The Sword of the Banshee (14 page)

India cared for nothing. Her love for Ireland waned. She felt apathetic and disconnected from everything. The landscape failed to soothe her, and the suffering and exploitation of the people no longer moved her. The impassioned rebel was replaced by a mere shadow. She was nothing more than a ghost haunting the hills and valleys of Ireland. Colm asked her to write speeches again, but she was not interested. Her passion for the rebellion was gone.

Her sleep was fitful, and the headaches increased. Colm always had a brandy before bed, and she began to take these spirits as well. It seemed to ease the pain, and she could sleep for a while, but after a few hours she would wake again with a throbbing in her head. Tea and a light breakfast eased the headaches, but then gradually the pain would build once more. Afternoons and evenings, she walked. This distracted her enough to endure the rest of the day until bedtime when it would start all over again.

Gradually, India’s appearance changed as well. She lost weight and appeared gaunt and sallow. Dark rings encircled her eyes, and they lost their dramatic color. Her eyes were a static gray, like her life.

On occasion, the fog would clear and India would remember her days as leader of the rebellion. Something akin to longing would move within her, but it would pass. It all seemed like a distant dream. At those times, she would take tea or brandy to soothe her nerves and help her forget. More and more she was finding solace in oblivion. Life seemed easier if it wore a veil.  As time passed, she began to spend all day in bed, waking long enough to eat a bit of buttered toast and drink some tea. Afterward she would slide back down under the covers to float in and out of disjointed dreams.

“Come, come darling,” said Colm one evening at her bedside. “This must not continue.”

India opened her eyes, and as they focused she saw a large guard looking down at her. Colm nodded to him, and the man pulled her out of bed putting her onto her feet. She grabbed the bedpost to steady herself as the man left the room.

“The diversion will make you feel better,” Colm announced handing her a gown. “Now put this on. The men would like to see you again. It has been months.”

India blinked and rubbed her eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“You will attend a meeting tonight of the leaders. Several of the clan heads will be there. I know that you are in no condition to contribute, but it will be good for you to get out and join the world again. Now get dressed.”

“No, Colm. I have a headache. Please--”

“Nonsense, I thought you might feel this way, so I brought you some Dutch courage,” and he handed her a glass of brandy from the nightstand. She took several gulps.

She clumsily pulled on a gown and stomacher then ran her fingers through her hair. It was tangled and matted. “My hair must look--”

“No time for that, darling,” he interrupted. “You look beautiful. Come we are late.”

The warmth of the liquor spread over her, and India felt the comfort of the veil return. She followed Colm out the front door where the guard was holding a horse. He helped India mount, and they started off for the meeting.

India remembered little about that night. Colm presented her at the meeting and seated her next to him while he conducted business. Through the fog India recognized some of the men, but there were new faces in attendance as well. She tried to follow along, but the warmth of the room made her sleepy, and she dozed off. After the meeting, she tried to converse with the men, but she was tongue tied, and Colm made excuses for her. When they returned to the manor, India went right back to bed.

She had one nightmare after another that night. Dreams of distorted rooms filled with half human creatures, smiling at her grotesquely. One man had the teeth and the ears of a jack-ass, another had the tongue of a lizard. In another dream she was locked in a cellar where spiders crawled over her. The scene changed again and India was in the woods with the women who practiced the ancient ways. They were seated around the fire once more, the dolmen stone in the background. Slowly they turned and looked at her.

“Thank you for answering our summons,” the woman with the white hair said gently. “It seems you have lost your way once more.”

She beckoned and India sat down on the earth next to her. The full moon was overhead, and the fire sent sparks high into the night sky. Bronaugh Bree closed her eyes and raised her face to the heavens as if in prayer. India looked around. The rest of the women were praying as well.

At last, Bronaugh opened her eyes and looked at India. “It is time for you to leave Ireland.”

“No! I will not leave my homeland.”

The woman ignored her and continued quietly, “You will see their faces and you will know that it is time.”

India was confused and angry. She was tired of this woman telling her what to do. Suddenly, the youngest of the group, a girl about the age of twelve, stood up and walked over to India standing in front of her.

India looked at her, frowned and looked back at Bronaugh saying, “What is going on? I don’t have time for guessing games.”

The woman did not answer. India stood up. She was tired of the riddles, and it was time to go. She brushed herself off and started for the woods.

“Please wait,” Bronaugh pleaded finally. “Listen to me. You must free yourself.’

“What?” said India.

“Go to your husband’s nightstand to drink his potion, and then you will be free.”

India stared deeply into the woman’s eyes. They had a hypnotic light, and she suddenly felt very dizzy, and had the sensation of falling. Down and down she dropped until she was jolted awake back in her own bed.

She sat up, her head was pounding, and she was drenched in perspiration. After rubbing her forehead, she threw off the covers. She had not forgotten the woman’s words, and she got out of bed. In her nightgown, she walked down the hall to Colm’s room and opened his door. The room was empty. He had brought India home after the meeting and gone out again.

She walked to his night stand and reached for the drawer.
I must be mad, acting on a dream.
Nevertheless she opened it and there under his silk hankies lay a brown glass bottle. She picked it up and turned it over to look for a label. Her palms began to sweat and her head throbbed. Oh, to be cured, she thought
. It would be heaven to have the pain over forever. What if Bronaugh’s words were true?

Before India could stop herself, she uncorked the bottle and took a drink. It had a foul but familiar taste. She recognized it from somewhere. It warmed her belly and crept through her blood. The throbbing in her head eased. She was starting to feel better. Impulsively, she took another sip and her headache was gone. She felt the warm familiar veil dropping over her.

India shook her head.
It was like a miracle
.
The woman had been right! It cured her. What is this substance?
In her haste she had not checked the label. She turned the bottle over but could not read the label in the dim light. She took it to the window and tilted the bottle to read it in the moonlight. The mixture was laudanum.

Chapter 11

Throughout the night as the fog of delirium and deceit lifted, India realized that Colm had been trying to crush her with one of the most potent pain killers on earth, laudanum. He discovered the drug, a combination of opium and alcohol after his accident and found it a convenient solution to the problem of his wife and her activity in the rebellion.

India did not understand everything instantly. She paced in her room most of the night trying to make sense of her discovery and why this mixture made her feel better. She would walk and wring her hands, wondering why Colm had not given her this medicine before to ease her pain.

Every few hours, she would dash back for another sip of the tonic to ease the throbbing in her head. The taste was so familiar, but she could not place it until the servants brought tea to her room in the morning. She recognized it instantly.

The first time she had tasted it was when she was locked in her bedroom. The servants had brought the foul tasting tea that first day. When she complained to Colm later he said that it was her imagination. Now India knew he had instructed the servants to put the laudanum in her drinks. She realize at last, with horror, that Colm was not putting laudanum in her drinks to ease her headaches. He was putting laudanum in her drinks to
cause
her headaches. The medicine was not only the cure but the
cause
of her sickness.

From then on when they brought it; she tossed it. 

Now she understood Bronaugh Bree’s words. She needed to discover the medicine first to free herself of it. India slumped back into the chair and sighed. So much of it made sense now, the listlessness, the bizarre dreams, her apathy and confusion.

It was a perfect fix for Colm. The laudanum had made her passive and manageable, and she grew dependent on him and submissive. But what was most calculating was Colm had used her illness to discredit her in front of the men. He wanted them to see her drunk and disheveled and a broken remnant of the past.

India shook her head. She had played the fool for him beautifully, falling asleep during the meeting and babbling incoherently afterward. She had underestimated the man’s ability for treachery.
He knew that killing me would make me a legend, taking my dignity would make me a buffoon.

A blush spread over her cheeks, and she straightened up. She walked to the mirror hanging on the wall. India examined her face running her hand over her cheeks and jaw, turning from side to side.

“I am sick and I am weak,” she said out loud. “But I am not beaten.”

*           *            *

India knew instinctively she should wean herself slowly off the laudanum then be ready for gripping pain. Immediately she lost her appetite and had trouble sleeping. As she decreased her doses the symptoms became more severe. She would pace in her room all night and walk during the day to ease her restless legs and cramping. On several occasions she weakened and drank the spiked tea Colm sent to her or stole into his room for more laudanum. She cursed her weakness, but the illness was so severe that she could not endure it.

India upbraided the servants one morning for a trifle then chastised herself afterward for being irritable, vowing not to slip again. It was imperative that everything appear unchanged. She must remain docile and submissive as ever and still appear to be stupefied. Luckily Colm had been gone from the manor for the past few days and when he returned, he was busy making plans for another trip to London.

After several weeks, India started to feel better. The muscle pain and headaches lessened, as well as the anxiety. Now it was time to improve her strength physically and mentally. Careful to disguise her weight gain, she obtained loose clothing and ate at night alone in the kitchen after the servants retired. Once she had supped, she would walk the coastline for hours breathing the misty salt air of the sea. Just before the sun rose, India would steal back into the manor, pull the drapes and sleep through the day.

A healthy blush returned to her face and the dark circles faded from her eyes. Needing to disguise her new found health, India used makeup to return her skin to its unhealthy pallor, and she smudged ashes lightly under her eyes to look fatigued. It seemed to be effective; no one commented on any changes. The only thing that did not change was her eye color. It still remained the color of cold steel.

At last India was ready to attend a meeting. She needed to discover the direction Colm was taking the rebellion, and she decided to follow him to a meeting one rainy night late in February. She was grateful for the drizzle. She did not want to be recognized by the light of the moon.

She stood behind a drape in her room and watched Colm depart on horseback, then opened her door a crack, looking up and down the hall. She was armed with an excuse if she saw any servants, but they had all retired. India stepped quietly down the hall and out the main door, hugging the house in case anyone was looking out a window. Dressed in her tenant clothing, she put a shawl over her head and ducked across the lawn into the woods. She pushed through the brush emerging onto the driveway a good distance from the manor.

She heard the sound of applause at the meeting long before she saw the light of the fire. India thought it was imprudent of Colm to allow such noise. He had grown cocky and careless with the lives of his supporters.

A group of boys, maybe twelve or thirteen years of age came around a bend in the road in front of India, then stepped onto a path that seemed to be leading toward the rally. They giggled and pushed each other, taking no notice of her.

“I mean it, Sorley,” one of them said. “It’s tonight.”

“Ha!” Sorley laughed. “I can’t wait to shoot the bastards.”

Their voices faded and India could hear no more. She yanked her skirts loose from some hawthorn bushes and stepped onto the path too. At first the meeting appeared to be like any other meeting. Colm sat on a dolmen stone, near the fire. He was gesticulating and making a call to arms. Several of his henchmen stood nearby, burly-looking men with arms crossed in front of their chests. India stood in back but noticed that half of the crowd was sitting at Colm’s feet cross-legged.