The Pig Goes to Hog Heaven (17 page)

“Yes, Da.” And Declan took his father's hand, and his father did not refuse it.

With no one having told him anything directly, Declan had begun to piece together, bit by bit, evidence that Kitty and Kieran knew not only the necessary means to free the trapped spirits, but also how to implement their release. This he had deduced from Lolly's rantings about her scorned novel. There was a distinct possibility it was less a fiction than Lolly knew. Kitty and Kieran, Declan was inclined to believe, had spoken with considerable authority. The flagstones of the great hall could really be impacted with the needed gunpowder. And it might still be activated after all this time. But, then, Declan should keep in mind that Kitty McCloud was no slouch when it came to devising plots and bringing them to satisfying conclusions. She could, in her wish to help her friend Lolly, simply have rattled off the easiest way to relieve the woman's agony and bring her stupid novel to an extravagant ending. Just let the book be done and the poor “writer” be put out of her misery. Still, inventive as he knew Kitty to be, he was more than ready to accept what he had heard and deduced as possible clues.

Of course, he could try different ways of testing his knowledge—and, in the process, blow himself up, and Kitty, Kieran, and the cows as well. He considered asking Kitty out-right, confronting her with his guesses, but he quickly realized that if she and Kieran
did
know how to blow up the castle but still hadn't done it, they had obviously resolved not to do so. If he were to ask questions that could be considered intimations of his own resolve, a resolve inconsistent with their own previous decision, they might try to thwart any and every attempt he might make to end the tragic hauntings of Castle Kissane. (Why Kitty and Kieran might have made such a curious decision would be none of his concern. He had made his own vow and nothing would effect its fulfillment.)

Immediately he also reminded himself of Kitty's weird vision not only of Michael's death but of Declan's own most secret feelings. But then, when the spell, or whatever it was, had ended, she remembered nothing of what she'd seen or said. Still, anyone endowed with powers that allowed the unseen to be seen and the unknown to be known could not be trusted to remain ignorant of his unstated plan. Considering this, he must not even
think
of any plottings in her presence.

As he applied another crook to attach the sways, the rods used to secure the reeds to the rafters, Declan saw from the corner of his eye Peter McCloskey standing shyly in the courtyard entrance, his bicycle leaned against the wall of the shed that would be the last to be thatched. Clutched in his left hand, held stiffly at his side, was a book. “I know you want no helper,” the boy called out in his piping voice, “but I've come to ask may I watch? I'll say nothing and do nothing. Only watch. And that's my promise.”

Declan looked at the fresh face, the floppy hair fallen over the hesitant eyes, the unmuscled flesh common to an eight-year-old. So controlled was the fear in his voice—
manly
was the only word for it—that Declan had to concentrate more completely on applying another crook. After this proved to be an impossibility, he muttered, without looking up, but loud enough for the boy to hear, “You'll say nothing? You'll do nothing?”

“It's my promise. You heard me say it. Will I say it again?”

“No need. I have ears.” He nodded toward the heap of the squatters' discards piled nearby. “Over there.”

Without hesitation, the boy climbed to the top of the trash as if he were ascending to the pinnacle of Skellig Michael itself. Smiling with unbounded gratitude, he settled, after a squirm or two, into the abandoned rejects, then nodded to let Declan know he was exactly where he wanted to be. And grateful beyond expression.

“I'll explain nothing,” Declan said, resuming his task. “Is that understood?”

“Oh, you needn't explain. I know what it is being done.” He proudly held up his book. “I've been studying, reading. About thatching. Like I know it's water reed you're using and those are crooks you're working with now. And there, the next shed down, there you've already made the construction you'll need, those slanting pieces are rafters, but the thinner wood above them are battens and those underneath are purlins. Am I right?”

“Is that what it says?”

“Here.” Again he held up the book. “If you want to look.”

“You think I have a need?”

“Oh, no. I wasn't thinking that at all.”

“But it's there in a book? How to be a thatcher?”

“Not all. How could that be? One learns only by doing. What's in the book doesn't even begin to teach what only a master himself knows. That's why I was hoping you'd at least let me watch. And I'll say nothing.” With a light laugh, he added, “A promise I've broken already. I'm sorry. I hope you won't change your—”

“Stay there and all will be well.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I am not a ‘sir.' I have received nothing from a king or from a queen—and were they to put a sword to my neck, it would not be to make me a ‘sir.' ”

“Sorry, Mr. Tovey.”

“That will do well enough.” He grunted and, as best he could, tried to concentrate on his work. He regretted deeply having been so harsh with the boy that other day. The child was blameless. And skinny. And eager. Declan continued to do what he was supposed to be doing, trying not to be distracted, the boy so intent on his every move. He should tell him to leave. No. He must make sure he stayed.

After a time, Declan said, “We'll stop now. You'll eat a bit of something.” It was more a command than an invitation.

Bewildered, the boy said, “What?”

“We'll have some food. It's time.” He came down the ladder, wiped his hands, one palm against the other, and went to the leather sack tucked away one shed ahead. From it he took, wrapped in newspaper, the ingredients for a midday meal.

“Oh, but Mr. Tovey, I can't do that.”

“Why not?”

“I should eat at home.”

“If it's a thatcher you want to be, you eat wherever and whenever the hunger comes. And it's come. We'll sit there on the stones.”

“But I only thought I'd watch—”

“And am I supposed to have you watch me eat?”

“I should go home. And, if you say, come back later. But whatever you tell me, I'll do it.”

“I've already told you. We'll eat, and then you'll watch some more. And if you want, you can read more of your book while you have your food.”

“I've already read it. Twice.”

“Then you'll do nothing but eat. There, where I said. On the wall. On the stones.”

They sat. They ate. Declan made the mistake of glancing to his side. The boy, staring straight ahead, was thoughtfully munching the bread and the bacon, crunching occasionally as his teeth cut through the crust. Declan should not have looked. He was recalled, but gently, to his grief. Even at the distance he could hear the sound of the sea. There would be waves assaulting the cliffs. Farther out, the waters swelling, then moving on, indifferent to what lay beneath.

Peter was given a leek. “And is there enough?” he asked.

“From the garden there. Plenty. I plundered it this morning. But it's by invitation only, so don't make too free.”

Peter giggled.

Declan considered saying “You're a good man,” but thought he had already, with those few words, said more than he wanted.

And besides, the boy was so intent on chomping the leek it was probably best not to interrupt. Until, that is, Declan found himself forced to say, “I was wrong to be so harsh the other day. And getting the soup splattered all over your shirt.” He paused, not particularly eager to say what followed, but said it anyway. “I'm sorry. It was a wrong thing to do.”

Peter chewed away at the leek. “But you had a reason.”

“A reason is not reason enough for doing something like that.”

For a long time neither spoke. Peter's chomping and chewing was all that could be heard. A thought then came to Declan. The boy, like his mother—and like Kitty, who had told of Michael—might see or have knowledge of Brid and Taddy, and of what could be done to free them. And of how it might be done. Hesitant, reluctant, Declan heard himself say the words. “Over there, on the side of the hill where the cows are, do you see anyone?”

“See anyone?”

“There.” He pointed past the castle toward Crohan Mountain.

“But there's no one there.”

“No one, you say.”

“Yes. I see no one. Why do you ask?”

“You've heard of Brid and Taddy?”

“Brid? Taddy? Of course. Who hasn't? They say they're here in the castle, but I hope not.

“Oh?”

“I'd be afraid. They're dead, and they shouldn't be here.”

“And if they are?”

“They should be sent away.”

“Oh? And how?”

Peter laughed. “Just tell them to go.”

“And if they can't?”

The boy shrugged and took another bite of the leek. “Ask them why not.”

“What if they don't know?”

The boy considered this, then laughed again. “Then why don't
they
ask?”

“Ask who?”

“Someone who knows.”

“And who might that be?”

Still chewing, Peter said, without any laugh, “I thought I wasn't supposed to talk.”

Declan would say no more. He should not have introduced the subject. It did not concern the boy—and it should stay that way. As he was breaking the bran cake in two, Peter, with a depth of seriousness available only to the innocent, asked, “Do you see them? Brid and Taddy?”

Declan gave this a thought, then nodded toward the mountain. “They're there.”

Peter swallowed, then parted his lips. “Is … is it because you're doing work here? And if I were doing it, would I see them?”

“No. It's none of that.”

“But … but Mrs. and Mr. Sweeney … they … they see them. That much I seem to know.”

“They told you that?”

Puzzled, the boy answered, “I don't remember. I don't think they told me.”

“Did they tell you why they see them?”

“Oh, no. How could they? They didn't know themselves.”

“But you did?”

“I did?”

“And do you know now?”

“I … I don't know if I do or if I don't.”

“But you
do
know things.”

“I … I guess so. Sometimes.”

“Like when I was so harsh with you?”

“That? Oh yes. But then … I told you … I forgot.”

“And you forgot what you told Mr. and Mrs. Sweeney?”

Peter blinked and looked down at the last bit of leek held in his right hand, the leek from the garden planted by and cared for by Kitty and Kieran. “Did I? I mean … did I tell them it was because it was their ancestors … one of Mr. Sweeney's and one of Mrs. Sweeney's …” He began to bring the last of the leek up to his mouth. Declan, gently, lowered it back toward the boy's knee. Peter looked at it as if wondering what it was and what it was doing in his hand. Then he said, “They were to be married. The ancestors. And so they went off to invite their cousins and their uncles and their aunts. All the way to Tralee they went, asking them to the wedding. And while they were gone—”

“Yes?”

Peter looked up and turned his head toward the mountain slope. “Are they still there?” he whispered.

“They're gone.”

“To be hanged?”

“Yes, to be hanged.” He, too, was whispering.

“But it was supposed to be … to be …”

“The kin of Kitty McCloud and of Kieran Sweeney?”

“Is that it? Maybe. A McCloud? A Sweeney?” He licked his lips, still looking at the mountain.

“Yes? When?”

“When?”

“Do you remember when you told them all this?”

“It … it could be the time … with the burnt bit of the … of what? Yes … the burnt bit of the flagstone they'd put into the fire and it … what? It … it exploded. It blew up into little pieces. And I picked up a bit of it when it had cooled and I … I … I don't remember. They … Mr. and Mrs. Sweeney … they live in the castle now …” He tried to say more but could only shake his head.

Declan gently took the piece of leek from Peter's hand. The boy looked long at his empty palm. Declan reached over and closed the hand, then touched Peter's arm. “It's enough. It's enough. Let it go now. Let it go.” He handed back the bit of leek.

Peter gave this some thought, then put the last of the leek into his mouth and began to chew. Slowly. After a respectful silence, Declan said, “We've still the bran cake. And then we're done.”

10

T
he drive to Killarney was uneventful except for Aaron's guilt at having lied to his wife. Being Irish, his guilt went beyond simple accusation into unrelenting harassment. It gave him no peace. Three times he had been tempted to turn around, go back, and confess to Lolly that he was not going to Killarney to tour the restored Ross Castle, but to see Lucille. It was his plan to attend the afternoon performance of
Messiah
—the last before the singers returned to America, laden with praise. It was Aaron's expectation that Lucille would see him again as she had in Caherciveen and search him out during the intermission. His purpose, aside from tanking up on the spiritual fuel the oratorio unfailingly dispensed, would be, as conscience dictated, to perform the manly act of forgiving his errant wife for her transgression of their conjugal vows and for seeking connubial comforts in the arms—and wherever else—of another.

He could have told all this to Lolly. It was, after all, to his credit that he could find it in his wounded ego to forgo all the ill feelings justified by his first wife's defection. His magnanimity touched him deeply—just as it would Lucille. But had he mentioned the name Lucille to Lolly, it might have occasioned snide mockery he would rather avoid. Accusations would not have been made outright, but, in their place, there would have been not-so-subtle suggestions that more than forgiveness was on his mind.