William H. Hallahan - (32 page)

He smiled at her. "I need you. Brendan doesn't. And I'd make
you a wonderful husband. I adore you, Anne."

"Enough, Trevor, enough."

"Do you know what I'd do if you put your arms around me and
said 'I love you, Trevor'? My heart would burst with joy."
 
 

Trevor took Anne to meet his mother. She lived in Marblehead, the
gold coast above Boston. They got a glimpse of it when the plane
circled for a landing at the Boston airport. A chauffeured limousine
was waiting for them.

Marblehead is a promontory, an enclave of the very wealthy,
overlooking bay, harbor and ocean. The house was very large and done
in the Spanish style of the 1920's. Jay Gatsby could easily have come
out with a pair of binoculars to study Daisy's dock.

Mrs. Townsend was a presence. Her husband's family had more money
than hers, but her antecedents were far more impressive, and the
mansion rehearsed it at every turning. There were valuable American
antiques that had been in her family for many generations; there were
portraits from the eighteenth century of soldiers and bankers and
preachers. There were framed deeds to property in Beacon Hill and
brown parchment maps, coats of arms, charters and military
commissions and photographs. And, of course, family trees. . She was
obviously determined to like Anne as she took her for a stroll
through the mansion. Trevor sat out on the patio with a cup of tea
and watched the sea.

"You're very pretty, Anne," Mrs. Townsend said. "Very
sweet. I can see why Trevor adores you. I can see it all over his
face. You're the first girl he ever brought home." She brushed a
wisp of Anne's hair back and studied her with measuring eyes.

Anne thought, There's a wedding gown from eight generations back
and she's wondering if she should suggest I wear it. The wedding:
Anne shrank for thinking about it. This mansion filled with
Bostonians of impeccable antecedents come to see the heir to a great
New England fortune marry a little Irish Catholic girl from New York.
It was too trite: the plot from a thousand novels.

Now came the confrontation. Mrs. Townsend turned to face Anne.
"You may know I have absolutely no influence over my son.
Underneath that pleasant exterior of his is bedrock. He gets it from
my side of the family. Trevor does exactly as Trevor wishes. And I
choose to maintain a relationship with him by not fighting with him.
Long ago we divided the United States between us. I get all of New
England to Connecticut's southwest border and he gets all of New York
down through Virginia." She fixed a sharp eye on Anne. "That's
not so bad. He gets that wonderfully renascent Philadelphia society,
plus Baltimore and all of the carpetbaggers of Washington. The rest
of the country we left to recent immigrants."

And abruptly the two women stood laughing. The sense of humor, the
same wit--now Anne saw where Trevor got it. Mrs. Townsend led the way
down a long second-floor corridor.

"This was the nursery. All three of my boys were raised
here." It was a huge room with bright white walls, life-sized
stuffed clowns, hobbyhorses, toys and toy boxes, and child-sized
furniture. In the middle of the room was an antique rocking horse,
the leather saddle cracked with age.

Mrs. Townsend pushed it with a finger and watched it quietly rock
back and forth. "Imported from England for my
great-great-great-great grandfather. Belongs in a museum."

They walked over to the window and looked out over the ocean. "How
many children do you want, Anne?"

"Oh, a few--two, three."

Mrs. Townsend nodded. "I'm not very crazy about the Irish,
Anne. They have too many flaws and practically no virtues. Up here
they treat life as if it were a football game between Notre Dame and
Oxford. If I had my choice Trevor would marry into one of the old
Boston families. Fortunately the other two have both married
fortunes. So I have no complaints. But--well, let's get to it, Annie.
How are the children going to be raised? Pape or Anglican?"

Anne gave Mrs. Townsend a half smile. "My father would
describe you as one tough cookie, Mrs. Townsend."

She lifted her head and chuckled. "I bet he describes you
that way too, doesn't he, Anne? Well, Trevor needs a tough cookie for
a wife. He's very wishy-washy about most things. Come-day, go-day. He
should be worrying about what church his children will go to, not me.
But the thought, I can assure, you, has never crossed his mind."
She turned that penetrating look to Anne again. "But it has
crossed yours."

Anne nodded. "Maybe it's not as important as it used to be."

"Maybe. I must say I'm surprised. You're not what I expected
at all. You look like you have a lot of common sense, Anne. We may
end up hating each other. I'm sure I'm going to turn into a horrible
mother-in-law. But I'm going to watch and wait. You want to talk
about the wedding?"

There
was
a wedding dress and she was going to be invited
to wear it. Mrs. Townsend watched Anne's face. "No answer. Okay.
We won't talk about the wedding. Let's go have a cup of tea and we
can both beard the affable idiot."

And they both stood laughing together. To Mrs. Townsend it was an
accepted fact that her son would marry Anne.
 
 

On the flight back from Marblehead, Trevor looked down at the
turbulent Atlantic Ocean and said, "Spring has already arrived
in Bermuda, Annie. How'd you like to sail there on the
Hirondelle
with me?"

Bermuda. She too looked down at the grim and gray Atlantic. Late
March in New York was just as grim and gray, a place where winter
always dies badly amid dirty slush and gutter trash, where everything
is begrimed with a white salt film and everyone has that
end-of-winter dowdiness. Spring in Bermuda.

"Why not go meet it?" Trevor said. "We get two
springs that way. One on the island and another in New York when we
come back."

He put a slight emphasis on "we." And she understood it
was a proposal. Marriage to Trevor.

Anne looked down again at the gray water. She couldn't find a
reason to say no.

"Can I sleep on it, Trevor?"

"You'll give me an answer tomorrow?"

"Yes. Tomorrow night."

He wanted her to say Yes and he wanted her to say it then. He
bowed his head like a communicant praying. "We could leave
tomorrow morning," he offered.

"I'll answer you. Tomorrow night,"
she said. "Seven o'clock."

Spring defeated winter by drowning it. The warm southerly air
combined with the torrential rains to melt the snow and thaw the
earth. The world was a vast lake of rain and meltwater.

Brendan located the road up to the ruined monastery at one in the
morning and with the aid of a hiker's pole began the slow ascent.
Behind him streams had overflowed their banks, and cities and towns
were flooded. Up ahead of him, the mountain was gushing water from
every crevice. A gurgling river was running down the road, sweeping
stones, gravel and debris with it. He was surprised when his
flashlight picked up occasional patches of snow lying in the naked
woods, still unmelted. His feet were wet inside his boots. His legs
were soaked to the knees.

The night before, the freight train had carried him miles south
before it slowed in a switching yard. The old derelict who had pulled
him on board the freight car showed him how to jump off while the
train was still moving. By then it was nearly dawn.

At a nearby siding he found another empty freight car and there
he'd slept most of the day away. The rain was still pouring down late
in the afternoon; part of the switching yard was underwater. Long
before dark, Brendan was on the road again, moving toward the
mountain and the ruined monastery.

Now he wondered how he would find the place in this blinding rain
and darkness. One aspect to his situation cheered him: The hawk could
probably not fly in this weather. So he used the flashlight freely.

The old road climbed, then relented, only to climb again. He was
unable to see more than a few feet ahead but he knew he was following
a switchback road up to the crest of an old eroded mountain. And
somewhere up there were the ruins of the abandoned monastery. It
would be his ultimate rendezvous, the place where the central issue
of his life would be resolved. Up there was the battleground where he
felt sure he would either prevail or die.
 
 

He almost missed the place. The only light on the whole
mountainside was his own flashlight; the only sound, the steady beat
of the late-winter rain in the barren woods.

He stumbled over a boulder. Under his flashlight he saw that it
was dressed, squared, with traces of cement on one face--a stone from
some kind of structure, a building or a bridge. Searching for more
stones, he turned off the broken road and struggled through low
brush. He came upon others, finally a piece of standing wall, then
flagstone paving covered with sand and pebbles. A spout of water fell
from some wall high above and spattered on the flagstones. A
capricious breeze whipped the skirts of his poncho.

He sensed the presence of another. In fact, he felt he was being
watched. Back and forth he strode several times, searching for
Timothy, then he called the Magus's name. The only answer was a faint
echo in the ruins.

"Timothy," he called.

" 'Mothy," answered the walls.

"Timothy."

" 'Mothy."

The feeling that someone was there in the ruins watching him was
growing stronger.

"Is anyone here?" he called.

"Here," answered the walls.

Brendan strode up and down the walkway with his flashlight and
vaguely pieced together in his mind the former architectural
arrangement. There evidently had been a two-floor residence building
with sleeping quarters, refectory, kitchen, storerooms and other
areas. This was coupled to the chapel by a long roofed-over walkway.
Beyond the monastery were the remains of an old stone barn.

Roofing tiles were strewn on the ground everywhere, and in one
corner of the destroyed residence he found several old roof beams,
heavier than ship's timbers and partly eaten away by carpenter ants.
When the beams had fallen, part of the roof had come down with them.

Timothy wasn't there.
 
 

At the other end of the residence the floor was dry, and he spent
a few minutes clearing away debris in order to spread his sleeping
bag out. The spattering of dribbled rainwater crackled in the night.
It was too early to go to sleep, too dark to do anything else. So
Brendan sat alone in the wet night with his thoughts, while he brewed
a cup of coffee on his Primus stove.

How improbable it all seemed, sitting here in a mountain
rainstorm, in the ruins of a monastery, waiting for a fallen angel,
fearful of an attack from a homicidal demon, and at the same time
expecting to participate in a battle of cosmic proportions. Absurd.

He thought he heard footsteps. He cocked his head and tried to
locate them in the many noises of the rain. They sounded like sandals
slowly pacing over the sandy floor, approaching him. He scanned the
darkness. Was that the silhouette of a monk approaching him? It was a
clot of blackness and it seemed to be swaying from side to side. Then
it stopped and stood there, gazing at him.

In sudden alarm Brendan jumped to his feet and groped for his
flashlight. He couldn't find it.

"Who's there?" he demanded. The figure didn't answer
him. Brendan's hands groped along the length of his sleeping bag
again. "Damn!" he muttered. Was it moving closer to him
now? Brendan stood and stepped back.

"What do you want?" he shouted.

The figure moved another stride toward him. Brendan stepped back
and felt his foot kick the flashlight. He crouched quickly and groped
for it. He couldn't find it. He stood once more. The figure had moved
again, closer. Brendan's foot kicked the flashlight again and this
time he found it.

He lit it. Nothing was there. Urgently he flashed the light about
him, along the ruined walls with their long dark rain stains and
along the floor with its scattered blocks of stone and pebbles. He
was quite alone.

He might have dozed sitting on his sleeping bag with a half cup of
cold coffee still in his hand. A sound like falling pebbles somewhere
roused him. He listened again. A few more pebbles fell. Then
distinctly he heard the sound of footsteps again, crackling along the
flagstones, slowly approaching him.

Brendan stood up. "Who's there?" he demanded. He waited,
watching, as the steps drew closer. When he perceived the figure
again with its cowled head, the flashlight was ready. He turned it
on.

Nothing. There was nothing there. He walked over to the spot.
There was some trick of sound caused by the rain. He sat on his
sleeping bag for an hour wide-awake, waiting for the footsteps again.
But they never came. When he grew drowsy, he slipped into his
sleeping bag and in a moment he was sound asleep.
 
 

Footsteps woke him again. The rain was still pouring down, and the
many runoffs from the old roof spattered and dribbled all about him.
These footsteps were like sandals walking on the crackling sand on
the flagstones.

"Away. Come away," cooed a low voice. "Away. Come
away. Quickly. Quickly. Quickly." And the feet scuffled off in
the darkness.

Brendan sat up. Had he dreamed it? He lay propped on one elbow,
listening attentively. It was as dark as ever and the storm hadn't
diminished a bit. He lay back and wondered what to do.

Then the sound of sandals came up to him again.

"Away. Come away," the low voice called. "Away.
Come away. Quickly. Quickly. Quickly. Follow me."

Brendan seized his flashlight and hurried after the voice.

"Stop!" he called. "Whoever you are, stop!"

He didn't find the scuffling feet, or the voice. His flashlight
uncovered nothing but the old stone walls and tumbled debris. He
turned to go back to his sleeping bag. He would pack his stuff and
clear out to come back in the morning--even at the risk of being seen
in daylight.