An Immortal Descent

by Kari Edgren

  The caravan swayed under a tremendous push. Biting back a cry, I steadied myself through the motion.

  “Ho, Calhoun, which do you prefer?” a man yelled. “The torch or the sea?”

  Movement came from the driver’s box, a shifting of weight that creaked the floorboards. “Friends,” Calhoun cried out over the crowd. “Let it be fire or water, I’ve returned to offer meself up to your judgments.”

  A cheer exploded.

  “You heard him,” a man cried. “The fire it be, me lads.”

  “Not so fast,” another replied. “Water be better unless you fancy breathing smoke all day.”

  Aghast, I looked to Ailish and attempted to compress the full measure of my thoughts into a single expression. Silver tongue or not, those people are going to kill us if we don’t get out of here soon.

  She just shook her head, conveying a very different message.

  I glanced at the door, gauged the distance to escape.

  Ailish eyed me. “I’ll chill your skin through if’n you try to leave yet.”

  Her tone inferred absolute sincerity. So be it. I would just have to be faster, while screaming to high heaven for help. Surely the villagers would see my distress and refrain from attacking me.

  “Which will it be, Calhoun?” a woman asked. “We be civil folk here in Dunmore and offer a choice, though you treated us poorly with those vile potions.”

  A chorus of approval came from around the caravan.

  “Decide for yourselves what’s best.” Calhoun sounded oddly resigned to his fate, whether it be imminent death or the destruction of his private effects and livelihood as a traveling charlatan.

  The villagers’ voices fell to a low murmur, and I strained my ears for any stray words.

  “But first,” Calhoun said, and the murmur softened a bit, “you’ll want to know what occurred at the sacred shrine o’ Kildare when I knelt to beg forgiveness for what I’d done. A most unusual experience, I tell you. Some here may even call it a miracle, sent from heaven above to make up for me past mistakes.” He paused dramatically. “Do I dare say it aloud...” He paused again, and I could just see him shaking his head in mock indecision.

  Tell them something, I silently screamed, and be quick about it!

  “We won’t be hearing any more quackery lies, Calhoun.”

  “I feared as much,” he said. “You hate me so, it don’t matter what happened. Not even if I was visited by Saint Brigid herself, and told where to find a finger bone from one of her blessed hands.”

  The crowd fell silent, no doubt as surprised as I was by the outlandish claim.

  Very clever, Calhoun. A thin line separated the goddess Brigid from the beloved saint, so thin in fact that my mother considered them to be the same being. And it didn’t take a stretch to see me as Brigid’s hands in the mortal world. By this standard, Calhoun had practically told the truth, except that I was full flesh and blood and had been kidnapped from a ship rather than discovered in a hidden location.

  “The same blessed hands,” Calhoun boomed, his voice growing stronger, “that she used to weave straw crosses while attending the sick and weary o’ heart.”

  A moist thud squished against the side of the caravan, sounding suspiciously like a rotten cabbage. Or possibly horse manure. “Don’t be listening to his gob o’ lies,” a man shouted. “Mrs. Murphy near died, and a lot more took sick last time this charlatan passed through. Now we’ve a Christian duty to see he don’t harm any more folk.”

  “True words, me friend,” Calhoun said. “I made a terrible mistake that day, relying solely on the knowledge o’ men to make those cures. But tell me this, does your Christian duty include denying godly miracles?”

  There was a collective intake of breath, though without seeing any faces, I didn’t know if the villagers were angry or fearful at having one of their own accused of blasphemy in a roundabout way.

  “If’n you want no part it,” Calhoun continued, “I’ll surrender all me worldly goods, be they for the fire or the sea. Do your duty so, and let all Ireland know that the folks o’ Dunmore East spit on Saint Brigid’s gift.”

  Tense silence followed. Seconds passed. Perhaps even a full minute as I stared at the panel, praying the crowd wouldn’t do anything more drastic than chase Calhoun out of town, caravan and all. Such a scenario could even prove beneficial, allowing me time to catch my breath and plan a proper escape while we traveled to another village. Ailish might pose a problem, but nothing I couldn’t get around given enough thought.

  “Make way,” a woman yelled. “I’ll be having a word with Master Calhoun.”

  A few folks grumbled protests. I waited for more, but when nothing else came, I imagined the parting of bodies to let the woman pass.

  “Ah, Mrs. Murphy,” Calhoun said kindly. “I was hoping you’d be the first to receive Brigid’s blessing. Does your belly still be troubling you so? Or have you a new ailment that needs tending?”

  “Don’t play coy with me,” she puffed, somewhat winded from the short walk. “You know it’s me belly.”

  “Then step right up, and we’ll have those pains fixed in no time.” The caravan swayed and creaked. “Take this crate, me lad, and set it afore the window.”

  “Not so fast,” the woman said. “How do I know you aren’t to poison me again?”

  Calhoun chuckled. “Saint Brigid’s cure be based on faith, Mrs. Murphy, not the science o’ men. She bid me to discard all other remedies and rely solely on the relic and water from her sacred well. In Dublin, one swig cured a man o’ blindness when he found the courage to reach in through me window and touch the blessed finger. Another time, a child twisted by the palsy ran home to his mam on two strong legs. Think you after these miracles, she’d ignore the God-fearing folks of Dunmore?” He rapped three times against the wall just above Ailish’s head. As if on cue, she jumped up, moved the curtain back in place, and slowly slid open the wooden panel. Only then did I notice two slits in the dark velvet cloth.

  The caravan tilted on its springs, and a thud hit the ground. Each sound passed clearly inside now, marking Calhoun’s movements. “The faith of a mustard seed, Mrs. Murphy, that’s all you need to please Saint Brigid.”

  “Am I to put me hands through there again?” she asked skeptically.

  “That you’ll do,” Calhoun said. “But there won’t be any fortunes given out this time. Only her finger bone be inside, waiting for you.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Courage, milady. I’ll even drink first from the bottle so to show it’s safe...” Seconds passed, and Calhoun gave a contented sigh. “Pure as heaven, I could have a barrel and not get me fill... Your turn, Mrs. Murphy. Take a good long swig... Ah, yes, that should do. Here’s me hand to help you onto the crate.”

  “You’re sure it’s safe?” she asked in a breathy whisper.

  “Now, now, Mrs. Murphy. Do you suppose Saint Brigid would be hurting you? The same blessed woman who converted a pagan chieftain on his deathbed? Or healed two sisters with a few drops of her blood that had spilled into the mud? Have faith, and be an example to your friends and neighbors that the people of Dunmore stand by miracles.”

  There was a determined sniff. “I’ll do it, Master Calhoun, so help me God, for I’ve no other choice but to die.”

  “And help you He will, Mrs. Murphy. Now up you go. We’ve tested Saint Brigid’s patience enough for one day.” A shoe scuffed right outside the window, and then another. “There you be... See those two openings in the curtain? Stick your hands through and ask the saint to put a blessing upon you.”

  Ailish waved frantically for me to stand. I did, moving silent as a mouse.

  The curtain swayed. Hesitant fingers poked through the velvet. Ailish leaned close, her icy breath brushing my ear and sending a violent shiver through me. “Put your han
ds like this.”

  I mirrored the action, extending my arms from the elbow, palms up. The remainder of Mrs. Murphy’s hands appeared to the wrists, palms down, and Ailish pushed her hands repeatedly upward, gesturing for me to close the distance.

  Mrs. Murphy startled at the initial touch. With a small cry of alarm, her hands jerked up, breaking the contact.

  “There, there,” Calhoun cooed. “No need to be frightened.”

  Her palms came down again, tentative at first, then growing bolder until they rested entirely on mine. “I feel it!” she cried. “But not just a bone. It be two hands, fully formed.”

  “‘Tis the miracle working,” Calhoun said. “Now lean a wee bit closer and whisper your troubles to Saint Brigid. She be ready to help.”

  Gift or no, I despised being forced to act at Calhoun’s bidding as though I were nothing more than a well-trained pony. Grudgingly, I willed a small fire to life in my center while Mrs. Murphy gathered her wits to speak.

  “Blessed Brigid,” she said at last, so softly I had to tilt my head forward to catch every word. “Night and day, pains torment me belly. At first, I thought it be a passing colic, but the pains keep getting stronger. I can’t eat more than a mouthful at a time, and Sunday past, I started vomiting blood with me supper.”

  My forehead creased in thought. Back home in Pennsylvania, old Nan had experienced similar symptoms, though I later discovered that the woman had inadvertently swallowed a sewing thimble and then administered a purgative of Indian Physick in an attempt to dislodge it. I truly doubted the exact same scenario, but it was possible Mrs. Murphy had ingested something not meant for human consumption.

  Warmth ran to my palms, opening a link between us. Emotions flowed into me, and my knees turned weak from the unexpected stream of agony. Dear Lord... I wanted to weep from the pain and desperation. No wonder she had trusted Calhoun again after he’d nearly killed her two months ago. Swearing a silent oath at the man, I squared my shoulders, anxious to end her suffering.

  “Please help me,” she pleaded. “I’ve no fear o’ dying, but I’ve a daughter at home yet. English soldiers killed her da and older brothers two summers ago, so she’s got no one else to be looking after her—”

  Past resentments of the English rose up unbidden, those I had purposefully buried deep once Henry came into my life. But old habits die hard, and I swore another oath, one that would have burned my mother’s ears, though the words had come straight from my father. He’d known firsthand what the Irish endured under English rule, and made sure the knowledge ran through the blood of his children, despite our being born thousands of miles away in the Colonies.

  “I’m not asking forever,” Mrs. Murphy continued. “Only a year or two more ’til I can see her settled with a good lad.”

  Oh, you’ll have more than that once I’m done... The woman deserved no less after what she’d suffered.

  The curtain and Mrs. Murphy’s hands disappeared from view as my mind delved beneath the skin to travel the length of her arm. Rounding the shoulder, I passed through one lung and her spleen before dropping into the pit of her stomach. The space was empty except for a small amount of red-tinged liquid pooled near the opening of the small intestine, no doubt the alleged water from Brigid’s well mixed with blood. A quick inspection of the stomach linings revealed nothing unusual until I arrived at the upper left crook near the esophagus.

  There you are.

  Old Nan’s thimble was a docile lamb compared to the hideous black tumor I found embedded in the wall of Mrs. Murphy’s fundus. At first glance, it looked like a crab, its legs and body so cancerous and swollen, I could hardly believe the woman out of bed, let alone standing on a crate with her hands poking through a drape. I cursed both Calhoun and the English for good measure as the heat intensified in my fingers.

  Mrs. Murphy twitched nervously. “I be feeling something funny,” she said. Her breathing had quickened while I nosed around her stomach, and the first hints of panic flowed into me. Not wanting to lose contact, I shot up to the brainstem and bathed it in soothing warmth.

  Her panic subsided with a slow breath. “That be...that be real nice.”

  A wave of excited chatter passed through the villagers. I ignored it, returning to Mrs. Murphy’s stomach. As Calhoun had already set the scene for a miracle, I saw no need to hide my gift, and allowed the power to flow freely from my hands.

  “Oh!” she said, in such a way that I could well imagine the surprised circle of her mouth in response to the sudden warmth.

  Bathed in Brigid’s fire, the tumor began to recede. The numerous legs withdrew first, pulling back to the main body, which shriveled to nothing in another burst of fire. Slowing my power to a trickle, I then passed through the wall to inspect the surrounding organs for any signs of disease. When nothing else appeared, I lowered my hands, breaking the contact between our palms to signify the healing was complete.

  The inside of the caravan flashed back into view, everything turned a shadowy gray from the diminished light. Mrs. Murphy’s hands dangled in midair, trembling from the experience. A few seconds passed before she pulled them away, and they disappeared through the slits in the drapery.

  “How be your belly now, Mrs. Murphy?” Calhoun asked, with a confidence that left no doubt as to the answer.

  “The pain...it’s...” Her voice broke on a sob.

  “It’s what, me dear lady?” Calhoun pressed. “Tell the folks true what you be feeling.”

  There was another sob. “Nothing... I feel nothing in me belly.”

  Silence wavered, uncertain. Then a throat cleared. “Is it true, mam?” a girl asked. “Did Saint Brigid heal you so?”

  Still standing on the crate, Mrs. Murphy started to cry in earnest. “‘Tis true. She healed your old mam.”

  The villagers burst into cheers, and the word “miracle” buzzed from mouth to mouth.

  “Well done,” Ailish murmured. “You saved our skins, all right.”

  My shoulders slumped forward, more from relief of averting a disaster than the actual work of healing.

  Calhoun chuckled just below the window. “Here, take me hand. Careful now, one foot at a time, Mrs. Murphy. No sense breaking your neck...” He paused for a moment. “Here, lass, come help your mam indoors for a glass o’ wine. The miracle has turned her legs to jelly.”

  “Move aside,” a man shouted above the crowd. “I’ll take me turn next on the crate.”

  “Hold on,” a woman answered. “It won’t take but a second for Brigid to heal me aching joints.”

  “Your rheumatism, can wait, Mary Gibbons,” the man said. “I’ve an abscessed tooth that’s to poison me head if’n it’s left to rot any longer.”

  Mary snorted her opinion of the tooth. “Ladies first, you ole’ fool. Now budge out of me way afore I knock you to the ground.”

  The sound of jostling bodies and angry grunts passed through the curtain. In a matter of seconds, the grunts turned to shouts, and I began to envision all manner of chaos, when the caravan swayed from a sudden press forward. Ailish fell back onto the bench with a surprised squeak. I stumbled to the side, catching myself on the cabinets.

  “Calm down!” Calhoun shouted. “There be no need for shovin’. We’ve time enough for everyone.”

  “What about me joints?” Mary asked.

  “Very well,” Calhoun said. “Anyone wanting to speak through the window, please stand in an orderly fashion behind Mrs. Gibbons.”

  The caravan swayed again, though with less force this time.

  “Keep it orderly,” Calhoun yelled. “And have your silver ready, mind you.”

  A heartbeat passed for this last part to sink in. Once it did, the protests took a different tone.

  “What say you, Calhoun?” a man asked. “Have you a mind to profit from Saint Brigid?”

&nbs
p; I rolled my eyes at so naïve a question. Profit indeed. The black-hearted scoundrel would bleed these people dry before picking the flesh from their bones.

  “It’s not me intention to get rich from miracles,” Calhoun protested. “I’d live on air alone to please the blessed lady. But a man’s got to fill his belly at the end o’ the day, same as everyone else, and to keep his horses in feed.”

  The protests grew fainter.

  Emboldened, Calhoun continued with growing fervor. “Do you think it would please Saint Brigid if’n her servant died for lack o’ nourishment? And after all I’ve endured to bring miracles to the folks of Dunmore? Pay me what you will, but remember the miser’s farthing reaps a miser’s reward.”

  “How much do you want then for a swig o’ water and to touch the relic?” a man asked.

  “Well, the people o’ Dublin paid two crowns for the privilege, but as I owe a debt to some folks here, I’ll settle for a single crown and call us square.”

  “Greedy bollix,” Ailish muttered. “‘Twould serve him right if’n they tossed him to the sea.”

  I waved a frantic hand for quiet while straining my ears for the villagers’ response.

  “Don’t seem unreasonable once you think on it,” someone said at last. “Even the priests get paid for doing God’s work.”

  “Right you are,” Calhoun said, obviously pleased by the comparison. “And who can dispute God’s work be done today.”

  There was a smattering of grudging assents.

  “We’ll pay you, Calhoun. Half a crown for the water, and another to touch the relic.”

  Calhoun clapped his hands together, and I could just see the greed shining on his pudgy face. “Saint Brigid be pleased for certain by the good hearts o’ Dunmore...”

  “And lighter purses,” Ailish scoffed.

  “Take mine first,” Mary Gibbons called, her anxious voice followed by the clink of coins. “Now give me a drink o’ that water afore me joints swell stiff as a board from standing out in this cold.”

  “Very good, Mrs. Gibbons... Take the bottle just so, then Calhoun will help you onto the crate... The rest o’ you will stay orderly like and wait your turn. Ladies first, and don’t be shoving too close.”