The Emerald Isle (26 page)

We drove first to the library at Terryglass, where I greeted Mrs. Sullivan and returned an armload of borrowed books about Irish history and the Norman invasion. Mindful of Patrick’s concern for his father, I didn’t linger or visit the rare books room, but hurried back out to the car. We drove northward for about forty minutes on a twisting country road, and I couldn’t help but remark on the beauty of the river looming against the western horizon.

“The Shannon,” Patrick explained, “is truly a remarkable river. It passes right through the center of Limerick, and I never tire of looking at it.”

Finally we reached Clonmacnois, ruins of a sixth-century monastic city. A sign near the entrance to the ruins told us that over the centuries Clonmacnois was plundered and burned dozens of times by the Vikings, Normans, and English. In spite of those disasters, the monastery flourished and became one of medieval Ireland’s foremost capitals of scholarship and artistic production.

I stepped forward and scanned the gray relics of eight churches, two round towers, and over two hundred gravestones, some so ancient no trace of the engraving remained. A cold wind blew, and I felt the wings of tragedy brush lightly past me, stirring the air and lifting the hair on my forearm. Cahira O’Connor had surely visited Clonmacnois. Colton might have too, in the company of Richard de Burgo, the man who would ultimately destroy one of my ancestors.

Patrick slipped his arm around my shoulders to guide me through a knot of Japanese tourists who had stopped to listen to a small girl singing for pennies. “There’s something over here you should see,” he said, leading me toward one particular stone. “’Tis located near the high altar where Toirdelbach Mór was buried in 1156.”

I went with him willingly, but stopped in mid-stride when I saw the spot and the sign that lay directly in front of us. He had led me to Rory O’Connor’s grave, a place more ancient than Cahira herself.

With a quick intake of breath, like someone about to plunge into freezing water, I stepped forward and read the poem on a nearby sign:

“The verse was written by Angus O’Gillian to honor our last great high king.” I heard a note of nostalgia and regret in Patrick’s voice, as though he missed Ireland’s colorful past.

A hard wind swept over the lonesome graveyard, scattering leaves and tourists, and I shivered beneath the thin material of my long sleeves. “Had enough?” Patrick asked, seeing me shiver. “We could head back now if you’d like.”

I wondered for an instant if he was already bored with my company, then I remembered the situation at Ballyshannon. Taylor was studying, and Maddie was busy with her bridesmaids’ luncheon, which
meant Mrs. O’Neil was taking care of her husband alone. No wonder Patrick wanted to get back.

“I’ve seen enough. Perhaps we can do Athlone later in the week?”

“I don’t think I’ll be wanting to go that far any time soon.” He didn’t offer any reason for his refusal, and I didn’t ask.

The house was quiet when we returned. Leaving me in the kitchen, Patrick slipped through the door that led to the family’s bedrooms, then I heard the murmur of voices. A moment later another door slammed, and when I glanced out the window I saw him moving toward the little house, his shoulders hunched forward, his hands deep in his pockets.

Not knowing what else to do, I went upstairs to read.

Wearing an artificially bright smile at dinner, Maddie told us all about her hen party. “It’s tradition,” she told me, “that all the bride’s female friends gather small items for the kitchen such as frying pans, egg-beaters, mixing bowls, wooden spoons, and such. Since we all know the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach”—she paused to wink at Taylor—“my friends were quite generous with their gifts. I expect I’ll be baking brown bread and apple tarts for Taylor very soon.”

Considering that her mother would undoubtedly welcome her help, I was about to ask why she hadn’t started baking already, but Mrs. O’Neil looked much more rested than she had this morning. She had prepared a wonderful dish of beef tips on noodles (I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of cow I was eating), and Mr. O’Neil took his place at the table as if nothing in the world were amiss. There were no B&B guests, and the mood seemed lighter and more relaxed than it had in days.

Maddie went on at great length about her party, the gifts, and the many laughs she had shared with old friends. “We got a darling little toaster from Constance O’Hara, and a wonderful frying pan from the Kellys,” she said, her eyes snapping with excitement. “And Erin dropped by, no doubt looking for you, Paddy.” She winked at her
brother, but Patrick only snorted and helped himself to another serving of noodles.

Mr. O’Neil’s eyes seemed glazed, as if he couldn’t quite enjoy a conversation about toasters and blenders, so I leaned toward him. “I saw your calves this morning,” I whispered conspiratorially. “And the famous Graham Red. Though I didn’t get too close, I thought him a handsome fellow.”

A smile nudged itself into a corner of Mr. O’Neil’s mouth, then pushed across his lips and over his lined cheeks. “Aye, he is a handsome dote, isn’t he? The pride of four counties, he is. I’ve had offers to sell, but I would never part wit’ old Graham.”

“Old Graham will be the death of your herd,” Patrick said, each word a splinter of ice.

Maddie’s smile froze on her face, and Mrs. O’Neil seemed to wither in her chair. Taylor, however, seemed oblivious to the change in mood. “Why would a bull make such a difference in the herd?” he asked, pausing to take a sip of water. “I thought all dairy farmers were pretty much using artificial insemination these days.” He looked from Patrick to Mr. O’Neil, then caught my warning glance. “Sorry—are we not supposed to talk about such things at the table?”

“We talk about such things all the time,” Patrick answered, watching his father with a keenly observant eye. “But no one listens.”

“It has to do with health issues.” Maddie jumped into the conversation, her hand on Taylor’s arm. “Remember when Britain went bonkers about mad cow disease? Well, the price of beef dropped drastically when people stopped buying it, and the market shifted. Now people don’t want great
quantities
of beef; they want quality beef instead.”

“But our father insists that nothing has changed.” The tensing of Patrick’s jaw betrayed his deep frustration. “We ought to be raising Scottish Angus, but he insists upon using Graham for our cows. We’re producing nothing but Dutch Friesians—great milkers, big beasts—but no one wants gigantic steers anymore.”

I fumbled with my knife and began to slice a generous hunk of
beef, regretting that I had brought the subject up. I was on the verge of making a harmless remark about the weather when the continual drone of the kitchen television suddenly ceased. The silence roared for an instant, then an invisible clock began to chime the hour. A picture of the Virgin Mary appeared on the small screen and, as one, the O’Neil family lowered their forks and bowed their heads as a bell chimed for a full sixty seconds.

I stopped eating too and caught Taylor’s eye across the table. We didn’t move until the six o’clock moment of reverence had finished, then we watched silently as the O’Neils—except Patrick—blessed themselves with a great waving of hands. Then they picked up their forks, and Maddie began to babble about her party again.

I gripped my fork, speared a particularly succulent piece of beef, and idly wondered if I was nibbling on an Angus or Friesian steer. Learning about cattle had piqued my curiosity, but I wouldn’t have brought up the matter again for a million dollars.

Instead, I said something about the televised moment of silence. “I wish we had something like that in America,” I said, pointing toward the television with my fork. “You rarely see such visible signs of piety in our culture. Most people seem pretty intent upon keeping God out of everyday life.”

Mr. O’Neil’s face went blank with surprise. “You don’t have the Angelus?”

Unfamiliar with the term, I shrugged. “Apparently not. We have lots of television preachers and evangelists like Billy Graham, but we don’t have six o’clock prayers.” I frowned into my salad bowl. “We’ve got some really good preachers and some really strange ones. I once met this backward preacher who told me women were placed on earth only to help men. He said he wouldn’t even let women hang curtains in his church.”

“That sort of foolish notion could only come from a Yank,” Mrs. O’Neil muttered, apparently forgetting that two of that nationality were sitting at her table. “How I hated to see Maddie go to New York! I was so glad when she came home.”

Chewing on my beef, I looked at Taylor and lifted a brow. Had Mrs. O’Neil forgotten that her darling Maddie would be returning to New York after the wedding?

“Apparently we have an evangelist like Billy Graham too,” Mad-die said, stabbing at her salad. “He’s a Protestant, naturally, and I don’t think many people will go see him. I hear he’s preaching tomorrow afternoon in Birr. There’s to be a big open-air rally, like the ones Billy Graham used to hold in Chicago and New York.”

Mrs. O’Neil gazed at her daughter with an incredulous expression. “Why would he want to say Mass out of doors?”

“’Tis not exactly Mass,” Maddie explained, basking in her store of American knowledge. “’Tis a sermon, most likely. There’ll be music and preaching, and they’re sure to take up a collection.”

“Of course.” Mr. O’Neil spoke up, his eyes snapping. “I hear those preacher types are big on robbing people of their hard-earned pounds. Just as the Yanks will rob us of our culture.”

I hesitated with my fork in midair, then rose to the bait. “What do you mean? How are Americans robbing you?”

“Through that nasty thing.” James turned in his chair and used his fork to point to the television. “Our language, our music, and our customs are being threatened by it. Everything’s homogenized now, don’t you see? Our young people are leaving the farms”—he flicked a gimlet glance at Patrick, who simply went on eating—“and heading to the cities for an American lifestyle. The Ireland of my youth is fast disappearing.”

I tried to think of a defense, but couldn’t, and sheer politeness kept me from pointing out the irony in his words. Though he might have resented the power of television, it buzzed in the kitchen for at least ten hours a day.

We ate in silence for a moment, then Patrick nudged me with his elbow. “Are you still wanting to go into County Roscommon? I could find some time tomorrow, if that suits you.”

I nearly choked as I hurried to swallow my beef. “Sure. I’d love it. I’m anxious to see more of the Shannon.”

Mrs. O’Neil made a small sound of exasperation. “Walk toward the setting sun from anywhere around here, and you’ll see the Shannon,” she grumbled. “Why you’d want to drive all the way up there is beyond my ken.”

“I’m taking her all the same.” Patrick looked around as if he would dare anyone to deny him.

I felt strangely relieved when no one did.

After dinner, I made it my business to discover why Patrick had changed his mind about taking me to County Roscommon. Yesterday he had seemed intent upon remaining close to home, but now he wanted to drive several hours north. True, he and his father had gotten into a bit of a spat at dinner, but that didn’t seem severe enough to cause a man to leave an ailing father to his pain.

Then again, Mr. O’Neil seemed much stronger tonight. Perhaps Patrick had merely decided to seize the opportunity to explore while his father was feeling better. Still, I wanted to know why.

I checked the little house and the public rooms but saw no sign of Patrick. From the window of my room I scanned the barnyard, but nothing moved in the vast empty space outside, and the barns were dark. I went down to the empty kitchen, then paused at the door that sealed off the family bedrooms from the rest of the house. Taylor’s room lay off this hall, so I could have gone looking for him, but in Maddie’s current state of mind such trespassing would not be easily forgiven.