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He first saw her there, standing on the rocky hillside, watching the travelers, watching him. He had not noticed her before, a darkly clad figure against the slate gray sky. "Bless me, Father." He had been quietly watching the figures as they meandered slowly up the twisting road, carrying nothing more than the clothes on their backs and a few possessions bound in rags. The child's head was bowed as she labored to place one foot before the other. The woman, cradling a babe, stared resolutely ahead as if hope lay just over the next hill. The man raised a jacket collar, keeping his face averted from the watchful eyes of the soldiers. "In nomine Patris..." The young priest stood blessing those who asked. Despite the plain black garments of his vocation, he cut a romantic figure with his refined features. Now and again, heads turned to take in the wavy dark hair, long straight nose, generous mouth and startling blue, downturned eyes. But Father Liam Phelan was oblivious to this. His hand made the sign of the cross as he watched what remained of his family round the bend and begin the uphill climb. They diminished in the distance among the other new pilgrims to America, the land of milk and honey, where the streets were paved with gold. Liam was not sure he believed that. But it was better than staying in this land of starvation and death, ruined by the potato blight. "... et filii..." One of the parishioners was kneeling before him. Thin fingers clutched a rosary. Her face was weathered and lined, her hair turning gray, although he knew her to be no more than forty. He thought he could see clearly etched there all the horror, disappointment and despair of the last year. In spite of all this, she still sought strength from his words, a blessing which maintained her holy bond to God through him as the Lord's servant, his duty to give courage, ensure faith. |
The words faltered on his lips. Images of his family returned unbidden in his mind: Da swaying from his own noose; Daniel's face twisted in fear before his execution as an enemy of the state; Sean's eyes glazed glazed as he died of the fever in prison. Faith and blessings had not saved them. Liam shut his eyes. The darkness of doubt and unbelief threatened to engulf him as it had done once before. He had to resist. Had not God given him a sign by sparing the life of his remaining brother, allowing Conor to escape from the soldiers who had been escorting him and Sean to jail? Conor, at this moment, was escaping unjust laws and heading for America with Maeve and the children under the noses of the unsuspecting soldiers. Liam's eyes flew open as panic shot through him. He had lost sight of them! Then, he spotted them as they crested the hill, unmolested by the watching soldiers. A sigh of relief was cut short by the realization that the moment had come. He stared as if to imprint every line of their clothing, every detail of their distant, barely visible features upon his brain. Slowly, the figures vanished behind the crest of the hill and were gone. Liam fought to contain the emotion that beat against his ribs. Elation and relief at their escape gave way to a sense of loss. In that moment, he grieved as though he had witnessed the foundering of their ship instead of their escape from injustice. He was alone. "Please God. Give me strength". Feeling nothing but weakness within, he turned, looking for some deed to perform, some word to utter, anything, to fill the terrible emptiness. But there was nothing. The travelers continued to pass him. The kneeling woman was gone, to join her family, her blessing incomplete. That was when he saw her on the rock. She was some distance away but he could tell there was something different about her. The line of the neck, the set of shoulder, her entire posture, was upright, the jut of her chin proud; she was not bowed from toil or torment. Though the air was chill, she was only protected by a shawl draped around her shoulders. Her hair was loosely tied and dark tendrils blew in the wind. She appeared, at first, to be searching for someone among the travelers, but then looked down at him. Something flickered across her face -- whether it was pain, anger or defiance, he could not tell. A ray of sunlight momentarily broke through the clouds and he fancied it shone only on her, enveloping her in its glow like a Madonna. She turned her face to the light in apparent surprise, then turned her gaze on him once again. He thought he spied a faint smile before she turned and walked away. She appeared at Sunday Mass. |
He had been exhorting the flock to stand fast in its faith, not to turn away from the grace of God. The congregation was dwindling; and not only because of those who had gone to America. Some turned away when he passed in the road, stood stonily and silent in the face of his admonitions. He had seen a bereaved mother, burying her remaining child, shaking her fist and daring to question the will of God. "In these terrible days, you must hold strong. You must keep faith in the Lord and believe in him. He suffered on the Cross, just as you suffer. In your suffering, you will be cleansed of sin and brought closer to the glory of heaven!" He searched in earnest for a sign of some reaction but could discern nothing in the grim, closed faces. Pausing as if to marshal his thoughts, he beat back frustration. Could they not favor him with some glimmer of understanding? Or was there any faith left in their troubled hearts? As he groped for words, a thought stirred. Their faith was dwindling because his faith was. Despite his most passionate speeches, they could hear insincerity in his words and sense the doubt in his heart. They knew him to be a weak vessel. He felt as if fingers of dread and fear were tightening around his chest, squeezing the breath out of him. It was then he looked up, straight into her eyes. She stood at the gate of the churchyard's low stone wall, apart from the congregation. Her face and throat were smooth and unblemished, her hair, a deep chestnut. She radiated an aura of vitality that demanded notice -- although she neither moved nor uttered a word. But to Liam, she spoke with wide soulful eyes, as though she sought to assuage his torment. He stared, drinking her in like a thirsty laborer before puzzled whispers around him brought him back to his senses. Bowing his head to hide the blush creeping into his cheeks, he hastily began a prayer and did not see when she silently strolled away before communion. It seemed to Liam that she was everywhere. He glimpsed her always at a distance --walking down the road, foraging for roots, or disappearing into Widow Kelly's hovel. He told himself that he merely went about his usual rounds of tending the needy, that these sightings were happenstance. But time and again, he found himself going where she might be. He did not fail to notice the reaction of the villagers to the young woman. Passers-by curtly nodded if they acknowledged her at all. Some huddled together and whispered when she appeared at market. The air around her buzzed with gossip and innuendo. They whispered of her mother, a native of the village who disappeared many years ago under mysterious circumstances. They looked at her skin, slightly duskier than they were accustomed to, and told tales of an uncertain origin. They observed her disregard of their suspicion and disapproval and murmured she was a heathen, a witch, a whore. |
Still she kept her own counsel and went quietly about her errands. When Liam chanced to see her, she would cease whatever toil she was engaged in, and suddenly turn those eyes upon him, as if he had called out to her. Flushed, confused, he would turn away, his heart thumping in his ears. *** She said her name was Siobhan Flannery. The words glided liltingly across her tongue. She had suddenly appeared on his doorstep, asking if he needed a housekeeper. The shock of her standing just a few paces away in his house had his mind awhirl. As if he had been struck deaf, he again asked her name and watched for her lips, full and red, to repeat the words. The sunlight slanted through the window, illuminating her features in its glow. She was not considered beautiful by the fashionable standards of Dublin or London; brown hair and eyes, forehead too low, nose slightly too wide, the mouth too full in the oval face. Still to Liam's eyes, her features combined to create an uncommon beauty. "I'm called Siobhan Flannery, Father. I hear you need somebody to look after you." Her voice was melodious, slightly husky. Struggling to collect his wits, Liam nodded. "Yes, that's true," he hesitated, "I had not yet put word out for a new housekeeper." "Yes, Father, but I thought there might be work, seeing how your family's gone and Widow Sullivan has taken a bad turn." Long dark lashes dropped to high cheekbones as the words spilled out in an earnest torrent. "I need the work, Father. My mother, God rest her soul, was born and raised here many years ago. But I am a stranger to these people. I had a good living as a parlor maid in County Cork before this scourge. Widow Kelly took pity but I can't continue taking her charity and give nothing in return. I must earn my keep." She turned her face again into the sunlight and he could see her eyes were light brown, almost amber. Long slender fingers kneaded the shawl around her shoulders as she awaited his reply. |
Liam regarded her quietly. Indeed, the village had not welcomed her with open arms. Widow Kelly's notion of Christian charity amounted to hard servitude. Clearly Siobhan was having a bad time of it. She was alone, just as he. How could he deny such a plea? Silence hung between them as Liam recalled the gossip about her. Surely this lovely, troubled lass was not the brazen hussy rumor had made her out to be. He must not judge. But they said she was a heathen; she had not attended any Masses or taken communion. Dread clutched at him. He was loath to ask the reason. But as a servant of God, he was duty-bound to inquire about her soul. "Are you Catholic, my child?" The words sounded pompous to his ears. "Yes, Father. I was baptized." Relief coursed through him. "Then why have I not seen you at Communion?" The lashes lowered again and she finally replied, "It's been a long time since my last confession." Liam nodded. "Then you must be confessed." As a priest, he had the power to hear her confession that very moment. He tried to begin, but the benediction stuck in his throat. Instead he heard himself speak of modest wages, chores. Realizing she was hired, Siobhan flashed a radiant smile and thanked him for his beneficence. She bounced a little on her heels and Liam grinned in delight at her joy. He did not ask when she would confess. She came daily to cook, mend and clean. His official residence was a small, modest house hardly considered grand by any standard: one large room with a wooden floor containing a hearth for heat and cooking, a dining table with four chairs, a writing table, a cabinet holding a set of china and utensils. His bed was tucked into a corner together with a small chest which stored his few personal possessions. With nowhere to retreat, he sat at the table, his averted face partly hidden by the thick, hanging curls of his dark red hair, absorbed in his books when she arrived. She offered a cheery greeting, to which he somberly replied, then went about her work. Liam tried to concentrate, but his eyes constantly drifted up to watch her from behind his dark lashes. The delicate line of her throat as she pushed away a stray damp lock from her neck fascinated him. The slope of nose, curve of chin, angle of cheekbone mesmerized him. A twist of her lips sent him into imaginings of their warmth and softness. The roundness of her breasts pushing against the thin material of her bodice haunted his dreams and he would awaken in a burning sweat, her scent in his nostrils. In the dreams he had touched her, felt the sweet softness of her skin, the warmth of her body. But night after night, he lay alone, chilled by cold drafts and consumed with longing. Despair lay upon his chest like a crushing weight. |
She showed no sign of knowing his inner torment. To relieve his guilt, he began looking for a suggestive word, a lascivious glance so he could reject her as a whore -- a servant of the Devil come to tempt him. But there was nothing but a gentle smile of comfort when he agonized over the welfare of his congregation, a laugh after he said something particularly droll, companionable silence as they contemplated the dire state of the country. At times, he did glance up to find her watching him, indefinable emotion flitting across her face before she turned away. Faithlessness, love, desire churned his bowels and fought for supremacy in his heart until he thought he would go mad. He prayed fervently for deliverance from the inner demons, kneeling on the cold wooden floor through the night until his legs cramped. Deliverance did not come. He prayed for the faith to believe his prayers would be answered. She came one night. He sat at the table in his nightshirt, trying vainly to read the book before him, tears brimming at the corners of his eyes. Carnal demons had again pursued him in his dreams, robbing him of sleep. His head bobbed with exhaustion and ached from sound of the thunder and driving rain outside. This is the state in which she found him, when she suddenly flung open the door and stepped in from the rain. Their eyes clung to each other across the table -- hers sorrowful, his shocked. "I'm leaving, Father, " she said quietly. Liam jumped to his feet. "Siobhan, what is this? You're soaked to the skin and will catch your death!" He grabbed a quilt from the bed and draped it about her shoulders, but she shrugged it off and retreated to the blazing hearth, plainly distressed. Liam's heart went out to her. He longed to take her in his arms and comfort her but dared not. "I don't understand. Tell me what's wrong," he asked softly. |
She stared into the fire. "I've been writing to an agency in America. They have found an employer who will pay my way if I come as soon as possible. The next ship leaves in few days, so I must leave with the others at daybreak. I came to tell you." She faltered and turned to look at him. "And to say goodbye." Liam stared speechless. He had not realized she harbored a wish to leave this land and him. How could he be losing her this way? He cast around for the perfect words that would keep her by his side, but the determination in her face told him it was futile. Finally, he asked simply, "Why?" She sagged against the mantle as if laboring under a heavy weight and pressed her forehead against its cool surface. Her hand absently smoothed her sodden dress. Liam had fancied her form was more lush, ripening before his eyes with each passing day. Now his eyes were drawn to the fingers which tantalizingly glided from the tight bodice, down the center of her body to cradle the swell of her belly. Liam inhaled sharply. She was with child, at least several months gone. How could he have been blind to it? Siobhan turned at the sound and saw the knowledge in his eyes. "Well, now you know." Her weak laugh was self-mocking. Liam seethed with jealousy for himself, outrage towards the cad who had done this to her, dread for her immortal soul. Who was he? An unscrupulous aristocrat in County Cork? One of the lads who left on the voyage, after having callously used and discarded her? "Who's the father? By all that is holy, he will make amends for this!" His voice shook with emotion. She regarded him with sad resignation. "He could not marry me, even if he desired it. It doesn't matter now, what's done is done." Liam stood helplessly. There was nothing he could do to right this. He longed to offer her his name, but as a priest he was pledged to God. The injustice of it all cut him to the core. He turned his head to hide the welling tears of frustration. As Siobhan watched him turn away, her strength dissolved. Mistaking his action for disgust, she sank to the floor and wept. Able to stand no more, he gathered her in his arms and murmured in her ear as her tears subsided. |
"My poor, sweet colleen," he whispered. "All this time, I had no idea. You didn't have to suffer alone. And now you will be alone again." She raised her head to look at him. "But I won't be alone. I will have my babe and faith - we will survive." He stared in awe. "How can you still stay that, despite all the ugliness that has happened?" Her mouth curved into a gentle smile and she cupped his face in her hands. "I know you've been troubled. You search everywhere for your faith. My mother taught me as a child that faith is belief in things not seen, that's it's a divine gift. I can not hold compassion and love in my hands-- but I know they dwell within you. Despite everything, you still find it in your heart to love, to ease suffering and bring hope. You care deeply, or else you would not be troubled. Don't you understand? You're not troubled because you've lost your faith. You're troubled because you are human." A knowing, wise smile touched her lips. "You are a man after all" She pressed a hand to his chest, felt the beating of his heart. "Your faith is here." Her words were balm for his soul. Eyes bright with unshed tears, he bowed his head as a choked sob forced its way past his lips. He felt the feathery touch of a kiss on his forehead and looked up into amber eyes that shone like stars. She studied his face as if memorizing every detail, then leaned forward and gently kissed him. Her lips were as warm and soft as he had imagined. His eyes drooped languidly as he savored the moment. She sat back on her heels, lips parted, face flushed. "Well," she said abruptly. "I'd better go." He raised a finger to softly outline the curve of cheek and jaw. What did he see in those eyes now? Longing? Love? For an impetuous moment, he considered leaving the priesthood. He would find a way to break from the Church that bound him and go with her away from this place. They would wed, have children, grow old together. He would experience all the joys and sorrows of holy wedlock as do other men. But the moment passed. Liam knew he could never turn his back on the Church and abandon those in need for the sake of wordly desires. His nature would never allow him peace if he did. |
Standing, she paused to tenderly push a lock of hair from his eyes and murmured as if reading his mind: "You have a calling." She gave him a long, wordless look before turning away. She stepped out into the rain, quietly closing the door behind her. He saw her one last time. She had been waiting on the same rocky hillside. Another group of pilgrims was meandering up the twisting road to Sligo and the westward-bound ship beyond. Several people had stopped him to ask for a blessing or comforting word. He did not see her until she stood directly before him. Her clothes were still drab and threadbare, her hair blew wildly in the wind, her shawl hung loosely about her shoulders. But to Liam, she was as serene and beautiful as the highest-born lady. "Bless me, Father, " she whispered. His hand moved in benediction. "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen." With one last look, she joined the line of travelers and began the uphill trudge to the crest. He accepted this moment with resignation, hoping for a better future for her and the child. He need not stare to imprint her image upon his brain; she was embedded in his heart. Slowly, her figure reached the crest, dwindled down the other side and was gone. |
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