Song of the Silent Harp (16 page)

Daniel John's eyes grew large with surprise, and Nora gasped aloud. Deliberately avoiding their gaze for the moment, Morgan turned and walked toward the blanket-draped opening of the room. Keeping his back to them both, he stopped just short of the threshold. “Daniel John, I want you to come help me with the meal while your mother rests. We will have something to eat, and then we will talk.”

Saying no more, he turned, feeling their astonished eyes on his back.

The night's rest for which Evan so desperately longed refused to come. He lay on his back, as rigid as a paralyzed man, his eyes frozen on the ceiling in the darkness. Only in the vaguest sense was he aware of the musty dampness of the room, the faint clinking of glass downstairs where Cotter, he assumed, still sat drinking.

After a time he felt himself falling into a gray, trancelike state between wakefulness and sleep; he seemed to dream, yet remained dimly aware of his surroundings. Against his will, he again found himself walking the streets of Killala, streets lined on either side by the frozen dead. Once more he saw himself surrounded by entire families of corpses. Parents and grandparents, young children and infants lay heaped like worthless rubbish in ditches along the road—skeletons clad only in thin rags, many entirely naked.

A silent scream froze in his throat as some unseen, determined force urged him back inside the same dark, cold cabin he had visited earlier that day. Once more he was made to breathe the fetid stench of fever and death. There, in the same corner, lay the emaciated corpse of a small child; beside it, the wild-eyed, filthy mother, totally devoid of her senses, crouched on the floor, weeping and shrieking some unintelligible plea. The gaunt, mute man who might have been either young or old was still hunched close to his wife, watching her with blank, unfeeling eyes.

Outside, sprawled on the road, were the leavings of a dog's carcass, its near-frozen remains being consumed by a woman and three small children. Off to one side a voiceless procession of half-dead townsmen trudged by, seemingly blind, or at least indifferent, to the gruesome scene.

Against his dream-drugged will Evan continued to travel through the hideous labyrinth of the day. Staring in numb helplessness, he watched a young mother, obviously half-starved and ill with fever herself, drag the lifeless body of her little girl outside their cottage and leave it, partially covered with rocks and straw, in the open yard. Starting back to the door, she stumbled and fell, then lay unmoving only feet away from the improvised grave of her dead child.

Cotter appeared at his side—only this Cotter seemed more demon than man. With a gaping black hole where his mouth should have been and the yellow, soulless eyes of some otherworld fiend, he grinned and gestured that Evan should come along with him.

Evan's stomach heaved, and he tried to pull free of Cotter's clawlike hand on his arm, but the creature urged him across the road to a hovel, familiar in its wretchedness. A neglected one-room cabin with a dunghill at the door and a sloppy mud floor inside, it looked to be abandoned. Its only furnishings consisted of a dilapidated bedstead with some straw and a tattered blanket tossed across it, an empty iron cooking pot, and two rickety wooden boxes. Five cadaverous children clad only in paper huddled near the crumbling hearth, while the father, ragged and barefooted, lay in a stupor on the bed. The dead mother had been left to herself on a soiled pallet near the cold fireplace.

Cotter pushed him outside, cackling.
“What did I tell you, eh? They live like pigs and die like dogs!”

Back on the wet, ice-glazed road their horses were forced to halt and wait while a death cart passed by. It was filled with corpses tied in sacks, heaped on top of one another in random piles.

“Nowadays they mostly tie them up in sacks or sheets and dump them into the pits as is,
” Cotter explained in a voice that echoed with indifference.
“Else they use a false bottom casket, so's they can dump one corpse out before going for another. We've long since run out of coffins, you know.”

The children terrified Evan the most. Not the weak, helpless children he had encountered throughout the day; but the nightmare children, vengeful, malicious sprites who clawed at his face and dug at his eyes until he thought he would surely die from the horror. As if performing some dark, macabre dance, they spiraled through the chambers of his mind, fleshless wraiths not quite alive and yet not dead.

He recognized them for what they were: obscene, horribly mutated effigies of those innocents he had observed earlier in the day. But those children had neither cried nor spoken; indeed, they had made no sound at all, but simply stared in vacant despair and utter helplessness, as if biding their time until
the death carts would stop for them. With their partially bald scalps, cavernous eyes, and deep facial lines, they had appeared to be wearing death masks. Even more terrible was the peculiar growth of soft, downy hair sprouting from their chins and cheeks, giving them the chilling look of ancient little monkeys.

Caught in the midst of the nightmare children twisting and writhing all around him, Evan felt himself hurled from one to the other as he was swept faster and faster into the depths of their tormented frenzy. He tried to cry out, but his throat seemed paralyzed by terror. Panicked, he turned to Cotter for help. But Cotter was gone, absorbed by the churning darkness just outside the ring of children.

Small hands grabbed for Evan, stuck to his skin, covered his mouth, and stole his breath. They were chanting something in voiceless whispers…taunting him, threatening him, warning him…

“God, help me!”

Evan shot bolt upright in bed, terror-stricken by the sound of his own strangled cry. For a long time he couldn't move, could scarcely breathe. Huddled beneath the blankets, chilled by his own clammy skin, he trembled so violently that he shook the entire bed. He was wide awake, but unable to see anything in the thick, damp darkness of the bedroom.

Yet even now he could not escape the children. In the black silence of the night, their sunken, horror-filled eyes continued to accuse him as they took up the chant of Cotter's complaint:

“We've long since run out of coffins, you know…We've long since run out of coffins.”

13

Was sorrow ever like to our sorrow?
Oh, God above!
Will our night never change into a morrow
Of joy and love?

L
ADY
W
ILDE
[S
PERANZA
] (1820-1896)

N
ora's cottage was hushed, the silence in the kitchen thick and strained.

It had been over two hours since they shared the meal. The candle on the table had burned nearly to the bottom, but there was still a dim light from the fire Morgan had built out of a half-rotted log and some old copies of
The Nation.
The only sound to be heard was an occasional lapping of flames against wood and the low, mournful wailing of the wind outside.

Morgan sat across the table from Nora, watching her stare into the fire. She was still wrapped in his cloak and appeared almost childlike beneath its
weight. He was again struck by the alarming pallor of her skin, even dappled as it was by the soft glow of firelight. She had not met his eyes for what seemed an interminable time, but merely sat, wooden and silent, almost as if she had forgotten his presence.

Moments before, Daniel John had retreated to his room—most likely, Morgan suspected, because he was unwilling to face the possibility of another argument. The heated exchange that had broken out between Morgan and Nora earlier had obviously upset the boy—and it had lasted the better part of an hour before finally being halted by a strangled fit of coughing from Tahg.

Tahg.
Morgan could not help but wonder what was keeping the lad alive. He had reached the point in his illness where he would often become extremely agitated, sometimes even incoherent, often a seizure. Morgan had seen it before with lung fever; the afflicted would panic and begin to thrash about with a kind of savage energy before collapsing once again into a stupor. This time it had taken both him and Daniel John to hold the boy down while Nora worked to cool his skin with wet cloths.

Mercifully, he slept now; Morgan hoped that Daniel John might, too, although he thought it unlikely. What with the events of the day and the commotion of the evening, he feared the boy would find little peace this night.

This was not the way he had wanted it, not at all the way he had planned for it to be. He had hoped that his first mention of emigration would come only after a comfortable length of time spent in preparing Nora and her family to face the truth: that leaving Ireland was their only choice if they were to live.

Had there only been more time, perhaps he might have talked them around to the idea with some degree of calm and common sense. As it was, however, he had more or less been forced to hurl the suggestion at them with no warning at all. Their reactions had been predictably stormy.

At first Daniel John had responded with little more than bewildered amazement, saying nothing. Later, though, Morgan realized the lad's aloofness had only been the precursor to a kind of dazed confusion. Even when the boy left the room and ascended the ladder to his bed in the loft, his stiff movements and glazed stare were unmistakably the mannerisms of one who has been badly stunned.

Nora, however, had been far more vocal, exhibiting a feverish kind of anger, protesting every point Morgan attempted to raise with a vigor he would not have expected, given her frailty. Finally, unwilling to risk her collapsing again, he deliberately broke off the conversation, urging her to at least consider the possibility he had raised.

He had left the cottage then, on the pretense of foraging for more wood. When he returned, he found her as she was now, silent and unyielding. At first he assumed her withdrawal to be the result of anger with him and his “daft ideas.” He had taken his time poking up the fire, then looking in on Tahg and the old man—both were sleeping—before finally coming to draw up a chair opposite her. Only after several moments had passed, moments during which neither of them spoke, did he see her lips moving faintly and realize that she was praying.

He took this to be a good sign. If she was praying, then she must also be thinking. Could he dare to hope that the Lord might be his ally in all this? Certainly he had thought to do his own praying about things, but given the sin-stained condition of his soul, why should he think any prayer of his would reach heaven?

Now, as he watched the firelight play over her face, memories of the young girl she had been unexpectedly filled his thoughts. Without warning, a crest of longing rose deep inside him, a wave of remembrance of lost joy so powerful and poignant he nearly moaned aloud. He
did
turn his face away so that he could no longer see the gentle curve of her cheek, the graceful line of her throat, and the softly pursed lips moving ever so faintly in petition.

Oh, Lord, I must not let her see…even suspect…the burden of love I still carry for her. There are times I ache to tell her the truth, to gather her into my arms and plead with her to love me again as she once did, to be mine for whatever time we might be able to steal together. Oh, God, for once help me turn a deaf ear to my own selfish desires and make me mindful instead of Nora's good…

Aware that she had been praying—or at least making a numb attempt at it—Nora felt a sudden rush of guilt when she realized that she could scarcely recall her words. How long, she wondered, had she been sitting here, mouthing vain repetitions and meaningless pleas?

Forgive me, Lord. I cannot think…I simply cannot think…

She glanced over at Morgan, who sat staring into the dying fire as if oblivious to his surroundings. Something about his profile caused Nora to scrutinize him. Was it the uncharacteristic sag to his heavy shoulders, a slackness to his face she had not noticed there before? Surprised, she saw
that there was an unkempt look about his appearance, and that in itself was enough to make her inspect him all the more closely. Careless as he might be about the company he kept or the manner in which he spent his days, Morgan had never been untidy or neglectful of his person. Tonight, however, an air of resignation seemed to hang about him. His always unruly curly hair was messed—was that why she had not noticed until now the thick brushing of silver at his temples? Even his clothing looked rumpled and worn—and so did Morgan. Faint webs fanned out from the corners of his eyes, deep grooves bracketed his mouth, and his usually bronzed complexion had grayed with the distinct shading of fatigue.

An unexpected, irrational stirring of sadness rose in Nora at the realization that, like herself, Morgan was growing older. Just as quickly she chided herself for her foolishness. She and Morgan were the same age, after all—neither of them chicks any longer after thirty-three years. Besides, considering the dissipated life some said the man had led, he actually looked quite fit.

As if sensing her appraisal, Morgan turned, smiling at her. Inexplicably, Nora felt a sharp stab of pain at the tenderness reflected in that smile.

“Tell me,
ma girsha,”
he said, “how is it that I've become an old dog while you've remained but a pup?”

Nora caught her breath at the way he seemed to have read her thoughts. “'Tis not a dog you've turned into, or so I've heard,” she stammered, “but a wolf. A
red
wolf,” she added pointedly.

When he did not reply, she continued to challenge him. “Did you think you would not be found out? Who else could it be? 'Tis said that the leader of this mountain gang of bandits is a ‘huge tower of a man with wild red hair and an even wilder red stallion.' Connacht's own
Robin Hood,
they call him.”

Morgan lifted a questioning eyebrow, saying nothing.

“Oh, I know about England's outlaw-hero well enough!” Nora snapped, irritated that he seemed bent on ignoring her accusation. “Was it not your father himself who taught me, at the school?” Her mouth thinned with indictment. “Daniel John knows, too. And aren't you setting a fine example for him and the other children in the village, leading them to believe that it's righteous to steal so long as it's for a good purpose? Sure, and haven't we seen the results this very day of such thinking?”

“Who else knows?”

“And is that all you will say for yourself, then—
who else knows?”

“In the village. Who else in the village knows?” he repeated impatiently.

“There is talk. Did you think there would not be?”

He made a scornful, dismissing gesture with his hand. “There is always talk. I can't recall you being one for village gossip, Nora.”

“And is that all it is, then? Village gossip?”

A shrug was his only reply.

A chill went over Nora, and she drew a shuddering breath. Until now she had only suspected the truth. In spite of believing him to be capable of the thievery and rebellion attributed to the notorious outlaw, a part of her had managed to resist the idea. Perhaps a foolish, lingering fidelity to their childhood friendship and young love had made her want to keep his memory unsullied. But the steady green gaze he leveled on her forced Nora to acknowledge what she had tried to deny for so long: Morgan Fitzgerald was indeed
an mhac tire run.
The Red Wolf.

A sudden torrent of anger surged through her, and she leaned toward him.
“Why,
Morgan? How did you come to such a thing? You with your fine education, your brilliant mind, your poetry and songs—how could you throw it all away as if it had no meaning and turn into a—a common
outlaw?
Is it the political business, then…this Young Ireland movement? Is it that?”

Morgan drew in a long breath, expelling it slowly. Shaking his head, he answered, “No. Oh, most of the lads are of the movement, I suppose, but the movement has no part in this business. That is one thing, this is another. No,” he went on in a weary voice, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, “this is about hunger. And survival. The survival of our families—our villages.”

Nora stared at him with dismay, awareness gradually dawning. “That is where the food comes from,” she said, watching him. “The supplies you bring into the village—to
us
—the medicine for Tahg, the money you said would pay our passage to America—” Appalled, she stopped. “Oh, you foolish, foolish man!” she cried. “Don't you realize the destruction you are bringing down upon your head? They will
hang
you! Don't you care at all?”

Morgan's gaze never wavered as he reached for her. Feeling the warm, unyielding strength of his large, calloused hands closing over her own, Nora stiffened and tried to draw back. But Morgan held her firmly, leaning across the table, thrusting his face close to hers, so close she felt herself trapped by his eyes. “Do
you
care,
asthore?”

My treasure.
The old endearment from their youth brought scalding tears to Nora's eyes.

“Do you care, Nora?” he repeated softly, bringing her hand to his face and
laying her palm against his bearded cheek.

Panic seized Nora at his touch, the unexpected softness of his beard against her hand.

“Well, of course, I care,” she said, averting her gaze from his. “I would hardly want to see any man on the gallows.”

“Even a fool like me?” he prompted, a tender touch of amusement in his voice.

“Indeed.” She could not look at him.

“Nora?”

Unable to stop herself, she met his eyes, and the enveloping warmth she encountered there—an entire tide of feeling—was achingly familiar. Familiar, and somehow frightening.

Nora's mouth went dry, her heart rocked, and for one mad moment no years of pain stood between them. She was a girl again, and Morgan her hero-lad. Startled, she squeezed her eyes shut to close him out. But when she opened them again she found him staring at her with a searching look that seemed to hold a myriad of questions. And in that brief, suspended breath in time, a knowing passed between them, an awareness that long-ago hopes had languished, but not died, that young love had paled, but not entirely fled.