by BJ Hoff
“But surely you miss your family,” he said, not yet willing to drop the subject.
With his eyes averted, the boy merely shrugged. “There’s only Da.”
“And his wife—Sara,” Morgan pointed out. “You said she was good to you. And our lad, Daniel John.”
Still not looking at Morgan, Tierney nodded. “Sara’s a good enough sort, I suppose. But I’d not pretend to be fond of her. I scarcely know her. As for Daniel, he’s hardly ever about. He stays busy working for the doctor.”
“Your father would be expecting you to accompany us, don’t you think? It’s more than a year now since you left home. Once he knows we’re coming, his hopes will be set on seeing you.”
Finally the boy turned his gaze to Morgan. “It’s as I told you. I can’t go back. Not now. I’m eager for this trip with Jan. But even if I were willing to give it up, I couldn’t go back to the States. Walsh would have his hatchet men on me in a shake. I’d be a goner before I ever stepped off the docks.”
“You don’t think there’s a possibility all that has been settled by now?”
Tierney shook his head. “Da would have written. He’ll get the word to me as soon as it’s safe to go back.”
Morgan had to agree. He was sure Michael would waste no time letting his son know that he could come home.
He studied the boy for a moment. “Do you ever miss the States at all?”
Tierney glanced out the window, delaying his answer. “I miss home sometimes, sure. Da, my friends. But I don’t miss the crowds and the noise and the stink, I can tell you. Not a bit.”
He turned to look at Morgan. “I’m living my dream, don’t you see? How many people can say as much? This is what I’ve wanted ever since I was just a tyke. To come here, to Ireland. Even if I could go back,” he added, “I wouldn’t just now. Not yet.”
Morgan made no reply, but merely nodded. The truth was, he did understand. He understood all too well.
Ireland was not the boy’s dream. It was his obsession, and had been for years, doubtless. Tierney’s imagination had made the island his mistress, if a remote one. And now that he was here at last, he was determined to claim her as his own, to fuse his soul with hers.
From bitter experience Morgan knew the fascination, the passion, the terrible yearnings that in time could lead a man to madness, even ruin, with such a mistress as Eire. He knew what it was to love this small, suffering island to the very brink of despair, even to the point of his own destruction.
And he knew…ah, how well he knew…that there was nothing he or anyone else could say or do to change the boy’s mind, to break the spell. Tierney would follow his own road, just as Morgan himself had. And those who cared about him would be able to do nothing—nothing but pray that somewhere along that road he would find salvation instead of destruction.
They were quiet for a long time, Morgan so caught up in his own thoughts that the boy’s next words were almost jarring.
“Morgan—sir—”
Morgan blinked, looking at him, half expecting a request for additional funds for the coming journey. The lad had asked for nothing other than his stable wages since his arrival at Nelson Hall. As matters would have it, Morgan had already planned to make a contribution to the venture, even if no request was forthcoming.
“Since we’ll be leaving first thing in the morning,” Tierney said, “and with you now considering a journey of your own, there’s something I’d like you to know. I just want to say…”
He hesitated, and Morgan gave an encouraging nod, now even more curious as to the boy’s intention.
“I want you to know how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”
The unexpected words spilled out all in a rush. Morgan could sense the lad’s awkwardness as he went on. “You’ve been swell to me, right from the beginning, even though I haven’t always deserved it. I just wanted you to know…I am grateful.”
His voice fell away at the end, and he seemed to be looking everywhere but at Morgan.
“You are more than welcome, I’m sure,” Morgan replied, suppressing a smile. The boy was entirely right. He had not always deserved fair treatment, the young rogue.
“I wish you well, lad,” he told him, meaning it. “I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for.”
Tierney met his eyes. “I’m not at all sure I know what I’m looking for,” he said frankly. “But I think I’ll recognize it when I find it.”
“Let us hope so,” Morgan said, his voice low. He felt strangely unsettled by how much the haunted look in the boy’s eyes reminded him of his own yearning soul in times past.
“Do you know what I wish for you, lad?” he asked, surprised by his own question, yet thoroughly convicted by the emotion that prompted it.
Tierney looked at him.
“More than everything, Tierney, son of Michael, I wish you the grace to live at peace with God…and with yourself. That will be my constant prayer for you throughout your journey.”
After an awkward silence between them, Morgan turned to his own thoughts. He felt unaccountably anxious to get back to the house, to Finola and the children. Ever since the American journey had become a real possibility, he had found himself even more intent than usual on spending every possible moment with his family, often growing impatient with those distractions that would take him away from them. He seemed to covet each precious hour that might be spent together.
Perhaps, he admitted somewhat grimly, because he knew those hours might soon be all too few.
Sandemon stared out into the gathering darkness, unsettled by a feeling too vague to identify. For several moments now it had come and gone, a distant tide drifting in and out upon the shore of his emotions.
Twice he had almost taken hold of Jan Martova’s arm and urged him to increase the pace of the black mare pulling the wagon. Both times he had checked himself from doing so. The elusive darkness rose and fell within him; perhaps he was simply reacting to the twilight shadows closing in on them.
They were driving through a particularly remote area leading off from the city, a lonely road over which few coaches traveled these days. The only sounds were the sawing of crickets and the click and scrape of the wagon wheels over the rugged road.
He was so caught up in his attempt to distinguish his feelings that the comment from the Gypsy boy at his side almost startled him.
It took him a moment to focus. “Forgive me,” he said. “I must have been wool gathering.”
“I said I am going to miss you. I will miss our talks and your good teaching.”
Sandemon smiled a little. “And I will miss the companionship. But I think this is a good thing you are doing. An adventure such as this can be a learning experience like no other. Still, you will both be missed, you can be sure.”
Jan Martova looked straight ahead. “Much will have changed by the time we return, I expect.”
Sandemon nodded, still smiling. “I shall be older, for one thing.”
The Gypsy looked at him. “Impossible. I think the mighty Sandemon will never age. But others will. The Seanchai’s little Golden Boy, for one. Just think what a difference even a few months will make in that one.”
“Indeed.” Sandemon studied him. “And in the Seanchai’s daughter as well, eh?”
The youth blinked but kept his gaze fixed on the road.
“Today she stands upon the bridge between childhood and womanhood,” Sandemon went on. “By the time you return, no doubt she will have crossed over.”
Jan Martova turned his head only slightly, enough to meet Sandemon’s eyes. “Is there no hiding anything from you?”
It occurred to Sandemon that only a blind man would have failed to see the youth’s infatuation, but he said nothing.
The Gypsy youth, however, seemed to want to pursue the subject further. “So, then…you know I have feelings for the Seanchai’s daughter?”
Again Sandemon nodded. “I suspected as much, yes. But she is far too young for suc
h feelings, you know.”
Jan Martova looked back to the road. “Not in the world of the Romany.”
“But she does not live in the world of the Romany, my young friend,” Sandemon said gently. “Nor, for that matter, do you.”
The other sighed. “I know. I suppose, under the circumstances, you feel it’s best that I’m going away. With her being so young, and my being a Gypsy…” He let his words drift away, incomplete.
Sandemon looked around. It was taking more and more effort on his part to concentrate on the conversation, yet he recognized the seriousness of the young man’s dilemma.
“You must understand,” he said, trying to focus his attention on Jan Martova, “that in the Seanchai’s estimation, his daughter is still very much a child. Frankly, I expect he will continue to see her as such for quite some time yet.”
“And I, of course, am still very much a Gypsy in his eyes,” said Jan Martova heavily. “Even though I have been cast out from my tribe. To a doting father, however, I suppose even a renegade Gypsy is still a Gypsy.”
He looked over at Sandemon. “Surely you, at least, can trust me? My interest may seem inappropriate to a Gorgio, but I can assure you I bear the Seanchai’s daughter nothing but the purest of affection and respect. And I do understand that, at least for now, my feelings can be nothing but those of a friend or brother. Besides,” he said, looking back at the road, “she cannot see me, hidden as I am by the shadow of Tierney Burke.”
Sandemon gave no indication of agreement, but he wasn’t surprised at the boy’s remark. The Romany youth was far too intelligent, too discerning, not to have noticed the girl’s fancy for his American friend.
“As you said, the passing of time brings many changes,” he offered mildly. “Our part is to use the time wisely and accept what God gives.”
Without warning, the darkness inside him swelled, while the darkness around them seemed to turn sullen and threatening. Shadows cast from the low-hanging branches of roadside trees loomed larger, taking on menacing, grotesque shapes as they swayed in the night wind.
Sandemon shuddered. The nagging uneasiness that had distracted him most of the evening now surged to a rising tide of foreboding.
Badly shaken, he turned to grip Jan Martova’s arm. “We must hurry,” he urged, offering no explanation. Indeed, he had no explanation, other than the wave of panic coursing through him.
“Something is wrong,” he said, more to himself than to the Gypsy youth. “Something is…very wrong. We must get back at once.”
Jan Martova whipped around to look at him, his eyes questioning. Rising to a crouch, he snapped the reins, clicking his tongue to urge the mare on.
25
Night Terrors
And the dark lava-fires of madness
Once more sweep through my brain.
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN (1803–1849)
Entering the stables, Finola lighted a lantern from the shelf near the door. She stood for a moment, looking about, her heart still racing with apprehension. Where could they be, Aine and her Gabriel?
The air in the building was warm and close, pungent with the smell of hay and harness and horseflesh. In the stalls, the horses were quiet. Other than an occasional soft neigh or stirring, Finola heard nothing but the sound of her own thundering pulse.
She held her breath as she started down the far left side of the stables, hay whispering beneath her feet with each step. She would check Pilgrim’s stall first. The big red stallion, Morgan’s own, was a keen attraction for both Aine and Gabriel. They almost always rushed to his stall first when they visited the stables.
She had taken only a few steps when she heard a high squeal of laughter.
Gabriel!
Almost immediately came the sound of Aine’s robust laugh in response.
Finola stopped where she was, squeezing her eyes shut and putting a hand to her throat. Overwhelmed with relief, she let the fear drain out of her for a moment. When she opened her eyes, she again headed toward Pilgrim’s stall in the back of the stables.
The closer to home they came, the lower the clouds seemed to hang. It was becoming difficult now to see their way. Only the wolfhound seemed fully comfortable with the night, so the two women followed his lead.
Louisa was still cross with herself for not thinking to bring along a lantern. Of course, they hadn’t intended to stay so long on the docks; they never did. But invariably they found so many poor souls languishing there—more every day, it seemed. With each trip it grew more difficult to leave. It wrenched one’s soul to pass them by without at least an assurance of the Lord’s love and a brief prayer for their deliverance.
Dublin was, had always been, a city with a great heart, Louisa thought proudly. Her people seemed naturally inclined toward giving, even sacrificial giving. But these days the city could not possibly take care of her own needy, much less all those who came from the lengths of the countryside in search of work or shelter or, as a last resort, the means of immigration.
She suspected the reason she felt so weary, so depleted, had more to do with the misery and despair she had absorbed earlier in the day than any real physical fatigue. The hopelessness of the poor wretches on Dublin’s docks was enough to devastate even the most stouthearted. Certainly, she thought, giving a long, heavy sigh, the experience never failed to weary her to the point of exhaustion.
She hadn’t realized that she had slowed her stride almost to a complete halt until Lucy Hoy, beside her, roused her with a question. “Are you all right, Sister?” The other woman pressed her face close to Louisa’s, peering at her in the darkness.
“I will be perfectly fine,” Louisa said firmly, “once we reach Nelson Hall and I can draw a nice foot bath. I fully intend to indulge my poor feet the rest of the evening, provided there is no unforeseen calamity awaiting us.”
Lucy gave her a strange look. “Why would you say such a thing, Sister?”
Louisa frowned. The woman looked inexplicably frightened. Moreover, she was quite sure she saw Lucy shiver before drawing the sign of the cross over herself.
“Ach, Lucy, wasn’t I but making a joke?” She had almost forgotten that poor Lucy was given to great leaps of imagination and could be superstitious to a fault.
With a nod, Louisa resumed her usual brisk pace. The wolfhound, who had been waiting for them with exaggerated patience, again took up his role as guide, leading the way without actually distancing himself from the two women.
“Haven’t we had conversation about these vapors of yours?” Louisa chided as they walked. “Such hysteria is not at all consistent with a life of faith, you know.”
Head down, Lucy trudged along. “I do know, Sister, and I’m sorry. But something came over me, was all, when you said what you did about a calamity.” She was quiet for a moment. “I’ll try harder, I will, Sister.”
“You must do exactly that,” Louisa replied. But despite her assurance to the other, she was momentarily distracted by her own faint sense of disquiet, doubtless a reaction to Lucy Hoy’s foolishness.
In the stables, Finola saw Gabriel first. He peeked around the corner of the end stall, covering his mouth, then laughing into his hand as if he had carried off a grand feat.
Aine, holding on to his hand, was also smiling. Finola lifted the lantern for a better look at the two.
“He woke me up,” the girl said quickly. “I was napping, and all at once, there he was, on top of the bed with me. I thought we would pay Pilgrim a visit and let you sleep.”
Finola stood looking at the two of them, too relieved to offer more than a perfunctory scolding. “You must not go off like this again without telling someone.”
Aine seemed instantly contrite. “I’m sorry, Finola. I didn’t think.”
Suddenly struck by another thought, Finola drew in a sharp breath. “You found Gabriel upstairs, in your bedroom?”
At the girl’s nod, Finola hung the lantern on a wall peg, then stooped to confront her small son. “You climbed the bi
g stairway by yourself, Gabriel? Did you?”
The boy’s happy smile wavered. He glanced up at Aine with a look of uncertainty, lifting a thumb to his mouth before turning back to his mother.
“Oh, Gabriel! What am I to do with you?”
The thought of her tiny son groping up the enormous main stairway made Finola shudder. “If you should fall, you could be badly hurt, don’t you see? You must never do that again!”
The child blinked, and Finola saw that his baby pleasure in his grand accomplishment had dimmed. With one hand, he rubbed his eyes, now clouded with tears.
Instinctively, Finola reached for him, but he hung back, his tear-filled gaze avoiding hers.
His wounded expression was like a knife to Finola’s heart. “Ah, now, ’tis over,” she murmured quietly. “You are my fine, good boy. Come, give Mama a kiss.”
His gaze landed on Finola for only an instant, then deflected beyond her.
Thinking him still uncertain, she again opened her arms to him. But instead of running to her as he ordinarily would have, he hesitated, his eyes widening, his small mouth rounding to a wondering circle.
Bewildered, Finola bent lower to coax him, but a strangled gasp from Aine diverted her attention. The girl had gone chalk white. Something about that pale, taut countenance made the blood drain from Finola’s face as well.
Her mouth went dry as she looked from one to the other. Outside, leaves whispered in the wind, breaking the silence of the night. A rope of fear twisted through her.
Aine’s dark eyes swung from Finola to something behind her. Finola straightened, the crawling sensation along her spine spreading across her back like a cold tide rushing over the shore.
She seemed unable to look away from Aine’s eyes, now wide with unconcealed terror. Her heart felt as if it had leaped into her throat, each violent throb almost strangling her.