Authors: Frank Herbert
“And sure and we all know there’s witches, don’t we, Father Michael?” Herity peered at the priest with owlish glee. “And the faeries, now! What about them?”
“Dream of anything you like,” Father Michael said. “I’m going to bed.”
“The first room to the right at the top of the stairs, Father,” Gannon said. “Sleep with the angels, God willing.”
Gannon turned and let himself out the kitchen door.
On impulse, John followed, finding Gannon there lighting a slender lantern with a kitchen match. Clouds covered the sky and there was a feeling of mist in the air.
“Tell me, Mister O’Donnell, are you accompanying me because you fear I have other weapons hidden out here?”
“Not me,” John said. “And don’t mind Herity. He lives by his suspicions.”
“A soldier, that one,” Gannon said. “A Provo or I miss my guess. I know the type.”
John felt an abrupt emptiness in his stomach. Herity… one of the Provisional IRA. There was the sound of truth in Gannon’s words. Herity was one of those who made the terrorist bombs and slaughtered innocents such as Kevin and Mairead and Mary O’Neill.
“I will open my heart and pray as never before that you shall reach Killaloe safely and there find a cure for the plague,” Gannon said.
In the morning when he awakened in the cold upstairs room, John went to the window and looked down on the stone enclosure around the graves. He could just see it past the corner of the other cottage.
The night before, the stone enclosure had been a ghostly rath in the yellow light of Gannon’s lantern, the silence weighted. An owl had floated past and Gannon had not even looked up from his silent praying.
Only Herity had been at the table when they returned to the house. He sat there still nursing a half glass of the poteen. It had occurred to John then that Herity was one of those Irish prodigies who could imbibe ruinous amounts of alcohol with only minimal evidence of it. That was a good thing to know. John realized he was seeing Herity in a new light since Gannon’s assessment – a Provo, no doubt of it.
“It’s glad I am you’ve returned safely from the ghostly night,” Herity said. “There’s wild animals about, you know.”
“A few pigs running loose,” Gannon said.
“I was speaking of the two-legged kind,” Herity said. He drained his glass. Standing slowly, deliberately, Herity said: “To bed, to bed, the sleep of the dead. I’ll give you the dawn for an evening’s yawn and one small bullet of lead.” He patted the machine gun at his chest.
As he stood at the upstairs window in the dawn, John became aware of someone walking up through the lower meadows and stopping at the graves. John was a moment recognizing Herity, and then by the machine gun, which became visible when he rounded the stone walls and peered up at the cottages. Herity was wearing a green poncho.
Something from his pack, John thought.
He hurried to dress, hearing the sounds of people moving downstairs, smelling lard heating in a pan. The odor of the tea herb mingled with peat smoke.
Breakfast was a silent time – boiled eggs and soda bread. Murphey appeared bright-eyed, showing no effects of the night’s drinking. His eyes winked with delight at the food Gannon placed in front of him.
After breakfast, they followed Father Michael down to the graves for the promised blessing. The air was still cold and misty, gray light through heavy cloud cover. John brought up the rear, the silent boy just ahead, clutching the blue anorak close around his neck.
John found himself interested in the silent boy’s reaction to this ritual. These were women buried here. Had the boy attended the funeral of his mother? John felt no emotion as he wondered these things. There had been a coldness in him the previous night as he felt O’Neill receding. O’Neill had struck the ones who injured him; he had done it through his successors.
Through me,
John thought.
Had O’Neill imagined such a scene as this?
There was no memory of such a thing, no inner movie to recount it.
Cold I was when I did the thing. Cold and murderous – not caring who I hurt.
Nothing had mattered except the striking out.
Father Michael finished his office of the dead. Looking at Gannon, he said: “I shall pray for you and for your loved ones.”
Gannon lifted his right hand limply, dropped it.
He turned and plodded toward the cottages, moving as though each step were painful.
“Go along, Father Michael,” Herity said. “Mister Gannon has promised us provisions for the road. We must be getting Mister O’Donnell to Killaloe and it’s a long tramp over the hills.”
Father Michael put a hand over the silent boy’s shoulders and followed Gannon. Murphey and the three other boys fell in behind.
“Mister Murphey, how about a bit of that pig to take on the way with us?” Herity said.
As Murphey stopped and turned, Herity took off at a trot up the hill. The two men headed at an angle for the byre.
John followed the others into the cottage. What was Herity doing? He had not given in to a sudden urge for pork. It was something else.
Gannon was already busy in the kitchen, Father Michael helping him, when John entered. It felt warm in the cottage after the outside chill. There was a pair of tall, military binoculars on the kitchen table.
“I’ve given my binoculars to Father Michael,” Gannon said. “Wick brought his when he came from Cork and there’s no need for us to have two pairs.”
Father Michael sighed. “It’s a sad truth, John, but the farther ahead we see, the safer we are in our going.”
Gannon had found a small blue-and-yellow hiker’s pack with one patched shoulder strap. He put several chunks of soda bread around the outside and packed fresh eggs in the nest thus formed. “There’s a jar of sweet jelly and a bit of lard,” he said. “I’ve left room in the top for the pork when Wick brings it.”
“You’re a kind man, Mister Gannon,” Father Michael said.
Gannon nodded his head at this and turned to look at John. “Mister O’Donnell, I shall pray again that you gain safely to Killaloe and that your hand helps us there. You have come across the water in our time of need. I’ll not have you misunderstanding the way of us nor how much we appreciate your coming here.”
Father Michael busied himself arranging the food in the pack, not looking at Gannon or John.
“I’ve talked to Mister Herity this morning,” Gannon said, “and I’ve a better understanding of your party. He’s told me the sorry way you were treated by the Beach Boys. I think there’s a dispute among the soldiery about the way you were greeted, Ireland needing wisdom such as yours these days. I’m thinking Herity has come along to see you safely to Killaloe. He’s a rough man but there’s times such men are needed.”
John rubbed at the stubble on his chin, wondering how he should respond to this pedantic outburst.
Herity and Murphey entered then, Herity with his pack already slung over his left shoulder, the machine gun riding in the cradle of his right arm.
“The pig’s already turning bad,” Murphey said.
“It needs ice this time of year,” Herity said.
John looked at the two men, sensing a subtle change in their behavior toward each other. There was some kind of an understanding between them.
“It’s a long tramp,” Herity said. “Best be on our way.” He glanced at Father Michael, who was stuffing the blue-and-yellow pack into his larger pack, preparing to shoulder it. “Call the boy, Father, and we’ll be on our way.”
“He’s welcome to stay here,” Gannon said. “If you…”
Father Michael shook his head. “No, he’d best come along with us.”
“The Father has formed a special attachment for the lad,” Herity said. He made it sound insinuatingly evil, grinning as he spoke.
Scowling, Father Michael took up his pack and brushed past Herity out the door. They heard him calling the boy. John followed, feeling oddly put out by Herity’s manner.
What do I care how he treats the priest?
John wondered.
He puzzled over this as they said their goodbyes and walked up the hill toward the farm track that led to the valley road.
When they rounded a screen of trees and no longer could see the cottages, Herity called a halt. The sky was already brighter, even a few patches of blue overhead. John looked back the way they had come, then at Herity rummaging in his green pack. Herity pulled out a small, short-barreled revolver and a box of ammunition. The gun glistened with oil.
“This is a gift from Mr. Murphey,” Herity said. “It’s only a Smith & Wesson five-shooter, but it’ll fit in your pocket, John. Best go armed these days.”
John accepted the revolver, feeling the cold oiliness of it. “Into your hip pocket and pull the sweater over it,” Herity said. “There, that’s the way.”
“Murphey gave this to you?” John asked.
Herity handed him the box of ammunition. “Yes. Stuff this in your side pocket. There was two of ’em Gannon didn’t know about. T’other’s a big Colt monster y’ wouldn’t want to be carrying, it being heavy as a tub of lead and not as useful.” Herity returned his pack to his shoulder and started to turn but stopped as a shot sounded behind them.
Father Michael whirled and would have run back to the cottages had Herity not stopped him with a firm grip on the arm. The priest tried to pry Herity’s fingers away. “They may need our help, Joseph!”
“You haven’t thought it through, Father. What are the possibilities?”
“What do you…”
“Another pig?” Herity asked. “I’ve returned all their weapons and the ammunition. If it’s a pig, fine! They’ll be eating a grand meal tonight and Mister Gannon cooking it. If it’s intruders, our friends are well armed. And that was a pistol shot, I remind you.”
Father Michael looked around him warily, listening. The woods around them were silent, not even a bird call, and the valley below, still shrouded in morning mist, was immersed in primal silence.
“If it was Gannon ending his miseries, you’d not be praying over him, anyway,” Herity said.
“You’re a cruel man, Joseph.”
“That’s been observed by better men than you.” Herity turned away and headed up the track toward the road. “Come along now.”
The silent boy edged close to Father Michael, tugged his arm and looked after Herity.
Fascinated, John watched the indecision in Father Michael become resignation. The priest allowed the boy to lead him up the track in Herity’s wake.
John fell in step behind them, feeling the pistol heavy in his rear pocket. Why had Herity given him this weapon? Was it trust? Had Gannon assessed it correctly? Was Herity assigned to escort John to the lab at Killaloe? Then why hadn’t he said so? And why were the priest and the boy tagging along?
Herity stopped at the road, waiting for them. He looked to the left where the road edged the valley floor, curving toward another tree-bordered notch at the upper end.
John stopped beside Herity and found himself caught by the diffused vista, the design of this landscape to control his eyes’ movements – patchwork earth and groves in the middle distance, a willow-bordered stream there, then more distant fields and up to the thin gray sliver of road into the other notch. The clouds in the eastern sky presented a rose-tinted border to the scene.
Herity said: “This land holds our history in its palm.” He pointed. “That notch over there – O’Sullivan Beare and his pitiful leavings of an army went through there.”
Something in Herity’s tone held John, forcing him to see this land as Herity did – a place where armies marched back and forth and where, not long ago, men who were hunted by the Black-and-Tans had fled through darkness to be hidden in the cottages of the poor. Grampa Jack McCarthy had told the story many a time, always ending: “‘Tis the fate of the Irish always to be driven from pillar to post.”
Father Michael stepped around Herity and set off briskly on the valley road. The boy trotted occasionally, sometimes jumping to catch a leaf from an overhanging bough.
Herity waited until they were almost a hundred meters ahead before nodding to John and setting off after them.
“Safer to keep some distance between us,” he said. He gestured with the machine gun at the two ahead. “Look at that mad priest, would you now? He wants to make another sheguts out of that lad. And the lad, he wants only his dead mother back to him like Lazarus out of the grave.”
Out of the corners of his eyes, Herity watched John, looking for some effect from these words. There was nothing. Well, the gloves would have to come off sometime soon. He thought of the message he had left with Wick Murphey to pass along to the Finn Sadal horse-post for transmittal to Dublin.
“I’ve convinced him he’s fully trusted. We’ll be taking him now past McCrae’s place and see how that works on him. Will he try to spread the plague? Send word to Liam and warn him to be on watch when he passes us along.”
Let Kevin O’Donnell think of the cleverness in this plan!
“Why do you keep calling Father Michael mad?” John asked, thinking of the cowled figure at the clothing hut. Were all priests mad now?
“Because he’s mad as the hatter!” Herity said. “I’ve a friend, Liam Cullen, calls them all ‘Lucans of the Liturgy,’ him being a man who likes to turn a curious phrase.”
“Lucans of the Liturgy?” John asked. “What’s that supposed to…” He broke off, stumbling on a rock, then caught his balance.
“You’ve not heard of Lucan the Monster? Him as ordered the Charge of the Light Brigade? Not to be confused with Patrick Sarsfield, the Earl of Lucan, who defended Limerick after the Boyne. When he took his Irish Brigade to King Louis in France, they routed the Coldstream Guards at the battle of Fountenoy.”
“The Wild Geese,” John said.
“Ahhh, y’ know of the Brigade, then. But it’s the other Lucan Liam means, him as drove forty thousand Irish farmers from their land – most of ’em to their deaths. And what does English history memorialize? Six hundred English bastards and them stupid enough to follow the orders of such a monstrous man!”
“What does that have to do with priests?”
“Don’t you hear ’em quoting scripture to our despair and destruction? Obedience! Into the valley of death, he says. In we go! ‘Leave your land,’ the hell beast says. Off we go! They move us all to suicide and they won’t even pray over us. Like docile lambs, we say, ‘Give us a place to dig our graves.’ Liam’s right: Lucans of the Liturgy.”