Sons of an Ancient Glory (43 page)

Overall, she found the idea of growing up more trouble than it was worth. It seemed to mean nothing more than increasingly difficult studies, more household chores, and more
responsibilities
—another of Sister Louisa's overused words.

It also seemed to mean feeling happy one moment and low as the grave the next—or, at other times, like now, anxious and restless for no conceivable reason.

A wind was blowing up, wailing down the hills like an old woman keening the dead. The enormous trees all about the grounds groaned and rustled, as if giants were walking among them. Again, Annie shivered. Usually, she didn't mind the wind. Huddled snugly in bed, the covers up to her chin, she liked to lie and listen to the music the wind made outside her window at night, like pipers marching over the hill, droning their battle songs.

Today, though, the wind only made her feel lonelier, and oddly frightened, as if it might be bearing some unknown terror. She glanced down at Fergus. The wolfhound, too, seemed jittery and on edge, his ears pricked as if he heard something she could not.

She was about to give up on Sandemon and go back inside when the Gypsy boy—the one called
Nanosh
—came out of the smokehouse and started toward her.

As usual, he looked none too clean. Annie had talked to him once or twice. She thought him impudent, but the
Seanchai
said they must treat him decently, that he was proving helpful and dependable in acting as a messenger between the Gypsy wagon and the house.

He walked up to her now, first eyeing Fergus, who stood perfectly still, watching him in return. Turning to Annie, he asked bluntly, “Why do you stand out here in the cold?”

Annie frowned at him. “Perhaps to keep watch on things,” she said shortly.

He studied her. “Are you Tierney Burke's sister?”

“No, I am
not
! I am Aine Fitzgerald—the
Seanchai's
daughter.”

For a moment, he went on appraising her with a curious expression. “I did not know the
Seanchai
had any children,” he said, following his observation with a great, unconcealed yawn.

“Well, he does. He has
two
children, in fact. A son and myself. Of course, I am no longer a child,” Annie quickly added. She motioned toward the wagon. “Have you seen Sandemon today?”

“The black man? Not since early morning. I saw him burning something not long after he called out his report on my cousin and Tierney Burke.” Again, he yawned, putting his hands in his pockets as he continued to watch Annie. “I suppose you live in the big house.”

“Aye, I do.”

“I live in a wagon,” he told her. “With my mother and brothers and sisters.”

“All of you live in a wagon?” Annie asked, interested in spite of herself.

“Well, mostly we live outside. We only stay in the wagon when the weather is bad or when we're traveling.”

As Annie watched, he dug down in the pocket of his baggy trousers and pulled out a red ball. Fergus immediately flexed his muscles and stood at the ready.

“I don't suppose you'd want to play toss?” the Gypsy suggested.

Annie considered the ball and the Gypsy boy's hopeful expression. She looked at Fergus, who appeared more hopeful still.

“I think not,” she said, feeling not at all inclined to play at
anything.
The boy's face fell, and on impulse she added, “But you may play with Fergus if you like. If you pitch the ball, he'll retrieve it.”

The boy didn't hesitate, but took off running. At a nod from Annie, the wolfhound followed.

Annie watched the two charge off across the field, then turned back to the wagon. Its bright-colored exterior appeared strangely out of place in the gloom rapidly settling over the field—almost like a garishly painted smile on a sad-faced doll.

A part of Annie knew that the melancholy was on her, that the mournful wind and encroaching shadows had drawn her into their web of darkness. She felt more and more isolated, yet unnerved by the chilling sensation that she was no longer alone.

She looked around—behind her, across the stream, up toward the house—but saw nothing.

The back of her neck went cold, as if an icy finger had touched her. Something inside her wrenched as the wind moaned down the hill, sharpening the chill in the air and the ache of loneliness in her heart.

She shuddered, pulling her coat more tightly about her to shut out the wind that was coming down the hill…and whatever else it might be bringing with it. Suddenly she felt cold all through and peculiarly small and alone. Seized by an urgent need
not
to be alone, she turned and began running toward the house.

That night the moderate wind that had blown up earlier strengthened, turning into an angry, howling gale that shook the trees and hammered at the wagon.

After lighting an extra lantern, Sandemon went first to check Jan Martova, who was sleeping. The Gypsy's skin felt cooler, though he still drew his legs up with pain.

Going to Tierney Burke, Sandemon dropped to his knees, lifting the lantern over him, to see his face. He was still prostrate, his skin still darkly discolored and spongy. His breath came in short, shallow gasps.

Sandemon put his fingers to the boy's throat, alarmed by the slow, feeble rhythm. For a moment he continued to kneel beside him, watching. From time to time the slender body would jerk and twitch, the head twist and loll from one side to the other. The fingers were stiff and curled inward, like claws. From the throat came the chilling sound of the death rattles.

Setting the lantern a safe distance away, Sandemon remained on his knees with a growing feeling of helplessness as he watched the boy's struggle. If he was not mistaken, this was a soul as yet unclaimed, a soul in danger of the deadly abyss.

“This boy is not ready, Lord…not yet…he needs more time and Your patience.…”

Pressing a hand to each knee, he forced himself to shake off the cold wave of dread that had been taunting him all evening. Staying perfectly still, he closed his eyes and tried to quiet his spirit.

It took a long time. At first, he was consumed with a sense of darkness. Darkness and bitter cold. Shuddering, he swallowed down the taste of terror rising like spoiled food at the back of his throat. In the woeful howling of the wind, he imagined he heard a whispering…at first, a murmur, then a rush of voices, growing nearer, as if carried on the wind itself.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he began to pray silently, then aloud. He invoked the Name of Christ, the precious Blood of Christ, the saving Cross of Christ. Beside him, the boy moaned, whimpering and thrashing about, as if waging a pathetic defense against some vicious attack.

Sensing that the attack would be prolonged and particularly tenacious—for the body was young and the spirit strong and stubborn—Sandemon prayed on. At times he prayed the words of the Church, at times the words of his heart…at times the Word itself. As the wind turned savage and the darkness heavy, he began to recite entire portions of the Holy Scriptures, until at last he was speaking only of his Jesus, retelling the story of His birth, His life, His crucifixion…then His resurrection, as if to lift the risen Savior high in the trembling wagon, high above the darkness…above the whispering…above the wind.

Tierney was trapped inside the tunnel, searching for a lantern or even a candle, something to light his way….

He was crawling on his hands and knees, the floor hard and cold and wet. When he pushed himself upright, he swayed and pitched from side to side, blown by an angry, wailing wind. He flung his hands out into the darkness to break his fall, finding nothing to cling to but the black, threatening gale. There were no walls, and yet he felt himself to be confined in a type of dungeon, the only escape at the end of the tunnel in front of him…but how to find the end of the tunnel with no light?

The floor continued to sway and shift beneath him. The wind tossed him here, then there, like a dead leaf blown idly across the ground. Yet he fought to keep going, strained to stay upright, to push ahead toward the end of the tunnel.

But what if the tunnel
had
no end? What if he were simply chasing himself in a meaningless circle?

The pain no longer consumed him, though it still clutched at his bones with needlelike talons. A surging fear of the dark and a desperate desire to escape had pushed past the pain.

He heard whispering, a low, rustling sound like the scraping of wings or the murmuring of secrets. Slowing his pace, he flailed his arms, grabbing aimlessly to steady himself. The wind seemed to slow, and now he thought himself to be standing on a kind of bridge, a rickety, swaying footbridge with no sides, nothing to hold on to, not even a rope.

On either side of him were the whispers. He began to make his way across the bridge, holding his breath, ignoring the needle pricks of pain. He wanted to reach out, to grab onto something…anything…but feared what he might touch in the darkness. The whispering went on, and he realized for the first time that he was walking a kind of gauntlet, with shapeless, faceless beings all along the way, beings who reached out to touch him, to stop him, as he passed by.

Terrorized, he walked faster, forcing himself not to bolt into a run and lose his balance. He knew, without knowing how he knew, that if he fell, it would be forever…a forever spent in the dark abyss that waited below him.

The whispers grew louder, the touches more demanding. Clammy hands groped at him from both sides of the bridge, pressing and probing him. The whispers became voices—shrieking, angry, menacing voices who demanded something he was unwilling to give.

Suddenly, the wind began again, this time a blistering hot fury roaring down the tunnel, slamming at his back, then his face. He tried to run, but was caught up by the scalding wind, sucked inside it, forced into a mindless, macabre dance as he struggled to retain his footing on the bridge.

He made the mistake of looking down. His eyes filled with the horror of a lake of fire, blazing up, dangerously close to the bridge. He threw out one arm, grabbed a fistful of nothing but scorching wind, screamed as a burst of fire exploded in front of his face, shaking him hard enough to hurl him from the bridge.

He slipped and pitched forward, flailing both arms as he screamed, and began to fall…

The boy's scream of terror pierced Sandemon's spirit, jolting him back to his surroundings, hauling him rudely away from the peace of the Presence. Bending over the shrieking youth, he saw that his eyes were open, wide and huge, as if they beheld some mind-shattering horror. Thrusting his arms straight out, the boy grabbed at Sandemon's shirt like a drowning man clinging to a lifeline.