The Crimson Heirlooms

by Hunter Dennis

  “To Athair’s astonishment, it was a piece of eight from 1537, clean and gleaming as if it were minted yesterday. He put it back between the placid doves, then moved away from the nest, and exited the fairy place.

  “Athair was darkly distracted. Thoughts ran through his mind: doves did not nest on the ground if there were trees or even shrubs nearby. Doves did not lay eggs when it was so cold. Cocks did not nest the chicks. Doves nested far closer to farmland. Doves did not sit quietly, as one inspected their nest. And then there was the coin. Ships of the Spanish Armada crashed up and down the coast of Tír Chonaill in 1588. It was possible to find a gleaming Spanish coin from 1537 sitting in a bird’s nest - but it was only God’s will that brought it there.

  “Athair Mac Giolla Eoin made his way toward the village of Ó Brollachain, lost in thought. We Ó Brollachain lived in the deep forest, where it was always cold, wet and dark. Where we lived was not always so, but we were now happiest in the cold and dark, and felt ill at ease in a place where the tree moss did not first catch the rain. We built our huts from daub and bricks, and our roofs from thatch. We lit fires under our clay floors on Winter nights. The paths were strewn with chips of white oak, which did not rot from wet, and kept the mud at bay. In a wide, wooded hollow, all sat outside amongst the huts waiting for Athair, holding quiet infants. Children of all ages stared out from the forest, preferring its freedom to the comfort of roofs. A wide pen of woven tree branches encircled the hollow, and chickens, goats, sheep, and pigs ran freely. They stayed to the forest fringes, away from the huts, to avoid the nips of the dogs, who were closer members of the clan.

  “Athair had been there before, many times, and the animals did not announce his presence as he came upon them. He had come because there had been no live births amongst the clan for six months, and Ingen, the scarlet-haired wife of the clan chief Eigneachan, was very pregnant indeed. He was there to bless her, and her unborn child, but he had other words to say.

  “The fairy places have been alive with messages from the Spiorad Naomh,’ he said, ‘God speaks to you of the cinniúint of your unborn daughter.’ Ingen made a ward against evil with her hands, but Athair would have none of it - ‘Do you ward off the spirit of God, woman? These are no signs under the strife of blackthorn. This is no work of the devil. I tell you your child needs no blessing. It is a girl. She will be born hale and whole, and none of you will live to see her death. What is more, that is only the beginning of God’s message to you.’

  “The clan was taken aback, but it was only the beginning. Athair raised his hands, ‘A chair fell, a magpie flew into my hut, salt spilled. I saw thirteen ravens in a field, silent as the grave. I saw a pool of dead Natterjack tadpoles, and they have never been seen outside Ciarraighe and Uí Ceinnsealaigh - this everyone knows. I saw a rúad fox next to an egg - uneaten. I saw a dove cock in a nest with a chick still in its shell, both between a coin of ancient gold. Three tuar omen I saw to warn me there was more to come. Four céalmhaine omen in the fairy places under Hawthorn bough to tell me what I needed know. The Spiorad Naomh has spoken. Your daughter will share the birthday of Christ, you will bear her on the day of Christ’s Mass. But that is not all she will share. Your daughter is blessed above all to share in the sufferings of Íosa Críost.’

  “The men and women of Ó Brollachain were shaking, white as ghosts. The children had run off into the forest, and their parents would be lucky to see them in a week. Ingen put a hand on her unborn child to steady herself, ‘Tell me of her, of this doom of cinniúint.’

  “And Athair spoke dire words, ‘She will suffer and even the sun in the sky will be her torment. The days of the Gael of Ards are numbered. But she does not bring the end. She is no drochthuar harbinger of doom. She is the gift that God brings to his people, and that will be her name. Her children and her children’s children will have the destiny of those in greater places – but now dark clouds come across the sea. As the children of God have their scripture, now will come the anti-scripture. Now will come the Logos of the devil. His words will burn on the earth. The sundered children-to-be of Ó Brollachain will suffer. Their lands will suffer. They will see the evil of Cain, see what cannot be unseen, hear what cannot be unheard - until their eyes turn to coals in their sockets. But all is in God’s plan, though his finger points to the road of pain, where Críost stumbled to his death in Jerusalem. Wisdom and salvation will come to all future hearts where flows the blood of the Ó Brollachain of Ards, even those who perish untimely by the hand of man. And to those who survive, those few who walk through the fire burned but breathing still, they will come upon great power, the wealth of ages, and perform a great healing for God. Here and elsewhere. And Críost’s true plan will be revealed.’

  “Ingen rubbed the girl in her womb and spoke, ‘So you are named. You are God’s gift, daughter of Ards. You are called Seonaidh. Seonaidh Iníongael Ó Brollachain. Gift of God, daughter of the Gael, of our clan.”

  And suddenly, the incredible story over, they were abruptly back in a cell in Londonderry.

  The man fell silent for a long moment. His eyes finally came up and met those of Jake, “I am not surprised, young master, at your inquiry, because Athair’s words came to life, at least all of them I was party to see.”

  If Jake did not know better, he would have thought the man’s tale was scripted by Monsieur Tyran. In the story, the priest’s words could describe the two Heirlooms with only a slight reach – the words of the devil, and the treasure of ages, came to mind.

  The priest had spoken of anti-scripture, the Logos of the devil. Logos was an interesting word. It came from the Greek, was used in the New Testament, with no word in French or English to completely satisfy its meaning. It meant reason, proportion, discourse – but also expectation, word, speech, account, ground and plea. Philosophers began to hang mighty weights upon it, five-hundred years before Christ. It came to mean the principle of order – the logic behind an argument, the premise. The Greek Christians added more: an embodiment of universal meaning, the principle of divine reason. Christ was logos – the living word, the embodiment of the ultimate message, which was, precisely, the explanation of the purpose behind all creation.

  So, what was anti-scripture, the logos of the devil?

  Action based upon emotion, chaos of form, enforced silence to stifle communication, disbelief. Illogical fanaticism, the ultimate lie, the opaquest obfuscation of purpose and knowledge.

  The Logos of the devil was indeed the devil’s song. But Jake was no closer to the lyrics, and this song was sung nowhere near the Vendée.

  Jake looked up, and saw that the man had tears running down his face, but he was lit with a smile. Jake was struck, and said nothing for a time. Finally, he spoke, “There is a necklace, called the Cross of Nantes. It is of inconceivable value. It could properly be called the wealth of ages.”

  “It came into her possession.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you seek this thing? Is that why you speak to me?”

  “Yes, amongst other things I seek.”

  “Then I would tell you this: whoever now has this treasure also has the blood of Ó Brollachain running through their veins, for that was the revealed will of God.”

  “Why has your mood changed so suddenly?”

  “Because, young master, I know that you were sent here for a purpose.”

  “Why do you think this?”

  But the man left for another world once again, “I was five Summers, when Seonaidh Iníongael Ó Brollachain was eleven, and she was as dark as her mother was fair. Seonaidh knew the forest; she loved her home, and was as much a part of it as the branch moss. It was her kin who vexed Seonaidh. We called her Míthuar or Drochthuar. Both meant the same; a person of ill-omen and evil foreboding. But Drochthuar was worse, it meant more magic was involved. Our parents called her Brocóg. There were fifty words to call a girl in our language. Brocóg meant dirty-faced girl. Sometimes they called her Brocóg-Drochthuar behind her back. It made Seo
naidh feel humiliated and embarrassed to be called such things. She felt she was different, in a place where she should have had the comfort of being the same, insulted where she should have been embraced. But her second cousin was in love with her, and she with him, though both were too young to realize it. He was thirteen, Ruairí was his name, and he fought for her true name. I think they would have been happy forevermore together, had not the Béarla come. It was they, those two, who spotted the hunters, and had the village looking for their missing children and livestock.”

  The man did not speak for a moment. When he continued, there was true sadness in his voice, “We did not expect the Béarla to come from the sea. There were but pregnant women and children in the village. I was there, being but wee. All of us ran, in a panic. I came upon Seonaidh and Ruairí, who had surprised Athair Mac Giolla Eoin, as he entered the forest. He told them what I knew already, that the herring fisherman had seen the huge ships of the Béarla unloading soldiers all morning. He sent Ruairí to tell Eigneachan. When he was gone, he told Seonaidh it was too late for the village, that the men from the boats must be already to their homes, which I knew to be true. She screamed and cried, ‘No! My Mam is back home with the wee twins!’ He tried to explain there was nothing she could do to help, that she had to save herself, and go with him to safety - but she would have none of it. ’You are the one,’ she said. ‘You named me drochthuar before even I was born.’ He begged and pleaded with her, said he named her gift of God, named her Seonaidh, and anyone who called her drochthuar betrayed the Spiorad Naomh. But she was angry. ‘You turned everyone against me,’ she said, ‘Everyone looked upon me as if I was painted the devil’s scarlet from head to toe. Ruairí was my only friend, and you just sent him away! You are my curse, priest! I call you Athair no more!’ And she turned and ran like the wind, straight off the path into the forest. There was no way for him to follow, much less catch her. He called out her name, but she did not stop. It was then when I came out of hiding, and spoke to him. I said I would go with him, and I did.”

  After a long moment, he spoke again, “All of them died, except her – but she was shipped off in chains to Montserrat. I was then drochthuar - the unwanted, the pest, the extra mouth to feed with no kith or kine. I left for the city soon enough, and have been useless to man ever since. I do not know why I am still alive. The bottle should have killed me dead long ago. I suppose now I know why I lived.”

  The man did not elaborate, but Jake wanted to know. “Why?”

  “Because I was to meet you, and you were to meet me.”

  “But why, sir?”

  The man teared again, but with sadness, remorse, and shame, “I left my mother and father to die. I left all my family, my friends, and my home out of fear. I should have fought and died with them, however young I was. I am a shameful coward. I have disgraced my clan, and my line. I am a blackheart. How can God ever smile upon the likes of me?”

  Jake felt as if he had a tremendous responsibility to this man. He wasn’t sure why. Somehow the man’s words had connected them together. He spoke without thinking, “Because you are forgiven.”

  The man nodded, then moved from a sit. He laid flat on the floor of his cell, as if it were a bed, and closed his eyes.

  Jake stood, and walked out. He had no recollection of interacting with the jailors, as he had to in order to leave the cellblock, but found himself outside.

  He collapsed to his knees and wept, and did not know why.

  Xavier, 1788

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Xavier had more time on his hands. He had finally read Confessions, the book Bonchamps had given him, as well as the Constitution of the United States. He wished he hadn’t read either.

  The Freemasons of Nantes had just inducted the painter Jacques-Louis David into their ranks and, as Xavier sat in a cushioned Sené bergère in the lounge, they were giddy and chatty over the import of the event. David himself was surrounded by brethren, like a prima donna after an opera. Xavier could plainly hear his voice, “Ertes’ome. Terbalues er’ome. Terrat’n’philosophy cassahadow’n eberting.” David was getting more and more difficult to understand. As a youth, he had been accidentally slashed in the mouth during sword practice. He had developed a tumor, and it seemed to have grown larger. As a result, conversing with him was arduous. Xavier had no desire to socialize with him tonight. He was always drained after the meetings, especially this one, and the idea of bringing David home and listening to his castrated warbling seemed unbearable.

  But David was his guest. It was a long story - of his mother, actually. Even when she could not afford to do so, Phillipa made overtures to the talented, up-and-coming painters of Paris, because that is what the matrons of Traversier did. As a result, several artists had been brought to Nantes, and feted at the Château Meilleur. David was one of these painters, but his status had changed considerably. Art was currently defined by the Rococo style: whimsical, ethereal, and overly-stylized. Paintings were full of chubby angels descending from billowing clouds, to figures in billowing blouses - and billowing bosoms. David eschewed it all, and became a modern Roman painter - blunt, historical, allegorical and deadly-serious. This Neoclassical style was a lit keg of powder in the basement of the artistic establishment.

  It was perhaps the humiliating defeat of the Seven Years War, when the nation had to admit she had been eclipsed, when the memory of Rome began to figure heavily upon the French mind. Roman virtue was represented by the fasces - a simple bundle of sticks. Each of the rods was easily broken alone, but tied together they were adamantine. Fascism was the concept of civic-minded, virtuous citizens coming together as human fasces, and undertaking the responsibility for upholding the state. This was now a French ideal.

  Perhaps it was inevitable.

  Since the Renaissance, Roman virtues had been taught more than Christian values, Roman history more than French. Even after avenging themselves upon the British, the French spirit longed for Fascism, for national greatness and virtue. The standard by which France judged itself was now the brilliance of Republican Rome. When modern Kings, nobles, and clergy failed to live up to her imagined splendor, there was disquietude. Had David not been, he would have been invented. Fascism and Rousseauian Socialism dove-tailed nicely in the mind of the Freemason. When David, painter of the New Rome, returned to the Meilleur for the second time, he was an international celebrity. Everyone in the city knew David had come to Nantes. Everyone knew he was staying at the Château Meilleur.

  L’Oublié quietly moved to Xavier and gave him a snifter of eau de vie, and then left him with his thoughts. It would probably take an hour of quiet, and several more refills, before his mind slowed enough to entertain the notion of sleep.

  The meeting had been an unmitigated disaster.

  After the rites and during dinner, Chapelle, the lawyer, was speaking of America, “The doughty Americans are now ratifying their new, hard-earned Constitution. Thousands of French soldiers, marines and sailors, from every level of society, have returned - besotted with American virtues and dreams of freedom. The American revolution has inspired the nation as no other event in history. In many ways, philosophically and militarily, we are the proud parent of the American newborn.”

  Cœurfroid interjected, “If they are our children, they are as recalcitrant as my own. They made peace with the British behind our back. We received nothing for our trouble but mountains of debt.”

  A notary named De Heulee spoke, “And we are now continually reminded of the incompetence of our government, as they fail again and again to bring sanity and balance to the national finances.”

  Francois-Pierre Blin, a medical doctor. grimly interjected, “We went to war for vengeance, and thought of nothing else. We achieved it. We humbled Britannia, on land, and even mostly on the sea. There is no cost for the return of honor, brothers. No price for the return of face.”

  Xavier thought that was a contradictory thing for a doctor to say, but it was the times.

  �
�The King must call the Estates-General. Then we will be given political power,” said a young voice. The trader, Julien Videment, perhaps.

  The Estates General could override the blocking mechanisms of the nobles, such as their regional Parlement courts. The idea of France being composed of the three estates, however, was laughably out of date. Most of the nobles - the greater portion - came from wealthy bourgeois families who had simply bought their titles. The clergy was hopelessly divided. Some were actual religious servants, and others were scions of noble houses who were getting a salary and didn’t even necessarily believe in God. The idea of a commoner estate was even more riotous. The vast majority of the people, and an increasing percentage of her wealth, was common. France was a commoner state.

  Guillaume Bouteiller, an elderly and well-loved retired merchant, spoke loudly due to his deafness, “Wait - what? Aren’t we getting ahead of ourselves? What of the Constitution of which you speak? Who has read the damn thing?”

  Xavier spoke, “I have.”

  He came to regret those words.

  Jérôme Charles Olivier raised his glass, “Of course you have, Brother.”

  Xavier smiled and raised his glass.

  Bouteiller pounded the table, “Well, stand up. Let’s hear it!”

  There were cheers of, “America!” “The Constitution!” Xavier stood, and everyone pounded on the tabletop.

  Xavier waved them down. “Brothers, the Declaration of Independence, although penned by Franklin, Adams, and Jefferson, could have been written by Rousseau himself.”

  “Vive Rousseau!” said a voice, then laughter.

  Xavier continued, “It followed that their new political system would in fact reflect his philosophies.”