Grandmother and the Priests (53 page)

For Granny was surely dying now! There was no doubt of it. The color had gone from her skin, from her eyes, from her lips. The unmistakable shadow of death was on her face, like the gray shadow of some unseen and hovering wing. But she was smiling serenely at the priest and her hands were crossed over her breast. The priest hastily called three of Granny’s closest friends and began the prayer for the dying. The mournful litany murmured through the room.

“Lord, have mercy on her.

Christ, have mercy on her.

Holy Mary,

All you holy Angels and Archangels,

Holy Abel,

All you Choirs of the Just,

Holy Abraham,

St. John the Baptist — ”

“Go forth from this world, O Christian soul, in the Name of God the Father Almighty, who created you; in the Name of Jesus Christ, the Son of the living God, who suffered for you; in the Name of the Holy Spirit, who has been poured forth upon you — ”

No one knew precisely the moment when Granny gave her last breath, for there was no death sound, no death agony. She lay on her pillows smiling, and there was no change on her antique face even when it was evident that she had gone. The neighbors began to weep and there were tears in the priest’s eyes. He had known Granny all his life, just as he had known the oaks on their knoll, the brownness of the brooks in spring, the look of great rocks in the sunlight, the broken and colored marble of April skies. His parents had known her before him, and so had his grandparents. Granny had taken much of Darcy with her to heaven, and silently the priest sent one message to her in her flight: “Don’t forget us, Granny, Pray for us.” He was always sure, after that, that she had momentarily paused to hear him, and that she had nodded reassuringly. So he was consoled, and happy.

He left Granny to the loving care of her friends. The knot of men and women outside were sobbing quietly. Granny had never been the picture of a gentle saint; she had not been particularly benevolent, for she had despised shirkers and ill-doers and the whining. She had not been tender with children, for she had darkly considered children as potential citizens of hell unless their parents were dutifully strict about religious and family and village duties. But children had loved her; her doorstep had always been teeming with them, in spite of her way of cracking her thimble on obstreperous heads. And the village had loved her, not for the gentleness she had not possessed or any helpfulness she had ever extended, but purely because she had been a woman of upright character, absolute honesty and sense and pride. Never once had she been charitable about deliberate sin, and never once had she expressed any excuse for it. For these virtues alone she had been loved and respected.

At one time, when Stephen Doyle had uncertainly tapped his way past her house, she had called him sternly to her, and had said, “My boyo, God has taken away your sight so that you can think of Him, and never see an evil thing again.” That was during the first week of Stephen’s return. He had said nothing, but as the priest now left Granny’s house he was sure that Stephen had thought of Granny’s words many times.

The first pearly light of dawn was in the east, and Father O’Connor wearily hoped for an hour or two of sleep before the Mass. The summer had been neither too wet nor too dry, and so the mud road was not dusty and it was not soft, but evenly packed and comfortable to the foot. The little cottages that lined it were still dark, and the vast sky above them stretched widely to the hills bulking against the brilliant starlight. The village was far from the sea, but a wind brought a vague scent of salt. Then, all at once, the priest stopped to sniff, for surely that had been the fragrance of lilies and roses on the light breeze. It was an intense fragrance, and he remembered it from a visit to a holy cathedral in Rome — St. Maria Major. There was not a garden in this little village which grew roses and lilies, for the area was too damp for roses and the season for lilies had gone. The priest stood in absolute silence, opening his nostrils to the beautiful and powerful scent. As quickly as it had come to him, as quickly it disappeared.

Bemused, he walked on a few paces. The gray light of the dawn had become a vague blueness in the village street. It was later than Father O’Connor had thought, then. If he could sleep an hour he would be lucky. He glanced up; he was standing before Stephen Doyle’s tiny cottage. He looked, and then he looked again, and his mouth went dry.

For, standing close to the high step, and slightly leaning against it, was a huge covered shape, somewhat triangular, and Father O’Connor knew what it was at once, hidden as it was. No Irishman could ever mistake that shape; it was engraved on his heart. Trembling, the priest approached it on the balls of his feet, blinking his eyes to see clearer in that dim blue light of the dawn’s beginning, and half expecting that the object would disappear with the next blink. But it did not. It stood there, waiting and majestic, covered with what appeared to be purple velvet with a fringe of gold on the bottom. There was a slight glimmering as of silk in the protective cloth, or gilt threads. And it was the largest object of its kind that Father O’Connor had ever seen. Not even in Rome had he seen one so tall and so broad. Once, twice, three times, the priest put out his hand to touch the cloth, to verify what his eyes were seeing, and each time he withdrew the hand as if he had been about to commit a blasphemous act.

The light was becoming stronger; the velvet cloth shone softly; the golden fringe glittered. The priest drew in a very sharp breath, and was conscious of the cool morning wind on his wet forehead. Then he put out his hand again and touched the cloth. It was, it appeared, the most delicate of velvets, like a butterfly’s wing. And, in the fine folds, there was a thick film of dust, as if it had come a long distance, a long distance indeed.

All the priest’s restraint left him, and he found himself hammering wildly on Stephen’s door, and calling. It seemed forever before he heard Stephen’s slow step and tapping within the cottage, and forever before the door opened. Then the priest fell silent, and he could only point at the great object waiting so patiently for Stephen Doyle.

“What is it? Who is it?” asked Stephen, as he stood in his nightshirt on the step, his large eyes wandering and blindly seeking. He put out his hand to search, and it touched the top of the object, and the hand paused rigidly. The first fire of the sun suddenly struck the top of the highest trees. Stephen’s hand began to move over the covered shape. He murmured, “A harp. A harp!”

“A harp,” said the priest. “A harp for you, Stephen.”

He put his hand on Stephen’s arm, but the young man stood very still, staring before him emptily, his face white and quiet. “Who?” asked Stephen.

“That I do not know,” said Father O’Connor. “But let us get it in the house, or all the street will be about us in a moment, I am fearing.”

Stephen was a powerful young man and the priest was no weakling, himself, but it took all their combined strength to lift the harp over the threshold inch by inch. Once or twice the cloth must have brushed against the hidden strings, for as the harp was moved into Stephen’s one little room, where he lived and slept and worked, a faint high singing came to their ears, a far sound as of voices behind the clouds. Finally it was fully within the room, near the one small window, and the priest, panting, wiped his forehead. Stephen fell to his knees; he ran his shaking hands over the shape, and he murmured over and over just under his breath, as if praying, “Who, who, who?”

“Let us see it,” said the priest, forgetting Stephen’s blindness. He found the pearl buttons of the cloth, and reverently unfastened them and lifted the cloth from the harp. Then he was struck dumb again with astonishment and rapture, and more than a little fear.

This was no ordinary harp; it must have cost someone thousands of pounds. Stephen sat back on his heels. “Oh, God, who?” he cried. “Tell me, Father, what it is like, this blessed harp!”

“It is as tall as a man, almost as tall as you, Stephen,” said the priest, in a strange voice. “The frame is of gold, and an angel’s head, as large as yours, is mounted on its top. And its strings are bright and shining like silver, and its base is white and gold marble! Stephen!”

It was not possible, of course, but the impossible had come to Stephen in the night. The young man laughed softly, and tears ran down his face. He put his fingers delicately on the strings, he who had never touched a harp string in his life, and instantly the room was filled with a sound of musical waters rippling under the sun. Then, as Stephen’s fingers, those loving, caressing and knowing fingers, moved again more quickly, the room resounded with angelic voices, pure, rejoicing, calling, praying. Never had the priest heard such exultant harmony, such transcendent joy, such echoes which appeared to be composed of light made sound.

Stephen clasped his hands in a gesture of prayer and ecstasy, and turned his blind face to the priest. “Who could have done this, Father, for the likes of me, a man who is nobody, hidden in Darcy beyond the world?”

Yes. Who? Who had given this gift? Who had found this place unknown even to the Sassenagh and the mapmakers and the builders of roads? Who, outside Darcy, had known that Stephen Doyle, the lost and the sightless and the most humble, had wanted a harp? Who, in an access of the most stupendous generosity, had delivered this treasure in the night and had left no name, this treasure which could have bought all of Darcy and a handful of neighboring villages? Even the Queen, herself, would have looked on it with reverence and awe, this mighty glory of a harp, and the Holy Father, himself, would have delighted in its music. A treasure beyond the knowing of most men. The priest looked at the angelic face surmounting the frame and it seemed to smile at him. Then it was that the priest blessed himself and did not quite know why he did so.

The sun shifted through the window and struck the harp and it glittered and shone and sparkled in all its incredible magnificence, its priceless beauty. Then the old sexton rang the one bell in the church and the priest started. Mass! There were footsteps outside, still heavy with sleep, moving towards the church, and sleepy voices. “Oh, God forgive me!” said the priest, in haste. “Stephen, come with me to the church. We will speak of this later.”

They walked the little way to the church together, and Stephen moved in a dream, murmuring again, over and over, “Who? Who? Who? Is it dreaming I am, Father?”

“If so, then I am too,” said the priest, and skipped fast into his house, the villagers staring at his back. They questioned Stephen. What was wrong with the ould Father, with his white face and the queer look in his eyes? But Stephen could not speak. He could only smile, as radiant as the morning.

Father O’Connor had always known joy when he said the Mass, and his heart had always shaken in him when he consecrated the Bread, for he was forever awed and was forever wondering why God had chosen him, a starveling young man born in Darcy, to elevate the sacred Host, and to offer It to the Most High in sacrifice. But on this morning his joy and his wonder and his awe almost blinded him with tears and his hands trembled and his heart was one fire of rapture. He kissed the altar and said,
“Sanctus. Sanctus. Sanctus,”
and all his soul was in his words and all his worship.

He must have communicated what he felt to his little flock, the few men and women in the pews, for their hearts rose humbly with his and not a thought wandered, and those who came to the Communion rail moved like youths and maidens through flowery fields. It was remarked, later, that the ould Father had had a light on his face like an angel’s. A man guided Stephen Doyle to the rail, and Stephen received, then bent his head upon the rail and knelt there, not moving for a time, until all had received. Even when gently touched he did not stir. A stronger and more urgent touch finally aroused him, and he stood up, his expression far and dazed and shining.

Within a few minutes all Darcy knew of the harp, and all the men, before going to their work, and all the women, before making the breakfast, gathered at Stephen’s house, and one by one, like those entering a small shrine, they went within to see the harp and stare at it with open-mouthed disbelief, and in silence. But when they were on the street again, they looked at each other dumbly, these poor men and women of Darcy who knew no beauty in their lives except their love for each other and their love for God, and who had never seen a cultivated rose or a fine stained window in a cathedral or a jewel or a length of silk or velvet or a golden chain, or any of the daily beauties which surround more fortunate people. They had now been in the presence of beauty and they were overwhelmed.

Then it was that some women who had heard old Granny Guilfoyle’s talk of hearing angels in the night remembered her words, and they were repeated eagerly and mysteriously and joyfully. Every soul was asked if he had heard the sound of wheels or strangers’ voices in the night, and each shook his head, freshly overcome. No one had been in Darcy that night, nor the night before, nor any night that anyone could remember, except those who had been born there and lived there. Who would come to Darcy? Who knew of Darcy? Only the Bishop knew, in Dublin, and it was not likely that he often thought of it except when it needed a pastor, or a new Sister. And the Bishop would not know of Stephen Doyle. Who, then, had brought this harp? “The angels,” said some old women very simply, remembering what old Granny had said. “She heard them fetching it.” They blessed themselves. “And they took her back with them, God rest her soul.”

The younger men and women scoffed, but remembered that Granny had been no storyteller and had roundly declared on more than one occasion that she had no belief whatsoever in the ‘little people’ and thought those who believed in them to be ‘queer in the head’. Granny’s life had been as outright as bread and butter; she had not even been particularly pious and took all sorts of advantages because of her great age. She was devoted to no saint, not even St. Patrick, and would remind shocked others that the saint had not even been an Irishman but had come from some heathen country or other. She would cackle highly at tales of demonic possession, and would jest in a most irreverent fashion even with the Father, and would often ask the Sisters what in God’s Name had made them ‘give up the world’. She often depressed the poor and humble ladies with her questions and her jokes, but more often she had made them laugh and blush like girls. So, if Granny said she had heard angels in the night, then it stood to reason that she had heard angels in the night, and anyone who doubted the tale of a fine old lady like Granny, who had never lied in her life, was practically committing a mortal sin.

Eventually even the most skeptical, such as the brewer, was convinced.

Father O’Connor, in his little cottage, was remembering Granny’s words also. Once an old priest had said to him, “If, under certain circumstances, the reasonable does not appear, and nothing can be explained in a rational manner, then the incredible remains and must be accepted.” He went back to Stephen’s house, but even when he was some distance from it he heard the music, striking on the heart like angelic voices, powerful and exalted, and sweeter than any of the voices of earth.

“Who?” said Stephen to the priest again.

“I do not know,” said Father O’Connor.

Stephen smiled. “God,” he said.

Father O’Connor wrote to his Bishop in Dublin and the Bishop promptly inserted a notice in the newspapers there asking if anyone had ‘mislaid a harp’. He thought it a silly notice, and he wondered if Dan O’Connor had lost his mind or was having hallucinations. Nevertheless, he had to make sure. So he caused a notice to be published ‘concerning a lost harp’ in the Belfast papers also, and then in Limerick. He waited four weeks and there was no answer. Then he sent two priests who were notable for their common sense and lack of superstition and who teemed with erudition to Darcy. One was an Englishman, and one could always count on a Sassenagh to believe practically nothing. The English priest had spent several years in Rome and was about to be elevated to the Monsignori, and his family was a wealthy one and he had been educated at Eton. Moreover, he was a convert. There would always remain some slight skepticism in a convert, the Bishop thought, then remembered that his blessed dear old mother had been one, herself, and he withdrew the thought. But he was glad that Father Lambert was to visit Darcy.

“Where is Darcy?” the two priests asked. The Bishop got out his map and could not find it. “But I know it is there!” he said, baffled. “The nearest big village is some thirty miles from it, and you can ask the way. Darcy.” The autumn winds and rains had come, and the Bishop remembered lost Irish hamlets and the roads that ran with mud and water and were hardly passable by the strongest beast, and he looked at the immaculate Father Lambert and felt a human and deplorable pleasure. “You will be able to get the hire of horses in the big village,” he said, “but you’ll be doing most of the way on foot, I am fearing.” The English priest looked a little taken aback, but the Irish priest, who knew all about the hidden villages of Ireland and had come from one himself, chuckled under his breath. “Big high boots,” he said, “and a callused bottom. That’s what you need in those poor, Godforsaken places, and it’s a donkey you will be riding, Father, and thankful for it.”