by James Burke
And with that, Entwistle pulled out his private part and urinated on Quintus.
‘Splashdown it is,’ Entwistle mocked.
The urine bounced off Quintus’ matted hair and beard. Dribbled off his cheeks, his chest and shoulders. The humiliation of it all brought him to his senses, but he refused to respond, instead choosing to bury his rage.
Entwistle finished urinating but continued his heckling.
‘If you plan on hanging there for another dozen years I should have a chain made of iron,’ he taunted. ‘But until then we will have to make do with some more rope.’
Entwistle nodded for three soldiers to pick Quintus up and carry him back to the gibbet where a soldier with a fresh coil of rope waited.
Entwistle followed, talking as he went.
‘In old age I find myself softening, so I’ll offer you something saint. Let me end your needless suffering, all of its loneliness,’ Entwistle said.
As the soldiers got to the gibbet and stood Quintus upright in the cage, Entwistle drew out his thin-bladed sword.
‘It would only take a quick pierce to the heart to finish it all or are you fine with rotting away some more in the cage? This is the opportunity of a lifetime here.’
Quintus remained silent and blank faced.
‘So, what’s it to be saint?’
Quintus still didn’t reply. Instead he turned his head to look at the soldier applying the rope to the cage. This infuriated Entwistle.
‘Give me an answer!’ he screamed. ‘A liberating death or more of the cage?’
Quintus then looked squarely at Entwistle. From somewhere deep inside himself, he discovered his long-neglected voice.
‘I will endure,’ he whispered.
‘Endure? A fool’s reply, but as you so wish,’ Entwistle snorted. ‘Either way, the day will come when I grind your bones to dust.’
Entwistle ordered his men to rehoist Quintus onto the gibbet. He next told his two bodyguards to retrieve something from a rowboat. Moments later, they returned with a large basket filled with severed heads. They upturned the basket, spilling the heads onto what remained of the old pile of skulls just below the rehoisted Quintus who let out a moan of distress.
Delighted to get a reaction, Entwistle burst into a fit of laughter that lasted for at least a minute. His jackal-like howl dug into Quintus, niggling away at the mass of emotions that now simmered inside.
The still laughing Entwistle gestured towards the heads.
‘Now if you look closely there’s an Italian among this collection,’ he said. ‘A priest sent by Rome to confirm rumors of your pathetic existence.’
And with that Quintus snapped.
‘You butcher! I will follow you to Hell if that’s what it takes. Mark my words Entwistle. You will pay for what you have done!’ he exploded.
Everyone, including Quintus, has a breaking point. The mass of fury he’d stored away had nowhere to go but out. He screamed, he shouted, he shook his cage with what strength he had left.
After the initial surprise, Entwistle began to enjoy the moment for the victory he perceived it to be.
‘Finally, where’s your goodness now?’
Quintus roared and shook the cage some more.
‘Goodness? Goodness has nothing to do with it!’ Quintus screamed.
‘Oh, yes it does. It means everything,’ replied the man below him.
Quintus spat at Entwistle, but the phlegm went nowhere near its intended target.
‘A saint no longer, just a madman stuck on a rock,’ laughed Entwistle who waved for his men to return to their boats and leave the island.
Quintus continued screaming and shaking the cage as they rowed away. It was pure rage; uncontrollable anger. Something he’d never felt before to such an extreme. He would go on in such a manner for the rest of the day until he blacked out from exhaustion.
Three days later he woke to find his small island and surrounding countryside dusted with snow. It was the first time he had seen anything like it since being in the cage. It was a novelty, but it was certainly no comfort. It was just another indicator of the harshness of that winter.
The sight of the fresh heads below him, now speckled white, renewed his loathing for Entwistle. The hatred, the disgust, consumed Quintus day and night like a fever, at least until the arrival of spring when it stealthily retreated somewhere inside his humanity.
By the time summer arrived, his exhausted soul was as fragile as a gossamer thread. Luckily for him, sometime midyear, he had another visitor but one more benevolent.
The Visitor
The lake was chilly a foot beneath the surface and Alba O’Malley caught her breath as the water rose above her chest. At her feet, cold mud squished between her toes until she lunged forward to swim. The 22-year-old managed to keep her head above water as she dog paddled towards the small rocky island where the gibbet stood. She paddled as fast she could, mindful that a patrolling soldier might see her.
Earlier from the shoreline, Alba could see that there was a human figure inside the gibbet’s cage. But the young woman knew she had to get onto the island to learn beyond doubt it was no myth that the ‘saint’ was still alive.
Twelve feet from the island, she could see the caged man was breathing. His chest sucking in and then expelling air. He was filthy, long haired and naked. The legend wasn’t pretty, but it was true.
With such information Alba hoped to rally family and friends to free the saint. No longer would they allow for him to remain in such an evil condition.
The crows on the gibbet ignored her as she got onto the island and as for Quintus, his mind was so scrambled it took him several minutes to register he had a visitor. Eventually, he managed to open his eyes. Initially, he could only make out a blurry profile. Whoever it was; they began saying something and initially it was difficult to understand. It sounds like a young woman praying, Quintus thought.
A minute later, his eyes adjusted, and he saw Alba. Her head was lowered while she recited prayers. He noticed that her underclothes were soaked and muddy and how she slightly quivered. The morning sun’s rays accentuated her frame and highlighted her auburn hair.
Upon finishing her prayers, she looked at him in the cage.
What a pathetic sight I must be, he thought.
Quintus wanted to call out to her but found he couldn’t utter a single word. He could only look at her and meet her gaze. He noted her strong jaw line, her warm eyes.
After several minutes the young woman softly spoke in Gaelic.
‘I’m sorry I’m unable to help you now, forgive me,’ she said. ‘But we will be back to rescue you. I promise.’
Alba then turned away and searched the shoreline for patrolling soldiers, and once confident there were none, she began her return.
Just as she reentered the water, Quintus found his voice.
‘Thank you,’ he said but it was far too soft for her to hear.
He watched her paddle and then wade back to the shore where she put on her jacket-bodice and petticoat that were waiting for her on a rock.
Once dressed, she returned to the wall where a crudely made nine-foot ladder awaited. She climbed up it and when she got to the top of the wall she pulled it over with a short rope, so she could use it to get her down on the other side.
And then she was gone.
The important thing about Alba’s visit is that it gave Quintus hope.
After living so long in that cage, hope in himself, others and his mission had nearly run dry. Without hope in goodness a human is prone to, sooner or later, smash themselves to pieces. No matter how mythical or mystical he or she may be.
Quintus now had enough hope — in himself, in the Gods and his master — but only just. Despite Alba’s good intentions, he had two more years alone on that small rocky island.
Free
It was just after midnight and the glow of a full summer’s moon guided two small rowboats towards the island. Each boat carried three young Irishmen.
Among them a large red headed individual, named Seamus O’Malley, held a lantern.
The boats reached the island and the men hopped out. They made their way towards the shadowy outline of the gibbet. Yes, they were fearful and cautious.
They were likewise appalled when the lantern’s light revealed the pile of rotted and crumbling skulls under the cage. More than one of them made the sign of the cross across his chest.
Seamus lifted the lantern up high. Its light allowed him to see Quintus’ figure in the cage. The 17-year-old cleared his throat.
‘You have suffered the unimaginable. Finally, we have come to set you free,’ Seamus said.
Quintus was unable to reply. His sanity, by this stage, was frayed. He remained detached from reality. Even as they freed him from the rusty cage and carried him to one of their boats he was unsure if he was hallucinating or not.
Saint or No Saint
Sitting in a wooden bathtub half-filled with water, Quintus leaned forward as a stout woman of age used a sponge to scrub layers of filth and dead skin from his back.
Using a sharp knife, she had already hacked away at his matted hair and beard, which were both filthy with a vast array of minute critters.
The water in the tub would have to be changed five times that day to clean him properly.
The tub was set up under an apple tree in-between the stone hut that sheltered the animals during the winter months and two larger windowless cottages that housed the O’Malley clan.
There was no way that the ruddy-faced woman was going to permit such a grimy body into their home in such a state. Saint or no saint.
Quintus did not protest. In fact, he had not yet said anything since being freed from the cage.
Midway into his third bath, Seamus brought a small stool and some fresh clothes for Quintus to change into. The young man sat himself on the stool and pulled out a clay smoking pipe from his pocket. He offered it to Quintus who, with a shake of the head, declined while saying his first word to them which was ‘no.’
‘Yes! Good you can talk,’ Seamus said grinning.
The woman rolled her eyes at her nephew.
‘Have some respect, he doesn’t want, nor need your pipe or your silly ways,’ she scolded.
Seamus’ grin only got bigger.
‘Oh, now Aunt Mary, he can make up his mind on that, he’s a big boy and now a man of liberty,’ he cheekily challenged while packing tobacco into the pipe.
‘Don’t mind the boy sir, he knows no better,’ the aunt told Quintus.
Seamus good-naturedly winked at Quintus.
Such unabashed friendliness forced the filthy man not only to smile but to burst out laughing, and then laugh some more, as it truly dawned on him that all the horrors of the cage were now behind him.
Quintus’ laughter continued for 15 minutes and was so contagious that Aunt Mary and Seamus joined the hysterics. Other family members, ranging from toddlers to the elderly, exited the cottages and joined in laughing with the saint. They laughed the way only survivors can appreciate.
Church Ruins
It took Quintus and Seamus ten minutes to stroll from the cottages to the ruins of the parish church. While they walked, the young Irishman did most of the talking. All of the O’Malley clan were talkative, but Seamus was the best of them. They were a rowdy and cheerful bunch, despite what they had themselves endured since Cromwell’s armies first arrived.
Beyond ‘yes’ or ‘no’ Quintus had spoken little during the past seven days since he was cleaned in the bathtub. He just wasn’t used to talking yet. Seamus’ aunt told the family to be patient, as the poor man had suffered unimaginable horrors.
From the youngest to the oldest, they understood Quintus was more than a man. He was considered a saint, set apart by Heaven. Someone able to survive years in a gibbet. But given their salt-of-the-earth qualities, the O’Malleys naturally viewed Quintus as one of their own, and not someone to be revered. They quickly and quietly accepted his perceived oddities; his strange standing exercises and how he would sit eyes shut with his legs folded up on each other under the apple tree for hours on end.
Seamus’ childhood was full of stories about the saint locked in the gibbet cage. A legend now living with his family, it was the finest thing that had occurred in his short life thus far. So, it was a welcome development when Quintus began talking just as they arrived at the eastern side of the church ruins.
‘Last time I saw the church it had been set on fire,’ Quintus said quietly, nodding at the ruins. ‘They’d already put the priest to the sword and laid waste to most of this side of the river. It was horrific. Before Cromwell, this whole area was prosperous and peaceful. Hopefully one day it will be again.’
‘Aye, there’s been whispers about rebuilding the church but there’s little chance of that happening any time soon,’ Seamus said. ‘Whether we like it or not we’re a subjugated people.’
That simple fact left a silence between them for several minutes until the sound of a large bird landing nearby took their attention. By the beat of its wings Quintus knew it was a crow. From the corner of his eye he saw it perched on the remains of the church’s sole remaining spire. He picked up a stone and threw it at the bird which flew off unharmed, cawing as it went.
‘I loathe crows,’ Quintus said.
Seamus grunted in agreement.
‘Aunt Mary believes they’re a servant of the devil,’ he said. ‘Hand reared and trained by Entwistle himself, she’d say.’
It was the first time anybody had mentioned Entwistle’s name in Quintus’ company.
‘What happened to Entwistle?’ he asked. ‘I presume he is dead. The air is lighter and there’s less dread than there once was.’
The young Irishman scowled.
‘Thankfully that feckin’ fop and and his two bodyguards died awful deaths. They were poisoned to death by his own men,’ Seamus said.
‘Why’d they do that?’
‘They discovered he was in league with the devil. It’s a pity they didn’t end him earlier. Some believed they’d been already cursed because of what they did to you,’ Seamus said. ‘After Entwistle was gone some of his soldiers opened the wall’s gates so we could come and get you. There were earlier attempts by others to free you or to even just see if you were alive, which mostly failed,’ he said. ‘Some doubted you even existed. But Alba she never doubted the truth of the matter.’
Quintus looked at Seamus and asked a question he intuitively already knew the answer to.
‘Who is Alba?’
‘My sister, she visited you out on the lake, around two years ago. She swam out there. You remember?’
Quintus softly nodded.
‘I initially thought I was imagining things,’ he recalled.
‘She wanted to free you but us — all da boys — were too scared. By herself she couldn’t free you, but she could learn the truth,’ he said. ‘She died of the plague three months after she visited you.’
‘I’m truly sorry to hear that,’ Quintus said.
Seamus nodded.
‘Before she saw you she’d been dreaming of a funny old man with a long beard riding a six-legged creature half-dragon half-lion looking kinda thing,’ Seamus said. ‘This old fella was talking to her in Latin of all things. Begging her to go see you,’ he added.
Quintus mulled over what Seamus just told him and the significance of it, but he didn’t share his thoughts. There was quiet between the two men for several minutes before he spoke.
‘I’m in your debt Seamus but I’m putting your family in danger. I should go soon,’ Quintus said.
The Irishman shook his head.
‘The English now no longer bother us so much. Unlike Entwistle, the new man in charge is not the murderous type, he knows he needs laborers for working the land, so you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. Y’know you’re the perfect guest — you don’t eat food and you don’t need a bed,’ he quipped. ‘We’d love you to stay forever.’
That made Quintus smile.
‘I will have to leave one day but I’ll never forget what you and your family have done for me,’ he said.
‘Where will you go to Quintus? France or Spain?’
‘I’m not sure.’
Further South
Quintus was in no great rush. He never was. Time, he had plenty of it. It would be another five years before he left Ireland and the O’Malley family behind.
On the day he finally did depart, he was taken in a dingy by two Spanish sailors to a galleon anchored not far off the port city of Kinsale. Watching from a rocky beach was Seamus with two of his cousins.
Earlier, it took Quintus and his friends eight days to travel from Wexford county to reach the rendezvous point at the beach where they said their final farewells. Plenty of district folk wanted to be there for the sendoff but they didn’t want to attract undue attention from the English.
Quintus was well loved by the people of Wexford who he offered hope to. He set up a secret school that gave Irish children in the area a chance of an education. There he taught Latin, history, reading, writing and calculation. For a dozen or so adults he also taught advanced building techniques, including masonry. To assist those seeking a new life abroad, he gave Spanish lessons. In all it made it possible for the O’Malleys and other Irish folk to one day become industrious and respected citizens in the Spanish city of Malaga.
As for Quintus, he was going in the opposite direction, somewhere into the unknown. Seven weeks after leaving Ireland, he landed in the New Kingdom of Granada (today’s Colombia) and steadily made his way north, biding his time for the end days. He just hoped he’d never run across Meng’s reincarnation again.
CHAPTER IV
A Murder of Crows
Quintus was seated on a train that made its way westwards through Nevada. The year was 1871, just seven years since the state became part of the Union. He was seated in the fourth carriage beside a loquacious middle-aged man with the surname of Green who was fascinated by a newspaper report on the discovery of giant skeletal remains.
