William H. Hallahan - (27 page)

"What creature?" Brother Vincent concentrated on a spot
of glass, scrubbing furiously.

"That monster from hell running through the woods last night.
You saw it as clearly as I did."

"What's that got to do with anything?" Brother Vincent
huffed a cloud of breath on the glass and wiped it.

Brendan gently but firmly gripped the man's arm and turned him
around. "You raised it. You and Zen and Beaupré. In the
greenhouse. And now it's your responsibility. Do you think you can
just let it run amok now?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You know very well. The Tipperary pentacle."

"I have work to do. Don't you?" Brother Vincent walked
quickly away, hugging his cleaning rags and bottles.

But the conversation did its work. Brother Vincent went in search
of Brother Zen. And a few moments later, Brendan saw the two of them
walking with Brother Beaupré in the well-trod path in the snow.
Vincent was in the middle, the tallest, and the other two walked
heads bowed and cowled as he talked, his breath coming in rhythmical
plumes. Zen kept glancing back over his shoulder at the monastery.
Brother Beaupré was the first to stop, cast down, shaking his head.
Then he withdrew his right hand from his sleeves and admonished
Vincent with it. Now they stood in a circle miserably. Occasionally
all three of them would look with fear toward the greenhouse. In the
end they all walked back to the monastery in slow silence. None of
them appeared for the midday meal.

It was around two when Brother Vincent came to Brendan's room. "We
want to talk to you," he said, and he led the way to the
conversation room. Both Zen and Beaupré were waiting there. Vincent
shut the door.

"Sit down," Brother Vincent said to him. Only Zen
remained standing, hands behind his back, at the window. Brilliant
sunlight filled the window.

"How do you know about the Tipperary pentacle?" Vincent
asked him.

Brendan shrugged. "It's not exactly a secret, is it? It's
been published in a number of books. It's an occult symbol used in
ceremonies to call up demons."

"You ever draw one? Use it, I mean."

"No."

They seemed to run out of questions. They all stared at the slate
floor, thinking.

"Why did you do it?" he asked them.

They didn't speak for a while, then Brother Zen said in an almost
inaudible voice, "Desperation."

"It was all these nightly talks," Beaupré said. "In
this room. We were supposed to be finding God together. All we did
was argue. Guardhouse lawyers. We got so we could disprove
everything."

Zen said, "That kind of relentless skepticism erodes faith."

"We were in a crisis," Beaupré said. "We couldn't
prove God exists with logic and we couldn't find Him with faith. We
were in some kind of limbo that was almost unbearable."

Brother Vincent turned and pointed at Zen. "So one night
Brother Zen said, 'If we can't prove the existence of God, can we
prove the existence of Satan?' That made sense. Satan has always
seemed more eager to communicate with man."

"So," Brother Zen said, "we got a copy of Paxton's
treatise on demonology."

Vincent said sadly, "I curse the day we opened it. What a
catastrophe."

The three remembered with horror, staring at the floor.

"Well, what happened?"

"We went down to the greenhouse. We had just a candle with us
so we wouldn't be seen from the sleeping quarters."

"I drew the pentacle," Zen said. "In
different-colored chalks."

Beaupré said, "Then we read the incantation and we waited
and nothing happened. We really didn't believe in such stuff anyway."

Vincent said, "In fact we began to giggle like school kids.
It seemed so absurd."

They kept interrupting each other now, eager to confess to him.
Often they all said the same thing at the same time.

They had taken turns reading. They felt silly and read the
incantation in a singsong voice, trying to be funny. They stopped at
last. They were cold and cramped and had begun to leave when they
heard heavy breathing.

And then slowly, right there on the circle, the creature appeared.

"It's more than eight feet tall! Did you know that!" Zen
gripped Brendan's sleeve. "It's a monster!"

"It ran in huge circles like something let out of a cage."

"Frantic!"

"Crazy! It seemed overjoyed. It giggled."

"Terrifying!"

"It said one word over and over. Purple."

"Purple?" Brendan exclaimed.

"Purple, over and over."

"Then it jumped the wall and ran away. And we didn't see it
again."

"So what did you do then?"

"What could we do? It was gone."

"You mean, you just went to bed?"

"What else could we do? Tell us."

"Try another incantation there in Paxton to return it to
hell. Didn't you try that?"

The three exchanged guilty looks.

"We had no idea where the creature was until we heard you say
you were followed."

"We knew it must have killed that horse."

"Horse," Brendan echoed. "My God, what have you
done?"

"We thought it would go away."

"Away!" exclaimed Brendan. "It's thriving!
Prospering! Learning by leaps and bounds. I bet it hasn't realized
its own powers yet. Each day it becomes more dangerous--in quantum
leaps. What are you going to do when it gathers a following?" He
watched their stunned faces. "Why not?" he asked them.
"It's a logical step. It can gather armies! We are locked in on
this earth with madmen who will form legions and eagerly do the
creature's bidding. Didn't you ever think of that?"

He waited for them to say something. But they didn't. "You
have to push it back down to hell now. Tonight. Before it's too late.
Didn't it occur to you to do something about it before this?"

"Well, as long as it was just killing a horse or two--"

"Dear God," Brendan said.

They gazed at one another's face. Brother Zen shuffled his feet
and recrossed his legs, resting the side of his head on his palm.
Brother Beaupré pressed his lips down on his fists and Brother
Vincent wiped his palms on his gown. See-no-evil. Hear-no-evil.
Speak-no-evil. They regarded him with great round eyes. Push it back
down to hell? Their eyes told Brendan he was mad.

"Well, you've proved one thing." Brendan said. "Satan
exists. You're halfway to God."
 
 

Brendan got off by himself to gather his thoughts. The creature
had said purple over and over. There could be no mistaking what that
meant: The creature was looking for Brendan's purple aura. All it had
to do was get a good look at Brendan's head.

How many other demons were on the earth, looking for him? He felt
he was the target of a worldwide manhunt Every creature in hell must
be out searching for him.

Brendan's reaction was the same as
before. The gnawing fear and feeling of weakness gave way to impotent
rage. If he could only find a suitable weapon, he would gladly face
Satan. Just to have done with it one way or the other. And he vowed
he would win. But what was the weapon?

Trevor's sailboat was a 42-foot ketch and he'd hired two students,
the Benson brothers, from Brown University to crew for him. The boat
was beautiful, with teak decks and brass fittings. It was named the
Hirondelle
. And it even had its own fireplace--a black metal
flue with a glass door. Behind it a charcoal fire cast a warm glow.

"What's the word
hirondelle
mean?" Anne asked him
at supper.

"Oh! don't you know! Good heavens! The
Hirondelle
was
the fourth ship in Columbus's flotilla. You know the other three,
don't you?"

She watched him with a growing smile. "The
Nina
, the
Pinta
, and the
Santa Maria
."

"Marvelous! But most people don't know that there was a
fourth ship. The
Hirondelle
. You know what happened to it?"

"No." She was smiling broadly now. "Lay it on me,
Alphonse."

"It sailed off the end of the earth."

The two college students groaned and booed him.

Trevor was widely known in Newport as an outstanding sailor. Water
was his element. There he was one of the elite. He'd been helmsman in
four major races during the past season and had won them all.

All through the evening before the regatta, he sat in the Yacht
Club lounge with her, greeting scores of other yachtsmen and their
wives. The number of millionaires in the room was beyond count. And
even the oldest among them came up to Trevor and shook his hand. He
was a celebrity and they all wished him well. Many of them would be
racing against him in the morning and obviously had no expectation of
beating him or even keeping up with him.

"I see you have Eddie Benson's two brats for crew," one
man said. "They're racing fools, those two. They'll tear the
sails off to win a race."

Trevor smiled at him. "So will I."

The man patted him on the shoulder. "I know, Trevor, I know.
Just like your father."

The four of them slept on board that night. A fresh wind kicked up
sometime after midnight and even in the protected harbor they were
in, tied to the dock, she felt the rhythmic flow of the tidal waters
passing under the keel.

Anne was wide-awake. Guilty. She was having a wonderful time. She
was fascinated by the rich. Scott Fitzgerald was right: The rich are
not like thee and me. While she lay contentedly on board a ketch,
Brendan was lying somewhere in hiding, watching with furtive eyes for
the spirit that stalked him. There was barely any light coming in
from the dock lamps but she looked over and saw Trevor in his bunk,
staring at the ceiling.

"Trevor."

"Hummm."

"Do you believe in the occult?"

"You mean spirits and demons and such?"

"Yes."

He thought about it. "I can't say that I do. I don't think
about it much, but I mean--have you ever seen a ghost or a demon?"

She didn't answer.

"I think it's all a lot of poobah," Trevor said.

If it were only true. Poobah. Anne could go find Brendan and tell
him it was a hoax. He could come home and live a normal life with
her.

The next day the water was wild, and a number of sailboats dropped
out of the regatta. There was a booming surf and a high wind. The two
Benson boys were exhilarated; they couldn't get out on the open water
fast enough. It was thrilling. The boat sailed like a champion,
running on a long port tack, then on a starboard tack, knifing
through the water rail-under. When they went on a broad reach, the
two crewmen wanted to run up the spinnaker but even Trevor demurred.
The chop of the water would spill the wind and could split the sails.
The spinnaker would be in shreds in minutes and the boat could be
dismasted. No matter. Trevor won his class going away. Anne
discovered she loved sailing. She was truly a wind-and-water girl.
Trevor was delighted with her. He vowed she would make a great
helmsman.

There was a merry victory dinner that night, packed with the crews
and even with those who had dropped out. The talk was all sailing. It
was as though the enormous power that these people wielded in finance
and industry didn't exist. It was never mentioned. It was just there.
Power and wealth.

Trevor, who was a moderate drinker at best, had too many champagne
cocktails and he fell asleep with his head on her breast.

"A hard day," one of the yachtsmen said to her. "Winning
takes a lot out of you."

"So does losing," said his wife. She led him away with a
laugh.

Anne pushed her fingers through Trevor's curly black hair , and
felt his warm slow breath and then woke him. It was time for bed and
sleep.

He dropped her at her apartment the next day. As they parted, he
said, "You're the most wonderful girl I've ever met, Annie."
 
 

That evening she went to see Aunt Maeve. It was nearly two months
since Brendan had left. The weather had turned bitter again, and that
mad wind off New York Harbor was wilder than ever. Even the short
skip from the cab to Maeve's doorway was enough for the wind to go
through her coat.

Maeve was delighted to see her. She made tea and they sat on
either side of the fire, wearing its warmth like a lap robe. Anne
noticed again that Aunt Maeve was using a cane.

At last she asked Maeve, "Have you heard from Brendan?"

Aunt Maeve looked at Anne and shook her head, unable to speak.
Finally she gained control over herself. "Listen to me, Annie.
You're a bright girl. You know the ways of the world. Do what I told
you. Try to forget him. Start a new life with new friends."

"I could go try to find him," Anne answered. "I
could hire a detective."

Aunt Maeve shook her head and put a fingertip to her lips. "Shhh.
Get on with your own life. Forget Brendan. It's over, Annie."
 
 

A week later Trevor took Anne to dinner, and for dessert he put a
small jeweler's box on her plate. "No strings," he said.

It was a small solitary diamond ring, severely simple and quiet.

"Oh, Trevor. This--Trevor, I'm not ready for this."

"There's nothing to be ready for. I wanted to find some way
to thank you for launching me on my new career."

"Career?"

"Yes. I've become a playwright."

She laughed.

"No. I'm serious. After the frostbite regatta, I went home
and thought things out and I wrote a one-act play, and I took it to
three different playwrights I know. Three different ages, three
different styles. And I told them to give me a blunt and honest
appraisal of it. And they did."

"And--?"

"And they were all quite critical. I have a great deal to
learn. And one of them flat-out told me to forget it. He said it's a
dog's life, writing for the theater. He said talent isn't enough. And
the other two said that if I can survive the demands of discipline
and the frustrations of failure and neglect, I undoubtedly had a
great deal of potential talent."