Sons of an Ancient Glory (54 page)

Johanna. Whatever was to become of the girl? The death of her little brother seemed to have isolated her even more than her inability to hear or speak. Nora and Evan—and that wonderful boy, Daniel John—had tried everything to break through the wall of silent grief that seemed to surround her. They had all been so hopeful the baby might make a difference, but Johanna continued to avoid little Teddy.

It was no exaggeration to say that everyone in the family had labored in prayer for Johanna, herself included. What Winifred confessed to no one was that it was becoming more and more difficult to pray with any real hope, just as it was increasingly difficult to imagine what kind of future might lie in store for the girl.

Unexpectedly, almost as if in response to her troubled thoughts, one of her favorite portions of Scripture settled over her heart:
“For I know the plans I have for you,” says the L
ORD
, “plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.”

Winifred held her breath, a sense of wonder sweeping through her. For the first time in a very long time, she felt her shadowy concerns and dark dreads about Johanna…and Evan and Nora…begin to recede behind a slowly rising light of divine promise.

She had no idea as to why she should suddenly feel hopeful. She only knew a subtle brightening of her spirit, as if God's loving heart had touched her own with a gentle reminder that He was still in control…He still cared…and there was still hope.

Johanna sat on the chair between the double bed and the crib, keeping watch and occasionally dozing. Aunt Nora was sleeping soundly, but baby Teddy was wide awake. He fidgeted about, shaking his fists with fierce determination or pursing his tiny mouth into a frown, then a grin.

Johanna watched him out of the corner of her eye, trying not to notice his baby antics. She couldn't stop a smile. But when a wave of longing to pick him up and cuddle him seized her, she quickly looked away. Resting her head against the back of the chair, she closed her eyes. Soon he renewed his efforts to get her attention, but Johanna forced herself to ignore him.

In her mind, she began to chant the little nonsense rhyme she had made up, a rhyme Teddy would never hear, but which she had created especially for the angel game:

Oh, Teddy-Dear, don't you fear,

God sent an angel

To guard and watch over you all through the night.…

My Teddy-Boy, she'll stay close by,

To love and protect you till night becomes day.

Sometimes Johanna pretended that
she
was baby Teddy's guardian angel, sent from heaven to protect him. She hoped it wasn't a sinful thing, pretending to be an angel. She only did it because she imagined it helped Teddy to understand why she couldn't pick him up, or tickle him under the chin as Aunt Winnie did, or rock him to sleep—or do any of the things she secretly longed to do.

Being an angel she couldn't be an ordinary big sister, as she yearned with all her heart to be. But she could stay near him and watch over him. She could even allow her heart to whisper that she loved him.

Johanna understood that the angel game was only make-believe. In truth, she wasn't entirely certain she still believed in angels any longer. If they were real—as Uncle Evan insisted they were—where had they been the day wee Tom drowned in the pond? Why hadn't the angels saved him?

And yet she could not quite bring herself to give up the game altogether, for it allowed her to pretend, at least for a time, that she was very important to Teddy, that she had a legitimate reason for staying close to him.

Besides, not all of the angel game was make-believe: part of it was real. She
did
love baby Teddy. That much, at least, was entirely true, no matter that it was a secret.

Johanna had another secret, one she didn't quite know what to do with. She had told no one about it, for if anyone knew, she wasn't sure what it might mean to her.

She could make sounds…sounds in her throat. She remembered the night she first discovered the secret. It had been late, long past midnight, on one of the nights after Little Tom's death. She had been lying face-down on her bed, crying for her brother, crying for her loss. Those nights following the drowning, she often wept until daybreak—hard, wracking cries that left her limp as a rag doll afterward.

On this night, she had been seized with an unusually violent fit of weeping. Earlier, she had fallen into an uneasy sleep, only to be startled awake by the memory of seeing wee Tom carried, lifeless, from the pond. Newly assaulted by a vicious storm of guilt and grief, she had felt herself trapped behind a steadily rising wall of stone and mortar. One by one the huge stones hemmed her in, building her prison higher and higher, the dense walls crowding in on her by degrees until she could see no daylight, could breathe in no fresh air, only the cold, dank stench that often came from a dry well.

Wild with terror and anguish, she clutched her head with both hands, burying her face in the pillow. A torrent of violent sobs ripped from her throat, while her mind screamed in agony for release.

Then she had felt the peculiar sensation in her ears, the hot tickling in her throat, like a vibration. She screamed into the pillow again…and grabbed her throat as something seemed to explode from deep inside her.

She had known then that there was sound…a voice…somewhere deep within her, trying to break out.

She had never experienced it again, had deliberately checked any impulse to allow the sound to escape. What had happened that night months ago still frightened her, in some way even threatened her, and so she had kept it secret all this time.

Sometimes Johanna felt as if her entire
life
was a secret…as if the wall of terrors that had surrounded her that night had finally become a reality, and no one could see her trapped behind it.

The winter is cold, the wind is risen.…

F
ROM THE
“C
OLLOQUY OF THE
A
NCIENTS
,”
THE
F
ENIAN
C
YCLE

Q
uinn was disgusted with herself for feeling so intimidated. Sitting beside the grim-featured police captain, she set her face straight ahead, avoiding even a sideways glance in his direction. She was determined not to let him see how rattled she was in his presence.

Quinn was realistic enough to concede that she would be fidgety in the company of
any
policeman. Even the younger, good-natured Sergeant Price put her on edge. There was no denying that she had her people's innate distrust of the Law. She also had reasons of her own to
avoid
the Law.

She told herself it was the police wagon that unnerved her so, not the man. A “Black Maria,” he had called it, explaining that it was used for transporting prisoners.

That was exactly what she felt like—a prisoner. In the course of the evening she had escaped her cell at the Women's Shelter only to find herself strong-armed by Sergeant Price. In short order the sergeant had handed her off to the custody of his captain, a black Irish warrior-type, who, to Quinn's amazement, turned out to be the
husband
of Mrs. Burke!

After listening to her initial explanation about the Shelter, the captain had proceeded to question Quinn in a blunt, but not unkind, manner about her “business” with his wife. Still somewhat dazed by the reality that the granite-jawed captain was indeed married to Mrs. Burke, Quinn had found herself tongue-tied for one of the few times in her life.

To give the man his due, Sergeant Price had stepped in to help inject some order into her story. Apparently, his interpretation had sounded more plausible, for the captain wasted no time in changing tactics. After sending Sergeant Price off with the one-armed Britisher—something to do with a missing little boy—he then informed Quinn that
he
, and not the sergeant, would be escorting her to his wife.

Quinn could tell he was suspicious of her—and clearly impatient. However, her hopes were somewhat buoyed when he mentioned something to the sergeant about a “subcommission” and the likelihood of an “immediate investigation of the Shelter.”

Stealing a glance at his stern profile beside her, she wondered what her situation actually was. What would they do with her, once she had spoken with Mrs. Burke? The captain seemed a hard man, and she wouldn't put it past him to try to cart her off to another “shelter” of some sort. Or a cell.

Quinn dug at her skirts with both hands. No matter how the captain planned to dispose of her, she would be one step ahead of him. For the first time in months, she was inhaling the air of freedom. It might bear the stench of garbage and animal droppings, but it smelled of heaven itself after her lengthy confinement.

“You needn't be afraid, girl,” the captain said unexpectedly.

Quinn jumped, snapping her head up to look at him.

“If you're telling the truth,” he said, looking over at her, “you've nothing to fear.”

“'
Tis the truth,
” she said, out of sorts at the way he continued to question her story. He had already challenged her more than once before they ever left the police station. “Is that why you're arresting me? Because you don't think I'm telling the truth?”

He swung around to look at her. “I'm not
arresting
you, girl! Unless I'm mistaken,
you're
the one who insisted on speaking with my wife!”

Stubbornly, Quinn didn't answer, but kept her gaze fixed straight ahead. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him finally turn his attention back to the street, his jaw set tighter than ever.

Silence hung between them for a long time. As they drove, Quinn became aware of the gradual change in their surroundings. They had left behind the rutted streets, the pigs, the ramshackle taverns, and turned onto a broad, tree-lined avenue, cobbled and well-lighted. Gas lamps flickered on the corners, and the lace-curtained windows of the stately houses glowed from within. The odors were different, too. The sour, yeasty smells and the stench of garbage had been exchanged for the scent of woodsmoke and late-falling leaves.

“We're almost there,” the captain said, turning a corner. Quinn took in their surroundings with surprise. Although she remembered Mrs. Burke as being a finely dressed, soft-voiced lady, she would never have thought to find an Irish policeman living in such a grand setting.

The farther into the neighborhood they went, the larger and more elegant the homes appeared. Many were mansions, with three, even four stories, wide, rambling porches, and cone-shaped roofs. Most were surrounded by ornamental iron fences and towering trees.

At the end of the street, they pulled up in front of a sprawling mansion of dark stone, with ivy concealing much of the front. Although there was nothing particularly spectacular about the house, it reminded Quinn for all the world of one of the aging castles back home. Surrounded by enormous old oak trees and gracious landscaping, it looked peaceful and somehow inviting.

She glanced over at the captain. As if aware of her scrutiny, he motioned toward the house and said, “It belongs to my wife's grandmother. We live here with her.”

Without another word, he jumped down from the patrol wagon and surprised Quinn by coming around to her side to help her down.