Cast A Cold Eye, page 25
“Let’s take the car,” he said.
The child was still there, gleaming in the white of the headlights, when he backed the car into the road and pointed it downhill. She beckoned once more, turned, and trotted away.
Neither of them spoke as they followed in the car. The child ran steadily before them, too light, too misty, for them to see if her feet even touched the ground.
She led them to Doolin Point.
The wind had grown now to an angry beast, whistling shrilly in their ears and flinging biting rain at their faces as they climbed from the car.
The child beckoned once and dashed off across the rocks toward the point.
Slowly, picking each spot to set down a foot, they inched across the rocks toward the high point above the crashing surf. The wind roared one moment and the ocean the next, contending for the greater power to frighten them off.
They followed the tiny figure as far as the tumble of boulders near the edge of the cliff, but she was gone by the time they reached it.
“This will either save us or drive us mad,” Grainne breathed, and buried her face against his wet shoulder.
“Oh, Grainne, I’ve brought you into this,” Jack said against her hair. “I never meant to.”
“No, Jack. I was in this before ever you laid eyes on me. It’s been waiting for me, lying in wait for me. And you, you’ve only just come home. Don’t you see? You’ve come home. It was waiting here for you as well.”
He took her shoulders and held her away from him, trying to search her face in the near blackness of the night. All he could see were her eyes, as bright as those of the child.
She was sobbing now, her eyes filling with tears that mixed with the rain to run down her face. “Oh, Jack,” she cried, “won’t you make love to me now? Won’t you be one with me?”
He pulled her against him and buried his face in her hair for a moment. His hands fumbled madly at her, seeking her warmth to fend off the cold, seeking the comfort of her body, the joining of flesh at last.
Their hands flew at each other, pulling at awkward clothing, never minding the wind-driven rain that touched warm skin. Their mouths sought each other with the hunger of time and their sobs and sharp breathing were one voice in the pitch of the night.
She lay back against the rough stone and he stretched on top of her, his weight sinking with relief between her legs. She cried out when he touched her there.
Her hair caught on the gritty angles of the rock and tugged at her head as she moved. It felt as if misty hands, composed of wind and seaspray, rose from the rock itself to clutch at her body and hold her down while he took her. The rough surface scraped at the soft nakedness of her bottom, clawing at tender flesh each time he thrust his weight upon her, making delicious pain.
She opened her mouth to cry his name and rain and salty spray touched her tongue.
There would be blood on the stone after but the rain would wash it away and carry it back to the sea.
She moved her hands from the rock to his body, to the rock again and back to his body, feeling the sandpaper roughness of the stone and the smooth bunching muscles of his buttocks. Her ankles were held tight by her jeans but she inched her knees a little farther apart, making room to welcome him deeper. Their thick sweaters were knotted between them against their chests, but their stomachs pressed together—a place of warmth against the cold and wet of the air—and he filled the space between her thighs with his moving, thrusting weight. Her fingers caught at his skin and squeezed, let go, squeezed and let go.
He moved over her, within her, his legs, his body, his arms, his warmth, making a shelter from the rain and the wind, and at the same time pressing her into the rock so that the roaring waves that pounded below pounded at her as well.
The warmth rose within her, filling her legs, her chest, her face. Their knotted clothing rubbed hard against her swollen nipples. She opened her mouth and sobbed, and again, and tasted salt that might have been tears, might have been spray, and she moved with him, pressed herself up to receive him and . . .
. . . he moved as if only they existed in the world, only the two of them and the rock beneath and the water swirling and hammering below, foaming white and green and filling his ears with their sound and his heart with their urgent rhythm. Elbows on the hard, wet stone, rain soaking through to touch his legs and back and shoulders, streaming through his hair and down his face, he wrapped taut arms around her head and grappled her close and closer, the side of his face against the wet smooth skin of her forehead.
He felt himself grow bigger as she closed around him and drew him in, pulled him deeper and deeper, clutched him tighter as he slid within to the dark, warm depths of her body where ultimate shelter waited to hold him tight.
He groaned aloud, face turned to the side, and rain ran into his mouth.
The wind lashed his side and back and pushed him faster still. He was one with her body, one with the rock, and their moving warmth made a house of heat around them. Sweat ran acrid and hot beneath his clothes and slid between their bellies.
He felt the burning warmth rising and pulsing within him, clenched his teeth tight and groaned between them, thrust once more, yearning deeper still, then stiffened, breath held, toes braced against the rock, held and . . .
. . . they cried out together, fingers flexing, his in her hair, hers at his back, and cried again as he poured himself into her and she felt her body filled with the heat of his own. Held for the moment, all else gone but the joining, they did not move. Even after he was emptied, he shuddered and his pelvis thrust again, knees pressing hard against the rock. Her arms moved and wrapped his head against her face.
He groaned once more, a long shivering sigh. Their mouths came together, lips wet with rain and spray and saliva.
After a while, as they began to catch their breath, he slid softly out of her warm flesh. Their mingled wetness ran out of her and dripped from him to puddle in the crevices of the rock beneath, and the rain would wash that away too and mix it with the grit and the salt and the sea.
When at last they rose from the rock and pulled rain-soaked clothing into place, they spoke not a word. All was darkness. Hands clutched tightly together, they inched their way across the endless expanse of jagged, broken rock and relentless rain, back to the road that would carry them home and the night that would take them to morning.
PART FOUR
I believe that in every decisive moment of our lives the spur to action comes from that part of the memory where desire lies dozing, awaiting the call to arms.
—Sean O’Faolain,
“I Remember! I Remember”
CHAPTER 16
The night passed, long and dark and slow.
Even while they slept, their limbs touched, hips touched, fingers touched, sliding against smooth sheets, seeking human warmth. They slept fitfully. Jack coughed twice in the night, waking each time to turn over. Grainne clutched tight at the pillow, one arm crooked around it.
Outside, rain still clattered at the walls and wind pressed hard against the glass.
Jack woke first, a little before eight. Grainne shifted in the bed, trying to find a safer position. Her knees were drawn up near her chest, her neck bent, her face buried against the pillow. Jack watched her for several minutes, scarcely breathing. She was so lovely. She looked so fragile. The back of her neck was exposed and he thought of how easily she could be hurt. Killed. The thought chilled him and he shivered. He pulled the covers higher over his chest. The air in the room felt very cold, as if the night had come inside.
After a while, when Grainne still had not moved, he eased the covers down and climbed out of the bed. The floor was like ice. Shivering, he gathered up some clothing and carried it quietly from the room so as not to wake her. He dressed in the hall, then went to the kitchen and started water for tea. While he waited for it to boil, he stood at the window and stared out, trying not to think.
The day itself was gray, although the rain had stopped, leaving only dark wet earth on the hill, wet rocks, and silvery puddles reflecting the rippled gray of the sky. A cold-looking day.
When the tea was made, he fixed two cups and carried them into the bedroom. Grainne was still asleep, curled up in the big bed and looking very small. Jack’s breath caught for a second, seeing her like that. He had brought her into all this. She had come willingly, true, but if it hadn’t been for him, she would not be here now, would not be in danger. If indeed they were in danger.
Blood. Death. Sacrifice.
He put the cups on the nighttable. When he sat on the edge of the bed and put his arm around her shoulders, she opened her eyes in sudden fright, stared at him for a moment, then closed her eyes in relief and curled against him like a trusting child.
For a moment, he hated himself.
Without opening her eyes, Grainne curled her body closer to him. He felt the pressure of her breast against his leg. She raised one hand and touched warm fingers to his lips.
“It’ll be all right,” she whispered. “We’ll make it all right.”
By the lonely standards of Doolin, the road to the town was crowded this Sunday morning. Each lane that fed into the road had its family, its pairs of husband and wife, its old men, all making their way to the church. It was still not raining, but the air itself was filled with moisture and fog crept across the fields and sneaked up to the edge of the road, venturing in places onto the open surface and making forays at their feet. A few muddy and bedraggled sheep stood with heads hung low, watching as the people of Doolin passed in the road.
There were fewer greetings among the people than usual, nods alone and a muttered word serving for acknowledgment. There were no inquiries about health, no comments on the weather. After the mutter and the nod, they walked along in silence toward the town and the church. Behind their feet, the fog followed them as close as it dared.
Jack and Grainne had left the car at home. They joined the people in the road and walked in equal silence.
Grainne turned the collar of her coat up higher around her neck against the chilling dampness of the air. She had one hand hooked through Jack’s arm, but after a while she withdrew it and stuffed it deep into a pocket for warmth. They walked close enough together so that their elbows brushed as they moved.
They saw the town and the church for the first time as they topped a rise in the road, then started down a long and winding incline. People were gathered already in front of the church. They stood in small dark knots, speaking quietly or not at all. A single cocker spaniel, its dirty blond hair looking wet and matted, wandered disconsolately among them.
As Jack and Grainne, with their fellow walkers in the road, drew close to the open space before the church, the heavy wooden doors were drawn back on creaking iron hinges and Father Malcolm Henning appeared on the step. The diffused gray daylight that lit the town was bright enough to make people squint, but the priest’s face was marked by deep lines and wrinkles—deeper, it seemed, than they’d been the night before—and not even the daylight could erase the shadows. He pushed the door all the way back, latched it in place, and stood aside to welcome his people into church. Slowly, the crowd stirred and began moving toward the door and filing inside.
As if by previous agreement, Jack and Grainne took places at the side, near the rear, where they could see everything that went on. Slowly, the church filled around them. After a few minutes, the temperature rose a little inside, but not enough to dispel the dampness from the stone of the floor and walls.
There were so many familiar faces, those of shopkeepers in the town, farmers seen occasionally on walks or drives through the hills, faces of women from the street of Doolin, Liam Nolan, Peggy Mullen and her two silent sons at either side of her, the old farmer, Willy Egan, who kept the beautiful horse, all the faces dark and devoid of expression, eyes fixed on the altar, waiting for the priest. Jack thought he’d seen all this before.
When the church was filled and only the shuffling of boots on the stone floor could be heard and the occasional dry cough, the doors at the back were closed suddenly with a creak of iron and wood and a hard thud. Jack turned to look back. John MacMahon was being assisted by his cronies into a seat in the last row that had obviously been saved for him. Father Henning stood watching until MacMahon was settled, then left them and walked briskly up the side aisle on the left, past Jack and Grainne, and disappeared through a doorway into the sacristy.
He reappeared on the altar a few minutes later, followed by two little boys in crisp white surplices. He genuflected stiffly, made the sign of the cross, and began the Mass.
Jack was not surprised that there was nothing unusual about the first part of the Mass. After all, there was only one way to say it; the great glory of the Church’s central ceremony and principal sacrifice was that it was the same all over the world. When it came time for the reading of the gospel, Father Henning spoke out the words clearly and nothing in his voice suggested anything out of the ordinary. But when the gospel was done, the priest stood looking out over the church in silence for a long time. His eyes seemed to sweep around the church, touching each face for at least a moment. Then he cleared his throat and began to speak.
“We’ll have no announcements this day,” he said. “It is my wish instead to draw the attention of our hearts and minds to thoughts of our dearly departed. I’ll ask you to stand now and join me in a special prayer for the repose of their souls.”
The people shuffled to their feet.
Although Father Henning intoned the prayers in the businesslike way of priests throughout the world, the congregation, Jack thought, gave the responses with unaccustomed fervor.
“May their souls,” the priest concluded, “and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God”—he lifted his eyes to the faces of the people watching him, and they all joined aloud in the final words—“rest in peace. Amen.”
And the priest stepped down from the pulpit, the altar boys joining him immediately, to resume the rest of the Mass.
Jack looked sideways at Grainne. She met his gaze briefly, then looked back at the altar.
When it came time for the consecration, Jack listened carefully as Father Henning held aloft first the sacred host, then the chalice, and intoned the words of the prayers. “This is the cup of my blood. Take and drink of it.” But he could find no special tone, no unusual inflection, in the priest’s voice.
It took a long time for the priest to distribute Holy Communion because nearly everyone in the church rose from their seats and lined up in the aisles to stand before him at the altar to receive the sacrament.
Jack debated going up himself. It was easy to tell himself that it couldn’t hurt; after all, he thought he could receive the sacrament properly even though he hadn’t been to confession in years. But a lifetime of training, ingrained from his youth, kept him in his seat. He was startled when Grainne suddenly leaned over and spoke to him.
“Can you make a good Act of Contrition?” she whispered.
Jack pressed his lips together and stared at his hands joined before him. It was really a theological debate with himself that he didn’t want to get into, especially just at the moment. Had he committed what he felt were any mortal sins? Did he even believe, honestly believe, in all that Catholic business of venial sins and mortal sins? Was making love with Grainne a sin? He shook his head. No, his thinking was very different now from the things he’d believed as a child. And even more different from the way it had been at the time he’d first arrived in Ireland.
“Sure,” he whispered back.
“Then let’s receive,” Grainne replied, barely moving her lips. “I think we should.” She lowered her head and closed her eyes, leaving him to make his own prayer for forgiveness of any sins he’d committed.
He did not believe that most of the things the Church taught were sins really were sins, but he privately assured God that he was sorry for anything he’d done that was offensive. To his surprise, he found that his thoughts were quite sincere, free of the mild cynicism that had marked his thinking on the subject of religion in his adult years.
They rose from their seats and joined the line in the side aisle. When they stood at last before Father Henning and the priest placed the host first on Grainne’s tongue, then on his own, Jack kept his eyes on the priest’s face. Not a flicker of expression showed there.
They returned to their seats with everyone else. Father Henning finished giving out Holy Communion, then went back to the altar, put the chalice back in the tabernacle, and quickly finished up the final prayers of the Mass.
Then he turned to face the congregation, his arms spread wide, palms turned outward, as if embracing them all.
“The Mass is ended,” he said, his head held high as his gaze swept over the people in the church.
He raised his right hand, thumb and first finger joined at the tips, the other fingers extended, and began the sign of the cross above their heads.
“In the name of the Father,” he said, and lowered his hand before him, “and of the Son,” and moved his hand first to his left, then his right, “and of the Holy Ghost,” and joined his hands softly before him. “Go in peace. Amen.”
As they did every Sunday after Mass, the people were lingering and gathering in small groups outside the church. Jack and Grainne stood with them and watched as John MacMahon was helped from the doorway by his cronies. The old fellow looked terrible, pale as death and his face drawn taut with pain. Several people moved close to him and quietly expressed their concern for his health. The old man nodded to each one but did not speak. It was hard to tell if he was even fully conscious of the people around him.
“Isn’t that the old form of the prayer?” Jack said softly to Grainne. “Shouldn’t it be ‘Holy Spirit’?”
“Yes,” she said.
Father Henning came to the door after a few minutes, wearing his dark raincoat. As he always did, he moved through the quiet crowd, speaking a word with this one, a few words with that one, touching a child gently on the head, gripping an elderly arm, passing slowly on to the next group, missing no one. When he came to where Jack and Grainne stood, they turned to meet him. He took their hands, first Grainne’s, then Jack’s, and pressed it tight between his own.
