by BJ Hoff
“I will help you again tonight,” she said, “and each morning.” Suddenly she colored, as if she had hinted at some intimacy. She looked past him, saying in a low voice, “You mustn’t mind my helping you, Morgan. It’s such a small thing…”
She made no attempt to finish her statement, and sensing her sudden awkwardness, Morgan forced a light note into his own voice when he spoke. “Well, then—after all this exertion I am eager for breakfast. Shall we go down?”
Still caught up in a torrent of emotions as they entered the dining room, Morgan felt bemused. He supposed conventional couples might think him demented, to take on over such a small thing as the moment he had just shared with Finola upstairs. Nevertheless, he did not believe for an instant that, even if he were to spend each day with her for the rest of his life, he would take a precious second of their time together for granted.
Finola knew she was being foolish entirely, to make so much of it. No doubt the common act of helping him with his shoes had meant nothing more to him than a moment of awkwardness for his own incapacity. And no doubt the touch of his hand on her hair had been nothing but an affectionate pat, much as one might stroke a well-behaved child.
But for her, it had been more. For a moment, at least, she had actually felt like his wife, indeed had managed to pretend that she helped him with his shoes every morning, and that his gentle hand on her hair had real meaning as a touch of marital affection.
Seated to his left at the table, she kept her gaze carefully trained on her plate, though each bite she lifted seemed to stick in her throat. She had been unable to meet his eyes since they sat down to breakfast, fearful that he might detect the clamor of her emotions.
How would he respond if he were to discover the depth of her feelings for him? Would he be embarrassed? Awkward? Appalled? She was convinced that most of the time, when he thought of her at all, he thought of her as he might have a younger sister, or perhaps, even worse, a daughter!
He showed her the same fondness, the same genuine affection, he offered Annie. He was ever courteous, always thoughtful, infinitely gentle. He seemed to enjoy coaxing a smile from her, or outright laughter, and, as with Annie, he obviously delighted in drawing her into a lively exchange of ideas and opinions.
Yet, there were times…rare, unguarded times…when she caught him looking at her in a different way, a way that made her mind spin and her heart skip. She would look up and find the deep green gaze settled on her with all the intensity of a caress. Or at other times, she would turn and find him studying her with such infinite tenderness she lost her breath.
At such times, he would appear flustered and would quickly look away, leaving her to wonder if she had only imagined the subtle difference in his gaze.
He confused her, disturbed her, sometimes even dismayed her, with his manner of treating her as his ward rather than as his wife—or at least as a woman. Yet, in a way she could not explain, she belonged to him. She had long ago given him her heart of hearts, and the fact that he had no awareness of the gift changed nothing. For the truth was that she could no more have resisted loving him than she could have stopped breathing.
“Have you seen Sister or Annie yet this morning?”
When Morgan’s question snapped her out of her thoughts, she felt for an instant as if he had read her mind, and she flushed guiltily. “Sister—oh, yes! I talked with her first thing this morning, in the nursery.”
“You told her about Sandemon?”
“I did, and she suggested she might speak with Annie. I expect she already has.”
Morgan nodded. “It will go hard with the lass. She still tags after Sandemon like a faithful pup.”
“I plan to keep her busy, helping me with Gabriel. And perhaps, you could set her to doing things for you, as well?”
“Aye, a good idea.” He studied her for a moment. “You’re very good with Annie, you know. She adores you.”
Finola smiled at the thought of the feisty, dark-eyed Aine. “I’m quite fond of her. Indeed, if ever I had had a little sister, I would have wanted her to be—”
Finola broke off, struck by what she had just said.
“What?” Morgan leaned toward her. “What is it?”
She looked at him. “It just occurred to me,” she said, her voice unsteady, “that for all I know…I might have a little sister…somewhere.”
He took her hand. “Does it still bother you very much, Finola, not knowing the past?”
She stared down at their clasped hands, thinking about his question. “Perhaps not as much as it once did. But it’s very strange, not really knowing who I am, where I came from—if I have family, if they miss me.…”
She glanced up at him, saw understanding and concern brimming in his eyes. “I’m not unhappy, Morgan. But…I can’t help but wonder. I suppose I shall always wonder.”
He nodded, squeezing her hand. “So long as you’re not unhappy.” He paused, then added, “You do have a family, mavourneen. You have me, and Gabriel—and Annie—”
Finola smiled at him. “And Sister…and Sandemon. I would say I have a very large family! And I do love you all!” she added impulsively. Quickly, she looked away, feeling her face heat as she realized what she had said.
It’s true…I do love you all…but especially you, Morgan…especially you.…
31
Terror on the Wind
A great storm from the ocean goes shouting o’er the hill,
And there is glory in it and terror on the wind.
EVA GORE-BOOTH (1870-1926)
Late that afternoon, Annie stood on what had come to be called the “safe” side of the stream, watching the Gypsy wagon on the other side.
Although the distance between her and the wagon wasn’t actually so great, it might as well have been miles.
She had been standing there, with Fergus beside her, for nearly an hour, hoping Sandemon would come outside. She wanted to tell him she missed him, that she was praying for him.
Of course, Sandemon would insist that she pray with equal fervor for Tierney Burke and the Gypsy. Frowning, she resisted the thought. “This entire calamity is Tierney Burke’s fault, after all,” she said to Fergus. The wolfhound looked up, tilting his head as if to consider her remark.
“Him and his deceitful ways! Well, it seems to me he and his Gypsy cohort got just what they deserve.”
She should have ratted on Tierney at the beginning, should have gone to the Seanchai or to Sandemon that first night when she had seen him sneak away from the house, loping down the hill without ever looking back. So sure of himself he had been!
If only she hadn’t been so determined not to tattle. Just look what her silence had allowed.
If anything happened to Sandemon, she would never forgive Tierney Burke!
Or herself…
The sun had been swallowed by some heavy-hanging pewter clouds, and the air had suddenly taken on a sharp edge. Annie shivered inside her coat but made no move to go back to the house.
There was nothing to do inside, after all. It seemed that everyone was occupied, except for her. Sister was helping Mrs. Ryan pack a food basket for Sandemon and the sick boys. Finola was helping the Seanchai transcribe notes from Father Mahon’s journal. And baby Gabriel slept most afternoons straight through.
Since it was a Saturday, she had the luxury of free time to herself. There were no recitations or extra studies, and she had completed her chores before midday.
On a normal day, she would be glad for such a delicious pocket of time to fill however she liked. She might plop on the window seat in the library with a book, or perhaps practice her sketching. Sometimes she helped Sandemon with one of his many projects. He was forever making something new—a toy for Gabriel, an additional desk for one of the classrooms, a tool of some sort.
Sister would frequently nag at her about using her time for one of the endless “domestic arts,” implying that she should conduct herself more like a young lady.
“You are gro
wing up, Miss,” she would say, with one eyebrow arched. “And as the daughter of a great man, you must learn to conduct yourself accordingly.”
Annie had conflicting emotions about this business of growing up. Some things about it didn’t appear too disagreeable, at least not entirely. She liked wearing new clothes well enough, especially when Finola helped her choose the patterns. Occasionally she suffered Sister’s attempts to “discipline” her hair, but she liked it much better when Finola dressed it for her. Sometimes it was fun, pretending to be a fine lady with dozens of handsome suitors vying for her hand, though these days she quickly tired of playing make-believe.
If she could expect that she would ever be anything but plain and spindly-legged, she might feel a bit more eager to come of age. Finola was good to assure her that she would one day be “stunning,” but it took only a close look in the mirror for doubts to rise again.
Overall, she found the idea of growing up more trouble than it was worth. It seemed to mean nothing more than increasingly difficult studies, more household chores, and more responsibilities—another of Sister Louisa’s overused words.
It also seemed to mean feeling happy one moment and low as the grave the next—or, at other times, like now, anxious and restless for no conceivable reason.
A wind was blowing up, wailing down the hills like an old woman keening the dead. The enormous trees all about the grounds groaned and rustled, as if giants were walking among them. Again, Annie shivered. Usually, she didn’t mind the wind. Huddled snugly in bed, the covers up to her chin, she liked to lie and listen to the music the wind made outside her window at night, like pipers marching over the hill, droning their battle songs.
Today, though, the wind only made her feel lonelier, and oddly frightened, as if it might be bearing some unknown terror. She glanced down at Fergus. The wolfhound, too, seemed jittery and on edge, his ears pricked as if he heard something she could not.
She was about to give up on Sandemon and go back inside when the Gypsy boy—the one called Nanosh—came out of the smokehouse and started toward her.
As usual, he looked none too clean. Annie had talked to him once or twice. She thought him impudent, but the Seanchai said they must treat him decently, that he was proving helpful and dependable in acting as a messenger between the Gypsy wagon and the house.
He walked up to her now, first eyeing Fergus, who stood perfectly still, watching him in return. Turning to Annie, he asked bluntly, “Why do you stand out here in the cold?”
Annie frowned at him. “Perhaps to keep watch on things,” she said shortly.
He studied her. “Are you Tierney Burke’s sister?”
“No, I am not! I am Aine Fitzgerald—the Seanchai’s daughter.”
For a moment, he went on appraising her with a curious expression. “I did not know the Seanchai had any children,” he said, following his observation with a great, unconcealed yawn.
“Well, he does. He has two children, in fact. A son and myself. Of course, I am no longer a child,” Annie quickly added. She motioned toward the wagon. “Have you seen Sandemon today?”
“The black man? Not since early morning. I saw him burning something not long after he called out his report on my cousin and Tierney Burke.” Again, he yawned, putting his hands in his pockets as he continued to watch Annie. “I suppose you live in the big house.”
“Aye, I do.”
“I live in a wagon,” he told her. “With my mother and brothers and sisters.”
“All of you live in a wagon?” Annie asked, interested in spite of herself.
“Well, mostly we live outside. We only stay in the wagon when the weather is bad or when we’re traveling.”
As Annie watched, he dug down in the pocket of his baggy trousers and pulled out a red ball. Fergus immediately flexed his muscles and stood at the ready.
“I don’t suppose you’d want to play toss?” the Gypsy suggested.
Annie considered the ball and the Gypsy boy’s hopeful expression. She looked at Fergus, who appeared more hopeful still.
“I think not,” she said, feeling not at all inclined to play at anything. The boy’s face fell, and on impulse she added, “But you may play with Fergus if you like. If you pitch the ball, he’ll retrieve it.”
The boy didn’t hesitate, but took off running. At a nod from Annie, the wolfhound followed.
Annie watched the two charge off across the field, then turned back to the wagon. Its bright-colored exterior appeared strangely out of place in the gloom rapidly settling over the field—almost like a garishly painted smile on a sad-faced doll.
A part of Annie knew that the melancholy was on her, that the mournful wind and encroaching shadows had drawn her into their web of darkness. She felt more and more isolated, yet unnerved by the chilling sensation that she was no longer alone.
She looked around—behind her, across the stream, up toward the house—but saw nothing.
The back of her neck went cold, as if an icy finger had touched her. Something inside her wrenched as the wind moaned down the hill, sharpening the chill in the air and the ache of loneliness in her heart.
She shuddered, pulling her coat more tightly about her to shut out the wind that was coming down the hill…and whatever else it might be bringing with it. Suddenly she felt cold all through and peculiarly small and alone. Seized by an urgent need not to be alone, she turned and began running toward the house.
That night the moderate wind that had blown up earlier strengthened, turning into an angry, howling gale that shook the trees and hammered at the wagon.
After lighting an extra lantern, Sandemon went first to check Jan Martova, who was sleeping. The Gypsy’s skin felt cooler, though he still drew his legs up with pain.
Going to Tierney Burke, Sandemon dropped to his knees, lifting the lantern over him, to see his face. He was still prostrate, his skin still darkly discolored and spongy. His breath came in short, shallow gasps.
Sandemon put his fingers to the boy’s throat, alarmed by the slow, feeble rhythm. For a moment he continued to kneel beside him, watching. From time to time the slender body would jerk and twitch, the head twist and loll from one side to the other. The fingers were stiff and curled inward, like claws. From the throat came the chilling sound of the death rattles.
Setting the lantern a safe distance away, Sandemon remained on his knees with a growing feeling of helplessness as he watched the boy’s struggle. If he was not mistaken, this was a soul as yet unclaimed, a soul in danger of the deadly abyss.
“This boy is not ready, Lord…not yet…he needs more time and Your patience.…”
Pressing a hand to each knee, he forced himself to shake off the cold wave of dread that had been taunting him all evening. Staying perfectly still, he closed his eyes and tried to quiet his spirit.
It took a long time. At first, he was consumed with a sense of darkness. Darkness and bitter cold. Shuddering, he swallowed down the taste of terror rising like spoiled food at the back of his throat. In the woeful howling of the wind, he imagined he heard a whispering…at first, a murmur, then a rush of voices, growing nearer, as if carried on the wind itself.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he began to pray silently, then aloud. He invoked the Name of Christ, the precious Blood of Christ, the saving Cross of Christ. Beside him, the boy moaned, whimpering and thrashing about, as if waging a pathetic defense against some vicious attack.
Sensing that the attack would be prolonged and particularly tenacious—for the body was young and the spirit strong and stubborn—Sandemon prayed on. At times he prayed the words of the Church, at times the words of his heart…at times the Word itself. As the wind turned savage and the darkness heavy, he began to recite entire portions of the Holy Scriptures, until at last he was speaking only of his Jesus, retelling the story of His birth, His life, His crucifixion…then His resurrection, as if to lift the risen Savior high in the trembling wagon, high above the darkness…above the whispering…above the wind.
> Tierney was trapped inside the tunnel, searching for a lantern or even a candle, something to light his way….
He was crawling on his hands and knees, the floor hard and cold and wet. When he pushed himself upright, he swayed and pitched from side to side, blown by an angry, wailing wind. He flung his hands out into the darkness to break his fall, finding nothing to cling to but the black, threatening gale. There were no walls, and yet he felt himself to be confined in a type of dungeon, the only escape at the end of the tunnel in front of him…but how to find the end of the tunnel with no light?
The floor continued to sway and shift beneath him. The wind tossed him here, then there, like a dead leaf blown idly across the ground. Yet he fought to keep going, strained to stay upright, to push ahead toward the end of the tunnel.
But what if the tunnel had no end? What if he were simply chasing himself in a meaningless circle?
The pain no longer consumed him, though it still clutched at his bones with needlelike talons. A surging fear of the dark and a desperate desire to escape had pushed past the pain.
He heard whispering, a low, rustling sound like the scraping of wings or the murmuring of secrets. Slowing his pace, he flailed his arms, grabbing aimlessly to steady himself. The wind seemed to slow, and now he thought himself to be standing on a kind of bridge, a rickety, swaying footbridge with no sides, nothing to hold on to, not even a rope.
On either side of him were the whispers. He began to make his way across the bridge, holding his breath, ignoring the needle pricks of pain. He wanted to reach out, to grab onto something…anything…but feared what he might touch in the darkness. The whispering went on, and he realized for the first time that he was walking a kind of gauntlet, with shapeless, faceless beings all along the way, beings who reached out to touch him, to stop him, as he passed by.
Terrorized, he walked faster, forcing himself not to bolt into a run and lose his balance. He knew, without knowing how he knew, that if he fell, it would be forever…a forever spent in the dark abyss that waited below him.
