To Kingdom Come (18 page)

O’Casey recovered first, a look of awe and joy on his face. Dunleavy was next, blinking, his mind calculating what this
might mean for Irish freedom. McKeller was still on the ground, but he was holding his sides and laughing. The Bannon brothers had been knocked all in a heap. Only Yeats did not look happy. He fumbled with his pince-nez, glowered at us, and rose.

Maire had received a small cut on her forehead from the debris, and he rushed forward to dab it with a handkerchief. From my position between O’Casey and McKeller, I couldn’t see how she was. I was still stunned that Barker had used the girl for the demonstration. I didn’t approve of her detonating the bomb, and would have voiced my objection to my employer had her brother not been shaking me hard by the shoulders and thumping me on the back.

“By the saints, that was absolutely bloody incredible! I thought you were going to launch that old lighthouse, like a Roman candle, right over London! With explosives like this, our mission can’t fail!”

Fergus McKeller was still laughing so hard that tears were running down his ruddy cheeks. He finally sat up, his feet spread out like a boy at play in the dirt, then bawled over his shoulder.

“Colin! Padraig! Get up, ye buskers! Go find your fiddle and your whistle, and let’s have us a ceilidh!”

Slowly, the group came to life again. Maire stood and checked her hair, then began to set out the food. Yeats brought more provisions from the cart, complaining that the horses were panic-stricken. Fergus McKeller hammered a spigot into the barrel of stout, while Colin and Padraig Bannon began to warm up their instruments. Before I knew it, I was in the middle of my first ceilidh. We Welsh are a more sedate group of Celts than our Irish brethren, thanks to the evangelizing work of John and Charles Wesley. I was wondering if a wild Irish revel might be too much for a born Methodist and his Baptist employer.

There was a sudden pop behind me, which I must admit made me jump. Dunleavy had opened a bottle of champagne, which he
poured into three pint glasses already half full of Guinness. He handed one each to Barker and me.

“I understand that this drink was created upon the death of Albert, the Prince Consort,” he explained. “It was decreed that day in Dublin Town that even champagne should be in mourning black. They call it a black velvet, and if either of you can still stand up after three of them, you’re a better man than I.”

We raised our drinks and gave the official toast,
sláinte,
but I was thinking I’d give a month’s salary for a nice glass of milk, and I think Barker would have, too. Stout was fine, but I couldn’t see myself making a steady diet of the brew.

I went into the cottage to help Miss O’Casey with the food. It was amazing how much she and her crew had thrown together in a short couple of hours, with not much more than a few old pots and an open fire. The feast consisted of colcannon, sprouts, tinned beef, peas, soda bread, a small ham, and rashers of bacon.

“It was a shame for the lighthouse to come down,” Yeats commented from the inglenook. “I know it wasn’t of any use to people anymore, but I liked the old building.”

“As did I,” I admitted. “We had to turn out some stoats and other small animals that were living there. I would have preferred another site, but Mr. van Rhyn insisted.”

“So, Mr. Explosives Expert,” Maire said, “are you going to stand here and bother my helpers, or are you willing to do some actual work? Start slicing that bread there, if you have a mind to, unless destroying is all you’re good for.”

Yeats grinned, and I began to slice. An hour or two before, we’d been making fun of Willie’s absurd walk, and now I was the victim of her sharp tongue. I can’t say I especially cared for it.

We began taking the feast out to the hungry men, who had already started drinking on empty stomachs. I barely had time to set down the pot of peas, when there was such a flashing of spoons about it, I thought I’d better get my own in quickly or I
wouldn’t get any at all. I asked McKeller why peas were such a favorite among the men in Ireland.

“It’s simple economics, Penrith,” he explained. “The less money you waste on food, the more you can spend on drink. A plate o’ peas should be enough of a meal for any Irishman.”

Having loaded plates for Barker and myself, I went back into the cottage, for I’d seen the kettle brewing on the fire. I took a tankard of tea and a plate to my employer, who had wandered to the bonfire the men had started and sat down on a rock.

“Thank you, lad,” he murmured under his breath.

“It went off without a hitch,” I whispered.

“Aye. I’m inclined to hope that Dunleavy shall open that purse of his a little wider now that we’ve shown him we know what we’re about.”

“That’s cause to celebrate,” I said.

“You really are starting to sound like an Irishman, lad.” He sniffed. “I, for one, have no wish to partake in drunken revelry for its own sake. I believe I shall retire early. You may give them my excuses.” His moral dignity intact, Barker took his plate and tankard and went into the cottage.

It was growing dark by now and the Bannon twins were in full swing, while McKeller danced a jig with all the elaborate concentration that comes from having had too much to drink. Eamon O’Casey was leaning against a rock, laughing at his friend’s antics and clapping in time to the music.

“Maire!” McKeller roared. “Come have a dance!”

The girl demurred, but it was only a matter of convincing her. They all started calling her name, chanting it together, until she finally relented, allowing Yeats to escort her to the dance floor—a sandy clearing.

“I won’t dance on sand!” She demanded, “I shall need a door, at least.”

It suddenly became the most necessary thing in the world that
they find her a good door. They finally took one in the main cottage off its hinges, despite Barker’s protests, and set it on the ground.

Maire O’Casey stepped onto it as regal as a queen and stood for a moment, looking tall and cool. Her arms were at her sides, and she lifted her hem a few inches, displaying a pair of dainty shoes and trim ankles. She stood stock-still a moment, as Colin’s fiddle and Padraig’s pennywhistle tune began to build, and I realized I was holding my breath. There were no ribald comments from the men, no half-drunken singing. All eyes were on Maire.

She began, her feet moving lightly, clicking on the wood, hands at her sides, a look of concentration on her face. Her feet moved so quickly my eyes couldn’t keep up, her heels providing a drumbeat for the rest of the music. The cool evening wind combed through her curling hair, which had fallen from its bun, and the fire played across it until it, too, seemed to be made of fire, a head of flames burning in the summer darkness. Her face was still frozen, however, her features chiseled in ice.

She leapt up high, like a roe, and one of her feet lashed out in a kick. Her dance grew more and more wild, spinning in a circle, and then slowly, her eyes moved downward and fastened on me. I felt my face heat up, and not merely because I was near the fire. I don’t think I could have taken my eyes off hers if I had two men tugging on me.

Maire’s icy reserve began to thaw as well. Her face took on a sheen from her exertions, and her eyes grew large. She raised her skirt up higher, displaying a glimpse of petticoat, as her feet flashed in a dozen directions, stamping on the door like a thousand hammers. She danced like a fairy, tossing her head about as her hair moved like a live thing. I was spellbound, hypnotized. Who would have suspected this mild girl could have such fire in her?

The wild dance suddenly came to an abrupt end along with the music. She froze into ice again in an instant, the only movement
being the heaving of her bosom and the trickle of perspiration down her cheek. We all gave a wild cheer, jumping to our feet, and clapping. I beat Yeats to the punch, pulling the handkerchief from my pocket and presenting it to her. She thanked me, and made her way through the appreciative men toward the cottage, to remake herself into the image of the demure Irish girl, who had been preparing a humble dish of colcannon for her brother and his friends not a half hour earlier. Which, I wondered, was the real Maire O’Casey?

Anything after that, of course, would be anticlimactic. Solemnly, Padraig Bannon stood up and began to play some sad, familiar airs on the pennywhistle, and the men joined in and sang. They were songs of eviction, of the potato famine, forced emigration, and heroes who had been martyred for the cause of Irish freedom. There was something pure and simple in his playing that was almost unbearably tragic. I looked over at Fergus McKeller, now a half dozen pints into his evening. He was crying like a baby over the fate of his countrymen.

The party came to a slow end some time after one in the morning. Most of the men had fallen asleep on the ground outside around the fire. I carried plates into the cottage, but Maire was nowhere to be found. I threw more boards from the outbuilding we’d blown up onto the fire, enough to last the night. The firelight reflecting on the faces of the men asleep around it made them all look like youths, mere boys out for a night’s camping together, rather than the hardened bombers they were.

By the time I went to our cottage, Barker’s broad back was already to me, and he was sound asleep. I supposed I would have been sleepy, if I hadn’t had some strong tea earlier. Tea has always affected me that way. I attempted to sleep, but gave it up after half an hour. I was wide awake and restless, so I got up and went outside.

The moon was full and clear, bathing the landscape in silvery
light. It was exactly the kind of atmosphere I’d imagined when reading the book of Irish myths. One could believe in leprechauns and banshees on a night like this. The wind was cool, and I turned up my collar as I made my way down to the beach. I wanted a closer look at the remains of the lighthouse.

There was nothing but a circle of stones now, with a trail of rubble leading to the sea.
Well, that was good, then,
I told myself. I’d accomplished at least one part of Barker’s objective. We’d proven we were great explosives experts. If someone had told me two months before that I’d be blowing up Welsh lighthouses, I’d have thought he was raving mad.

There was a sound behind me. My training took over. I turned in a crouch and raised my fists. It was Maire, alone. She had a thick shawl wrapped around her, and the pins in her hair just barely held in the wild curls I’d seen at the fire’s edge.

“You’re a dangerous man, Thomas Penrith,” she murmured.

“Not half as dangerous as you, Maire O’Casey.”

Then somehow, her hands were in my hair, and her lips were pressed against mine. Her cold fingers were clenched against the back of my head, which was spinning like a top. I wanted to inhale her, consume her. I wanted us to burn up together. Which was just what would happen if I allowed this to go too far.

16

I
COULD HAVE GONE ON KISSING MAIRE O’CASEY
forever, if she would have let me. The feel of her lips and the heady scent of lilac water in her hair are things that will linger in my memory forever. Finally, she put both hands on my chest insistently and ended our kiss. I murmured her name, and she silenced me with her cool hand.

“You quite take a girl’s breath away, Mr. Penrith,” she said, and I could feel her tremble with emotion, or perhaps it was only the chill of the night. She stepped back and gathered her shawl about her shoulders again. “I hadn’t intended to … to … I had better go now.”

She turned, and before I could stop her, she fled, bounding from rock to rock. I could still taste her lips and smell the lilac, but they were the only evidence that it wasn’t a dream, that I wasn’t still in the cottage with Cyrus Barker, sleeping. I didn’t think she’d meant to kiss me. She was going to say something, to utter some commonplace remark about the party or the demonstration or about coming upon me alone so late at night, and then something happened. She was the match and I the dynamite. We’d gotten
too close to each other, and a chemical reaction had occurred.

I walked along the shoreline for a while, but every couple of steps my mind and feet were arrested by the memory of what had just happened, and I’d stand and relive it. That had been no casual kiss. I think it surprised her more than it had me, and that is saying a good deal. It was half an hour before I finally thought to return to my berth, and I was still walking with my head in the clouds. That is my explanation for not noticing the train until it hit me.

It wasn’t an actual train, of course, but it might as well have been. It ran on eight legs at a tremendous pace and struck with the force of a steam locomotive. I was knocked clean off my feet and didn’t land again for a half dozen yards. I skidded along a rock and then was crushed in a tangle of arms and limbs and bodies. I tried to see what had hit me, under the silvery moonlight, but what I saw was something out of the book of Irish myths. That alone could explain the wild-haired, blue-skinned Celts that had stepped out of the past and now stood over me.

Eight rough hands seized me, ripping braces and buttons and pulling up my shirt while keeping my limbs pinned to the ground. I struggled as my stomach and chest were laid bare, and for a moment I wondered if I was about to be sacrificed by a secret cabal of Druids to their ancient gods. Then, a rain of blows from sticks showered down, as if my stomach were a drum to be beat upon, and all the fierce warriors began to chant:
“Bata,bata,bata,bata,bata,bata,bata,bata,bata,bata,bata,bata,bata,bata,BATA!”