“I don’t understand.”
“Good. No need to. You’ll accept it—”
“I … I … I …”
“It’s settled then.”
With one swift move, Declan jumped into the cab of the truck, taking the sack with him. He pulled the door toward him. It closed with a loud rattle. The engine started. A quick turn was made, barely avoiding Peter’s bicycle. The truck clattered down the road, away from the castle. Peter ran after, calling out, “But … but … but …”
The truck was gone.
He stared at the coin in his open hand. There was nothing to be done but put it into his pocket and take it home to his mother. She could certainly use some money—if the coin was still worth anything after so many years (he remained unaware that its value had grown with its age). He began to fold his fingers around it, but stopped, continuing to stare. Slowly his mouth opened; slowly it closed. With the coin clasped tight in his fist, he ran out of the courtyard entrance and started again down the road. “Come back! Come back! You mustn’t do this. I … I can’t. I can’t have it. No one can have it. Come back. You have to! It isn’t for me. It isn’t for anyone. For no one! Ever!”
He stopped running but kept looking into the distance. There was the castle road, then the road home, up the hill, then down, then up again. No cars came. No truck. No one. Nothing.
Stumbling on stones, he went back into the courtyard. Without realizing what he was doing, he almost brought the fist-held coin up to his chin, but caught himself in time to pull it away.
He made a fierce dash toward the doors to the great hall and barely managed to get them open so he wouldn’t crash into them. He had to find Mrs. Sweeney. He must give her the coin. Get rid of it. Anything. Avoiding the flops, he kicked his way through the great clumps of straw, the bedding for the cows, untangling himself when they slowed his pace.
As if to confirm one more time the truth of what he had seen, he paused and looked down at the coin. A ray of light from the windows along the gallery struck the metal, a glint catching the profile of the monarch pressed into the gold. Before he could close his hand, he felt more than actually saw a movement over his left shoulder. He turned and looked.
Dangling from the great chandelier were mud-caked unshod feet slowly twisting away, then toward him again. He let out an unsounded cry, his lungs unable to find the needed air. He wanted to look up, but he’d seen all he could bear to see. He made a rush to the doors leading to the courtyard, this time crashing full speed against the solid wood, the rebound giving him enough space to reach out and lift the latch, the coin digging deep into his palm.
In the courtyard he stood and looked at the thatched roofs of the sheds. The work was almost done. And beautiful it was, the work of a master’s hand. But the master had given him a coin. He had it in his hand. He must be rid of it, and no one must ever hold it again.
He went to the far end of the courtyard, away from the doors of the great hall, away from the thatched sheds. He moved in among the brush. He reached down and wrapped his left hand around the spiky thorns of the furze growing there. With all his might he tugged, but the roots went too deep. He went back, closer to the edge of the courtyard where the soil was softer from the rains. With his fingers he dug down. Then, with his thorn-chewed hand, he scooped up the earth. He dropped the coin into the ground and shoved the soil back in place. He stood. While he was pressing down with his shoe, he heard a voice behind him.
“Peter? Whatever are you …”
He stopped, then slowly lowered his shoe and let it rest on the newly tamped earth. Kitty was standing there, amused, curious, eyes wide and mouth open. “Mrs. Sweeney … I mean Miss Mc—”
“Don’t worry, Peter. Sweeney’s all right if that’s what comes to mind. It’s a name I’ll never be ashamed to answer to. But what are you—”
“I … I … my shoe. I … I stepped in a nuisance, and I’m just trying to … you know.” He wagged the sole of his shoe back and forth on the turned earth. “There. I’m … I’m all right now. I didn’t want to … you know … the pedal of my bicycle. It’s all right now.” He made a show of checking. The sole was clean. He quickly lowered his foot before Kitty could see it.
She laughed. “Good riddance they say.”
He started toward his bicycle, keeping himself as far from Kitty as he could. To keep her from asking more questions, he offered what he hoped would be a change of subject. “Did you hear? I’m off to Ballysheen. The horses. My da. My mother, did she tell you? I … I … I …” He righted the bicycle and got on.
“But Declan is gone?”
“Yes. Gone.”
“For the day?”
“Yes. For the day.”
“And I have something for him. Well, another time.”
“Yes. Another time.” He grabbed hold of the handlebars. “Well, it’s goodbye, then. And Mr. Tovey … Ballysheen … Goodbye, Miss Mc—Mrs. Sweeney …” When he raised a hand to wave it, he almost lost the balance of the bicycle, but was quick enough to make a few turns of the front wheel and head out onto the road.
Puzzled at the boy’s peculiar behavior, Kitty watched as he rode off, then looked one more time around the courtyard as if still hoping Declan was there. He decidedly was not. She was mildly disappointed. She had something to give him—something he might accept or refuse, she couldn’t be sure. It was Michael’s knucklebone. What they had thought at the time was Declan’s skeleton had been hidden on the secret stairs the fugitive priests had used to make their escape from the henchmen of the Crown in days gone by. As heaven would have it, two gardaí, Tom and Jim, had inadvertently discovered the stairs while searching for an escaped prisoner. To further call into question heaven’s wisdom, Tom found the skeleton’s missing knucklebone. Not without reason, he was immediately convinced it was the holy relic of a martyred Jesuit and had hung it from the rearview mirror of the gardaí car he shared with Jim. It would protect them from all evil and shield them from all harm.
Kitty had stolen it when the car had been left untended. Tom, aghast at the theft, had immediately condemned the deed as sacrilege. He begged the villagers for its return. When the malefactor proved beyond the reach of his plaintive cries, he went to the local priest, Father Colavin. Surely the man would sympathize with his plight and make it his cause to effect the knucklebone’s return. Thunderbolts must be dispatched from the pulpit. Anathemas hurled, excommunications threatened.
Father Colavin had listened, letting Garda Tom exhaust himself. To revive him, he gave him a fair shot of Jameson and promised he’d do what he could. He made this pledge in all honesty, knowing full well that little or nothing could be done. As Tom was slugging down the whiskey, the good priest suggested that it should be Tom’s prayer that sufficient grace emanate from the knucklebone that the evildoer would repent and return the sacred relic. This was, Tom had to admit, contrary to the curse he’d already called down, but he’d give it a try—a promise he warily made after a second shot of Jameson had followed down the path of the first.
Kitty’s purpose had not been to rob Tom of this source of blessing, but to give Declan this least remnant of his lost apprentice. A sentimental gesture, true, but the man was obviously desperate for some token toward which he might direct his grief. How he would react, what he would do, was anyone’s guess, and Kitty denied herself the agitation any speculation would bring.
Declan was gone now, but he would be back tomorrow. She’d complete the transaction then. Before going inside, Kitty decided to see which vegetable from the garden would be suitable for supper. She passed the spot where Peter had been cleaning his shoe. Amused, she shook her head. What could he have stepped in? No manure that she could see. And the dog, Sly, was with the cows all day on the far slope of Crohan Mountain. She had no chickens, no geese. The pig was gone. There’d been no fox, no wolf. Why would Peter lie?—Which is what he’d obviously done. Without taking time to make any surmise, with the toe of her shoe, she began shoving away the dirt
that seemed to cover a hole. The boy had not dug down all that deep. She leaned toward where she was digging, then knelt and brought up with her hands more of the soil the boy had so strangely disturbed.
Her car passed Peter on the second hill. She pulled over and stopped, angling the car against the ditch to keep the bicycle from going further. Kitty got out and came toward him, holding up the coin so he would know why she had blocked his progress. Peter began to turn the bicycle around, to go in the opposite direction, but Kitty was close enough to stand in his way.
“Peter! What is it? What’s this all about?” She continued to hold up the coin.
“Oh, Mrs. Sweeney, don’t! Let it go. Don’t hold it up like that. Don’t touch it. Please. Please.”
Kitty lowered the coin. “What is this? Where did it come from? Why are you so afraid—”
“I … I don’t know. I did know, but all I can remember is that no one must touch it. Or even see it.”
She looked down into her hand. She knew the coin was ancient, its gold not completely dulled by the years. She checked the date. 1785. She took note of the profile. George III. “I see nothing—”
“Then keep it. No, don’t. You don’t want it. No one wants it. No one could want it.”
“But why?”
“I … I told you. I don’t remember why. I really don’t. I did … and that was enough. But now I—”
“But where did you get it? Did you find it? Where?”
“Mr. Tovey. But, please, don’t ask me any more. I have to be home. I’m late. My mother—”
“And did he give it to you?”
“He said … and he … Ballysheen. The horses. My da. And he … and he … I … Even if … Please take it back to him. Make him take it back. He … he meant me no harm. Please. I have to be home.”
“Oh Peter, Peter, Peter. You’ll be all right. Some times I wish the gods would keep their gifts to themselves. But can’t you tell me what you saw?”
“I can’t.”
“But what is it about the coin that—”
“Please. I don’t remember. I don’t want to remember.”
Kitty touched his shoulder. “All right, then,” she said gently. “You looked at the coin he’d given you. You saw something?”
“Yes.”
“Something that frightened you?”
“Yes … and then when I went into the castle … the coin … it … it …”
“Yes?”
“When I was holding it in my open hand, then … then …”
“Then?”
“Their feet, up past my shoulder. All muddy and no shoes to wear, and they—”
“You saw—”
“Just the feet. I couldn’t—”
“And it was the coin—”
“It … it must have been. Nothing was there before. I …”
“All right. All right. Don’t say anything more. I shouldn’t have kept at you like this. I’m sorry.”
“But why … why?”
“You knew. And now you don’t know. It’s been that way before … when you told my husband and me about our seeing—”
“Brid and Taddy? Was that … was that their … their feet … and no one to wash them?”
“Yes.”
“And there’s no help for them?”
Again Kitty gently touched his shoulder. “Come. I’ll park the car and walk with you until you’re home.”
“No … no …”
“It’s the least I can do after what I just—”
“Please. I … I don’t want to be near to what … what you have in your hand.” He nodded sideways, in the direction of the held coin.
“I understand. Or rather, no, I don’t understand. But I accept it … that you can’t be anywhere near it.”
Peter nodded his head in thanks. Kitty lightly touched his cheek, then started toward her car. Before she had gone no more than three steps, she heard Peter say, “I’m going soon to Ballysheen. The horses. My da. Until I’m back here for school. But I told you about that already. I … I’m sorry.”
Kitty didn’t turn around. “You’ll like it there?”
“It’s horses. How could I not? Maybe I’m to be a jockey my da thinks.”
“You’d like that?”
“Liking it won’t be enough. I’m going to be a thatcher. At least that’s what I … until I … the coin …”
“So now you’re not so sure … after the coin. From Declan?”
“Yes,” he whispered. “It’s from Mr. Tovey. The thatcher.”
Kitty nodded to let him know she would question him no more. She continued toward the car.
“Mrs. Sweeney?”
“Yes?”
“You … you want to know, don’t you? What it was that—”
“Yes. But it doesn’t—”
“It does. Maybe it’s something you should hear.”
“It’s too late now. You’ve forgotten. And that’s for the best.”
“I … I could look again.”
Kitty turned back. Peter’s head was lowered, his hands at his sides, the toe of his shoe nudging a small stone away from the road. Kitty slowly shook her head. “I don’t think you should—”
“But then you’d know. And you want to know.”
“Peter, don’t do anything that—”
“You’ll be here with me. I was alone before. But now you’re here.”
“You’d really …”
He lifted his head and held out his hand. Kitty came to him. She looked into his eyes. How soft they were, their quiet brown. He reached his hand out farther. Kitty gently put the coin into his palm. Peter drew back his hand. He waited a moment. He swallowed. Kitty didn’t move. He looked down.
After another moment, without raising his head, he spoke in a low uninflected voice. “They were hanged. His name was Taddy. Her name was Brid. And they the fairest of all the county around. They’d done no wrong. They’d planned no mischief. But they were hanged there in the castle and no one to wash their muddied feet. And the hangman, and there was a woman, too, they were given payment, a coin all gold with a golden king to reward them for their deed. But a shame came over them. They whipped each other with reeds from a thorn bush, but it wasn’t enough. So they whipped each other again until the blood came through what they were wearing. They kept the coin hidden between two stones at the side of the hearth, and explained to their children it was a kindly merchant gave it for the offering of themselves and the whipping his lordship had decreed. Because they confessed to their priest and did terrible penance for the rest of their lives, the youthful ghosts do not appear to their descendants as hanged, but as the wandering shades they had become, the same as they present themselves to the descendants of the Sweeneys and the McClouds because they knew nothing of Lord Shaftoe’s decree and they were, in the end, innocent even if they were part of the cause of their deaths. But the coin was passed from generation to generation, never spent, so it could be seen how brave the beaten ancestors had been. But it was for the hanging it had been given.”
Transfixed, Peter continued to stare, unable to free himself of the vision. Kitty waited, fearful of breaking into his trance. Finally Peter looked up. “Mrs. Sweeney? You’re here?”
She answered quietly, “Yes. I’m here.”
He blinked, then looked down into his open hand. “No! No! It isn’t mine!”
Her voice still quiet, Kitty asked, “May I take it?”
“No. No one should take it. No one should have it. It should belong to no one. Ever. But, yes, take it. Take it away so I won’t ever see … even …”
Careful to touch with only the tips of her fingers the soft flesh of the boy’s hand, hoping to show some gentleness, Kitty lifted the coin and drew it away. Slowly she closed it into her fist.
Peter waited, then looked down into his empty hand. He, too, folded his fingers into his palm, then opened them. Assured that he held nothing, he raised his head. “I told you, didn’t I?”
“Yes
.”
“And you haven’t forgotten?”
“No, I haven’t forgotten.”
“Do you want to?”
“No, I don’t want to.”
“I’ve forgotten. I forgot already.”
“Good.”
“But you remember.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have told you.”
Kitty shook her head. “You should have told me.”
“And I can go home now?”
“You can go home.”
“Yes. I’m going home now.”
“Will I walk with you?”
“I have my bicycle. It will be enough.”
He took the bicycle away from the stone wall where he’d leaned it, got on, and with neither a word nor a glance back, circled the car in the roadway and went up the second of the three hills that would take him home.
Kitty would not rebury the coin. She slipped it into the pocket of her slacks, then patted her thigh to make sure it was safely stowed. She would return it to Declan. Perhaps he already knew the truth. If he didn’t, he would know it now. Just as she and Kieran had accepted the burden of shame passed on to them by their ancestors, Declan, too, must bear whatever the truth would lay upon him. It was not impossible he would dismiss it as being nothing of interest to him. He was not famed for the easy activation of his sense of shame. But at least he would know as she already knew, and as Kieran knew, that the consequences of ancestral deeds do not end with the final breath of the departed. They live on. And Declan must make of it what he will. Kitty would do her part.
Again she pressed her hand against her thigh. The coin was there, and the knucklebone as well. It was the coin that would be given.
The Pig Goes to Hog Heaven Page 18
