This managed to be of interest to the thatcher. For a moment too brief to be noted, Declan glanced over at Brid and Taddy, who were also giving their attention to the woman holding forth just a few feet away. Their response seemed to be a deepening bewilderment. It was as if the woman, with her ridicule of ghosts and her scorn for those who might love them, was saying that these were happenings beyond comprehension, a form of conduct to which they had never been introduced.
Declan’s attention returned to the task at hand. Lolly, unequipped to observe the ghosts’ consternation, continued. “Well, that’s what I did. That’s what I wrote. And it gets even worse. I put the ghosts in a castle, sort of like this one. And I was trying to think of ways to get the ghosts out. And do you know what Kitty—or was it Kieran—what they suggested? Blow up the castle. That’s what they said. Sky high. It was supposed to end the curse or whatever it was. Now I have nothing against special effects, but blow up a castle and that would get rid of the ghosts? Isn’t that a bit too much? But they went right ahead and said it as if they were some kind of authorities on the subject. Can you believe it?”
Declan had become even more interested. Still, he pretended to continue his work, his ears attuned to what was being said. The ghosts, too, had become more observant.
“And then I’m stupid enough to ask how. How do you blow up a castle? Then it was Kieran—or was it Kitty—who said, ‘There’s gunpowder in the flagstones of the great hall.’ How convenient, I thought. You need to blow up a castle and, who would have thought it, there’s gunpowder right there all the time. Can you believe that someone would actually suggest such a thing? I’m new at the game—writing a book—but even I know you don’t do a thing like that and expect readers to accept it. But I did it anyway. And I’m recovered now. No more ghosts. Madness it was. Part of the same madness that turned me from a keeper of pigs into a teller of tales. But I’ve left behind my wayward ways and I’ll never stray again, believe me.”
Declan had stopped working. He turned to observe the speaker more closely. She was clothed in well-fitted jeans and a shirt, possibly her husband’s, its blue deepening the blue of her eyes. And her auburn hair still caught and held the sun.
To rescue his concentration, he gave his attention to Brid and Taddy. It helped. Except that, to look at them, he could not avoid the old sadness. As a boy, it had been the same. After he was initiated into the family mysteries and introduced to ancient truths, he would come to the abandoned castle to find the pair roaming the rooms into which he would steal, the fields where he would walk, the turret landing where Brid would be at the loom, Taddy at the harp. And young Declan, still a child though considered a man, was there as well, their accepted if unacknowledged companion, himself awed by their beauty and made sorrowful by their exile. He would have done anything to complete their journey into glory.
But he had had no power of that kind. He had been given no knowledge of the rites that would speed them on their way. As a youth, he had pleaded with them to speak, to make some gesture that would hint at what might be required. But their powers, too, were limited. They had nothing to offer but their presence. At the age of fourteen, he decided never to come to the castle again. The sight of Brid had become more than his growing urges could bear. He would apprentice himself not to his father but to an itinerant thatcher. He would leave his village, his county; he would travel and only sometimes return, but never to the castle. Yet now, in his grief, he had come to seek solace among them—wanting, hoping, praying that they would be joined by his own dead, Michael taken by the sea, and the boy allowed to be their companion. Brid and Taddy, though, had no influence either. Shade could not call to shade, summoning those who, like themselves, were bereft of life but allowed to be company to the living. Emissaries of the divine they well might be, but their message was silence, and Declan must join his own to theirs.
From Lolly, however, he might have heard things of potential importance. Destruction of the castle would assure their release? It had been Kitty and Kieran who had told it to the woman standing there. Was it intimate knowledge or fanciful invention? If it was for them to know, it was for him to find out.
Lolly, with happy laughter, was poking and prodding the somnolent pig. An occasional grunt was all she received for her efforts. The ghostly companion was taking special note, lowering its massive head, readying itself for an assault—as if such an act were still possible. Which it wasn’t, much to the woman’s benefit.
Abandoning the less sensitive parts of the pig, Lolly, with an even more delighted laugh, struck a blow across the animal’s snout. Screams not of pain but of indignity were sent forth. Encouraged, Lolly gave the snout another whack. This roused the pig to a standing position, the shrieks and squeals raised in both pitch and volume. It came out of the pen. The watchful companion, too, raised its own snout to the sky, though able to contribute no sound to the protest.
With skillfully applied encouragements, each thrust causing the pig to turn more toward the waiting truck, the animal was, in a vain attempt to avoid the humiliations, tricked into moving in a direction not of its choosing. With jabs and nudges of the most pitiless kind, Lolly sent the beast up the ramp and into the bed of the truck. The ramp was shoved on board and the tailgate secured. The pig continued its complaint as its beloved now braced its huge head and massive shoulders under the side of the truck, as if determined to upend it. Had the animal still been invested with its earthly bulk and strength, it might, in Declan’s estimation, have been successful. But alas for the poor ghost, all effort, no matter how heartfelt, was in vain.
As if possible rescue had arrived, a cream-colored Bentley drove into the courtyard. Unmindful that it blocked the path in which the truck was aimed, the car stopped, its passenger side all but scraping itself against the trunk’s bumper. Out of the Bentley stepped a man of slightly more than middle years, arrayed in linens and silks of muted colors except for the Hermès scarf tied ever so casually around the gentleman’s neck, protecting it, no doubt, from the collar of the raw silk jacket that best conveyed the presence of money, rank, and privilege. So pleased with himself seemed the man that Declan had to make a special effort not to snort in the manner of the pig. With a condescending smile, the man advanced toward Lolly, who was now standing at the back of her truck. “I apologize for arriving unannounced,” he said, “but I happened to be touring the countryside and thought I’d pay my respects to Mr. and Mrs. Sweeney, who, if I am not mistaken, still reside here in the castle.”
“They’re away” was all Lolly was inclined to say.
“Oh. How inconvenient. I suppose I should say it’s my fault.” With an almost undetectable bow, he said, “Lord Shaftoe.”
Unbowed, Lolly responded, “Lolly McCloud, born McKeever.”
“My pleasure, I’m sure.”
“If you say so.”
A twitch of a smile distorted the man’s mouth into a tight-lipped grimace. “McCloud, you say. Then you are related to the tenants?”
“Owners.”
“Of course.” Another twitch, but the same grimace.
“I’m married to Kitty McCloud’s nephew.”
“Oh, then you are quite at home here.”
“I live elsewhere.”
“But your welcome is ever ready, am I correct?”
Lolly shrugged.
When Declan took his eyes off the man, he noticed that Brid and Taddy had vanished. As this was their sometime habit, it didn’t particularly disturb him until the phantom pig’s attention was drawn away from its beloved and given to the man now standing near the unimpressed Lolly. Declan, too, would be more attentive. This was hardly a casual visitor come calling.
“Would you mind?” Lolly was saying. “Your car is blocking my truck.”
“Oh. Sorry. Thoughtless, of course. But first, may I ask, does my name—Shaftoe, as I said—Lord Shaftoe mean anything to you?”
“Shaftoe doesn’t. And Lord certainly doesn’t.”
“Amusing,
yes.” Instead of twitching, the man tittered. “But I must confess my reasons for stopping by are, I’m afraid, sentimental to a shaming degree. You see, this was my ancestors’ home, and there has been some misguided contention between the present tenants and myself, which has been resolved, I must admit, in their favor.”
“So I’ve heard.” Lolly was still unimpressed. “Aren’t you supposed to be in prison?”
“For a time, I was. Yes, yes. A diversion really. An unlooked-for opportunity to develop a skill I hardly knew I had, for racquetball. Such are the punishments imposed by a civilized society. And after all, one is not a lord for nothing, even in these days of diminishing regard.”
In contradiction to the man’s words, there was, Declan noticed, an almost undetectable application of a flesh-colored cosmetic tinting his lordship’s cheeks and forehead. The poor fellow was trying to cover over the pallor imposed upon those denied the sun. Racquetball, indeed. The man had languished in a cell—as befits a society given to lawful responsibility.
“I now take pleasure in the certainty that my ancestral home,” his lordship was saying, “is in such capable, may I say, such loving hands.”
“You may,” said Lolly, “but your car is still blocking—”
Declan had come down from his perch, waiting to see if his intervention might be necessary.
“Yes, of course,” his lordship said. “And I must move it immediately. But first, do you think it would be objectionable if I were to, shall we say, wander the grounds and indulge myself in reveries of what was never meant to be? I mean, of course, the return of the castle to its rightful … I mean, the fulfillment of my childhood hopes that I, as Lord Shaftoe, might walk again the halls and fields my ancestors graced in happier times?”
“I’m afraid it’s a permission I have no right to give. Now if you’ll just move your bloody—”
“Oh, yes. But wait. Here comes someone who might be more obliging.” He raised a hand and called out, “Mr. Sweeney! It’s myself. I’ve … yes … I’ve come to thank you. I hope you don’t mind.”
Declan had already seen Kieran coming down Crohan Mountain, then making a wide arc to avoid the mire at the foot of the hill. As he approached the courtyard, he acknowledged the intruder’s call. “Mr. Shaftoe, is it?”
His lordship laughed a laugh that managed to be both a giggle and a cackle. “If you prefer. Surely I’m as much an egalitarian as the next fellow—depending, of course, on who the next fellow might be.” He delivered himself of a congratulatory guffaw, undeterred by the want of amusement among those around him.
Kieran came closer. “Why aren’t you in jail?”
“Well, one can’t demand of the state unending keep, can one? Or, I should say, I can’t. I accepted its hospitality for a sufficient time and must now become responsible for myself again. As would any self-respecting citizen.”
“You’ve come with a purpose, I suppose.”
“Mainly to thank you. I won’t go into the details, as I’m sure you haven’t forgotten your kindness. You did, after all, prevent me from committing an act inconsistent with my nature, to say nothing of my station in life. You, in effect as well as intention, saved my life. That day? On the tower? You do remember?”
“Vividly.”
“Good. I, too, shall never forget. Nor will my gratitude be subject to the mutations of time. I am a man steadfast when it comes to a point of honor. And your action surely makes demands of me that are far beyond my powers to commensurately discharge.”
“Very nice. Thank you.”
“That said, I don’t suppose … I mean, I’ll soon be returning to Australia, but I was hoping that before I … I almost said embark, but one hardly embarks any more, does one? Then, before I take leave of this land of my ancestors, best exemplified by the castle here, I am hoping you’ll allow me one final … well, perhaps a quick tour—”
“I think you have memories enough.”
“Then perhaps you’ll allow me to renew … to revitalize them before I—”
“I really don’t think—”
“Surely you’re more aware than any other mortal of what the castle means to me.”
“Yes. Enough for you to try to steal it with forgeries and false oaths.”
“But doesn’t that all the more eloquently give measure to my affection? That I would so far forget myself as to descend into common criminality? That I would debase my name and resort to manipulations reserved for perjurers and scoundrels?”
“Very nice. Very nice indeed. But I still don’t—”
“Let’s compromise then. Forget the tour. Perhaps just a quick step inside. Into the great hall—for which I had such magnificent plans, none of them to be realized. Surely that much can be allowed.”
“Well, if it will bring an end to this conversation—”
“Gracious as ever. And I thank you.”
“You remember that it’s little more than a barn at the moment.”
“Of necessity I have long since schooled myself to ignore … nay, to be oblivious to that which offends, be it sight or scent. I am prepared, I assure you, to be selective in the experience you’ve so kindly agreed to.”
“Okay. Come on. But be careful where you step.”
After a dismissive guffaw, his lordship started toward the doors to the great hall, passing the truck with the now whimpering pig aboard. Kieran opened wide the imposing doors.
The reek easily reached both Declan and Lolly, but neither made the least response. To them it was a smell associated with cows, beasts of sweetness and docility. It improved the air with the reminder that a being so comforting as a cow was a castle resident, and Declan went so far as to feel a twinge of regret that soon, thanks to his labors, the cows would be put into the sheds, protected from the elements by his masterly thatch. That they might miss the comparative opulence in which they’d lived for more than a year was a possibility, but Declan dismissed it, giving the animals credit for an adaptability denied to most of the species that took such advantage of their maternal generosity.
“I hope he goes down in dung,” he heard Lolly mutter. “And has to roll over in it to get himself up. Or maybe I’ll go in and give him a small shove.”
Declan was about to return to his roofing of the second shed when he saw his lordship emerge, his left arm firmly held by Kieran’s right hand. The man was limping and his shoe was covered, it would seem, with a coating of fairly fresh manure. Lolly was thrilled beyond speech. His lordship stomped his foot, but to no effect. The dung refused to be dislodged. “I didn’t expect it to be quite that befouled.”
Kieran was completely unable to suppress a gleeful smile. “You can’t say you weren’t warned.”
“No warning could possibly have been sufficient.”
“You’re safely out of it now—and let me say goodbye before any more ‘befoulings’ come your way.”
Kieran steered him toward the Bentley. He even opened the driver’s door himself. His lordship paused before crouching down to get himself inside. “I don’t suppose I could take a few steps over there, to the grass … to … well … as you can see, there’s a considerable deposit on my shoe—”
“That’s not the grass. That’s our garden. And it’s been fertilized enough, thank you.”
“But surely one of you can do something for—”
“It’s a service not included in my hospitality. Goodbye, Mr. Shaftoe.”
“Well. Really.”
His lordship got inside the car, slammed the door, and revved the engine, perhaps a bit more insistently than was necessary. With a quick turn that spewed gravel, he was off. Kieran brushed his pants, more to observe the departure of his lordship than to rid himself of the dust and dirt deposited by the speeding car.
After a nodded greeting to Declan and Lolly, Kieran went over to the garden and began picking something or other, the captive pig now bashing itself against the tailgate, screaming and screeching as if its slaughter were already underway. Lolly got into
the truck and started it up the roadway. The phantom lover galloped ahead and threw itself in front. But to no avail. The truck continued on, the pig appeared again as whole as only a ghost can be, solitary in the middle of the road, proof, if proof were needed, that the spirit world cannot make good its intents without the help of an earthly agency.
The phantom pig, head lowered, then lifted, looked for a moment or two at the door left open by Kieran after he had escorted his lordship out of the great hall. It entered. Although Declan knew it hardly needed an open door to make its way into the hall, he himself took advantage of the convenience: he walked over and went inside.
There, for all to see, was the smeared manure to mark the spot where his lordship had come to grief. There, too, was the pig, staring upward. And there, hung by raw and rasping ropes from the grand chandelier of a hundred candles, were the bodies of Brid and Taddy, circling in the mild breeze brought in through the open door. There were the black and swollen tongues, the bulging eyes.
Never before had Declan seen this. Never had he been warned of its possibility. He would have to cut them down. Quickly. But before he could reach the door to fetch the needed tools, he realized that even the ropes were ghostly, impervious to his intervention. He turned back to look again. Slowly they turned, first toward, then away from each other, their unseeing eyes unable to give the solace the sight one ghost might bring to the other.
Almost solemn in his movements, down into the heavily strewn straw, Declan Tovey knelt. Down into the reeking stench he put his forehead. Out from his sides he spread his arms and made his vow. They would be freed. They would be sent on their way. By whatever means, a means he would make it his cause to find.
He lifted himself and stood erect. They were gone. The pig, too, had vanished. He was in a great room given to shit and piss. This sacred place, defiled. Yes, he would thatch the sheds. They would be finished this day, this hour, the cows expelled, the air scented only by mists sent up from the sea. This he would accomplish—and consider his life fulfilled. For this he had descended from ancestors he would now honor. All would be achieved. All would be accomplished.
The Pig Goes to Hog Heaven Page 12
