The Godforsaken Daughter

by Christina McKenna

  “She never talked like that to me.”

  “Well, just goes to show you never really know anyone, Henry, no matter how long you’ve been around them.”

  Sinclair rose and went to a bookshelf. He extracted an envelope from between two books.

  “She sent me this about a fortnight ago. Don’t know if the words are her own or quoted from someone else.”

  Henry withdrew a card with an illustration of a single white lily on the front.

  He read over the words on the back, written in Connie’s ornate hand.

  Oh how shallow life is! In spite of all the parties, the pills, those drunken diversions we lose ourselves to so the darkness won’t close in. But it’s always there, that darkness, hovering like a revenant at the edge of things.

  I wish, so dearly wish, I could make myself anew, come to the world afresh, into a place as yet unscathed by all that’s gone before. For the life we live has been imposed upon us from the womb.

  We are snared in the myths of generations past. Netted like fish that struggle for a time then die. In this imperfect world, there is no truth, I fear, no matter what they say. That thread was cut, our suffering: the price we pay.

  Hope you understand, Sinclair. Thank you for listening.

  Love,

  Connie

  Henry burst into tears. The betrayal: just too much. The meaning behind the words, so beautifully crafted, hitting him with a cruel and terrible certainty.

  He heard his father sit down in an armchair. Imagined his turmoil. Heard him rise again. Felt his hand on his shoulder, gentle, reassuring.

  “Here, son.” A box of tissues appeared beside him on the table.

  Sinclair: the therapist now. Henry: the patient in need of solace.

  “Now, Henry . . . son. They’re just words. You shouldn’t read so much into them.”

  Henry took a tissue and wiped his eyes.

  “Sorry,” he said. “It’s just that . . . it’s just that . . .”

  “I’ll get us a brandy.”

  “Thanks.” He pushed the card back into the envelope.

  Sinclair returned to the table and sat down. He handed Henry the drink and watched as he gulped it down. “It’s just what, Henry? You were going to tell me something just then.”

  “I was going to say that those words sound like something Plath would write . . . Sylvia Plath, an American poet.”

  “So? That’s good, isn’t it? If they’re not Connie’s.”

  Henry shook his head.

  “When I . . . when I first met her at the hospital, after her suicide attempt, she had a book . . . some sort of journal of Plath’s writings. She made a gift of it to me when she left. It was only when I read through it that I realized how bleak and depressing the material was. Personal, confessional stuff. Too much introspection for a young, impressionable woman like Connie. I told her as much when we met again and started seeing each other. She promised me she wouldn’t read it again.”

  “So . . . I don’t really understand. What are you saying exactly?”

  Henry was focused on the brandy glass. “When she turned thirty, Sylvia Plath committed suicide. And Connie . . . Connie is . . . Three weeks ago she . . .”

  He didn’t need to finish the sentence; Sinclair was well aware of Connie’s age.

  And the implication of what his son could not bring himself to say.

  A helicopter passed overhead again, the rumble of rotor blades sending tremors through the house. Sinclair appeared at Henry’s side again, the brandy bottle in his hand. No words passed between them as he replenished his son’s glass. He sat down opposite.

  “There’s more, isn’t there?”

  Henry nodded. He took a sip of brandy before replying.

  “She left a note on Wednesday.”

  “Yes, you told me. A short note, saying she was going for a stroll.”

  “But I didn’t tell you how she ended the note, Father. The police have it now, of course. But I memorized it, word for word.” Henry smiled without humor. “Easy enough. There were only eight words.”

  “Go on.”

  “She wrote: ‘Going for a walk, darling. Love you. Always.’”

  “Hmm.”

  “It’s that final word: ‘Always.’ I didn’t think too much of it at the time. God knows I had more on my mind. But when I left the police station that night it kept bothering me. Connie had never used it before. When I got home I checked. I’d kept all her love letters, you see. Even her Valentine cards. Had them in a drawer. I took them out and went through them carefully, just to make sure I hadn’t misremembered.”

  “No ‘always’?”

  Henry shook his head. “Never. Not once.”

  “So you think she was trying to tell you something? With the note? You think the note was . . .”

  “I think she was saying good-bye, Father . . . Saying good-bye for good.”

  Chapter thirteen

  In the quiet of the night, in the safety of her bedroom, with her mother asleep and the day’s chores done, Ruby laid the objects from the case about her on the bed, sat back on the pillows, and opened The Book of Light. It was a portal to another world. Within its pages lay the meaning of life itself. She was sure of it.

  She looked forward to that time. That time between the hours of midnight and two, when it seemed the whole universe slept. Except for her, and Edna . . . and Dana.

  Ruby read.

  I am Dana. I am inspiration. I am wisdom. I am the creator of all things. I am older than time itself. I am god. I am goddess. I am the Divine Source of all you see. I am everywhere. I am in every living thing. I am goddess of the land you walk on. I am goddess of the air you breathe. I am goddess of the water that gives you life.

  I am the Divine Feminine. I am the Triple Goddess. I am the Holy Trinity. I am the Maiden. I am the Mother. I am the Crone.

  Ruby turned the page and was pulled up short by an image. It showed a circle colored in red, with half-moons flanking it—one black, one white. She clutched the book, staring, a terrible fear taking hold. In the mysterious dream, she’d been wearing a pendant just like it as she lay in the coffin.

  Oh my God, I am gonna die!

  Her thought was answered by “the voice.” Gentle, soothing, but decisive.

  “THERE IS NO DEATH. YOU ARE PROTECTED.”

  Feeling slightly calmer, she studied the caption.

  Symbol of the Triple Goddess

  White moon = waxing crescent = Maiden, goddess of birth

  Red = full moon = Mother, goddess of love

  Black = waning crescent = Crone, goddess of death

  “YOU ARE BIRTH. YOU ARE LOVE. YOU ARE DEATH.”

  Ruby, growing afraid. There was that word again: “death.”

  “But . . . but I am not . . . d-d-death. I’m not . . . dead?”

  “YOU ARE LIFE. YOU ARE SPIRIT.”

  “But . . . but, I’m not dead.”

  “YOU WILL DIE TO SELF. YOU WILL RISE AGAIN TO SPIRIT.”

  The urge to shut the book, bundle everything back in the case and burn it, like her mother ordered, was strong. She tried to get off the bed, but couldn’t. She was paralyzed with fear.

  “Oh God, help me!” Sobbing now. “Daddy, help me.”

  “YOU ARE SPIRIT. YOUR FATHER RESTS IN SPIRIT.”

  Hopeful. “Can . . . can I see him?” Ruby’s heart lifted.

  “WADE IN WATERS STILL AND DEEP.”

  “What waters? Where?”

  “WHERE THE LITTLE BOY DOTH SLEEP.”

  “The lake? You mean . . . You mean Beldam Lake? Where . . . where . . . wee Declan . . .”

  She waited for an answer, but none came.

  “But . . . but Declan’s not in the lake. Declan’s a wee angel in . . . in heaven.”
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  “THERE IS NO HEAVEN.”

  Ruby, weeping now, imploring. “There is. Declan’s an angel in heaven and . . . and . . . and Daddy’s there. I know they’re there.”

  “THERE IS NO HEAVEN. HEAVEN IS WITHIN.”

  “I . . . I don’t understand. You mean . . . you mean Daddy and . . . and wee Declan are in . . . ?” Ruby could not bring herself to say the word. But the answer came, regardless.

  “THERE IS NO HELL. HELL IS WITHOUT.”

  She felt her limbs loosen.

  “But . . . but where . . . Where are they? Is . . . Daddy still in purgatory? Is . . . is wee Declan in . . . in limbo?”

  “THEY ARE IN SPIRIT.”

  “But how can I see them?”

  “OPEN YOUR EYES. OPEN YOUR HEART.”

  “But me eyes are open.” Ruby, not understanding, widened her eyes in the dimly lit room.

  Silence.

  She reached over to the bedside locker to fetch a tissue, and as she did so, several of the objects fell to the floor. She heaved herself off the bed and got down on her knees to retrieve them. To her dismay, she saw that the cingulum had unraveled. She was about to gather it up when:

  “CINGULUM SO UNABASED / BIND IT THREE TIMES ’BOUT THE WAIST.”

  Whether for good or ill, she found herself moving toward the mirror. She put the belt on over her nightdress, and was pleased to see that, despite her bulk, it did encircle her three times.

  That done, she bent down to pick up the Tarot pack.

  “LAY THE CARDS, COME RAIN OR SNOW / AND ALL OUR FUTURES THEY SHALL SHOW.”

  The voice was guiding her; she must trust the voice. She sat down on the bed again and, hesitantly, began shuffling the deck. Five cards fell, facedown. Her future lay before her.

  Ruby stopped, afraid. Should she look at them? What if they were bad? But then . . . they might be good. Her hand shook as she turned the first one over. “The Hanged Man, XII.” The image was startling.

  It showed a man in red tights and a blue shirt suspended upside down on a tree-shaped cross. His left leg was tucked under his right leg, which was tied to the top of the tree. A bright yellow sun was radiating from behind his head. Strange thing was: he didn’t look as though he were in any pain. He looked calm and peaceful. Encouraged, Ruby leafed through The Book of Light, to the section headed “Tarot & Meanings.”

  Give careful thought to the decisions you make. You must be willing to adapt to new circumstances. You are in a period of transition.

  Ruby dwelt on the meaning. Well, she was in a period of transition, with her father gone. And these were new circumstances. So the card was right.

  Hopeful, she flipped the second one. “The Tower, XVI.” Her newfound optimism faded. The black card showed a tower on fire, and a man and woman falling headlong into the darkness, pain etched in their faces. She didn’t want to learn the meaning, but maybe, like “The Hanged Man,” it wasn’t as bad as it looked.

  An unexpected event will lead to great conflict. There will be disruption to your life. If you can withstand the challenge, the future will be bright.

  Conflict, disruption, challenge. The words leaped off the page in warning. They spoke of dark things to come. She did not want to read any further. There were three cards remaining. Should she turn them over? What if they told of more misfortune? How would she feel?

  “THERE IS NO DARKNESS. YOU ARE PROTECTED.”

  Without hesitation, she reached out and flipped the third card over.

  “The Fool, 0.” She brightened at the sight of the carefree, colorful image. A young man with a stick over his shoulder and a bag tied at the end of it. A white dog was yapping at his heels. He looked happy, but . . . she noticed an odd thing: he seemed totally unaware that he was about to step off a cliff edge. And why, just like “The Hanged Man,” did he look totally unconcerned? Perplexed, she read the meaning: “A new beginning.”

  The words from her dream floated back to her. “A new beginning, Ruby. A new beginning.” She read on.

  A door is opening into a new world, free from the constraints of the past. Seek out new people. New experiences. Follow your intuition, not reason.

  The reassurance she gleaned from that card quickly vanished with the image on the next one, the one numbered “IX”; an old man with a long, gray beard, wearing a hooded cloak. “The Hermit” was standing on a mountaintop, holding a lighted lantern in one hand and a staff in the other. But, while the figure looked doom-laden, its meaning was far from bleak.

  You will search within for answers. The insight you have gained is precious. Spiritual enlightenment is yours.

  With a light heart, Ruby turned over the final card. “The Star, XVII” showed a naked woman kneeling by a lake. She was collecting water in one vessel and, from another, pouring it onto the earth. Above her head shone a brilliant yellow star.

  Hope and healing are yours. You have chosen the right path. Cleanse in the waters of life and you will be awakened. Renewal and beauty are yours.

  Ruby inspected the image of the woman more closely. There was something about it that appealed to her. Then she realized what it was. The woman’s body was just like hers, heavy and solid. She could have been looking at her own naked self.

  Cleanse in the waters of life and you will be awakened.

  She thought about Beldam Lake. She was being guided toward Beldam Lake! All answers lay there. In The Book of Light she found the poem again. Bathe in waters pure and deep / If weighty answers thou shouldst seek.

  “WHERE THE LITTLE BOY DOTH SLEEP.”

  She jumped, so loud was the voice.

  “But when?”

  No answer.

  She looked back at the poem again.

  Raise the curv’d blade at the moon / On the twenty-first of June / This rite shall make thy dreams come true / And wondrous powers shall thee accrue.

  She took her diary from the bedside locker and found the date. June 21. It was only ten days away. She peered more closely, and for the first time noticed something she hadn’t seen before.

  By the entry date there was a small circle, one half black. She now realized what the symbol meant. In Edna’s book there was a Phases of the Moon chart; a circle divided into eight segments with phases of the moon, from the new to the “balsamic” phase.

  An excitement took hold of her. The little symbol in her diary meant that, on the 21st, the moon would be in its first quarter. She knew what she had to do.

  Raise the curv’d blade at the moon / On the twenty-first of June.

  In ten days’ time she’d be doing just that.

  This rite shall make thy dreams come true / And wondrous powers shall thee accrue.

  “My dreams . . . come true?” Ruby didn’t need to refer to her three wishes at the back of her diary. She knew them by heart.

  “In ten days’ time I’ll be seeing Daddy again. I’ll be getting lots of money, and I’ll be meeting somebody nice. Can it be true?”

  Silence.

  Suddenly, from downstairs, the sound of breaking glass.

  Ruby jumped.

  “What was that?”

  An intruder? There had been one in the past. A harmless old vagrant who’d robbed a block of cheese from the larder. Still, she needed to make sure.

  She picked up a tire iron she kept by the bed, expressly for that purpose, and crept down the stairs.

  All the windows below were intact. Had she imagined hearing something?

  It was only when she was turning to mount the stairs again that her flashlight picked up the gleam of glass by the pantry door. She shone the light into the alcove.

  The picture of Michael the Archangel was no longer in place.

  It had fallen off the wall. The glass lay shattered on the floor.

  Ruby looked with dismay at the mess. Well, she was too tired to clear it up now. It would just have
to wait until morning. She found a brush, and swept the glass under the table.

  As she mounted the stairs, she tried to console herself. Maybe . . . maybe she hadn’t replaced the picture properly earlier on. Maybe the nail holding it had come loose. After all, it had been hanging there a long, long time.

  But, try as Ruby might, those words of her mother’s from that conversation earlier on, kept pushing into her head.

  “See that prayer . . . Saint Michael . . . She dropped it immediately as if she’d burned herself, and the glass broke. Then I knew for sure what she was.”

  Chapter fourteen

  Sergeant Ranfurley, overweight, overwrought, and overtired from a fitful night, was enjoying a brief respite from the day’s affairs with a mug of tea and a ham sandwich, when his assistant, Constable Johnston, knocked on his door.

  “What is it?” he barked between mouthfuls, not a little annoyed at the interruption.

  “Woman to see you, Sarge.”

  “Who is she, and what the blazes does she want?”

  “Rose-Mick-somebody . . . here with her husband, Paddy. She won’t tell me what it’s about. Sez she wants to speak to you, Sarge.”

  Ranfurley sighed. “Show her in, then.” He bolted down the remainder of the sandwich. Set the mug aside.

  The woman’s voice reached the room before she did.

  “Com’on, Paddy. We can’t keep the sergeant waitin’, so we can’t.”

  Presently, filling the room, was a middle-aged lady, face flushed to the hue of her pink frock. She dwarfed her husband, following behind like an aging schoolboy in a cap and check jacket.

  “God, Sergeant Ranfurley, thanks for seein’ me. Rose McFadden’s me name.” She came forward and offered a gloved hand. “And this here’s my Paddy.”

  “Good day to you, Mrs. McFadden . . . Mr. McFadden. Take a seat there, won’t ye. Now what can I do ye for?”

  “Well, it’s like this,” Rose began. “Biddy at the café . . . You know, Biddy at the Cozy Corner. She’d be a cousin of—”

  “I do indeed,” Ranfurley cut in. “What’s she done?”

  “Oh, not Biddy, Sergeant! Well, what I was gonna say was, Biddy tolt me, when me and my Paddy were in having a bitta lunch today, ’cos on a Fair Day we usually have a bitta lunch . . .”