by Sarah Rayne
“Yes. Oh yes.”
“Well, they were not Mutants, of course. No one knows quite what they were. Little by little, our ancestors pieced together the truth. As you heard our leader say tonight, they were brave people. Some of them must have gone through the Time Curtain.”
“And?”
“They brought back tales. Those who came back.”
Those who came back … There it was again, the chill suggestion that once beyond the Time Curtain, one might not be able to return. Flynn shivered, and went quickly to the built-in oak cupboard for the poteen. They’d have a pinch of spice in with it, to warm them.
“At length,” said Michael, taking the glass from Flynn and sipping it gratefully, “there was consternation. Our ancestors began to be worried by what they had found. There was too much to be done here; there was too much rebuilding of a world nearly destroyed to worry about other worlds. Mankind could not be allowed to escape to the past. The idea of guardians was put forward; people who owned Glowing Lands to be admitted to the truth, but no one else. Absolute secrecy to be demanded. And careful rumours to be spread that the Lands were dangerous.”
Flynn said softly, “Never build on Glowing Lands.”
“Yes.” Michael leaned back, savouring the warmth of the fire and of the wine. “It was decreed that the Secret was to be kept within the Keepers’ families — handed on to the eldest son when he reached the age of twenty. And the two laws: secrecy at all costs, and the promise never to go through the Time Curtain.” He looked at Flynn. “The penalty for breaking either law is death.”
“But why? Why is it so strictly forbidden? Could we not learn from these other worlds? Find out about our beginnings?” Once again, Michael heard the echo of his own self, twenty years earlier.
“The reason is twofold, Flynn. The first Keepers did not want people escaping their responsibilities here. It would have been a harsh, cold world then; even harsher to the Letheans who had lost everything.
“But there is also the undoubted fact that Time cannot be tampered with. The Time Curtain exists for a purpose. Think. If you or I or anyone went back into the past, think of what might happen. We would become involved; we would meddle, for mankind is an inquisitive species. Events that shaped our history might be altered. Supposing our ancestors were killed before they had founded our line … whole families might become unborn.
“And so the two laws were made. No journeys through the Time Curtain. And the knowledge to be guarded by the Keepers. It was not thought that the knowledge would have to be guarded for ever, anyway.
“The Glowing Lands are dimming, Flynn. The tears in the Time Curtain are healing. It may be that we shall only have to guard the secret for another generation or two. You may have to admit your son, as I admitted you tonight, but he may not have to admit his in turn. The Glowing Lands will cool and they will become one of our myths. Even so, the Keepers are strict. They brook no flouting of the laws.
“Anyone betraying the Secret, or attempting to go through the Curtain is put to death.”
*
Joanna could not believe it when her father took her into the small front parlour of the farmhouse, which was only used for special occasions and which smelt rather cold and stuffy, and asked her to sit down and then told her of the match arranged for her.
Muldooney! Brian Muldooney the pig farmer! Muldooney who was fat and oily. Joanna knew him — not very well — but she knew him. He was gross. His skin was coarse and it was pink like his pigs. He had small eyes and a tight small mouth. People said the eyes were the windows of the soul, that you could read a person’s character from his eyes, but Joanna thought that mouths were a much better indication. Muldooney’s mouth was tight and mean; it folded itself into a prim puckered line and looked as if it had never uttered a generous word in its life.
Flynn’s mouth … ah no, she must not think of Flynn.
“This is quite an honour,” said her father, watching her in what Joanna suddenly thought was a rather unpleasant way. A glittery, sly, sort of way. “Brian Muldooney is a very fine fellow, Joanna. You are very lucky.”
And Brian Muldooney’s farmlands are very extensive, which is even luckier … It would not do to say it, but Joanna thought it anyway.
She said slowly, “So you are going to conjoin me to Muldooney …”
“A very minor matter,” said her father, in what Joanna could not help thinking of as a rather too careful voice. “Over very quickly.”
And when it is over, I shall be left with a fat, oily pig farmer whose farmhouse is miles from anywhere, and miles from Flynn. I shall be without Flynn! thought Joanna in sudden panic. I can’t do it! I can’t!
“But,” said Joanna’s mother, when appealed to, “you will have your own household. You will like that.”
Joanna would not like it the smallest bit.
“Miles from anywhere,” said Aunt Briony, with that curious habit she sometimes had of picking up one’s thoughts. “Of course, it has to be …” She continued with her mending, not looking up. “Pigs,” she said, rather meaningfully.
“I don’t — oh I see. The smell.”
“The least of Joanna’s problems will be the smell of the pigs,” said Aunt Briony, biting off a length of cotton viciously, and Joanna thought: oh please don’t let her mention Flynn. I shall be all right if only she doesn’t mention Flynn.
“What about Flynn?” said Aunt Briony, and Joanna remembered that your wildest pleas were never really answered.
“What about him?” That was Joanna’s father, frowning at Aunt Briony, and drumming his fingers on the table in the way he did when anything displeased or discomfited him.
“Joanna was intended for Flynn.”
“Not really. Not seriously.”
“It’s a tradition,” said Aunt Briony. “John Grady, you’re a hard man.”
“It’s a matter of business.”
“You’re selling Joanna to a pig-man.”
“Joanna go to bed. This is not for your ears.”
It was the ritual that worried her most. She thought she could get used to living on Muldooney’s farm, because you could make even the most dismal of places quite comfortable if you put some thought into it. She could probably get used to the pigs as well. Pigs were pleasant creatures. Placid. And piglets were rather sweet. Also, you did not need to concentrate solely on them. She could have chickens which would run about the farmyard and cluck and produce nice golden eggs. There was an old Lethe dish in which you beat up the eggs with butter and milk over a slow heat. Delicious. Yes, she would certainly want to keep chickens.
But along with the made-comfortable farmhouse and the nice homely chickens and the eggs, would be Muldooney himself. And the ritual. And Flynn would be beyond her reach. He would only be a mile away to the east, but he would be as far from her as if he was on the other side of Ireland, or on the other side of the world, or on another world altogether.
Perhaps if she did not think about Flynn it would be all right. And to disobey her father was unthinkable (wasn’t it?). I shan’t think about Flynn, said Joanna firmly, but she did think about him. Aunt Briony was right, she had been intended for Flynn.
*
She was driven over to Muldooney’s farm by her father in the cart, with Bess jogging over the ruts and the potholes. In some places they had made good smooth roads, but the road that led to Muldooney’s farm had not been smoothed at all. Perhaps Muldooney had not thought it was necessary to make the road easier for his guests. Perhaps he did not have many guests. If this was the only road to his farm, Joanna was not surprised.
The outing was so that she and Muldooney could become better acquainted.
“And to see the house, of course,” said her mother, and Joanna caught a look between her mother and father, and felt excluded.
“The house is a fine place,” said her father, but as they approached it now, Joanna found that her heart was sinking. It was bleak. It was in the middle of nowhere, and it was bleak a
nd gaunt and comfortless. It did not look as if it would be as comfortable as the Grady house, which had been built by Joanna’s ancestors shortly after Devastation — Landgrabbers, said Flynn’s father — and which was square and large and modern. It was definitely not as nice as the O’Connor house which was very old.
“Pre-Devastation,” said Flynn, grinning. “Stone, you see. It stood up to the Apocalypse quite well. Or perhaps the Apocalypse never wanted it.”
Joanna loved the O’Connor farmhouse with its low ceilings and beams, and the huge fireplace and bright copper pans in the kitchen, which Flynn’s ancestors had buried in the garden when they knew the Apocalypse was coming.
“So that they could cook a meal when he had gone,” said Flynn solemnly. “My great-great — oh, several times great-grandmother was frying bacon and eggs as he disappeared over the horizon in a cloud of smoke.”
Muldooney’s farmhouse did not look as if anyone had ever done anything so homely as fry bacon and eggs there. It certainly did not look as if anyone made a joke or laughed in it. It looked what it was; a place where pigs were reared and where drab plain meals were cooked and eaten. You could not imagine people enjoying a glass of poteen, or gathering round the fire to tell stories, like they did at the O’Connor house when neighbours called at harvest time; or even having huge family gatherings like Joanna’s parents did, when the kitchen was filled with the scent of baking for days, and Joanna’s mother could not be appealed to on any subject that did not concern the preparation of food.
Still, they were made welcome enough by Muldooney, who had dignified the occasion by donning his best moleskin breeches and by having scrubbed his large face until it shone. They were given a glass of wine — “Just this once,” said John Grady, frowning slightly — and Joanna was taken to see the house by Muldooney himself.
“While your father takes a look at the yards,” said Muldooney looking at Joanna in a way that made her feel uncomfortable. She looked to her father for guidance and saw a look of — understanding was it? — pass between the two men, as if a question had been asked and answered. And so there was nothing to be done but to go with Muldooney and be shown the parlour, and the office where he saw to the ordering of stock and the selling of his pigs, and the rather cold scullery. And the bedrooms.
The bedrooms were cold and rather sparsely furnished — Muldooney had no time for prettifying, but Joanna would alter all that, wouldn’t she? He knew that ladies like to primp and fuss and prettify a room. Not that there was money to spare for unnecessary things, of course; she must not think him a wealthy man, for he was no such thing.
“This is our room,” said Muldooney, his face suddenly close to hers, his small brown eyes hot. They were pig’s eyes. Muldooney was a pig. Joanna would not be surprised to discover he had little pink trotters instead of feet. She would certainly not be surprised to find out that he grunted when he was asleep and snorted when he ate. Cold panic seized the pit of her stomach.
“We’ll be here together,” said Muldooney, his hands on her arms. “For the conjoining. Have they told you about that?”
Joanna was certainly not going to let him think she was ignorant. “Oh that. Oh, I know all about that.”
“Do you now? Do you indeed?” He was standing very close and he was fidgeting in an embarrassing fashion, and his eyes were glittering. Horrible man. She could not possibly live here in this cold, comfortless house with a man who grunted and snorted and glittered at her. She definitely could not go through with the conjoining … whatever it turned out to be.
“Will we have a bit of a taste of it, then?” said Muldooney, and quite suddenly, his hands were on her body, fumbling at buttons and fastenings, thrusting inside her gown until they found her breasts.
Joanna backed away, her eyes huge, crossing her hands over her breasts protectively. “Don’t —”
“Oh, ‘tis always done, and no harm in it — come on to the bed my pretty dear — oh, you shan’t escape me, never fear, my little dearie …”
It was dreadful. It was so dreadful that Joanna felt sick. He was pulling at her clothing and at his own; she did not dare look, it was quite unspeakably embarrassing.
“Let me go,” said Joanna furiously, but she said it in a low voice, because it was unthinkable to scream and bring her father running up the stairs. “Let me go!”
Her struggles seemed to make him even more determined.
He had her by the arms now, and he was pinning her down to the bed. His fingers were thick, repulsive, they were biting into her flesh. As if I am one of his pigs, thought Joanna. Dare I scream? Would Father hear?
Muldooney said softly, “For one who knows all about conjoining, you’re mighty reticent, my dearie. So you know what’s expected, do you?” He was pressing his warm fat body close to hers and Joanna bit back a shudder. “By the gods, if John Grady’s sold me damaged goods …” The small eyes bored into hers. “Was it the O’Connor boy? Did he put it to you, my pretty? Well now, you’ll see what a real man’s like … Wait, ‘til I show you.”
He was fumbling with his trouser fastenings, reaching inside and tugging at something. Joanna was horrified; she knew, of course, that men were different to women — “All to do with making babies,” her mother had said — but she had not been prepared for anything quite like this.
She had certainly not been prepared for this ugly swollen stalk of flesh protruding from Muldooney’s trousers, or for the leering of his sweaty, red face as he watched her.
“D’you see it then, my pretty dear? A grand sight, isn’t it? You’ll not find a better. I’ll wager the O’Connor boy never had a one like that now.”
“Let me go,” said Joanna again, torn between a wish to burst into tears, and another to bring her nails raking down across the face so close to hers.
“A foretaste of what you’ll be getting,” said Muldooney. And then, slyly, horribly intimate, “Y’can touch it, my dearie. Give me your hand — he likes being touched by a pretty lady’s hand.”
Joanna snatched her hand back as if it had been burnt, and scrambled from the bed, pulling the torn bodice of her gown about her.
“Well now,” said Muldooney softly, “well now, so the pretty little dear thinks herself too good for me, does she?” He moved across the bed, and Joanna thought wildly: he is ridiculous. He is comical. You could not be afraid of a man who lunged at you with his trousers wide open and that, that thing hanging and flopping. I am not afraid of him, said Joanna backing into a corner, looking about her for something to use as a weapon.
He grabbed her roughly, and half dragged, half threw her on to the bed. “So, the pretty dear would escape me, would she? Oh, that will never do, and me having paid your father what I did pay. An investment, my little one, that’s what you are. Any man who knows me, will tell you Muldooney makes the most of his investments. Did the O’Connor boy put it to you, then? Did he do this, and this …” His hands were pulling aside her gown, reaching up between her legs, probing, stroking, fingering. Joanna thought: I believe I am going to be sick. If he does not stop, I shall be sick in his face.
Muldooney was panting and grunting now, a slick of sweat on his face, his breath rather sour as he blew it into her face. “That’s more like it, isn’t it … oh my, you’re a soft tender little piece, aren’t you … oh my, I’m going to enjoy you —”
“Please — let me go …”
“In a minute, my dearie. I’m not done yet — Oh, Muldooney isn’t one of your two-minute merchants, as you’ll see — a proper man, Muldooney is. You just let me show you. You let me put him here where he wants to be …”
There was a sudden convulsive movement, and a snorting grunt, and something glutinous and warm spurted across Joanna’s thighs. Muldooney sagged across her, still half on top.
Joanna lay very still: I am not bearing any of this. It is dreadful. It is the most dreadful thing that has ever happened to me. I think I shall be sick. I think I might faint. Would it be better to faint and not know wh
at came next, or would it be worse? It would serve him right if I was sick all over him. What was it he did? It’s all over my legs. It’s disgusting. If he doesn’t move in a minute, I really will be sick.
Muldooney stirred. He sat up and pulled his trousers together, not looking at Joanna. His face was blotchy now, the redness fading in patches. When he was dressed he stumbled from the room, still not looking at her.
*
In the downstairs room, John Grady and Brian Muldooney looked at one another. There was no need for words, of course, between men it was understood what had happened. Decent men did not refer to such things. But John Grady knew that Muldooney had just done to Joanna what John himself did to Joanna’s mother from time to time. It was nothing to make a fuss over; men occasionally had the need to do it, rather in the way they needed to empty a full bladder, although not, of course, as often. Joanna’s mother was always very good about it, and Joanna would learn to be the same. She would have to, for the price Muldooney had paid was a good one, and John had no intention of returning any of it.
The women, of course, never knew about this side; they were flattered to think themselves sought; they were pleased to believe they had been requested for conjoining. There was no need for them to know about the purely business side; women did not understand these things, John had always known that. The Letheans had allowed women to meddle in business, and look what had happened to the Letheans.
Still, there was a code of good manners to be followed, and John Grady said, “Everything satisfactory?”
No man ever admitted to another that an excess of excitement or a lack of self-control had brought matters to a precipitate conclusion. Muldooney had his pride, and he thought: admit to John Grady that I shot my load before I got within sight of target! Not likely! And the girl would soon learn obedience, she could be taught her duty. He would rather enjoy doing that. He would certainly enjoy dismissing the woman who had cooked and cleaned for him in desultory fashion these last ten years. Joanna could do all that now, and a sight cheaper as well! Muldooney was very pleased with his bargain.
