Authors: Angela Elwell Hunt
The Emerald Isle (56 page)
Two hours later, Cahira called the women of Rathcroghan into the main hall and had them bolt the entry doors. Every single man had deserted the fortress to meet the enemy en route, and Cahira knew few of them would return. But Sorcha and Murchadh had slipped safely away with their precious bundle, and that was all that mattered.
In the thick silence of the hall, her mother sat in the king’s chair, her hand trembling as she caressed the carved armrest that had supported a vast line of O’Connor kings.
“Fear not, Mother,” Cahira whispered, bracing her shoulders as she walked slowly to the center of the room. “If the Normans reach us, God will give us the courage we need.”
“Listen!” One of the maids lifted a hand, then brought it to her mouth. Cahira turned toward the high window and heard the dull rumble of hoofbeats.
They were coming. Her father’s men—and Colton—had failed to hold them.
Whirling in the open space of her father’s council chamber, Cahira extended her hands to the women gathered there. “Courage, lasses,” she cried, triumph flooding through her when the women ceased their quiet weeping and looked up. “Dry your tears, mind your courage,
and remember that the grave is not our goal. Dust we are, and dust we’ll be, but no man can touch our souls.”
The hoofbeats grew louder, punctuated by the hoarse cries of men intent upon victory.
“Cahira?” She turned, and saw one of the young scullery maids standing before her. Tears stained the girl’s oval face, but she bravely lifted her arm and offered Cahira a sword.
Colton’s sword. Cahira would have recognized it anywhere.
“He gave it to me before he rode out with the others,” the girl said, her voice whispery and tinged with terror. “He told me to give it to you.”
As the sounds of horses quieted and Norman exclamations cut through the deep silence outside the hall, Cahira gripped the heavy sword by its hilt and felt the sharp stab of a memory.
Would an ordinary woman dress like a man to best Lord Richard’s archers? Would an ordinary woman offer herself to stand as a human target? Would an ordinary woman slip away from her father’s fortress to go riding with one of the enemy?
Colton knew. He had heard her vow that their son would live, and he knew she would remain behind to defend her father’s house. She was, after all, a warrior’s wife and a king’s daughter. Position required commitment, and commitment demanded obedience and sacrifice.
The barred door suddenly shuddered and cracked beneath a heavy blow. The still air of the chamber shivered into bits; a maid’s scream scattered the last of Cahira’s regrets. Death was only a horizon, and she would soon see Colton again.
“I beg you, Father God,” she whispered, her heart like a drum within her chest. “Let me not be the last.”
Rousing herself from the weariness that weighed her down, she lifted the heavy sword and pointed it toward the door.
Monday night, October 18, 1999
Ballyshannon
“
S
o what happened to Cahira’s baby?” Patrick lay stretched out on a rug before the fire while I sat next to him, my back propped against the easy chair. I had just finished reading the conclusion of Cahira’s story, and Patrick had been a good listener, interrupting only twice for a quick kiss after declaring he couldn’t bear not comforting me in the midst of such a moving tale.
I fumbled through my notes and pulled my stockinged foot away from Patrick’s restless fingers. “Cahira’s son, Aedh, grew up in his grandfather’s household. After the initial invasion of Connacht, Felim O’Connor surrendered to Richard de Burgo. Felim lost his daughter, his son-in-law, and his wife, but he managed to keep his title. Richard, after all, needed someone who knew how to keep the native Irish in line, so the O’Connors continued to rule, but as subjects of the earl. Later, though, the O’Connors rose up against the English, and one or two gave the English a royal drubbing.”
“Serves them right.”
“More than thirty-five kings issued from the O’Connor line, but the last direct heir to the kingship of Connacht took Jesuit vows in the nineteenth century, so there the line ended.” I leaned forward,
planting my elbows on the carpet as I looked down into his eyes. “So what do you think of my ancestor Cahira?”
“I’m pure mad about her.” His hand reached out and cupped the back of my neck. “Just as I’m pure mad about you.”
Seeking another kiss, he pulled me forward, so I buried my face in his neck, breathed a kiss there, then playfully pushed him away. With Maddie and Taylor away on their honeymoon and Mr. and Mrs. O’Neil tucked away in the back of the house, it wasn’t wise for us to be by the fire, alone and in love.
He smiled at me, and the smoldering flame in his eye went far beyond the bounds of brotherly affection. “You’ve had time now, and plenty of it. What’ll it be then?” He pushed our bowl of popcorn out of the way, then rolled onto his stomach and propped himself on his elbows. His eyes glinted as he looked up at me. “You promised me an answer days ago, and I’ll be wanting to have it now. Will you marry me or won’t you?”
I deliberately let my mind run backward, thinking of a stony hilltop seven hundred years away from Ballyshannon. In an age when the risks were higher and the opposition greater, Cahira and Colton, a Gael and an outsider, had fallen in love and defied the odds, knowing they were following God’s plan for their lives. I could see God’s hand in the events that linked my life to Patrick’s too.
Colton, Cahira’s beloved outsider, had entered an Irish family in a time of peace and died in the struggle that followed. I had entered an Irish family in a time of struggle, and in the resulting peace I was learning how to live. There was a certain symmetry to the situation, a completeness that appealed to me.
“I think,” I began, looking into Patrick’s eyes, “I’ve finally discovered what it means to be an heir of Cahira O’Connor. All my forerunners—Anika, Aidan, and Flanna—had one thing in common: They embraced life, its good and bad, with every ounce of their energy. Before coming to Ireland, I wanted only to observe life, to copy it down in neat, ordered paragraphs. I think the death of my parents made me pull inside myself, to avoid loving and risking again.”
Patrick squeezed my hand when I hesitated. “Go on, love.”
“To be honest, I always resisted the idea of being related to Cahira and her incredible descendants. They all did extraordinary things in unique circumstances, and I objected every time Taylor or the professor mentioned that I might be linked to them. I didn’t think I would—I didn’t
want
to do something
cataclysmic
with my life.”
“And now?”
I looked toward the fireplace, where a chorus line of flames leapt and danced to the music of our voices. “Now I’m thinking that it’s possible to be an ordinary woman with an extraordinary impact just by being faithful and unashamed. There aren’t any wars here for me to fight, no continents to be discovered, but I think God brought me to Ballyshannon to help bring peace to a pair of warring souls.”
A log collapsed in the fire, sending streams of sparks whirling into the chimney, and Patrick squeezed my hand, understanding that I spoke of him and his father. Blinking back tears, I kept my eyes upon the fireplace. “God prodded me off my usual path—just like he did the others—and he set me here. I can help others too, as long as I am steadfast. I think maybe I am destined to do great things, but in quiet ways.”
“I love you, Kathleen O’Connor.”
Leaning forward again, I parked my head in my hands, mimicking Patrick’s posture. “‘Tis my destiny to be yours, Patrick. So if your offer’s still good, I’ll take you up on it. But there are two complications you should know about. First, I can’t remain in Ireland without my dog. But I think he’ll love Ballyshannon.”
Patrick smiled with warm spontaneity. “Shout would love a friend. What do you have, one of those wee foot-warmer pups?”
I tried and failed to suppress a giggle. “Hardly. Barkley was 240 pounds at his last checkup. And he’s still growing.”
Patrick stared at me for an instant, then his surprise vanished as he couldn’t stop himself from laughing. “Well, then, maybe he’ll give the calves incentive to grow. What’s the other complication?”
I bit my lip. “My Aunt Kizzie. She’s the nearest thing I have to a
mother, and she’ll have to come to the wedding. Trouble is, I’m not sure she can afford the airfare.”
His hand tucked around my elbow with easy familiarity. “I’ll bring her over. I can’t be marrying you without your nearest and dearest relative.”
“But can you afford it? I know things have been tight around here. Maddie’s wedding wasn’t exactly inexpensive, and there’s the purchase of the new bull—”
“Things
are
a bit tight at Ballyshannon.” His breath softly fanned my face. “But don’t be forgetting my computer business, love. I could fly an entire flock of Aunt Kizzies to Ireland, so don’t you worry.”
I stared at him in surprise. “You’re rich?”
“In many things.” Patrick gave me a slow, almost drowsy smile. “In blessings, in love, and in cheek.”
“Cheek?” I laughed softly and slipped one arm around his neck. “You’ll have to explain that one, sir.”
“Audacity,” he answered, his touch sending fire through every nerve in my body. “As in, ‘The cheek of me, imagining that a dairy farmer might marry an Irish princess.’ “
“I don’t know about the Irish princess bit”—my fingertips moved to his lips as he sat up and pulled me into his embrace—“but I do know Cahira has brought me home.”
E
ighteen months have passed since Taylor’s and Maddie’s wedding—and seventeen months since my own. Patrick and I were married at a tiny church in Borrisokane, only a few miles from Ballyshannon. After the wedding, we settled straightaway into the front rooms of the main house, knowing Ballyshannon would never again serve as a bed-and-breakfast. With Patrick’s freelance computer work, my writing, and a new approach to the business of dairy farming, we’re bringing in enough income to take the pressure off Fiona.
Besides, we needed the space. We’re using one of the bedrooms as a nursery.
James was able to hold our son, James Patrick O’Neil, before he died. The baby came in December, and James went to be with Jesus three weeks later. I know he’s with the Lord, for as he studied the changes in Patrick, he came to see that salvation was not a matter of belonging to a church, but of surrendering to Christ. He placed his trust in the work of Jesus alone, and he died in peace.
We hear from Taylor and Maddie fairly often. They have no children yet, nor plans for any, but Taylor has his doctorate and a wonderful position at New York City College. Occasionally Maddie sends clippings from the
Times
society section, and their names always seem to figure prominently in descriptions of receptions for the intellectual
glitterati. They seem happy and content, which is all I ever wanted them to be.
Really.
As for me, I feel like a toddler who was led kicking and screaming to the table where a loving parent had spread the most delicious, nutritious, wonderful meal imaginable. (Sorry for the analogy, but my thoughts keep revolving around babies.) Through Patrick and the O’Neils, the Lord has taught me that the depth of joy I experience is in direct proportion to the pain I’m willing to bear. In giving up my predictable and ordered existence in New York, I am embracing all the pleasure and pain life can bring. I remember what Aunt Kizzie said: When we’re walking close to the Savior, he demands more and more until our lives are given over. But with each burden he lifts from me, he bestows a blessing.
I’m not merely existing anymore—I’m
living.
Ireland, this beautiful emerald island, is my birthright and my destiny. I came here as an embarrassed believer, rather like Peter just after he had denied the Lord three times, but the Savior still had a purpose for me. Despite my shortcomings, I was able to fan the flame of salvation in Patrick, whose faith glowed bright enough to attract his father, whose changed life influenced the entire community of Ballinderry. James’s confident belief touched everyone who came to see him in his last days, including the priest who showed up to administer the last rites.
“Thanks for the effort, Father, but I’ll not be placing me faith in your words or the extreme unction,” James told the priest, his eyes shining with steadfast serenity. “My faith stands on nothing less than my precious Savior’s righteousness.”
And so he slipped away from us and into the arms of the Savior. In that moment, Patrick stood by his side, as did Fiona. Little James and I sat in a corner chair, while a snippet of Scripture kept running through my mind: “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints.”
I know the Lord has a perfect plan for each of his children, and
I know I’ve found his will for me. The Cahira stories
were
published, and nearly every week I receive letters from women who see a reflection of themselves in one of Cahira’s heirs. I hope those books touch lives, and I know they touched mine.
I have to laugh when I remember the night Taylor taunted me by predicting that I’d end up getting married, driving a station wagon, shopping for groceries, and raising children. “Every night you’ll fall into bed too tired from doing the little things to even
dream
about the big things,” he’d said. “Is that any kind of life for an heir of Cahira O’Connor?”
I wish he could see—
really
see me now. Every night I fall into bed with a man who adores me, and I’m so thrilled by the
big
things that I don’t even think about the little things I might miss from home. A miracle sleeps in the room next to ours, and an exceptional man lies next to me. Words can’t describe the beauty of my home or the people who fill my life.
Oh yes—Aunt Kizzie came for the wedding and never went back to the States. She now lives in the little house, and she and Fiona are like sisters. They’ve become prayer partners, and I am constantly challenged by their example.
There is much work to be done at Ballyshannon, but I’m working among lovely people who have warmed my heart with their goodness and charm. And though this isn’t a battlefield or an uncharted territory, I’ve encountered many occasions where I needed to call on Anika’s spiritual strength, Aidan’s creative joy, and Flanna’s raw courage. Being a good wife is a challenge, and motherhood is a daunting task. I pray daily for guidance so I can demonstrate the Truth.
Spring has come again, and as the pastures and hills around me grow lush and green, I find myself counting colors. I think I’ve learned to recognize twenty different shades of green. In a year or two, as my eye grows sharper and these hills more beloved, I’m sure I shall see all forty.