa a bit exasperating at times.

  And who would not? Unbelievably, the nun had even managed to terrorize Fergus. She had turned her hand of discipline to the enormous wolfhound, and, to Annie’s dismay, the animal seemed to be responding to her. Why, the big, fierce-looking beast turned into a slavering pup each time the nun came within view!

  But perhaps it wasn’t too late. Fergus still had enough bad habits that he might yet be the nun’s undoing. And perhaps Annie could just give the beast a bit of encouragement in the wrong direction…

  Annie wondered where the wolfhound had taken himself to. Most often, on those rare times when the Seanchai ordered him out of the library, he came round to Annie, bullying her into playing toss. This evening, however, he had disappeared shortly after dinner, and Annie had not seen him since.

  No doubt he was pouting upstairs in their bedroom, disappointed that the Seanchai and Finola had not invited him to share their company. Feeling a pang of understanding sympathy for the wolfhound—it seemed nobody wanted her company this evening, either—Annie stamped upstairs to join him.

  If she had thought to find him in her bedroom, she was mistaken. Disappointed, she left the room and started down the hall.

  A low voice sounded from the nun’s room. The door stood slightly ajar, and Annie stopped, curious.

  She retreated a bit and hugged the wall with her back, glancing furtively up and down the hall. No one seemed to be about, so she quietly—very quietly—took a step or two toward the door.

  A low growl reached her ears—the unmistakable voice of the wolfhound. But what could he be doing in Sister Louisa’s room?

  Annie’s curiosity got the best of her, and she craned her neck to peer in through the crack.

  Fergus lay near the hearth, his forepaws down and his tail up in an attitude of play. In his enormous mouth he held something bright red. Was it…could it be…?

  Annie focused hard on the object of the dog’s attention. Yes—it was a stocking.

  A red stocking. Sister Louisa’s stocking? But nuns—even nuns like Sister—did not wear red stockings! Did they?

  Fergus, the noble beast, whipped the thing from side to side in a vicious manner as if determined to kill it once and for all.

  Annie’s heart raced with a wicked delight. Good boy, Fergus! she cheered silently. It was perfect, absolutely perfect. The wolfhound, her gift to the Seanchai, had invaded the private territory of the terrible, TROUBLESOME NUN, and now proceeded to destroy Sister’s property. This just might be the final blow that would send the nun packing.

  Annie watched for a moment longer, congratulating herself for her ingenuity and the beast for his inventiveness. At last she turned to go, intending to leave Fergus to his destructive duties, when another sound stopped her in her tracks.

  It was a laugh—a low, musical, breathless laugh. And it came from behind the half-closed door!

  Forgetting that she was spying, Annie edged herself into the doorway. Her gaze shot from Fergus on the hearth to another figure on the rug a few feet away from him.

  There, on the carpet in front of the fire, knelt Sister Louisa—not praying or meditating, but instead hunched nose to nose with the wolfhound, tugging at the other end of the bright red stocking.

  The dog was grinning like an eejit. The nun’s wimple was askew, and she was laughing like a tinker woman. Dog and nun were hilariously engaged in a game of tug-o-war, the object of which was the long red stocking—the very stocking Annie hoped would be the killing blow to the sister’s patience.

  As Annie watched, Fergus let go of his end, and Sister Louisa fell backward in a heap. Two feet flew out from under her black habit—one, an actual human foot with five toes attached, the other sheathed with a red stocking identical to the one Fergus had set out to destroy.

  Annie stood dumbstruck. She hardly knew which shocked her more—the sight of an actual nun’s foot, or the forbidden red stocking.

  As she watched, the wolfhound bounded over to Sister Louisa and began to lick her face. The nun, laughing helplessly, lay back on the floor and embraced his great gray head.

  Still unseen, Annie backed quietly out the doorway and made her way down the hall toward her own room. It would seem that the TROUBLESOME NUN was destined to be at Nelson Hall for a long, long time.

  9

  Finola’s Lament

  And the swan, Fianoula, wails o’er the waters of Inisfail,

  Chanting her song of destiny.

  JOHN TODHUNTER (1839–1916)

  In the dim, spacious chapel of Nelson Hall, Morgan sat in his wheelchair in the aisle, sharing the surprise he had arranged. At his side sat Finola, then for a short while, Annie.

  Mindful of Finola’s impassioned love of music, he had convinced the highly accomplished organist from St. Patrick’s Cathedral, along with a renowned Dublin contralto, to offer a private concert at the estate.

  The organ in the chapel was reputed to be one of the finest in Dublin. Installed in the late sixteen hundreds when Nelson Hall was already half a century old, it had been conscientiously maintained by e
ach generation. Only the oldest cathedrals of Dublin boasted more elaborate pipes.

  The chapel itself was impressive. Built to accommodate at least one hundred, it was a hushed sanctuary of hand-carved oak, stone, and marble. Other than adding a tabernacle for the Eucharist and a simple wooden crucifix behind the altar, Morgan had left it exactly as it was. He was determined that it should serve as an inviting place of worship for scholars of all faiths.

  Seeing the dark-haired contralto turn to the small gathering in the pews, Morgan smiled in anticipation. As he had requested, the singer now commenced her honeyed-voice rendering of the song he had written some weeks past for Finola.

  Finola turned to him, her face radiant with surprise and delight. Morgan gave her hand a gentle squeeze, his heart warming at her obvious pleasure.

  Trying to be discreet, he watched her response to the music. He had based the lyrics, loosely, on an ancient Milesian myth—“The Children of Lir,” one of the Three Sorrowful Stories of Erin.

  The sons of King Lir and his only daughter, Finola, were all victims of their jealous stepmother. Convinced that her husband prized his children more than her, Eva, the stepmother, ordered the four youths to Lake Derravaragh, in the middle of Ireland, where she struck them, one by one, with a druid’s wand. Immediately, they were changed into beautiful snow-white swans. The full term of their enchantment equalled nine hundred years, to be divided between Lake Derravaragh, the Sea of Moyle, and Inish Glora.

  Too late appalled at the horror she had wrought, the stepmother attempted to ease their suffering by leaving them with the power of human speech and the gift of making sweet, plaintive music that would soothe the mind and hearts of all who heard it. According to the myth, the lovely swan, Finola, and her brothers sang their sorrowful laments over the centuries, until Kemoc, a follower of St. Patrick, built a church on Inish Glora. Hearing the sound of Christian bells for the first time, the enchanted swans turned their singing to a hymn of gladness. Kemoc took them under his protection, teaching them about the one true God and His Son, and guiding them to heavenly peace.