Miserere

by Caren J. Werlinger

  Mr. Walsh tore his gaze away from Abraham and held an envelope out to Elizabeth. “This come special delivery. From the gov’ment,” he said. “Thought I ought to bring it out to you straight away. Didn’t know when you might be comin’ into town next.”

  “Thank you,” said Elizabeth, taking the envelope from him.

  Mr. Walsh stood there, clearly hoping she would open it in front of him, but she set the envelope on the kitchen counter. “Thank you, Mr. Walsh, and be sure to say hello to Mrs. Walsh for me.”

  With another curious glance at Abraham, Mr. Walsh nodded and left, letting the screen door bang shut behind him.

  “Oh dear,” Elizabeth said, turning to Abraham. “I hope this won’t make trouble for you.”

  Conn looked up at him. His scar was a vivid red.

  “No more than I’m used to,” he said, but his words were clipped. Looking down at Will and Conn, he smiled crookedly. “Good night, William, and happy birthday to you, Connemara.” He bowed his head slightly in Elizabeth’s direction. “Thank you again for dinner, Mrs. Mitchell.”

  As his pickup truck rumbled away, Elizabeth picked up the envelope. She pried the flap open as she sat at the table, and shook out the folded sheet of paper within. Her hand flew to her mouth as she read the typewritten page.

  “Mommy?” Will leaned against her. “What does it say?”

  Elizabeth’s voice shook as she said, “Daddy’s a POW in Vietnam.” Her hands dropped to her lap as the letter fluttered to the floor. “He’s alive.”

  CHAPTER 9

  A few hours later, Conn sat on the floor outside her mother’s room. She’d known, after the letter, that this would be a crying night. She listened to the soft sounds of her mother’s sobs, feeling as if the past twenty-four hours had aged her so that she felt much older than eleven. She felt weary with the weight of all that had occurred – the world had changed and she had changed. She realized how childish she’d been to have never questioned that Daddy was alive as her mother clearly had. She ran her fingers over the Celtic cross now hanging around her neck and whispered a prayer for him.

  She thought, too, about her visions and dreams of Caitríona Ní Faolain. She wasn’t sure she had actually talked to a ghost, but the words of that awful curse had played over and over in her head. Everything her mother had told her of their family history supported the curse as being real. For some reason, it had not occurred to her previously that, if it were indeed true, then she would live, but Will would not. It made her feel guilty about all the times she’d wished she didn’t have a little brother. And it wasn’t just Will. All the husbands and fathers had died young as well. This realization drove home to her the urgency of ending the curse, but how? She was at a loss to think of what she could do that could change anything.

  She sat with her elbows braced on her knees, staring at the wall with her forehead pressed into her hands as she thought. Suddenly, she remembered – the hidden staircase. Caitríona’s appearance that night had driven it from her mind. She tiptoed to her room and retrieved a pair of sneakers and a flashlight. As quietly as she could, she pressed on the moulding and popped the panel open. She clicked her flashlight on and shone it down the narrow stairwell. It looked sturdy enough. She descended a couple of steps and turned back to the panel where she could see a handle on this side of the door for pulling it shut to engage the locking mechanism. She decided tonight was not the night to test whether it worked from this side. She pulled the door most of the way shut, but didn’t latch it.

  Sitting on a stair, she quickly laced up her Keds, and then, step by step, she descended. Pausing every now and again to brush cobwebs off her face, she got to a point where the hidden stairwell turned back on itself and continued descending in the opposite direction. It continued this pattern every eight to ten steps so that she soon guessed she was well below the level of the house, but almost directly under the point where she had started.

  The stairs ended at a dirt floor and what looked like a rocky tunnel. The air down here was old-smelling and a little musty. The darkness seemed to swallow the meager light from her flashlight so that only a few feet at a time were illuminated. She could see timbers reinforcing portions of the tunnel roof. As she began walking along the tunnel, she realized she’d lost track of the twists of the staircase so that she had no idea which direction she was going. The tunnel twisted to the left and went downhill for a bit, then leveled off. She walked for a few minutes before coming to an intersection where the tunnel forked and a wooden ladder led up into blackness that her flashlight couldn’t penetrate.

  She stood for a moment, undecided, and then started climbing. The ladder ended at a trapdoor. She turned her flashlight off, her heart pounding, and pushed cautiously on the wooden trapdoor. Poking her head up a few inches to see over the edge, she couldn’t see anything at first in the darkness, but just as she was getting ready to turn the flashlight back on, she realized there was dim light coming in through grimy windows. She was in one of the stalls in the lower level of the barn. Why in the world would someone have built a tunnel connecting the house to the barn?

  Conn carefully lowered the trapdoor and climbed back down the ladder. She considered exploring one of the forks of the tunnel, but realized her flashlight was getting dim. She decided to go back, and was soon glad she had, as her flashlight was nearly dead by the time she got back to the narrow, twisting staircase. She listened at the top to make sure her mother and Will were still asleep, and then crept back to her room.

  She lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling. She was beginning to realize that her dreams of Caitríona were not like regular dreams. She could remember every detail, more like a story she had read than a dream which faded upon waking. And they seemed to be unfolding like a story, sequentially. What would they reveal about this house and the purpose of that tunnel? She felt again that sense of urgency, as if the sooner she got through the dreams, the sooner a solution to the curse might present itself.

  §§§

  Within a few days of leaving the barge, Caitríona thought she might rather be on the river again. They had been met in Scottsville by Burley Pratt, a fat, jovial man who had been sent to collect them and the cargo bound for Fair View. The girls and Ewan drove the horses and cattle along behind the heavily-laden wagon while Fiona rode with Burley. Occasionally, they passed large fields of tobacco being worked by slaves, the first Africans any of them had ever seen. The blacks stood to watch them pass, their dark faces impassive under broad straw hats.

  The Irish soon wished they had such hats as they trudged along, their fair skin burning and blistering under the Virginia sun. Orla fashioned a bonnet of sorts out of a shawl; it was hot, but it kept the worst of the sun off her head and shoulders. Caitríona stubbornly refused to follow suit. She had barely spoken to her sister since Richmond. Orla, ordinarily not as proud or mulish as her sister, was holding her ground this time, as Caitríona’s words had stung deeply.

  “The mosquitoes here are almost as bad as they were on the river,” Caitríona complained as she swatted miserably at the bloodsuckers attacking any bit of exposed skin they could find.

  “It’s all them freckles,” laughed Burley from the wagon. “The skeeters sees ‘em and thinks it’s a party.”

  He was an older, affable man who liked to laugh and joke. He told them that Hugh Playfair, Lord Playfair’s son, had sent a message that he was in America, but would be staying in Richmond indefinitely, and didn’t know when he would arrive at the plantation.

  “How much longer till we get to the bloody plantation?” Ewan grumbled on the afternoon of the second day marching through the hilly country of what they’d been told was Buckingham County.

  “Good Lord, boy,” chuckled Burley, “we’ve been on Fair View land since yesterday noon. Five thousand acres, give or take. Mostly bright tobacco, with some corn and wheat and cattle.”

  “Five thousand acres?” gasped Caitríona. She couldn’t conceive of so much land being owne
d by one man. “And we were sold for five.” Her expression darkened as her anger and resentment were ignited anew.

  “We’ll be at the house afore supper,” Burley told them. “I bet you ain’t never seen nothin’ like it.”

  Sure enough, late in the afternoon, an imposing three story stone house loomed into view. It was sheltered by enormous sycamore trees, their aged trunks a stark white under their thick leafy canopies. As the wagon approached, other servants, both black and white, emerged from the house and the barns to greet the newcomers.

  One tall, gangly African opened the corral gate. The cattle and horses rushed in, eagerly crowding the water trough.

  Burley climbed down off his wagon, surprisingly agile for such a large man. “Welcome to your new home,” he said proudly, sweeping an arm around at the house and grounds. “Ever’body,” he said to the other staff, “these folks are just over from Ireland, and they’ve had a rough time of it. This,” he clapped Ewan on the shoulder, “is young master Ewan, what works with horses. You’ll be workin’ with Nate, there,” he said, pointing to the tall black man still standing near the corral.

  “And the ladies are come to work in the house,” he said leading Fiona, Orla and Caitríona over to a plump woman. “This is Ellie, my wife,” he said, kissing her cheek. She swatted at him good-naturedly. He introduced Fiona and the girls.

  “Land sakes,” said Ellie, “they’re just girls, Burley. What was he thinkin’, takin’ such young things so far from their home?”

  She clucked and fussed like an old hen, looking the girls up and down and said, “They’re so thin. They need fattenin’ up.”

  “Well,” laughed Burley, “we brought some help for that, too. Fiona,” he said, pulling her forward, “is the master’s new cook. This is Dolly, our old cook,” he said, indicating an older Negro woman standing behind Ellie.

  From the dour expression on her face, Dolly was not happy about having a new cook on the place. Fiona, shrewd enough to realize the value of having allies rather than enemies in the kitchen said, “Sure, and I was afraid there’d be nobody here to show me how to cook the strange things I’ve heard you eat in America.”

  “Oh, not so strange,” Burley laughed. “But maybe not fancy enough for Lord Playfair or his son.”

  Caitríona caught a glimpse of movement at a window. She saw a pale-faced man standing there a moment before he moved away. Burley followed her gaze, and said in a low voice, “That’s Mr. Batterston, the overseer. You’d best stay clear o’ him.”

  Turning back to the wagon, he called out, “Come on, all. Let’s get things unloaded and get these folks a decent meal.”

  They quickly unloaded the wagon, and Orla, Caitríona and Fiona were shown to the servants’ quarters on the third floor. The house, having been modeled after Lord Playfair’s country house in Ireland, had not taken Virginia’s weather into consideration, as the upper floor was sweltering. Forcing open the small window in the room she would share with her sister, Caitríona gasped, “How is anyone supposed to sleep in this?”

  “Maybe it gets cooler at night,” Orla said without much conviction. She sat on one of the narrow beds. “At least we each have our own bed. We won’t have to share anymore.”

  Caitríona blinked back sudden tears as a wave of homesickness overwhelmed her. “I never minded sharing,” she said softly.

  CHAPTER 10

  Conn pushed her way through some brambles, grimacing a little as tiny thorns tore at her arms and bare legs. She had spent the last couple of days wandering much of Nana’s property, searching for the family cemetery. She carried a small notebook and pencil, making a rough map and taking notes on the birds and animals she saw. Will had accompanied her one time, but he got tired quickly and wanted to go back home. Emerging from the tangle of brambles, she found herself on what looked like an old road through the woods, now little more than two dirt tracks meandering among the trees.

  She began following the old road and, as she rounded a bend, was startled to see Jed coming toward her, mounted on Jack.

  “Hi,” Conn said brightly.

  “Hi,” he returned, looking around as if hoping to escape.

  “Where’ve you been?” Conn asked. “We haven’t seen you for a couple of days. Hey…”

  Jed tried to turn his face away as Conn drew near, but she had already spotted his black eye. “What happened?” she asked, laying a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Your father?” she guessed when Jed didn’t answer.

  “It’s nothin’,” he said with a shrug. “He was drunk. He didn’t mean it.”

  Conn looked up at him, not sure what to say.

  “What are you doin’ out this way?” Jed asked.

  “I’m hunting for our family cemetery,” Conn said.

  Jed pointed. “It’s just down the road a piece,” he said. He edged Jack over to a tree stump and said, “Climb up.”

  Conn scrambled up behind Jed, and they ambled down the lane, dappled sunlight and green shadows rippling over them. Within a few minutes, they came to a small clearing on the left side of the lane. Conn slid down off Jack’s back and climbed over a low rock wall forming an uneven boundary around the tiny graveyard. She walked among the gravemarkers there, mostly stone, though a few were made of wood. Jed followed her in, looking as if he couldn’t leave fast enough.

  There was one newer grave, with long, unmown grass growing patchily over it. The stone marker read, “Fiona Faolain Cook, born 12-1-1893, died 1-23-1967.” She took out her notebook and began making notes as she wandered among the graves.

  “What’re you doin’?” Jed asked.

  “I want to know more about my family,” Conn answered absently as she wrote. “Does your family have its own graveyard?”

  “Yeah, but we don’t go there,” Jed said.

  “Why not?”

  Jed looked at her as if this should be obvious. “‘Cause they’re dead. That would be as crazy as goin’ to the witch’s house.”

  Conn stared at him. “What witch’s house?”

  Jed stared back to see if she was serious. “The witch. The Peregorn witch. Nobody in their right mind goes to that old lady’s house.”

  Conn frowned skeptically. “You’re crazy. There’s no such thing as witches,” she said as she resumed her wanderings.

  “So,” Jed said, deciding to let the subject of witches go, “what do you think you’re gonna learn here?”

  “I’m not sure,” Conn said. “Maybe what things were like for them.” She thought about the curse. “We can learn why they came here, or how they struggled, or why bad things happened to them. They worked hard to make a life here, to make it better for us. Seems we should get to know them.”

  Jed seemed to think about this as he followed her around. Most of the names could still be read, though not all the dates could. She found an older section where the headstones were so weathered that she had a hard time making out the names carved in the pitted limestone.

  Off to one side were three stones. She realized these stones were carved more crudely, different from the others. She knelt before them, running her fingers over the irregular depth of the gouges in the stones, trying to read them. Each had a single name. “Henry,” she read. The next one was “Ruth.” She moved to the last grave. “Hannah,” she whispered. Suddenly, she felt a familiar chill and the hairs on her arms and neck stood on end. She was overcome with an onslaught of emotions – overwhelming sadness and terrible anger. The feelings passed as quickly as they had come, leaving her woozy and disoriented for a moment. She stood weakly.

  “What’s the matter?” Jed asked from a little distance away. “You look like you saw a ghost.” As soon as he said it, he looked around fearfully. “Let’s get out of here,” he said nervously.

  Conn followed him back over the stone wall. He helped her climb back up on Jack’s back, and he shimmied up behind her. Nudging Jack into motion with his heels, he turned the horse’s head into the woods along a path Conn had never been on.

&nb
sp; Presently, they emerged from the woods into a field that Conn recognized. Within a few minutes, they were in her backyard.

  “Hello, Jedediah,” Elizabeth said, carrying a basket of wet sheets out to hang on the line. “What have you two been up to?”

  “Jed helped me find our cemetery,” Conn said. “I found Nana’s grave.”

  “Really? I never went there often when I was a girl. I doubt I could even find it again,” Elizabeth said. “How about we go after lunch?”

  Conn slid down off Jack’s back and Jed reined him toward the lane.

  “And where do you think you’re going, young man?” Elizabeth asked with mock sternness as she fastened the sheets to the line with clothespins.

  “Ma’am?”

  “You can turn your horse out to graze in the barn pasture, and come get cleaned up for lunch,” she said. “And be sure to pump some water for him.”

  “Yes’m,” Jed grinned.

  Conn opened the gate for him as he slipped Jack’s bridle off and hung it on a fence post. It took their combined weight to pump water into the trough, and then they hurried inside.

  “Whoa!”

  Elizabeth had just noticed Jed’s black eye. His face flushed pink as she held him gently by the chin to get a better look. Her expression was angry, and he looked at her as though he were afraid she was angry with him. She released him and said quietly, “Go wash up.”

  When Conn and Jed came back into the kitchen, Will was already seated at the table, propping his GI Joe against his milk glass. “Hi, Jed!” he said.

  “Hey,” Jed smiled, taking the chair next to him.

  “William,” said Elizabeth.

  Will immediately moved his GI Joe to the floor next to his chair.

  After a quick lunch, they all set out by foot for the cemetery. As Jed led them into the woods, Elizabeth pointed off to their right. There, deep in the shadows and so covered by undergrowth that Conn hadn’t even noticed it when she and Jed passed by earlier, was a small log cabin.