Litchfield nodded, smiled again with condescending humor, then reached inside his coat. He pulled out ten crisp new twenty-pound notes—more money than Foulis Bagge had ever laid eyes on in one place in his life. He handed it to him.
With wide, greedy eyes, Bagge clutched the notes in his fist then held them to his leathery, hairy lips and kissed them. “You’ll get what you paid for all right,” he said. “It’s down there, under the lake.”
“What do you mean under it?”
“There’s a cave. Nobody knows the entrance but me. It’s where the gold came from. It was the year of the big draught, in ‘57. I used to know these hills like the back of my own hand. I found the cave when the water was low and the lake was nearly empty. That’s when I found the gold. When I came back for more, the rains had begun again, and the lake had filled the cave. I’ve been coming back for years. But it’s no use for the likes of me—I’m no fish. The gold’s there, but the lower parts of the cave are filled with water.”
Litchfield nodded and glanced at the two men who had been listening behind him.
“It’s plausible enough,” said one of them to his expression of question. “Of course it means we’ll have to drain the lake or stop up its entry into the cave. But it’s possible.”
“All right then, Bagge,” said Litchfield. “Lead the way. I want to see the entrance to this cave of gold. Once I am satisfied, you can keep the two hundred pounds and go to the devil for all I care.”
56
End of the Quest … or Perhaps Not
Percy stared back dumbstruck at the sister of his uncle’s first wife. “Dead?” he repeated, hoping he had not heard her correctly.
Mrs. Maloney nodded.
Slowly Percy shook his head dejectedly. “I guess that’s it then,” he said. He let out a long sigh then glanced at the two priests. “I suppose my search has suddenly come to an end,” he said. “I had hoped that I was about to find my uncle’s daughter. At least now I know … and I can put my uncle’s past to rest once and for all.”
Again he turned to Mrs. Maloney. “I hope you won’t mind telling me what happened,” he said. “After that I promise I will pester you with no more questions. You have been most kind, but I would like to know what happened.”
“I see no reason not to tell you,” she replied. “You have come a long way. Even if we had no use for your uncle, that is not your fault. I suppose you deserve to know.”
She took a breath, again remembering the past, and resumed her story. “As I told you, we never saw Morvern’s father, your uncle, again. Morvern grew up. Eventually I married my husband Daibheid. My father died, but my mother continued to keep Morvern with her, though we lived nearby and I helped with her on most days when she was young. But my Daibheid, you see, he wanted children of his own. He said it was no business of ours to take her in. So she remained with my mum. We had a son. He was born when Morvern was five. Then the famine hit, and my husband was out of work. My papa was gone by then, and my mother had nothing. Daibheid had worked in the shipyards for a time, before we were married, you see. So we all left Laragh, Mum and Morvern and Daibheid and me and our little Nigel, and we came here to Arklow. We had to do something to keep from starving. Daibheid found good work again, and we’ve been here ever since.”
Again she paused. “It wasn’t until Morvern was eighteen that the trouble started again.”
“Trouble? How do you mean … again?”
“She seemed fated to go the same way as her own mother. She was beautiful, you see, just like her mother, only tall and with the same bright red hair. But then she met a Welshman just like Avonmara. He was a good man, I suppose, and a hard worker, but we all hated to see our Morvern involved with a man when she was still so young. Morvern was all my mother had by then, you see, and she was just like Mum’s own daughter. Mum never let her use your uncle’s name. She was just Morvern O’Sullivan. My poor mum, God rest her soul, she cursed your uncle for deserting his daughter, though maybe that wasn’t right now that you tell me he tried to find her. But she died hating him, which is a sad thing to say about any two people in this world.”
She glanced again at the letters she still held in her hand, again smiling sadly to see her name and her mother’s name on the envelopes. “We never knew, you see—never knew he was trying to find us … that he wanted to be a good father to her after all. How could we know? We were gone by then, you see. It might have been different had we known. But we didn’t know. Then Morvern met the other Welshman, you see, come over for the work in the shipyards, just like my Daibheid. They met at work, you see, and were friends for a time. But when he took a fancy to young Morvern, my mum said it boded no good. But young Morvern was determined to marry him, just like her mother had been to marry your uncle. The mother and daughter were just alike, you see, young and beautiful and swept off their feet, you might say. So Morvern married the man, and my mum was terrified for what would happen. My mum was always one for premonitions, you might say. By then Mum’s red hair had turned as white as snow, as mine’s doing now, you see. And when Morvern came to be with child just like her own mother, Mum was dreadfully afraid the same fate would befall her as had poor Avonmara. There was a midwife in Arklow at that time. She was a strange woman, too acquainted with evil some said. Mrs. Faoiltiarna was her name. Whether that was her real name or not, no one knew, but it could not have suited her more perfectly.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Percy.
“The name means Wolf Lady, and that’s what she was. She made it her business to know other people’s secrets, and she parlayed them into power over them, and she listened to such folk that other people would have nothing to do with. My mum was one, as she got older, who was too much taken with the peculiarities of life, you might say. My Daibheid said no good would come of it, but Mum insisted that the midwife attend the birth of Morvern’s baby. She thought maybe the woman’s strange powers would be able to fight off the power of death she was convinced was hovering over our family, trying to destroy us. My Daibheid and Mum argued fiercely over it and yelled at one another like mortal enemies, though one was my own mother and the other was my husband. Daibheid insisted the woman was evil. He said that to bring her into the house would portend no good. And Morvern’s young husband, he agreed with Daibheid. But in the end, Morvern let her grandmother decide the matter, for she was the only mother she had ever known, you see, and she could do no other than to trust her. So the midwife was called in, and Morvern gave birth to a daughter.”
“A daughter!” exclaimed Percy, his hopes suddenly revived.
“Aye, but not one you’ll be wanting to find, I’m thinking.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The instant Daibheid laid eyes on her, the first words out of his mouth were that the curse of the Wolf Lady’s evil had come to the family. He was more furious at my mother than ever. After that he wouldn’t let me or our Nigel see Morvern or her baby or her husband or my mother. He was a devout man, you see, my Daibheid. He was certain there was evil afoot. He wanted nothing to do with the little girl or any of them anymore. As the weeks passed, then months, his words seemed to be confirmed.”
“In what way?” asked Percy.
“The baby was strange from the start. In her eyes was a look from another world. Daibheid didn’t want me to have anything to do with any of them. He called the midwife a witch. He said she had passed her evil into the family. But when he was at work, I couldn’t help myself, you see, for I am a woman, and they were my family, you see—my mum and Morvern and her child. But Daibheid told people about her otherworldly look and her strange ways, and before long, you see, there was talk and dreadful things began being said about us. All at once Morvern’s husband told my mum he was taking his wife and child and they were leaving Arklow. My mum was both heartbroken and furious at once, but she had brought it on herself with all the talk of evil forebodings and bringing in the midwife to the birth. The little man was a good man, you see, and he
knew the evil such rumors about his child could work. He didn’t want our family hurt by them either. So he took Morvern and the child away, and we never saw Morvern again. A year later, my mum received a letter from him telling her that Morvern was dead. Mum never recovered. It was a family curse, Daibheid said. Mum lived no more than a year after that. It was the midwife, Daibheid said. She was the cause of it. She was an evil that would mean the death of us all.”
“Why did people call on her services?”
“She knew every birthing that was coming and wormed her way into their homes. People were afraid of her, that she would put a curse on them or work some other devilry. But eventually her evil ways caught up with her.”
“What happened?”
“There was a man whose wife was about to give birth—you remember, Father,” she said, glancing toward Father Abban, “Mr. Keefe, from the shipyards.”
The priest nodded.
“When the woman came oiling around, he would have none of it,” Mrs. Maloney went on. “He told her never to show her face around his house. There were threats and high words. She was enraged. No one had dared refuse her so publicly. He was an important man, you see, and everyone knew that he had rebuked her to her face. She shouted some incantation back at him then said that a gruesome and premature death would come to him. He laughed back in her face. No fat purple witch could tell the future, he said.”
“She claimed to be able to see into the future?”
“It was one of the ways she made people fear her.”
“Why did he call her a purple witch?”
“She always wore purple, and with horrid earrings of snakes and ugly creatures. But their argument, you see, took place outside the man’s home. She shrieked terrible curses at him as she stormed off. The whole neighborhood heard her. Within days, what had happened was all over town, that he had called her a witch. Rumors began to circulate that her strange ways had all along been rooted in close connections to the dark forces of the underworld. And when poor Mr. Keefe died suddenly a year later, the charge of witch confirmed for all to see, some of the men of the community began devising a way to get rid of her.”
“You mean kill her?”
“That may have been what they intended. Daibheid would never tell me. But she got wind of it and suddenly disappeared, fled for her life. Nobody ever saw her again, and no one was sorry. Morvern’s daughter was the last child she delivered in Ireland. Daibheid said a curse was on the girl because of it. Even when she came back, though she was our own kin and my own sister’s granddaughter, he wouldn’t let us have anything to do with her.”
“What do you mean, when she came back? Who came back?”
“Morvern’s baby, my own niece—though she’s grown into a woman now, of course. I haven’t laid eyes on her myself, but I’ve spoken with them who have.”
“She is back in Arklow?” said Percy.
“Not in the town. In the hills to the west, I believe. I don’t know her exact whereabouts.”
“I need to find her.”
“She is not of this world. She is not one your uncle would want to claim as his own.”
“But if she is his heir, as Morvern’s daughter, then I must find her. She must know it.”
“They say she is one of strange ways. There is truth to what Daibheid has always said, that evil has followed her because a witch brought her into the world. But when she is married, I hope to see her again. She is to be married soon, you see. There are those who know, and they tell me about her because I am her aunt.”
“Do you know when the marriage is to take place?”
“In a week, I believe, though her husband-to-be is an older man in his thirties and she is still young.”
“I must talk to this girl.”
“I can’t tell you where to find her even if I dared. All I can tell you is what I hear, that every Sunday morning, rain or shine, her habit is to climb to the top of Lugnaquilla, unless it is covered in snow. No one knows why.”
“Lugnaquilla—what is that?”
“It is the highest mountain in County Wicklow. It is inland and north, about fifteen miles from here. It is easily visible on a clear day. As she goes, they say the girl plucks wildflowers along the path. They say she gathers them into a bouquet and leaves them at the top.”
“There would not be many flowers at this time of the year.”
“They say if there are no flowers, she makes her bouquets of weeds and grasses.”
“What is the name of the mountain again?”
“Lugnaquilla. It is most often known by the name given to its peak.”
“What is that?”
“It is called Percy’s Table.”
Percy smiled. An interesting coincidence, he thought. He had not known that he had a mountain named after him in Ireland!
The room fell silent.
“It seems that perhaps it is time for us to take our leave, Vanora,” said Father Abban. “We do not want to presume on your kindness. I know you are concerned for the time.”
Mrs. Maloney smiled, again nervously, and nodded.
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Maloney,” said Percy as they rose. “I appreciate everything you have told me. You have been most helpful.”
“And have no worries, Vanora,” added Father Abban. “When the time comes, I will speak with Daibheid.”
“Thank you, Father.”
The three men walked toward the door.
“Oh,” said Percy, pausing and turning back to Mrs. Maloney, “I meant to ask about this before when you mentioned it, but it slipped my mind. What did you mean when you said that the instant your husband laid eyes on Morvern’s baby, his first words were that the curse of the woman’s evil had come upon the family? Was it because of what you said about the look in her eyes?”
“No, not her eyes. That couldn’t be seen until later, until she began to look about and you had the uncanny feeling she was seeing into you.”
“What was it then?”
“It was her hair, you see.”
“What about it?”
“All the O’Sullivan girls that anyone can remember had red hair, the girl’s mother and grandmother, my sister and myself, and her great-grandmother.”
“But Morvern’s baby did not?”
“That’s why the sight of it struck fear into my Daibheid’s very soul. The moment she was born, the child’s hair was white as my Mum’s, you see.”
57
The Heart of the Factor
Steven Muir was beside himself.
The primary source of his anxiety was not Courtenay’s imminent assumption to the viscountcy and the loss of his job. He was worried neither for himself nor his mother. The house on Mochras Head, Katherine had already assured him, would contain quarters for them both, and their employment was assured. If Lady Katherine went to her brother’s in Glasgow until its completion, a dozen or more homes in Llanfryniog or the surrounding hills would happily take him in, and his mother, until that time.
His anxiety was rather for Lady Florilyn. The thought of her marrying Colville Burrenchobay was so odious in his mind as to have rendered him physically sick for two weeks.
Steven’s feelings were born in no petty human jealousy but rather in a lifelong acquaintance with the eldest son of Gwynedd’s parliamentarian. He knew something of what Burrenchobay was. He had also gained more than a passing glimpse of what Florilyn could be and was on her way to becoming. That was and that becoming could not be united without one of the two destroying the other.
Light and darkness cannot coexist. One must be extinguished in the triumph of its opposite. God will triumph. Sin will be extinguished from the universe.
But the light that had been newly growing in Florilyn was not strong enough to illuminate a soul so consumed with itself as that of Colville Burrenchobay. A tender growing human plant can too easily wither in the overpowering presence of one who is far too pleased with himself. Nothing is so lethal to the need to “become” as self-s
atisfaction. Falling under the spell of his alluring blandishments, Florilyn was not even aware of the thousand subtleties by which he encouraged her to nourish the self rather than kill it. Like her ancient Mother of Life, she had eaten of the fruit, so pleasing to the eye. And it had done its work.
Though he had not been an intellectual standout at Cambridge, Colville Burrenchobay was bright enough instinctively to know that to control her he must divide Florilyn from her past. Nothing accomplishes that end so readily as feeding pride, while offering tantalizing innuendos of derogation against any and all who were part of that past.
Steven hoped, however, that what he thought of as the “new Florilyn” was not altogether dead yet.
But what could he do to reawaken her? He had again become as nothing in her eyes. What had seemed a genuine friendship blossoming between them had evaporated as if it had never been. To all appearances, she despised him. Whether this was due to Colville’s whispered lies into her willing ear or from a deeper change in her own heart … he had not inquired too deeply. Indeed, perhaps the two were not so very different. That her ear had proved willing to listen to his subtle disseverations and gradually accept them as her own, perhaps revealed as much about her own insecurity as it did Colville’s motives to lure her away from all former affections.
The evening was late as Steven stood at his window. The countryside of Wales glowed in the pale light of a full moon coming in and out from behind turbulent clouds in the night sky. It had rained most of the afternoon. Though the storm had passed inland toward England, its windy retreat was still evident overhead. The tumultuous sky mirrored the turmoil in Steven’s own soul.
He had never paused to analyze his feelings for Florilyn to their depths. As a youth he had merely noticed her from afar and felt a strange sense of protectiveness over her. Hired by her father, then her mother, and brought into sudden and daily proximity to the family, his devotion had been as a servant who desired her best and sought to serve. That deeper feelings occasionally stirred within him, he took as merely a natural response of the human animal. He attached no great significance to them. That she had begun to reciprocate his friendship, that they had been able to laugh and talk together, these moments he treasured as among the manifold privileges of his job, but little more.
The Treasure of the Celtic Triangle- Wales Page 26