The Thorn Birds (69 page)

“Oh, don’t! Oh, don’t Mum, don’t!” He wept for her, for her pain, not understanding her pain or the words she was saying. His tears fell, twisted in his heart; already the sacrifice had begun, and in a way he hadn’t dreamed. But though he wept for her, not even for her could he put it aside, the sacrifice. The offering must be made, and the harder it was to make, the more valuable it must be in His eyes.

She had made him weep, and never in all his life until now had she made him weep. Her own rage and grief were put away resolutely. No, it wasn’t fair to visit herself upon him. What he was his genes had made him. Or his God. Or Ralph’s God. He was the light of her life, her son. He should not be made to suffer because of her, ever.

“Dane, don’t cry,” she whispered, stroking the angry marks on his arm. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. You gave me a shock, that’s all. Of course I’m glad for you, truly I am! How could I not be? I was shocked; I just didn’t expect it, that’s all.” She chuckled, a little shakily. “You did rather drop it on me like a rock.”

His eyes cleared, regarded her doubtfully. Why had he imagined he killed her? Those were Mum’s eyes as he had always known them; full of love, very much alive. The strong young arms gathered her close, hugged her. “You’re
sure
you don’t mind?”

“Mind? A good Catholic mother mind her son becoming a priest? Impossible!” She jumped to her feet. “Brr! How cold it’s got! Let’s be getting back.”

They hadn’t taken the horses, but a jeeplike Land-Rover; Dane climbed behind the wheel, his mother sat beside him.

“Do you know where you’re going?” asked Meggie, drawing in a sobbing breath, pushing the tumbled hair out of her eyes.

“Saint Patrick’s College, I suppose. At least until I find my feet. Perhaps then I’ll espouse an order. I’d rather like to be a Jesuit, but I’m not quite sure enough of that to go straight into the Society of Jesus.”

Meggie stared at the tawny grass bouncing up and down through the insect-spattered windscreen. “I have a much better idea, Dane.”

“Oh?” He had to concentrate on driving; the track dwindled a bit and there were always new logs across it.

“I shall send you to Rome, to Cardinal de Bricassart. You remember him, don’t you?”

“Do I remember him? What a question, Mum! I don’t think I could forget him in a million years. He’s my example of the perfect priest. If I could be the priest he is, I’d be very happy.”

“Perfection is as perfection does!” said Meggie tartly. “But I shall give you into his charge, because I know he’ll look after you for my sake. You can enter a seminary in Rome.”

“Do you really mean it, Mum? Really?” Anxiety pushed the joy out of his face. “Is there enough money? It would be much cheaper if I stayed in Australia.”

“Thanks to the selfsame Cardinal de Bricassart, my dear, you’ll never lack money.”

At the cookhouse door she pushed him inside. “Go and tell the girls and Mrs. Smith,” she said. “They’ll be absolutely thrilled.”

One after the other she put her feet down, made them plod up the ramp to the big house, to the drawing room where Fee sat, miraculously not working but talking to Anne Mueller instead, over an afternoon tea tray. As Meggie came in they looked up, saw from her face that something serious had happened.

For eighteen years the Muellers had been visiting Drogheda, expecting that was how it always would be. But Luddie Mueller had died suddenly the preceding autumn, and Meggie had written immediately to Anne to ask her if she would like to live permanently on Drogheda. There was plenty of room, a guest cottage for privacy; she could pay board if she was too proud not to, though heaven knew there was enough money to keep a thousand permanent houseguests. Meggie saw it as a chance to reciprocate for those lonely Queensland years, and Anne saw it as salvation. Himmelhoch without Luddie was horribly lonely. Though she had put on a manager, not sold the place; when she died it would go to Justine.

“What is it, Meggie?” Anne asked.

Meggie sat down. “I think I’ve been struck by a retributory bolt of lightning.”

“What?”

“You were right, both of you. You said I’d lose him. I didn’t believe you, I actually thought I could beat God. But there was never a woman born who could beat God. He’s a Man.”

Fee poured Meggie a cup of tea. “Here, drink this,” she said, as if tea had the restorative powers of brandy. “How have you lost him?”

“He’s going to become a priest.” She began to laugh, weeping at the same time.

Anne picked up her sticks, hobbled to Meggie’s chair and sat awkwardly on its arm, stroking the lovely red-gold hair. “Oh, my dear! But it isn’t as bad as all that.”

“Do you know about Dane?” Fee asked Anne.

“I’ve always known,” said Anne.

Meggie sobered. “It isn’t as bad as all that? It’s the beginning of the end, don’t you see? Retribution. I stole Ralph from God, and I’m paying with my son. You told me it was stealing, Mum, don’t you remember? I didn’t want to believe you, but you were right, as always.”

“Is he going to Saint Pat’s?” Fee asked practically.

Meggie laughed more normally. “That’s no sort of reparation, Mum. I’m going to send him to Ralph, of course. Half of him is Ralph; let Ralph finally enjoy him.” She shrugged. “He’s more important than Ralph, and I knew he’d want to go to Rome.”

“Did you ever tell Ralph about Dane?” asked Anne; it wasn’t a subject ever discussed.

“No, and I never will. Never!”

“They’re so alike he might guess.”

“Who, Ralph? He’ll never guess! That much I’m going to keep. I’m sending him
my
son, but no more than that. I’m not sending him
his
son.”

“Beware of the jealousy of the gods, Meggie,” said Anne softly. “They might not have done with you yet.”

“What more can they do to me?” mourned Meggie.

When Justine heard the news she was furious, though for the last three or four years she had had a sneaking suspicion it was coming. On Meggie it burst like a clap of thunder, but on Justine it descended like an expected shower of icy water.

First of all, because Justine had been at school in Sydney with him, and as his confidante had listened to him talk of the things he didn’t mention to his mother. Justine knew how vitally important his religion was to Dane; not only God, but the mystical significance of Catholic rituals. Had he been born and brought up a Protestant, she thought, he was the type to have eventually turned to Catholicism to satisfy something in his soul. Not for Dane an austere, calvinistic God. His God was limned in stained glass, wreathed in incense, wrapped in lace and gold embroidery, hymned in musical complexity, and worshipped in lovely Latin cadences.

Too, it was a kind of ironic perversity that someone so wonderfully endowed with beauty should deem it a crippling handicap, and deplore its existence. For Dane did. He shrank from any reference to his looks; Justine fancied he would far rather have been born ugly, totally unprepossessing. She understood in part why he felt so, and perhaps because her own career lay in a notoriously narcissistic profession, she rather approved of his attitude toward his appearance. What she couldn’t begin to understand was why he positively loathed his looks, instead of simply ignoring them.

Nor was he highly sexed, for what reason she wasn’t sure: whether he had taught himself to sublimate his passions almost perfectly, or whether in spite of his bodily endowments some necessary cerebral essence was in short supply. Probably the former, since he played some sort of vigorous sport every day of his life to make sure he went to bed exhausted. She knew very well that his inclinations were “normal,” that is, heterosexual, and she knew what type of girl appealed to him—tall, dark and voluptuous. But he just wasn’t sensually aware; he didn’t notice the feel of things when he held them, or the odors in the air around him, or understand the special satisfaction of shape and color. Before he experienced a sexual pull the provocative object’s impact had to be irresistible, and only at such rare moments did he seem to realize there was an earthly plane most men trod, of choice, for as long as they possibly could.

He told her backstage at the Culloden, after a performance. It had been settled with Rome that day; he was dying to tell her and yet he knew she wasn’t going to like it. His religious ambitions were something he had never discussed with her as much as he wanted to, for she became angry. But when he came backstage that night it was too difficult to contain his joy any longer.

“You’re a prawn,” she said in disgust.

“It’s what I want.”

“Idiot.”

“Calling me names won’t change a thing, Jus.”

“Do you think I don’t know that? It affords me a little much-needed emotional release, that’s all.”

“I should think you’d get enough on the stage, playing Electra. You’re really good, Jus.”

“After this news I’ll be better,” she said grimly. “Are you going to Saint Pat’s?”

“No. I’m going to Rome, to Cardinal de Bricassart. Mum arranged it.”

“Dane, no! It’s so far away!”

“Well, why don’t you come, too, at least to England? With your background and ability you ought to be able to get a place somewhere without too much trouble.”

She was sitting at a mirror wiping off Electra’s paint, still in Electra’s robes; ringed with heavy black arabesques, her strange eyes seemed even stranger. She nodded slowly. “Yes, I could, couldn’t I?” she asked thoughtfully. “It’s more than time I did…. Australia’s getting a bit too small…. Right, mate! You’re on! England it is!”

“Super! Just think! I get holidays, you know, one always does in the seminary, as if it was a university. We can plan to take them together, trip around Europe a bit, come home to Drogheda. Oh, Jus, I’ve thought it all out! Having you not far away makes it perfect.”

She beamed. “It does, doesn’t it? Life wouldn’t be the same if I couldn’t talk to you.”

“That’s what I was afraid you were going to say.” He grinned. “But seriously, Jus, you worry me. I’d rather have you where I can see you from time to time. Otherwise who’s going to be the voice of your conscience?”

He slid down between a hoplite’s helmet and an awesome mask of the Pythoness to a position on the floor where he could see her, coiling himself into an economical ball, out of the way of all the feet. There were only two stars’ dressing rooms at the Culloden and Justine didn’t rate either of them yet. She was in the general dressing room, among the ceaseless traffic.

“Bloody old Cardinal de Bricassart!” she spat. “I hated him the moment I laid eyes on him!”

Dane chuckled. “You didn’t, you know.”

“I did! I did!”

“No, you didn’t. Aunt Anne told me one Christmas hol, and I’ll bet you don’t know.”

“What don’t I know?” she asked warily.

“That when you were a baby he fed you a bottle and burped you, rocked you to sleep. Aunt Anne said you were a horrible cranky baby and hated being held, but when he held you, you really liked it.”

“It’s a flaming lie!”

“No, it’s not.” He grinned. “Anyway, why do you hate him so much now?”

“I just do. He’s like a skinny old vulture, and he gives me the dry heaves.”

“I like him. I always did. The perfect priest, that’s what Father Watty calls him. I think he is, too.”

“Well, fuck him,
I
say!”

“Jus
tine
!”

“Shocked you that time, didn’t I? I’ll bet you never even thought I knew that word.”

His eyes danced. “
Do
you know what it means? Tell me, Jussy, go on, I dare you!”

She could never resist him when he teased; her own eyes began to twinkle. “You might be going to be a Father Rhubarb, you prawn, but if you don’t already know what it means, you’d better not investigate.”

He grew serious. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

A very shapely pair of female legs stopped beside Dane, pivoted. He looked up, went red, looked away, and said, “Oh, hello, Martha,” in a casual voice.

“Hello yourself.”

She was an extremely beautiful girl, a little short on acting ability but so decorative she was an asset to any production; she also happened to be exactly Dane’s cup of tea, and Justine had listened to his admiring comments about her more than once. Tall, what the movie magazines always called sexsational, very dark of hair and eye, fair of skin, with magnificent breasts.

Perching herself on the corner of Justine’s table, she swung one leg provocatively under Dane’s nose and watched him with an undisguised appreciation he clearly found disconcerting. Lord, he was really something! How had plain old cart-horse Jus collected herself a brother who looked like this? He might be only eighteen and it might be cradle-snatching, but who cared?

“How about coming over to my place for coffee and whatever?” she asked, looking down at Dane. “The two of you?” she added reluctantly.

Justine shook her head positively, her eyes lighting up at a sudden thought. “No, thanks, I can’t. You’ll have to be content with Dane.”

He shook his head just as positively, but rather regretfully, as if he was truly tempted. “Thanks anyway, Martha, but I can’t.” He glanced at his watch as at a savior. “Lord, I’ve only got a minute left on my meter! How much longer are you going to be, Jus?”

“About ten minutes.”

“I’ll wait for you outside, all right?”

“Chicken!” she mocked.

Martha’s dusky eyes followed him. “He is absolutely gorgeous. Why won’t he look at me?”

Justine grinned sourly, scrubbed her face clean at last. The freckles were coming back. Maybe London would help; no sun. “Oh, don’t worry, he looks. He’d like, too. But will he? Not Dane.”

“Why? What’s the matter with him? Never tell me he’s a poof! Shit, why is it every gorgeous man I meet is a poof? I never thought Dane was, though; he doesn’t strike me that way at all.”

“Watch your language, you dumb wart! He most certainly isn’t a poof. In fact, the day he looks at Sweet William, our screaming juvenile, I’ll cut his throat and Sweet William’s, too.”

“Well, if he isn’t a pansy and he likes, why doesn’t he take? Doesn’t he get my message? Does he think I’m too old for him?”

“Sweetie, at a hundred you won’t be too old for the average man, don’t worry about it. No, Dane’s sworn off sex for life, the fool. He’s going to be a priest.”