Cast A Cold Eye, page 26
“You must fast today,” he said quietly. “Eat nothing at all. Stay in the house and wait for me. I’ll come for you when it’s time.”
And he moved away to take the hand of someone else.
They went home and waited, hardly speaking, just waiting.
Once, Grainne said, “I’ll make tea if you’d like,” then instantly added, “Oh, never mind then.”
Jack went back to looking out the window.
The sky brightened a bit toward midday, then slowly began darkening as the afternoon crept on.
After several hours of endless and fruitless attempts to read or listen to the radio, Grainne finally went off by herself. When Jack realized she wasn’t in the room, he went to look for her and found her asleep, stretched out across the bed.
He went back to the living room and looked once more out the window.
The little girl, pale and thin with daylight seeming to pass right through her body, was standing in the road, her deep dark eyes fixed steadfastly on his face.
He went back to the couch and, after a while, began to doze.
He only woke at the sound of the knocking on the door.
CHAPTER 17
It wasn’t Father Henning at the door.
Jack stood looking in surprise at Brian Flynn, James Brennan, and Martin Gilhooley. Whichever one had knocked had retreated from the steps and now stood side by side with the others on the wet gravel.
It was late in the afternoon, with little daylight left, only gray that would turn rapidly now to dark. Behind the three men, fog crept up the hill toward the house.
“We’ve come for the both of ye,” said Brian Flynn, and stood silently waiting.
No one spoke a word as Jack and Grainne walked with the three old men up the road and into the town, then through it and on up into the hills. All around them, night kept pace, following their footsteps, growing in strength and edging out the remnants of daylight. The fog followed them as well, sliding along at the edge of the road, creeping from rock to rock, gliding in wisps across the open spaces, hiding its face but staying with them all the way.
By the time they reached the shebeen on the hill that led to the graveyard, the dark was full upon them. The only light was the flickering yellow of a candle at the dirty window of the old stone cottage. The only sound, except for the wind that hummed just beside their shoulders, just behind their ears, was the hard crunch of gravel beneath their feet and the dry wheezing of the old fellows struggling up the hill.
There were no voices from inside. Whoever was there sat in silence. Brian Flynn rapped his knuckles twice at the door.
The door was pulled back by Father Henning. Brian Flynn nodded to Jack and Grainne, then stepped inside ahead of them.
“I’ve brung him,” he said to no one in particular, “and her as well.”
John MacMahon sat on the bench in the corner, held upright, to judge by his appearance, only by the angle of the two walls at his back. In the light of the guttering candle, his face looked to be more hollow than solid. His chest was sunk deep beneath his rounded shoulders. His hands, all knuckles and tendons, lay limp between his legs.
Besides the five new arrivals, the only other person present was Willy Egan. He was sitting awkwardly on the edge of the bench near John MacMahon. He glanced toward them and bobbed his head in brief greeting, but kept one thick hand on the old fellow’s knee.
“Well, that’s it, then,” Father Henning said. He was still standing near the door, his hand still on the latch. He moved to where he could look outside and stood for a moment, as if taking the measure of the darkness. Still holding the latch, he turned toward them and said, “It’s time now. We should be off.”
Brian Flynn, James Brennan, and Martin Gilhooley moved toward John MacMahon and began helping him to his feet. Willy Egan rose stiffly from the bench and walked outside without saying a word. In a moment, the sound of his footsteps was swallowed by the night.
“Father . . .” Jack said.
The priest shook his head. “You’re here now, lad, the both of you, and it’s all set in motion. You’ve come of your own free will, and that’s the main thing. It’s time to be getting on with what must be done, and you’ll not be backing out now.”
He stood aside while Brennan and Gilhooley supported John MacMahon through the doorway. The old fellow’s eyes were closed. His head lolled on his neck. The others followed them out, Father Henning staying at the back, as if to prevent Jack and Grainne from slipping away in the dark.
Outside, Willy Egan was waiting, holding the beautiful gray mare by a rope bridle and softly stroking her nose.
They started up the hill, Brennan and Gilhooley supporting John MacMahon between them, almost carrying him, with Brian Flynn staying as close as possible behind the old fellow. Then came Jack and Grainne, moving at the snail’s pace of the others, and behind them Willy Egan leading the mare and murmuring to her in the lilting liquid tones of the Irish language, and Father Henning following them all.
They moved with painful slowness up the hill. After a while, Brian Flynn moved out in front. He pulled from his jacket pocket a torch of dry twigs, lighted it with a match he scraped on his thumbnail, and held the flaring torch high to light their way.
The silent procession turned left at the break in the stone wall and moved even more slowly on the rough earth toward the graveyard. A minute later, more torches were seen burning brightly higher up the hill.
The mare snorted twice, loudly, and Willy Egan made his voice deeper and more soothing and after a bit she was still. Her hooves were almost silent now on the soft ground.
They passed the newest graves and moved higher up the hillside.
The entire town of Doolin, it seemed, everyone who had been in church that morning and every other time, was assembled on the hill, standing among the leaning stones. The light of torches gave the area a flickering brightness, but long dark shadows stretched away behind the circle of people and blended with the night.
When they reached the circle, the four old men moved slowly into the center. Jack felt a hand on his shoulder and turned his head to see Father Henning holding him back and shaking his head. Grainne pressed herself close, trembling cold fingers seeking his own. He clasped her hand tight and she squeezed back. Father Henning moved around them and stepped into the middle of the circle. Jack glanced back again. Willy Egan was holding the mare by her rope bridle, speaking softly to her, and patting her neck.
When Jack looked back at the circle, Father Henning was drawing a clear vial of what Jack thought must be holy water from an inside pocket of his coat. He removed the cap, wet his fingers, blessed himself with it, then carefully sprinkled it all around the circle, turning all the way as he did. Where the water landed on the ground, Jack saw, faint wisps of smoke rose up and drifted away. Either that, he thought, or the fog was just now reaching up the hill and that was what he was seeing.
He looked all around at the ring of silent faces and recognized every one, all the same faces he’d seen at Mass that morning, all the familiar faces he’d come to know in Doolin and some he’d only seen once or twice. Grainne’s arm was pressed tight against his, her hand frozen in his own with a grip so tight it hurt, and he realized he must be hurting her too. He eased his hold on her hand but instantly felt her clutching at him. He looked back at the priest in the middle of the circle.
Father Henning was turning toward the other side of the crowd and holding out his hand for someone to come forward. After a moment, Peggy Mullen, her lips pressed grimly together, her eyes staring almost sightlessly with fright, moved slowly toward the priest.
When she reached him, he took both her hands in his and murmured something to her. She nodded but said nothing. Then he led her the few steps to where the four old men stood. She took each of their hands in turn and held it for a moment. She had to reach for John MacMahon’s hand and lift it herself. Then the priest led her to where Jack and Grainne stood. Peggy Mullen raised her eyes to Grainne’s face and murmured, “God bless you,” and the priest led her back to the center.
From where she had stood on the other side of the circle, her elder son, Michael, came forward. He was carrying a stone bowl that appeared to be hugely heavy. He set it down at the priest’s feet and backed away a short distance.
The only comfort Jack had as he searched the faces of the circle was that everyone looked as frightened and horrified as he knew he did himself. But the priest had indicated he would have a special role in this ceremony. What? He closed his eyes for a moment and realized he’d been holding his breath.
Michael Mullen was coming toward him. As everyone watched, Mullen gripped his hand for a moment, then returned to his place.
Willy Egan led the mare into the circle. She was nervous, nostrils flaring and muscles rippling beneath her coat. The man never once stopped murmuring to her, crooning as he might to a babe. She almost gleamed like silver in the light of the torches.
Father Henning had a knife in his hand.
Jack squinted and moved a little to the side to see it better. Grainne jumped and moved with him.
It was not a knife but more like a surgical scalpel. The priest was lifting John MacMahon’s hand and gently placing the blade in it, holding it till the old fellow’s fingers curled and grasped it securely.
With the scalpel in his hand, John MacMahon seemed to come alive. His chest moved as he drew in a deep breath. His head came up, his eyes opened, and new strength seemed to fill his frail body. This was what he’d stayed alive for, willed himself to stay alive for one more time. He balanced himself carefully for a moment against the arms that supported him, then took a tentative step away from them by himself. The others stayed close, ready to help him if he faltered. He moved slowly toward the trembling animal.
“Oh, God,” Grainne breathed, but neither of them moved.
Father Henning sprinkled the last of the holy water on the mare, put the vial away in his pocket, then turned toward Jack and gestured for him to come forward.
His grip on Grainne’s hand was crushing and hers crushed his in return. But then, even if reluctantly, she loosed her hold and withdrew her hand. For a moment, as he stood alone facing the circle, Jack was conscious only of the pounding of his heart, the flickering of the torchlight, and the damp air that prickled the back of his neck. He took a step forward and moved into the open space of the circle.
Father Henning gripped his hand tightly, held it for a long moment, then placed it in John MacMahon’s free hand. Then he turned Jack gently, holding him by the elbow, and led him to greet in the same way the three other old men. When that was done, Jack found himself facing John MacMahon again.
The old fellow had to clear his throat painfully before he could speak. “God bless you,” he managed to say, his voice like the creak of an ancient tree before a battering wind.
“And you,” Jack murmured before he even realized he was speaking. The priest touched his shoulder gently as if in approbation.
John MacMahon fluttered a hand toward the bowl at his feet and Jack understood that he was to lift it. He swallowed, bent, touched the cold stone with his bare hands, gripped it. It was monstrously heavy but he lifted it, aware that every eye was watching and feeling, suddenly and surprisingly, that this was a terrible honor being bestowed on him. Brian Flynn was at his elbow, directing him where to stand. He was very near to Willy Egan and the mare.
Willy Egan held tight to the bridle, still whispering to the beast. John MacMahon came close to the animal and raised the blade near her neck.
Jack felt cold air chilling the sweat on his face. He swallowed again, hard, clamped his muscles in place to hold the bowl steady, and thought how none of this surprised him.
The other men, Brennan and Gilhooley, had moved to the far side of the mare. John MacMahon, his lips moving but making no sound, raised the blade and, with no obvious effort, slipped it into the animal’s throat. When he withdrew it, a fountain of blood, looking black, arced out. Brian Flynn nudged Jack’s elbow to get him in place but Jack needed no urging. The first blood spattered directly into the bowl, splashing up onto his hands and the front of his coat. Jack held his ground.
It took the mare a moment to realize she’d been cut, so easy was John MacMahon’s movement. Then suddenly she snorted, her eyes went wide and white, and she screamed in terror, tossed her head violently, and tried to back off. Willy Egan, Brennan and Gilhooley held on tight, keeping her in place as best they could, but keeping their eyes on the bowl Jack held. Jack had to follow a few steps to keep the flow striking the bowl. Some of the blood spilled over the sides and felt hot on his fingers.
Then it was full and he knew he should set it down on the ground. The instant he began to lower it, Willy Egan was applying a clip and bandage to the tiny slit in the animal’s neck and talking loudly to her, staying where she could see him with her left eye. The flow of blood stopped abruptly. The horse screamed once more, baring her yellowed teeth, but Egan and the others were already leading her away toward the trees through an opening people made in the circle. They heard her snorting and stamping and then the circle closed once more and all was silence.
Father Henning was holding a fresh scalpel. He gave it to John MacMahon and MacMahon turned toward Jack and held out his hand.
Jack thought he had never seen a face gentler, kinder, more loving, than that of John MacMahon. His fingers were sticky with blood, his clothing stained with it, but never in his life had he felt so firmly that he belonged exactly where he was, among these people whose blood flowed in his own veins and had flowed there all his life. He was no less frightened of the scene and the moment and the imminent letting of his own blood—John MacMahon was coming close to him, reaching for his arm, torchlight gleaming on the blade—but he felt the deep satisfaction of having a place at last, of having, at long last, come home.
He extended his left hand, palm upward, and pushed the sleeve of his coat back as far as it would go.
The old fellow gripped his arm and held it in place. The incision felt searingly hot but, strangely, hardly hurt at all. Jack clenched his teeth but the pain was infinitely less than he’d expected.
He watched his blood flow into the bowl, mixing with that of the horse. Then strong hands were grasping his arm, his wrist, his hand, stanching the flow of blood, cutting it off to nothing, and binding his arm in tight wrappings. He felt dizzy for a moment, felt his clothing thoroughly soaked with sweat, thought for a moment that he might either faint or vomit, but then his vision cleared and he was all right.
Father Henning moved him back a few steps. The three old men—Brian Flynn, James Brennan, Martin Gilhooley—each gave their blood in turn. There was little from each, but it was enough for the bowl to overflow and soak the earth around it. That seemed, Jack thought as he watched the earth grow dark and wet, to be part of the purpose.
The priest embraced John MacMahon briefly before the old fellow added his own blood to the bowl. The instant it appeared, Henning reached for his arm and cut off the flow. When his arm was wrapped, MacMahon swayed for a moment against the priest but straightened himself at once, his eyes bright, satisfied, relieved that he’d lived long enough for this.
Then he bent forward, slowly and stiffly but with determination, toward the brimming bowl and dipped his fingers into it. He straightened up a little and put the fingers in his mouth. Then he lowered his hand from his lips and turned to look at Jack.
Jack, not permitting himself to yield to his revulsion, knowing that he must not and did not want to, stepped forward and did the same. The blood tasted warm and salty, like the water of a summer ocean.
He had to swallow hard to get it down. It helped to know that this would be the last.
Father Henning guided him back to the circle, back to where Grainne stood, wide-eyed and shivering. She snatched at his hand, the one that was still sticky and wet with the traces of blood.
Together they watched the priest.
He dipped his own fingers into the bowl, lifted a dripping handful, and, still bent over it, scattered it on the ground in a wide arc. He did the same again, and again, and again, slowly turning in a full circle around the bowl, spreading the blood evenly over the soil of the graveyard, until he’d completed the circle.
Then he stood, wiped his fingers on a linen towel that Peggy Mullen came forward and handed him, and lowered his head in silent prayer.
All around the circle, others did the same until all stood with heads bowed low.
The circle of people stood silent among the graves. Near Jack’s feet, a stone, its inscription long ago blurred away by wind and rain, leaned over as if weary of its own weight. Jack opened his eyes and looked at the stone, trying not to see it, trying only to concentrate, but all he could think of was the sticky blood that joined his hand to Grainne’s and the metallic taste of it in his mouth. He closed his eyes again.
Beside him, Grainne jumped and gasped. Her hand moved in his. No, someone else was gripping his hand, pulling their fingers apart.
The pale little girl, as pale as mist itself or the spray of the sea, stood between them. He felt the weightless pressure of her thin body against his leg as she pushed gently between him and Grainne.
Grainne was watching her too. Their eyes met for a second and Jack knew that Grainne felt the same fear he felt, and the same calmness, the same sense of having come to the right place at last.
They opened their hands and the child edged easily between them. She reached up with both her hands and grasped theirs, joining them again through herself. Her fingers, little more than bone covered with skin, felt cold. Jack wrapped her hand in his large one to give it warmth. The child did not move, only looked up at his face and then at Grainne’s. Jack remembered the time he had sheltered her on the road in the rain. Poor thing. Her tiny fingers moved and squeezed his hand in return. She stood silently between them, content to touch their hands.
