Heart of the Lonely Exile (42 page)

Morgan's heart swelled, then began to hammer wildly as he brought the pages even closer to his eyes. The words seemed to darken and intensify in front of him as he read on:

If Joseph himself had stepped off the pages of his journal and hurled the words in Morgan's face, they could not have resounded louder in his mind, would not have pierced his heart with such a force.

His eyes locked on the words before him, and he read them over and over again. With each reading, they echoed more loudly, more clearly, in his soul.

A wave of shame washed over Morgan. All his life he had used the power of his presence and the power of his pen to help others—to try to change the fate of his dying Ireland. Yet suddenly, with the loss of his legs, he had simply turned inward, wallowing in misery and self-pity like a pig
in the mire. He had let go of the Cause and embraced the bottle, wanting nothing but to forget. Sure, and Morgan Fitzgerald had given up to die, hadn't he, now?

And all the time, right here in his own house, a little piece of his beloved Ireland was waiting, looking to him for help and love and protection. There
was
something he could do, something he should be doing, after all! He had made a promise to his grandfather—a promise he'd done his best to ignore. But now here it was again, facing him down in the wee demented lass from Belfast, challenging him to fulfill what he had promised—to Grandfather, to himself, to his land, to his God.

Morgan began to weep—not for the loss of his legs, but for the loss of compassion.

Through his tears, he stared at the flask of whiskey and the glass in front of him. With an almost brutal force and a wail of despair, he flung out his arm and sent the flask and tumbler crashing to the floor.

A violent urge to go to his knees seized him. Half-blind from scalding tears and burning remorse, he clung to the desk, twisting his body free of the chair. He tried to kneel, but slipped and lost his balance altogether. He managed to crawl to the foot of the bed, where he stopped. Doubled over, he curled himself against the bed like a sorrowing child.

There he prayed, a prayer unlike any other he had ever voiced. Allowing himself to be wrapped in the love of his Savior, he acknowledged that he was indeed helpless—but not without hope. He asked the One who had lamed the demanding Jacob as a constant reminder of his weakness and need for God, to use these lifeless legs of his as a constant reminder that he, too, was utterly dependent on the same God.

“Let me never forget that, like the afflicted people of Joseph Mahon's journal, I have no strength apart from your presence…no hope apart from your promises…and no peace apart from your love….
”

The obscure uneasiness he'd been feeling earlier continued to nag at Sandemon as he worked in the stables. With the approaching storm, a vague heaviness had settled at the very center of his being, intruding on his peace, pressing him to do—what?

He had worked much longer than he'd anticipated. Glancing at the
inexpensive pocket watch the priests in Barbados had given him years before, he saw that he had been gone from the house for well over two hours.

Too long. An urgency now overtook him, a need to return to the house. No doubt the
Seanchai
was still cloistered in his room—drinking the entire time, Sandemon feared.

He straightened and tossed a piece of leather onto the floor. He must leave the stables—now. He wiped his hands on his trousers, then picked up the lantern to leave.

The exasperating thoroughbred—“Old Scratch,” the child called him—picked that moment to raise trouble. Squealing and snorting like a crazed demon, he began to bump at the door of the stall, his hoofs pounding the floor in a frenzy.

Sandemon gave an impatient sound of disgust, then started toward the front of the stable.

“You are a devil, I think,” he muttered, approaching the horse, who tossed its mane and snorted excitedly.

“You'll get no sympathy from me this night, Old Scratch,” he said, nearing the front of the stall. “I do not coddle horses, especially bad-tempered ones like you.”

The words he spoke were anything but kind, but Sandemon uttered them in gentle tones, hoping to soothe the beast. Instead, his presence seemed to agitate the animal that much more.

Suddenly, the horse snorted and reared up. Sandemon caught a flash of red, bright and wet, on the thoroughbred's left front hoof. Hanging the lantern on the wall of the stable, he continued to reassure the horse in soft words, watching him closely as he drew near.

Again the thoroughbred reared, and this time Sandemon clearly recognized blood on his hoof—enough blood to indicate a serious cut or injury.

No wonder the poor beast had turned more temperamental than ever! His foul disposition only masked a frightened animal in pain.

Immediately sympathetic to the thoroughbred, Sandemon eased the rest of the way up to the stall.

“Poor boy…poor boy,” he murmured, carefully releasing the board that secured the door of the stall. “Sandemon will help you. Hush now.…”

Unexpectedly, the horse quieted, all the while watching Sandemon through wild eyes. Even when the black man opened the stall door and
put one foot inside, the thoroughbred followed his movements in total silence.

Sandemon never once stopped his murmurings as his gaze traveled down, from the horse's head to the hoof that needed tending.

Slowly, cautiously, he extended his hand to gentle the horse.

And he knew in an instant he had made a foolish mistake. The thoroughbred reared at his touch, shrieking like a creature out of hell.

On instinct, Sandemon threw up his arms to protect his head, whipping his body hard to the side of the stall. He crashed into the wood, then bounced off. Again he lunged to the side of the stall, trying to hurl himself out of the way of the horse's flying hoofs.

Instead, he stumbled, lurching directly into the thoroughbred's path. An incredible blow knocked the breath out of his body, sending him spinning out the open door of the stall.

Sprawled on his back, he stared up. The last thing he saw was the belly of the devil horse as he reared up, screaming, over Sandemon's head.

41

Lone and forgotten
Through a long sleeping,
In the heart of age
A child woke weeping….
The darkness thickened
Upon him creeping,
In the heart of age
A child lay weeping.

GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL (A.E.) (1867–1935)

A
nnie sat up, vaguely aware of the noise that awakened her. A peculiar noise, something not quite…right.

When Sandemon hadn't returned after more than an hour, she had fallen asleep, a book still in her hand. Now, glancing around the dimly lit bedroom, she pushed the book aside, waiting for her eyes to focus.

The candles had burned low. Outside she heard the rumbling of distant thunder, the soft patter of rain.

Was that what she'd heard, then? Only an approaching storm?

Still drowsy, she lay unmoving, listening. She thought there had been a crash—had it been thunder?—just before she'd awakened.

Perhaps she had a dream. Rolling over, she lay listening to the rain. She had always found it a mournful sound, the falling rain, and yet it lulled her, like a sad song that would not be ignored.

There came a muffled cry, like someone weeping. Annie sat up. Then she heard a thud. Inside the house, or out? She could not tell.

Now a banging—louder this time. Outside, she thought.

Leaping from the bed, she ran to the window, pushed the draperies roughly aside. The window was swollen, and she had to force it open.

On the rain-heavy wind came a loud neighing and the scream of a terrified horse. Something was wrong in the stables!
Sandemon! Sandemon and pilgrim!

Leaving the window open, Annie ran from the room. In the hall, she stopped, frowning. Strange sounds were coming from the Fitzgerald's bedroom. Muffled noises, like someone talking to himself. Then a loud thump, and still another.

Annie's eyes darted from hallway to the stairs, then back to the
Seanchai's
room. She had promised Sandemon to stay near, in case the
Seanchai
needed help. She must see to him first!

Sprinting down the hall, she charged into the
Seanchai's
bedroom. With her hand still gripping the doorknob, she stopped, her eyes widening in horror.

The room reeked of whiskey. The
Seanchai
was on the floor, crouched and trying to pull himself up into the wheelchair. A pool of whiskey and broken glass spread across the carpet in front of the desk.

With both hands braced on the seat of the wheelchair, the
Seanchai
stared at her from the floor. His eyes were red, his copper hair wild, his clothes disheveled.

“Annie!” He gave a short laugh of surprise. “Thanks be! Help me, lass! Hold the chair so I can get into it!”

He was drunk!

Annie's legs seemed sunk in lead. She could not move, could only gape at the man on the floor in growing terror. He was sprawled between bed and chair like a common drunk!

Like Tully!

“Annie? It's all right, lass; just hold the chair. I didn't fall, I was just—”

Drunk…drunk, like Tully…his clothes in disarray. She couldn't go near
him…he was drunk…he would hurt her.…
Repulsed by the sight of him clawing at the wheelchair, sickened by the familiar sweet and smoky smell of the whiskey, Annie fled from the room, screaming.

The
Seanchai's
cries for help echoed behind her as she went flying down the stairs and out of the house.

“Annie! Come back! Come back, Annie!”

She ran as hard as she could to the stables, screaming all the way across the grounds. A cold rain pelted against her face, and a bolt of lightning lit up the sky with an eerie blue light.

“Sand-Man!” She must find Sandemon! He would help her! He would keep the drunken
Seanchai
away from her!

Tearing into the stable, she saw Pilgrim first. The big red stallion was carrying on something fierce, screaming and pounding the floor of his stall in a fury.

She shushed him, but didn't tarry. Her eyes went to the empty stall where Old Scratch was supposed to be.

He was gone!
Heading toward the stall, Annie stopped, frozen by the sight of Sandemon lying on the floor of the stable.

Annie screamed his name and pitched toward him. Dropping down on her knees, she began to shake him. The black man's eyes were closed. A trickle of blood wound its way down the side of his face.

Sobbing, Annie continued to shake him, calling his name.
“Sand-Man! Wake up! Wake up, Sand-Man! I need you!”

Somebody was shaking him, screaming his name. Groaning, Sandemon opened his eyes. The world was spinning crazily. He put out a hand to stop the spinning.
“Sand-Man!”

The child was screeching at him, crying and tugging at his arm. “Oh, Sand-Man! You're not dead! Thanks be to God…you're not dead at all!”

He moaned, squeezed his eyes shut against the noise of frightened horses and the child's shrill cries.

“Hush, child! Of course, I'm not dead! Hush, now, or I will die from all the racket!” He caught her hand. “And stop shaking me, foolish child!”

Sandemon's eyes began to focus. The spinning slowed. His ribs hurt with each breath, and his head felt as if it might explode. He tried to push himself up, but the stable tilted in front of him.

Staring at the girl, he put a hand to his head. “What is
wrong
with
you, child? Stop that screeching! I'm all right, didn't I tell you? At least I will be, once my head clears.”

She was sobbing uncontrollably, gripping his arm. “What happened to you, Sand-Man? I thought you were dead! Old Scratch is gone, and Pilgrim was in a panic! And the
Seanchai
is drunk, and—”

Sandemon caught her by the forearm. “What about the
Seanchai?
What are you saying, child? Is he all right?”

She stared at him, then wailed, “He's
drunk!
On the floor! He tried to make me help him, but I couldn't—”

Sandemon stared at the child with rising dread. “On the
floor
—” Rolling to his side, he grasped her arm. “Help me up!” Clambering to his feet, he swayed, ducked his head down until he was steady.

“We must get to the house at once! Come, child! Hurry!”

In his room, Morgan had finally managed to get himself into the wheelchair. Avoiding the broken glass and the pool of whiskey, he was wheeling toward the door when it crashed open.

Sandemon stood framed in the dim light of the hallway. But a different Sandemon, this. His face streaked with dirt and sweat, a cut over one eye, his purple shirt smudged with dust.

“Are you all right,
Seanchai?”
The black man's gaze jerked from Morgan to the breakage on the floor. “What happened?”

“Bit of an accident, is all!” Morgan snapped. “What's wrong with you? What's all the commotion?” He stopped, seeing Annie lurking behind him. She was staring at Morgan, her eyes filled with fear and disgust.

“Annie?” Morgan reached out a hand to her. “Come here, lass. What's gotten into you?”

The child hung back, dark eyes flashing.

“You're not hurt,
Seanchai?”
asked Sandemon.

Morgan looked at him, “Hurt? No, I'm not hurt, why—” Morgan's gaze went back to the child, and understanding began to dawn. “I was trying to get back into the chair when she found me. It must have frightened her, seeing me so…” He let his words drift off, unfinished in his humiliation.

Sandemon scrutinized him for a moment. “You're not drunk,” he murmured, then blinked, his eyes taking on a hooded expression as if he knew he had spoken out of turn.

“No, I am not
drunk!”
Morgan shot back. “I haven't even had a drink!”

He followed the black man's gaze as it traveled to the broken glass and the whiskey on the floor.

“I threw it!” Morgan snarled.

“You
threw
it?” Sandemon repeated skeptically.

“Aye, I threw it,” Morgan repeated, softening his tone. Sagging in the chair, he added, “I'll not have it in the house any longer.”

Looking up, he saw something glint in the black man's eyes.

The two men exchanged a long look. Then Sandemon gave a nod and turned to the girl for a moment. “Go back to your room, child,” he said softly. “I will come to you as soon as I have cleaned up in here.”

Annie didn't move. Her dark eyes went from Sandemon to Morgan, then back to the black man.

“Go with her,” Morgan said quickly. “You can clean this up later.”

“Seanchai
—”

Morgan shook his head, made a dismissing motion with his hand. “It's all right. Take care of the child.”

Sandemon gave a nod, then put an arm around Annie's shoulder. “Come, child,” he said gently. “Everything will be all right now. Come with Sandemon. You must rest.”

After bandaging the cut over his eye, Sandemon returned. He started right in cleaning up the whiskey and broken glass.

“Is she all right?” Morgan asked tightly, staring out the window into the rain-veiled night.