Sons of an Ancient Glory (27 page)

But then Finola had smiled…a poor, weak smile it was, in truth, but a smile meant just for Annie, all the same…and she had somehow managed to put aside her panic.

“Will you stay with me, Aine?” Finola had asked in a voice that was little more than a whisper. “You are the babe's sister…and mine, in my heart of hearts. Will you stay with me? I need your strength.…”

Annie had felt about to burst with pride and love.
Finola had called her “sister”!

“Sure, and I will stay, Finola!” she promised, squeezing the slender, damp hand clinging to hers. “I will not leave you for a moment. I will be your strength, Finola…all that you need. I will stay for the duration.”

And she
had
stayed. Now, long hours later, she felt nearly as wrung out and limp as Finola herself. Every pain that brought a cry from Finola put a knife to Annie's heart. Every moan, every gasp, seemed her own pain finding voice. But she would not leave. She had promised Finola and the
Seanchai
to stay, and so long as God enabled her to stand, she would keep that promise, she would.

Pain again. And such pain. Wave after wave of it, roaring through her, bearing down on her, then passing, only to leave her thoroughly depleted, almost without the strength to take a breath.

Finola was all too familiar with pain, remembered its torment, its savagery. But this time it was different. No less vicious, no less enfeebling—but different.

Before, the pain had been dark. Dark and obscene and deadly cold. Not so tonight. This pain somehow seemed borne of light and warmth and meaning. Its force was violent but cleansing, demanding but with a purpose. There was a kind of…purity about the very force of each fresh new wave that pounded her body.

Somewhere outside the room she heard Morgan's harp…a soft tune, sweetly gentle. Somehow it gave her strength, knowing he was near, that he was waiting. The music seemed to undergird the pain, lift it from her.…

At last the final raging tide of pain slammed through her, making her arch her spine up from the bed and grip Annie's hand on one side and Sister Louisa's on the other. She cried out in one last piercing shriek that seemed to shatter the ball of agony inside her and send it exploding into the room—not a cry of desperation, but a white-hot shout of exultation.

Finola's scream all but annihilated Morgan's last thin shred of control.

Moments after the sound pierced the door between them, it still seemed to echo in the dimly lit corners of his bedchamber. The paralysis that had claimed his legs now seemed to seize his entire body. He sat, his hands locked in a trembling vise upon each arm of the wheelchair as he stared in raw panic at the heavy oak door between their rooms.

He tried to swallow, but his throat seemed frozen. He felt his blood slow, then churn through him like a river current. His pulse thundered a dangerous rhythm in his head as the hateful shaking began again in earnest.

How long he sat there, a palsied coward listening to the silence on the other side of the door, he could not say. It seemed hours before he caught the low murmur of women's voices, followed by a lusty wail, then the incredible sound of Dr. Dunne's soft chuckle.

As the trembling of his body subsided, the voices in Finola's bedchamber seemed to brighten. Morgan stared hard at the door, holding his breath, willing it to open. When it was suddenly flung wide, he reared back so sharply he almost set the chair on end.

Sister Louisa stood in the doorway, her peppery features creased in a weary but reassuring smile. Morgan looked from the nun's twinkling eyes to the bed, caught a glimpse of Annie, face stark white but dark eyes ablaze, standing beside Finola.

Finola.
She lay, propped demurely against a mountain of pillows, surrounded altogether by snowy-white linens, a small bundle in the crook of her arm—

“
Seanchai—”
Sister Louisa's voice cracked for an instant with the announcement. “You may now come in.”

Had Finola's bedchamber always been so far distant from his own? Had the wheelchair always rolled so slowly?

Finally reaching the bed, Morgan stopped. His gaze went from Finola's exhausted smile to the wee bundle she was balancing so carefully against her shoulder. He looked back at Finola, saw for the first time the uncertainty in her searching eyes.

“So, then…it is over at last? Are you…all right, Finola
aroon
?”

Still the uncertain smile, the searching gaze. She beckoned him closer, closer still, until he was but a hand length away.

He stared. First at her…a vision, even weary and depleted as she must be. Then his gaze went to the tiny bundle she hugged close to her.
So small…

Startled, he saw her lift the bundle to him, saw her falter with the effort. Instinctively, Morgan reached out to take the burden from her, balancing it clumsily in his big paws, scarcely knowing which way to turn it, then forming a cradle of his arms.

Such warmth!
How could something so small be so warm?

Trembling, he looked at Finola. She was loveliness itself…even in her weakness and fatigue, she seemed to glow.

“Morgan? Please…would you choose the name? Would you name him, please?”

Him.
A boy-child, then…

Finally, Morgan dragged his eyes away from her. Wheeling himself and the babe over to the window near the bed, he pulled aside one corner of the drape to reveal the first faint glow of dawn.

Heart pounding, he gathered the child up, cradling him in one arm, and with awkward, unsteady fingers edged the blanket away from the tiny face.

A rush of light-filled wonder swept over him.
Golden hair, just like his mother's. Skin so delicate…so fair…

The eyes squinted, opened, met his and held.
Round blue eyes…like his mother's, as blue as an Irish sky on an afternoon in spring.

No evil there. No stain of darkness. Nothing but light. Warm and golden. He held light itself in his arms.

One trembling finger touched the soft, round cheek, then a fair wisp of hair. Golden hair.

A golden child, sent from God.

Once again, the Lord had turned ugliness to beauty—pain to glory—in the gift of this boy-child.

A son.
My
son.

Gabriel…

The name leaped up from somewhere deep in his spirit.

“Gabriel,” he murmured, then said it again, louder this time, testing the sound of it on his lips. “He shall be called
Gabriel.
‘Man of God.'”

Braver now, he lifted the babe in his arms for a closer look. After a moment he turned back to Finola. “You have given me a fine son, Finola
aroon,”
he said quietly, his gaze holding hers. “I choose to name him
Gabriel.
Do you approve?”

She nodded, making no effort to brush away the tears that spilled over. Despite her weariness, despite the tears, she smiled, smiled at him in a way that made Morgan feel like a giant in the land.

His eyes clung to hers for another moment. “He will be a fine man, this Gabriel,” he said. “He will be noble and strong and—”

Morgan broke off abruptly and looked down at the child. The tiny golden-haired babe had reached out a flailing fist and caught Morgan's little finger in a fierce grip, hanging on as if to prove by sheer infant strength the proof of the prophecy.

Caught up in a rush of bittersweet delight, Morgan started to laugh. But an unexpected sob came instead, and he had to fight to swallow down the lump in his throat. As he gazed down at the child in wonder, great unshed tears clouded his vision.

At last he looked up and saw Sandemon framed in the doorway, his dark face shining with relief and elation.

Morgan's eyes swept the room. Sister Louisa stood at the foot of the bed, so very weary, yet so obviously pleased. Beside her, the doctor smiled at his handiwork with understandable pride and satisfaction. Behind them, Lucy Hoy…faithful Lucy, looking worn and tired and slightly stunned.

Ah, and there was Annie…his dark-eyed Aine, full of the joy and awe of this miracle of birth. Morgan reached out to her, and she came around from the other side of the bed to stand next to him.

Unable to stop the fountain of joy welling up in him, Morgan lifted the child in his arms, threw his head back, and laughed aloud.

“Our son!”
he proclaimed in a voice that was almost a shout. Raising the child higher still, he presented him to the family.
“This is Gabriel! Gabriel…Thomas…Fitzgerald! Finola's son—and mine!”

P
ART
T
WO

LIGHT OF TRUTH

 

Gathering Darkness

He reveals deep and hidden things; he knows what lies in darkness, and light dwells with him.

D
ANIEL
2:22

Like a candle lifted in the night,
God's love is a light in the darkness.

A
NONYMOUS

Late September

B
illy Hogan huddled alone in a dark corner, his arms clasped about his propped-up legs, his head resting on his knees.

It would soon be dark. He could tell by the narrow, fast-fading ribbon of light leaking in from the crack on the outside wall.

Nobody in the building knew about the small storage press off the coal cellar except Billy and his uncle. And so far as Billy knew, nobody but Uncle Sorley had a key. Even his mum didn't know about the cramped space, nor about the hours Billy spent inside it.

At first, Billy had almost welcomed the occasional banishments to the cellar. Until recently, they had seldom lasted more than an hour or so, and the isolation provided at least a temporary reprieve from his uncle's rage and the threat of another beating.

Of late, however, Billy had begun to dread the musty, dark hole, even fear it. Uncle Sorley was locking him up more and more often, and for longer periods of time. Yesterday, he hadn't come to let him out until well after the supper hour. Not daring to ask for food past the mealtime, Billy had gone to bed with an empty belly.

The thrashings came more often now, too, sometimes for purely imaginary offenses. These days, it seemed that Billy could do nothing right. The slightest fault would set his uncle off. If he couldn't find Billy guilty of any particular offense, he would simply accuse him of “impertinence,” and either give him a pounding or jostle him down the stairs to the cellar. Sometimes both.