Flight of the Eagle

by Peter Watt

  ‘I wish we could go back to that year and change everything,’ Emma said in a whisper edged with tears. ‘So much tragedy seemed to come to us both from that year on. I would like to remember how it was when we were younger and living down at Rockhampton. Do you remember the picnics and how we all used to sing around your piano? Henry had such an awful singing voice …’

  She trailed away and the tears flowed. Kate reached across the table. Emma grasped her friend's hand and with the other swiped at the tears. ‘Oh Kate, I have this terrible feeling in my stomach that we have not seen the last of the tragedies in our lives,’ she gasped. ‘I feel that we may lose those close to us very soon.’

  Kate gripped Emma's hand reassuringly. ‘I pray that the curse that has come to us has run its course. We have good health and we have our children.’

  Emma withdrew her hand and stood to wipe away the tears with her apron. ‘I pray that you are right,’ she said, with an attempt at a smile. ‘Maybe Peter will see that it is in his best interests to return to Townsville and work with you in the company.’

  ‘I pray he does,’ Kate said without much confidence. She knew her nephew placed great stock in friendship. That Australian concept of mateship.

  The two women chatted until the tea was cold and when Kate at last departed she did so with Emma's words of foreboding echoing in her memory. Superstitiously she placed her hand on her stomach and uttered a prayer to the Virgin Mary. Please Mother Mary, protect all those born – and unborn – in my life.

  EIGHT

  The cool night air helped clear Patrick's head as he set off along the road from the impressive Fitzgerald manor. His footsteps echoed loudly in the eerie silence that was broken only by the hoot of an owl hunting nocturnal mice.

  After he had walked a half mile along the road he could see in the distance the sombre outline of the tree-covered dome, outlined by the soft light of an almost full moon. It was foolish, he knew, but he still strained to see if Catherine was standing on the summit.

  On an impulse he cut across the field towards the dome-shaped feature and in a short time, after wading through a sea of grass wet with the early dew, the hill loomed over him. From the copses of trees on the hill where a low, creeping mist had gathered, the scent of firs wafted to him, a rich, antiseptic perfume.

  As he stared up at the grove Patrick felt the mist swirl around his bare knees with its cold damp fingers. Why was he contemplating a climb to the summit? He frowned and shook his head. Maybe he just wanted to see why the mound had such an appeal to Catherine.

  The climb was not difficult as the hill was not very high and the dark firs enveloped him in hushed and brooding silence until he reached the summit. At the top the firs retreated from a small clearing of stark white, flat stones.

  Limestone, Patrick thought, as he entered the mysterious circle. And obviously man-made as they had a distinctive, geometric pattern which was almost concealed by the grass that struggled to break the lines and circles designed by some ancient race of people.

  Patrick stood expectantly at the centre of the stones from where he could see, through a gap in the trees, the moon as a silver slivered path across the cold still Atlantic sea. But he was bitterly disappointed as the mystical experience he half-expected to occur did not eventuate. Instead he felt only a coolness creep up his legs – and a loneliness enter his soul.

  The silence of the hill was broken by the sinister sound of dead fir needles crackling. Patrick slid a dirk from inside his long sock, a practical weapon of first resort. The huge shape padded towards him with a low, threatening growl and Patrick crouched with the dagger in his hand.

  A wolf! No, not a wolf. A wolfhound!

  ‘Lugh! No!’

  Catherine's command brought the big dog to a halt and it propped obediently, awaiting the next command. Patrick relaxed and in the dim light of the moon glimpsed Catherine as she emerged into the clearing holding the hem of her long red dress up from the dewy grass. Behind her followed the second of her huge hounds and Patrick eased the knife back down the side of his leg.

  Catherine dropped her hands away and the hem of the dress fell around her ankles to fall on a flat white stone. ‘You did not bid me goodnight, Captain Duffy,’ she said quietly. The big hounds padded to the edge of the clearing where they took up positions staring into the copses.

  ‘I could see that you were rather preoccupied with Mister Brett Norris,’ Patrick replied tersely. ‘I doubted that my absence would mean much either way to you. We hardly know each other,’ he added with a growl of his own.

  ‘In this place you and I have known each other for thousands of years,’ she answered softly, staring up at his face shadowed in the moonlight. ‘Reaching back to the time this mound was built. In this place you were Cuchulainn and I, I was the Morrigan,’ she concluded with a whisper.

  ‘Who was Cuchulainn?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘Oh, a legendary warrior of old Ireland. He slew many enemies, just as I suspect you have. He could do anything he wanted. He was a man who was also the son of the Sun God. But then the Christians came and killed his memory.’

  ‘And the Morrigan, who was she?’

  ‘The goddess to whom Cuchulainn owed much of his success in war.’

  ‘Did they love each other?’

  Catherine averted his gaze and sighed. Then she stared up at him and said sadly, ‘I think you should some day return to Ireland to find that answer, Captain Duffy. It is written in the old texts kept by the monks in their musty archives.’

  Patrick gazed into the eyes made dark by the night and wondered at the vision standing before him. She was no longer the sophisticated young woman of the dinner party but the enigmatic girl he had first met standing barefooted in her grandfather's library. ‘I promise you I will,’ he said. ‘That is, if you are not otherwise occupied by Mister Brett Norris's company.’

  ‘He is a dear friend who would like to marry me.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘No. At least not for a long time.’

  Patrick felt his hopes deflated by her last statement. So the English fop still played a role in her life? Or was it that she still played games with his feelings? ‘I don't know when I will be able to return,’ he answered, feigning disinterest, as he was not going to play the game by her rules. ‘A lot can happen on a battlefield.’

  ‘You will not be harmed, Captain Duffy. The Morrigan protects you.’

  ‘I'm not your Cuchulainn, Miss Fitzgerald. I'm just a simple soldier of the Queen who takes the same risks as every other soldier in the fighting,’ he said as he tore his eyes from hers. ‘But I will return to Ireland. If only to study the history of this country and learn more about myself.’

  ‘And not to see me?’ she asked.

  ‘That is a question without an immediate answer,’ he replied, turning to stare out over the Atlantic. ‘A question only you will answer with time and consideration as to what is truly important in life.’

  ‘And what is important in your life, Captain Duffy?’ Catherine asked as Patrick turned to her again. ‘The search for yourself here?’

  Patrick was stunned by her perceptiveness. She could almost be the damned Morrigan she thought she was. Her uncanny knack of seeing inside his soul was disturbing. It was a place that belonged to him alone. ‘A decision I must one day make, but either way I lose,’ he replied bitterly, adding, ‘A search for a truth as to how a mother could deliberately send her baby to a place of death.’

  ‘Your mother?’ she asked gently.

  He nodded. ‘We have a lot more in common than you think, Captain Duffy. Except that I never knew who my father was. At least your father has a name and is already a legend in this part of the country.’

  ‘I'm afraid your villagers have him confused with someone else,’ Patrick said with a bemused smile spreading across his face. ‘Although it is rather flattering to think that my father has been attributed with this Michael O'Flynn's rather colourful reputation.’

  ‘The
re is magic in this place, Cuchulainn,’ she said seriously. ‘And should you open your heart to it. Then one day you might find that your father is Michael O'Flynn.’

  Patrick's soft laughter warmed the cool air of the clearing and impulsively he touched Catherine's face with his hand as one would a naive child. ‘Do you know, Miss Catherine Fitzgerald, that I could almost believe what you say because you bring the magic to this place.’

  Her hand gripped his wrist. ‘Believe, Patrick!’ she replied fiercely. ‘Believe you will find yourself in your father and that one day you will return to this place. It is very important.’

  Stunned by her fierce conviction Patrick struggled for thoughts and words. He suddenly drew her to him. His lips sought hers with a savage and explosive hunger and she flung her arms around his neck.

  Her response was equal to his own. The mutual desire had smouldered between them from the moment they had met and now the intense spark of passion became an all engulfing fire in Patrick's body. But Catherine pushed him away with half-hearted whimpers of, ‘No, not now’.

  ‘I loved you from the very first time I saw you standing on this hill, Catherine. I don't know how I could have loved you then. All I know is that I did. Maybe you are the Morrigan but you will not tell me how the story ends.’

  Catherine took deep breaths before answering and the two big wolf hounds rose and padded menacingly closer but she waved them away. Unsure, they sat on their haunches and continued to watch Patrick with suspicion.

  ‘Come back when you have finished your search and I will tell you how the story ends,’ she said once she had her feelings under control. She stepped back from him at an arm's length as her eyes dropped to the front of his kilt. ‘You certainly have the prowess of Cuchulainn,’ she said cheekily and Patrick blushed at her brazen observation. ‘I fear you carry the gae bulga under your kilt, Patrick Duffy,’ she continued with a gentle laugh of admiration.

  ‘What is a gae bulga?’ Patrick was embarrassed by her gentle teasing of his rather uncomfortable condition. He had never known a woman to talk so openly about such matters.

  ‘The gae bulga was a Celtic spear with many barbs. It was a terrible weapon. When it pierced the body it could not be withdrawn because the barbs would open from the shaft. And, in your case, very much like the swelling of my hounds' shafts when they service a bitch.’

  Patrick's shocked expression at her explicit descriptions only amused Catherine and encouraged by his embarrassment she continued to add to his discomfort. ‘Oh, do not appear so shocked, Captain Duffy. A man of your experiences must appreciate that a girl growing up in the country sees many things. It is all part of our education on life.’

  ‘Well …’ he spluttered. ‘I know of such things. But they are not things one would expect to be discussed in mixed company.’

  ‘We are alone, Patrick, and I feel I can be myself with you,’ Catherine said quietly as she stared out at the sea. ‘I should return to Grandfather before he notices my absence. I'm afraid he is not altogether happy about me seeing you. I had planned to sit by you at dinner but Grandfather insisted I sit at the end of the table next to that horrid sister of Brett's and Mister Norris himself.’

  ‘I wish you could stay longer. I've hardly had a chance to get to know you.’

  ‘When you return, Patrick,’ she said, touching his face gently with her hand. ‘But before I go I have something I would like you to carry with you always. Something that will remind you to return to Ireland.’

  Patrick gazed after her as she left him standing in the centre of the flat stones. At the edge of the trees she stooped to retrieve something only as big as her hand. She brought the mysterious object to him and placed it in his hand. In doing so she curled his fingers around the object. ‘Promise me you will always carry Sheela-na-gig with you wherever you go,’ she said. ‘But also promise me you will not look upon her until you have reached the privacy of your lodgings at Riley's pub.’

  ‘I promise,’ Patrick replied, slightly confused by her gesture. ‘But what is Sheela-na-gig?’

  ‘She is a goddess who even predates the Morrigan. I found her one day when I was a young girl exploring the mound. But I hid her until now. I was afraid she would be taken from me by Grandfather for his collection.’

  Patrick felt the cold stone object in his hand and could make out the outline of a human-like figure. In many ways he knew the ancient goddess in his hand was as mysterious to him as the girl who reached up to kiss him. Her kiss was gentle and lingering. Neither wanted to break the strange magic of the moment. But the moon was low on the horizon and soon it would be very dark on the hill.

  ‘Be careful, Captain Duffy,’ she whispered close to his ear and her breath was sweet on his cheek. ‘I will offer prayers to Sheela-na-gig to protect you in those dangerous places you must go.’

  Reluctantly Catherine tore herself away and, without looking back, walked with the two huge hounds through the thickets of fir down the slope.

  Patrick turned the stone over and over in his hand and although he was curious he kept his promise not to examine the ancient artefact until he was in his room. What might the stone relief reveal to him in the light of his room? Would it reveal the spirit of Catherine Fitzgerald to him?

  His dormant superstitions told him he should leave the place before the faerie people came to take him for all eternity. Or was it that a faerie girl had already stolen his heart for all eternity on the sacred hill of the Celts?

  The moon was waning as he walked briskly back to the village. The air had cooled considerably and the village was asleep as his footsteps echoed in the narrow, winding, cobblestone streets. Only the yapping of a dog from somewhere in the village accompanied him to Riley's where an irritable Bernard Riley opened the door of the hotel to allow the young officer to enter. Patrick thanked him but Riley waved off his thanks with a grumble as he shuffled back to his room in his nightshirt.

  In his room Patrick placed a candle on a sideboard to examine the object and in the circle of dim light thrown by the candle he saw for the first time the Celtic goddess Sheela-na-gig. ‘God almighty!’ he swore softly, although with a certain amount of reverence, as the shadows of the dancing candle flame brought the little figure to life. ‘No wonder she hid the thing!’

  For Sheela-na-gig was the goddess of fertility and she stared up at him with an enigmatic smile on her face.

  Lying on her back with her legs spread invitingly wide, she held open her out-sized vagina with her hands extended from behind her knees. The vagina was swollen with physical desire and he stared at the figure transfixed by its primeval posture of anticipated pleasure and procreation.

  It was as if in the little goddess of pre-Christian times he was seeing the basis of the true soul of the people of his Irish blood: a race of men and women immersed in the sensuality and uninhibited lust of sex. But this deep, unbridled sensuality had been channelled by religion into the zealous prayers and observances of Holy days.

  As Patrick stared at Sheela-na-gig he felt he understood a little better that part of his Celtic self that was wild and free.

  ‘Thank you, Catherine,’ he whispered in a choked voice. ‘You are my goddess … and it will always be so. No matter where I go I will adore you on the shrine of your body and soul.’

  He then packed the little goddess in the deepest and darkest corner of his travelling bag and, sighing, sat on the narrow bed to remove his boots and gaiters. Once he lay down Patrick's thoughts drifted into dreams. The turmoil of the evening merged with strange dreams of a hill on the other side of the world. Not a hill he had ever seen personally but one described to him by his grandmother, Lady Enid Macintosh. A sacred hill of an ancient race of people slaughtered on the Macintosh property Glen View over two decades earlier. Somehow he could visualise the dry craggy hill as if he had visited the place himself and in his dreams the hill became the fir-covered mound of the Celts. Two sacred sites of two peoples whose pagan spiritual beliefs had no place in modern think
ing.

  When he awoke Patrick remembered the dream as vividly as the moments he had spent with Catherine under the waning moon. Maureen, the innkeeper's daughter, was at the door of his room and the pub was bustling into the day's activities.

  He rose from under the warm blankets still fully dressed and Maureen entered the room without inquiring whether or not it was an opportune time. She placed the bowl of hot water on the narrow sideboard. Patrick thanked her and she left reluctantly as he set his feet on the floor to change from his mess dress into more comfortable civilian travelling clothes.

  After a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs, Patrick made a final visit to Father Eamon O'Brien and Mary Casey. They talked briefly, expressing regret that they did not have more time to sit and talk of subjects they had in common.

  Mary Casey gave him a self-conscious kiss on the cheek and a quick affectionate hug as she bade him God's protection in the coming crusade against the infidels of Islam to save poor General Gordon. She was able to forgive Patrick for his strange Protestant beliefs as he was engaged in the common Christian fight against the evil Moslem heathens.

  Aboard the coach taking him to Belfast, Patrick glanced back at the little village nestling on the shoreline of the cold Atlantic. It seemed as if nothing would ever change the ancestral home of his Irish blood. It was a timeless place.

  He thought about what had been. He had found a magic place and an ancient Celtic goddess in the living form of a beautiful young woman with fiery red hair. But his thoughts became gloomy when he thought what lay ahead. Desert, Dervishes and probable death for many in the coming war to relieve General Gordon at Khartoum. The promise that he had made to Catherine to return to Ireland seemed impossibly far away. ‘Be careful, Captain Duffy.’ Her parting words echoed in the hiss of the rain beating down on the clattering coach. ‘In those dangerous places you must go.’

  NINE

  The melodious warble of magpies woke Ben at dawn. He had not noticed the chill of the early morning as he slept but was aware of it now as he uncurled in the dust and sat up. He shivered and rubbed himself.