What did I expect?
He knew it was a question he would return to many times and he doubted he would be able to answer it. It was not something he had explored in detail.
When he left the cottage three weeks later, he took the last four tins of fish and closed the door, the notice board still on it, the place neat behind him.
On the lake, the rhythmic splashing had grown louder.
He stared in the direction of the sound. Something dark within the mists there.
Out of the fog layer came a boat, a long double-oared craft with only one rower leaning back into the sweeps. The vessel glided through the oddly motionless mist, oars creaking faintly, a light plashing rhythm to match the strokes. Concentric ripples formed under the bow, spreading out at a sharp angle as the boat approached the reedy shore below John’s copse of Scots pines.
John stood entranced by the timeless feeling of the scene. The boat was a black thing with a hull that rippled against the water’s fabric as though it had always been there.
He could make out three shapes in the craft – something huddled in the bow and another mound in the stern. The rower wore black clothing. Even his hat was black.
John debated whether to break from his cover and run. What danger lay in that dark boat? He studied the oarsman. The hands on the oars were pale white against all of that black. The motions of the shoulders held his attention for a moment: muscular contractions of the shoulder blades as the man swept the oars back for each new stroke.
As the boat neared John’s side of the lake, it came to him that the blue object in the stern and the lumpy green darkness in the bow were other human forms. There were gray-clad legs poking from beneath the blue, a hand clutching a jacket hood over the head for protection from the cold mist. The pale blond head of a youth appeared suddenly from beneath the blue hood. Eyes of pale fawn-gold looked directly at John in the pine copse.
Should I run? John wondered. He did not know what held him here. The youth in the stern of that boat obviously had seen him, but the youth said nothing.
The boat slithered into the deep stretch of reeds at the shore. The green mound at the bow lifted, becoming a hatless man, long and shaggy blond hair, a narrow, almost effeminate face with pug nose and a sharp chin, a face dominated by light brown eyes. The brown eyes, when they focused on John, were like a physical impact. John stood frozen in his position within the pines. Not taking his attention from John, the man lifted a green cap into sight and pulled it over his hair. He then brought up a worn green packsack, which he slipped over his left shoulder by a single strap.
The oarsman had stood up and lifted an oar from its lock, using this as a pole to push against the bottom and thrust the boat through the reeds. The man in the bow said something over his shoulder to the oarsman, but the words were obscured by the noisy passage through the reeds. The boat rasped to a halt, on bottom almost half a length from the boggy turf that formed a strip between the pines and the reeds. At a motion from the man in the bow, the youth in the stern stood and stepped over the side, wading and pulling the boat to the turf shingle.
Now, the oarsman turned. John confronted a cadaverous face pale under a black felt hat. Wisps of black hair touched by gray poked from beneath the hat. The eyes were electric blue above a ship’s prow of a nose, a thin, almost lipless mouth and a stabbing thrust of chin with only the faintest of clefts above a reversed collar.
A priest! John thought, and he remembered the man with the knife at the clothing hut.
The priest steadied himself against a thwart, looked at John and asked: “And who might you be?”
The priest’s tone was sane, but so had been the manner of the cowled, monkish figure at the clothing hut.
“My name’s John O’Donnell,” John said.
The man in the bow nodded as though this conveyed important information. The priest merely pursed his thin lips. He said: “You’ve the sound of a Yank.”
John let this pass.
The youth waded to the bow and gave the boat an ineffectual tug.
“Leave be, boy,” the priest said.
“Who are you people?” John asked.
The priest glanced at his companion in the boat. “This is Joseph Herity, a wanderer like myself. The boy there… I don’t know if he has a name. He’ll not speak. The ones who gave him to me said he had vowed to remain silent until he rejoined his mother.”
Once more, the priest looked at John. “As for myself, I’m Father Michael Flannery of the Maynooth Fathers.”
Herity said: “Take off your hat, Father Michael, and show him the proof.”
“Be still,” Father Flannery said. He sounded frightened.
“Do it!” Herity ordered.
Slowly, the priest removed his hat, exposing the partly healed scar of an encircled cross on his forehead.
“Some blame the Church for our troubles,” Herity said. “They brand the ministers they allow to live – cross in a circle for the Catholics and a plain cross for the Prods. To tell ’em apart, you understand?”
“These are savage times,” Father Flannery said. “But our Savior suffered worse.” He replaced his hat, lifted a bulky blue knapsack from the bottom of the boat and stepped out into the reeds. Taking the boy’s hand, he waded ashore, sloshed through the boggy ground and stopped the two of them only a few paces from John.
Without turning, the priest asked: “Will you be coming with us, Mister Herity?”
“And why shouldn’t I be along with you?” Herity asked. “Such fine company.” He stepped out of the boat, splashed through the boggy ground and strode past the priest and boy. Stopping directly in front of John within the pine shadows, Herity studied John from shoes to headtop. Focusing at last on John’s eyes, he asked:
“What would a Yank be doing here?”
“I came to help,” John said.
“You’ve a cure for the plague, then?” Herity asked.
“No, but I’m a molecular biologist. There must be somewhere in Ireland where I can use my talents to help.”
“That’ll be the Lab at Killaloe,” Herity said.
“Is that far away?” John asked.
“You’re a long ways from the Lab now,” Herity said.
Father Flannery came up beside Herity. “Have done, Mister Herity! This man has exiled himself here out of goodness. Have you no appreciation for that?”
“Appreciation, he asks!” Herity chuckled.
John thought it was not a pleasant sound. This Herity had all the look and sound of a devious, dangerous man.
The priest turned almost away from John. Pointing a black-sleeved arm northward along the lake, one bony hand with all the fingers together in the old Irish fashion, he said: “The Lab is off there quite a ways, Mister O’Donnell.”
“Why don’t we tramp a ways with him to show our good hearts and our appreciation?” Herity asked. “Sure and he needs our help or he’ll go astray.” Herity shook his head mournfully. “We should be certain he’s not under a faery spell.”
Father Flannery glanced into the pines, then up to the road bordering the lake beyond the trees, back to the lake.
“It’s higher powers than ourselves ordering things now,” Herity said, a mock seriousness in his voice. “You said it yourself, Father Michael, last night when we found the curragh.” He looked at the boat. “Perhaps it’s a faery curragh brought here to help us to the Yank.”
John heard the McCarthy grandfather’s accent in Herity, but there was an undercurrent of spitefulness in it.
“Don’t trouble yourselves,” John said. “I’ll find my own way.”
“Ahhh, but it’s dangerous, a man alone out there,” Herity said. “Four together is safer. What say, Father Michael? Shouldn’t we be Christian gentlemen and see this fine Yank safely to the Lab?”
“He should know it’ll be no easy journey,” Father Michael said. “Months likely. All of it on foot, or I miss my guess.”
“But sure, Father, and the man who made ti
me made plenty of it. We can be Sweeneys together, tramping over the land, seeing the sorry sights of our poor Ireland. Ohh, and the Yank needs friendly native guides now.”
John sensed an argument between the two men, an undercurrent of vindictive humor in Herity. The boy stood head down through it all, apparently not caring.
When Father Michael did not respond, Herity said: “Well, then, I’ll guide the Yank myself, the good priest not being up to his Christian duty.” Herity turned slightly left toward the trace of trail that led out of the trees and up to the narrow road along the lake. “Let’s be going along, Yank.”
“The name is O’Donnell, John Garrech O’Donnell,” John said.
With elaborate courtesy, Herity said: “Ahhh, now, I meant no offense, Mister O’Donnell. Sure and O’Donnell is a grand name. I’ve known many an O’Donnell, and some as would never slit me throat in the dark of a night. Yank, now, that’s just a way of speaking.”
“Will y’ have done, Mister Herity?” Father Michael asked.
“But I’m just explaining to Mister O’Donnell,” Herity said. “We’d not want to offend him, now would we?” He turned back to John. “We’ve some other Yanks, so I’m told; some Frenchies and Canucks, a Brit or two, and even a Mexican contingent, they being caught when the warships came. But none, I think, so foolish as to come here afterwards. How did y’ get through the warships, Mister O’Donnell?”
“What else could they do, except kill me?” John asked.
“There’s that now,” Herity said. “It was a great risk you took.”
“There’re some in America want to help,” John said. And he wondered at this Herity. What was the man doing? There was too much being left unspoken here.
“To help,” Herity said. “To bring all the fair damsels back to life. Ahhh, now.”
“If only we could,” John said. “And all the women and children killed by the terrorist bombs, too.”
A look of black rage pressed over Herity’s face and was gone. He spoke pleasantly: “And what would you be knowing of such bombs, Mister O’Donnell?”
“What I read in the news,” John lied.
“The news!” Herity said. “That’s not the same as being in the presence of a real bomb.”
“This is not getting Mister O’Donnell to the Lab,” Father Michael said. “Shall we be on our way?”
“We!” Herity said. “The good Father is coming with us! How grand it’ll be, Mister O’Donnell, to tramp along in the safe keeping of God’s grace!”
Without replying, Father Michael strode around John and up the thin trail toward the road. The boy, clutching his blue jacket close in front, ran quickly to catch up, falling into step behind the priest.
“Come along, Mister O’Donnell,” Father Michael called without turning.
John turned his back on Herity and followed. He heard Herity striding along behind, closer than felt comfortable. But that priest would go to the Lab. John felt confident of this. He was going to be led right into the heart of the Irish effort to combat the plague!
For his part, Herity felt an immense dissatisfaction with the exchange between himself and this O’Donnell. The man could be just what he said he was. And what then? A bald-headed gawk who didn’t fit the O’Neill descriptions at all.
Herity cursed under his breath.
This assignment galled, and the worst of that was his knowledge that Kevin had intended it to gall. And saddling him with Father Michael at the last minute! And then the priest refusing to abandon that weak-faced boy! Useless little shagger! Everything about this mission was odious. Well, sooner started, sooner finished.
Herity, setting off after O’Donnell, pressed close behind, watching the man’s movements, the bunching of his shoulders under the thick woolen sweater.
He’s my onion, Herity thought. If he’s really O’Neill… Herity contemplated the project with a bit more good humor – verbally stripping away O’Donnell’s layers of concealment, getting the dry skin off the onion to find the sweet, tearful meat underneath.
Father Michael reached the road and helped the boy over the stone fence there. They paused to watch O’Donnell and Herity climb toward them.
That Herity was a bad one, Father Michael thought. On the edge of blasphemy every second. Always probing for weaknesses in everyone around him. Something vicious in Herity enjoyed pain. The Yank would not be safe alone with Herity. The powers in Dublin had been wise to fill out their party this way.
O’Donnell reached the road, breathing hard from the climb. Herity, right behind him, hesitated on the far side of the stone fence, looking back the way they had come.
Always watching his back trail, that Herity! Father Michael thought. Bad things back there.
Father Michael turned slightly and met O’Donnell’s gaze, a veiled and measuring look in the Yankee’s eyes. Could that truly be the Madman? He had a strange look about him, that for sure. Well, the powers in Dublin had made it plain that this was a question to be answered by Herity. They had said Father Michael was only to see that Herity gave no harm to O’Donnell. Father Michael did not ask: “Why me?” He knew.
Because Herity saved my life. We’re bound together, Herity and me, by the bond of shame. The powers in Dublin know what happened at Maynooth.
Slinging his pack over his shoulders, Father Michael set off northward along the road. He could hear Herity and O’Donnell coming along behind. The boy hurried up beside Father Michael and walked close to the priest, as though seeking protection there.
It’s your life, lad, Father Michael thought. And I wish you joy of it. But I do wish you’d speak.
Presently, Herity began singing “The Wearing of the Green.” The words echoed in the lake valley.
Herity had a fine voice, Father Michael thought, but his choice of song for this occasion… Father Michael shook his head in dismay.
There is no truth on earth that I fear to be known.
– Thomas Jefferson
FINTAN CRAIG DOHENY was more than five minutes into the private conversation with Kevin O’Donnell before realizing that his own life was on the line. Doheny had always known Kevin was a killer, but had thought the need for the Doheny medical expertise was protection enough.
Apparently not.
They had come together into one of the new cell-offices in Kilmainham Jail at Kevin’s request. Doheny did not like Kilmainham. Its choice as a central control point for Dublin Command had been a Finn Sadal move “for historic reasons.” The place repelled Doheny. Every time he walked across the inner court with its wire-guarded walkway all around, the giant curved skylight overhead, he thought of the men who had lived – or died – in the minuscule cells that ringed the area: Robert Emmet, Patrick McCann, Charles Parnell…
But Kilmainham Castle and the Royal Hospital were less than a block away and Doheny was forced to admit that the hospital facilities were excellent.
The meeting had begun calmly enough when they entered the cell-office shortly after breakfast. Kevin had received a “general circulation” report about the Killaloe Lab. When both of them were seated, a tiny desk and one light on it between them, Kevin said:
“Themselves say our only hope is the Lab.”
“If we ourselves are first to find the cure, the whole world must come to us,” Doheny said.
“The Lab, that’s not much hope after all this time,” Kevin said.
“We have as much chance at it as anyone.”
It was as though Kevin had not heard. “But we’re used to disappointments in Ireland. We’ve come to expect them.” He leaned back and stared at Doheny. “Anything else is the true unexpected.”
“That’s defeatist talk, Kevin. I tell you Adrian Peard is as fine a mind as I’ve ever met.”
Kevin opened a drawer of his desk, brought out a small Belgian automatic pistol and placed it on the desk near his right hand.
“I think often of that young medical student and his woman in that tank,” Kevin said. “Them holding each other in
the night while the rest of us go lonely to our beds.”
Doheny looked at the pistol, feeling a chill in his stomach. What was happening here? And what was this hypocritical talk about young Browder and Kate? It was common knowledge how the Beach Boys treated any surviving woman off the coffin ships. And the way Kevin’s people often killed outsiders driven ashore because of plague contamination. Hunting these “shore birds” was considered sport by the Finn Sadal. Then burning the poor fellows in the old Celtic way – confined in wicker baskets over flames! This Kevin O’Donnell was a cruel man and that pistol on the desk could not be an idle gesture.
“What’s on your mind, Kevin?” Doheny asked.
“I wonder who’ll be the last man in Ireland?” Kevin asked. “Some think it’ll be that wee wain in Athlone, the one taken alive from his dead mother. Where should I place my money, Fin?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. If I were you, I’d not bet. There’s still a few women around.”
“There’s those think it’ll be that boy being trained by the priests in Bantree,” Kevin said. “And then there’s ‘the Gypsy boy of Moern’ – himself already eight, but from a family where many lived past one hundred. Do you fancy him, Fin?”
“I’ve no concern except the plague,” Doheny said. “We’ve nothing before us but a desperate search for the cure. And Adrian Peard’s people are…”
“Then you don’t think it’s O’Neill himself out there with Herity and the priest?”
“I’ve doubts. And even if it is, how do we make him help us to a solution?”
“Oh, there’s ways, Fin. There’s ways.”
“O’Neill was in that Seattle-Tacoma area,” Doheny said. “And after the searchers left his house, they put the whole region to the Panic Fire. Not even a count of the bodies and no way to identify the dead.”
“Fin, I tell you all of this lovely island is one great coffin ship. And I’ve seen the proof of it.”
The White Plague Page 20
