William H. Hallahan - (21 page)

He paused. He needed to take quick action, and his eyes scanned
the buildings around him. When he saw a cellar doorway nearby he
stepped over to it, down two steps, and got in the lee of the
remorseless wind. Then as though heaven-sent, the door opened and he
turned face to face with the building superintendent. He was a
gray-haired black man and he looked like a delivering angel to Father
Joseph.

"Ain't getting any better," the superintendent said. "We
going to get a whole lot of snow out of this one. Radio says way over
twelve inches."

The monk nodded at him.

"I got some errands to do but I wish I didn't."

The monk nodded again.

"You look kind of done in, Padre. You want to come in and sit
down for a while? It's nice and warm in there. Sure. Come on."

The superintendent turned and the monk mutely followed him in. He
felt the warm air caress his face like a blessing.

"Here. This is the warmest spot in the whole building. You
sit yourself right there in that old armchair. How about some hot
soup? I got some here, more than I'll ever eat. Hot chicken noodle.
Here." He picked up a pot from the heating plate and swirled the
steaming contents, then poured off a coffee cupful. "And here's
your spoon. Now you take that and you'll be warm as a bun in a couple
of minutes. Come on. You're looking real poorly. This'll help."

The overstuffed armchair felt wonderful. All Father Joseph wanted
to do was take a nap and let his feet get warm. "You're very
kind," he said gratefully. "That storm is overwhelming."

The superintendent watched him spoon the hot soup in.

"Neither one of us should be out there today," he said.
"I have the asthma and I have some errands to do. We should
leave that weather to the young people."

The monk nodded. The soup was delicious and he spooned it in
greedily. His face was getting warm and he felt his ears burning. He
thought he would never feel his feet again. When he finished the
soup, the heat was closing his eyes. He sat back in the chair and
tried to smile at the superintendent. "I can't tell you how
grateful I am. I was in worse shape than I thought."

"Stay awhile. I'm going to get a few things, then I'll be
back. Rest yourself."

"God bless you," Father Joseph said.

"Thank you."

Before the superintendent got to the basement door, Father Joseph
was asleep.
 
 

Over northern New Jersey, the hawk was enveloped in the snowstorm.
Flying was increasingly difficult; there was zero visibility as she
moved through the complete darkness and snow. So over Jersey's Great
Dismal Swamp she circled and dropped. Only her unparalleled eyesight
enabled her to locate a suitable roost, an old sycamore tree, and
when she landed, a flock of sparrows burst from a nearby hemlock and
darted away, cluttering in the darkness.

She gave herself a shake, composed her wings and feathers and sat
on a branch, hearing the icy snow crystals fall on the frozen marsh.

But something nagged her, would not let her rest. She felt a pull
toward New York to find that purple aura ahead of Timothy. Where was
he anyways--with that hated dog of his? At last, unable to remain,
with only an hour's rest, she gave a great flap and flew off blindly
into the storm toward the city.
 
 

Father Joseph woke with a start. He glanced around urgently and
saw the time on a wall clock. Four o'clock. The superintendent was
reading a newspaper, a cloud of tobacco smoke around his head. Beyond
him, he could see through a window. It was very dark outside and the
snow was thrashing against the window.

"Oh, my," he said, sitting up. "I must be off."

"Don't rush on my account, Padre. I have an extra bed you can
sleep in."

"I have urgent business." But his feet were alarmingly
hot and swollen. His ears burned and felt hot to the touch and his
cheeks were feverish. He knew that he ought to take to a bed and rest
for a long time. He was sure he had a high temperature.

"Why don't you rest a bit longer?" the superintendent
asked. "Then I can make you something to eat."

Before Father Joseph could refuse, he'd fallen asleep. In spite of
his terrible premonition, his body had failed him.
 
 

Father Joseph awoke, frightened. His premonition was stronger than
ever. The clock told him it was now after six in the evening. And the
snow was rushing at the window more thickly than ever. The
superintendent was asleep in his chair with a cat curled in his lap.

The monk sat up. He was burning with fever. Up, he told himself.
He feared he already might be too late. He stood and readjusted his
heavy wool cloak.

The superintendent woke and yawned. "Well," he said,
"that's a fine coat all right. Should keep you warm enough."

"It used to," Father Joseph said. "Now nothing
keeps the cold out. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you. I'm
sure you saved my life. I'll remember you in my prayers." Along
with the workingmen who padded him with newspapers and gave him
gloves, he thought, and the policeman who bought him the tea, and the
waitress and many others. His list at prayer time grew with the
years. And Brendan Davitt was unknowingly incurring a debt of
gratitude through the monk's efforts. Man damned himself with
spectacular acts and saved himself with an infinite string of small
ones.

"You come back, Padre, if it gets too much for you out there.
It's a terrible night and it's nice and snug here. I have an extra
bed. Maybe before you go you'll take a little supper with me."

"God bless you. But I can't delay any longer." Father
Joseph walked uncertainly to the door. Why were his feet so hot and
swollen?

He buttoned the cowl of his cloak, pulled on the old work gloves
and set off. There were over six inches on the ground, and in the
wind the snow was blinding. He estimated his journey at a mile. A
long mile, for walking would be extremely difficult. He started up
Hicks Street, stumbling in and out of the auto tire ruts. Almost
immediately he felt the cold begin to penetrate again and soon his
fever had him shivering uncontrollably. God's will.
 
 

The hawk had reached the edge of New York Harbor. She stood
miserably on the deep ledge of a factory window in Jersey City. It
was a straight flight from here across the harbor to Brooklyn. Almost
four miles over open water in the most punishing weather she'd ever
faced.

She'd had a difficult time since leaving the Dismal Swamp, and to
reach this far she'd had to land repeatedly because of the snow and
ice covering her wings. A number of times she'd lost her way in the
wind and blinding storm. But now she was really stopped. She assessed
her condition. She was very tired, almost exhausted, and she faced
almost four miles with no landmarks to guide her, no place to stop
and rest and shake off the ice on her wings. Her wing was troubling
her, furthermore, and she doubted that it could carry her to Brooklyn
without a complete rest. And even if the ice and injury weren't a
problem, she could get lost in the dark. She could end up flying in
circles, become exhausted and drown in the waiting water.

It was a malevolent force that was deliberately thwarting her. So
she had two grim choices: She could risk drowning; or she could face
extinction with all the other legions of hell, if she failed to find
the purple aura first. She regarded the storm.

There was no sign of its abating. She regarded it with hatred.

She couldn't go and couldn't stay.

Where was Timothy? How close was he?

For the time being, she had to admit, she was beaten. The best she
could do now was rest here on the window ledge out of the wind and
snow until the storm passed. She tucked her head under one wing and
tried to rest. Rest. Sleep. With her world threatening to end, how
could she try to rest?

In a sudden rage she shook out her wings.

She'd never faced such astronomically long odds before, but at
least, if she failed, she would die in action. She wouldn't have
failed cowering on a window ledge.

She gambled the outcome of the whole war between heaven and hell
on the next four miles. She flew into the night.
 
 

When they came up the subway steps in Brooklyn, Brendan felt Anne
take his hand. They'd agreed to tell Aunt Maeve after dinner of their
engagement, and Anne gripped his hand as though she feared he would
disappear.

He smiled reassuringly at her. "I'm right here," he
said. But a vague anxiety had descended on him during the afternoon,
and his confidence was waning. Although repeatedly he'd tried to
shrug off a presentiment of something ominous, it had grown stronger.
He wondered what danger he was exposing Anne to.

Here in the darkness, however, the streetlights had turned the
falling
snow into a magical world. More than six inches lay on
the ground, yet the storm still had not reached its peak. Few people
were out; in the absolute silence, the snow seemed a setting arranged
just for the two of them. Love pushed the anxiety out of his mind.

Brendan looked up at a warmly lit window. Inside, a cat on a sill
sat regally looking down at them from the midst of potted plants.
Beyond the plants, Brendan saw the head of a young woman framed by a
high-backed chair. She was chatting with someone. Home: The vision he
had forbidden himself to dream was about to come true. He stopped
Anne and kissed her.

Her breath was sweet and warm on his cheek and her lips were soft
"I love you, Brendan," she said, then kissed him again.
When she stood back she lightly poked his arm. "And you're going
to love being married to me." When she nodded at him, her hat
showered his face with snow. They laughed together.

Maybe she was right. Grab life by the ears. But somehow he didn't
believe they were going to get away with it.
 
 

Aunt Maeve's house had a festive air. When they approached the
front door, Brendan could see, through the door pane, merry flames
dancing in the kitchen fireplace. And when he unlocked the front
door, the odor of food mixed with burning applewood greeted them.

Aunt Maeve helped them take off their overcoats as they stamped
the snow from their feet. Then she led them into the kitchen for hot
mulled cider.

"Happy birthday, Anne. And many more." They clicked
their glasses. The cider was laced with applejack and seasoned with
cinnamon sticks, one of Hardy's recipes.

For the first time Brendan saw the cane. It was black with a white
rubber ferrule and it was hooked over the back of a kitchen chair.
And when Aunt Maeve crossed the kitchen to check her oven, he saw her
favoring her right leg. It intensified his feeling that something was
closing in on him.

All through the meal Aunt Maeve seemed ebullient. She told them
stories about Hardy that made them laugh. But while she talked, while
they ate, while later they cleared away the dishes and brought out
the birthday cake, she kept glancing at them. Brendan saw that she
was trying to read their faces. And as he watched her put the candles
on the cake, he knew she'd guessed.

She asked Anne, "What did you get for your birthday?"

"Brendan." Anne looked at her with overjoyed eyes. "We
were going to tell you after the cake. We're getting married."
She put her arms around Brendan. "Aren't we, champ?"

Aunt Maeve clapped her hands together. "How wonderful! For
both of you!" And she quickly kissed them. "My favorite
dream come true! My two favorite people!" She put her hand on
Anne's hand and patted it. Then she watched Anne blow out the
candles.

Brendan's anxiety had been increasing all through the meal. Now
without any warning or preamble he felt a sudden panic. He almost
upset his chair when he stood, feeling more waves of panic. He wanted
to run.

Aunt Maeve stared at him. "What is it, Brendan?"

Anxiously, he stepped away from the table. "Something--"
He listened. A shadow fell across the front door pane. Then a fist
banged on it. Hesitantly, Brendan stared at the door. He saw a figure
there covered with snow. The banging sounded again, more urgently.
Brendan went and opened the door and Father Joseph stepped inside. He
stared with awe at Brendan.

"Dear God. I was right," he said. "It's like a
bonfire. You must leave immediately."

Brendan stared at the feverish eyes. "Leave?"

"Now. Tonight," Father Joseph said. "You must run
for your life. Pack a bag quickly." Father Joseph's premonition
was excruciating.

Brendan needed no further prompting. His own sense of panic told
him something was approaching rapidly. He ran up the stairs. Father
Joseph followed him, talking to him. The two women watched, totally
bewildered.

Brendan returned skipping two steps at a time, banging a suitcase
on the railing.

"Leave now," Father Joseph said.

"But where?"

The monk whispered instructions in his ear, then held up a hand.
"Tell no one where you are going. No one. Just go. Run!"

Brendan pulled on his overcoat and stepped to the doorway. Then he
paused.

"Run, man, run!" the monk cried.

Brendan did no more than touch Anne's fingertips before he turned
and ran into the night. She watched him through the door pane as his
figure became progressively smaller, hurrying from streetlamp to
streetlamp, until he disappeared in the snow.
 
 

The hawk burst through the snowstorm with the last strength in her
wings and skidded and slipped on Aunt Maeve's roof, grabbing for
something to hold on it. She was now completely exhausted. And as she
clung to the roof, she also knew she'd arrived Too late. There was
only the faintest residue of a purple aura in the air. Her quarry had
fled.

In the snow-filled street below her, under a streetlamp, Father
Joseph shambled, drifting, also exhausted and partly frozen.