Miserere
Page 26
Purify me with hyssop until I am clean;
wash me until I am whiter than snow.
Instill some joy and gladness into me,
let the bones you have crushed rejoice again.
Hide your face from my sins,
wipe out all my guilt.
God, create a clean heart in me,
put into me a new and constant spirit,
do not banish me from your presence,
do not deprive me of your holy spirit.
Be my saviour again, renew my joy,
keep my spirit steady and willing;
and I shall teach transgressors the way to you,
and to you the sinners will return.
Save me from death, God my saviour,
and my tongue will acclaim your righteousness;
Lord, open my lips,
and my mouth will speak out your praise.
Sacrifice gives you no pleasure,
were I to offer holocaust, you would not have it.
My sacrifice is this broken spirit,
you will not scorn this crushed and broken heart.’”
No one spoke as she finished. She closed the Bible and said, “I hope you find the peace you were seeking.”
***
Later that night, sitting in her bed in the moonlit darkness, listening to the night sounds of summer outside her window, Conn waited. When all was quiet, there came the chill and the light she knew would appear.
“You have done what no other could,” Caitríona said. “You fulfilled the seanmhair’s prophecy.”
“I didn’t think I was… after the fire,” Conn murmured.
Caitríona said, “You could have given in to the hatred, but you didn’t.” She lowered her eyes. “I was consumed by it. You could never have done what I did.”
“Will you be able to… move on, now?”
Caitríona nodded, smiling a little, the first smile Conn had seen on her face. “I hope Hannah will be waiting for me.”
“I found a journal entry from 1890,” Conn told her. “After Lucy, the next Peregorn witch, her name was Nell, she wrote that Hannah was a soul living with one foot in this world and one foot in the next. I think she’ll be waiting.”
Caitríona’s silvery form faded a bit.
“You won’t be coming back again, will you?” Conn asked.
“No, child,” said Caitríona. “The bottom step of the hidden stairs is a secret box. There, you will find my journal.” She regarded Conn for a long moment. “One last gift am I permitted to give you, though you may think it a curse. Your father will not be coming home. He has gone on.” She paused at the tears that sprang to Conn’s eyes. Softly, she said, “‘Tis the not knowing that tears a soul apart. Farewell, Connemara Ní Faolain.”
Caitríona faded away and Conn’s room was once again lit only by moonlight and filled with warm night air.
Epilogue
Conn stood on the hill, her short red hair blown by a wind carrying the smell of the sea and the heather, and looked down on a small stone cottage. Undiminished by the passage of twenty-five years, the memory of her dreams was as sharp as if she had just lived them that summer. Years of searching through old estate and county records had led her at last to this moment. Grasping the hand of the woman next to her, they walked down to the cottage, which now stood in ruins, its thatched roof falling in in places, the stone walls in need of new chinking, the windows taken long ago by someone with greater need.
She looked around. Over there was the little lean-to where the pony and the cow had sheltered. In the other direction was the hill beyond which the seanmhair had lived. She ducked through the low door, stepping into the cottage. It seemed impossible that so many had lived in this tiny place. A couple of blocks of peat still lay next to the fireplace.
“Are you all right?” the other woman asked, gripping Conn’s hand more tightly.
Conn nodded, blinking rapidly. “I just can’t believe I’m here. Could you take some pictures to show Mom and Will?”
As the woman pulled her camera out of the case hanging from her shoulder, Conn stepped to the window at the back of the cottage. There, up on the next hill, were three small crosses that she had seen before, along with two others that were newer, though still very old.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she murmured.
She walked up the hill to the graves. The largest of the crosses there had a name crudely carved into the wood, so weathered as to be almost indiscernible. She was able to make out “Eilish O’Faolain.” She reached into her pocket and pulled forth a rosary. Kneeling, she wound the wooden beads around the upright post of the cross.
Sighing, she looked out over the cottage, the home that Caitríona and Orla had been forced to leave. Though they had never seen home or Ireland again, it felt to Conn like she had achieved some kind of closure for them, even if it was five generations late.
The woman climbed the hill and knelt next to her, wrapping an arm gently around her shoulders. “Are you all right?” she asked again.
Conn brushed tears from her face. She lifted the woman’s hand to her lips, kissing it, and said, “Let’s go home.”
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