The Godforsaken Daughter

by Christina McKenna

May found her mother at the far end of a room in one of six occupied beds, hooked up to a heart monitor, a drip attached to her left arm. She looked frail and small against the starched linens, appearing to have aged by years in the short time from her collapse at the clinic to her confinement in the bed.

  Her eyes were shut, her mouth agape.

  May went and stood by the bed, weeping silently. She gently squeezed the hand that lay on the bedclothes, but the gesture brought no response.

  “Mummy . . . Mummy, can you hear me? It’s May.”

  Martha’s eyes opened briefly. Then, just as quickly, closed again. The seeming effort too much.

  “You’re going to be all right, Mummy. You . . . you just had a little fall, that’s all.”

  “Hmmm . . .”

  “Can you hear me?”

  No response.

  May leaned in closer. “Mummy, can you hear me? You’re going to be all right.”

  But the mother just lay there, motionless. The only indication she was breathing: the barely perceptible rise and fall of the sheet across her chest.

  All too soon, Nurse Toner indicated that the time was up.

  “How is she?” Ruby said anxiously, at the sight of May and the nurse back in the corridor. “Can I go in now?”

  “No, you cannot.” May was back in character. “You’ve caused enough harm already. Do you want Mummy to get worse, do you?”

  Nurse Toner stared at May. She turned to Ruby. “You must be . . . ?”

  “Ruby . . .”

  “Ruby, your mum is stable but weak. It’s best that she just sleeps for now. I think you and your sister should go home and come back later this evening. The results of her X-rays will be through by then, and you can talk to the doctor.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” May announced in a challenging tone. “I don’t want my mother to die alone. I want to be by her side.”

  “Hopefully your mother is not going to die,” Nurse Toner said, with the resignation of someone who’d had to say the same thing many times in the past. “And I’m sorry, but visitors are not allowed in the intensive care unit. That is why it is referred to as an intensive care unit. We, the staff, must be allowed to care for the patients without interruptions from outsiders. Now, as I said, it is best you both go home. I will ring you immediately if there is any change.”

  “In that case, I’ll wait here in the corridor. Ruby, you go home.”

  “As you wish,” Nurse Toner said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”

  Chapter thirty-one

  Jamie, there’s plenty more where that came from,” Rose said, spooning a generous portion of a stew-like mess onto the farmer’s plate.

  “Looks nice, Rose. What’s it called?”

  “That’s corned beef coddle hash in pickled bread sauce with touch o’ nutmeg, Jamie. Ida Nettles give me the recipe. Y’know Ida, don’t you?”

  “Aye. Sure I met her the other day in Biddy’s. A wee low-set lady with yella hair?”

  “That’s Ida. Now, that’s not her own hair color. I believe it’s called ‘Beeline Honey,’ and I’ll tell you how I know that. I was in the hair saloon one day getting me perm done and Julie, the wee stylist, sez to me, ‘Rose,’ she sez, ‘you wouldn’t like me to put a bitta Beeline Honey through them grays of yours? ’Cos I’ve some left over from Ida Nettles, and it’s a pity to waste it, so it is.’” She returned the saucepan to the stove. “God, I wunder now if Ida knows about Martha’s wee accident yet. I’ll give her a ring when we’re finished eating, ’cos maybe she could call round and see how she is. She does her toes on a Monday, don’t you know.”

  Jamie was having a late lunch in the McFadden kitchen, a haven of cushioned plumpness and domestic delights. This was Rose’s domain; examples of her handicrafts proliferated. Under Jamie’s dinner plate there was a placemat appliqued with a tranche of Wessex Saddlebacks, the humble pig being Rose’s favorite animal. And on the wall, what she referred to as her “farmyard college”: a framed monstrosity showing three crocheted sows with powder-puff snouts, felt trotters sunk in Kellogg’s All-Bran mud.

  After the drama of the afternoon, the McFadden kitchen was a place of succor and much-needed sustenance, since it wasn’t every day that Mrs. McFadden’s services as an ex-nurse were called upon at the scene of an accident.

  “God willing, Martha’s all right,” she said now, crossing herself and sitting down to her own loaded plate. “But, as I said to her, the pulse was beatin’ at the sixty, maybe even the sixty-five, which would be normal for a wommin of her age.”

  “Och, she’ll be all right,” Paddy said, lifting the saltcellar and seasoning his food with such enthusiasm that his wife’s plate got some as well. “That mother of hers—oul’ Granny McRae—lived till she was nearly a hundred.”

  “Well, that’s true,” Rose agreed. “Now, Paddy, afore you start there, I hope them’s your eatin’ teeth you’ve got in yeh?”

  “Oh, they are right enough,” Paddy assured her.

  “That’s good. Now, more tea, Jamie?” Rose tipped the snout of the Royal Doulton teapot into the mouth of Jamie’s mug, before he had time to answer. “Now Ruby: there’s a great girl altogether. Misses her father something awful.”

  “What’s that the mother was sayin’ about her goin’ into the mental hospital?” Jamie asked. “And her tryin’ to drown herself and kill them all in the car? She wouldn’t be doin’ the like of that, would she?”

  Rose set down her knife and fork and dabbed her lips with a napkin. “Now, I can explain that, Jamie.” This was Rose’s opportunity to defend poor Ruby and brighten the image so cruelly tarnished by the mother and sister.

  Paddy read the signs. His wife was about to go about the delicate business of bringing Jamie and Ruby together. His input would not be required. He got up, plate in hand.

  “Just gonna go in here tae listen tae a bitta news,” he said, heading into the sitting room.

  “Yes, you do that, Paddy. And watch you don’t sit on me frosted frogs!” she shouted after him. She turned back to Jamie. “I’m makin’ a couple of frogs for the Duntybutt Christmas Club Create and Care sale-of-work, Jamie. Would be afeard of Paddy sittin’ on them, ’cos he broke his specs last week and is as blind as a rat without them. Between losin’ his talkin’ teeth and breakin’ his glasses, I don’t know what’ll be next, God-blisses-an’-savus. Now, where was I?”

  “You were gonna explain about Ruby havin’ tae go into the mental hospital.”

  “Now, Jamie, Ruby’s not going near no mental hospital. When I went down the field with her, I got her side of things. She tolt me she was only goin’ for a swim in the lake and they thought she was gonna drown herself. And that May only passed her driving test, wasn’t used to the driving, and nearly ran into a lorry ’cos she took her eyes off the road. Only for Ruby grabbing a-holt of the wheel, they might’a all been kilt. So Ruby saved them from crashing, so she did.”

  “God, there’s two sides to every story, Rose,” Jamie said, considering the rear of a Wessex Saddleback peeping out from underneath his dinner plate.

  “There is indeed, Jamie. Now, what I was gonna say was that they were taking Ruby not tae the mental hospital but tae Rosebud Clinic, tae see that nice Dr. Shelfin that you meet every week.”

  “God, is that so?” Jamie was amazed.

  “And who knows, poor Ruby is suffering from a wee bit of that old day-pression, ’cos she’s only lost her father.”

  “Aye, her father. God, I know all about that, Rose.” Jamie pushed aside his cleaned plate. “When Mick died it was the wildest thing. Sure I was thinkin’ of endin’ it all meself. So . . . so I know how Ruby feels.”

  “Oh, she was very close to her daddy, so she was. I used to see her on a Fair Day, waiting in the truck while he sold the cattle. A very big farm they have.”

  She saw Jami
e’s ears prick up.

  “Have they now? How big . . . how big would it be?”

  “Oaktree Farm? God, very big, Jamie. Wouldn’t know the exact acreage all told . . . and Ruby’s the eldest girl. She doesn’t have no brothers. And them two twins—May and June—are both working in Belfast, so they wouldn’t be interested in farmin’ and the like.”

  Brring-brring. Rose’s spiel was cut by the ringing telephone.

  “I wonder who that could be. Excuse me, Jamie.” She went into the hallway.

  Jamie finished his mug of tea, mulling over what Rose had just said. He felt sorry for Ruby having lost her father so suddenly. But there was nothing he could do about that. Only the passage of time healed the hurt of losing a loved one. There was no other way through grief. He knew that only too well.

  He checked the clock. It was coming up on three. Time to go home and feed Mabel, the sow.

  He put his cap back on and got up.

  “God, Jamie, that was Ida,” Rose said, coming back into the kitchen. “She sez Martha’s in the hospital in the intensive care. She took a turn when her and Ruby were with Dr. Shelfin.”

  “Och, that’s too bad, Rose. Well, she’s in the best place, I suppose.”

  “Just hope she doesn’t die, Jamie, or poor Ruby will never forgive herself, the critter.”

  First her father and then her mother! Jamie saw nothing but sadness ahead of Ruby. He wished he could do something to help, but was at a loss. Maybe Rose could come up with something; she was good like that, was Rose.

  Chapter thirty-two

  Ruby returned to Oaktree Farmhouse, so deserted without her mother, so silent without her sister. She went directly to her bedroom, unlocked the door, and dragged the case out from under the bed.

  She opened it for one last look. There were not many things in it now. The silver plate with the five-pointed star, the knife with the curved blade, and the little silver cup were missing. She’d used them during her solstice ritual so it was more than likely her mother had disposed of them.

  Oh God!

  Ruby suddenly had a terrible thought.

  Was that why her mother had been struck down, because she’d destroyed the objects? Her mind went into overdrive. What if I burn the case and something terrible happens to me?

  “I’m sorry, Edna!” she cried. “I have to do this. I understand why you turned to all this magic stuff, but it didn’t help you in the end, it only made everything worse.”

  Behind her, the window banged shut.

  Terrified, she turned.

  The statue of the Virgin Mary that sat on the sill had toppled over. Was it another sign that something very bad was going to happen?

  Oh dear God!

  She grabbed her rosary beads from the bedside locker and started to pray. “O Lord . . . blessed Michael the Archangel, protect me. Give me . . . give me strength to burn this case and rid this house of all evil. Please, God, please!”

  Hurriedly she gathered up the dream dictionary, the crystal ball, the stained cingulum, and the stack of remaining Tarot cards from the dressing table. She found The Book of Light under her pillow. But in her haste to bundle it into the case, it slipped from her grasp. A couple of loose leaves fell to the floor. They looked as if they were blank. But when she turned them over, she saw that one headed “Runes” was covered in drawings of strange letters, and the other was a poem, written in Edna’s hand.

  She began reading.

  She came into the world last night,

  When you were full in Beltane.

  Our daughter of dark and light,

  The keeper of your flame.

  I heard her scream herself to life,

  Through the quiet rooms of Oaktree.

  And danced in my heart at the sound of her cries,

  For I knew you had made it be;

  You brought her to this world through tears,

  And stains of the darkest blood.

  But that misfortune had to be, so you

  Could give her whole to me.

  The first cub from the virgin womb,

  Who drew life’s breath, was born too soon.

  And she will take my burdens on, and

  Carry my wishes from beyond.

  To you, the Goddess of this land,

  Into the depths of Beldam.

  It was signed Edna Vivian Clare and dated April 30, 1951.

  The significance of that date had Ruby sobbing afresh. It was her birthday. Edna must have been writing about her birth.

  “Anyone up there?”

  A man’s voice.

  Footsteps on the stairs.

  Before she could get off her knees, before she could push the case out of sight, Father Kelly was standing in the doorway.

  “Ruby, I hoped I’d find you here. I’ve just come from the hospital.”

  Ruby shifted on her knees. “Father. Is Mammy . . . ?”

  “God willing, she’ll pull through.”

  “I was just—”

  “There’s no need to explain.” He stared down at the case. “We’d need to destroy that now . . . you and me.”

  Ruby began crying again.

  He held out his hand for the page. “May I?”

  “Was she putting a curse on me, Father? She . . . she was writing about the night . . . the night I was born, wasn’t she?”

  Father Kelly read through the poem. He sat down on the bed.

  “No, Ruby. No one has the power to do that. Your grandmother wasn’t well. She’d suffered so much tragedy in her life she . . . she lost her way . . . stopped believing in God and”—he gestured at the case—“and turned to all that hocus-pocus. It was unfortunate you found it and opened it, but we can put an end to it all now.”

  Ruby dried her tears. “But did she . . . did she come back?”

  “Come back?”

  “After she died . . . it’s just that Mammy said something odd when May brought me back from the lake last night. She said . . . she said something about footprints. I don’t know what she meant.”

  He made no reply. Then: “Aye . . . we’ll go down to the woods and burn this now, Ruby . . . that would be the best thing to do.”

  He picked up The Book of Light, replaced the poem, and put it on top of the other items. Ruby might have opened a Pandora’s box, but the Spirit of Hope was still alive. He watched as she shut the lid, sliding the half-moon catch through its leather strap for the last time.

  “I’ll carry it,” Father Kelly said. “Get some paraffin and a box of matches, there now.”

  The sun hung low as they walked the “afflicted” field. They passed the patch of memorial flowers and stopped briefly to say a prayer. They approached Beldam, a sheet of bronze in the gathering dusk, and turned toward the woods. The trees came up to meet them, dense and dark: a vanguard of susurrous shadows.

  The priest led the way with the benighted case, picking his steps carefully on the forest floor. Ruby followed behind him with the kerosene can.

  He stopped.

  “We’ll burn it here,” he said. It was the tree stump Ruby had used as her first altar. The ritual he’d interrupted. “Yes, here would be a good place.”

  He set the case down.

  “Will you burn it, Father?” Ruby said, holding out the can.

  “No,” he said. “That’s your job.”

  “But why?”

  “It was what your mother wanted, Ruby . . . that you should burn it. I’ll sprinkle the paraffin. You strike the match.”

  Ruby’s hands were shaking as she struck the match. It flared into life . . . but just as quickly died. She tried again. But a sudden gust of wind took the flame. It happened several more times.

  “It doesn’t want to burn,” Father Kelly said grimly. “But, by the power of God, we’re stronger th
an it. You keep trying, Ruby. I will say a prayer.” He spread his arms and gazed heavenward.

  Ruby looked down at the spent matches. There were only two left in the box. It had to burn this time.

  It had to.

  She struck the match and held it to one corner of the case. But it was useless; it wouldn’t light.

  She began weeping again, desperate now. “I can’t get rid of it, Father. I just can’t.”

  “Have faith. Let me.”

  Father Kelly struck the final match. He threw it on the case lid, and immediately it burst into flames.

  “How . . . how did you do that, Father?”

  He didn’t answer. Stood staring grimly at the blazing object.

  “We’ll go now, Ruby, so. It’s done.”

  She did his bidding and followed him out of the forest—the smell of burning wood high on the air, her mind seething with images of the melting case. The secrets in The Book of Light, curling up, shriveling leaf by leaf, and fragmenting into ash, into nothingness.

  Back at the house she made him tea.

  “Your mother can rest easy now . . . yes, no more upset, Ruby.”

  “Will you tell me about the footprints, Father?”

  “The footprints?”

  “Yes, last night when May took me from the lake, Mammy screamed and said something about footprints. What . . . what did she mean?”

  Father Kelly left down his mug.

  He sighed.

  “Well, Ruby, after your grandmother passed away there was some trouble in the house.”

  “Trouble . . . what kind of trouble?”

  “She was not at her rest, you see. Your mother asked the parish priest for help . . . I was a young curate then . . . new to these parts, and he sent me . . . Aye . . . sent me to bless this place.” He gazed up at the ceiling.

  “But why? What was happening?”

  “The footprints . . . they were there on the floor . . . wet footprints of bare feet every morning. After your grandmother drowned herself they began appearing. It was as if she was returning and . . . and roaming the house when your parents were asleep.” Father Kelly shook his head, glanced over at the picture of St. Michael the Archangel in the alcove. “Oh, she needed a lot of prayers, Ruby, to find rest. And she received those prayers from Martha and your poor father. The only thing he wouldn’t do was destroy that case. She’d made him promise, you see. Your father couldn’t break that promise.”