The Emerald Isle (29 page)

“Ready to go?” I reached down to pick up my purse. “I hope you weren’t too disappointed. These rallies are a much bigger deal in America. The Irish probably aren’t accustomed to an altar call.”

Patrick didn’t answer, and for the first time I looked up. He was still standing there with his eyes closed and tears glistening on his face.

Suddenly my shuttered mind blew open. God had sent Thomas Smithson to Birr for Patrick O’Neil.

Patrick was quiet as we walked back to the car, and I felt so burdened by guilt I didn’t know how to speak to him. I had blithely imagined that he was a Christian. Hadn’t he gone to church all his life? Didn’t he and his family drop everything and say prayers every evening at Angelus? There was scarcely a room in the house without a picture of Mary or Jesus or both, and Mrs. O’Neil was obviously a devout believer. Yet Patrick had desperately wanted to hear this preacher, wanted to badly enough to leave his ailing father, alienate his sister, and use me for an excuse to get away.

But he kept his word. After we grabbed sandwiches at the shop we’d seen near our parking spot, we drove into County Roscommon and visited all the places I wanted to see. On the road to Boyle we found the impressive ruin of Roscommon Abbey, a priory founded in 1253. Though the building was erected long after Cahira O’Connor’s death, Felim O’Connor’s tomb was located in the remains of the church. My heart began to beat almost painfully in my chest as I stood and looked down at Cahira’s father’s grave. His refusal to
bargain for terms with Richard de Burgo had cost him dearly, but now that I was looking upon the fair land of ancient Connacht with my own eyes, I could understand his reluctance to surrender.

After leaving Roscommon Abbey, Patrick drove me to Clonalis House, ancestral home of the O’Connor clan, but that mansion had been built in the nineteenth century, more than six hundred years after Cahira’s death. I thanked Patrick politely for taking the time to point out the place, but refused to go in. Nothing inside would help with my research, and Patrick did not seem particularly eager to see a fancy house filled with artifacts.

I thought he would shrug and turn the car around for the drive back to Ballyshannon, but at the stop sign he pointed the car north. “There’s one other place you must see while we’re here,” he said, pulling out onto the road. “The source of the Shannon itself.”

Just when I had begun to fear we would ride for hours in silence, Patrick asked about my work. As we drove past meadows of purple, white, and yellow wildflowers, I told him about meeting Professor Howard in the library and my first research on Cahira. I talked about Anika of the knighthood as we passed mountains splashed with golden light spilling through towering clouds. As I told him about Aidan the artist and Flanna the Civil War heroine, I watched the River Shannon wind through the fields, bright as a spill of molten metal from a furnace.

Finally, as we pulled off a busy road and drove onto another shaded with towering trees, I told Patrick that Professor Howard had been convinced some incredible fate awaited me because I bore the same mark as Cahira’s other extraordinary heirs—the streak of white in my red hair. He took his gaze from the road long enough to give me a quizzical look, then he smiled.

“Of course, I don’t think I’m the type to pick up a sword, hop a ship, or go to war,” I said, looking out the window as we drove. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with my life.”

Lines of concentration deepened along Patrick’s brows and under his eyes. “The seventeenth-century satirist Jean de la Bruyere said man
has but three events in his life—to be born, to live, and to die. We are not conscious of our birth, we suffer at our deaths, and we forget to live.” His gaze shifted to me again. “Don’t forget to live, Kathleen.”

“Are
you
living, Patrick?” My impulsive question brought a hushed and awkward silence to the car. Patrick kept driving, his eyes on the road, and when he spoke again, his voice seemed tighter than usual.

“I am now.” He swung out into the right lane to pass a tractor on the road. “But five or six years ago I wasn’t. My father and I were at each other’s throats constantly, so I left. Washed my hands of him and the farm, said farewell to Mum and Maddie.”

He eased the car back into the left lane as another car rushed directly toward us, and I exhaled, releasing the tension in my shoulders and back. “So—you’re happy now?”

“As happy as a man can be, I suppose.” He expertly eased the car around a sharp bend. “I went into the computer business and made a place for myself in Limerick. ’Tis a different life altogether, but I like it well enough.”

We drove in silence while I considered his answer. For all I knew, he had a girl in Limerick and a full circle of friends who couldn’t wait for him to come back.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what was the problem between you and your dad?”

He shot me a penetrating look. “What
wasn’t
the problem? He’s as stubborn as a stone and about as agreeable. He does things the old way, or he doesn’t do them at all. I’d suggest an improvement with the cows or bring up the idea of importing new stock, and he’d look at me as if the devil himself had suggested the idea. And then there was the thing about the girl—”

I smiled, though the words sent a sharp pain through my heart. “The girl?”

Patrick made a soft sound of exasperation. “Five years ago, Dad wanted me to marry Erin Kelly’s older sister Mary. Most men around here marry local girls, they always have, so our families got together and arranged everything. Mary herself was a fine girl and willing,
but I just couldn’t wrap my mind around it. Mary’s dad has four daughters, you see, and no son to inherit the farm, so they decided that Mary and I would unite the two farms as one.” He shifted uncomfortably in the seat. “Anyhow, I couldn’t see marrying for business and not love, and so I broke the engagement. Mary was heartbroken, and Mr. Kelly righteously furious. And so that night, before they could bend me to their will, I packed my bags and walked to town. I caught the bus to Limerick and never looked back.”

Till now.
Those two words hung between us, unvoiced. I turned them over in my mind, knowing that Patrick was just as obstinate as James. The son was eerily like the father, and their intractability might be the undoing of them both.

Patrick finally turned onto a narrow dirt road and stopped the car. Without explaining where we were, he stepped out onto the grass. I joined him and stared at what appeared to be a lake a few meters away. A simple sign told me we were looking at the Shannon Pot.

I put my hands on my hips and stared at him, not understanding. “The pot?”

“Log
na Sionna
in Gaelic, the source of the river,” Patrick answered, striding through the long grass. I followed, wishing I’d worn my hiking boots instead of tennis shoes, and soon found myself standing at the edge of an unremarkable tarn about twenty-five feet wide. The water was as black as India ink and fringed by hawthorn and stunted willow trees.

“The Shannon Pot is supposed to be bottomless, but they’ve discovered it’s really about twenty-five feet deep,” Patrick said, his blue eyes sweeping the surface of the lake. “The old folks used to swear ’tis impossible to drown here. The miracle, of course, is that the pot is always full, though no one has ever found the water’s source. Yet from it the Shannon flows 214 miles, filling an entire chain of lakes before spilling into the Atlantic.”

I stared at the water, appreciating its natural beauty, yet unable to understand Patrick’s fascination with it. The landscape was pretty enough, and the river lovely, particularly from the higher elevations
where it appeared as a blue ribbon draped over a mottled green carpet. But we had mysterious springs and supposedly bottomless lakes in New York.

“Does this place have something to do with the O’Connors?” I asked, thinking perhaps Cahira had visited this site. “Is that why you brought me here?”

He shook his head. “I brought you here because it reminded me of something the preacher said today. The emptiness—like a bottomless tarn. Have you ever felt empty, Kathleen?”

The question caught me unprepared, and I had to take a moment and gather my thoughts before answering. In the last few weeks I had felt lonely and useless, but something told me Patrick wasn’t talking about mere human emotions. He was referring to something far deeper, a
spiritual
condition.

“At various times,” I chose my words carefully, “I have felt lonely and hurt. But no matter how I feel, I know God loves me.”

He lifted his chin. “What I did today—have you ever prayed those words?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then it’s a Protestant thing.”

“It’s a
holy
thing, Patrick. The words you say really aren’t important. What God honors is a sincere and contrite heart. If you surrendered your life to him today, he accepted it.”

He kept his gaze on the horizon, his brow wrinkling with deep thoughts. “I just want to be like
Log na Sionna
, never empty. But now I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what comes next. I feel like I should go to confession or say a prayer, that I have to do something to keep this full feeling in my heart.”

I reached out and put my hands on his arms, turning him to face me. “I’m not a preacher, Patrick, but I do know that
doing
is the least of it. Today you trusted in what God did for you. You can serve him out of love and gratitude, but the spiritual things you do won’t improve your relationship with God. He has made you his child, and nothing you can do—good or bad—will ever change that.”

A furious blush glowed on his cheekbones. “So you’re saying that I belong to Jesus—always and forever.”

“Yes.” I smiled. “Even though it sounds quaint to put it that way.”

He regarded me with a speculative gaze. “Why does it sound quaint?”

I drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. How could I explain the idiosyncrasies of American culture to a new Irish Christian? “In America, especially in New York,” I began, “people don’t usually say Jesus’ name unless they’re cursing. And it’s politically incorrect to talk about personal faith in public. If you do, people are apt to become offended or think you’re loony.”

Patrick gave me a quick glance of utter disbelief. “I know about your American loonies. Half the tourists who stay at Ballyshannon are American, and they’re always complaining because Ireland’s not like America. Where’s the sense in that? And we get Jerry Springer on the television, so if your New York friends are anything like those eejits—”

“Not all Americans are like the people you see on Jerry Springer.” I squeezed his arm. “Look, Patrick, it’s not right that people are embarrassed to talk about Jesus. But sometimes you have to be careful. We don’t want to cast our pearls before swine, so most Christians tend to stay quiet about the things that matter most to us. It’s impossible to be on the wrong side of a public argument if you don’t take any side.”

He lifted a brow at this. “’Twould be impossible to be on the
right
side either. Or haven’t you considered that?”

I sighed, wondering if the Lord had tapped the right person for the job of introducing Patrick to the joys of the Christian life. I had been a believer for a long time, long enough to understand that a walk of faith isn’t necessarily going to lead through a rose garden. Even if it did, as long as we were in the world, the roses always had thorns.

We had a long drive ahead of us, and the sun was already coming down the sky. “Come on,” I said as I gently tugged on his arm, “let’s get back to the car. You probably need some time to think.”

“In a moment,” he said, resisting me. “I don’t get up here often, and I’d like to watch the pot for a little while.”

And so I turned to watch the pot with him, and felt my heart turn over when he placed his hands on my shoulders and sheltered me from the bawling wind. Though my eyes scanned the lake, my thoughts wandered in a hundred different directions. I had a feeling my answers had only brushed the surface of his questions, for Patrick O’Neil was nearly as deep as the source of the Shannon itself.

A faint wind breathed through the trees, bringing with it the distant sounds of ancient merrymaking, sending memories ruffling through my mind like wind on the Shannon’s water…