The Godforsaken Daughter (8 page)

Chapter nine

H
ail, Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy, hail, our life, our sweetness and our hope. To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve; to thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears
. . .”

Nine twenty-five p.m.: Ruby and her mother on their knees in the kitchen—exhorting God with a protracted rosary. Mrs. Clare’s voice ringing out above Ruby’s: more sonorous, more earnest sounding, as was the matriarch’s right.

“Turn then, most gracious Advocate, thine eyes of mercy towards us, and after this our exile, show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus. O merciful, o loving, o sweet Virgin Mary! Pray for us. Pray for us. Pray for us. Amen
.
”

In tandem they crossed themselves, kissed Christ’s image on the crosses of their rosaries, returned the beads to purses, and rose. Ruby first, who then assisted her mother.

This duty of saying the rosary was strictly adhered to by Mrs. Clare. Even if she happened to be lying down of an evening and feeling poorly, she would make the effort to rouse herself at precisely 8:55 p.m. and come downstairs to kneel on the flagged floor for this devotional observance.

She balked at the idea of saying something as important as the rosary while lying down. One had to show reverence for Our Lady at least once during the day by kneeling to pray. It was a penance. Suffering the discomfort of painful knees on the unforgiving floor was appropriate, because Christ had suffered a lot more, had he not? Besides which, one gained a “plenary indulgence” for reciting it in the family home with other family members present. This added bonus meant time off for good behavior when one entered the purgatorial fires of the afterlife.

“How are you now?” Ruby asked when she’d got her mother upright. It had been an interesting day. She’d found and secreted Edna’s case. And this deceit, carried out under her mother’s nose while she gossiped with Ida, made Ruby feel more self-satisfied and willing to forgive and forget the fact that she’d slapped her. She was an old woman, after all, mourning a great loss.

“How am I? I’m as well as can be expected, Ruby.” The mother sighed. “As well as can be expected in the circumstances.”

Ruby helped her into an armchair by the stove and spread a rug over her knees.

“I’ll get the cocoa ready, so I will. The kettle’s already boiled.”

The mother settled herself, feeling more reassured, having recited her prayers. It had been a good day. She’d enjoyed Ida’s visit. After the weekend, Ida with her pedicure and chitchat had been a welcome distraction. She’d even allowed the Avon Lady to paint her toenails. Something her daughter June hadn’t managed, despite all those years on the Rimmel counter. There was something, however, niggling at her, and she needed to know the answer from Ruby before retiring for the night.

“Did you burn that case like I told you?”

Ruby, in the pantry spooning the cocoa into mugs, was glad the query was being made at a safe distance. She was not a good liar.

“Yes,” she said, a little too quickly, halting the spoon and looking up, only to see her guilt reflected in the window glass. “I
. . .
I did it today when Ida was doing your toes.”

“Good. I thought I heard you coming and going on the stairs. I’m glad that’s out of the house. I can rest easy now.”

Ruby set the nightcap on a little table beside her mother’s chair and withdrew to the recliner opposite. “I put an extra spoon of sugar in. But if you want more
. . .
”

“No, there’s no need.” Mrs. Clare took a tentative sip. “Where did you burn it?”

“Burn what?” Unnerved now, Ruby tried to buy time.

“The case.”

“Oh, down—I mean in
. . .
in the wood
. . .
at Beldam.”

Beldam.

She had the words out before she could stop herself. Beldam Lake was a no-go area, both in speech and thought. Not long after the grandfather’s tragic death, five-year-old Declan, her father’s younger brother, had wandered out onto the jetty, fallen in, and drowned. Forever a wound on the landscape of Oaktree Farm, it was fenced off with stout skeins of barbed wire, rusted now with age. Shut off decades ago, to shut out the pain of the family’s unspeakable loss.

Martha Clare studied her cocoa, gripping the mug in cupped hand
s. “That’s why she got into all that again
. . .
your grandmother. She lost her faith when the child died so soon after your grandfather.
”

Ruby shifted in the armchair, uneasy. The creaks of the old recliner pricking the silence in warning.

“What did she get into?” She’d seen the contents of the case and had an inkling of what her mother meant. But she needed to hear more.

“Trying to make contact with the dead. God had let her down, she said. So she turned to all that
. . .
all that mumbo jumbo
. . .
and made things worse. Far worse. Couldn’t let it go. ”

Ruby looked down at her cocoa. She didn’t feel like drinking it. “But
. . .
but if it helped her, what was wrong with it?”

The mother’s face darkened. “Who’s saying it helped her?”

“I dunno . . . Daddy always said his mother was the best in the world. So she must’a been a good woman.”

“You don’t know the half of it. Your father was as mad as her when I met him. She had his head turned with all that nonsense. You can thank
me
for bringing some sort of sanity into this house. It was a godless place before I came about. Not a crucifix or a drop of holy water anywhere to be seen. See that prayer over there of Saint Michael? When I married your father and moved in here, I gave her that for her sixtieth birthday. I’ll never forget the look on her face when she unwrapped it. She dropped it immediately as if she’d burned herself, and the glass broke. Then I knew for sure what
she was
.”

The more Ruby listened, the more fearful she was becoming. “Maybe it was an accident?”

“Why are you sticking up for her? It was
no
accident. Archangel Michael, our protector against Satan. Oh no, she didn’t want that in this house. But I stuck to my guns. I insisted that as long as I was living under this roof, I’d have religious pictures and a bit of Christianity about it. She didn’t like that one bit. Started to stay more and more in her bedroom until she died. Your father never talked about that side of her to you. Oh no. In his book, she could do no wrong. But she did a
lot
of wrong, I can tell you that. We fought over that case when she went, your father and me. I wanted it burned there and then. But when her will was read, that settled it. She’d made a specific request that as long as Oaktree Farm was in the Clare name, the case should remain in the house and not be opened. Far be it from me to go against someone’s dying wishes. So it was put in the attic, out of my sight.”

Ruby felt relieved and anxious at the same time. She’d done the right thing by saving the case—but she had
opened
it.

“I’m glad you’ve burned it. As I say, I can rest easy now, knowing it’s out of the way.” Martha looked at the clock. “Time for bed. Tomorrow I have an appointment with Mr. Cosgrove, the solicitor. What time is it at? I forget.”

Ruby got up and checked the calendar. “Half past nine.”

“Good. You can make a shopping list in the morning.”

After her mother retired, Ruby did the washing up, full of apprehension and forboding. What terrible fate would befall her now? Unwittingly, she’d gone against Edna’s dying wishes. She dimly recollected a fairy tale she’d heard as a child. It concerned a box and a girl who’d opened it. Ruby couldn’t remember her name but thought it was Greek. When the girl opened the box, she’d let loose all kinds of terrible things on the world.

Wicked things.

Before climbing the stairs to her own bedroom, she went to the framed prayer of St. Michael, which hung in a niche by the back door. She’d never taken much notice of it before. Like the other pictures that hung around the house, it had disappeared into the fabric of the wallpaper. But now that she’d learned of its origin, the picture took on a whole new significance. She lifted it from its nail, dusted it off, and held it up to the light.

St. Michael the Archangel defend us in battle.

Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the Devil.

She looked up from the picture. “Grandma Edna wouldn’t be consorting with the Devil,” she whispered, half to herself. “Why would she be?” There was more, but Ruby didn’t feel like reading it. She returned it to the nail on the wall and climbed the stairs to her room.

Once inside, she took the precaution of locking the door. Her mother’s words had frightened her, but she knew her mother generally looked at everything in a negative light. She sat on the edge of the bed.

“
T
HERE IS NO DARKNESS BUT IGNORANCE.
Y
OU ARE PROTECTED
.
”

The voice. The words had come to her just like they had in the attic when she’d felt afraid.

“I’m protected?” Ruby looked about her. “I’m protected,” she said again, willing herself to believe it.

Quietly, she got down on her knees and retrieved the case from under the bed. She found
The
Book of Light
and unsheathed it from the velvet pouch. Sat back on the pillows and opened it. There was a dedication on the first page, the writing rendered in what could only be Edna’s hand.

Dana

The Great Mother Goddess. Beyond all other Gods of this World.

Queen of the Celts. Caretaker of the Faery Folk. Life-giver of Water.
Font of All Wisdom. Bearer of Knowledge. Bringer of Light.

Divine Ambassador to the Elemental Kings.

Bridge to the Underworld.

May she reign supreme.

The next page contained an illustration of a beautiful woman with flowing amber hair—not unlike Ruby’s own—dressed in green and wearing a golden crown. She was standing in a forest, her left hand resting on the mane of a white mare. From her outstretched right hand streamed rivulets of sparkling water, which swirled about her feet, creating three spiral pools. Underneath the picture were written the words:

Dana. The Triple Goddess. Maiden, Mother and Crone.

Ruby studied the image, fascinated. The shapes around the Goddess’s feet were familiar to her. They were Celtic in origin. She knew that much. As a little girl she used to do Irish dancing, and around the hem of her costume were embroidered motifs of a similar design.

Suddenly, a memory stretched itself and assumed shape. She saw herself racing home from school on her eager little legs, in that dress, proud as a princess. Her mother on her knees in the garden, repotting plants. “Mammy, Mammy, look what I won!”

Ruby’s seven-year-old hand opening like a flower. In its heart: a shining silver coin. “Mr. Lagan, the dancing teacher, said I was the best in the class, Mammy.”

The mother wiping the sweat from her forehead, her eyes studying the coin, serious. “Hmph! There mustn’t have been much competition. Best to stick at your lessons. You’ll make nothing of that.” And she’d gone back to planting her flowers.

Ruby shut her eyes at the painful memory. Returned to the picture of Dana.

She was as beautiful as the statue of the Virgin Mary that sat on her windowsill. In fact, she could have been the Virgin Mary, but for the green dress. The image was comforting. No, there could be nothing bad in this book if was dedicated to such a beautiful lady.

She turned the page. Under the words “My Pledge” was writ
ten:

I, Edna Vivian Clare, do hereby solemnly dedicate myself this day, May the First, 1940, to her divine personage, the Goddess Dana.

May she bless me, and shower me with her eternal bounty, and may she protect me from the snares and wickedness of those who may plot against me.

I solemnly commit myself to her sacred work, and pledge and promise to execute my duties for the good of all humankind.

She turned the page.

There was a painting of a lake surrounded by reeds with trees in the background. On the surface of the water stood a little boy, his image crudely cut out from a photograph. Ruby had never seen a photograph of little Declan, but knew it must be him. Underneath the image were the words:

Beldam Lake took my boy but set my spirit free.

On the reverse of this page were the following words:

O children of the Earth, adore the Goddess and God.
The moon and the sun. The shadow and the light.
Know that they have brought you to these writings so that you may be the bearer of knowledge.
The bringer of Truth. The keeper of the flame.

There were charts in the book tracking the phases of the moon. Lists of herbs and stones, with directions on how they could be used in various lunar rituals. A beautifully colored illustration: “The Wheel of the Year. The Eight Sabbats.”

Ruby gazed upon a circle taking up most of the page. It was divided into eight segments, with titles and dates, the topmost being “Yule–
Mid-Winter (20–23 Dec.).” She ran her finger clockwise, stopping at each section. “Imbolc (2 Feb.).” “Ostra (9–22 March).” “Beltane (1 May).”
“Midsummer—Litha (19–23 June).” “Lughnasa (1 August).” “Mabon (21–24 Sept.).” “Samhain (1 Nov.).”

On a page headed “Signs of the Zodiac”
there were hand-drawn symbols and dates.

It was followed by a poem. She found herself mouthing the words as her eyes traveled from line to line.

To work enchantment every time,

Be sure the spell be spoke in rhyme.

Cast the circle thrice about,

To keep the baleful demons out.

Bathe in waters pure and deep

If weighty answers thou shouldst seek.