Trinity

by Leon Uris

  One by one they left, all the lads who had an iota of spunk, unwilling to settle for the upper level of stagnation. Letters from Seamus O'Neill had been a conduit to the outside world, taunting him. He tried to keep the peace he bad found, but the life pattern warned him off. Those rows of half-tumbled shacks, the muddy streets, the desperation to avoid sinking, the despair that sapped any zest for life. He had become defeated by his own success and each new evidence of that success added weight to the millstone.

  Mick would have his go and perhaps return with enough reflected glory to fill him for a lifetime. Was Derry all of Ireland in reality? Was it the end of the line?

  He stopped for a moment and stared at the forge, all rebuilt in brick with a full load of work.

  "Is that you, Conor?" the apprentice boy on guard called.

  "Aye."

  "Ah, good you're here."

  As he entered, his sister ran into his arms and seized him. "It's Daddy!" she cried.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It was not only the smallness of Ballyutogue but the peeling off of all vestiges of past beauty. She had turned white-haired overnight, shoddy with age. Even the Protestant Township and their grand farms showed signs of erosion.

  Conor Larkin walked up from the diamond along his childhood path, hurt by the deceit of his memory. The national school was shuttered. Mr. Lambe's smithy was a third the size of his own and filled with cumbersome work and operated by a stranger who had come from over the water. The hanging tree was dying. Dooley McCluskey had aged so, he questioned Conor for several moments before recognizing him.

  Brigid had warned Conor to see Father Cluny before coming to their cottage and the priest told him to prepare for a drastic change in his father, then fetched a letter.

  "This came in response to a letter I wrote for Tomas last year. As you can see, it's taken several months for the round trip. A few days after I read this to him, he just collapsed in the fields."

  As Conor opened it, Father Cluny left the room.

  Christchurch, New Zealand

  May 3, 1898

  Daddy,

  It has taken a measure of time to answer your letter which arrived a number of months back because my nearest priest is in Christchurch a long ways from where I am. The priest writing this is Father Gionelli, who is Italian but Catholic and begs to apologize about his English which isn't perfect.

  I worked my passage on a big ranch near Dunedin. I thought I would be there for two years but Conor has been sending me money so I was able to pay my passage off early. I started saving right away. Things are different here because the government is after having good farmers and they are making good land available at low prices with loans. We told you it's different than at home. You don't believe it, do you? We not only have no landlords or estate agents, but no one has even heard of gombeen men except the Irish immigrants. People here are mostly British but they don't act like it because they are really nice. Them and the natives who are dark-colored people even get along all right.

  At the end of last season I was able to make a payment on some land and get a loan for the rest. I don't know if you'll believe this but the government even loaned me money to stock sheep. I know you won't believe this, but I've got six hundred acres and almost a thousand head. I've been able to build a small homestead, keep up with my payments, and I'll own my farm in just another eight years.

  Sometimes the land reminds me of Inishowen because it is so green, but the soil is better and there aren't so many people. There is a Catholic family about fifteen miles away. They are English, but good Catholics, and they've this one daughter named Mildred. I've been courting and I've spoken to her family. We are going to marry as soon as sheep shearing season is over. It's queer because even though it is May we're starting winter because) things are upside down. Mildred was educated by a convent in Auckland and when we marry she will write letters for me more oftener.

  I like to cried when I got your letter. I'm so thankful you wanted to give me the farm but I don't want to ever leave New Zealand.

  Tell Ma I say the rosary every night and also the angelus and when me and Mildred marry we'll have a Catholic home and she shouldn't worry after that. Say hello to all my old friends. Say a special hello to Brigid and Dary. I paid Conor back some of the money and will send him more after shearing season. Here is some money for you. You can change it for Irish money at the post office.

  Your son,

  Liam

  Tomas was in a deep sleep. Even preparing for the worst, Conor was shocked by what he saw. He embraced his father softly.

  Finola's old bachelor cousin, Rinty Doyle, had taken on as a hired hand and slept in the byre. Rinty said little, stayed out of everyone's way and seemed to echo a house about to fall. He saddled a horse for Conor, who rode off to the Township seeking Dr. Cruikshank.

  Diabetes, the doctor told him. The laboratory results were conclusively grim. The condition was apparently terminal, for no known medication could change the chemical balance that had been destroying his body. From what lan Cruikshank could piece together, Tomas had contracted the disease at least a year before and it was a miracle the man had not already fallen into a lethal coma.

  Tomas could be kept comfortable and alive, perhaps for years, but it would require sending him to a hospital in Derry and keeping him under close regimen. Thank God, Conor thought, there would be enough money between himself and Liam to see it through.

  "You have to know," Cruikshank said, "this disease is virtually incurable and the victim is wide open to infections his body is unable to combat. So far he's been adamant about leaving his home."

  "What will happen?" Conor asked.

  "The alternatives could be blindness, loss of limbs, heart and kidney disease. That is no way for Tomas Larkin to go. Get him to come to Derry."

  "I'll do what I can," Conor promised.

  *

  Rinty Doyle fixed a pot of tea while Conor sat by his father. Rinty was a peaceful little man willing to work for bed and board. He was in his fifties and still able to turn in a decent day's work, enough to keep things going with Brigid and Finola. Fergus and the other villagers saw to it that Tomas' fields were kept up. As Tomas stirred, Rinty slipped off.

  Tomas mumbled in his sleep. Conor turned his cover back as his father broke into a sweat. His arms were filled with boils and a rash and thinned for the loss of appetite, and his breath smelled of telltale acetone.

  "Conor?"

  "Aye, Daddy."

  "Is it truly you or am I in another of my fantasies?"

  "I'm here, Daddy."

  “My eyes are poorly. Give me your hand."

  The grip that was once all power was fragile. He ran his fingers over Conor's face. "How are things in Derry ?"

  "I'm faring well."

  "Did you ever hear about that letter I got from Liam?"

  "Aye."

  "Six hundred acres that boy has. Why, that's a barony. Isn't that something to sing a song about? And what a good brother you are helping him out . . . I'm always so thirsty. Would you be so kind?"

  He propped his father up. Tomas gagged from his attack on the water. "It's the sickness. My insides are fairly rusted from all this water I'm drinking." Tomas rallied minute by minute, forcing his eyes to see, and a smile returned to him again and again. "I guess you know Finola took in Rinty Doyle."

  "Aye."

  "He's a fair enough old crack but I never could figure for the life of me what manner of man would be content taking orders from a woman and sleep for the rest of his days in a byre. Ah, I should talk. Look at me. Living through the great hunger just to give in to a woman's sickness."

  "On with you. They'll be making hay in the new century and you'll be here to watch them."

  His eyes said to his son, "If I want to." After another drink he fought for his thoughts.

  "I saw something awful happening on the land before I was done in by this sickness. I saw a steam machine down in Ballyutogue being tested out by his lor
dship's people. Can you imagine a steam machine plowing fields? It was doing the work of twenty men and they say it will be able to do other things as well."

  "You'll never see the day a machine can dig a lazy bed," Conor comforted.

  "Aye, but a machine doing men's work. Maybe I'll be leaving this world in the nick of time. What does it really mean?"

  "Surely, I don't know the answer to that," Conor lied, for he and Andrew Ingram had talked of it by the hour.

  "I think I know," Tomas whispered. "It will be the end of us in time."

  "How can a man say that?"

  "How can a man say otherwise?" Tomas answered. "If a machine does the work of twenty, then nineteen must give up their farms and move into the city. Those who move to the city will not be making their own cloth as we do or building their own homes or growing their own food. They will have to buy everything, and in order to do so they will have to work in factories on other machines which make the things they have to buy. It's mind-bending, Conor, but machines on the land are our death knell. Everything we fought for out here will be gone. The machine will do what the famine and the British together weren't able to do. And the cities will grow bigger and uglier and dirtier."

  "You're talking too much, Daddy. You'll weary yourself."

  "I've been waiting to talk for three years and if I wait much longer it will have to take place in heaven. Conor, I've something very important to tell you."

  "What, Daddy?"

  "Father Cluny is a credibly pious man and spiritually adequate. He's become my best friend next to Fergus. Conor . . . Conor . . . I've taken absolution."

  "Are you sure, Daddy? Are you really sure?"

  "Aye. You see things differently at this end of the path."

  Conor stared about the wee bedroom of his birth and the birth of his brothers and sister. It was edged in growing darkness. He opened the window for a flight of air and the new lace curtains Finola had put up danced into the room.

  "Why, Daddy?"

  "I've not exactly told Father Cluny the truth," Tomas said. "He has to remain after me and I didn't want to add to his own burdens."

  "Why, Daddy?"

  "I owe it to my neighbors. We came into the world together and we lived together. There was some joy, but for those who remained we went from despair to despair. They're dying off, all of them. If I can show them now that I've seen God, then I'll leave them a legacy, something to hang onto. It might make things just a little easier for them to get through to the end . . . I can't leave them all alone without hope . . ."

  "I understand, Daddy, but look, man, you're not getting out of here so quick. I swear to that."

  "lan Cruikshank is a fine man, a fine man indeed, but he doesn't lie so well. And while we're at it, I'll not go to any hospital in Derry, thank you."

  "You've got to go."

  "I'll not go to any hospital in Derry, thank you."

  Conor gripped him. "I don't know what Cruikshank told you. You're not as sick as you think. You're sicker."

  "Jesus, lad, don't you think I know how sick I am?"

  "Then stop making so much fuss about it. I'll be in Derry with you and I'll see you every day."

  "That part of it's tempting, indeed."

  "Then you'll go?"

  "Ah, Conor, how could you wish your daddy to a dark hospital ward? I can't leave my land or my friends."

  "No, dammit, listen to me. If you don't come to Derry, do you know how it's going to end? You'll go in pieces, your eyes, your toes, your fingers, your heart. Is that what you want?" Conor trembled to choking as his voice gave way. "I'll not see that!"

  Tomas reached for him and smiled once more. "Look at us going around like a chicken who just laid an egg. You know I can't leave. You know that, don't you, lad?"

  "Aye," Conor wept, "I know."

  "Now then, that's settled. Will you be able to stay for a time?"

  "Yes, Daddy."

  Tomas said no more. He was at peace. He knew by strict orders of Dr. Cruikshank it would be fatal for him to drink alcohol. He would go into a coma from which there would be no mortal return. Tomas had kept a pint of poteen hidden under his mattress for such a possibility. He pondered about receiving absolution, then deliberately poisoning himself, for suicide was a grave sin. He reckoned he would be in purgatory for a long time and once there he could sort things out and argue his case. But he need not concern himself with that just now, for Conor was with him and would stay.

  *

  The days passed with Conor and Dary standing watch over Tomas and during those long hours Conor related to his brother the full story of their daddy and Kilty as well. Dary had long ago figured out why there had been a remoteness between himself and his father but he loved Tomas nonetheless and had always held himself accountable. For the moment there was a resurgence of the love and family strength that had once made the Larkins unique.

  At first Conor was distressed by Tomas' absolution. Then it softened. He had made the most intimate friendship with Father Pat and come to know other kinds of priests, Bogside priests, priests engaged in secret activities of the Gaelic League. A great deal of his resentment against the Church had modified. Father Cluny, in constant attendance and comfort to Tomas, added to the air of compromise. In the end, Conor accepted his father's wishes but likewise vowed it would never be for him.

  He was quick to grasp the undercurrent of struggle between Brigid and his mother, for the change in Finola had been nearly as dramatic as that in Tomas. She had completely given in to fears that the fairies had invaded Brigid's mind and were plotting day and night to steal her land and cast her out in the cold.

  During Tomas' waking hours he never failed to bring up the matter of getting Brigid and Myles McCracken out of Ballyutogue in order to settle his account for the misery he had brought on his children. Conor broached the subject with Father Cluny but the priest seemed vague, fearing he was in violation of confessional information and fearing a wrong decision, as well.

  Of a morning a fortnight after he arrived, Conor watched Brigid leave in the direction of the Norman keep, a rendezvous place over the bridge well known to him from his boyhood. He turned the watch over to Dary and made after her. Brigid was pacing nervously, awaiting the arrival of Myles, when Conor slipped across the bridge and made an unexpected appearance.

  "It's all right," he said.

  She looked about, a frightened deer, poised to break and run, and edged toward the bridge speeding her steps. Conor caught ahold of her midway over.

  "Calm yourself, girl. I want to help you. I want to help you and Myles together."

  “You can't just barge in once in three years and take over running everyone's life," she retorted.

  "We're still a family and you don't count time as minutes on a clock or miles of an ocean." Brigid tried to shove past him but he held fast.

  She wrung her hands, then sagged. "I'm daft. Haven’t you heard, I'm daft. The fairies have me."

  "It's Ma who's gone daft. She's trying to make you think you are. The reason you're so nervous and jumpy is because you've been denying yourself perfectly normal desires."

  "They're not normal!" she cried. "They're sinful and I'm being punished."

  Conor's modification of bitterness toward the Church reversed again to anger and outrage. He uttered a string of oaths, smashing his fist into an open hand, then grabbed his sobbing sister and shook her. "You're a normal, decent, wholesome human being with normal, decent, wholesome desires of any girl of twenty. You want to make love to your lad. You want to sleep beside him. There's nothing sinful about it!"

  "I can't listen to that!"

  Even weeping in the strong arms of her brother and wanting to believe in his words was unable to dent two decades of building the holy fortress that locks out reason and locks in guilt. At last her weeping subsided. "You don't think I'm mad, do you, Conor?"

  "I do not and you are not."

  She became tranquil, took his hand and they walked back over the bridge to
the big rock she had shared so many times with Myles.

  "Darling, you've got to stop playing this game with Ma. The way she is now, she wouldn't trade a thick penny for a thin one. You'll destroy yourself if you keep it up. For God's sake, is it Colm O'Neill who you want?"

  "I can't even stand the sight of Colm any more."

  "And why should you? You've a strong, handsome lad who loves you, Brigid, and that's worth more than a thousand acres of this rock pile. I want to bring the both of you down to Derry. I'll teach Myles blacksmithing."

  Brigid got away from her brother and shook her head no.

  "Why, why? What's to lose but a dirty game with an old woman who's gone daft?"

  "I hate Derry," she said. "The sun there has no warmth to it. It does not kiss you like the sun of Ballyutogue. When it's hot it burns the skin off your back and melts the gravy from you. The rain gives no after sweetness. You swog around like your feet are anchored in clay and the air hangs thick over Bogside like breathing in clouds of a dust storm. I'm afraid of Derry. I'm afraid of the bonfires and the drums over in Waterside and of the ugly brawling and men and women screaming at each other and their children covered with sores and the eternal sadness of it. Ah, you're meaning well enough, Conor, but that day will come when there will be no work for you or Myles and he'll stand against the wall and pitch pennies while I go up to the shirt factory or muck someone's toilet and the honor and manhood will fade from Myles's eyes."

  Conor flopped his arms. Oh, Lord, he cried to himself, oh, Lord, she is so right. He came up behind her, took her shoulders once more. "If it's land you must have, lass, there's all you want in New Zealand and Liam there to start the two of you out. But go from here while there's still a chance."

  "Nae, Conor. This farm might not have been good enough for the likes of you but it was good enough for three generations of Larkins and, by the holy Virgin, I'm as much a Larkin as any of us."

  He turned her around, cupped her face in his hands. "Would it be worth losing your lad?"

  "Why can't you understand that everyone in the world isn't like you, unafraid to go marching off into the dark unknown? I've not your head for learning, your charm for wooing or your strength. I'm a simple old thing. I love every corner of our cottage. It is my place. The world beyond Ballyutogue frightens me. I want to pull our cottage about me every night and wrap myself in it."