Land of a Thousand Dreams

by BJ Hoff

  Straightening his shoulders, Evan gave them a smile. If the Five Points Celebration Singers never accomplished anything else but to help break down the wall between races, it would make all their hard work worthwhile.

  This was Billy Hogan’s first time to attend a rehearsal of the Five Points singing group.

  Twice before, when the boys were practicing in the Big Tent, he had stood outside, listening, yearning to be a part of it all, yet reluctant to take the first step inside.

  Until today. His friend, Tom Breen, had finally coaxed him into coming along. And so he was here, his face scrubbed, his shirt clean and pressed, his hair slicked down. Mr. Whittaker insisted on cleanliness, said Tom. Cleanliness and obedience. He would stand for no shenanigans from his singers. He was strict, but a fair man, all the same.

  Something in the Englishman’s soft eyes and kind smile assured Billy that Tom was right. Still, he was as jumpy as a toad on hot bricks, and would be until the hour was safely over.

  He wasn’t worried about the singing. He had a voice, after all. Didn’t Mum say he had a voice that could dig down low and scoop up the bottom notes of a tune—or fly high as a sparrow and sail right over the top of a building?

  Sometimes the voice did things that surprised Billy. The truth was, it wasn’t entirely predictable.

  Billy liked to sing. He would choose a song over a pastry—not that he often had a choice, for pastries were dear in Five Points.

  But it wasn’t until Tom had mentioned that the new singing group sang what they heard, rather than what they read, that Billy had agreed to come to rehearsal. If he didn’t have to read the music, why, then, he could sing just as good as the rest of them, he would warrant.

  He was not eager for the other lads to know he couldn’t read. He wasn’t the only one, of course. In Five Points, there were more who could not read than those who could.

  But they were not Hogans. They were not sons of educated men, like his da, taught by Grandfar Liam himself, who had once kept a hedge school in Sligo. Had the fever not claimed them both before Billy was old enough to learn his letters, no doubt they would have taught him as well.

  Now there was nothing for him but to work; there was no time to go to school. He had his papers to sell, and coal to shovel onto the wagons, and on weekends he still went looking for additional odd jobs.

  It was a matter of pride to Billy that this inability to read be kept secret. He would remedy it when he could. For today, he would not fret about the reading. He would do what he had been longing to do for weeks now: he would join this fine group of singers and lift his voice with the rest of them.

  If only Finbar did not spoil it all.

  Please, Lord Jesus, there was nothing else I could do but to bring him… please, please, let Finbar be good!

  Halfway through rehearsal, as they stampeded toward the first chorus of “Yankee Doodle,” Evan’s attention was caught by an unfamiliar sound. High-pitched and excruciatingly sharp, it was gone too soon to identify.

  He continued on as if he had heard nothing. Although his ear seldom failed him, it was possible he had only imagined the dissonance. The acoustics in the drafty, high-ceilinged room were deplorable, after all, and—

  Ah—there it was again! So, he had not imagined it! He rapped his baton, stopping the song on “Dan-dy.” Eyes narrowed, he scanned every face in the group, resting on each for an exaggerated length of time.

  Unwilling to embarrass any one of the boys by singling him out, Evan decided to try once more. Most likely, one of the lads was simply indulging in a bit of mischief. Still, even the most incorrigible among them seldom misbehaved during one of their favorite numbers. And “Yankee Doodle” was indeed a favorite.

  Evan had done a special arrangement of the tune, complete with endless verses. The boys had enjoyed a good laugh at his expense when he explained that the song, originally sung in derision by the English about the Colonists, had ended up being turned against them when the Minute Men of Concord adopted it as their own. Indeed, when Cornwallis surrendered at Yorktown, it was to the tune of “Yankee Doodle.”

  He sighed, thinking it altogether possible he had a boy with a pitch problem. A troubling thought, since he wasn’t quite certain how he would handle things if one of the lads turned out to be sharp.

  Bracing himself, Evan gave the upbeat and they started in again. All went well until the third verse when Captain Washington’s Slapping Stallion turned into a Screeching Shrew.

  Evan stiffened, stopping the music with a sharp rap of the baton and a resounding “ENOUGH!”

  Laying his baton on the music stand, he straightened his shoulders and stretched to his full height. With a frown that he hoped would prove daunting, he silently and thoroughly studied each face now turned on him with guarded attention.

  He thought one of the new boys—the small one with wheat-colored hair that stood askew and more freckles than Evan had ever seen on one small face—looked suspiciously ill at ease. Perhaps even frightened.

  Evan found it difficult to imagine that one so young would prove troublesome his first time out. Yet, the freckled face now turned crimson under Evan’s scrutiny, and the boy appeared unduly fidgety. As a matter of fact, the lad was practically writhing where he stood.

  Evan knew he had his culprit when he closed the remaining distance between himself and the boy and the same high-pitched shriek erupted. The sound seemed to be coming from the youth’s jacket, a loose brown garment that hung on the narrow shoulders like a sack.

  Stopping directly in front of the boy, Evan gave a curt nod. “I d-don’t believe we’ve met, young man. Your name?”

  The boy’s eyes bugged, and he opened his mouth. But before he could speak, something moved beneath his jacket.

  Evan stared, first at the squirming jacket, then at the boy’s wide-eyed expression of dismay.

  As Evan watched, one side of the jacket opened and a small, furry face pushed out. Astonished, Evan stared at the creature in disbelief.

  The kitten was an odd mottled color, gray and black with random spots of tan. It was obviously quite young—and hopelessly cross-eyed.

  The kitten cocked its head and perked its ears, appraising Evan with some interest. At last it blinked, then gave a small mew.

  Evan dragged his gaze away from the cross-eyed kitten to hush the snickering onlookers with a withering glare. Then he turned back to the boy.

  Before he could say anything more, the red-faced offender burst out, “I’m sorry, sir—Mister Whittaker! He almost never makes a sound at home, and that’s the truth!”

  The boy’s Irish brogue was thick. He was fairly new to the city, Evan was sure. The little fellow looked about to strangle.

  “I, ah, I’m afraid we d-don’t allow animals at rehearsal, Mr.—”

  “Billy Hogan, sir! And, sure, I know it was wicked to sneak him upstairs! But I found a home for all the others—there’s only wee Finbar left, you see…and—”

  “Finbar?”

  “Aye, that’s his name—for Saint Finbar, you know.” The boy went on, his words spilling out like pebbles tossed over a waterfall. “Finbar is the one I hoped to keep, but Uncle Sorley says we can’t be feeding another cat, in addition to Sally—that’s Finbar’s mother—for food is dear enough as it is for the five of us.”

  “The five of you?” Evan repeated, bemused.

  “Aye, we’re five—there’s Mum, Uncle Sorley, myself, and me two little brothers, Liam and Patrick. Uncle Sorley said I must find a home for the litter or else he’d drowned them. I found a place for the other three at some pubs what wanted mousers. But nothing yet for Finbar. And I was afraid to leave him for fear Uncle Sorley would be cross and drowned him anyway. I thought I’d just keep him with myself another hour or so, then speak to the owner downstairs. He’s usually so quiet, Finbar is—I never thought he’d be a bother.”

  As the boy finally came up for air, Evan puzzled as to how to handle the situation. The poor lad looked perfectly miserable, w
hether from apprehension of punishment or the certain loss of his kitten.

  Evan glanced at the kitten, which seemed altogether content and even somewhat bored. The crossed eyes met his, and again came the inquisitive mew. The small head stretched cautiously up as if to sniff the air.

  Evan eyed the small intruder for another moment. A faint smile rose inside him, finally spreading to his lips. “I say, Mr. Hogan, is it? Perhaps I can b-be of some help to you and, ah, Finbar.”

  “Evan!” Nora flew at him as soon as he was inside the door. “What on earth kept you? I was that worried—you’re always home long before dark! Is something wrong?”

  Evan kissed her and apologized profusely. “N-nothing is wrong! Nothing at all. And you m-mustn’t fuss over me so.” He smiled at his own duplicity. He would be altogether devastated if she didn’t fuss over him.

  “But—”

  He shushed her with another kiss, then stepped back. “Where are the children?”

  “Johanna is helping Little Tom get ready for bed; then they’ll be down,” she said distractedly “I promised they could stay up for prayers with you. But you’ll have your supper first.”

  She moved toward him. “Here, let me take your coat—”

  “No!” Evan jumped back as if he had been struck. “I…I c-can manage.”

  “Evan, whatever is the matter? Sure, and you’re acting strange tonight,” Nora said, giving him a puzzled look. “Did something go wrong at rehearsal?”

  Evan suppressed a smile, keeping his empty sleeve turned away. “Wrong? N-no, of course not. What c-could possibly go wrong at rehearsal?”

  Nora narrowed her eyes at him, her frown deepening. “Evan? Are you quite certain you’re well? You seem—peculiar.”

  “Peculiar?” he repeated evasively. “No, I’m fine, just—OW!” He grabbed at his empty sleeve.

  “Evan? What is it?”

  Nora ran to him, taking him by the shoulders. When Evan averted his eyes, she insisted, “There is something wrong! I knew it, you—” she broke off, looking down at Evan’s empty sleeve as it began to move.

  The sleeve jerked hard, then again. From within the folds came a high-pitched, indignant screech. Grimacing, Evan yanked at the pin holding the material in place. At last the sleeve came loose, and the small, bewildered-looking kitten emerged.

  For a moment it simply dangled at Evan’s side, its tiny, needlelike claws embedded in the fabric of his sleeve. Suddenly, it let go, racing down his leg and tearing about his feet in a frenzy. Spying Nora, it stopped. In one furious sweep, it climbed her dress, attaching itself to her and burrowing its small head close to her heart.

  “N-Nora,” Evan said with a shaky smile as he rubbed his throbbing shoulder, “I’d like you to m-meet Finbar.”

  That night, after Evan had fallen asleep, Nora lay studying his shadowed profile in the weak ribbon of light drifting in from the hallway.

  Without his glasses, he looked younger. Younger and sweet and so very, very vulnerable.

  As always when she looked at him, her heart swelled with love for this gentle, unassuming man who daily poured himself out for her happiness. He was a slender man, her Evan, not large or especially muscular. Yet his body housed a heart big beyond all measuring.

  She smiled as she remembered his expression when the kitten had tumbled out from his empty sleeve. So pleased, so eager. Eager to make her happy, to see her smile.

  She understood what he was about, of course. He was far too sensitive, too attuned to her moods, not to sense that she had been less than happy lately. Guilt ate at her for worrying him so, for the shadow she knew she had cast on his own happiness by her incessant brooding about a baby.

  Somehow she must stop. It was unfair, so unfair, to wound him like this. He deserved more, much more. He deserved only joy.

  She touched his bearded cheek with her fingertips. He sighed in his sleep, and she smiled. How precious she counted these quiet times, these warm, tender times of closeness when something as simple as a sigh, as gentle as a touch, could affirm the bond of their love.

  And she did love Evan. She loved him for his gentleness, his quiet kindness, his goodness, his godliness. She loved him for his shy, unassuming manner, for the way he never took anything for granted, but was always grateful for even the smallest deed done for him.

  And she loved him for loving her. For loving her enough that he would take in a stranger’s children and make them his own—and tuck a wee cross-eyed kitten into his sleeve because he had known it would make her smile.

  In the darkness, her smile widened. Finbar had been almost immediately taken over by the children—indeed, now lay sleeping on Tom’s bed. But not before he had entertained them all with a variety of shenanigans.

  She had been aware of Evan’s watching her, his delighted smile when she responded to the kitten.

  I must stop brooding, she told herself again. I must bring no more gloom into his life. Whatever God gives…even if it’s only a stray kitten…I will take it and rejoice in it and cherish it. For Evan. For our love.

  “I love you, Evan…I do love you so….”

  She didn’t realize she had spoken aloud until he reached for her. His eyes fluttered, unfocused, heavy with sleep. Then, as if the very intensity of her love had wrapped itself around him and awakened him, he smiled and gathered her closer.

  16

  Dublin Vigil

  And oft her wasted fingers

  Beating time upon the bed:

  O’er some old tune she lingers,

  And she bows her golden head….

  RICHARD DALTON WILLIAMS (1822–1862)

  Dublin

  December

  In the weeks since the attack, Nelson Hall had come to be an unnaturally silent, somber place. Christmas was coming, and yet it approached almost unacknowledged, as if the entire season itself was overshadowed by a dreadful foreboding.

  Everyone who walked the vast, dim hallways seemed keenly aware that quiet was imperative. It was, thought Sandemon, as if all who dwelled within feared that even the everyday, commonplace sounds of the household might somehow snap the fragile thread of the Seanchai’s control.

  A routine had been established almost immediately after the tragedy. The servants glided in and out of the rooms as quietly as cats in the night, whispering or murmuring only when required. Even in the classrooms, there was total discipline, with instruction given in quiet tones and voices held low during recitations.

  The entire household seemed poised upon a precipice, hushed and uncertain and apprehensive. The domestic routine went on, but now there seemed little difference in day from night. Days were for working and waiting. Nights were for praying and waiting.

  Sandemon had begun his morning as always, on his knees beside the bed, with a hymn of praise—a quiet, restrained hymn, for he sensed that even the Lord God desired stillness in these days. For a long time, his spirit bowed before the Glory in adoration. Today, more than ever, he felt a desperate need for closeness, for refreshing from the Spirit. For light.

  Finally, he began to lift before the throne those who had become dear to him, those for whom the Lord would have him intercede, with love….

  The child, young Annie, whose adoption proceedings had become snagged in the unlikely hands of the mother who had rejected her and the stepfather who had abused her. Two of the finest attorneys in all Ireland—and who, according to the Seanchai, were also among the most ruthless—had been employed to pursue matters in Belfast. As yet the child did not know of the delay. The attorneys were convinced that enough money would bring results, and the Seanchai had authorized them to offer whatever it took.

  Sandemon gave a deep sigh, pausing in his prayer to think on the situation. Sadly, he wondered if young Annie might not be surprised to learn how vigorously the Seanchai was pursuing the adoption. The child was obviously feeling somewhat adrift, perhaps even a bit neglected. The Seanchai, indeed the entire household, had been so distracted by the attack on Miss Finola
that there was little time or energy for one precocious child.

  Finola….

  Even as Sandemon held the name of the stricken young woman on his lips, the thought of her anguish wrenched his heart. It had been weeks since the Almighty had returned her from the chasm that lay between Today and God’s Forever. Yet she continued to show no real awareness of her surroundings. She scarcely responded to whatever distress she might be feeling, although surely her pain must be excruciating.

  Sandemon saw her only from a distance, of course; the surgeon was still insisting that all male members of the household avoid close contact. But even a glimpse of her brought a terrible sorrow to his spirit. She lay limp and unmoving in the tall, spacious bed, her eyes fixed in an unfocused, unseeing stare. Her friend, Lucy, said she responded to touch, but only when it seemed to evoke pain—and, even then, she merely sobbed or gave a muffled sound of distress. She ate negligible portions of food, and only when assisted, with much coaxing.

  She could not speak, of course, but now, in addition to the muteness, there was a kind of silence in her eyes. It was as Lucy said: a light had gone out somewhere inside Finola.

  The same could be said of the unhappy Seanchai, Sandemon thought, frowning as he mused over the young master’s heartache. Every day the sad-eyed poet would bring his wheelchair to a stop just outside the sickroom, where he would sit, staring with eyes that willed the young woman within to revive, to be herself once again.

  Gone was the anger—at least all outward evidence of it—which had threatened to explode during those first dark days after the savage attack. Gone, too, was the restlessness, the abundance of energy that had once made the Seanchai’s confinement to the wheelchair such a rigorous trial. Now there was a stillness in the young giant, a sense of quiet restraint that did not seem so much born of despondency or despair, but of waiting. Waiting, and standing guard.