“My own Lord! My beloved Master! My personal salvation!”
Mark and Mo shivered, their eyes averted from the repulsive sight. The cross was matted and gnarled with great age. He never tired of recounting how he had acquired it, when, as a young man, he had been a wastrel, heading for perdition. He had rescued the cross from an elderly antiquarian, a greedy robber of graves. Yet the very moment he first held it in his hands he had his first vision. So forceful was the shock of revelation, he had lost consciousness. When he came around, the collector was dead, drowned in his own blood. Grimstone had staggered from the antiquarian’s home, already glimpsing his destiny in the truth and power of the cross. He had dismissed the antiquarian’s claim—sometimes there were hints that he had tested that claim on the antiquarian’s lips in more violent forms than mere words—that it had come from a barrow grave that dated to long before the Christian era. Instead Grimstone pretended that it was a Templar relic, dating back to the Crusades.
He had kept his discovery to himself for some years, immersing himself in ancient learning. Only when he felt ready did he present himself as witness, to begin the foundation of the Islington Church of the Sigil, named after the silvery shape embossed into the metal where the figure of Jesus would normally be, a shape that resembled the symbol for infinity, but comprising three twisted circles of silver instead of two.
No one other than Grimstone was allowed to hold the cross. It was brought out at the high point of conversion for every new flock, a blessing for their eyes, but not their kiss or their touch, only when they had proved their devotion through weeks of induction leading to a final service of proclamation and dedication, ready to be born again in veneration of Grimstone’s unforgiving Lord. It was usually put away after the service ended. But the fact Grimstone had kept it out this evening, that he was still venerating the sigil after the service, was ominous.
Knowing this, Mark’s and Mo’s hearts quailed as Grimstone turned his back on them, looking down the fall of the gentle hill into the town, where twilight now clothed the rendered walls and slated roofs, his eyes finally alighting on the river.
“The river should also interest you, witch-fetus. Its name suggests a paganish worship by a race much older than the Celts. Half savages, like your whore of a mother. Now I know you haven’t missed the lingering signs in your scratching and searching in the dirt?”
“Nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh . . . nuh-nuh . . .”
“Quack-quack-quack! Enough of your quacking! Three rivers—evocative of the foulest pretense—the stink of a heathen trinity?”
“I . . . I duh-duh-duh-don’t know.”
“Liar!”
His growl deepened. “Old power! Its grip long vanquished, yet such is its hold on the very landscape, it has endured.”
Grimstone inhaled, a deep breath, then, deeming his body sufficiently cooled, he turned away from the open window. His eyes, almost coal black in the gloom, confronted them.
“I will have no more lies—not a single word! I know where you have been today, from moment to moment, and who you met. I want you to describe every detail of it to me. Not a morsel omitted!”
Mo spoke first, risking his anger. “I tuh-tuh-tuh-took us into the woods . . . like yuh-you asked me to.”
Mark felt a stab of horror, realizing now that the day had been manipulated by Grimstone. The trespassing and, very likely, everything else that had come from it, had been planned. But why?
“Don’t keep me waiting!”
Mark described the clearing in the woods where Mo had found some crystals and drawn them in her notebook. The appearance of the old man, Padraig.
“I know you had a lengthy conversation with this man.”
Mark blinked with a second shock of realization; somebody must have followed them, watched them constantly, closely enough to see what was happening but not close enough to overhear the conversation.
He described how Padraig had warned them they were trespassing. How he had questioned them.
“He asked you your names?”
“Yes.”
“Did he recognize your names?”
“Yes, Sir! He knew about you.”
“What did he know? His precise words?”
Mark did his best to imitate the deep-throated local accent. “‘You must be the visiting brood of the Reverend Grimstone?’”
“Brood indeed!”
“I asked him if he had met you.” Mark tried the accent again. “‘Met him, I certainly have not. Nor would I ever wish to do so.’”
Grimstone’s eyes widened. “But he didn’t immediately order you out?”
“He saw the crystals Maureen had drawn into her notebook. He was really impressed with them. He went on a bit—I didn’t understand all of it.” Mark did a fair imitation of Padraig: “‘You have the geometry of their structures, that’s easy to see. But you’ve captured something deeper than ordinary eye might see of them.’”
Grimstone’s hand fell on Mark’s left shoulder. “Something deeper? What was the old fool alluding to?”
“He didn’t explain. He said something like . . . an artist of Maureen’s skill should be treated with respect. He said she could help herself to the crystals, if she wanted to take them.”
The hand squeezed harder. “His exact words!”
“‘So take what you will of them. Explore my woods wherever you must.’ Then he gave the notebook back to her.”
“Yet still he did not send you away?”
“No, Sir.”
“You’ve left something out. You know what will happen if you continue to try my patience!”
“He asked how long we had been in Clonmel. I told him, one week. Then he said something really odd. Something about time enough for somebody like Maureen.”
A hard slap on his sunburned cheek jerked Mark’s head to one side.
He bit his lip, continued with what he recalled of Padraig’s exact words. “‘Time enough for someone gifted with . . . with vision.’ Then he asked her another odd question. ‘Have you been surprised by what you’ve observed here?’”
“Ah!”
“He didn’t explain. He just told Maureen to take her time to find the right words. ‘I’m interested to know what might have captured your attention.’”
“I knew it! I knew there was something else. And what had caught our little witch’s attention?”
Mark glanced at Mo, a mute blink of apology. “She said something stupid, or at least it seemed stupidly obvious. She just said, ‘Nature is blooming.’”
“That’s it? ‘Nature is blooming’?” The dark eyes swung over to confront Mo from a distance of a foot or so.
She nodded.
Before Grimstone could turn his full attention onto Mo, Mark continued. “He took us back to the sawmill, where we met an American boy called Alan Duval and a local girl called Kate Shaunessy.”
“He made a point of introducing you to this pair?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Mark went on to explain what had happened at the sawmill, the hard work of clearing out the room for a den. Grimstone demanded every detail. Mark didn’t mention computers, music or partying. When his story was finished, Grimstone remained thoughtful for several seconds, during which time he held Mark in the intense focus of his gaze.
“I want you to cultivate this friendship.”
Mark was astonished. “You want us to spy on them?”
Grimstone merely stared.
Mark felt bewildered. All the interrogation, and now this! He wondered if Grimstone had finally gone stark raving mad. But even in madness he saw the glimmer of an opportunity.
“Does this mean, Sir, that we’ll be staying here in Clonmel for longer?”
“My flock is growing. I have become aware of the real challenge here. We shall stay until I am satisfied that my work is complete.”
Mark hesitated, then blurted it out. “It—it might help if I had a cell phone.”
“Are you bargaining with me?”
&nb
sp; “No, Sir! They would expect it, Alan and Kate. Cell phones are equipped to take pictures, capture images, even video images. If they see me taking pictures with a camera, they’ll be suspicious. But they’ll take no notice of a phone.”
Those eyes still glared into Mark’s, as if reading his mind.
“There’s some ulterior motive?”
“No, Sir.”
Grimstone pinched a fold of Mark’s sunburned right cheek, squeezing the inflamed skin hard enough to make him wince.
“It’s that caterwauling you call music, isn’t it?”
“No, Sir!”
“You mean, ‘Yes, Sir.’ You’ll find some way of stuffing the gadget with that sluttish screeching. That’s what it is. Don’t lie to me.”
Grimstone’s pinch tightened until it brought tears to Mark’s eyes, but still he defied his adoptive father. Grimstone drew back his right hand, still holding the cross. His eyes widened and he almost seemed ready to strike.
Mo wailed, “Duh-duh-duh-duh-duh . . . duh-don’t huh-hurt him!”
For a moment Grimstone’s eyes were unfocused with rage. But then, abruptly, his expression altered. His eyes refocused. He brought the cross back into contact with his brow and pressed it hard against the overheated flesh. For what seemed like ages he held it there with his eyes clenched shut. When he opened them again he patted Mark’s swollen cheek, as if it had all been no more than a game between father and son.
“Very well! Have your gadget if it’s what you really want. Even the most righteous of fathers must show a little indulgence.” He reached down and drew Mo close to him. His arms enfolded them both in a single sweat-soured embrace. “Why do you provoke me? Are we not a loving family in this, the most sacred of tasks?”
“Yes, Sir!”
“And you, daughter! What can we not contemplate?”
Mark reached out, unseen, to find Mo’s hand, to hold it as he had done a thousand times before.
“Fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh . . . failure, Sir!”
Friends
Mo’s observation proved to be prophetic. Nature really was blooming. And as July grew hotter the world grew more lush. Even Bridey remarked on it. “Sure Mother Nature’s abandoned her modesty.”
To get through gaps in the hedgerows they had to battle their way through thistles six feet tall, with bristly stems as thick as fall pipes, fighting for space with hogweed, ragwort and the purple-headed fountains of giant stinging nettles. The untilled fields became lakes of wildflowers. In the thick woods around the sawmill the trees were so heavy with leaves a perpetual twilight prevailed. Even the little grassy glades, where growth was usually scant, were waist-deep in grasses, and the air shrilled so loudly with birdsong, was so heady with scents, so clouded with butterflies, it was like wandering into an enchanted garden.
Meanwhile the four friends worked at getting their den in order, at times going at it almost frantically, as if, instinctively, they sensed that time was short. For days they scrubbed and hammered, all the while getting to know each other.
They painted the walls and the ceiling and covered most of the floor with a mat. Padraig indulged them with whatever they asked for, including the paint and the floor covering. An electrician arrived to replace the old wiring, putting in a working light and a deck of wall sockets close to the table. With a little more persuasion, he put in a phone line.
When they arrived on the fourth sunshiny morning, they found a battered little electric oven and a fridge waiting for them outside the door. From now on they could heat pizzas and cool their drinks. Alan humped over the desktop computer he normally kept in his bedroom.
Within minutes Mark was parked in front of it. He had already figured out how to connect it to his new state-of-the-art cell phone.
Alan quizzed him. “What are you up to?”
“Begging, stealing and borrowing dreams.”
“Like what?”
“Like Stevie Ray Vaughn, Couldn’t Stand the Weather.”
“Never heard of him!”
“Had a big patch on his left arm—just here.” Mark tapped about halfway up his forearm. “Where the skin was missing.”
“Yeah?”
“He played a mean guitar, hard steel strings. The strings took the skin off the tips of his fingers. He’d put superglue on the worn-out tips. Then, when the glue was still tacky, he’d touch his fingers against his other arm, to put on new skin.”
“No shit?”
Mark grinned at the expression, which he so identified with American films and television. “Yeah! Really—no shit!”
Mo, who had entered the dairy without any of them noticing, said, “Mark knows a muh-muh-million buh-buh-blues stuh-stories.”
Alan shook his head, playing dumb. “But you still haven’t told me what makes a song into a dream?”
“Dreams are private.”
“That says nothing.”
“You can’t explain ‘private.’ Private is private.”
“I give up with this guy!”
Kate and Mo eyed each other, also broadly smiling. Kate shoved Alan out of the dairy. “Leave the poor idiot to his dreams.”
Mo followed Kate and Alan out into the sunshine. Mark hardly noticed the fact they had gone. In dreams, the first thing you lose track of is time. And the next things you lose track of are your worries and cares.
It was many hours later before he came out of the dairy, looking exhausted but exhilarated. He just slid down the wall and sat on the grass. Mo, who was leaning with her back to the pear tree, looked at him. Mark took his harmonica from his pocket and, without a word, he began to play his own interpretation of the blues track “Ain’t No Sunshine.”
Mo danced.
Kate and Alan just watched, transfixed. Brother and sister appeared lost in a world of their own. Mo’s eyes were closed, her movements as delicate and natural as the flight of a butterfly.
When Mark stopped playing Kate clapped her hands.
Even Alan laughed with amazement. “What the heck was that?”
Kate murmured, “I think we just caught sight of a dream.”
Mo said, “He cuh-cuh-cuh-can remember any kind of muh-muh-music, like a-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh . . . like an in-suh-sane Muh-Muh-Mozart!”
All four friends dissolved into laughter.
Paint-spattered, in gaps between working, they talked and bantered as if they didn’t have a care in the world. All the while they kept clear of the real stuff, like fate—or how life just doesn’t even pretend to be fair. The bad stuff, the stuff you just couldn’t bear to talk about, they left to brood on its own outside of the den.
From time to time, over the following days, Padraig would appear with a moth or a butterfly cupped in the cradle of his hands, exotic creatures that none of them had ever seen before. He’d let them go for Mo to watch them take flight. She’d squeal with delight, like a child half her age, watching their zigzag progress until they disappeared. Then she’d capture the images in her notebook. Other times it was beetles, myriad different shapes, sparkling with rainbow iridescence. Or the skulls of tiny animals. Or collections of feathers. Other times they would arrive in the morning to find a collection of crystals waiting for them, or a piece of amber containing the stem of a tiny plant, or a single petal of a flower, or an insect entombed within it. Mo’s eyes would sparkle with every new piece of what Mark called her “weirdiana.” She would study and draw them before adding them to her altars to nature, placed at strategic points around the perimeter of the den.
It was a little eerie. As if Padraig knew exactly what would interest Mo. Kate, sitting on the grass outside the dairy, couldn’t suppress her curiosity. The three of them, other than Mo, were cooling off outside, with the hot noon sun hammering down on the leaves of the old pear tree over them. “What’s really going on, Mark? Do you think they’re communicating, or what?”
“I don’t have a clue.”
Kate looked down at a lodestone she had picked up from one of Mo’s altars. It felt as heavy as l
ead. She showed it to Alan. “Honestly! It’s as if they’re on some common wavelength.”
Alan shrugged. “I warned you guys, Grandad’s superstitious.”
“Yes,” she murmured, “but you never really explained what you meant.”
Alan lifted up his brown bangs and Kate saw the triangular stork-beak birthmark. “Grandad even thinks this is a sign—something that marks me out as different.”
Kate chuckled at Padraig’s eccentric ideas. “Has it ever given you some strange ability? Like some sixth sense?”
“All it’s ever brought me is an avalanche of dragon’s piss right down on my head. With the other kids making out like I was some kind of a freak.”
Kate shook her head. “But I always thought superstitious people were—well, a little bit simple. And Padraig is far from simple.”
“I’m not saying he’s simple.”
Mark, who had been following the conversation, met Kate’s gaze with a wry smile. “Mo’s just the same. She’s as superstitious as hell. But she isn’t simple either. She’s just different.”
Alan looked down at the daisy-strewn grass between his feet. “You know what she reminds me of? I’m not claiming to be arty or anything, but I recall this teacher who was trying to explain stuff like Picasso and modern art to us. She talked about some natural ability we all had when we were kids. The thing is, we lose it. Somehow that happens to most of us. We lose it when we grow up. That’s the difference between us and these great artists. They manage to keep hold of it. That’s what I imagine is going on with Mo. She’s one of those who keep it.”
Mark looked at Alan.
“Hey, I like Mo. No offense. Okay?”
“No offense taken. I think you might even be right.”
On one occasion Padraig brought Mo a finger-sized chunk of bog oak, as black as licorice. Mo cooed with delight when she accepted it from his hand. It looked like nature had sculpted it so it resembled a female form with one body that was the stem and three knots at one end that looked like separate knobbly heads. Up close, the heads were all different, like the three ages of womanhood. Mo stared and stared at it. But she didn’t sit down and draw it. Nor did she place it on one of her altars. Instead she kept it with her constantly, to be taken out and fondled, like a talisman.
The Snowmelt River (The Three Powers) Page 4
