by BJ Hoff
At night he drank. The whiskey helped some; it eased the pain, allowed him to sleep, to forget—for a few hours, at least.
Occasionally, he still tried to pray. But his prayers were lifeless things, like his legs. He sent them up from a leaden heart, felt them bounce back from an empty vault.
More than once he had asked for a sign of God’s presence, a reminder that He had not abandoned Morgan Fitzgerald altogether. At times he thought if he could gain even the faintest glimpse of divine control in the chaos of his life, an assurance of peace beyond the pain—perhaps he could somehow summon the strength to endure without going mad.
But the echo of silence was his only reply, deepening his despair, his feelings of utter helplessness and hopelessness.
Less and less frequently now did he make the attempt to approach the throne. He was quite certain God did not notice. Or if He noticed, He did not care.
Annie Delaney and Sandemon worked in the stable until late morning. As always, Sandemon supervised Pilgrim’s grooming. At the moment, he had left Annie to her work and gone to the other side of the stable, where he stood talking with Colm O’Grady, the full-time groom.
Annie carefully combed Pilgrim’s mane, relishing the silken weight of it. She loved every part of her duties as groom: the pungent smell of hay and warm animals in the stable, the way the horses had come to recognize her and welcome her—and especially the opportunity to become friends with the Fitzgerald’s grand and noble stallion.
She was careful and conscientious in her new capacity. The great red stallion was the first animal for which she had ever taken responsibility, and she was resolved that in this area—unlike the other projects at which she’d failed so miserably—there would be no room at all for finding fault.
So far, Sandemon seemed satisfied with her efforts, which pleased Annie. They had become great friends, she and the black man. He kept a firm hand with her, sure, and gave little quarter where mischief was concerned. But he was kind, too; kind and helpful and genuinely interested in her as an individual—Sandemon’s word. Annie could talk to him about most anything she chose, and he would have a comment, an observation, or at least a question.
She hadn’t decided which of the two was the most clever or the wisest—Sandemon or the Seanchai. She supposed the Seanchai had the most classical education. Certainly he was more the scholar when it came to history and culture.
She suspected, however, that Sandemon had great wisdom, the kind of wisdom that had little to do with book knowledge, although he was obviously an educated man. Sandemon knew about nature and time and God. He understood tides and seasons and animals and trees.
And he understood her. As for the Seanchai, while he was kind enough in his own gruff way, he seemed to find her little more than an amusement in his life—and at times an annoying one, at that. Obviously, he had no real interest in getting to know her as a person. He would listen to her chatter, cast a wry face at her shenanigans, and at times would even tell her stories, making the giant warriors and the faerie people of the ancient legends come alive.
But in spite of his tolerance, he did not care to know the real Annie Delaney, and his indifference grieved her. The Seanchai was a true hero, a great man, and she was devoted and indebted to him. In the beginning, she had hoped he would come to depend on her and even want her as his friend. As time went on, however, she had come to see such a possibility as more and more unlikely.
Perhaps it might have been different had it not been for his terrible tragedy. Sandemon said that tragedy worked in different ways upon different people. With some, he said, it acted as a separator—dividing them from their family, their friends, and even from God. With others, it seemed to draw them closer to their Creator and those who loved them.
It had been his experience, said Sandemon, that often the physically strong, the self-reliant, tended to draw away during their troubles. Perhaps because they had so cherished their own strength, their personal power, they found it difficult, if not impossible, to rely on others.
That being the case, it made perfect sense that the Seanchai would have the hard time of it. Annie sorrowed for what he had lost, longed to comfort him. But how could she comfort him when he refused to take her seriously?
Still, she had no room to complain, for hadn’t the man taken her in, given her shelter and work to do? The both of them, the Seanchai and Sandemon, were kind to her. Indeed, through their kindness Annie was beginning to find her own healing—from her mum’s hard heart and from Tully’s brutality.
For the first time in a very long time, Annie lived without fear. She was finally learning to trust again.
“You will comb that poor horse bald if you do not give him a rest,” Sandemon observed mildly, coming to stand and watch.
Annie looked at him blankly for a moment, then at Pilgrim’s mane, which indeed she had been combing steadily for a long time. Grinning, she rubbed the great stallion’s nose, then put away the comb.
“What’s on with Old Scratch?” she asked, motioning to the black thoroughbred on the opposite side of the stable. Annie didn’t like the horse, which, according to Colm O’Grady, was stabled there as a favor to one of Sir Roger Nelson’s influential friends. The high-strung, nervous animal seemed to live in constant protest of his confinement. Annie had told him off once or twice, but he ignored her entirely.
Sandemon’s gaze traveled to the horse, then back to Annie. “Bad blood in that one,” he said soberly. “You keep your distance, hear?”
“I expect I will,” said Annie. “He doesn’t like me a bit more than I like him.”
Sandemon nodded. “We should go in now. The Seanchai may need me.”
“Aye. But one last lump of sugar for Pilgrim before we go,” Annie said, digging down in her pocket.
“You spoil that stallion shamefully,” observed Sandemon as they left the stable and started walking toward the house.
“I’m thinking he might be lonely,” said Annie. “He must miss the Seanchai in the worst way.”
Sandemon regarded her with a thoughtful expression. “Yes,” he said gently, “I imagine he does.”
After another moment, his face creased with an inscrutable smile. “I might know a secret,” he said.
Annie’s ears vibrated, and she stared up at him. “What sort of a secret?”
The black man shrugged. “I might know a special date.”
“A special date, is it? What kind of a special date? Tell me, Sand-Man!”
“What if I knew the Seanchai’s birth date? Hmm?”
Annie stopped walking and yanked at his sleeve to halt him.
“How would you know such a thing?” she asked eagerly.
“His friend the priest provided me with certain pertinent information when he employed me.”
“Per-tin-ent?” echoed Annie. “Isn’t that what the Seanchai says I am sometimes?”
“No, child, that’s impertinent,” Sandemon replied, still smiling. “There’s a great difference.”
“So, then, when is it? The Seanchai’s birthday?”
“Soon. Next month, in fact. We should be planning a gift for the occasion, don’t you agree?”
“Aye, and a very special one, Sand-Man! Something very special indeed!” Already Annie’s mind was working, trying to think of something that would make the Seanchai happy.
“I might have an idea,” said Sandemon. “But it would require a great deal of work—and we have little time. Still, if you would help, we could probably have it done by then.”
Shifting eagerly from one foot to the other, Annie beamed up at the black man. “Sure, and wouldn’t I be wanting to help, though? What sort of idea is it, Sand-Man? Tell me!”
He put a finger to his lips. “Quiet, now, child, else the Seanchai will know we are conspiring. This will be our secret, yours and mine. Not even Artegal is to know.”
“Especially Artegal.” Annie wrinkled her nose. “He’d spoil it all on purpose if he got wind of it. Just because it’
s our idea. He doesn’t like either of us, you know.” She paused. “For that matter, he doesn’t even like the Seanchai.”
Sandemon looked at her. “I fear you’re right. He seems an unhappy man.”
Again Annie scowled. “He is a hateful man. A cold man altogether.” Tugging on his sleeve, she started up with her nagging again. “Now tell me your idea for the Seanchai’s gift, Sand-Man!”
“You agree to help as much as is needed?”
“My hand to you, I’ll not rest until the gift is done!” Annie pledged solemnly.
Sandemon smiled at her. “Very good, child. Here’s what I think we might do.”
After dinner that evening, Sandemon accompanied Annie to the library in search of a book.
Other than a warning to the child that she take care, the Seanchai had given them both free access to the shelves, which held thousands of books of all description.
As she almost always did, the child selected a book of Irish folklore for her own reading. At Sandemon’s invitation, she began reading one of the tales aloud to him while he browsed the poetry shelves.
She was reading to him a tale about the exploits of one named Oisin in the Land of the Ever Young when the Seanchai wheeled into the room and sat, just inside the door, listening.
The child stopped and looked up, but the Seanchai gestured that she should go on. “Finish the tale,” he said quietly, smiling.
The child’s face lit up like morning sun as she read on. She read the story fluidly, easily, almost as if from memory. When she had finished, the Seanchai motioned for Annie to bring him the book.
He glanced down at it, then looked up at the child. “As I thought,” he said. “These stories are in the Irish.”
Annie nodded. “Aye, sir, but Sand-Man does not know the Irish.”
Still regarding her with a curious look, he said, “And so you translate into English as you read.” Sandemon heard the note of surprise in the other’s voice. “You know the Irish well, lass. Who taught you?”
“Me da,” replied the child with obvious pride. “Mostly from your poems and other writings, sir.”
The young master stared at her. “From my writings?” Sandemon could have sung for joy at the warmth reflected in those eyes, eyes so often clouded with pain or hardened with bitterness.
The two men exchanged a look over Annie’s head. “This is a clever child,” said the Seanchai dryly. “She reads the Irish and translates it like a scholar. Not a common thing these days in Ireland.”
Sandemon slanted a glance at the child, gratified by the beaming smile on her face. “I have wondered why such a thing should be, sir—why more of the children aren’t fluent in their ancestral language?”
The Seanchai let out a sharp sound of disgust. “Perhaps because the British set out to systematically destroy it! For generations it was either illegal or impossible to teach the language. If you weren’t arrested for trying, you were caned and ridiculed. These days there are few scholars remaining who would be competent to teach it.”
Sandemon considered his words. “To abolish a people’s national language—would that not serve to shatter their unity, to fragment their culture?”
“Ah…you see behind the veil,” answered the Seanchai cynically. “No language, no nation.”
Sandemon leveled a steady gaze on his employer. “Then,” he said carefully, “it would seem to behoove those few scholars who are adequate to teach—to do so.” He paused. “Wouldn’t you agree, Seanchai?”
The man in the wheelchair fixed a withering look on Sandemon but said nothing.
Sandemon remembered something the priest in Mayo had confided to him. “It would seem to me,” he said casually, “that a fine school under the supervision of learned men could accomplish much in the way of preserving Ireland’s culture for future generations.”
The Seanchai surveyed Sandemon with narrowed eyes. “Perhaps,” he bit out. “But I, for one, would not have the energy to administer such a school.” A shadow flitted across the face of the young master, a fleeting, haunted look, as if he’d felt the chill of a ghostly presence.
Sandemon was not yet ready to drop the subject. “Perhaps when you are stronger again you will want to give it further thought. We must work doubly hard at your therapy in the meantime.”
He half expected his employer to wheel himself out of the room in a temper. By now he recognized the first signs of agitation and restlessness that seemed to come upon his young master each evening. He knew the signs for what they were, and it concerned him greatly. The man reminded him for all the world of Old Scratch, the hot-blooded thoroughbred who constantly threatened to break down the confining walls of his stable. But in the young master’s case, even if he were to break free, he had no place to run to, and no legs to run with. He was most certainly trapped, and the futility of it plagued the man’s great soul like a curse. Unable to run, he took his flight by other means.
But this time the Seanchai did not flee the room. Instead, he turned to regard the girl with a measuring look.
“Perhaps,” he said distractedly. “For the time being, however, I’m considering the instruction of only one student. It would have to be a clever child, don’t you see—one eager to learn. And,” he added, still watching Annie, “one willing to live within the confines of Nelson Hall, since my travel is somewhat restricted.” He paused, letting his words hang suspended like a challenge.
Surprised and profoundly pleased, Sandemon shot a look at the child. She was gaping with utter astonishment at the man in the wheelchair.
“Faith, sir! You wouldn’t be thinking—it’s not me you’re meaning—”
With his large hands on the armrests, the Seanchai leaned forward slightly in the wheelchair. After a moment, he said something in the tongue of the Irish. The child, wide-eyed and flushed with excitement, wiped her hands on her skirt and then answered. In the Irish.
Slowly, the Seanchai nodded, then turned to Sandemon. “This child,” he said, “insists she would like to be my student. What do you think? Can she manage the necessary time from her everyday duties?”
Sandemon inclined his head. “Certainly, sir,” he said, restraining his desire to shout. “We will work out a schedule right away.”
Much later that night, after reading from the Scriptures to the child and talking with her about the Savior’s love, Sandemon sat at the small desk in his room, his Bible open in front of him.
His legs were too long for the low desk, and when he moved he invariably bumped his knees. But the room was quiet, the fire was warm, and the Spirit was especially close to him tonight. He felt the peace of the Lord and was content.
His thoughts went to his young master just across the hall. The Seanchai, he was in much, much need of prayer—one of the reasons the Lord had sent Sandemon to Nelson Hall, he knew. Praying for this stricken giant, this tortured, heroic soul, was an adventure in faith and a challenge. He could scarcely wait to see what God had in store for his wounded warrior.
Then his mind went to the child. Remembering the look of pure joy and amazement that had crossed her elfin face earlier in the library, he smiled. Perhaps the first step had been taken toward what he hoped would eventually be a very special relationship.
His smile broke even wider at the thought of the birthday gift he would make—he and the child—for the unsuspecting Seanchai. Unable to control his joy any longer, he got to his feet. He stretched his arms and his spirit up, up, until he stood poised on the balls of his feet, reaching and laughing aloud in pure delight, rejoicing in the presence of his Lord.
After a moment, however, his exultation ebbed, and he clasped his hands tightly together. With his head bowed low, he stood in front of the fire and took up his praying again.
He prayed for the lonely, frightened man across the hall who thought he had nobody to share his life with, to warm his world. Who thought nobody needed him, when all the time there was a young, tender soul in desperate need of his attention, and so near at hand
at that.
Sandemon knew Annie’s story, and it grieved his heart. She had confided in him her mother’s blaming rejection, the drunken stepfather’s abuse. She told her tale awkwardly, with obvious embarrassment—but without any real anger or bitterness.
Sandemon had considered sharing what he knew of Annie’s background with the Seanchai, yet held back in the hopes the two would eventually grow close enough that the child herself would tell him.
In the meantime, he was doing what he could to lead the girl closer to Jesus. She was a believer, with a true reverence for God and a respect for holy things. But as yet she possessed no real insight into the loving heart of the Lord. It was pure pleasure and delight for Sandemon to guide one so young, so in need of acceptance and affection, to the open arms of the Savior.
As he did every night, he now stormed heaven’s gates for his disconsolate young master, the fallen patriot who believed himself abandoned by his Creator. He interceded for the sad, angry poet who thought his words would sing no more.
He was careful to remind the Lord about the whiskey that was becoming, he feared, a nightly ritual. Sandemon suspected the drink was more than a painkiller by now; more than likely it had become a substitute for facing reality. There needed to be something soon to take its place, to free the Seanchai from its grasp, or he might go the way of the poor, sad man who had been his father—the man described with such compassion by the priest in Mayo, the man who had failed both his sons in such a sorry way.
Once more Sandemon prayed for the salvation of the dark-eyed, brave little girl whom Jesus had charged to his responsibility. The child who just might be—please, Lord—a part of the young master’s healing.
Suddenly, Sandemon was struck by the image of another young girl. Caught off guard, he remained quiet, waiting. The memory of long golden hair and a clear, innocent gaze passed before his mind.