by Oisin McGann
Still, it made for lively conversation, especially as Tatty talked with the feverish excitement of someone discussing their favorite star of the theatre or music hall:
“… And then he gave the lady back her wedding ring, for it was well known that she truly loved her husband. With this act of chivalry, he completed his robbery. He took the rest of his loot, doffed his hat, leaped onto his mighty steed—which reared up in a dramatic salute—and they galloped off into the woods.”
Siren, who sat at its usual perch on her shoulder, accompanied her narration with some appropriately heroic music.
“I love the way you combine chivalry and robbery in the same sentence,” Daisy remarked. “I’m not sure Mrs. Harker and her traveling companions would look at the theft in quite the same way.”
“Oh, go on!” Tatty sighed. “You have to admit it was a nice touch.”
“I suppose he does have a certain style,” Daisy acknowledged. “But he still robs people for a living, Tatty. Not exactly what you’d call a Christian gentleman … or boy … though how he’s still a boy after being in the business for nearly four years is beyond me.”
“Who says he does it for a living? Perhaps he’s rich, and does it for fun?”
“The wealthy don’t need to use sabers and firearms to rob other people,” Daisy told her. “As Berto used to say, ‘That’s what lawyers are for.’ Ah, here we are now …”
The orphanage was a forbidding granite and brick building set on neglected grounds. Its sagging structure had been propped up with a range of mismatched repairs, resulting in a particularly depressing eyesore on the landscape near the village of Crumlin. Its rusting iron gates hung from brown-brick pillars that threatened to collapse at any time under the weight of their loads. The dark blue carriage clattered over a mucky drive to the front doors. The driver reined in the four horses as the footman climbed down and opened the carriage door. Tatty, sensing that Daisy wished for silence in their exploration, tied Siren to the seat of the carriage with a leash of thin silver chain, then she and Daisy laced up their bonnets and the footman helped them to step down from the carriage. They walked carefully over the rough, weed-strewn ground to the steps up to the front door.
The door had been forced open some time ago—no doubt someone breaking in to see if there was anything in the deserted building worth robbing. There wasn’t. Daisy waved away the footman who offered to help and pushed the door open, stepping inside. The roof of the hallway inside was at the height of the second floor, with wooden stairs winding up at right angles around the space. Dust hung in the air, caught in the shafts of light from the windows. The smell of mildew, decaying plaster and rotting wood assailed their nostrils. Animals had also made their homes here, and brought their odors with them. From off to one side, they heard something scuttle away into hiding.
“I’m sure it was better kept when there were children here,” Tatty said.
“Are you?” Daisy asked. “I came here before we closed it down. It wasn’t much different. Dear God in Heaven, what a horrible place to grow up. But clearly there’s no one here now. If the family is paying for the upkeep of nearly a hundred children, they’re not being kept here. So where are they?”
“It’s a mystery!” Tatty exclaimed, clapping her hands with a smile. “Like one of those cases investigated by that famous young consulting-detective, Mr. Holmes: The Case of the Empty Orphanage. I wish Nate was here; he would be intrigued.”
“Yes … it is a pity,” Daisy said, thinking of Clancy’s letter and trying not to let it show. “But not to worry; he’ll be back some day, Tatty”
They walked further into the building, taking the flight of stairs to the first floor. Cobwebs wafted in the draughts blowing in through every crack and cranny in the walls. Once again, Daisy felt guilty about hiding Clancy’s letter from Tatiana, telling of her brother’s return. Tatty had every right to know, after all, and she was tempted to tell her here and now, but Tatty’s next remark stopped her in her tracks.
“I was talking to Elizabeth and Leo the other day, and they were asking if there was any news about Nate. They already knew Clancy was out looking for him. I suppose everyone knows. I said we hadn’t heard anything, of course. But it’s been a long time since Clancy’s last letter, hasn’t it? Do you think something’s happened?”
Daisy was leading the way along the landing, making for the nearest dormitories, where the children had once slept in rows and rows of narrow bunks, under threadbare blankets.
“He has the whole world to search, Tatty,” she replied. “I’m sure he’ll be in touch when he has something to—”
She let out a yelp as something darted out in front of her, scampering across the landing from one doorway and through another. At first she thought it was an animal, the speed at which it moved, but then she saw it was a child. A girl no older than six or seven, dressed in a ragged cotton dress with tangled brown hair, her legs and feet dirty and bare.
“Don’t let her get away!” Daisy called quietly to Tatty.
They moved carefully through the doorway, looking around them. This dormitory had beds for thirty or more children—there had probably been more than one child per bed. Daisy cursed her long, bulky dress as she knelt down, peering under the woodworm-infested bunks, trying to spot the little girl. Tatty was moving further down the room, calling out ‘Coo-ee!” in a friendly voice.
Like a frightened cat, the girl flew past Daisy, swerving round her outstretched hands. Daisy spun round, knowing she couldn’t catch the little mite before she reached the door. Instead, she threw her weight against the nearest set of bunks, tipping them over. With a creak, the tall rickety wooden bed-frame toppled to the side, knocking over the one next to it, which knocked over the one next to that, which came smashing down against the door, slamming it shut and landing against it in a convenient barricade.
The little girl let out a squeal and changed direction. She ran right for the dirt-smeared window—and it didn’t look as if she was going to stop. They were more than twenty feet above the ground outside.
“Oh God, no!” Daisy cried.
The girl jumped straight at the window, but Tatty caught her in mid-air, closing her arms around the child and holding her up as she thrashed and flailed. Her head caught Tatty on the chin a couple of times and she landed a couple of good kicks and elbows, but Tatty had trained against somewhat harder opponents and took it all with good grace.
“I don’t want to go!” the girl screamed. “You can’t make me! You can’t make me go!”
Daisy held out her hands, smiling and trying to soothe her. “It’s all right! It’s all right! We’re not going to hurt you! I promise you we’re not here to hurt you!”
But the girl seemed inconsolable. Daisy sighed, unsure what to do. Then she grinned and undid the lace on her bonnet. Taking it off, she held it out to the child.
The girl stopped struggling and looked at it with fascination—she had probably never seen such a fine piece of clothing up close. She was still trembling, her eyes filled with suspicion and fear, but she didn’t struggle as Daisy put the bonnet on her head, gently tied it under her chin and pretended to tidy up the trim of lace and silk flowers. It was far too big and looked ridiculous, but the girl seemed to be hypnotized. Daisy took a small mirror from her reticule and showed the girl her reflection.
Tears started streaming from the child’s eyes and she sniffed back some snot that was starting to drip from her nose. Then Daisy found she was welling up too. Tatty released her hold and the girl just stood there, crying silently as she took the mirror in her hands.
“You look beautiful,” Daisy said to her. “But now it doesn’t match your dress! That won’t do, will it? We’ll have to get you a nice dress, and a bonnet that fits, so everyone will see what a beautiful little girl you are. Wouldn’t you like that?”
The girl didn’t answer, but it was clear the idea
appealed to her. Daisy would have been willing to bet that this child had never owned a new dress, of any quality, in her life—let alone a bonnet.
“You can keep that mirror too, if you want.” Daisy felt a twinge of shame as she realized this silver-backed mirror was worth more than all the clothes this child had ever worn put together. “But we need your help. We need to know what happened to the children who lived here. Can you tell us that? What’s your name? You can tell us your name, can’t you?”
“Mary,” the girl said. “Me name’s Mary.”
It was a common name; half the girls in Ireland were named Mary. Daisy moved over to the windowsill, dusting it off before sitting down on it. She motioned to the girl to sit down beside her. Mary did so, one hand playing with the bonnet where it came down either side of her neck, the other gazing at herself in the mirror. Her elbows were tucked tightly into her sides in a defensive posture.
“Tell me about the other children,” Daisy prompted her. “Where did they all go?”
“Dey go’ taken away,” Mary replied in a small, innocent voice. The dirt on her face made her large blue eyes seem enormous. “Some was taken to homes, I tink. I remember yeh comin’ here, Miss. Yeh came an’ took Bren an’ Maeve an’ dat. Yeh said yeh’d be back for the rest of us, an’ we was all goin’ to some place nicer. Bu’ yeh didn’t come back.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t come back myself,” Daisy said. “But I sent some people to look after you. Didn’t they take care of you?”
The expression on the girl’s face as she gazed up at Daisy was one of confused fear. She was slowly shifting back along the windowsill. Tatty was standing relaxed, with her hands behind her back, but Daisy knew she was ready to grab the girl if she went to run again.
“Dah was you sent dem?” Mary whimpered. “You sent Red?”
“I don’t know anyone named Red,” Daisy replied. “Who is he?”
“He’s … he’s deh fella who … who came,” Mary sobbed. “Bu’ … bu’ we know Red. He worked … worked for deh fella wha’ ran dis place.” She pulled out her sleeve and held out her right arm. “He gave me dis.”
The grime on her arm was raised in a weal across her arm, just below her elbow. Daisy took the girl’s hand and ran her fingers lightly over the scar. It was an old injury, most probably from a bad burn—the kind you might get from having red-hot metal laid across your skin.
“Dear God,” Daisy said under her breath. “Mary, how did this happen?”
“I spilled deh coal back when I was little, wen I was bringin’ it in. Some of it got on Red’s shoes. So he go’ deh poker from the fire and tol’ me dis was wha’ happened to clumsy girls.”
Daisy exchanged looks with Tatty. This man would have to be found.
“So, anyway,” Mary continued, pulling her sleeve back down as if the scar was no longer something she ever thought about, “after you went dat time, he shows up wit’ a few wagons and he takes all deh ones wha’ are left. On’y I says to meself, I’m not goin’ wit’ him, not even if he’s tak-in’ us to the biggest mansion that ever was. So I hid in deh cellar while dey was loadin’ everyone else on. I could see deh lot of ’em tru one of dem little windows. An’ one of deh lads—he as’d Red where dey were goin’, an’ Red says to ’im: ‘Yer goin’ to be well important, boy. Yer goin’ to work for deh Wildensterns, an’ in a lovely spot in the mountains too.’ An’ den dey drove off.” The girl chewed her lip and gazed at Daisy, as if measuring her up. “I’ve been here ever since.”
“And do you know where they went?” Tatty pressed her.
Mary shook her head. Her face hung forward, her eyes directed at the floor. “Yer deh Wildensterns, aren’t yeh?” she asked in a hushed voice. She was trembling again. “You should know where dey are. Don’t be askin’ me.”
XII
THE WILL OF GOD, INDEED
NATE SAT AT THE TOP OF THE MOUNTAIN, READING. Despite the late morning sunshine, the wind had a bite to it, tugging at his hair and his coat. Standing on the shoulder of the peak, Clancy was peering down the slope using a telescope. He was looking back at the foot of the Devil’s Ladder, the steep gully that led up the last precipitous slope towards the peak of Carrauntoohil. Even without the telescope, Nate could see the tiny figures of several men moving quickly towards the mouth of the gully. But for now, his attention was on the pages of his father’s journal.
He recognized the world his father was describing—he had been a young boy during the years of the Great Famine—but it was still strange to read about it. In the years he had been away from home, Nate had been hungry many times, and had learned how hard life could be for those without his family’s advantages. Even so, it was hard to comprehend how the blight had turned Ireland’s green pastures into an alien landscape. The page he was reading was written in February of 1846:
The land is finally recovering from the rot of winter. It was a disturbing sight, to see the blight take hold, and at such astonishing speed. From the earliest discovery of black spots on the leaves and stems of the first few plants, a field of green crops could rot completely in a matter of days—turning the land black with its decay. The stench was intolerable. …
Nate stopped reading, the image of a blackened landscape bringing to mind the nightmarish visions he had been suffering for much of the last three years. He felt the thing squirm inside him, visions springing into his mind; flashes of paradise broken up with images of human bodies bursting, dissolving. Blinking the nightmarish sights away, he took a few breaths, quelling the serpentine in his gut, imposing his will on it once more. He continued to read:
Potatoes could be taken out of the ground with the appearance of health, only to turn to a foul-smelling pulp later on. I have seen nothing like it before—it was as if the land itself were cursed. It is fortunate that this disease only affects the potato, and not any of our money crops. Now the air is clearing and the land has lost its unsightly appearance—so long as you are not looking in the direction of the peasants. As spring comes upon us, my plans for modernizing Irish farming are well underway.
Miriam came to me in the drawing room today, as I was reading the morning papers. She was in a state of excitement, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright, hands clasped in that engaging manner of hers. She started babbling about a find she had made; a bronze artifact she believed to be of great historic significance. It was with profound reluctance that I allowed myself to be led out to the elevator, and down to the basement of the building where she has established a workshop of sorts. All around us, people were handling bits of mucky bronze, pieces of bone, broken engimal parts, or fragments of pottery; laying them out on the tables and treating them as if they were the finest pieces of jewelry. I will never comprehend this fascination with a long-dead past.
Having just returned from a trip to Newgrange in County Meath (an old collapsed burial mound the locals call “Brú na Bóinne”), Miriam was raving about her discoveries, blind to the risks she was taking given that she is past seven months pregnant. She had ignored my demands, and Warburton’s medical warnings about the risk to the baby, choosing instead to lead her ever-growing team of misbegotten mudlarks to this treasury of ancient garbage to see what they could dig up. What’s more, she had taken young Roberto with her to wallow around in the bogs. The boy is already a trifle odd, and I protested that this was poor preparation for a lad bound for the world of business. But she is willfully stubborn when she has an idea in her head, and I am loath to resort to physical chastisement to put her in her place, particularly as she is with child. She is such a delicate vessel.
Her great prize was nothing more than a bronze cauldron, blackened by dirt, with a serpent crafted around its rim.
“See here, my darling,” she said to me in a breathless tone that was more fitting for a corset-bound maiden in her first throes of adolescent romance: ‘This wondrous artifact is in superb condition, and the serpent is a clue to
its owner. The creature on the rim here is swallowing its own tail, to form a circle. This is an old pagan symbol of regeneration, rebirth, or even eternity”
“It is a splendid pot, Miriam my love, and I am sure you must be very proud,” I replied. “But only a blasted pagan would consider having a taste for one’s own flesh to be a positive quality”
“Don’t be so dismissive, Edgar dear,” she chided me. “These old systems of beliefs are all part of our development from savagery to civilization. Had you been born in this period, I am sure you would have been a pagan chieftain like Fionn MacCumhaill or Cormac MacArt. But you were born a Christian—in our time—and I thank God for that; for I see this cauldron as a sign, Edgar. A sign from God that He has a purpose for me—and you, my darling, have the earthly power to make His will a reality”
I know my wife well enough to recognize any early sign of a new obsession, and this one was trumpeting like an elephant. The will of God, indeed.
“And what is this purpose for which God has chosen you, my love?” I asked.
“I believe we have found the legendary Dagda’s cauldron,” she said in a near-whisper. “The Dagda was one of the most powerful of the ancient Irish gods. He had a cauldron that could cure any illness or injury if the sufferer was placed inside. It was said that it could even bring the dead back to life—the kind of power symbolized by the serpent eating its own tail, do you see? But most significant for us was that if you used it to cook a meal, it would feed however many people came to eat from it. There are stories of armies feeding on porridge from a single cauldron. From the descriptions I have read, Edgar my dear, I believe this may be the Dagda’s cauldron. He lived near Newgrange. Not that I believe it has magical powers, of course, but I think it could be the cauldron of a great man who inspired the legend. And as such it would be the perfect symbol to drive a great endeavor.”