Cold Pastoral (6 page)

Mary Immaculate had made them many times a day as long as she could remember. Genuflecting to the Sacred Heart, she would step out, step back and walk freely away in the knowledge of a safe return.

Mary Immaculate planned things to take her mother out of the room. Through the open door the light was golden and the snow glistened with its diamond shower. One leap and perhaps her mother wouldn't notice! That seemed impossible. Josephine set the ceremony at the door above the care of their bodies. Delay was necessary.

“Mom, give me a slice of bread in case I get hungry.”

“Now, Mary Immaculate, you're not going to make a day of it. You come back and eat properly. I'm going to make a boiled pudding with lassey sauce.”

“Nice,” said her daughter appreciatively. “But I'd like the bread just the same.”

From the steaming pan of dishes Josephine looked at her child. A denial came to her lips and died in the warmth of her love for her child's face and body. Her white skin, fair hair like a nimbus and eyes shining like agates won her the slice of bread. Stooping under the table she dragged out a tin and cut a large slice of bread, adding a smear of butter. Wrapping it in a bit of brown paper, she gave it to her daughter.

“There,” she said. “That'll hold you.” Adding with happy inconsequence, “don't eat it, now, till you get back, and then you'll be safer. Be off with you now. You'll enjoy yourself I'll be bound. Your face looks that bright.”

Josephine went back to the table and picked up her dishcloth. Peering round the pan she searched for a piece of soap. Dropping the cloth her hands made a clatter, parting saucers and plates. Not a soapsud appeared on the disturbed water.

“I declare,” she said impatiently. “This family eats soap, and it's not from washin' faces either. Them big galoots…”

Josephine had disappeared through a door. It was ordained—as irrevocable as the flame at the foot of the Sacred Heart. The soap was kept in the cold front room they never used. More storehouse than anything else, it was packed with boxes and many objects. In the winter it was as cold as the grave and the place for butter and milk and an occasional dish of cream.

With a step like an inspired spring Mary Immaculate was out the door. She was running down the slope when her mother called her.

“Mary Immaculate, did you make your bow?”

“Yes, Mom,” she said with instantaneous assurance.

“Good-bye then,” said her mother with a cheerful wave of her dish-cloth.

Mary Immaculate's smooth rubbers went skating down the slope. With the face of an angel she sang as she went.

“
I've
got a sin on my soul.
I've
lied as big as a dog. I'll go and burn in hell fire. The devil's got horns and a tail. The fairies have little wings. Who'll chose, who'll chose? Left hand, right hand…”

Singing her thoughts and the account of her misdeed she ran to where the river flattened the verge of the ravine. The power of the sun and the run of the undercurrent were breaking the ice on the surface. Small rivulets seeped through cracks, pressing frosty pancakes under water. On the banks, snow crested and curved like waves leaping to meet.

Mary Immaculate followed the river, running, walking, stepping from side to side and making a short distance a very long way. She idled on an uncovered stone and sat down in the snow to let the sun warm through her clothes. She had the world to herself. The men were on the beach, the women were in their kitchens and the children were in the small schoolhouse. By the grace of God she was out of doors. In an ecstasy of freedom she lay down on her stomach and licked the snow. The feel of it in her warm mouth was like the hot-cold day. Once she tried to pick up the diamond-dust, but the bright specks died under her hand. She took off her cap and raced to the waterfall and saw that the sun had freed it, giving it back to its foam. Down it rushed, boiling from its very first dip over the rocks. Above soared land to the height of the heads. She started to climb, stopping to look at the occasional emergence of a glazed rock. Under glass the iron-stains of granite had a richer gleam. Suddenly she finished her climb with no more hesitation. The sea was blue and far away, while on the land stood forests and forests of crystal trees. Running into them she sped through endless trunks. Sometimes the sun came through and made golden spots on the snow. Even the shadows were full of light, and where the junipers bent and met a slim spruce they made a glittering arch. Deeper and deeper she ran into the crystal forests.

“TO STARVE IN ICE…AND THERE TO PINE,
IMMOVABLE, INFIXED AND FROZEN ROUND PERIODS OF
TIME, THENCE HURRIED BACK TO FIRE.”

T
he thaw and the frost fought all day over the captive trees. Burning in the sky the sun travelled to the west, but in spite of warmth the frost watched its image like a petrified narcissus. Baffled in intensity, heat withdrew to the radiation of bright orange colour. The western sky went out, resigning the village to the moon. White and impersonal it saw the trees without desire. The wind rose for a tussle with the stiffened branches, and the sounds that resulted had a dry clack, like moans grown brittle. The sea sobbed on the beach, turning the stones and searching for something it had lost.

Wrapped in a three-cornered shawl Molly Conway emerged for the first time since winter. She kept shambling to the waterfall and back again, trying to beckon people on. Nobody noticed her. As familiar as the common day she was something to see without sight. The red murk of lanterns moved beside figures trudging up the slopes of the ravine. Reaching the height of the heads they disappeared under the trees. Men, who had not left the valley for many days, commended themselves to God and made a dutiful search for Mary Immaculate. The ghostly light of the moon and shadows glassed by ice made them une

night was bewitched! Sight turned inwards, calling up ghosts of some icy purgation.

Josephine's kitchen was full to overflowing. Women with faces prematurely withered rested drudging hands. Above the oilcloth top of the kitchen table shadows lurked in hollowed eyes.

In silent meditation under the homely altar Josephine knelt, impervious to her neighbours. One hand clutched her beads, while the other was closed over a Child of Mary medal. Her eyes were glazed on the door. Open, it made a cavern of darkness fading to grey and melting towards the gleam of the moonlit snow. The women let her alone. It was natural to pray at such a time.

Mrs. Houlihan was leader. Having seen the child go, she had a right to the floor. Her mouth made a home for the blackest shadow. Sibilance from indrawn lips held tones of retribution.

“I warned her! She can't say I didn't warn her! Says I: ‘'Tis a grand day for
them
to be out.' Did she heed when I spoke? That she didn't, neither she nor her Ma! Down she went lickety-split, like the dart of a trout, with her hair flyin' away from her face. Held, that's what she is, and they say Molly Conway has come out of her house moanin' like a loon.”

“Like unto like,” said Mrs. Walsh accusingly.

“The child was good to her,” said Mrs. Flynn staunchly. “Perhaps she knows where she's at.”

“'Tain't likely,” sniffed Mrs. Walsh; “with all the sensible ones searchin', and those stayin' at home doin' their bit too. Since I heard she was held I've offered St. Anthony a settin' of eggs to find her. 'Tis a sight to offer.”

Mrs. Walsh looked challengingly round for equal sacrifice. Mrs. Houlihan's voice depreciated her offering. “I'd wait, Mrs. Walsh, to see if she's carried in feet first. 'Tis freezing.''

The women shivered and bent inwards. All except Mrs. Rolls who sat solid as a boulder, with her clothes shelving down from her neck. Above, her nose and chin elongated to preserve the same line. She was profound, mystic and dirty. Nomatter how much information was imparted she continued destroying the circle. When she was ready she scattered the whispers with a voice that seemed to return from some deep world. Her bass rumble did not disturb her immobility.

“There I sat last night watching the white clouds sailin' by, and I was reminded of them that had trod the valley before me. There they are, says I, lyin' down on their backs with their faces turned up to the same moon, and here am I, above the ground wonderin' who of us'll be next—”

“That's right, Mrs. Rolls,” whispered Mrs. Flynn.

“And when I heard the child was gone—”

“Please God, not gone—”

“
And
when I heard the child was gone,” continued Mrs. Rolls with mystical certainty, “I was reminded of my own childhood and the things I learnt in the Reader, and I called up the poem of Lucy Grey—”

Mrs. Houlihan's whisper was tart” I don't hold with poultry, Mrs. Rolls.”

“Poetry, Mrs. Houlihan,” boomed Mrs. Rolls, making the word sound like a mystery.

“Poetry, then, or whatever it is. I don't hold with lookin' for two words—”

“That's right, Mrs. Houlihan,” agreed Mrs. Walsh, “plain speakin' and sayin' what—”

“I was reminded of Lucy Grey! And the sweet face of Lucy Grey—”

“I remember it, too, Mrs. Rolls,”said Mrs. Costello, rushing in with a sudden memory of the Royal Reader. “‘And the sweet face of Lucy Grey nevermore was seen.'”

“Hushhhhh,” reproved Mrs. Flynn with a kind look at Josephine. In her wish to show off, Mrs. Costello had recited loudly.

“When oft she crossed the moor—” boomed Mrs. Rolls.

Mrs. Houlihan's whispers gathered contempt. “'Tis not Lucy Grey they're searching for, Mrs. Rolls, and I never heard of no moor in these parts. 'Tis Mary Immaculate they're searchin' for, and no mistake.''

“And a hard punishment to the mother for making so light of the name,” said Mrs. Walsh, with the acceptance of justice.

“She wasn't rightly baptised by it,” reminded Mrs. Flynn. “It was only Mrs. Whelan who gave her that, and not Father Melchior.”

“And I should say not,” said Mrs. Walsh reprovingly. “Where is he, anyway, at such a time?”

“Gone over the heads,” volunteered Mrs. Houlihan quickly, for fear Mrs. Rolls should answer before her, but she had withdrawn to the world of Lucy Grey. “He got a call this morning.”

“It's the fellow two coves up, with the fallin' sickness.”

“The like of that now,” said Mrs. Houlihan, with a suck of her lips. “The Father must be sick anointin' him.”

“You can fall once too often, Mrs. Houlihan,” boomed Mrs. Rolls, with the weight of a boulder crushing a pebble.

“That you can, Mrs. Rolls,” agreed Mrs. Walsh. “Put a bit of wood in the fire, Mrs. Costello. You're nearest the stove.”

“I'll do it,” said Mrs. Houlihan, making a scrape of her kitchen chair. “I know her kitchen better than the rest of you and I'll make the tea. The men'll want a nice warm drink, and I'm the one to get it for them.”

“Will they stay out the night?” asked Mrs. Walsh in a hopeful voice. The occasion was sad but rare.

“And what else would they be doin', Mrs. Walsh, with that slip of a child in the open?” Now that Mary Immaculate had gone Mrs. Houlihan approved of her more. When the stove had been fed with spruce-logs she returned to the circle at the table. Bending further in, she gathered the women's faces nearer the lamp-chimney. “If she sleeps in this weather there'll be no runnin' about for her any more.” The circle echoed with whispers that lacked solidarity from Mrs. Rolls. When Mrs. Houlihan was planning a wake for Mary Immaculate, Mrs. Rolls discarded her aloofness. With a shift like the fall of an avalanche she slid to her knees and became a boulder on the floor. “Thou shalt open our lips, O Lord.”

The women dropped in one descent, while the lamp was left to shadow their brows. “And our mouths shall show forth Thy praise,” came in unison from their mouths.

Mrs. Rolls was leader, and she guided them through the Rosary where the women had to answer her according to her mood. Suitably it was a day for the five Sorrowful Mysteries, and her voice gave value to their contemplation. Returning from her own world of silent meditation, Josephine led the responses. The women prayed, with no hope of recess from Mrs. Rolls.

Molly Conway shambled by the waterfall whimpering for attention until a relation ran her down the valley, locking her inside her house.

The temperature rose, releasing the trees. Dripping away their masquerade they returned to spruce and fir. The junipers drooped further to the east, dragged in a deeper bow. The moon receded, paled by a morning sky. In a chill dawn snow was revealed without sparkle, trees without magic and box-like houses empty of their owners. Heavy with the burden of winter the village shivered in a nadir of rest.

At seven Benedict and his train of sons dragged up the slope. Slack and speechless they clod-hoppered in their long rubbers. Entering the kitchen, more shadows found homes in hollowed eyes. Pale, silent women rose and filed out, insensate with sleeplessness and the thought of their own tired men. Mrs. Rolls moved like a mobile mountain.

Josephine's eyes focused on her husband. “Any sign, Ben?”

“No,” he said briefly. “We're going to wire to the City for the police. There's a boat gone across the Bay to the telegraph office.”

Benedict and his loutish sons died to the thought of Mary Immaculate. Fully dressed they sprawled and slept in a vast indifference to the toll of sea or land. Only Josephine prayed on, until she crumbled like an animal lost in turgid sleep.

The first day of Mary Immaculate's disappearance she was village and shore news. The second she was City news. The third she was Island and World news. While the village was recovering from its first search strange skiffs and dories came in from the sea, and other men climbed the slopes of the ravine. Authority arrived, and uniforms mixed with blue overalls hitched over long rubbers. The fisherfolk lent themselves to organisation, but they did it in silence. In front of the invaders not a word was said. “A little girl was lost.” Lost, was she? Let them say what they say, she was held! The Little People had taken her, and what they had begun the winter would finish. They searched, almost without looking, while three days passed without a sign of the way she went. The men were ready to give up. For three days the sea had gone on by itself. Resignation came easily, and there was always the consolation of prayer.