Sons of an Ancient Glory (61 page)

Sandemon knew, whether anyone else in the household did or not, that the two still lived as friends, not as intimates. They were clearly devoted to each other; only a blind man would not be sensitive to the affection that flowed between them. But they lived apart—entrapped, he suspected, by their individual fear of rejection and, perhaps, by a lack of awareness of each other's feelings.

Yet he held high hopes, indeed had given much prayer to those hopes, that in his absence the two would finally acknowledge their love…and their need…for each other. If the
Seanchai
once perceived the depth of feeling in his young wife's eyes, perhaps he would at last be able to throw his restraint to the wind and open his arms to her…just as he had already opened his home and his heart to her.

But he was a proud man, the
Seanchai
—proud, and possessed of uncommon self-control. Sandemon had long sensed the conflict of emotions in the young poet. His fierce resolve to place no demands, no obligation, on the tragic young woman he had married must surely do continual battle with his love for her.

As for Mistress Finola, although she could not look at her husband without her heart rising in her eyes, she appeared equally determined to expect nothing from the marriage.

Sandemon sighed and shook his head. He did not fancy himself to be a matchmaker. All he could do was pray for them, these two young lovers who loved only at a distance. He would continue to pray, and continue to hope that by now, at least one of them might have realized the gift they were meant to be to each other—and taken steps to break down the wall keeping them apart.

He expelled a long breath, staring into the fire at the smoldering remnants of his long, arduous battle against the cholera. With a rueful smile, he thought perhaps he should also be praying for patience—patience enough for just one more day. For tomorrow—ah, tomorrow—they would be leaving the wagon at last! Tomorrow he would be free to return to the family!

But the thought of tomorrow brought to mind the disturbing question of what tomorrow might mean for the young Gypsy inside the wagon. Just this morning, he had confided to Sandemon and Tierney Burke that he no longer had a home to go to. When questioned, he had explained the concept of
marhime
—banishment from his family and the entire Gypsy camp.

Tierney had tried to persuade him that he was wrong, that surely his people would welcome him back. But Jan Martova had simply turned his mournful black eyes on his friend, saying, “You do not understand our ways. I assure you. By now, I have been banished from the
kumpania
.”

Sandemon turned to glance at the open windows of the wagon. From the sound of the conversation inside, it seemed the argument was still going on. He could not help but overhear the youths' exchange, and what he heard troubled him greatly—not only for Jan Martova, but for Tierney Burke as well.

“But that's crazy!” Seated on the floor of the wagon, Tierney leaned against the wall. He had to make a determined effort to keep his contempt for the absurd Gypsy customs out of his voice. “You didn't do anything
wrong
! Why would they banish you for trying to help a friend?”

Opposite him, also on the floor, Jan Martova sat, rosining the bow of his violin. “I told you, you cannot hope to understand our ways. You are
Gorgio.
Our laws are ancient and logical only to the
Rom
.”

“Your laws are
unfair
, if you ask me,” muttered Tierney. He went on, giving Jan no opportunity to respond. “As for keeping your wagon here, on the grounds, I don't know whether Morgan would allow it or not. But I'm not the one to ask. I'll have no say in it, especially now.”

Jan nodded. “I understand. The decision has to be the
Seanchai's
. I merely thought perhaps, if you were to speak with him first…”

Tierney let out a short, self-mocking laugh. “Morgan isn't going to let me back inside Nelson Hall! Not after what I did. By now, I've been banished, just like you.”

Jan Martova studied him. “Will he really be that angry, do you think?”

Tierney gave another humorless laugh. “I think he may very well wring my neck!” He cracked his knuckles. “If he even gets that close to me.”

For a long time Jan said nothing. One forefinger traced the neck of the violin. Tierney noted the gentleness with which his friend handled the instrument, as if it were made of marble or gold, rather than old, battered-looking wood.

“So, then, what will you do?” Jan asked. “Where will you go?”

Tierney shrugged. “I don't know. I'll get a job, I suppose. Find a place in Dublin for a while.”

Jan shook his head. “I cannot think it will come to that. I believe you misjudge your
Seanchai.”

Tierney made no reply. Although he had witnessed only fleeting glimpses of Morgan's temper, he had seen enough to convince him he would no longer be welcome at Nelson Hall.

He supposed he really couldn't blame Morgan. The man had opened up his home to him, practically made him one of the family, taking him in on short notice, with no questions asked. In repayment, Tierney had lied to him and willfully defied his authority.

He thought Morgan might have eventually forgiven the deceit. The man could be surprisingly tolerant at times. But Tierney imagined the chances of his forgiving anyone who endangered his family were slim indeed. And there was no denying the fact that his recklessness had put the entire household at risk.

He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. A gnawing sense of guilt had kept him awake most of the night. He was thoroughly disgusted at the way he had botched everything. The mess he'd created for himself was bad enough, but to realize what his foolishness was likely to cost Jan Martova made it worse. He was beginning to think he should have stayed in New York and taken his chances with Patrick Walsh.

“I regret that I won't be able to keep my wagon here,” Jan said. “I had hoped to stay close, for the sake of our friendship.”

Tierney opened his eyes. “We can still be friends,” he said awkwardly, not quite knowing how to voice his own feelings.

The other gave a brief nod. “That's true. We can maintain our friendship wherever we are. But I would like to stay because of Sandemon as well.”

Tierney shifted and stretched, impatient with the weakness that still swept over him with even the slightest movement. “You like him a lot, don't you?”

“Sandemon?” Jan nodded. “I think he is a noble man, yes. A great man. But even more than that, I am hungry for his teaching.”

Tierney thought about his own feelings toward Sandemon. “I didn't care much for him at first, I admit. Back home, the Irish and the blacks don't get along.”

Jan Martova looked surprised. “But why not?”

Tierney shrugged. “There aren't enough jobs to go around, and the blacks will work for lower wages. It causes a lot of bad feelings.”

“But surely you must respect Sandemon?”

Tierney hesitated, then nodded. “I suppose I do. He risked his life for us, after all. Yeah, I owe him.”

Jan Martova nodded. “He has changed my life, I think.”

Tierney regarded him skeptically. “Changed your life?”

Jan smiled and laid the violin aside. “Yes, I would say he has done just that. All the more reason I had hoped to stay close to him. I want to continue to learn from him, about your—my—God.”

Always ill at ease in any discussion about faith, Tierney remained silent.

“Are you a believer?” Jan asked abrupdy.

The question made Tierney squirm. Avoiding the other's gaze, he delayed his answer. But the memory of the fever-dream he'd had during the cholera wasn't as easy to avoid. The dark tunnel, the faceless shadows that had groped at him, the whispering, the lake of fire…

No matter how hard he tried to forget what he had seen that night—or
thought
he had seen—it wouldn't go away. Not completely. Like some kind of dread specter, it lurked, just below the surface of his mind, rising to haunt him when he least expected it.

“I don't know what I believe,” he finally answered. And he spoke the truth. He couldn't remember a time when he hadn't been confused and at odds with himself about what he believed. He wasn't like his da, who never seemed to question or doubt matters of faith. With Da, it had always been a case of absolutes. Right is right, and wrong is wrong. No compromise.

But for Tierney, it had never been that simple. He had never actually thought through what he believed, had never really confronted his feelings or tried to articulate them. At some level he knew he believed in God, and certainly he believed in evil. He supposed he believed in heaven and hell, though what constituted each had never been clearly defined in his thinking—another difference between him and Da.

He had listened to the long exchanges at night between Sandemon and Jan Martova, had pondered a number of the Gypsy's questions.

But did he believe Sandemon's answers?

Did he really believe that a world in which injustice seemed the norm—a world in which hatred, suffering, and violence seemed to reign unchecked—was the creation of a merciful God, an all-powerful God? Did he really believe that the madness which seemed to grip the entire universe was the result of sin, that this same deadly universe would one day be redeemed by its Creator? Did he really believe that God had a Son who allowed Himself to be nailed on a tree between two common criminals…a Son who willingly gave up His life for the sin of the world?

He wasn't sure. No matter how many times he raked it through his mind, he ended up back where he started: He simply did not know what he believed.

He had, of course, felt a tug toward the faith of his Irish Catholic friends in the city. But that attraction might have been no more than his boyish desire to be like his friends. To be Irish in the neighborhoods of lower New York was to be Catholic. And fulfilling his Irishness was the most important thing in Tierney's life—had been ever since he was a boy.

Wasn't that the real reason this trip to Ireland had meant so much to him? Even if it had come about because he'd gotten himself into a jam in New York, it was still the attainment of a dream: to see the land of his roots, to walk the ground of his ancestors, to finally become the son of Ireland he had always believed himself to be.

Years ago, Tierney had set his heart on discovering for himself the ancient glory of Ireland and its people…
his
people. This was the distant star he meant to follow, the dream he would pursue.

But with his careless deceit and rebellious ways he had tarnished the dream, and the star somehow seemed more distant than ever.

He had disappointed Morgan, betrayed his trust—and the stark reality of his failure hurt more than he could ever have imagined.

Morgan Fitzgerald was the one man he respected and idolized more than any other—including his own father. Growing up, long before he ever met Morgan, Tierney had dreamed of one day sitting at the great poet-patriot's feet, to learn from him—to become
like
him.

Like Morgan, he would wed himself to Ireland. He would become so much a part of the Irish nation that his very heart would merge with the land until they were one. He would spend his life for the country and its freedom.

His initial disappointment, upon discovering that the legendary rebel had become more poet than warrior, had soon given way to renewed respect. For he had come to realize that, even confined to a wheelchair, Morgan Fitzgerald was still a giant of a man, still altogether worthy of his admiration—and still, in all the ways that really mattered, the embodiment of the Irish spirit to which Tierney aspired.

He understood now, with some surprise, that he very much wanted Morgan's respect, his approval. The realization that he would never have either was a bitter taste that wouldn't quite go away.

Before the cholera, he had been so sure of himself. He had come to Ireland to pursue his dream, to search out his past, to find his soul. He had known exactly what he was doing, where he was going, where he belonged.

But now, for the first time in his life, he seemed to have nowhere to go. Separated from his father, he had no family to speak of. Alienated from Morgan by his own waywardness, he had no place to go.