The horse trader shook his head. “’Tis the old one,” he said simply.
Jamie felt a momentary surge of relief. If it was Owen Roe Tavish it couldn’t be very serious. The old man was indestructible. “Speak up, man; what ails him?” he said, relief showing in his voice.
Me-Dennis shook his head pityingly. “Ails him! Sure and the old man is only just there. It’s a miracle he’s lasted this long, and him with his back broken,” he said.
Jaunting Jim beckoned Me-Dennis aside. The men were working in shifts to finish Tavish’s stick, carving it from the same hickory limb he and Kevin had ripped from the tree at the time of the accident. They had peeled the wood and sanded the knobs, and now it hung in the smoke of one of the fires. Occasionally they took it down and rubbed fresh butter into the grain, then hung it back again in the smoke.
“It will be ready for the old one to take with him,” the men assured each other. “He’d not like being separated from his stick.”
Jamie pushed through the group to the entrance of his tent. There he hesitated, uncertain whether to go in or not. As he waited Maeve came out. She walked apart from the others and he followed her.
“How is he?” he asked.
“Done to death,” Maeve answered wearily.
“Is there no help for him?”
“The doctor came from town and gave something to deaden his pain. Nought can be done for a broken back. There’s only to wait.”
“And the priest?”
“He’s on his way.”
“Where’s the boy?”
“Tavish asked that Kevin stay with him as long as possible.”
Mutely Jamie listened while Maeve briefly recounted what she knew of the tragedy.
“The boy returned without the old one at dusk. From the wild look of him, we knew something terrible had happened. He wouldn’t rest or eat, but led us straight to where Tavish lay.”
Jamie shook his head. The thought of Owen Roe Tavish dying was somehow incomprehensible. The old man was a fixed star in a shifting firmament; had always been—would always be. “I’ll go in to him now,” he said. “Get some rest.”
Maeve shook her head wearily. “When he wakes there’ll be things to say … good-bys to speak. I’ll wait.”
The small yellow flame of the crucifix candle curtsied toward the opening when Jamie drew aside the tent flap. Inside, Owen Roe Tavish lay on Jamie and Maeve’s big bed. On a low stool near the foot sat Kevin, fast asleep. His blond head, leaning against the lace counterpane, was the shade of deep amber in the soft, mellow light. One arm lay stretched along the edge of the bed, palm upward toward the dying man, as if in supplication.
Jamie hesitated, uncertain whether to go or stay. Upon the old man’s ashen face death’s shadow had already fallen. He breathed slowly and heavily through parted lips. As if in response to Jamie’s troubled scrutiny, he stirred and opened his eyes.
“Is it you now, Cousin Jamie?” he asked softly.
“Yes, Tavish.”
“Come closer … and speak softly. I would not wake the boy.”
A gush of pity turned Jamie’s blood to milk. The Speaker, on his deathbed, was worrying about awakening a sleeping child. “Sure I’ll speak no louder than breath, Cousin Tavish,” he promised.
Kneeling beside the bed, his face was but a few inches from Tavish’s on the pillow. “Are you in pain? Can I do anything? Get you anything?” he whispered.
“The doing and the getting has been done, lad,” Tavish whispered. “I’m not afraid of dying. Sure the soul of me is hungry for the wonderful experience,” the voice was barely audible. “I’ve a confession to make.”
“The priest will be here soon. Maeve sent to Augusta.”
“’Tis to you and Maeve, as well as to the priest, I must confess,” Tavish answered. “At home you heard the tale that I was a spoiled priest? Well, ’tis true. I studied for holy orders and was rejected. I was a fine scholar; too fine. I fell in love with the wild and bloody history of my own land. Conchobor and the great Finn, and the pagan hosts of Tara meant more to me than did the King of Sunday.”
“Should you be talking so, Cousin Tavish?”
“Aye, Jamie, for in my heart I plotted to do you and Maeve a great wrong. Because I failed in my youth, I wanted to take Kevin away to Ireland, and make of him the priest I could not be. ’Twas wicked of me, Jamie, and God has punished me for it. It would have broken Maeve’s heart.”
Jamie felt great unshed tears sting his eyes. “’Tis I who should be begging your forgiveness—not you mine. The promise I gave you has not been kept. When your time came, I swore you’d not lie in foreign ground.”
“’Twas a foolish request of my greener days. The mound of earth that’s inviting me is the same here as at home. Besides, I’ve a pinch of Irish sod in a small sack which I wear around my neck. Sprinkle it on my coffin and what’s left of me will feel at home.”
A trace of the old man’s former roguishness crept into his voice. “We’ve had some rare times together, Jamie. Remember that eating place along the road while we were walking our way to Georgia? When the girl waiting on the table set a large bowl of potatoes before us? In Ireland ’twould have been no more than a large individual portion, but here ’twas meant for all six others at the table as well. I’ll never forget the look on that girsha’s face when she came back and discovered you and I had eaten every pratie in the dish.”
Jamie tried to laugh. “Aye … we were the babes in the wood in this rich new land where one man’s food would feed ten at home.”
“’Twas cruel of your father and me to scheme to marry you to the daughter of the Shanahans. By a miracle you escaped. Forgive us for that.”
“Aye,” Jamie said softly, “a miracle that brought the two of us to America.”
“Och, yes, and speaking of miracles, have you noticed how many small ones—ones we seldom notice—blossom along our way like forget-me-nots scattered by angels?”
Jamie’s throat constricted and he laid his face against the bed, weeping unashamed. “Wirra, now—you mustn’t cry,” the old man soothed, touching Jamie’s bowed head tenderly.
“I cannot help it. The middle of my heart is made of burning coal. Forgive me, Tavish, for the wrongs I’ve done you.”
“You were always a darling of a boy—now you’ve only to be a darling of a man,” the Speaker consoled him. “’Tis part of the adventure of life … to grow and keep on growing. When a man has made his peace with God and is ready to climb the Mountain of Tears, many things become plain. Remember at home how you were ready to sacrifice yourself that Kate might have her own house and husband?”
Jamie nodded mutely.
“And straight off the miracle happened? Your first wish … for travel … came true.…” Tavish’s voice rang with the excitement of a great discovery. “Then, to spare your Maeve from the hammering of her kinsmen when she said she’d marry you or no one, you offered to give her up and go away … sure then the second miracle came to pass? You had your second wish and the woman of your choice was yours?”
“Aye,” said Jamie, unable to follow the thread of the old man’s thought, “but somewhere along the way … between that and the last wish, something happened! Something went wrong!”
“Don’t you see, Jamie,” Tavish cried, “’twas you! You went astray, spreading your wings like the eagle to go it on your own! For the first two wishes you were ready to give up the things closest to your heart! But what were you ready to give for the third wish? For the wonderful son you never had?”
The Speaker’s voice slowed and drifted toward a whisper. Deep in the inner recesses of Jamie’s heart, a gate unlocked, loosing a flood of understanding that swept through him.
“’Tis true, my cousin,” he cried, clasping Tavish’s dry, limp hand. “In the wonder of things that happened to me I forgot to bend the second knee! Can I make you one more promise? I swear by the things our people swear by—that Kevin will be my son, and he shall have his chance to
become a priest! This oath I make before God and all His saints!”
Tavish looked at him through blurred eyes, trying to smile. “He’s the bonnie child of my spirit, Jamie,” he whispered. “He will make a great priest.”
The old man’s mind began to wander and his thoughts grew fanciful again. With his eyes fixed upon the crucifix, he told his last story on earth. “Once there was a man, and he was working in his field, and it came on to thunder and storm something fearful. The man ran for shelter to a stone wall, and he put his head in a hole in the wall, which was all the shelter there was, and he prayed: ‘God save what’s out o’ me!’ But he ought to have prayed for the whole of him, for no sooner had he said that than the wall collapsed and took his head clean off. Sure now it was a judgment on the creature, because it’s not right to pray small, just for yourself. You should pray large, to save us all, Jamie. Pray big and openhearted.”
The Speaker’s voice had risen as he talked, and his mind became clear once more. The child sleeping against the bed was roused. His sleep-filled eyes searched Jamie’s face. “Are you awake, Kevin lad?” Tavish said. “I want you to hear this. Whatever is my share of Jamie’s savings is to be yours. Raise your right hand and swear by all that’s holy that what’s mine will be the boy’s, Jamie.”
“I swear it,” Jamie said solemnly.
“Now take the lad to his bed. What I have to do is best done alone.”
Jamie lifted the child in his arms. “He’ll not be afraid of you any more,” the old man whispered. “Good-by, Kevin; may the road rise with you, lad.”
At the entrance to the tent, Tavish called again. “Send Maeve and the others in. I’ll be saying my last farewells now. And Jamie, remember at home a window was always left open for the soul to pass through? Sure then raise the corner flap of the tent a small piece, will you?”
“Aye, Tavish.” Jamie could not trust himself to say more.
“Good-by, Jamie.”
“Good-by, Cousin Tavish.”
“A little music would not be amiss … but no wailing, mind.”
“No, Cousin Tavish.”
“Any song will do. Anything from the heart of home,” the old man said wistfully.
Maeve was waiting outside the tent. When she tried to take Kevin from his arms, Jamie drew back. “I’ll be putting the lad to bed,” he said. “Tavish is waiting to say good-by. Will you sing ‘Eilleen Aroon’ for the old one? He’s almost dark now.”
Owen Roe Tavish was alone, as he wished. The farewells had been spoken and there was nothing to do but wait. Whatever life remained in the old man wavered as unsteadily as the small flame dancing irreverently on the remains of the crucifix candle. In the distance a rooster crowed. “Moc na ho-ya slaun,” it said in Gaelic: “The Son of the Virgin is safe.” Another dawn. Somewhere beyond the greening hills, where the heart but not the eye could see, the light of another morning was gilding the edge of the world with sunrise.
The Speaker’s lips moved, rummaging in the attic of his memory for familiar word pictures that crumbled as they became sound: “The long sweet spring, and the smell of honey from the heather—remember—a pair of scissors near the boy, and a horseshoe nail hung round his neck. They will keep the Good People from stealing him—Strike Angel’s Welcome on the bell—Bury me like the great Conn, upright, spear in hand and hound at foot … Woe to Eman, roof and wall; woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall; tenfold woe and black dishonor to the foul and false Clan Connor.”
His wavering consciousness moved among the memory shadows like a beacon light, touching and illuminating long-forgotten objects and incidents with a phrase, then passing on: “The little cows of Kerry, and the little Connemara horses; they turned their heads to me when I walked down the street.… If we remain here there’ll be plenty of money but few souls will go to Heaven.… Every acorn must drop.… Come the Three Graces that were yonder; come the Three Marys from Rome; come the three demons from the East.… From dawn to sunset no man’s shadow fell on mine. I was lonely as poverty.… Friday hair, Sunday horn, better hadst thou never been born.… Look not with pride at the polished shoe; be not too proud of the cloak so nice; in humility walk the road afoot; and always salute the poor man twice.…”
A small center of clarity was forming in Tavish’s brain, pushing back the shifting patterns of memory. If this is death—’tis not too unpleasant, he thought. In the distance he thought he could hear the soothing music of Fer Fi, the red-haired dwarf, played upon his three-stringed harp. There was a woman singing, too; in a sweet clear voice. The song sounded like “Eilleen Aroon.” That would be Aine, the Banshee, whose whispering song of sleep, “Suantraighe,” comforted the dying. Och, the old man thought, I be one whose feet were set in one century but whose heart dwelt in another.
In the mirror near the foot of the bed, Tavish could see the raised corner of the tent left by Jamie for his soul to pass. As he gazed at the aperture, a mist seemed to form in it and begin to spiral like a miniature whirlwind, moving slowly toward him at the same time. As it neared the bed the whirlwind began to expand. Soon it filled the tent. Pieces of furniture were drawn into the spiral; then the bed, and finally the tent itself. Through the gathering dusk, the crucifix on the center pole of the tent glowed ever brighter, like a great beckoning star. With the sacred light for a pivot, the cavalcade began to swing round and round like a weird carrousel. Through the small opening, more and more objects came to join the fantastic spinning dance. Flying through the murky air, Tavish could identify famous objects in Irish folklore; The long lost Stone of Fal, which cried out each time the true king of Ireland stepped upon it at Tara. Next, through the ever-deepening mist came straying stones and slumber pins; pookas, merrows, leprechauns and sheehogues; water horses, sea serpents and sea worms, half serpent and half fish. The phantom chariot of Cuchulainn flashed past, as did the ghostly figure of Garret Fitzgerald, on his great white horse with the silver shoes, on which he must ride once in every seven years around Lough Gur, until the silver shoes were worn away. The great swords—that when unsheathed spoke—sailed by, boasting of their feats in battle. Jasconye, the great fish that swam round and round the world trying to catch its tail in its mouth, floated lazily through the mist. Finally, a miniature, old-fashioned coach the size of a man’s hat, and drawn by four black chargers no bigger than mice, galloped through the opening to join the galaxy circling in the mist. It was driven by a tiny red maneen the size of a workingman’s thumb, and wearing a green coachman’s hat and coat. Two infinitesimal coach dogs with amber, pin-point eyes trotted between the rear wheels.
“’Tis a miniature of the coach I saw in my dreams,” Tavish remembered. Then he understood: The coach he had dreamed of was the Death Coach! “Och,” he chided himself wryly, “and I thought it meant a journey!” He chuckled. “Well … to dream of the Death Coach and dying … sure now that means a journey indeed …!”
The song of Aine grew louder; the objects in the whirling carrousel spun faster; the music of Fer Fi’s harp swelled to its highest pitch—and Owen Roe Tavish fell asleep.
A heavy rumble of wheels, accompanied by a sharp swaying from side to side and the thunder of hoofs, roused him. He was no longer on the bed—or even in the tent. The ghostly carrousel had disappeared. He was the lone passenger in a strange, old-fashioned coach the like of which he had never seen, yet nevertheless was vaguely reminiscent. The paneling of the coach’s interior was inlaid with a substance like mother-of-pearl, trimmed with faded gold leaf. The elaborate upholstering was of worn red-and-gold plush.
“Sure now what can this be?” Tavish asked himself. “Are they rushing me to a hospital in this weird relic? Hurt as I am, I should be lying on a board—the way I was carried from the woods.”
But to his amazement the ravaging pain in his back had disappeared. Gone, too, was the heavy paralysis of his legs. Cautiously he drew the curtain covering the small window in the door aside and peered out. Outside was the gray half-light of morning. Great trees and field
s were hurtling past at what seemed tremendous speed. Gaining courage, Tavish lowered the window and poked his head out. What he saw almost took the sight from his eyes. On the box was the little red maneen with the round red face, and wearing the green coachman’s hat and coat. As he swung his whip toward the four black mouse-sized horses, Tavish could hear the musical tinkling of the buttons on his long green coat.
With a sigh he leaned his head back on the red plush cushions. An instant later he was sitting bolt upright. “Sure there must be some mistake.”
Thrusting his head from the coach window again, he called to the little driver: “Now where on earth are you taking me?”
The tiny red coachman flashed him the merriest smile possible. “Nowhere on earth, Owen Roe Tavish! To the Land of Moo, where you’re to be shanachie to all the children of the other world.”
“Now what do you make of that?” Tavish exclaimed. “Storyteller to the little lost children of Moo.”
“Surely you’ve guessed it, Tavish?” the little driver shouted. “You’re one of us now, man—one of the Little People.”
XXII
The new sign over the barbershop at the western edge of Atlanta read: HAIRCUTTING EMPORIUM … ORAN TALBOT, PROP. It was a drab, one-room affair, with a weather-beaten exterior and a single, secondhand chair, but Talbot regarded it with the satisfaction of ownership.
“If’n the rest of the joint looked half as good as the new sign, it’d be all right,” he assured himself. “Time enough fer that when I take in a little money, though.”
The raising of the sign marked Talbot’s return to his earlier profession of barbering. His venture into the horse and mule trade had not fared very well. The war with Spain had been short-lived, and his commission as a government purchasing agent even shorter. Talbot had emerged with little more than he had gone in with. He had, however, acquired a deep and lasting hatred for Jamie McRuin.
According to Talbot, Jamie had stolen his idea and had made a mountain of money, while he, the inventor, had been left out in the cold. “Serves me right fer ever trustin’ an Irishman,” he would aver bitterly. “There’s two kinda crooks—ordinary ones and Irish. The ordinary ones you can generally trust; but God help you if you git mixed up with the Irish.”
Three Wishes for Jamie Page 20