Dawn of the Golden Promise (34 page)

Again Sandemon nodded. “I suspected as much, yes. But she is far too young for such feelings, you know.”

Jan Martova looked back to the road. “Not in the world of the Romany.”

“But she does not live in the world of the Romany, my young friend,” Sandemon said gently. “Nor, for that matter, do you.”

The other sighed. “I know. I suppose, under the circumstances, you feel it's best that I'm going away. With her being so young, and my being a Gypsy…” He let his words drift away, incomplete.

Sandemon looked around. It was taking more and more effort on his part to concentrate on the conversation, yet he recognized the seriousness of the young man's dilemma.

“You must understand,” he said, trying to focus his attention on Jan Martova, “that in the
Seanchai
's estimation, his daughter is still very much a child. Frankly, I expect he will continue to see her as such for quite some time yet.”

“And I, of course, am still very much a Gypsy in his eyes,” said Jan Martova heavily. “Even though I have been cast out from my tribe. To a doting father, however, I suppose even a
renegade
Gypsy is still a Gypsy.”

He looked over at Sandemon. “Surely you, at least, can trust me? My interest may seem inappropriate to a
Gorgio
, but I can assure you I bear the
Seanchai
's daughter nothing but the purest of affection and respect. And I do understand that, at least for now, my feelings can be nothing but those of a friend or brother. Besides,” he said, looking back at the road, “she cannot see me, hidden as I am by the shadow of Tierney Burke.”

Sandemon gave no indication of agreement, but he wasn't surprised at the boy's remark. The Romany youth was far too intelligent, too discerning, not to have noticed the girl's fancy for his American friend.

“As you said, the passing of time brings many changes,” he offered mildly. “Our part is to use the time wisely and accept what God gives.”

Without warning, the darkness inside him swelled, while the darkness around them seemed to turn sullen and threatening. Shadows cast from the low-hanging branches of roadside trees loomed larger, taking on menacing, grotesque shapes as they swayed in the night wind.

Sandemon shuddered. The nagging uneasiness that had distracted him most of the evening now surged to a rising tide of foreboding.

Badly shaken, he turned to grip Jan Martova's arm. “We must hurry,” he urged, offering no explanation. Indeed, he
had
no explanation, other than the wave of panic coursing through him.

“Something is wrong,” he said, more to himself than to the Gypsy youth. “Something is…very wrong. We must get back at once.”

Jan Martova whipped around to look at him, his eyes questioning. Rising to a crouch, he snapped the reins, clicking his tongue to urge the mare on.

25

And the dark lava-fires of madness
Once more sweep through my brain.

JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN (1803–1849)

E
ntering the stables, Finola lighted a lantern from the shelf near the door. She stood for a moment, looking about, her heart still racing with apprehension. Where could they be, Aine and her Gabriel?

The air in the building was warm and close, pungent with the smell of hay and harness and horseflesh. In the stalls, the horses were quiet. Other than an occasional soft neigh or stirring, Finola heard nothing but the sound of her own thundering pulse.

She held her breath as she started down the far left side of the stables, hay whispering beneath her feet with each step. She would check Pilgrim's stall first. The big red stallion, Morgan's own, was a keen attraction for both Aine and Gabriel. They almost always rushed to his stall first when they visited the stables.

She had taken only a few steps when she heard a high squeal of laughter.

Gabriel!

Almost immediately came the sound of Aine's robust laugh in response.

Finola stopped where she was, squeezing her eyes shut and putting a hand to her throat. Overwhelmed with relief, she let the fear drain out of her for a moment. When she opened her eyes, she again headed toward Pilgrim's stall in the back of the stables.

The closer to home they came, the lower the clouds seemed to hang. It was becoming difficult now to see their way. Only the wolfhound seemed fully comfortable with the night, so the two women followed his lead.

Louisa was still cross with herself for not thinking to bring along a lantern. Of course, they hadn't intended to stay so long on the docks; they never did. But invariably they found so many poor souls languishing there—more every day, it seemed. With each trip it grew more difficult to leave. It wrenched one's soul to pass them by without at least an assurance of the Lord's love and a brief prayer for their deliverance.

Dublin was, had always been, a city with a great heart, Louisa thought proudly. Her people seemed naturally inclined toward giving, even sacrificial giving. But these days the city could not possibly take care of her own needy, much less all those who came from the lengths of the countryside in search of work or shelter or, as a last resort, the means of immigration.

She suspected the reason she felt so weary, so depleted, had more to do with the misery and despair she had absorbed earlier in the day than any real physical fatigue. The hopelessness of the poor wretches on Dublin's docks was enough to devastate even the most stouthearted. Certainly, she thought, giving a long, heavy sigh, the experience never failed to weary her to the point of exhaustion.

She hadn't realized that she had slowed her stride almost to a complete halt until Lucy Hoy, beside her, roused her with a question. “Are you all right, Sister?” The other woman pressed her face close to Louisa's, peering at her in the darkness.

“I will be perfectly fine,” Louisa said firmly, “once we reach Nelson Hall and I can draw a nice foot bath. I fully intend to indulge my poor feet the rest of the evening, provided there is no unforeseen calamity awaiting us.”

Lucy gave her a strange look. “Why would you say such a thing, Sister?”

Louisa frowned. The woman looked inexplicably frightened. Moreover, she was quite sure she saw Lucy shiver before drawing the sign of the cross over herself.

“Ach, Lucy, wasn't I but making a joke?” She had almost forgotten that poor Lucy was given to great leaps of imagination and could be superstitious to a fault.

With a nod, Louisa resumed her usual brisk pace. The wolfhound, who had been waiting for them with exaggerated patience, again took up his role as guide, leading the way without actually distancing himself from the two women.

“Haven't we had conversation about these vapors of yours?” Louisa chided as they walked. “Such hysteria is not at all consistent with a life of faith, you know.”

Head down, Lucy trudged along. “I do know, Sister, and I'm sorry. But something came over me, was all, when you said what you did about a calamity.” She was quiet for a moment. “I'll try harder, I will, Sister.”

“You must do exactly that,” Louisa replied. But despite her assurance to the other, she was momentarily distracted by her own faint sense of disquiet, doubtless a reaction to Lucy Hoy's foolishness.

In the stables, Finola saw Gabriel first. He peeked around the corner of the end stall, covering his mouth, then laughing into his hand as if he had carried off a grand feat.

Aine, holding on to his hand, was also smiling. Finola lifted the lantern for a better look at the two.

“He woke me up,” the girl said quickly. “I was napping, and all at once, there he was, on top of the bed with me. I thought we would pay Pilgrim a visit and let you sleep.”

Finola stood looking at the two of them, too relieved to offer more than a perfunctory scolding. “You must not go off like this again without telling someone.”

Aine seemed instantly contrite. “I'm sorry, Finola. I didn't think.”

Suddenly struck by another thought, Finola drew in a sharp breath. “You found Gabriel upstairs, in your bedroom?”

At the girl's nod, Finola hung the lantern on a wall peg, then stooped to confront her small son. “You climbed the big stairway by yourself, Gabriel?
Did
you?”

The boy's happy smile wavered. He glanced up at Aine with a look of uncertainty, lifting a thumb to his mouth before turning back to his mother.

“Oh, Gabriel! What am I to do with you?”

The thought of her tiny son groping up the enormous main stairway made Finola shudder. “If you should fall, you could be badly hurt, don't you see? You must never do that again!”

The child blinked, and Finola saw that his baby pleasure in his grand accomplishment had dimmed. With one hand, he rubbed his eyes, now clouded with tears.

Instinctively, Finola reached for him, but he hung back, his tear-filled gaze avoiding hers.

His wounded expression was like a knife to Finola's heart. “Ah, now, 'tis over,” she murmured quietly. “You are my fine, good boy. Come, give Mama a kiss.”

His gaze landed on Finola for only an instant, then deflected beyond her.

Thinking him still uncertain, she again opened her arms to him. But instead of running to her as he ordinarily would have, he hesitated, his eyes widening, his small mouth rounding to a wondering circle.

Bewildered, Finola bent lower to coax him, but a strangled gasp from Aine diverted her attention. The girl had gone chalk white. Something about that pale, taut countenance made the blood drain from Finola's face as well.

Her mouth went dry as she looked from one to the other. Outside, leaves whispered in the wind, breaking the silence of the night. A rope of fear twisted through her.

Aine's dark eyes swung from Finola to something behind her. Finola straightened, the crawling sensation along her spine spreading across her back like a cold tide rushing over the shore.

She seemed unable to look away from Aine's eyes, now wide with unconcealed terror. Her heart felt as if it had leaped into her throat, each violent throb almost strangling her.

Only a supreme act of will finally enabled her to turn around.

When she did, she found herself trapped in her own worst nightmare.