by Jeff Wheeler
“Saints preserve us,” breathed Katherine. “If it isn’t a very archangel. I didn’t know you could draw like that, Lizzie. Will you draw one for me?”
“Is that really like him?” Margaret asked rather too casually.
“To a certain degree,” answered Rose. “Lizzie cannot see him, so I had to describe him to her. It’s not an exact likeness, but it is close. The hair and the nose are right.”
“Closer than Sir Gawaine,” murmured Lizzie enigmatically.
“Tell us about when you see the vision of him, Rose,” Katherine said in eager tones.
Rose waxed reflective.
“Well, it is not often. Maybe once in six months. One time I saw him, and he was walking on a road. Another youth walked beside him. There was a strong resemblance between the two—it was his brother, I suppose. The evening was on them, and the trees drew in close on both sides of the road, dark and dreary, like a crowd of spectres. Out from the trees sprang a band of thieves. They set upon the pair with knives and cudgels. But he with the Face had a stout blackthorn stick in his hand, and the length of the staff was the height of his shoulder. His companion fought off one man, and by the time that man had upped and fled, having had it knocked into his head that he had met his match, the other four rogues were lying on the ground with the wits knocked out of theirs.”
The wind moaned about the Delacey cottage, plucking at the thatch. In the distance a dog barked.
“Sometimes,” said Rose, “I dream that I walk in some woodland and I see him coming to me through the trees. He leaps towards me and I run to him, but just before we meet I wake up.”
“That’s the way of all things grand,” Mary said briskly, over her shoulder. “One moment they’re right under your nose, the next they’ve been whipped away and you’re left with naught.” She began scrubbing at the crockery with unaccustomed vigour.
Margaret passed her hand over her eyes as though waking up.
“Mary,” she said, recollecting her self-imposed matriarchal role, “and Kitty and Lizzie—I’ll thank you to describe to no one else these revelations Rose has told us in confidence, lest you bring shame on our family, for they will think our sister mad or under a spell. Yet they are no more than the inventions of an immature and fanciful mind and nothing more should be made of them. Now I am going to bed. Good night.”
They bade her good night as she left the kitchen.
“Rose,” said Lizzie abruptly, “you ought to go to Ilvenna. Ask her if a man looking like that does exist, or if he ever did. Ask her if he lives as a true man or if he is a ghost, and if he lives, ask her where, and what is his name.”
“Oh yes,” urged Katherine, “you really should, Rose. You must. And what is his income,” she added.
“Well then,” said Rose, inspired afresh, “I shall.”
* * *
Rose wrapped her shawl close around her and went through the village, down the long, gentle stair of Whitethorn Hill. She was carrying a bundle under one arm. The low stone bothies scattered along the road up and down the hill were widely spaced, each on its few acres. They were thatched with heather and turf, the rooves held in place by a network of cordage and weighed down by large stones hanging from ropes around the eaves. Neatly cut oblongs of dry peat were stacked beside every house. She went past the Rafferty place, which was known as Rafferty’s Inn because its tenant ran a tavern and a wayside stop for travellers. Around at the side, a little girl was throwing out scraps for the chickens. She bobbed a curtsey to Rose, who smiled in acknowledgement.
The sky was overcast, and a metallic tang in the air threatened thunder. Rose could hear it dimly rumbling, away in the west, below the horizon, like a cauldron simmering. After she left the outskirts of the village, her feet passed amongst the patches of purple moor grass that the fishermen scythed and gathered to use in the weaving of nets. She skirted the hummocks of tufted hair grass called bull fronts. Several earthen holes indicated where some of the local men had recently been digging up the largest of these to make church hassocks. To the right, further up the vale, someone was driving a horse and cart along Valley Highway. The cart pulled off the road and began climbing along a side track. Northeast of Allanwell, the country rose to a jumble of wild, cloud-haunted hills, and this track led high amongst them. Rose guessed the driver was probably Flynn McGinty, judging by the direction he was taking, the number of large, lumpy sacks in the back of the cart, and the dog sitting on top of them.
Down along the floor of the vale, the ground was somewhat boggy, but by then Rose had reached a path. Narrow and meandering, it had been built up with stones and remained dry. The footpath intersected with Valley Highway, then descended rapidly towards a stone bridge crossing over the stream, before mounting the steep incline on the other side.
Wild-haired children were playing by the stream. One of them had made himself a whistle out of a dead-nettle stalk, and was piping an eerie and tuneless air. Others were hunting for frogs. Some were tossing tatie-craas high into the air and dancing about as they watched them come down. They had fashioned these toys from orb-like potatoes into which they stuck the points of three or four feathers from herring gulls or crows. Each time a tatie-craa fell out of the air, it twirled around very fast, making a loud whirring noise. Rose called out to the children and waved, and they returned her salute. She left behind the whirrings and the whistlings, the sudden shrieks of laughter, the chatter of water over pebbles, and the frog notes, and lifting her skirts to avoid stepping on the hems, she climbed towards the McGintys’ place where it nestled in its hollow beneath Madigan’s Leap.
* * *
The interior of the McGintys’ bothy was redolent with mingled scents of herbs and tallow and tanned leather. Through the open door at the rear could be glimpsed the narrow chamber that was Flynn’s workroom. Hides and thongs and implements of the cobbler’s trade depended from hooks hammered into the walls.
In the main room, bunches of dried leaves swung from the exposed roof beams; among them yarrow, wood sage, dandelion, mallow, lemon balm, and hart’s tongue fern. Some strings of onions dangled there also, and a small leg of ham the McGintys were saving for a special occasion. On top of the rafters sat a row of four hens, and a sheepdog was curled up under a settle. In the corner stood an old spinning wheel, its distaff wound with lint. A single rush-light like a yellow hound’s tooth burned in the centre of the table. The dancing flame duplicated itself in Ilvenna McGinty’s eyes and caressed the curves of her young face as she listened to Rose telling her story. Glows of soft light ran up and down the auburn filaments of her hair, strands of which were beginning to escape from the rather shapeless bonnet on her head. She was clad in drab woollen skirts, with a knitted shawl draped about her shoulders.
A goat’s head poked in at the window and emitted a rude bleat. Ilvenna stood up and flapped her pinafore at it. The head withdrew hurriedly and there was a scuffling sound of hoofs on stones as the goat moved away.
“Ma! Gallytrot’s after gettin’ into the garden again!” Ilvenna shouted out the back door. Then she came and seated herself at the table as before, opposite her visitor. “Sure,” she said, “ye’re axin’ a very barrelful o’ questions, Miss Rose. ’Tis more than a simple love-divination ye’re after.” She scratched her head thoughtfully. “I never did anyt’ing like this before.”
“I know it is a lot to ask,” said Rose. “But even if you could just find out whether he is real or not, that would be enough.”
“Would it?” Ilvenna fixed her eyes on Rose.
“Well, no,” Rose admitted, “but it would be better than nothing.”
Ilvenna scratched her head once more. “I’ll have to t’ink about this.”
“Would it help you to find him if I show you a picture that is almost his likeness?” asked Rose, fishing in her pocket for the piece of paper.
“A picture?” Ilvenna craned forward as Rose unrolled the sketch Lizzie had made. She studied it in silence. Presently she said, somewhat indis
tinctly, “Oh aye. Aye, it helps.” Fanning her suddenly flushed cheeks with her apron, she added, “’Tis terrible warm for this time o’ year, don’t ye t’ink?”
“And I can tell you more about the dreams,” said Rose helpfully.
“Go on.”
Beyond the window a goat bleated. There was a clang, as if someone had dropped a wooden pail with an iron handle, and an old woman’s voice shouted, “Get out of here, yer great baraille ramhar!”
The two girls in the bothy continued conversing, oblivious of these diversions.
“I dreamed that there was a band of tinkers,” said Rose, “and they were gathered in a lane deeply bordered with flowering hawthorn and elder. And they had a horse that was so old and worn-out that it had fallen to its knees and could not get up. But the tinkers were cursing the horse and whipping it, because they wanted it to get up and pull their wagon. The horse was incapable of moving, but they dug a hole beneath its ribs and lit a fire.”
“Sweet Jesus,” said Ilvenna, her face grey as ash.
“And then he was there,” said Rose, “and it was the wrath of Solomon coming down on the tinkers. First he stamped out the fire, kicking the flaming sticks into the faces of those who had lit it. Then he was on them like the Furies, knocking them this way and that with his staff, and although he was greatly outnumbered, they were caught off guard, and seeing the rage burning in his eyes, they must have thought him a madman. They ran off in fear for their lives, and when they were gone, he knelt down beside the poor old horse. He stroked its head and said something in its ear; softly, gently. Then he pulled out his knife and he did something very quick. I am not sure what he did, but from that very moment the horse was free from all suffering. My boy cleaned his knife on the grass and rose to his feet, casting one sad look at the dead beast. Then he glanced up and beheld me. He took one step towards me, but then I saw him and the flowery lane no more.”
With a swift movement, Ilvenna wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “’Tis a dramatic life he’s leadin’, this young man wit’ the Face,” she observed drily.
“Not so dramatic, I think,” replied Rose. “I have only told you some of the dreams that affected me most. But it is not all danger and fighting. There have been times when I’ve witnessed him playing a fast and furious game of hurling, and his team winning. And I have glimpsed him in a large and firelit room, surrounded by talk and song and laughter, he holding a tankard in his hand brimming with black stout.”
“And is it always in the nighttime you’re seein’ him?”
“No—sometimes I have seen him during my waking hours. A daydream, I suppose they call it. But when I lie in my bed at night,” Rose went on softly, “I have dreamed I am floating above his bed, looking down and watching him sleep. He opens his eyes and sees me. Then he smiles and reaches out. I reach too, but we can never quite touch each other, and after a while the dream fades.”
Ilvenna sniffed. “There’s much to be done,” she said, somewhat hoarsely, “if we are to find this lad.”
Rose began to put away Lizzie’s sketch.
“Wait!” Ilvenna said hastily. “Might I have just one more look?” She peered long and hungrily at the picture before returning it to Rose. “D’ye love him?” she asked abruptly.
A look of shock crossed Rose’s features. “I never thought about it,” she answered. “Honestly, I do not know! I only know he is always at the back of my mind. When I see a face that looks somewhat like his, a pang goes through my chest as though a dart has been shot into my heart and I feel compelled to stare at that face, scanning it over and over to detect the similarities and differences between it and the one I know so well. I catch myself searching for the Face around every corner, in every crowd. He has been part of my life ever since I can remember. But do I love him? If a fierce longing to touch someone is love, then I do. If a sense of terrible desolation every time the dreams are snatched away is love, then I do. If the certainty that he is part of you, like your own blood, and that he is necessary for life, like breathing—if that is love, then I do love him.”
“Right,” said Ilvenna. “That’s important, because we cannot do anything wit’ ye if ye don’t love him, whateffer.” She pushed her stool back, stood up, and paced the floor restlessly. “There’s many a way of divinin’ love,” she said, as if thinking aloud. “There’s ways o’ gettin’ a vision o’ your future husband, not that you’re needin’ any more visions. There’s ways o’ findin’ out the first letter o’ his name, ways o’ findin’ out what is his job o’ work—and if you already have a sweetheart, there’s ways o’ findin’ out whether he is faithful or whether he’ll leave ye for another. But there’s only one way I know to tell if your true love lives or not. And for that ye must wait till Midsummer’s Day.”
“I cannot wait any longer!” exclaimed Rose with impatience. “Can you not simply give me a way of getting some wishes so that I can wish for him to be here beside me?”
“No!” Ilvenna whirled on her heel. “Now listen to me, Miss Rose, you don’t go wishin’ for things like that, not until we know for sure if he’s livin’ or not. D’ye want to be haunted by a ghost for the rest o’ yer days?”
Rose smiled. “Yes. If it were he, yes.”
“Ach! Hold yer nonsense,” scoffed Ilvenna. “You do not know what ye’re sayin’. You must never speak lightly o’ such matters. Now Rose, if ye’re after bein’ foolish, I will not help you.”
“I’m sorry,” said Rose meekly, knowing that her friend meant to carry out her threat.
Ilvenna was mollified. “On Midsummer’s Eve,” she said, “you must pick two flowers o’ orpine. Name one of them Rose, and the other one, Rose’s Sweetheart. Stick them in two empty cotton reels and leave them beside your bed when you go to sleep. In the mornin’, look at them as soon as you waken. If the one that stands for your sweetheart has shrivelled and died, then you’ll know he is no livin’ man. If it has wilted and bends away from the other flower, you’ll know he lives but loves you not. If the two flowers are bent towards each other, then he lives and loves ye. But when ye’re pickin’ the flowers, ye must say the words ‘I will teach you,’ otherwise the whole t’ing will never work.”
As Ilvenna was speaking, Ma McGinty appeared outside the door. She kicked off her muddy wooden clogs and left them on the threshold, then came inside, stooping to avoid the low lintel. “Good mornin’ to you, Miss Rose,” she said, putting down a pail of water and wiping her large, ruddy hands on her apron. Her brow was shiny with perspiration, and her gown had been mended in many places.
“Good morning, Mrs. McGinty. I hope you’re well. I wish’t Mama had let us send for you or Ilvenna when she was ill abed with the consumption.”
Ma McGinty nodded understandingly. “There are folk that will never come to us. They have their reasons, so they do. We might have helped your ma wit’ dandelion roots and leaves of fairy thimble and mullein and yarrow—we might indeed. ’Tis a shame, and I’m sorry for ye.”
Rose indicated the wrapped bundle she had placed on the table. “I have brought the embroideries so that Flynn can take them with him on his next trip to market.”
Mrs. McGinty nodded dismissively. She said, “Just now I heard my daughter tellin’ ye how to find out if a man is livin’.”
“Yes,” said Rose.
“That should be worth a bit to ye, eh? More than a sack o’ meal. Maybe a haunch o’ mutton from one o’ the farms, or a flitch o’ bacon? For sure your da will be chancin’ on such pickings right easily, he bein’ the overseer and all. We’re savin’ the ham up there for Pentecost.” She poked her chin at the rafters overhead. “I cannot tell ye how long it is since I last tasted meat.”
“Ma, we have already agreed on the fee ...” Ilvenna’s voice trailed off.
Ma McGinty had always driven a keen bargain. It was only to be expected. She was accustomed to working hard for every mouthful of food, and she expected value for value. Planting work-roughened hands on her broad hips, she
stood looking at Rose. Her eyes were sunk between folds of freckled skin, and her once-copper hair was white as lightning. Somehow, she seemed a formidable adversary.
“Mrs. McGinty,” said Rose, calmly meeting her gaze, “if I can find out by Saint Valentine’s Day whether this man lives, I will bring you anything you want.”
“It cannot be done! It is impossible!” expostulated Ilvenna. “Anyway, why the haste, Miss Rose? You’ve waited all your life ...”
“Hush now,” her mother said firmly. “If that’s what Miss Rose wants, we can provide.”
She lowered herself onto a three-legged stool.
“But, Ma—”
“Sit you down, mo cailin, and you will be learnin’ something this morning,” said Ma McGinty, waving a hand at her daughter. Rolling her eyes towards the ceiling, Ilvenna acquiesced.
“Listen well, Miss Rose,” said Ma McGinty. “I have not taught this to Ilvenna because there’s a mite o’ peril in it, but not if you use the brains God gave you. This is what you must do ...”
* * *
John Delacey’s employers at Charter Hall must have been appreciative of his unstinting toil and dedication. On the same morning Rose was visiting the McGintys, Lady Westbourne sent down to the Delacey cottage a basketful of new peas that had been force raised in the glasshouse. Later that afternoon, Rose was sitting at the kitchen table with Mary, helping her strip the sweet green pearls out of their cradles.
“I do miss the vegetables grown out of season,” said Rose regretfully, splitting open a pea pod with her thumbnail. “I never understood how much we depended upon that hothouse until it was taken away from us.”
“Now you must keep a lookout for a cosh,” instructed Mary. “’Tis a shell containin’ nine peas, remember.”
“How did you find out about coshes, Mary?” asked Rose, as she slipped the contents of the pod into her own mouth.
“Sure, me ma told me,” said Mary. “It worked well enough for her.”
When they found a pod containing nine peas, Rose hung it from the head of a nail projecting from a ‘lucky’ horseshoe fastened over the front door. The door opened straight into the kitchen—there was no grand entrance hall, not like the mansion on the hill.
