by Paul Kelly
“There’s one here left over from last year’s Christmas cards and it’s quite big. It should take that lot, I would think. Here, try it.” Rose spoke with helpful authority. “The only thing is it is lilac, does that matter, do you think?” Shona studied the envelope and put Fern’s letters inside. “That will do fine. I shouldn’t think Rome would object to a lilac envelope.” Shona laughed as she addressed it on the outside, to Peter and when she returned to the hospital, Fern was much the same as he had been when she left him that morning, but they had moved him into a small room and he was looking very much alone when Shona approached his bed. She took his thin little hand in hers.
“Whatever shall we do with you, my love?” she whispered as Fern looked at her steadily with his deep sensual, if sad eyes. The eyes that still held their fascination for her that they had always done, where the large dark pupils were pools of rich garnets and his face bore a serenity that was not of this world. . . . Already, she felt that Fern had advanced into another hemisphere of a deeper reality than she could ever understand. His was the true world, for he peered out from it with such wisdom and grace, defying the seventeen short summers of his young life.
“Have you heard from Peter?” he asked in a low whisper, but his heart knew the answer.
“He will be very busy for some time, but when he has settled, he will write to you. He has only been gone a short time,” she replied and started to read to Fern, as he lay with his eyes closed.
“What day is it?” he enquired suddenly looking at the ceiling as he spoke.
“Tuesday the twenty-seventh, why?” she asked and he answered her proudly.
“I will be eighteen on September the third.”
Shona was surprised at the sudden remembrance of his birthday and tried to comfort him.
“We’ll make you a cake ... a nice big one,” she said and Fern smiled weakly.
“Will you send a piece to Peter?” he asked as he coughed and swallowed painfully.
“Yes, my darling,” she replied and she suddenly knew that she wasn’t sad anymore. Her love had gone through the crucible of suffering and she had come out of it unscathed, knowing that her love would be with her forever. “Yes, my darling. We’ll send him a piece … of course we will ... a large piece.”
Shona held his hand gently but firmly. His skin was moist and his energy was spent and as she released her hold, his hand fell limply onto the bed and he turned weakly to her and tried to talk, as a smile played around his lips, but she put up her hand to stop him talking…
“Don’t talk, my love. I understand, my darling ... Just rest,”
Shona uttered her words through her tears and Fern smiled. His eyes worded his appreciation but his lips could not move. He swallowed hard and his body convulsed as he tried to cough again and Shona shared His pain, feeling so helpless in her efforts to placate the suffering she could see before her. Her body wanted to be away from the scene but her love compelled her to battle against her feelings of fear and to remain where her love would not allow her the peace she sought. Father Roache came towards the bed as she dried her eyes and she retired.
“You can come back in a moment,” he said as he prepared to anoint the young patient and Fern lay still, accepting the balm without question.
The priest then gave him Holy Communion but had to break the Host to a tiny fragment in order that Fern could swallow it. The entire ceremony took only two minutes and as Shona returned to her place by Fern’s side … she was surprised at the change that had come over him. His body was still very weak, but his mind was more alert and attentive to her as he tried to talk. Shona wanted him to be still but he showed in his eyes that he was able to continue.
“Shona, I don’t understand. I am in such terrible pain, and yet, I am so very happy,” he explained and she was confused at his statement but delighted that he could talk so well.
“Rest, my love,” she said again, trying to get him to conserve his energy but he continued to talk quietly and with intent.
“I feel as though I am looking down at my body with its pain, but I am not in it, I seem to be outside of myself, looking on at someone else suffering,” he said and coughed again, but with less effort and strain.
Shona was happy. Outside she could hear a little bird chirping wildly, but she was astonished and could not believe her eyes when she saw a white dove resting on a nearby rose bush and Nurse Ritchie joined her to observe the sight she saw.
“I’ve never seen a dove in this area before. That’s strange.” The nurse made her comment and smiled as she went about her duties and Shona returned her attentions to Fern.
“Thank everyone for their kindness and patience,” he went on, but she pulled a face with a look of anxiety.
“You can do that yourself ...Rose and Tom will be here later to see you,” she said, but her voice faltered as she tried to reassure him, squeezing his hand gently and he turned towards her.
“Hush your mouth,” he whispered, “will you kiss my ear again, please?” he asked softly and Shona came nearer to him. Her heart wanted to explode with the love she had for him. His presence was her life; her reason for living and she tried not to cry as her lips touched his ear, but she was overcome as she cupped his head in her hands and gently but sweetly bit his earlobe. She did not want ever to leave him.
She did not want ever to stop what she was doing, but as she pressed his cheeks tenderly to her own, Fern’s head slipped from her hands and fell back on his pillow. Shona became alarmed and called for the Sister.
“What has happened? He was talking so quietly and then he just fell back. Is he all right, Sister?” she asked and the nurse made her investigation.
“I think he has gone into a coma,” she said, “I will call the doctor immediately,” The Sister raced to the duty room as the little dove outside stirred. It struggled free from the wild rose briar and soared into the azure sky; it’s crimson breast surrounding the embedded thorn.
Shona looked around her in despair. Her blood ran slowly and coldly through her veins as she cuddled her love, with tenderness and with care and lulled him as she would have done a sleeping babe. Her full warm tears betrayed her broken heart as the love of her life lay so still in her arms. His breath was shallow and his pulse was weak.
“Oh my darling… my sweetest darling…”
A tear fell heavily from her eye as she murmured her love in his ear and the dew of her grief distorted the vision of his loveliness as she took his pale hand in hers and kissed his fingers, but the desolation that he could not respond was more than she could bear. She wanted him to open his eyes and look at her, even if only for a few moments but his breathing continued laboriously and his face twitched with nervous pain. Shona brushed her tears away and looked down at him.
“I’ll never leave you, my darling… NEVER …we will always be together,” she said as she pressed her head gently to his and continued to lull him in her arms... and a smile crept over her face as she nodded her understanding of the situation…
Chapter Fifty
ROSE AND TOM came into the tiny ward where Fern was lying. They were confused as they observed the ritual before them. Confused and alarmed to see Shona was smiling through the tears that filled her eyes.
“We can go now,” she said and her eyes shone bright and ecstatic.
Rose looked at Tom enquiringly but followed her daughter in trusting obedience, glancing back at the bed as they left the ward. “We can go now,” she repeated. “Fern will be waiting for us at the waterfall.”
Shona clasped her parents by the arms and hurriedly departed the scene that had brought her so much pain and desolation. Her heart beat fast as she walked and Tom put out his hand and touched her shoulder.
He was afraid and it showed on his face.
“My darling ... My love ...” he pleaded, but Rose put her finger to h
er mouth and Tom said no more. They hurried off together as Shona had requested and the ward Sister whispered to Rose as they left.
“He’s in a coma. The doctor will be here at any moment.”
***
Shona’s hair blew in the cold wind and her warm tears were chilled to her cheeks as they fell, but still she smiled and waited by the giant waterfall with her hands folded as if in prayer.
“We should go now, my darling.”
It was Rose who broke the silence but Shona did not respond, as Tom came towards her and took her arm.
“Come, my love… It’s cold and we have a little way to go. It even looks as though it might rain at any moment,” he said and glanced at Rose for assurance, but she only had eyes for her daughter. Shona sat on a nearby rock and smiled. She rocked gently to and fro, sucking her thumb as her consolation and the mighty waterfall roared in curiosity of the trio before him, but no explanation was given, as the girl rocked with an indescribable peace and tranquillity that worried her anxious parents. They knew she would never leave that place until her love truce had been completed and Rose turned to her husband as she pulled her coat closely around her body.
“Come,” she said, “Let’s go home, Mahon, I will return later, but she needs to be on her own for this moment.”
Tom stared at the girl he adored and dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief.
“We will come for you shortly, my darling. Keep warm,” he said in a low voice as he took his coat and wrapped it around Shona’s shoulders, returning home in his jacket but the girl did not move as he kissed her forehead and his lips brushed her hair line. The duo left their young love to herself and wandered home wearily, but they had only gone a short distance when Tom’s coat fell to the ground from Shona’s shoulders as she continued to rock, leaving her with only a short jacket over her dress ... and her thumb never left her mouth.
***
Shona went with Tom and Rose quietly and with docility when they returned for her later, but her eyes told a tale of understanding that was incomprehensible to her guardians. She smiled and her hands were soft and gentle and warm, unaffected by the wind and rain as they escorted her home.
“He wants me to go there again tomorrow,” she said softly as they helped her indoors and took her jacket from her. Her parents looked at each other.
“Of course, my love and so you shall ...” It was Rose who spoke with fear in her eyes and her mind was troubled.
“But I shall go to him in the hospital first,” added Shona. Tom Mahon looked out of the window into the green fields before him. The long coarse grass was being swept down by the angry wind and a shadow followed its sway as the sun carried its grief into the dark clouds.
“Oh Fern, my lovely boy, my heart is sore for ye,” he cried aloud as he walked out into the garden in an effort to hide his grief in solitude, but Rose followed him and stood quietly by his side as they stared into the horizon.
“I don’t think I can take this, Mahon,” she whispered as she took his hand... and Tom pulled her gently towards himself as his lips started to tremble.
Chapter Fifty One
PETER TRIED IN VAIN TO STUDY the subjects that were expounded so expertly, yet so simple for his mind to accept, but the vision of Bolarne would not leave him and he waited with impatience until the lecture was over, before he retired to the chapel. He could hear his heart beat loudly in the silence that engulfed him as he knelt beside the pieta. His world was so small in comparison to the majestic terrain into which he had been hurled; his humanity so inconspicuous beside the professorial minds of his tutors. He felt small and weak. How many times in the past had he counselled and advised others to do what he could not now do himself.
“Tell God now, this moment, that you will amend. Do it now.” …”You could drop dead when you leave this confessional… it is now, this moment that matters. Let tomorrow take care of itself.”... “Let the dead bury the dead ...”
He closed his eyes with the sad memories of yesteryear ringing through his ears.
“I’ve told God tae gie ye what you’re wantin’, father ....”
Peter clutched his head between his hands and sighed.
His life was nothing but a sham.
“He had saved others ... Himself He cannot save. . .”
Two nuns walked gracefully across the aisle and genuflected. They could have balanced a jug of water on their heads, so alert and straight did they move and with such dignity and Peter caught a glimpse of a modest wimpled head as it passed. One of the nuns knelt near him and he considered his inadequacy in the vocation to which he had been called…
This young virgin nun could look at her God and adore Him with simplicity and total acceptance… Her resigned, pale face framed the large dark eyes that hid under her veil and her tender fingers dropped each bead as she prayed her rosary. Peter envied her peace and serenity and even the gentleness and stillness of her being, tormented his soul, for her eyes were those of Fern . . .
“Oh God, I see him everywhere. I must be going mad,” he said and he could feel the perspiration in his palms as he joined his hands in prayer. His throat was dry. The young nun crossed herself as she moved to the Lady Altar and the quiet swish of her voluminous habit taunted the hermetical silence of their surroundings and her beads clicked as she walked. Peter closed his eyes and tried to pray, but his mind was barren and his thoughts would not settle beyond Bolarne.
“I am a priest no more ... My faculty to pray has gone from me. Oh God, help me in my darkness, help me to do your will, for I am without comprehension. Help me to understand the way that you have created me,” he jabbered incoherently and the young nun glanced at him for a moment, before she returned her attentions to her prayers. Peter strained again and fixed his vision on the Pieta before him. His eyes were wide, obstructing the magnificence of the vision in his sight as a familiar gentle voice came to his ears and a diamond sparkled for a moment, before it melted and trickled down his cheek.
“Breathe, Peter ... Just breathe, my love.”
He listened intently to the words that burned his ears and he strained to catch again the voice of his love from Bolarne, but the silence that ensued mocked him, as fear obsessed him once more to augment the loneliness of his state. He tried to reflect on how he was when he had heard the voice. Which way he was kneeling; whether his eyes were open or shut, in order to capture again that rapturous moment of that voice.
If only he could go back in time for those last few moments, then perhaps he would hear it again ... but to no avail. The leering, taunting silence persisted and he was thrown again into despair, like a blind beggar calling for help.
“Fern ... Fern ... Where are you, Fern? I know you are near. Please come to me.”
The nausea of muteness continued to torment him and his eyes scanned the chapel walls looking for some tangible relief from the barren loneliness that he experienced. Darkness had fallen over the land and he was alone in this fortress of holiness. Everyone had left the chapel. The nuns had retired to their convent, waiting a new dawn to serve again the Lord who had courted them and who had so securely won their hearts. They cooked and sewed and scrubbed for a hand full of students, and all because of their love for Christ, the Son of God and Peter envied them the fullness of their lives ... as he dangled in his limbo; a spiritual invalid, with one foot in the cloister and the other in the world. He had made himself an impotent cripple for the love of a young boy and he was humbled to his very soul as he held his head low with shame. Any pride he had in his dignity as a priest, or even as a man had gone from him and he stood alone, stood as naked as he was at birth. Stripped bare and with nowhere to hide. This was indeed his Gethsemani …
“Father, if it be possible, let this chalice pass from me, nevertheless, Thy will, not mine be done ... “ he called out as he raised his arms in prayer and his eyes rested on the
painting that adorned the wall near where he was kneeling. St. Francis was being stigmatised by the Seraph on the slopes of Alvernia and Peter understood as he had never understood before, the necessity of this action and how necessary it was for God to have treated Francis in this way. What relief for the Poverello, for love is pain, in extremis, and the abscess of his finite and knowing logic had to be lanced by the unknown infinity, before the body of the Saint could be relieved of its stress. Poor ‘Brother Ass. . . . The agony and the ecstasy were ONE.
Pain and love had kissed ... and the earth made to stand in awe...
Peter’s thoughts went back to his childhood and to the poem that he had been taught as a boy at school, as he extended his arms further into the air in prayer, in imitation of the great Saint whose picture was on the wall, and he longed for some relief from his own pain “High on that enchanted mountain.
Where the Holy Francis prayed,
There, the blood flowed like a fountain
From the wounds the Seraph made.
Near the cavern, bare and lonely,
Satan stood antagonised,
There, with eyes for nought, but only
Francis being stigmatised…”
Peter’s body was racked with the agony of loneliness and in his aridity, he wanted to die, but his anguish and his torment would not justify the selfishness of his plea, and in his heart Peter knew that God had no deliverance from the state in which he was suspended.
“If I were more concerned with the things of God, I would then be able to contain this agony that tears me apart,” he lamented and he struggled with his emotions, but to no avail ... He was in the dark night of his soul and there would be no light. There would be no stigmata to ease his pain; no letting of blood and the puss of his abscess would remain with him forever as he writhed in the agony that was his alone and yearned to be another soul in another place, ... and Satan stood antagonised.
