by BJ Hoff
In the end, it was the Committee that had won it for Brady. He had finally managed to convince Jack that he would be far more effective in helping to raise money on behalf of Ireland if he could see for himself what the conditions in their homeland really were, if they had been exaggerated or not. How could he possibly be effective with the Committee, he had argued to Jack, unless he was acquainted firsthand with Ireland and its people?
“If the conditions there are really as intolerable as we’re told, I’ll come back with the proof to support our work—sketches, paintings, and a full account of the truth. Come on, Jack,” he had pressed. “I need to go, and you know it.”
“You want to go is more like it,” his brother had countered.
“You said yourself we need to establish some European reporters, Jack. Why can’t this be the first step?”
The black scowl eased slightly, and the long Irish sigh that followed told Brady he had won.
“Two months,” Jack finally agreed. “Two months, and not a day longer, mind!”
Brady suspected that Jack’s reluctance to grant him leave to Ireland had something to do with concern that he might end up wanting to stay in Ireland. He had to admit that his brother’s instincts were sound. They always were. It had been over a month now, and Brady seldom thought of home.
It was true that he had squandered much of the time indulging his fascination with Dublin City, rather than exploring the Irish countryside as Jack expected. The old city had drawn him in almost immediately, with its gypsylike charm, its heady, almost intoxicating, variety of sights and sounds, its buildings, and its fine bridges—and its even finer women.
Ah, the women!
Still, when he hadn’t been playing the rake or cultivating all things Irish in a fevered attempt to rid himself of his more obvious “Americanisms,” Brady had sketched and painted like a madman, often working until dawn. He had also managed to rationalize his preoccupation with Dublin by telling himself that it was Ireland’s principal city, after all, and so it was only reasonable to make a thorough study of it.
Indeed.
Finally, however, when he had lingered as long as he dared without sabotaging the rest of his expedition, he left Dublin and headed for Galway, in the west of Ireland. He had arrived in the city of his birth yesterday but after settling in had been too fatigued to do any real exploring. Today, though, he had wandered much of the town, making some interesting sketches of its different quarters and its people in the process.
The wind was whipping up harder now, the spray off the water stinging his face. Brady turned away and stood studying the small, rough-hewn houses about him, many already darkened for the night. Every now and then a man would go in or out, occasionally a woman as well. The men seemed a reticent lot, for the most part: dark and taciturn in their old-fashioned breeches and jackets—and those surprising light blue stockings. As for the women—well, he had seen a beauty or two, barefoot, decked in their peculiar short cloaks with red petticoats swirling about bare legs as they darted in and out of the lanes.
He stretched, breathing in the tangy sea air that was laced with the strong, acrid odor of a quayside fish market. It was a curious feeling, standing in this place knowing that his parents or even Jack might have ventured among these peculiar people at one time or another in the past. Perhaps he even had relatives in one of those small thatched houses.
He doubted it. He hadn’t seen many Spanish-looking faces since he entered the Claddagh—faces like his own and Jack’s, common enough in Galway City. His gaze went to one of the aged Spanish archways off to the left, then back to the nearest dwellings. No, Brady thought it unlikely that there would have been much intermarriage here. These people had remained independent over the centuries, an isolated, exclusive settlement. Why, they were said to even have their own king, who governed them, claimed dominion over the bay for the community, and flew his own personal sail and colors from the masthead of his boat!
Outside the Claddagh, Brady had seen abundant evidence that Galway had once been a busy trading port with Spain. The black Irish—like his own family—could be seen everywhere. He spied more than one black-haired, dark-eyed lovely so exquisitely formed and graceful that she could have served as the ideal artist’s model.
Their mother had been raven haired, according to Jack. Brady hadn’t known her, of course, nor his father. His mother had died giving birth to him, and his father hadn’t lived much longer before being hanged as the result of a midnight raid on a British post, apparently by one of those secret societies. Whiteboys, Thrashers, Ribbonmen—the Irish had boasted countless numbers of them over the years.
Jack had done his best to keep their parents’ memory alive as Brady and his sister, Rose, were growing up, and perhaps he had been more successful than he realized. Brady had come to feel an uncommon closeness to the young mother who died giving him life, and to Sean Kane, his doomed father.
Jack had instructed him not to “waste time” in Galway, claiming that there was nothing of any real interest to be found in the “city of the tribes.” But for Brady, it was enough that his parents had once lived here, worked here…died here. In some bizarre fashion, that tragic duo had continued, even in death, to play a significant role in what he had become. His fierce, ongoing desire to see the country of his birth; the elemental streak of rebellion that seemed to fire his spirit, no matter how vigorously Jack tried to dampen it; and the unaccountable attachment he held for this small, struggling island and its people—somehow those two shadowy figures of the past were a part of his passion.
Perhaps what accounted for the difference in the way he and Jack felt about the country was the fact that Jack at least had his memories of Ireland—he had been almost fourteen when they emigrated—whereas Brady remembered nothing.
But he was here now, and he intended to see it all. He had gotten himself lost several times during the day, wandering along the narrow, winding streets of the city before ending up here in the Claddagh. He supposed he should be getting back to his room instead of standing here staring out at the sea. The wind had begun to churn up in earnest, and it held the distinct threat of a rainstorm on the way.
Shifting his sketchbook to the other arm, he started off. He had just turned onto one of the narrow lanes leading away from the harbor when a small girl with a merry laugh darted out from between two crude huts, nearly colliding with Brady.
“Whoa!” he cautioned the child, putting out a hand to steady her. She was a wee thing, no more than four or five, surely: barefoot, reed thin, and none too clean. But her eyes danced with lively mischief, and when Brady smiled at her, she laughed in pure delight.
At that instant, another girl—no, not a girl, but more a young woman, he realized after taking a closer glance—emerged from the same dirt path. She, too, wore no shoes, but a bright blue cloak flew about her in the wind, and her kerchief had slipped to reveal a wild mane of black hair.
She turned on the child, firing a stream of what Brady took to be Gaelic invective as she wagged a scolding finger at her charge. It took her another second or two to notice Brady. When she did, her impatience seemed to give way to alarm. Grabbing the little girl’s hand, she tugged her close and began to pull her down the lane alongside her.
The wind blew her kerchief free with the movement, and Brady flung out a hand to catch it, returning it to her with a small flourish. Her eyes narrowed—wonderful eyes, enormous in her thin, delicate-featured face—but she gave a grudging nod of thanks.
A blast of wind swept down the lane at that instant, surprising Brady with its force.
The child squealed, but obviously not in alarm—the odd little creature was laughing again!
Her guardian, however, was not amused. Her gaze went to the harbor, and Brady turned to look. There was thunder now, and the peculiar closeness of the day was gone, broken by the wind and an accompanying drop in temperature. Lightning streaked over the water, and the child cried out in glee. The older girl seemed not to notic
e. Her finely sculpted features had gone taut, and although she spoke not a word, Brady could sense the tension gripping her.
Was she the child’s mother? he wondered. She appeared awfully young herself and, like the little one, somewhat peculiar.
As he watched, the older girl ducked and hauled the child up in her arms, though she was obviously too slight for such a burden.
Strangely reluctant to see her leave, Brady put a hand to her arm. “Wait, please.”
She looked at his hand, then raised her gaze to his face. Brady actually flinched at the anxious look she turned on him. “Sorry,” he said, releasing her. “But I thought you might be able to help me with some directions. Do you speak English?”
The girl made no attempt at a reply, but instead stared at Brady as if he had suddenly grown horns.
He tried again. “English?” he repeated. “Do you understand?”
The wind slammed against his back, nearly knocking him into her. The girl froze, her gaze going to something over Brady’s shoulder, and the raw fear he saw in her eyes caused a sudden burst of panic to spiral up in him. He whipped around and saw for himself the dizzying charge of lightning hurtling across the bay, as if a heavy arm from heaven had unleashed an assault of fiery arrows.
At that instant, Brady realized that there was something far more treacherous on the wind than a rainstorm.
3
IN SEARCH OF SHELTER
Oh! thou, who comest, like a midnight thief,
Uncounted, seeking whom thou may’st destroy…
JOHN KEEGAN
A shrieking gale caught Terese up, nearly tossing her off her feet. For the first time she realized that this was more than a winter rainstorm, that something unthinkable was happening and she might actually be in danger. Instinctively, she threw herself to the ground, crouching behind the stones and shivering as much from fear as from the suddenly frigid air.
For a moment she could do nothing but lie, dazed and shaking, against the rocks. A rumbling deeper than thunder rushed in off the sea to sweep the cliffs and the fort like a fury. Never had Terese heard such a sound, as if the wind would tear the earth itself asunder. Lightning streaked wildly, arcing over and around her.
The sky released a deluge of hail and rain, slashing her head and arms like a storm of needles. Terese screamed in pain, throwing her arms up to shield her head as she scrambled to her feet and began to run.
She felt the savage wind slapping at her, shoving her, as if to lift her from the ground and into the deadly maelstrom. Panicked, her heart thundering so violently she could no longer distinguish the pounding of her blood from the roar of the wind, Terese practically threw herself at one of the taller stones, wrapping her arms around it and clinging desperately as the downpour of rain continued to pummel her without mercy.
She screamed into the night, but the storm stole her voice, dashing her cry against the rocks before finally carrying it out to sea.
Every muscle in Brady’s body went rigid as yet another blast of wind slammed against him. On instinct, he threw himself in front of the two girls, trying to shield them. “Over there!” he yelled, pointing at the low ditch running between two of the houses.
The black-haired girl stared at him, clutching the child in her arms even closer. It occurred to Brady in a split second that she might be slow-witted, for she seemed not to understand, even when he grabbed her arm and began tugging her toward the ditch.
She fought him, shaking her head violently, hugging the child to her as she twisted free of Brady’s grasp. At the same time, she made a sharp motion that they should run in the opposite direction. Not waiting for Brady to follow, she bolted off.
At that instant, another furious gust of wind hurtled over them. There was a crash, then the sickening sound of something tearing and splitting as the roof on one of the houses just ahead lifted completely free and blew apart, sending clumps of thatch flying wildly into the night.
Before, Brady had merely felt dazed by the unexpected onslaught of the storm. Now he knew his first stab of real fear. This was no ordinary wind, and he knew that there was no time to lose in finding shelter.
There were others now, spilling out from the houses in a flurry of panic and bewilderment, sending up a chorus of wailing and screaming as they poured into the streets. Many seemed in a state of shock. Others, nearly naked and marked with bruises and lacerations, stumbled through the crowds calling for family members and loved ones.
As Brady reached the girl, he could hear her muttering something in the Irish, repeating it like a litany. It struck him then how slight she was. He slowed her with a restraining arm and, without giving her a chance to protest, moved to take the child from her. Those enormous dark eyes challenged him for a split second as she retained her hold on the small girl in her arms. Even when she finally relented and handed the child over to him, she eyed him closely, as if to make certain he was not an abductor.
“Where?” Brady shouted above the wind as he bundled the child to his chest. “Show me!”
Again the girl pointed, and they started off at a hard run. The night had become a tempest. The wind caught them up from behind, threatening to drive them to the ground as a sudden deluge of cold rain burst from the sky. Lightning rent the darkness, stabbing wildly at houses, piercing everything in its path in a dizzying assault.
Brady looked for some sign of shelter, but the small houses were clearly more hazard than haven in this kind of storm. Besides, the girl seemed to know exactly where she was going. At least he hoped she did.
He glanced down at the child in his arms, surprised to see that her expression was more bemused than frightened. As if sensing Brady’s gaze, she looked up—and actually smiled at him!
She was odd, no doubt about it!
Nearly blinded by the rain and pummeled by the merciless wind, Brady had all he could do to keep up with the dark-haired girl racing down the quay ahead of him. She was as fleet as a deer, and he had the feeling that if she hadn’t been so intent upon keeping the child well within range she would have easily left him behind and fled into the night.
They charged on, the baleful wind shrieking at their backs, in their faces, all about them now—for it was moving inland at incredible speed, like a horde of demons unleashed from the very pit of hell. Brady cried out a warning as a wooden pail came flying at them, barely missing the girl’s head before banging against a yard pump and splitting into pieces.
Slates and stones flew in all directions, creating even more danger. Brady thought himself to be as fit as any man, but now he became keenly aware that the exertion of the hard run and the burden of the child were beginning to tell on him. When a particularly vicious gust of wind seized him, shaking him and sweeping him forward, he came treacherously close to sprawling headfirst in the street.
Brady saw that the girl was heading toward a small, thatched-roof cottage at the other side of the street. When he realized her intention, he stopped her with a firm hand while bracing the child tightly against himself with his free arm. “That’ll do us no good!” he shouted, suddenly angry that she had led him past stone buildings and harbor businesses to what looked to be a worthless refuge.
There was fire in her eyes when she whipped around to face him. She jabbed a finger rapidly in the direction of the cottage, then opened her hand and beckoned furiously for Brady to follow with the child.
Brady snapped another look at the small dwelling, with its crumbling chimney and thatched roof. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see it lifted from its very foundation and flung aloft. He gave a violent shake of his head. “Are you daft, girl? We’d be better off in the streets!”
But she had already started off and was leaping over the debris in the street, making her way toward the hut. Brady swallowed a cry of disgust, then followed, tripping over stones and jagged pieces of metal as he pressed the child to himself, all the while wondering why he hadn’t simply left both of them standing in the street and saved himself.
4
TERROR ON THE WIND
A great storm from the ocean goes shouting o’er the hill,
And there is glory in it and terror on the wind…
EVA GORE-BOOTH
Terese knew her very life depended on the stone wall withstanding the wind. The shock of the storm and the cold, slashing rain had temporarily paralyzed her and dulled her senses. But on the threshold of her foundering consciousness lurked the awareness that the walls of Dun Aengus were her only hope.
So she lay, drenched and freezing, clinging to the jagged piece of rock as if by the very force of her own weight she could anchor it and herself to the earth. For a time, anger displaced her terror. The bile of bitterness rose in her throat at both her father and her brother for their abandonment. But when she tried to scream her rage into the wind, she found her voice locked inside her, her teeth clenched in a vise that shot searing flashes of pain through her jaws and up her temples. Too dazed to think, she could only lie, stricken, in the darkness, engulfed by the fury and horror of the storm.
Once, she tried to pray, but the effort was futile. In the mind-numbing terror of the storm and the sheer misery to which her body was fast succumbing, she could think only of surviving.
Besides, if her aunt Una was right, God was in the midst of this tempest, in control of the madness that had been unleashed upon the island this night. Terese felt only outrage at a God who would wreak such savagery upon the very land and people he had created.
She could not fathom a God of such wanton devastation. She could not plead with such a God. Certainly, she could not trust such a God.
She could only resist him. Her arms tightened about the cold, slippery rock. No doubt her aunt would say that God was the only anchor in the storm, even in a storm such as this. But to Terese, God had somehow become the storm…He was in it, over it, all around it, a part of it. Her anchor, her only anchor, was this ancient, rugged piece of rock. The rock, at least, she could touch and embrace and cling to.