The Big Wind

by Beatrice Coogan

  In the enthusiasm of the rehearsal she had visualised that green lane as she pointed. Now all she could see was the spectacle of Miss Garland standing in the wings, unseen by her audience, at her old trick of disconcerting the on-stage ingénue.

  If only she would stay still, thought Dorene, instead of swelling so ridiculously before disappearing into a black void and then returning to her own size. The prompter raised his voice on the third prompt. The orchestra covered up with a quickening tempo of its rustic dance selection. Thomas allowed his shoulders to follow the music in gentle rhythm. The movement increased the audience’s impression, that the speechless pointing girl was indulging in a piece of delightful mime that was completely in character.

  At last she found the lines that had eluded her. Down through pounding pain they dropped in black blobs but only Thomas heard her gasp, ‘It—it beaded its eyelashes, and it put cow dung on its nose!’

  The audience laughed and clapped when she ran swaying from the stage. They were still applauding when Thomas came before the stage and apologised for her non-appearance. She had been called away, he said. He could not tell them, not after last night’s apology, that lightning had indeed struck twice. That Miss du Clos was lying in her dressing-room, her eyes wide open, completely blind.

  44

  When the horseman had at last outstripped the leisurely train the passengers withdrew their heads. The landscape held no further interest. The rider, grey-masked with dust, who had paced the train for three unflagging miles, had passed from their view. But the engine-driver’s professional pride was challenged. ‘Throw on a few more shovelfuls!’ he ordered the stoker. A few minutes later the entire length of the train passed the rider. He pressed unspurred heels against the horse’s flank. It sensed the challenge of a race and, carriage by carriage, it gained until the engine’s ignominious sobs sounded far behind. Suddenly the craning heads sent up a cheer. Horse and rider had risen up in the air, clear over tracks and sleepers and hedgerow into the field beyond.

  Thomas drew rein and smiled. It was his first relaxed moment in the headlong dash from Dorene du Clos’s bedside to the train that had seemed to crawl through England; the boat whose engines seemed to be driven by the urgings of his own heart; to the Irish train that had crawled so slowly that he had jumped from it at a junction and hired a succession of livery horses to cut across country.

  He patted the blessed animal that had brought him, in that last final bound, to the soil of Kilsheelin. He looked back at the railway line. It had once been a moss path that had led to the hawthorn fort at Lissnastreenagh. Who’d have thought when last he jumped it beside Thuckeen and her rider that it would be turned into an iron railroad. A railroad through the lands of Kilsheelin!

  A smell of burning reminded him that the red coals flying from the engine had burned tiny holes in the velvet collar of his coat. ‘A burn in your coat is a sign of good luck, according to Mrs. Stacey.’ He set the horse at a low gap that brought another flash of memory. He recalled vaulting it on his return from serving the Wedding Mass of Eileen Prendergast to John Keating. With the memory came a pang of hunger like the one he had known that day when, in loyalty to Kilsheelin, he had left before the feasting. He had not eaten since he had gulped down a cup of tea at the station refreshment room early this morning.

  Suddenly the broken turret came in view; then the castle itself; and then the murmuring stream and all the gently rich landscape stroked by soft winds. How often had he recalled Kilsheelin’s gentle breezes as he set his teeth against the furnace blasts of dusty winds where frantic, penniless men babbled about millions as they scrabbled for the swill of the goldfields.

  He skirted the demesne wall and cantered towards the niche that had been the scene of his parting from Sterrin. He smiled as he recalled that early dawn after the Ball in Kilkenny, when he had taken a leisurely farewell of his host, Sir Jocelyn and fellow-guests and made a hell-for-leather dash through the fragrance of the May night to his meeting with Bergin. Thomas remembered Bergin’s incredulous look when he heard that his old friend was planning to spirit away Sir Jocelyn’s bride-to-be. She had been waiting between the high topiaried yews that screened them from the house. She listened carefully as he outlined the plans. And when they had kissed and clung and kissed again and finally parted only to return for one last kiss, she had left him. A second later she had come flying after him to urge one alteration to their plot. They must meet at the wall gap. It had been the planning ground and starting point of all their escapades; and besides, she had urged, he could see her more easily there as she took her morning canter in the park.

  Thomas reached the blessed gap in the wall and stood up in the stirrups. Through the opening he could see most of the park and the fallow field of the Big Wind’s caprice and even part of the hill where the cemetery lay. His heart thudded so much at the impact of the familiar scene that he had to grip the wall at either side to keep himself from vaulting over and running across the grass to the great arched gate that led to the stable yard and the big warm kitchen that was home.

  Ruefully he thought of the incongruity of his position that barred him from the kitchen, since he had now presumed towards the regions beyond the stately hall door that he dared not enter. He thought of the other stately portals that had opened wide to him—in Boston, New York, New Orleans; the gracious ladies who sought the honour of his presence in their drawing-rooms.

  A movement on the roof caught his eye. The flag of privilege was flying from the flagstaff. He stared. The last time he had seen it fly high was the day Sir Roderick had been elected. The following day it had flown at half-mast. What possible occasion could this be? Of course! It was for tomorrow’s wedding. Suddenly all the assurance bred of prosperity and fame deserted him. Once more he was a little bare-legged waif wrapped in a man’s brown coat that was five times too big for him, standing on the gravel sweep there before the hall door, gazing with awe at his own achievement. He alone of all that household had succeeded in raising the flag above the storm-wrecked turret; and beside him the great Sir, gazing upwards at the flag that proclaimed his daughter’s birth and then turning to bestow a whole crown to the urchin at his feet. ‘Don’t be too conscientious about taking “advantages”,’ said the Sir, when the waif had balked at accepting so vast a sum. ‘Just grab them!’

  The recollection, set in the familiar scenes of his servitude, filled him with the consciousness of his great presumption. What right had he, the castle’s scullion, to intrude upon the event the proud flag now proclaimed! The daughter of the castle was going to her rightful heritage. He thought of what awaited her at Kilkenny. Manor, mill and mine, sparkling trout streams, navigable river, woods and pasture lands, all hers! Lawns with pyramids of topiaried yews, pavilions, hothouses that would produce verdant wonders—for HER!

  What had he to offer? He dismissed the thought of his great success. Made no inventory of the superb body, the handsome features, the proud head, the massed qualities that brought the hearts of women at his feet. He disregarded that quality of presence that made men, everywhere, defer to him. His was just a fine body to display his master’s livery and grace the serving of his feast, to lend cachet to the splendour of his coach.

  He tightened the drooping reins. For a moment he thought to ride away. Then, a little zephyr of wind set the flag flying into a gentle fluttering that drew his eye again. Why was it today the flag was hoisted? According to castle custom it was flown on the day of the event, not beforehand. Probably Hegarty would have too much to do tomorrow. No battalions of gossoons now, no retainers, no footmen. Still, he wished the old man had waited. It was almost blasphemy that it should be hoisted today to fly high while the daughter of the castle eloped with the boy who used to clean her father’s knives. Suddenly he swept his hat off and doffed it towards the flag. From somewhere behind him a burst of music sounded.

  He turned. Slowly through the gates came an open carriage. In it sat a bard playing a harp. Thomas stared. But the Bard�
�Bard O’Ryan was dead!

  Then in through the gateway swept four magnificent greys drawing an open landau. It held two people, a man and a white-clad girl draped in a bridal veil. Other carriages followed. Great crowds of people were jostling at the lodge gate. Some spectators had climbed the walls. No one saw anything untoward in the spectacle of the solitary horseman who watched through an opening in the wall, his hat held high in homage, doubtless to the bride. As the bridal carriage came level with the wall niche, the bride suddenly lifted the veil from her face and looked straight towards the horseman. Across the intervening space each saw the tense whiteness of the other’s face.

  The procession passed on. Later, two men in livery came down from the castle bearing cloth bags. They reached into them for coins that they scattered high into the air and the crowd jostled and scrambled to catch them. Not copper coins for this wedding, but great fistfuls of silver and gold tossed upwards to fall in a gleaming shower.

  The motionless horseman took no notice of the scrambling, shouting crowd. His eyes followed the bride. He saw her helped from the carriage, saw her move towards the tall coachman and speak to him, probably to receive his good wishes. The breeze that fluttered the flag tossed the curls over Thomas’s forehead. He made no move to replace his hat. He held it aloft as it had been when he had saluted the flag.

  He was still that way, arm extended like a posed statue, when Big John, resplendent in new, blue-faced livery, and shining, cockaded hat, came slowly down the side road from the stables.

  He paused, startled. Who was this white-faced stranger, as white-faced as his darling had been when she whispered to him just now. Who did he recall? Sir Roderick? Old Sir Dominic? Then the stranger spoke quietly. ‘God save you, Big John.’

  ‘Young Thomas! Is it you that’s in it, Young Thomas?’

  Thomas came to life and dismounted. He placed a hand on each of Big John’s shoulders. The older man barely suppressed his wince of pain. Thomas noticed the deformed outline under the stiff precision of the new livery. ‘Ah, your poor shoulder. You still bear the token of the Big Wind.’

  The coachman took Thomas’s hand between his own two and gazed long into his face. ‘I thought you were some great gentleman whom she knew. But sure she knew you, and you were always a gentleman.’ He was recalling the way young gossoons and farmers used to doff their hats to the grown-up Young Thomas.

  ‘So you have prospered and come back to us all. But how did you hit on this day? Did you know that it was her wedding day?’

  Thomas drew back his hand and his face went set. ‘No,’ he said, low and tense. ‘That was what I did not know.’ The coachman looking at him thought he might be looking at Sir Roderick.

  Suddenly it broke upon him. This strange encounter! And the strange words. That is what I did not know! And the stricken look that was etching out the white features before his eyes, into that pinched look that comes on a dying face. ‘Dear God!’ he breathed aloud. ‘So that is the way it is with you! And with her too. You are the horseman at the gap that I was to take her message to. You!’

  The brief word was charged with the enormity of Thomas’s presuming. Thomas turned impatiently and pulled at the tired horse that was cropping the side grass. ‘Yes, me! And what is her message? Did she say you were to send me away? Or,’ he gestured towards the mob. ‘Am I bidden to go down there and grub amongst the canaille for the wedding largesse?’

  Big John took the reins from him while he mounted. When he spoke there was infinite pity in his eyes and voice. ‘Why didn’t I see what was shaping before my eyes and you growing up together? Sure you loved the ground she walked on. But didn’t we all? Only you had the learning—and a sort of breeding. I always said it—you were able to come closer to her comprehension. God help you both!’ He glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Listen, she bid me tell you to ride over to Lissnastreenagh. Go down into the hollow under the hawthorn trees. She’ll come to you there, through the underground passage.’ He handed up the reins. ‘Young Thomas.’ His voice was stern. ‘Let you not set yourself against God’s law nor man’s honour. If I thought that you planned aught I swear to you I’ll refuse to open the secret door, and I’m the only one that knows how.’

  Thomas chucked the reins but Big John held on. ‘Stand aside.’ said Thomas coldly. Big John obeyed.

  In the blossom-filled hollow where he had lain with famine fever Thomas waited. Trees bent over him in a circular canopy. Petals fluttered down upon him as they had done when it was his body that was sick. A blossom broke from its branch with a tiny creak and came to rest upon his shoulder. If you break off a branch it is unlucky; but if one falls upon you, it is a sign that you will marry your true love!

  He stood there, unconscious of the fragrant beauty that enclasped him. The moments bled away from him. Suddenly the branch drapes parted and she stood there. His exhausted brain could not absorb the realness of her presence. He made no move. She was part of this fairy keep; an apparition in ghostly white.

  And then she was in his arms; his love in her espousal robe, his pain, his delight, his every breathing. Her wedding veil enclosed them. The blossoms fell unheeded about their straining bodies. The mingling of their anguish was a consummation.

  At last he held her from him. ‘What has happened?’ She told him. Their farewell embrace that morning after the Ball had been witnessed by Sir Jocelyn. ‘He went to Mamma. He told her the marriage must be pushed forward,’ she whispered. ‘He—he described the way he—the way we were when we said goodbye and he let her think that he found us that way in my bedroom. I’ve never seen Mamma so bad. I truly believed that she would die. But he was able to cope with her; soothed her; said he would shield me. I wrote you to come at once—’

  With a groan he took her back into his arms. ‘You are not this man’s wife. A sacrament is not thrust upon one by force; nor by trickery, for I vow that your letter to me was intercepted. Come, we have wasted enough of life in considering the claims of others.’ With one arm he drew her up the slope; with the other he held back the overhanging branches. A shower of blossoms fell all about her, clinging to her veil.

  Behind them a door creaked cumbrously. A voice tailed ‘Miss Sterrin,’ and immediately corrected itself and said ‘Your Ladyship’. Big John stood there. They turned to him. His presence dominated them. Big John’s dignity was not a lackey’s. It was of the soul. ‘Your Ladyship is asked for.’ It was the first time that she realised that she was being addressed by her new title. Big John seemed to imbue it with all its obligations. Because you are born noble you have a higher destiny than the peasants! Out of the past came that whimper of memory. Her father’s admonition to her, when she had complained in the famine that their own table was stinted excessively. You must live honourably so as to give an example—

  She withdrew from his embrace. ‘Goodbye, Young Thomas!’ He took a step after her. ‘Mo bheal asthore!’ The whispered appeal was frantic. At the sound of the old endearment—My life’s love!—she wavered. There were tears in her eyes as she turned to whisper back, ‘Mo bheal asthore!’

  As she passed through the narrow walls, heedless of the crawling green slime that fouled the satin folds of her gown, she heard his voice call, ‘I’ll go on waiting.’

  Slowly Big John pushed the heavy door. ‘God be with you, Young Thomas,’ he said and Thomas was shut out.

  He had no idea how long he stood there in the bower that had become a tomb. When he turned at last his footsteps were muffled in the carpet of petals. He kicked savagely through them. They rose in an agitated shower and fell about his shoulders.

  From somewhere his bemused senses caught the sound of a bell; the ghostly tolling of the Sanctus bell, that had sounded as The O’Carroll slew the priest at the altar? Or was it the fairy bell in the hawthorns? Strange things had happened in this ghostly place.

  As he swung into the saddle he saw the top of the great marquee and he knew that the bell was the stable one summoning the tenants and workers to the feas
t. Without a backward glance he wheeled the horse and spurred it across the fields.

  Thomas made no effort to guide his mount. He rode up the hills following a track so old that it was believed to have been beaten out by ancient wolf packs. In the silence a lamb bleated. It was answered by the deep baaing of its mother. A lark planed down to its sitting mate. The horse checked and stopped. A sound of running water bubbling fresh from the hills into the brown pools reached its thirsty senses. It bent over a pool and drank deep and long.

  Thomas turned in the saddle. Across the valley he could see the home of his childhood. Behind those walls of mountain grit he had absorbed the creed and tenets of life in its finest quality. The horse went forward again. Thomas began to recognise his route. Blind instinct had led him up this primitive path. It was leading him towards the mansion that was to receive her tonight.

  Much later, his eyes, straining frantically, glimpsed a figure that moved whitely in an upper window where light showed.

  She was watching the movement of all the little free things in the lake below; conscious of every sound and perfume as never before. Sorrow had acted upon her unawakened senses like a storm upon still waters; had tossed up emotions whose existence she had never dreamed of. She had come a long way from the little river bank where she had thought it her duty to try drowning herself because she felt the shame of a man’s kiss.

  They had been like Adam and Eve in the ancient garden—the young knife boy and the young girl, happy, carefree, taking each other for granted. Now they were like Adam and Eve after the Fall, knowing good and evil. There had been no apple eaten from the Tree of Knowledge. But the serpent had raised his knowing head. Young Thomas!