by BJ Hoff
The silent Finola. A princess with no voice.
What, Lord? Sandemon questioned. What of the lovely Finola?
As he waited, listening, expecting, Sandemon felt a gentle warmth and light settle over him, draping his spirit with insight and assurance. At that instant he lifted the mute young woman with the golden hair before the throne, convinced beyond all doubt that in a way as yet unseen she, like Annie Delaney, would be an instrument of healing in the life of Morgan Fitzgerald.
40
No Hope Apart from God
His songs were a little phrase
Of eternal song,
Drowned in the harping of lays
More loud and long.
His deed was a single word,
Called out alone
In a night when no echo stirred
To laughter or moan.
THOMAS MACDONAGH (1878–1916)
The next few days were happy days for Annie Delaney. She spent her mornings in the stables, tending to Pilgrim or helping Sandemon with the wondrous birthday gift for the Seanchai. She labored hard alongside the black man, for now that she had caught his vision of the gift, she could not wait to see it done and presented.
Afternoons were spent at inside chores, which, to Annie’s relief, were few—both because of her clumsiness and because she was busy elsewhere, usually at her lessons with the Seanchai.
In the evening, she was mostly on her own, unless there were stories to be told in the library.
Sure, and if she could have ordered up the routine of her days, she would not have asked for more. Best of all, even more than the time spent with Pilgrim, she loved her studies. Having the full attention of the Seanchai as he instructed her, receiving a rare word of praise from him when she excelled, had quickly come to be the brightest part of her day. A word of encouragement from the Seanchai or a smile that clearly said he was pleased with her progress would send Annie flying to her room afterward, where she would immediately set to poring over her lessons with more fervor than ever.
Sandemon teased her, saying that she would turn into a bookworm and get lost wiggling through a hole in the stable. But Annie could tell he was pleased with things as they were. In fact, he seemed as happy with all the attention the Seanchai paid her as he was with the reports of what a good scholar she was becoming.
Annie would not have thought she could bear more joy. But this morning Sandemon had made a suggestion that had her jumping out of her skin with delight.
“A birthday party! Truly, Sand-Man? A real party?”
He lifted a hand to caution her. “A very small party. The Seanchai, as you well know, has little patience with crowds or clamor. We will prepare a simple event for the three of us—a special time to acknowledge his birth date and to give him his gift.”
“But you’re supposed to invite guests to a party, aren’t you? Even a small one?”
He shook his head. “Not this time, child. We must respect the Seanchai’s feelings. Unless Mr. Smith O’Brien should happen to return from Paris before then, it will be only the three of us.”
Annie pursed her lips, thinking. “I know someone else we could invite. Someone I expect the Seanchai would like to have at his party.”
Sandemon frowned, but before he could protest Annie went on. “Sure, and Finola would come, were we to ask! And don’t you think the Seanchai would want to see her again? He seemed to like her fine, as I recollect.”
Sandemon was quiet for a moment. Despite her excitement, Annie forced herself to hold her tongue. She was learning not to press when the black man was thinking.
Crossing his arms over his chest, he seemed to consider her suggestion. Finally, he offered a faint smile. “Could be you’re right, child,” he said slowly. After another moment, he gave a small nod. “Yes, perhaps your idea is good. Here’s what we will do, then. This afternoon, while you and the Seanchai are busy with your studies, I will go into the city and pay a call on Miss Finola.”
Annie scowled at him fiercely. “I’d thought to go with you.”
“You have your studies,” he said firmly. “Besides, it wouldn’t do for both of us to leave the Seanchai alone for too long a time. What if he needed help and neither of us were here? And,” he added, cutting short Annie’s objection, “the area in which Miss Finola lives is not a proper place for a child.”
“I’m not a child!” Annie retorted. But she knew from the raised eyebrows and the slight tightening around his mouth that further argument would be a total waste of time.
The more Sandemon thought about Annie’s suggestion to invite Finola back to Nelson Hall, the more the idea took on merit. On the way into Dublin, he considered the consequences, and could think of only one unpleasant possibility: What if the Seanchai felt they were interfering in his life and grew angry?
Sandemon was used to the young giant’s temper, and routinely ignored it. But nothing must be allowed to halt the growing relationship between the Seanchai and the child. There was no telling who would ultimately benefit most from it, but that both would be greatly blessed, he had no doubt.
Somehow, though, Sandemon did not think the Seanchai would mind their inviting Miss Finola. In fact, recalling the uncommon warmth that had filled the young master’s eyes during that first encounter with the mysterious young woman—and remembering his own recent inclination to pray for her—Sandemon began to wonder if the child’s idea might not be truly inspired.
Annie had hoped the Seanchai would be in the mood for storytelling after dinner. Ever since Sandemon returned with the news that Finola had accepted their invitation to the party, she’d been far too restless and excited to think of much else. Perhaps one of the Seanchai’s stories might help to take her mind off the party—and the wondrous gift she and Sandemon were making.
Her hopes were dashed, however, not long into the meal. In fact, she didn’t even suggest a story, seeing the way things were with the Seanchai. He was irritable and short all through dinner, scarcely finishing his tea before muttering an excuse and wheeling himself out of the room.
Sandemon helped him onto the lift, then took Annie to one side in the library. “He has asked to be left alone,” he told her. “I’ll check on him once more, and if he still doesn’t want me the rest of the evening, I’m going to go out to the stable and work on the gift.”
“I’ll go with you, then.”
He shook his head. “No, child,” he said. “He might become suspicious if he should discover both of us gone this time of night. I won’t work long—perhaps another hour or two. I want you in the house so you could fetch me if he should call. Stay in your room where you can hear him.”
At Annie’s nod of assent, Sandemon followed her from the library. “Stay upstairs now, mind,” he cautioned her again before starting toward the back of the house.
In his bedroom, Morgan wheeled himself toward the desk where Joseph Mahon’s journal lay open, its pages in disarray, accusing him.
He had neglected his usual reading for some nights now, unable—or unwilling—to steep himself any further with Mayo’s misery. Tonight, however, he knew himself to be too restless for sleep. A storm was brewing; in the distance he could hear the approaching thunder. His skin seemed to crawl with an energy for which there was no outlet. Every nerve in his body screamed for release. If he went to bed, he would do nothing but thrash about, so he might just as well return to the priest’s dolorous writings.
He had the monster of all needs for the whiskey tonight. Before he started in on the journal, he set out his flask and tumbler at the ready. He would wait another half hour or so, he told himself. He would read for at least that long without the drink.
It had occurred to him only a few nights past that he was starting his drinking earlier each night, consuming more and more all the time. Last night he had promised himself with fierce resolve to cut back.
He was growing dependent on the stuff, just like his father.
The ugly truth was that he was gradually becoming
a drunk—a secret drunk, but a drunk all the same.
It was no secret from Sandemon, of course; the black man knew, had to know from the smell on him every morning. But he said nothing, gave no indication that he noticed. Morgan could not help but wonder why.
Before he began to read, Morgan braced his hands on the armrests of the wheelchair, half-rising to stretch the muscles of his body. Too soon, his legs collapsed, sending a wave of familiar frustration crashing over him.
His back was aching tonight—not bad, but enough to justify taking a drop right away.
No. He would wait.
His eyes slid to the flask near the journal. At the same time, he noted with distaste the trembling of his hands on the pages. How many times had he seen his father’s hands tremble in just the same way?
His mouth was dry, his throat hot, but he forced himself to ignore the flask.
He could easily envision Joseph Mahon the priest, his silver head bent over the pages, the pen propped in his frail, unsteady hand, writing laboriously, painstakingly, late at night.
When else would the man find time? He spent his days and most of his nights with “his people,” the villagers of Killala.
The priest continued to pour out his life for them, as if he hoped by killing himself he might make a difference.
Yet Morgan knew in his heart that indeed Joseph had made a difference—in some instances, the difference of life or death. In truth, if ever a body of men had showed themselves heroes, sure, and countless priests and Protestant clergy throughout Ireland had done so. Many had given up their own lives in the act of caring for the sick, feeding the hungry, and ministering to the dying. Morgan had heard of case after case where the priest or pastor was all that stood between the people and the graveyard.
In his own experience, he had never known such an utterly selfless human being as Joseph Mahon, whose words as he read them played sorrowfully upon his heart:
In spite of their unmitigated suffering, I have yet to hear a resentful or bitter word raised against the Lord. These poor ones understand that it was not their Lord who brought this pestilence upon them, but unprincipled men, even evil men. They know with certain assurance that it is not Providence that has ruined our country, but the greed and apathy of man. And their quiet acceptance does defy all human understanding.…
Nor do they seek for supernatural signs of God’s remembrance or miraculous wonders that prove His power. Unlike Jacob of the Bible, they do not attempt to take hold of God’s favor, to wrestle Him into a blessing or gain a sign of His protection in their agony. Even those who stand to lose most, who at one time were the most vigorous and self-reliant, refuse to surrender to hopelessness or despair. Indeed, out of their very weakness, their abject humiliation, has come the greatest triumph of faith I have ever witnessed.…
Morgan’s heart swelled, then began to hammer wildly as he brought the pages even closer to his eyes. The words seemed to darken and intensify in front of him as he read on:
It is a wondrous thing they do, these abased and despised. The comfortless reach out to comfort…the suffering reach out to console…the dying reach out to the living with triumphant words of conviction and the assurance of God’s love!
Perhaps it is because in their agony they have finally glimpsed the truth, that only those without God are truly helpless, and only those separated from His love are truly hopeless.
The level of dependency on the Lord, the unshakable faith in Him which I have encountered as a priest this past year has convinced me that there is no strength apart from the Lord’s presence, no hope apart from His promises, and no peace apart from His love.
There is a triumph in these lives that cannot be explained in mortal terms. It does seem to me, simple priest that I am, that in the very act of reaching out with mercy to others, they attain a kind of merciful healing for themselves.
If Joseph himself had stepped off the pages of his journal and hurled the words in Morgan’s face, they could not have resounded louder in his mind, would not have pierced his heart with such a force.
His eyes locked on the words before him, and he read them over and over again. With each reading, they echoed more loudly, more clearly, in his soul.
A wave of shame washed over Morgan. All his life he had used the power of his presence and the power of his pen to help others—to try to change the fate of his dying Ireland. Yet suddenly, with the loss of his legs, he had simply turned inward, wallowing in misery and self-pity like a pig in the mire. He had let go of the Cause and embraced the bottle, wanting nothing but to forget. Sure, and Morgan Fitzgerald had given up to die, hadn’t he, now?
And all the time, right here in his own house, a little piece of his beloved Ireland was waiting, looking to him for help and love and protection. There was something he could do, something he should be doing, after all! He had made a promise to his grandfather—a promise he’d done his best to ignore. But now here it was again, facing him down in the wee demented lass from Belfast, challenging him to fulfill what he had promised—to Grandfather, to himself, to his land, to his God.
Morgan began to weep—not for the loss of his legs, but for the loss of compassion.
Through his tears, he stared at the flask of whiskey and the glass in front of him. With an almost brutal force and a wail of despair, he flung out his arm and sent the flask and tumbler crashing to the floor.
A violent urge to go to his knees seized him. Half-blind from scalding tears and burning remorse, he clung to the desk, twisting his body free of the chair. He tried to kneel, but slipped and lost his balance altogether. He managed to crawl to the foot of the bed, where he stopped. Doubled over, he curled himself against the bed like a sorrowing child.
There he prayed, a prayer unlike any other he had ever voiced. Allowing himself to be wrapped in the love of his Savior, he acknowledged that he was indeed helpless—but not without hope. He asked the One who had lamed the demanding Jacob as a constant reminder of his weakness and need for God, to use these lifeless legs of his as a constant reminder that he, too, was utterly dependent on the same God.
“Let me never forget that, like the afflicted people of Joseph Mahon’s journal, I have no strength apart from your presence…no hope apart from your promises…and no peace apart from your love….”
The obscure uneasiness he’d been feeling earlier continued to nag at Sandemon as he worked in the stables. With the approaching storm, a vague heaviness had settled at the very center of his being, intruding on his peace, pressing him to do—what?
He had worked much longer than he’d anticipated. Glancing at the inexpensive pocket watch the priests in Barbados had given him years before, he saw that he had been gone from the house for well over two hours.
Too long. An urgency now overtook him, a need to return to the house. No doubt the Seanchai was still cloistered in his room—drinking the entire time, Sandemon feared.
He straightened and tossed a piece of leather onto the floor. He must leave the stables—now. He wiped his hands on his trousers, then picked up the lantern to leave.
The exasperating thoroughbred—“Old Scratch,” the child called him—picked that moment to raise trouble. Squealing and snorting like a crazed demon, he began to bump at the door of the stall, his hoofs pounding the floor in a frenzy.
Sandemon gave an impatient sound of disgust, then started toward the front of the stable.
“You are a devil, I think,” he muttered, approaching the horse, who tossed its mane and snorted excitedly.
“You’ll get no sympathy from me this night, Old Scratch,” he said, nearing the front of the stall. “I do not coddle horses, especially bad-tempered ones like you.”
The words he spoke were anything but kind, but Sandemon uttered them in gentle tones, hoping to soothe the beast. Instead, his presence seemed to agitate the animal that much more.
Suddenly, the horse snorted and reared up. Sandemon caught a flash of red, bright and wet, on the thoroughbred’s left front hoo
f. Hanging the lantern on the wall of the stable, he continued to reassure the horse in soft words, watching him closely as he drew near.
Again the thoroughbred reared, and this time Sandemon clearly recognized blood on his hoof—enough blood to indicate a serious cut or injury.
No wonder the poor beast had turned more temperamental than ever! His foul disposition only masked a frightened animal in pain.
Immediately sympathetic to the thoroughbred, Sandemon eased the rest of the way up to the stall.
“Poor boy…poor boy,” he murmured, carefully releasing the board that secured the door of the stall. “Sandemon will help you. Hush now.…”
Unexpectedly, the horse quieted, all the while watching Sandemon through wild eyes. Even when the black man opened the stall door and put one foot inside, the thoroughbred followed his movements in total silence.
Sandemon never once stopped his murmurings as his gaze traveled down, from the horse’s head to the hoof that needed tending.
Slowly, cautiously, he extended his hand to gentle the horse.
And he knew in an instant he had made a foolish mistake. The thoroughbred reared at his touch, shrieking like a creature out of hell.
On instinct, Sandemon threw up his arms to protect his head, whipping his body hard to the side of the stall. He crashed into the wood, then bounced off. Again he lunged to the side of the stall, trying to hurl himself out of the way of the horse’s flying hoofs.
Instead, he stumbled, lurching directly into the thoroughbred’s path. An incredible blow knocked the breath out of his body, sending him spinning out the open door of the stall.
Sprawled on his back, he stared up. The last thing he saw was the belly of the devil horse as he reared up, screaming, over Sandemon’s head.
41
Secrets of the Lonely Heart
Lone and forgotten
