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Standing slowly, deliberately, Herity said: "To bed, to bed, the sleep of the
dead. I'll give you the dawn for an evening's yawn and one small bullet of
lead." He patted the machine gun at his chest.
As he stood at the upstairs window in the dawn, John became aware of someone
walking up through the lower meadows and stopping at the graves. John was a
moment recognizing Herity, and then by the machine gun, which became visible
when he rounded the stone walls and peered up at the cottages. Herity was
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wearing a green poncho.
Something from his pack, John thought.
He hurried to dress, hearing the sounds of people moving downstairs, smelling
lard heating in a pan. The odor of the tea herb mingled with peat smoke.
Breakfast was a silent time -- boiled eggs and soda bread. Murphey appeared
bright-eyed, showing no effects of the night's drinking. His eyes winked with
delight at the food Gannon placed in front of him.
After breakfast, they followed Father Michael down to the graves for the
promised blessing. The air was still cold and misty, gray light through heavy
cloud cover. John brought up the rear, the silent boy just ahead, clutching
the blue anorak close around his neck.
John found himself interested in the silent boy's reaction to this ritual.
These were women buried here. Had the boy attended the funeral of his mother?
John felt no emotion as he wondered these things. There had been a coldness
in him the previous night as he felt O'Neill receding. O'Neill had struck the
ones who injured him; he had done it through his successors.
Through me, John thought.
Had O'Neill imagined such a scene as this?
There was no memory of such a thing, no inner movie to recount it. Cold I was
when I did the thing. Cold and murderous -- not caring who I hurt.
Nothing had mattered except the striking out.
Father Michael finished his office of the dead. Looking at Gannon, he said:
"I shall pray for you and for your loved ones."
Gannon lifted his right hand limply, dropped it.
He turned and plodded toward the cottages, moving as though each step were
painful.
"Go along, Father Michael," Herity said. "Mister Gannon has promised us
provisions for the road. We must be getting Mister O'Donnell to Killaloe and
it's a long tramp over the hills."
Father Michael put a hand over the silent boy's shoulders and followed Gannon.
Murphey and the three other boys fell in behind.
"Mister Murphey, how about a bit of that pig to take on the way with us?"
Herity said.
As Murphey stopped and turned, Herity took off at a trot up the hill. The two
men headed at an angle for the byre.
John followed the others into the cottage. What was Herity doing? He had not
given in to a sudden urge for pork. It was something else.
Gannon was already busy in the kitchen, Father Michael helping him, when John
entered. It felt warm in the cottage after the outside chill. There was a
pair of tall, military binoculars on the kitchen table.
"I've given my binoculars to Father Michael," Gannon said. "Wick brought his
when he came from Cork and there's no need for us to have two pairs."
Father Michael sighed. "It's a sad truth, John, but the farther ahead we see,
the safer we are in our going."
Gannon had found a small blue-and-yellow hiker's pack with one patched
shoulder strap. He put several chunks of soda bread around the outside and
packed fresh eggs in the nest thus formed. "There's a jar of sweet jelly and
a bit of lard," he said. "I've left room in the top for the pork when Wick
brings it."
"You're a kind man, Mister Gannon," Father Michael said.
Gannon nodded his head at this and turned to look at John. "Mister O'Donnell,
I shall pray again that you gain safely to Killaloe and that your hand helps
us there. You have come across the water in our time of need. I'll not have
you misunderstanding the way of us nor how much we appreciate your coming
here."
Father Michael busied himself arranging the food in the pack, not looking at
Gannon or John.
"I've talked to Mister Herity this morning," Gannon said, "and I've a better
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understanding of your party. He's told me the sorry way you were treated by
the Beach Boys. I think there's a dispute among the soldiery about the way
you were greeted, Ireland needing wisdom such as yours these days. I'm
thinking Herity has come along to see you safely to Killaloe. He's a rough
man but there's times such men are needed."
John rubbed at the stubble on his chin, wondering how he should respond to
this pedantic outburst.
Herity and Murphey entered then, Herity with his pack already slung over his
left shoulder, the machine gun riding in the cradle of his right arm.
"The pig's already turning bad," Murphey said.
"It needs ice this time of year," Herity said.
John looked at the two men, sensing a subtle change in their behavior toward
each other. There was some kind of an understanding between them.
"It's a long tramp," Herity said. "Best be on our way." He glanced at Father
Michael, who was stuffing the blue-and-yellow pack into his larger pack,
preparing to shoulder it. "Call the boy, Father, and we'll be on our way."
"He's welcome to stay here," Gannon said. "If you . . ."
Father Michael shook his head. "No, he'd best come along with us."
"The Father has formed a special attachment for the lad," Herity said. He
made it sound insinuatingly evil, grinning as he spoke.
Scowling, Father Michael took up his pack and brushed past Herity out the
door. They heard him calling the boy. John followed, feeling oddly put out
by Herity's manner.
What do I care how he treats the priest? John wondered.
He puzzled over this as they said their goodbyes and walked up the hill toward
the farm track that led to the valley road.
When they rounded a screen of trees and no longer could see the cottages,
Herity called a halt. The sky was already brighter, even a few patches of
blue overhead. John looked back the way they had come, then at Herity
rummaging in his green pack. Herity pulled out a small, short-barreled
revolver and a box of ammunition. The gun glistened with oil.
"This is a gift from Mr. Murphey," Herity said. "It's only a Smith & Wesson
five-shooter, but it'll fit in your pocket, John. Best go armed these days."
John accepted the revolver, feeling the cold oiliness of it. "Into your hip
pocket and pull the sweater over it," Herity said. "There, that's the way."
"Murphey gave this to you?" John asked.
Herity handed him the box of ammunition. "Yes. Stuff this in your side
pocket. There was two of 'em Gannon didn't know about. T'other's a big Colt
monster y' wouldn't want to be carrying, it being heavy as a tub of lead and
not as useful." Herity returned his pack to his shoulder and started to turn
but stopped as a shot sounded behind them.
Father Michael whirled and would have run back to the cottages had Herity not
stopped him with a firm grip on the arm. The priest tried to pry Herity's
fingers away. "They may need our help, Joseph!"
"You haven't thought it through, Father. What are the possibilities?"
"What do you . . ."
"Another pig?" Herity asked. "I've returned all their weapons and the
ammunition. If it's a pig, fine! They'll be eating a grand meal tonight and
Mister Gannon cooking it. If it's intruders, our friends are well armed. And
that was a pistol shot, I remind you."
Father Michael looked around him warily, listening. The woods around them [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]