“Yes,” said Kitty, still quiet. “Of course.”
“Thanks.” He started toward the stair but stopped. Without turning around, he said, “What you don’t know, either of you, about why you were setting off the gunpowder is this. Mr. Sweeney, you love Brid. But you love your wife more. And so Brid, a ghost, must be let free, only this time not to her death, but to her rest. For love of your wife.”
Peter seemed about to take another step but said instead, “And Mrs. Swee—Miss McCloud, you love your handsome Taddy, and there’s no one should blame you, the same as no one should blame Mr. Sweeney. Brid’s that beautiful and Taddy the most handsome. And they have all their sorrows, too. You shouldn’t even blame each other. These are things people sometimes can’t decide for themselves. But much as you love Taddy, you love your husband more. And that’s why Taddy’s ghost must also be freed. For love of your husband.”
Kitty raised her head. “You’ve told me what I’d never intended to tell. It was in my thoughts at the feast when I was with your mother. She knew what I was thinking. And so she told you.”
“Oh, no,” said Peter. “I know this only now, here, with the two of you.” Again he seemed about to move but chose to speak again. “And if there’s more I ever know, would you want me to tell it?”
Kieran, his voice kind and quiet, said, “No. You’ve said what had to be said. For both of us. We need hear no more.” Peter nodded, then continued toward the stairs.
His foot on the top step, he stopped once more. “Your truck is down there across the pasture and beyond the next field. If you’re going back to the feasting, may I have a ride? I really would like more of that pig. I don’t know how, but it’s the best ever.”
At that the harp was sounded and, above its thrumming sound, the creak of the treadle and the whisperings of the loom. When Peter received no answer to his question, he waited as both Kitty and Kieran raised their heads to listen. Plaintive was the melody rising into the evening air, steady and measured the sound of the loom. They listened, then Kieran nodded, letting Peter know they would follow.
Down the stairs they went. Peter passed the loom, the harp, seeing nothing, and continued on his way. Kieran and Kitty stopped to watch, to listen again. Streaks of red and gold slashed across the western sky, seen through the window, the hills darkening and the sound of the sea and the revelers’ cries coming more clearly through the evening air.
Kitty retrieved her device, wrapping the wires around it. Kieran lifted his from under the stool and put it into the crook of his arm. They both looked toward Brid. There, as she worked the treadle and moved the shuttle through the taut threads, a rich cloth of many colors appeared, spreading itself out along the length of the frame. They could do no more than stare. To them both it was as if Brid were weaving a great cloak, the patterns of which would hold, in their warp and in their woof, the long story of the land and all the souls gone on before, their sorrows and their griefs. And it was given to Taddy to set the harp to singing, the plucked, strummed strings sending forth the plangent song that told of love and loss and the sad yearnings that reach out past the ends of the bent world.
And it came to Kitty and to Kieran that here they would live out their lives—here in the castle—haunted, each of them, by the ghost of a lost and impossible love. Sorrow would be with them always, and with it the remnant of an ancient guilt. And this would be companion to their love for each other.
Clutching the devices that were to have brought the castle down, they followed after Peter, crossing the great hall, treading on gunpowder, holding even closer to themselves the means to set it alight. Out in the courtyard, they went to the farthest shed and thrust deep into the pile of accumulated discards left behind by the departed squatters the implements for which they had no further use, planting even deeper the Internet text and the Texas catalogue with their deadly but now unneeded knowledge.
Kitty and Kieran danced the night away, and their guests danced, too. “Dingle Regatta,” “I Wish I had a Kerry Cow,” and, of course, “Sweeney Polka.” They wheeled around, they changed partners, then went from one figure to another, clapping, slapping their feet, whirling and twirling until it seemed no combination had been left untried. They had journeyed through the labyrinth and emerged exhilarated.
Inspired by the rising moon, the musicians excited each other to greater and greater energy. The Guinness was gone, but enough Tullamore Dew remained for one final sip before the night was over. The spitted pig was left with only its head, which Kieran spirited away for decent burial. Even the pot of nettle soup had been emptied and the bread eaten to the last crumb.
To the battlements Kitty and Kieran went to watch the sun come over the eastern hills. Silver, then golden came the light. The dark pastures could now be seen, the green beginning to show itself little by little as they watched. The sea was already awake, slurping against the indifferent scree.
Brid was seen in the distance with Taddy behind, moving toward the orchard through the morning mist, and after them, the pig, unjustly slain, its presence no more, no less ghostly than theirs, trotting, snuffling, lifting its snout to catch the first breeze of the new morning. “The pig,” Kieran whispered. Kitty, her own voice hushed, repeated the words, “The pig.” She paused, then said, “Will we ever know where it really came from? And what it meant?”
“No,” said Kieran. “We won’t. Nor should we. Not everything has to be explained. Some things are better left to the unknown.”
Kitty gave a single nod of agreement. With no more words spoken, and no prior agreement needed, wife and husband lay down alongside the crude battlements, each in the other’s arms. Before the sun had fully risen they had become—not for the first time and not for the last—the envy of angels.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First, the author must thank Noelle Campbell-Sharpe and her Cill Rialaig Project, in County Kerry, for his cottage stays on the cliffs above Ballinskeligs that gave added inspiration to this work.
Both Yaddo and the MacDowell Colony also provided the author with generous hospitality, and he is most grateful. He also thanks Catherine, Mary, and Eileen Clarke, as well as their friends Doreen and Harry Naughton, for the muchneeded information about their native Ireland. David Smyth an Irish bartender, also contributed.
His thanks to Margot Mensing for her shared expertise in the ways of weaving and to Martha Witt for her welcome help and encouragement. A special thanks to Beth Leanza, of the Saratoga Springs Public Library, for her assistance in the complexities of research.
The Luddite author’s final draft, in typescript, was transformed to digital format by his nephew Jim Smith and carefully copyedited by his sister Helen Smith. Daniel D’Arezzo made the corrections in the document submitted to the author’s agent and publisher. To them all he is deeply grateful for this helpful accomplishment.
For the dedicated and gifted expertise of his editors, Barbara Ascher and Christopher Lehmann-Haupt, he is grateful beyond measure.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author©s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Joseph Caldwell
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