Land of a Thousand Dreams

by BJ Hoff

  Had there been only one? Sometimes she thought there were two… she would not remember him. He was not real. None of the evil was real, not any longer.

  But a child? A child made it real! Now she could not be certain what was a dream and what was not.

  “So it was real, then?” she said aloud.

  Still bending over her, Lucy held her hand, smoothed her hair. But she made no reply. Even when Finola tugged at her hand, drawing her closer, she remained silent.

  “His child!” The words tore from Finola’s throat like a cry of raw pain.

  Not looking at her, Lucy gave a short nod. “Aye, his.” She fairly hissed the words, her eyes burning with undisguised hatred. “Spawn of the devil!”

  Finola went limp. She tugged her hand away from Lucy, hugging her arms to herself like a shield.

  So it had been no dream, after all. The brutal man…the pain…the terror…the ugliness…

  It had all been real. She would bear a child. A child who would make it impossible to forget.

  “Finola, it will be all right. Listen to me now—listen to me!” Lucy braced both hands on either side of Finola’s shoulders, forcing her to meet her eyes. “You need not have this child! That much at least, we can spare you!”

  Still hugging her arms to herself, Finola stared at her, unable to think of anything but the child.

  “There are ways,” Lucy went on. “The girls at Gemma’s—many’s the time they got rid of a sailor’s unwanted seed. I did it myself, once. Do you understand, Finola? You need not bear this child!”

  Understanding filtered through the maze of Finola’s mind. She had heard whispers among the women, bitter, coarse words, angry murmurs…quickly silenced when they realized she was near.

  She searched Lucy’s eyes, listening in spite of herself.

  “There are midwives—wise women—in the Liberties. And surgeons, too. We’ll get the black man to fetch one of them here. You need not trouble yourself, alannah. I will see to this for you.”

  Finola began to tremble again. Avoiding Lucy’s eyes, she looked desperately around the room, as if she could somehow escape the truth. “Finola?”

  Reluctantly, Finola turned her gaze back to Lucy.

  “Don’t think about it now, child. Just you rest for a bit. We’ll fix you some warm milk and get you a sleeping draught. Later, after you’re more yourself, we’ll talk. Later.”

  Long after Lucy left the room, Finola continued to stare at the closed door. She felt as if a horse had kicked her in the heart. A hot flood of tears welled in her eyes, and, caught up in a sudden seizure of hopelessness, she wept uncontrollably for a time.

  This was not the way a woman should have a child, this was not what she had dreamed of. A child should have a good mother who loved it, with all her heart. There should be a home, a husband—to be father to the child. Bright days. Music and laughter within the rooms. And love. Much love. Things should be…right. Exactly right.

  It should not be like this. Without love, without family—a child born out of cruelty and terror, conceived in sin!

  Spawn of the devil, Lucy had called it.

  A choking sob ripped from her, a wail of hopelessness. Her dreams had turned to a hideous, ugly nightmare!

  After a long time, she lay, depleted, weakly attempting to combat the violent swells of nausea rising up in her.

  Somehow she found the strength to face the truth, that the ugliness she had thought a nightmare was all too real. All of it. The terror…the ugliness…the pain…the child—all real. There was no denying it. The vicious shards of reality stabbed at her mind and heart, tearing her to pieces.

  God help her…it was too real…too unbearably, horribly real….

  But Lucy had said she need not bear the child. There were ways, she said…there were ways….

  Could she do that? Destroy a child? A child growing inside her?

  A guilt so fierce it took her breath slammed against her heart, frightening her with the enormity of what she was considering.

  What Lucy had suggested was surely the worst kind of sin! Would it not be murder? The priests said life was sacred…God-given…all life, they said, was precious, even that of the unborn.

  Could she actually do such a thing, such a wrong, sinful thing?

  For an instant she attempted to pray, but allowed the words to fall from her lips, unfinished.

  God would not hear such a prayer. She could not speak to Him of the nightmare, the evil things that had been done, her sinful thoughts about the child—she did not dare to bring such vile things before a holy God!

  27

  Acquainted with Evil

  A vulture preys upon our heart,

  Christ, have mercy!

  RICHARD D’ALTON WILLIAMS (1822–1862)

  Lucy stopped short just inside the enormous, drafty kitchen at the sight of the black man, Sandemon. He sat alone at one of the small work-tables by the window, in the act of slicing a cheese. He looked up as she entered, and immediately got to his feet.

  The man’s fine manners never ceased to catch Lucy unawares. Who would expect such breeding from one of his kind? He was a puzzle, this one, a baffling combination—part mystic, part scholar, and part servant.

  And there was something else…something that put Lucy in mind of a large, stealthy panther which, while not dangerous or threatening, nevertheless evoked an anxiety in her, a discomfort she could not quite identify. There was something in this man that hinted of both the holy and the chieftain, and Lucy neither understood it nor felt at ease with it.

  Still, here was the opportunity to speak with him about Finola. He was alone, with most of the household at rest. More than likely, they would not be disturbed.

  With his large hands braced upon the back of the chair, the black man inclined his head in greeting. “How is she?”

  “She knows,” Lucy replied, walking the rest of the way into the room. “I came for some warm milk and some of the sleeping potion the surgeon left.”

  “But…how is she?” he asked again.

  Lucy gave him a look. “As well as could be expected, all things considered,” she replied bitterly.

  His expression was unreadable. After a moment, he gestured to the sideboard that ran half the length of the kitchen. “There was much food left at the evening meal. You must be hungry after this long day. I will leave you alone—”

  “No! Wait…I would speak with you.” In truth, Lucy was hungry; she had eaten nothing but a bite since dawn. But she was far more interested in recruiting the black man’s help than in filling her stomach.

  With a small gesture of the hand, he indicated that she should sit down.

  Lucy crossed to the table, but remained standing. Pulling in a long, steadying breath, she studied the man’s face as closely as she dared. Something in that dark, keen gaze invariably made it impossible to meet his eyes for more than a moment.

  “I have talked with the girl,” she said bluntly. “To make her understand that…she has a choice in whether or not she goes through with the birth.”

  Hearing his sharp intake of breath, Lucy deliberately fixed her eyes on the wall behind him.

  “I see,” was all he said.

  “I…she might not understand just yet, not completely. Even after—after all that has happened, Finola is still the innocent.”

  “Yes,” he replied, his voice soft. “She is very much the innocent, I think.” He paused. “Why would you suggest such a thing to her?”

  Discomfited, Lucy darted a look at him. “Why indeed? Sure, and you’re not implying she should have the swine’s ill-gotten child? You would see her suffer more than she already has?”

  The man gave her a long, steady look. “As I understand such things,” he said quietly, “what you are suggesting may also cause suffering. To Miss Finola…and to the infant as well.”

  “’Tis not an infant!” Lucy shot back, clenching her fists at her sides. “Not yet! ’Tis nothing at all but another burden! Why, then,
should she be forced to bear it? Anything born out of such a horror could only be wicked itself! Evil begets evil!”

  A look akin to distress passed over the dark features. “Surely not. You speak of an unborn babe, an innocent creation of God—”

  Gorge rose in Lucy’s throat at his calm assurance. She fairly spat out her protest. “Don’t speak to me of innocence! Finola was the innocent, I would remind you! There can be nothing innocent in something sired by the devil’s own! There’s nothing in this but still more pain and grief for Finola! Well, she’s had enough of both, it seems to me!”

  The black man remained silent for a long time. Lucy looked away, but she could feel his eyes on her, studying her. Judging her, no doubt.

  Yet, when he spoke again, there was no hint of anger, no noticeable tone of reproach. “So, then—why are you telling me this?”

  Lucy caught her breath. Perhaps she’d been wrong about him. He was taking it coolly enough. Perhaps he would be willing to help after all!

  “It should be done quickly,” she moved to explain. “There are midwives in the Liberties—one in particular I know of, who is clean and reliable. The girl would be safe in her hands. But someone would have to fetch the woman here.” She stopped. “And no doubt himself would have to be told. We would need his consent.”

  The black man regarded her with sad eyes. “The Seanchai would never consent to such a thing.” Straightening slightly, he crossed his brawny arms over his chest. “Nor would I.”

  Lucy glared at him. “We don’t need your consent! Only your help! But I can see you’ll not be caring about what’s best for the girl. Only the teachings of your precious church!”

  “Not the church,” he countered quietly. “The teachings of our Lord and Christ. We are commanded not to take a life. I could not be party to such a thing as you suggest, or I would be guilty of murder.”

  Lucy spat out an oath and whipped around to go.

  “Wait.”

  The voice behind her was still and quiet, steady. Nevertheless, Lucy heard the command implicit in the word. In spite of her anger, she turned back.

  “I wonder,” he asked, watching her, “do you truly believe what you said—that evil begets only evil? Can you not allow that God can bring good out of all things—even that which may appear to hold only evil?”

  Lucy glared at him. “When the sky falls! Ugly is ugly and bad is bad, and I have never seen it any other way! I may be corrupt in your eyes, man, but don’t take me for the fool!”’

  He let his arms fall to his sides. “You are not corrupt in my eyes. Not in the least. And certainly I do not find you foolish. But I must tell you that, in this, you are wrong. God can…and often does…take what men intend for evil and turn it to good. There is nothing in this world so wicked, so lost, that He cannot redeem it.”

  Something deep inside Lucy stirred at his words, attempted to rise up, but she quelled it. “What would you know about evil?” she grated. “You know nothing! Nothing at all!”

  For a moment, the black man made no reply, but simply stood, staring down at the floor. When at last he looked up, Lucy was stung by the sorrow of his expression.

  “If only it were so,” he said softly. “But I fear I know a great deal more about evil than you could ever imagine. Far more than any man should ever know.”

  Confused, Lucy stared at him. Her mouth went dry, and she shivered at the terrible bleakness looking out at her. But when she would have turned to flee that dark, unnerving gaze, he stopped her once again.

  “Wait—please.” He took a step toward her, then stopped. “I would ask you to refrain from any further discussion with Miss Finola about this…choice you have proposed. She must still be very confused, very weak and heartsick. But she is a child of God, and when she is able to take it all in and make a decision, I know she will choose to do what is right, what God wills.”

  He paused, and the midnight eyes looked away. “What you are suggesting…it is not God’s will. Please—you must allow her to make her own decision.”

  Without another word, Lucy whirled about and bolted from the room. The old feeling of shame, of rank corruption, once more seized her, flooding her with self-hatred. All the way down the hall, she had to struggle against an overwhelming urge to burst into tears.

  Sandemon watched her rush from the room, his heart heavy with an old, wrenching sorrow.

  Poor woman. Poor lost, wounded woman, with her frightened eyes and shame-bound heart. He could almost hear the chains clanking as they tightened about her spirit, could hear the anguished outcry of her soul.

  As he stood there in the silence of the dimly lighted kitchen, Sandemon felt an all too familiar heaviness settle over his own spirit. Some secret chamber of his heart began to bleed with a sorrow not his own. A violent shudder of dread gripped him, a fear not for himself, not for his personal safety—but for the woman named Lucy.

  The burden had been given, and he did not want it. He did not welcome the responsibility—or the pain—of interceding for Lucy Hoy.

  There were already too many other burdens on his heart. And somehow he sensed that this one would require much of him—perhaps much more than he was able to give.

  Almost at once, there came the gentle reminder that this new burden, no matter how great or dread-inspiring, was as nothing when compared with the burden of his Savior and Master. Indeed, it could scarcely be viewed as anything more than a small, smooth stone when measured against the burden of the Cross.

  Lucy had still not returned. The sickness had passed, for the moment, and now Finola lay, unmoving, her eyes closed against the encroaching darkness.

  Again she wished she could pray. But surely God was very angry with her, for her wicked thoughts, her shameful condition.

  Did she dare approach Him? She was denied, shamed, in disgrace….

  But she could not possibly make such a decision alone, and there was no one else to whom she could confide her fears, her confusion, about so intimate a matter. Except for Lucy.

  She already knew what Lucy thought, what she would have her do.

  Clumsily, her head spinning with the weakness, Finola pulled herself up. Clutching the bed linen with both hands to keep from falling, she sat on the side of the bed until her head cleared.

  Finally, then, she went to her knees, prostrating herself, face down, on the floor.

  Assailed by nausea, chilled as much by a sudden feeling of abandonment as by the cold of the room, she lay, shivering and miserable and frightened.

  Please, Lord…You know the weakness of my mind—and my faith. I don’t know what to think, what to believe…what to do….

  I have already been such a burden to the Seanchai—to Morgan—to his entire household! And now there is to be a child…oh, my Lord…my Lord, what am I to do?

  Even as she tried to pray, Finola’s thoughts went to Lucy, to the solution she had hinted of.

  The babe…it was not yet real, was it? Nothing more than a small, unnamed—something—growing inside her….

  Seed of wickedness…fruit of evil…spawn of the devil…

  An agonized wail of despair tore from her. How could she think such sinful thoughts before the Lord? Had He given her over to wickedness entirely, forsaken her in her shame?

  Unexpectedly, with all the terrible clarity of a malevolent portrait against the canvas of her mind, came the terrifying image of a huge dark bird emerging from a forest. So real did it appear that Finola could almost hear the grinding of its vast wings as it mounted upward and began circling and swooping above a lake.

  Blackness engulfed her. The floor beneath her became a dizzying wave upon which she rode into a sea storm of nightmares.

  In the chapel, Morgan roused, jerking himself upright as if someone had called his name.

  Somewhat dazed, he glanced around, realized it was late. The tapers had burned low. No light filtered through the stained-glass windows of the chapel.

  He yawned and stretched, then for a moment sat ponderi
ng the erratic, disjointed thoughts that often dance in the mysterious valley between sleep and wakefulness.

  Without warning, he felt the spark of an idea flicker, then begin to rise deep inside him. It was as if a candle had been lighted in his mind.

  Slowly, the webs of sleep began to clear, and he felt a kind of peace born of assurance spread over him. There was no thunderbolt of revelation, no brilliant flash of light or sudden seizure—only a gentle, quiet dawning within his spirit.

  But as he sat there, unmoving, in the silence of the chapel, he realized with almost blinding certainty what he could do—what God would have him do—to help Finola.

  A sudden urgency overtook him to go to her. He whipped the chair around, wheeling himself quickly to the doors, and flung them open with such force that they slammed, vibrating, against the wall.

  28

  For the Victims of Violence

  Come, sweetheart, the bright ones would bring you

  By the magical meadows and streams,

  With the light of your dreaming they build you

  A house on the hill of your dreams.

  SEUMAS O’SULLIVAN (1879–1958)

  The door to Finola’s room stood slightly ajar. Morgan stopped at the threshold for a moment, suddenly aware that it was late and she might be sleeping.

  Was he being foolish? He did not yet even know how to articulate the thoughts that had driven him from the chapel in such a fever. Perhaps, after the emotional turmoil of this day she would not welcome the company of anyone, including him. Perhaps she would prefer to be alone.

  No. He would not wait, could not wait. Although he did not understand the urgency he was under, not for a moment did he doubt the conviction that had seized him.

  Lifting his hand, he tapped lightly on the doorpost. “Finola?” he said softly. “’Tis Morgan. Might I come in for a moment?”

  There was no response. He waited for Lucy Hoy to appear; when she didn’t, he repeated Finola’s name, then put his hand to the door and pushed it open a bit wider. After another moment’s hesitation, he wheeled himself into the room.