Grandmother and the Priests

by Taylor Caldwell

  The Bishop remembered the dialogues between God and Lucifer, always conducted with courtesy and understanding. Did God remember His Morning Star, the mightiest and most brilliant of His angels? Surely, for the Holy Bible so stated. Man stood between God and Lucifer, like a burning and muddy wall of death. God forgave, but Lucifer could not.

  The white storm outside the Bishop’s house roared into vast fury, full of shrieking and howling voices, and the Bishop came to himself with a start. Mustard jumped upon his knees, never taking her golden eyes from Lucifer, and she flattened her ears and her mouth gaped open, showing all her savage white fangs. She was on guard.

  “Our little business,” said Lucifer, in an almost gentle voice. “Your soul, my lord, for the lives and souls of your young people. I have eternity, but you have only a little time.”

  “Why should you wish my soul?” said the Bishop. “I am only an insignificant man, of no importance. Sure, and you should be wanting the souls of the pompous men of the earth, the kings and the emperors, and not of a miserable, starving old Bishop like myself, in a poor little country.”

  “Your humility is fascinating,” said Lucifer. “What youthful sins you committed have been forgiven you. Since you became a priest you have lived a most holy life, and are blameless. Is not such a soul precious to God and Lucifer? If I gain your soul, then He has a great defeat. Our triumphs are not the petty triumphs of man. Well?”

  During powerful stress the Bishop had always resorted to a small but priceless object, which never failed to comfort and console him. His eyes turned to the little chest which contained it, and fastened on the very drawer. He felt tears on his lashes. He pondered again. It had been said that Lucifer could read the most inmost thoughts of men. The Bishop visualized the item in the drawer of the chest and said, “You can read my thoughts, I am thinking?”

  “Certainly,” said Lucifer.

  “Of what am I thinking, then?”

  “You are pondering if you should withhold your one soul even if it means the death, and perhaps the hell, of two hundred others.”

  The Bishop kept his withered lips from smiling. But he could not help wondering. Why had Lucifer not read his thoughts, had not seen the small item in his mind? The Bishop’s heart leapt with courage and resolution. It was a mystery, but he had no time now to wonder over mysteries.

  “I cannot give you my soul, nor is it pledging it I am, for any reason,” he said with quiet firmness, and he looked into Lucifer’s marvelous blue eyes with the shadows of endless centuries in them. “But, I will give you my life for the lives of my children in the cold prisons.”

  “That is a wretched bargain,” said Lucifer, with a little laughter. “What is your life to me, and is not your life God’s and not yours to dispose of, my lord? Your very offer is a mortal sin, is it not?” Lucifer paused, and he was very thoughtful. “Was it a mortal sin, Bishop? If so, and you do not repent of that offer, then I can take your life in payment and your soul will belong to me.”

  The Bishop cowered. Lucifer held out his gemmed hand to him, smiling again, and every finger flashed. Mustard darted her head forward with a frightful snarl and her jaws snapped upon the hand. Lucifer contemplated the cat almost affectionately, then tapped the writhing head with the finger of his other hand. At once Mustard howled dreadfully and there was a stench of burning hair and hide in the air, and a wisp of smoke rising from Mustard’s flesh. Crying aloud, the Bishop put his palm over the tormented head and the heat stung his skin. He clasped Mustard to his breast, but she struggled from his arms and stood on his knees, valiantly facing Lucifer and preparing to spring in spite of her agony. Now she was one ginger-colored menace, and utterly silent.

  “A melodramatic gesture,” said Lucifer with regret, “and one I do not usually make. I leave that to lesser demons, such as the souls of men. My apologies. Your cat did not need convincing, but you did. Time grows short,” and he lifted his noble head and listened to the ferocity of the white gale along the eaves and windows and doors, and heard its wild battering.

  “A cruel thing!” cried the Bishop, with tears on his cheeks. He clutched Mustard’s rear legs to prevent her from leaping. “You are wrong; I had no intention to commit a sin, mortal or venial, in offering my old life in exchange for the lives of my young flock. I offered it as saints have offered theirs, to save others from the suffering and the gallows. It is not accounted a sin.”

  “I am no theologian,” said Lucifer, “in such minor matters. Well, then, your soul? I am growing impatient.”

  “Not my soul,” said the Bishop, resolutely. “My soul belongs to God, and never to you. But, I have a treasure which always I have held dearer than my lowly life, and it is that treasure I am offering you for the taking.”

  He held his breath and watched Lucifer intensely, wondering again if he could read his thoughts. Lucifer studied him in genial silence, and the blue of his eyes appeared to wash over the Bishop’s face.

  “My life and my joys and my sorrows are entwined with my treasure,” faltered the Bishop. “All the years of my life. It is dearer to me than aught else in the world, and so it has been. Will you take it?”

  “It is dearer to you than your life?” said Lucifer. “Then it is as dear as your soul?”

  The Bishop did not reply. His trembling hands stroked Mustard’s back.

  “If it is as dear as your soul to your lordship, then the fibres of your spirit are entwined with it.”

  The Bishop closed his eyes in pain.

  “It is said that I never feel compassion for any man,” said Lucifer, “but strangely I feel compassion for your lordship. I am much underrated. What is your treasure?”

  The Bishop dared to open his eyes, and he was again incredulous. He said with great softness, “But surely you are knowing, for do you not read the thoughts and hearts of men?”

  “Um,” said Lucifer, thoughtfully. Again the fiery blueness of his eyes swept over the little Bishop’s wizened features, and the Bishop could feel its impact like a stroke of lightning on his heart. But he did not quake now. He waited.

  “A fine treasure,” said Lucifer. “It is, indeed, dearer to you than your miserable life. It is of no value except to you, and so it is of value to me. Let me consider a moment.” The eyes did not leave the Bishop’s face, and he stared back at this stupendous archangel and hardly let himself breathe.

  “Done,” said Lucifer, suddenly. He examined the hand on which Mustard’s fangs had snapped. There was no trace of a bruise on it, or any mar.

  The Bishop felt the sagging of an awful weakness, whether of renewed fear or relief he did not know, but it was compounded of both.

  “I will not be giving you my dearest treasure,” he said, “until my children are safe.” He paused, knowing the deviousness of Lucifer.

  “Safe,” he repeated, firmly. “Not safe in death, not safe through a vile trick, which would not be safety at all. Free, alive, safe — in the meaning I have, so that they live out the years God has allotted them in hope and peace.”

  “I cannot guarantee the hope and peace for every heart and soul,” said Lucifer. “It is for their own choosing. But I will set them free of the prison, free of the hangman, free of bondage. For your treasure.” He held out his hand again, and the Bishop restrained Mustard.

  “I am a man of my word,” said the Bishop, “and you know that, I am thinking. Many was the head I knocked and broke in my youth, but never did I lie knowingly and with deliberation and the full consent of my will. So I promise you my treasure when you have completed the bargain. You have only to return and I will place it in your hand.”

  When Lucifer did not speak, the Bishop went on with more urgency: “I have given you my word. Do you demand payment before you have fulfilled your own word? That is not in any legend of you.”

  “You are asking me to trust you,” said Lucifer, “I who trust no man. I believe you will give me your dearest treasure, and so it is a bargain.” He stood up, and so tall was he that he towere
d almost to the ceiling and the room quivered as if with flashes of white flame. Mustard howled, but her rigid body still strained at the archangel in her desire to attack.

  “Hush, my darlin’,” said the Bishop, stroking the poor burned head gently. Mustard started, and the Bishop looked up. He and Mustard were alone, and the peat fire was very low and the lamp was guttering and the white storm shook the little house as a dog shakes a rat.

  The door was flung open and there was old Eileen on the threshold of the room, with a patched woolen garment over her long nightgown. She blinked at her brother wrathfully. “And what is it you are doing, Bernard, at this hour of the morning and Mass but two hours away, at your age and with no food in your stomach for two days?”

  “I — I was thinking,” said the Bishop.

  “Hah!” exclaimed Eileen, putting her veined hands on her hips. She scowled about the room. “And who was it you was thinking with, for did I not hear voices?”

  “You heard voices?” said the Bishop.

  “Your ould squeaky one, and another! It was not talking to Mustard you were!”

  “What did the voice sound like?” said the Bishop.

  Eileen glared at him suspiciously. “The voice of a man, ye ould fool! Or was it,” asked Eileen with sarcasm, “the voice of an angel, he visiting you?”

  “Yes,” said the Bishop.

  Eileen snorted. She loved her brother with all her heart, but he was younger than she and she considered him only a lad who needed watching and bullying. “Glory be to the saints!” she cried. “And it’s bragging ye are, in your dotage and your sins, and making mock of your poor sister! Off to bed with you, for a little sleep.” She sniffed suddenly. “And what is that stench, your highness? Your pipe?”

  The Bishop tried to rise, but all at once he felt quite sick and undone. Then Eileen was fascinated by Mustard. “Look at the ginger divil!” she said, marveling. “On your knee, she who would niver go near you.”

  “A — a piece of fire fell on her head,” said the Bishop faintly. “I comforted her.”

  Eileen bore down on Mustard, and examined the burned spot incredulously. “Well, then,” she said, after a moment, “it’s no great harm.” She seized Mustard roughly and prepared to toss her onto the chair which Lucifer had occupied, but Mustard howled terribly, writhed in Eileen’s arms, and sprang to the floor.

  “Her own chair!” said Eileen. “And why will she not take it?”

  Mustard scuttled under the Bishop’s chair, her body vibrating. “Has the divil been after her?” said Eileen with disbelief.

  “That he was,” said the Bishop with his last strength. And he fainted in his seat. His final memory before he became unconscious was of the mighty roaring of the storm and the whimpering of Mustard under his legs.

  When he opened his eyes again it was to a glare of sunlight flashing from deep snow, and the doctor was at his bed, and he felt sick to death. He could only think of one of his priests and he whispered, “Jack. Fetch me Jack. I am dying.”

  “Not a bit of it,” said the doctor. “A fever, and hunger, but there’s a fine fowl boiling in the kitchen which I brought with my own two hands. You’ll be better for the soup and a wing.” He was a kind old man and had very little money.

  “No,” said the Bishop, and blinked the fog out of his eyes. When he could see again he felt a warm comfort in his stomach and warmth at his feet, and a candle burned beside his bed and the moon looked in the window. Eileen, wrapped in a thick shawl, was dozing in a chair near her brother. She came awake at once, almost as soon as he had awakened.

  He had had, she said with satisfaction, a good supper of chicken soup and potatoes, and had devoured it like a wolf, and it was now midnight and he must sleep. She put her wizened hand on his forehead and nodded with more satisfaction. The Bishop was dazed. He moistened his lips and tried to speak and moved his head to clear his wits — and sunlight struck on his eyes. It was another day. But Eileen said it was two days and the doctor was pleased that the fever had gone. The Bishop tried to sit up; weakness overpowered him like a wave and he fell back on his pillows and slept again.

  When he awoke on another day, free of the fever and cool and with his wits about him, Ginger was sitting on the bed, on the Bishop’s feet over the worn blankets. Her golden eyes gazed at him wisely. The top of her head had been lavishly anointed with Eileen’s pet and odoriferous salve and the smell filled the little cold bedroom, which was full of quiet winter light.

  “Mustard,” said the Bishop, and remembered everything. His heart quickened with dread as his whirling mind assured him he had been only the victim of a feverish dream and sick hallucinations. A Lucifer did not come to a very old and starveling Bishop in his little house in Dublin. A Lucifer, the mightiest of all angels, did not waste time in seeking tiny souls; such souls are wooed by tiny demons. A Lucifer could read the minds of all men, and yet, in that dream, he had not been able to read the Bishop’s mind, not even in the simplest matter. Lucifers are not deceived. “It is my wretched pride,” said the old Bishop, “in my thinking that Lucifer would find me worth the tempting! Oh, it’s the proud and wicked heart I have, the black, black heart, and me a Bishop!” He looked at his ring; it was so loose now that Eileen had wrapped the back of it with white yarn so it would not fall from his finger.

  Then he began to weep, remembering the young folk in the prisons awaiting death for the crime of defending themselves and wanting the food of their labors for their children and parents, and for the greater crime of a dream of freedom and liberty to worship as they must. The Bishop turned his face into his fat pillow and the coarse linen was soon wet with his tears. Mustard moved uneasily on his feet, then she slipped down and nuzzled his neck gently. He turned his head and stroked the thick gingery fur and saw again the big healing burn on her valiant head. “Was it a dream, Mustard?” he asked her, urgently. Mustard whined a little, consolingly.

  The door was flung open and there was Jack Morgan, the middle-aged priest, tall and big and with a ruddy, lighted face, and the fiercest blue eyes in Ireland. “Jack, Jack,” said the Bishop, feebly, “I have been wanting you — ”

  The priest, exhaling ice-cold air and briskness and elation, knelt to kiss the Bishop’s ring, and his eyes were dancing with exultation. “It is I who have been here every blessed day,” he shouted in his ringing voice, “praying beside your bed and listening — your lordship will forgive me — to your feverish babblings about Lucifer!” The priest laughed richly. Before the Bishop could utter even a murmur, Jack Morgan roared on:

  “Oh, it’s the grand news I have for you, my lord, this morning! The grand news!”

  The Bishop began to tremble, and he started up on his pillows.

  The priest chuckled heartily, and shook his head with delight. “Ye’ll not be believing it, my lord, but the lads and girls are free and safe! That Sassenagh judge — he was thrown into the deep snow from his carriage three days ago, and broke his da — I mean his two legs! And it was Judge Rafferty who presided for the hearing, a Protestant but an Irishman, and may God love him!”

  “Tell me!” cried the Bishop, when his priest stopped to rub his big knees and shake his head.

  Jack Morgan’s eyes glittered with joy and happiness. “It was Judge Rafferty who said the young folk had but defended themselves, and it was sympathy he had for them in spite of the stout blackthorns and their rioting against the peace and order of the Realm and Her Majesty’s Government! It was regretting, he was, that the other judge had lost his nephew, but who could swear which lad had cracked his skull? It was the fortunes of war, said Judge Rafferty, and the accidents of war, and his was the straight face, and he said skull-cracking was an old sport in the world and there’d be no end to it. He’d cracked many a skull himself at rugby, and was it a crime in a war but not in a game? Ah, it was the smooth voice he had, smooth as cream and cold as new cheese on a winter’s day, and the Crown Prosecutor protested and down came the gavel and the judge’s wig fell over his ey
es, and all laughed in the room. The judge,” said Jack Morgan, with rising joy, “fined each lad one pound and each colleen eight shillings, and gave them a warning.”