by Diane Noble
There was a creaking of the altar rail, then a figure, almost ghostlike in the dim candlelight, rose at the front of the church. Micheil turned his head to look down the aisle, staring hard. His piercing gaze bored into me, even though he was several yards away.
“What are you doing here?” he said, his voice sounding weary. His countenance looked even wearier as he slowly moved toward me.
“I’m sorry I intruded,” I said. “It wasn’t my intent. I-I just wanted to find you, to—”
He held up his hand to quiet me, and his expression softened. “ ’Tis not a meddling, Fairwyn. Not at all.” His eyes were dark and troubled. “But you heard my supplication?”
I nodded, unable to lie about such a thing. “You seek the same from God as I am searching for.” I hesitated. “Yet you were once a priest,” I said.
“And you think I should know all the answers then?”
“No, of course not. Welsie told me about your exile, that your own troubles have been many.”
He smiled, his face gentle. “It seems our Welsie True told us each about the other. About our struggles, our hearts’ desires, our searching for God to reach down and lift us out of our present troubles.”
I tilted my head, amazed at his words. “You search for God? Welsie didn’t tell me anything except about your exile. And about your leaving the priesthood. She never said why.”
“She didn’t break confidences.”
“Except in my case. She’s told you everything about my family.”
“There’s a difference, lass. She told me about your family and hers. She has told me almost nothing else.”
I waited for him to go on, to perhaps tell me how he came to this place. But he fell silent as we walked to the rear of the sanctuary. “You are looking well rested,” he said.
When we stopped at the doorway, I said, “Could you tell me your story … why you plead for God’s mercy?” Under ordinary circumstances, I knew the question would seem to presume on a relationship we didn’t have, and I didn’t expect him to do as I asked.
But he seemed to realize my question didn’t come from idle curiosity. He searched my eyes. “ ’Tis not an easy story for me to tell or for the hearer to hear.”
I thought of my own sins, my need for mercy. I needed to know if there was hope for one like me. Perhaps his story might help me believe there was.
“What about your story, Fairwyn March?” he said gently. “Wouldn’t it be more fitting for me to tell all Welsie wants you to know?”
“Perhaps I fear what she’s asked you to tell.”
He raised a brow and, surprisingly, guessed my thoughts. “Do you fear you cannot forgive her for not telling you sooner?”
My cheeks warmed, and I let my gaze drift away from his piercing look. “Everything comes back to that, it seems,” I mused, without answering. “Forgiveness and mercy.”
“And do you then, lass, have the ability to forgive easily?”
I pushed aside his question about Welsie and thought instead about Zeb and Jeannie. “Not easily,” I said. “Sometimes not at all.”
We stepped outside. The mist swirled around us, and in the distance drips fell from the tile roof. “When we find it hard to forgive others, or ourselves, ’Tis difficult to believe in a God who so lavishly forgives us.”
“You understand that about God, yet I just heard you begging for his mercy.” I walked a few feet away from him, staring at the ghostlike trees and shivered.
His voice was barely audible when he spoke. “I am in greater need of God’s forgiveness than anyone I know.”
I turned, pulling my cloak tighter against the chill.
He was looking off in the distance. “It was during the famine. People were dying. Men took to the streets armed with pitchforks and scythes, going after those who had more than they did. I tried to calm them, but their families were dying. There was nothing I could do.
“One young man went mad with desperation in the dark of morning. His wee baby was starving to death, and he was desperate to get milk. Stole into the barn of an Englishman to get milk—not steal the cow—but merely to milk the old creature. I was trailing along after him, my robes flapping in the wind, trying to talk some sense into him. ‘Ask the Englishman,’ I said. ‘Tell him your wee babe is starving. Appeal to his human nature.’ But the young man wouldn’t listen.
“Just as I feared would happen, the Englishman woke to the sounds of us clattering around in his barn. He came after us with a gun, ready to pick off first one then the other, thinking of course that I was in the plot to steal his cow. The young da flew into a rage and lunged with his pitchfork, thinking to spear the man in two.
“The gun discharged, first in the air, then the Englishman took better aim. He pointed the gun straight at the young da’s chest. Before I knew what I was up to, I grabbed the pitchfork from the boy, thinking merely to wrestle it away. In the confusion, the Englishman shot the boy, knocking him down wounded in the knee. He stepped closer and took aim again, this time straight at the young da’s head.”
When Micheil stopped speaking, his chest rose and fell with emotion, and the lines in his face seemed deeper. I thought he might weep, but after a time he continued. “The fork was still in my hands, and before the man could get off a shot, I flew at him, hoping to keep him from firing again.”
His voice dropped to a whisper. “The gun went off and killed the boy sure as I’m standing here. And when I lunged, I speared the man through. I was the cause for both men dying that day … I slipped away in the gray drizzle of dawn, praying someone might come forward as a witness. No one did.
“The following day I confessed all to my bishop, and he ordered me to turn myself in to the British authorities.
“I was fearful that other lads in my village might take to arms in my defense, the troubles between the English and Irish would increase. More would be killed.” He fell silent. “They were already starving. I didn’t want to add to their troubles.”
“So you came to California?”
“My bishop had planned to suggest to the English that I be exiled as punishment. He planned to suggest this abandoned mission.
“When I decided to run, I decided it would be to this place of self-exile.” He heaved one long, troubled sigh. “I never lost my passion for my calling, though to this day, I still doubt my worthiness.”
For several minutes, we stood without speaking, each lost in thought.
“I ceased being a priest the day I took another’s life,” Micheil said. “How could I kill God’s child and call myself a man of God? I started praying for mercy, while doing every good work I could think of to earn his favor again.”
“That’s why you cared for Welsie True?”
“No, lass. That was done out of utter love. Even after I told her I was a murderer, she hired me to run Saddleback Ranch. She gave me the home I’d longed for all my life. My call to serve God, even before I became a priest, was out of a servant’s heart. I found that I still had a desire to serve him by helping those less fortunate than I.
“Welsie True wasn’t the only one God brought into my life.” He looked back to the front of the church where the candles still flickered. “Perhaps I care for others in hopes that God will grant me mercy and rest at last.
“I asked for a sign, thinking if God understood, he would tell me. He would absolve me of my great sin. Had the young man lived, I would have thought that sign enough, but when I lunged with the pitchfork, the gun went off. I killed two men, not one.” He fell silent for a moment. “Now, lass, when I look at my callused knees, I realize I’m still begging for mercy because I don’t know what else to do.”
Letting a silence stretch, we walked through the tangle of overgrown gardens. Tiny droplets from the mist had formed on my hair and cloak. “It came to me when I saw the carpenter’s shop,” I said, “that I need to make a dulcimer as sure as I need healing for my own soul.” We stopped near the mosquito-clouded pond. The heavy air caused a stench to rise from the water, a
nd I tried to wave away both the smell and the mosquitoes with one hand.
“You found our wood shop then?” he said. In the dim light I thought I saw a smile at the corner of his mouth.
“I did.” I watched him, wondering how honest I could be with him. “As you’re talking just now, it occurred to me that you’re building something new here at the mission—more than just a new life for yourself. Welsie told me of the school you’ve begun for the Indian children, the food you give to those without homes and families, the restoration of the mission grounds.” I paused, wondering how I could see God’s work in his life—and be so blind to it in my own. “Though born of grief and sorrow and tragedy, you’re building something good. Something good in your soul to diminish the bad.”
“Just as your dulcimer will diminish the bad in yours?”
I drew in a quick breath. He didn’t know my sins, but he had guessed my reasoning. “Yes,” I said.
“It was Welsie’s idea, you know,” he said, “to turn a monk’s cell into a woodworking room. She asked me to find the tools and wood just after she wrote to you to come. The only thing lacking is a solid block of the finest seasoned hardwood. And that we’ve taken care of as well … but I’ll tell you later more about how and where.”
“Seasoned hardwood?” I laughed. “She told you even that.”
“She said sassafras is the best, especially if it’s grown near Blackberry Mountain.”
I sobered. “She was from the Great Smokies, wasn’t she?”
“Aye, that she was, lass. And if you can stand to hear my Irish brogue get through another long tale, I promise I’ll tell you Welsie’s tomorrow.” His expression was gentle. “I’ve gone on too long with my own, and I fear for another bout of ill health from you if I continue on tonight.”
As eager as I was to hear it, I realized my fatigue had again taken its toll. I nodded in agreement. “Tomorrow morning then?”
“Good then. I’ll come to the inn, and we’ll talk again.”
“I would like that.” I hesitated. “Perhaps a stroll along the beach?” I thought of all the wondrous descriptions of the ocean in Welsie’s letters and imagined that she would smile if she knew where we walked to speak of her.
He accompanied me to the buggy, and, with one hand, helped me step to the driver’s seat. I seated myself, smoothed my skirts, and looked down at his upturned face.
“My husband accuses me of thinking of no one but myself. Tonight … listening to your story …” I frowned, trying to explain it even to myself. “I realized that others struggle to understand their faith, their hearts in relation to God, just as I do. My own pain lessened somehow. I don’t feel quite so alone.”
“That wasn’t the reaction I was expecting, lass. I imagined you running the other way when you found out I killed two men.”
“It was wrong to press you to tell me your secrets. And if it hadn’t been for Welsie as the bridge between us, I think I wouldn’t have asked.” I fell quiet, looking at the calm in his lined face, the gentleness in his eyes that had drawn me from the first. “You gave me a gift tonight, Micheil. By telling me, I mean. A gift that has brought a small measure of quiet to my troubled soul.”
“ ’Tis the first time anyone has thanked me in such a way for my gift o’ gab,” he said. He laughed then, a rolling, rumbling sound, surprisingly strong for such a slight man. He stepped back from the buggy as I lifted the reins.
“I’ll see you in the morning then,” I said with a smile and a nod. I chirked to the horse to start.
We had gone only a yard or two when he called after me. “About your dulcimer …” he said. “Will you be staying long enough to finish it?”
I slowed the horse. “As soon as I get that block of hardwood, I’ll start work.”
“You plan to remain here then?” he said, now walking alongside the buggy. “Long enough to make a dulcimer?”
My smiled faded. How could I tell him I couldn’t think beyond tomorrow to consider the day after, next week, let alone next year? That I didn’t know where to go or what to do?
Now it wasn’t just me I had to care about. Now it was us, my baby and me. A little one who would need me, depend on me. I stared at Micheil as my tomorrows, my fears, settled heavy on my shoulders as surely as the mists did on the road.
He wore a puzzled look as I attempted a lighthearted wave good-bye, and then turned the horse down the mission road, leaving Micheil standing beside the road beneath an ancient oak, watching me.
“I cannot think beyond tomorrow, my friend,” I called back to him. “Until then …”
Twenty-Two
Micheil arrived the following morning as the sun rose high in a cloudless sky. I had just started down the wooden stairs leading to the wet sand when he called out to me.
“ ’Tis a lovely day for a walk on the beach,” he said.
I turned and waited for him to join me. A light breeze lifted his hair from his forehead. He caught my hand, helping me step from the bottom stair onto the sand, then he released it when we sat down to remove our shoes.
The wet sand was cold to my toes and threatened to disappear beneath my feet as the water ran around them. I grinned with delight, breathing in the scent of the salt air, the sounds of the gulls and pelicans.
“I’ve planned a surprise for you today,” he said after we’d walked a stretch of the beach. “A place you’ll be taken with, lass.”
A place? I stopped with a frown. The thought of travel caused my delicate stomach to lurch a bit. “Is it far?”
“Just a ways up the beach—over there, toward the cliffs.” He gestured north. “We’ll need to take my wagon.” I questioned him with a look. “I’ve brought it from Saddleback. ’Tis time to pick up a shipment of supplies.”
I laughed, looking up at him in wonder. It seemed the man moved smoothly from mission caretaker to ranch overseer without so much as a ripple of trouble. “I’d like to see Saddleback. Welsie told me all about it, the cattle, the wide open spaces.”
“That will be our second trip—if you’re up to it, lass. First I’ll take you by the cottage. That was to be my surprise.” He grinned. “She wanted you to see it before anything else.”
The thought pleased me. “She did?”
He led me to a formation of stout sandstone outcroppings and brushed off a flat, smooth rock. I sat down, and he sat beside me, both of us facing the breaking waves.
“Everything of Welsie’s is yours,” he said, staring out at the surf. Above us a flock of gulls cartwheeled and cried, accompanied by the sounds of lapping waves.
I frowned and turned to him in disbelief. “She never said as much.”
“When she took sick, she made out a new will, leaving everything to you.”
“But it’s her—her friendship and love—I want. Not her ocean cottage or her beloved Saddleback or anything else.” My voice dropped to a whisper as the weight of my loss pressed down on my heart. “I really don’t want anything else.”
“Are you certain, lass, that it’s your grief that’s causing such words?” When I didn’t answer, he went on. “Welsie thought you might be angry she never answered your deepest questions.”
I focused on the waves while fresh grief flowed through me. Grief over all I had missed because of secrets kept, grief over her premature death. “I loved her, and there’s nothing to forgive. I just feel, well, cheated.”
“You’ll understand when you hear her story, lass.” He was watching me intently. “And if there is any resentment toward her in your heart, you must let it go. Not for Welsie’s sake. But for your own.” When I didn’t speak, he went on. “Without giving up such feelings you can’t grieve properly.” His voice dropped, and it was almost tender when he spoke again. “Whether it’s because of physical death or that of a broken relationship.”
I shook my head, tears still blurring my vision. But with his reminder, it was the broken relationship with Zeb I thought about, not Welsie’s death.
“She told me a
great deal about you, especially your connection to her. You have not grieved properly since I told you she died.”
“I can’t,” I said, but my voice broke, and I began to cry.
Micheil moved closer and awkwardly wrapped a thin arm around my shoulders. I wept into his soft flannel shirt. I cried until I couldn’t cry any more. For Welsie, for Poppy, for Zeb. For lost friendships and loves. For mistakes and sorrow. Finally, I pulled back, almost embarrassed that I had cried so in this man’s arms.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured and wiped at my tears with my fingers. I looked away until I could stop hiccuping and breathe again. He handed me his handkerchief, and I buried my face in it. “I want to go to her cottage now,” I said finally. “I would like to see where she lived.”
“ ’Tis nearer than you might expect.”
I walked slightly ahead of him as we ascended the stairs leading to the road. He led me around the inn to the farm wagon parked in front. A white mare nickered a soft greeting. Micheil stopped briefly to rub the velvet between her eyes and murmur a gentle word, before helping me into the wagon. I climbed up onto the bench seat. Micheil took his place beside me, chirked to the horse, and flicked the reins.
We headed down a narrow dirt road by the ocean. After a few minutes he turned the mare to the north along a wider road. Several buckboards and carriages passed us as we drove to a plateau atop a steep cliff. Rounding a corner, we passed through a grove of live oaks and eucalyptus trees and halted in front of a small cottage.
Still seated in the wagon, I looked up and down the dusty road in wonder. Flanking it were rows of adobe houses, their red roofs bright, their whitewashed walls gleaming in the sun. I hadn’t ever lived within view of neighbors, certainly not on Blackberry Mountain, not even in Oak Hill. Yet here, mothers tended little ones in prams or in arms, neighbors chatted across picket fences, and children seemed to spill from the yards into the streets with their hoops and sticks, their laughter carrying on the ocean breeze.
In wonder I turned again to Welsie’s cottage, set slightly apart from the others, on the hillside facing the ocean. The foliage around the small house was lush and bright, a bougainvillea covering one end of the roof, cascading across the shingled covering of a nearby well, and pepper and willow tree branches woven together above the other side of the house. A wild froth of blossoms flanked the brick walkway leading to the front door.