The Whitest Flower
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Without warning, out of the belly of the abyss, a giant horse came charging. A beast so black it shone in the darkness of the pit. Forelegs rippling, it towered over them, pawing the night above their heads. From its nostrils – two great cauldrons – the vapour came beating down on them. From over its fipple there oozed a white froth, threatening to envelop them.
Ellen’s eyes followed the run of the reins, trying to identify the rider of this mount from hell. It must be the devil himself, she thought, as she looked up at the hollow red rims of his eyes. He was laughing at her, the laughter burning into her heart. It was Pakenham! But he was not alone. In the air above him floated Sheela-na-Sheeoga, pointing at her, singling her out. ‘Ellen … Ellen Rua, deliver the child to me,’ she wailed.
Ellen clutched the baby to her. ‘Michael!’ she screamed. ‘Michael! Michael! Where are you?’
‘Ellen Rua! Ellen Rua!’ Sheela-na-Sheeoga mock-echoed Ellen’s cry for Michael. ‘Hand me back the child I gave you.’
Ellen felt the claws of the multitude grab her, lacerating her skin, drawing blood. She watched, paralysed with fear, as the old woman’s arm distended and reached out for her baby. Ellen tried in vain to wrench herself free of the soulless ones, but they pinned her on every side while the arm of the wraith prised the baby from her terrified embrace. ‘No! No!’ she cried, watching helplessly as her baby was taken back through the veil of steam, back to the evil womb of Sheela-na-Sheeoga.
Ellen bolted upright, panic-stricken, her heart pounding in her brain. She was drenched in perspiration. Frantically she reached out in the dark for Michael, exhaling with relief when her hand found his arm. Michael was there, he was all right – sleeping contentedly. She withdrew her shaking hand for fear of waking him.
And Katie – Mary – Patrick? All safe. All asleep. All here.
She blessed herself thrice and felt for the baby with both hands – gingerly, tenderly, afraid. She felt the inner pulse stroking and caressing this unknown life within her. Finally, she covered her wildly beating heart with both hands, willing them to calm it.
And then she cried. She cried for Michael. She cried for her children. The tears flooded down her face, over the brave, quivering lips, rolling down on to her breasts and over the womb which held her unborn baby. Down along her thighs, it flowed, into the straw of her simple bed, cleansing her body, washing away her fear, releasing her from it.
‘Mother of Sorrows, have mercy on me.’ Ellen breathed the Litany of Our Lady through her tears. And still the tears came as she sat alone, her knees drawn up, her arms binding them to her, gently rocking herself while all around her slept.
When her tears had subsided, Ellen sat drained, looking into the dying embers of the fire. She dared not risk sleep lest the nightmare, still vivid in her mind, should return. So she stoked the fire and threw on a few more sods of the black mountain turf. Gradually the heat dried her damp body and restored her. And the smell of the burning turf – the safe world she knew relaxed her.
She recognized the elements of her dream as grotesque enlargements of her own thoughts and fears. What bothered her most was Michael’s absence. Everybody else was there with her: Patrick, Katie, Mary, even the new baby. But where was Michael?
The dream had taken its toll on Ellen. Despite her best efforts to remain awake, exhaustion combined with the warmth of the fire to send her into a fitful slumber.
Once again, nightmarish images began to fill her mind. But before the dream could take hold, Ellen was startled into wakefulness by a high-pitched wailing.
But the wailing did not stop with the dream. This time the keening was real – she was sure of it. She listened, alert, by the fire. There it was again: a single, solitary voice. For a moment she thought it was the high-pitched cry of the fox, but this was longer, more drawn out. The sound had come from down towards the lake. She moved stealthily to the window and removed the burnt-out shell of the plica.
The night of All Souls was bright, with a waxing moon riding high across the clouds, seeking openings through which to aim its beams down onto the waters of the Mask. There, they would splash out across the lake’s surface – ripples of pale yellow, reflecting back up to the moon its own watery light.
As she listened, Ellen could hear the sounds of the valley, the ever-yelping dogs of Derrypark, the lap of the lake-water. And between these sounds she heard the stillnesses of the night, those silken moments she loved, woven with silence, snatched out of wonder.
For a moment, the moon lost its hide-and-seek game with the clouds, and the lake, deprived of its light, was lost to Ellen’s view. But when the Samhain moon reappeared, the sight which met Ellen’s eyes chilled her to the very core of her being.
There, hovering over the lake, two or three feet above it, was the outline of a woman, all in white, moving slowly towards her. The woman was not walking, nor was she in flight, nor borne up by anything visible. Instead she glided slowly over the water through the veil of the moonlight, her long white hair tinged by the moon’s yellow hue.
Ellen’s hand shot to her mouth to stifle the cry. Oh, God – would it never end, this eve of All Souls?
She looked back into the cabin, identifying the sleeping forms of her family. She was, indeed, awake. And if she was awake, then this was a portent more terrible than any dream could bring. She had no doubt as to the identity of her apparition. Hadn’t she heard her own father tell how the Banshee – the supernatural death messenger – had appeared to him on the three nights before her mother died.
Ellen was seized by an icy coldness. Whose house was the Banshee visiting this night of souls? She watched the airy figure glide in from the centre of the lake towards the shoreline, her white dress unruffled by the movement, until she reached the place where Ellen had studied her own reflection in the water the day she discovered she was pregnant. Invisible claws tightened on Ellen, cutting off her breathing, constricting the movement of her heart. Then the Banshee floated over the land, the trail of her hemline caressing the stalks above the potato patches. Ellen closed the door, knowing that it went against all the tradition of the night. She would welcome the souls of the dead, but not she who came to call the living. Not the Banshee.
And still the death messenger moved inexorably towards the village. Who did she come for? Ellen racked her brain for households where there was someone old or infirm – these were the houses the Banshee usually visited. Perhaps it was Ann Paddy Andy – she’d been failing with that croupy cough since St Swithin’s Day. Or Mary an Táilliúra, the Tailor’s wife. Or Peadar Bacach, Old Lame Peter, with that stump of a leg. The long, damp winters were hard on him. It could be any of them. The death messenger, she knew, followed the old Irish families, those whose names began with ‘Mac’ or ‘O’, as if she belonged to them.
Then the knowledge hit her as if the whole weight of the world had crashed down on her. She slumped against the window, as if to block the power of the Banshee’s death-call from entering the cabin and finding her little family. The old ones said you should never look the death messenger in the face, or she would take you, sucking the soul out of your body through your eyes. But Ellen didn’t care. Rather herself than one of the children. Rather herself than Michael.
The Banshee stopped about thirty feet from the cabin. Now Ellen could see her face, beautiful and sad. She saw the tears that welled up and ran down her cheeks – lamenting the one she was about to call.
Then the wraith opened her mouth and emitted a low-pitched, throaty sound that ran through the ground and up into the walls and door of the O’Malleys’ cabin. Ellen stood shaking uncontrollably, as the sound raised in pitch and intensity.
It was the death keen, like the noise the old women made at wakes: high, and sorrowful, and lonesome. Yet it surpassed any sound that could ever be made by a human being. The keening of the Banshee found its way into the marrow of Ellen’s bones as if her whole body was soaking up the sound, it living in her.
Then, slowly and deliberately, the woman in white drew from her raiment a transparent silver brush. The brush glided effortlessly through her hair, the long strands offering no resistance. As if they required no brushing at all. Again and again, the woman stroked the long tresses, as lovingly as Cáit had stroked Ellen’s own fine tresses, and Ellen in turn had stroked Katie’s and Mary’s.
Ellen stifled another cry – she must not think of any of her children, nor Michael. She must not be part of whatever death the Banshee would foretell. Ellen tried to will herself into the mind of the apparition, forcing the harbinger of death to choose her instead of them. This she did, but with the sure, sickening knowledge that she was not the one called.
The first pale glow of dawn began to creep in over the mountains, suffusing the wraith with light. As the brightness intensified, the Banshee began to fade away, disappearing again into whatever half-world from whence she came. The keening, too, grew weaker, melting away into the sound of the rising north-easterlies.
Ellen’s whole being collapsed. No longer able to support herself, she turned, looking for her small family, afraid for them. As she sank into an unconscious heap below the window, the last act of her conscious mind was to register the two dark heads of Michael and Patrick where they lay sleeping. And the two red heads of Katie and Mary, side by side, arms and legs entangled – trying to be one again.
7
When Michael awoke a few hours later, his first act, as always, was to reach for Ellen. He was unconcerned at finding an empty space beside him, for Ellen was often the first one to be up and about. But when he heard Mary call, ‘A Mhamaí, a Mhamaí, what’s wrong?’ he leapt up from where he lay immediately.
Ellen was in a crumpled heap beneath the window, her shawl partly covering her. She was deathly pale. He shook her by the shoulders as the children gathered round, sensing that something was amiss.
‘Ellen, a stór, wake up,’ he said, fear in his heart for her and the child she was carrying.
Ellen opened her eyes dazedly, struggling to focus on Michael’s face.
‘What is it, what ails you?’ he asked. ‘Why are you here with the shawl over you?’
Ellen made a great effort to see the faces crowding around her – trying to pick them out one by one. When she saw they were all there, she smiled faintly at them.
‘See, she’s all right!’ said Katie.
Now Ellen could see Michael’s face. It was strained with worry and the confusion of not knowing what was wrong with his wife. Weakly she reached out one hand to him. ‘I’ll be all right in a minute. A drink of water from the rock, and I’ll be fine,’ she said wanly.
Patrick was first up to fetch his mother a cup of spring water. As she sipped it, Ellen felt the cold strength of the water bring her round and fortify her. She put her hand to her stomach, afraid the fall might have done damage, but to her relief everything seemed to be all right.
‘The baby is grand – thank God – and so am I,’ she said, more strongly now. ‘Now, don’t be worrying all of you, and making an old woman of me before my time.’
‘Did you see something last night, a Mhamaí?’ It was Mary, perceptive as ever. ‘Did the wandering soul come into the house?’
‘No, of course not, Mary. I just got up a while and I must have dozed off,’ Ellen replied, smiling at her child.
Mary was far from satisfied with this response. She looked over at the table settings. Nothing had been moved since last night. Nothing had moved, yet something had come into the house, or tried to come in. It must have been a bad thing. Mary knew her mother didn’t frighten easily.
As the day went on, Ellen tried to gather herself back together. Gradually, her physical strength returned. Michael and the children were very attentive, but every time one of them approached or touched her she couldn’t help but think: Is this the one marked out by last night’s visitor? She studied them anxiously, looking for any sign – a weakness, a dizziness, the start of a fever. But nothing could she discover, no tell-tale sign, no flaw or failing that might prove fatal.
At last, unable to bear it any longer, she went to the lake, declining the children’s company when they offered to walk with her.
The late afternoon was crisp and bright, and the Mask calm and peaceful in the sunlight. Ellen wondered whether the Banshee’s visit had been nothing more than a dream. Perhaps she had dozed off by the fire and had dreamed the whole thing, and while in her sleep had been drawn to the window. But surely a dream that terrible would have awoken her, as the earlier nightmare had done?
And what was the connection between the nightmare and the apparition of the keening death messenger? Ellen set about unravelling the dream: Pakenham, she had recognized, and Sheela-na-Sheeoga. The road could be any road, but it must be leading to the sea because of the tall ship at the end of it. But why was getting to the ship so important? She and the children had been fleeing from something, but their escape had been blocked … all those ghouls trying to stop them – why weren’t they, too, trying to get away to the ship? And where was Michael?
She had been carrying the baby – a baby too small to walk. Her baby was not due until May, so the dream must be set after May, but sometime within the year …
Ellen looked around at the mountain-valley world she lived in. Nothing in this wild and beautiful place was remotely connected to the world she had inhabited in her dream. Yet it was over these waters that the death messenger had floated …
She shuddered, recalling her terrifying ordeal. She needed Michael’s comforting arms, but how could she tell him what troubled her?
Slowly it dawned on her where her thoughts were leading: the visit of the Banshee; Michael’s absence … It was Michael the night visitor was crying for, Michael’s death she was keening. Michael – her love, her dark-haired boy – was to be taken, and taken before this baby could walk. Oh, God, no – not Michael!
Ellen buried her face in her hands, her grief and tears spilling out into the silent Mask.
Michael could be taken at any time – today, tonight, tomorrow, next week, Christmas … It took all the willpower she had to resist the urge to run back to the cabin and throw herself upon Michael and weep into his strong shoulder.
‘Heaven guide me,’ she prayed. ‘I, who should be not seeking consolation but giving it. I should be his shield from whatever dark forces lie in wait. And he such a good man, not deserving of being taken so early, so soon deprived of the love of his children.’
Ellen threw back her head, facing the heavens, storming them with her prayers and grief: ‘Oh, God, who sent your only Beloved Son to die on the Cross for us, I implore You, take this cross from us now.’ Even as she said the words, she knew in her heart it was wrong to challenge the will of God. Still she could not stop herself.
‘Lord, it’s little I have in this place, but what little I have is enough if I have him. I ask not that You spare us the time to grow old together, but that even You grant us a few summers more – to walk the valley, to see the dawn rise, to taste the morning dew …
‘Oh, Blessed Mother, intercede with your Son, I beg you. Protect Michael, just till the children grow. Let him wait a while here with us, and he not yet the age your beloved Son was!’
Yet deep within her she knew there was no hope. God gives life. God takes it away again. She heard again her father’s words as he tried to reconcile himself to Cáit’s early death: ‘Whom the Gods love, die young. They take them back to another place where they are more needed than here.’
But no one could possibly need Michael more than she did.
‘Death is ever a moment too soon for those who love.’ The Máistir’s voice continued to speak to her until at last she was calmed. She asked the Lord to forgive her her sin and give her the strength to do what she must do.
But how was she going to look at Michael? How could she be with him in the night, joined as one with him, concealing her awful secret, knowing that each time they loved could be their last? Somehow she must. She must make these days, however few, the fullest days of their lives. There would be times, she knew, when it would break her very heart; times when she would watch him fall asleep, then lie there warding over him in the dark, fearing lest he be stolen from her in the night. There would be times, too, when he would go with the men to the mountain, leaving her to wait and worry until his safe return.
And she must bear this burden alone. She could not tell the children – their little hearts set on doing things with him at Christmas – that they might never again see their father. She would have to be strong, to bear silently the dashed dreams and bitter tears that soon would be theirs.
She turned from the lake and walked back up to the cabin, and Michael – her darling, lost Michael – keeping all these things in her heart.
As the days shortened into Advent and Christmas, Ellen learned to put the events of All Souls behind her.
Their store of potatoes held fast, as did those of their neighbours. The valley seemed removed from the general fears that stalked the land. Ellen remembered the previous crop failures within her own lifetime. It seemed as if some failing of the harvest was inevitable – a fixed part of living here in the West.
She felt the child within her grow. Untroubled by sickness, or even tiredness, soon she began to feel the kick inside.
The Lessons continued, but now more and more Ellen taught the children in English. If they were going to leave here, then they would be badly served knowing only Irish and a smattering of English. She would see to it that her children were prepared for as many eventualities as she could foresee.
She had managed, somehow, to keep her dark secret from Michael, though it had been difficult. The first nights after All Souls, she could not bear to make love with him; could not bear to have those searching dark eyes so close to hers. So she had him turn to her, burying his head in her breasts. That way he could not see the tears well up in her eyes. Then she would pray over him as he slept – his guardian angel – until sleep claimed her as well.
After those first nights, however, despite the edicts of the Church regarding continence during pregnancy, they made deep and satisfying love that seared her soul and released the great burden of sorrow she was carrying within her.
To wake of a morning and see him there beside her, still alive, was a gift from God. Thankful for this blessing, she embraced life with a spirit and energy that brought joy to all their lives. The month leading up to Christmas, though outwardly not much different from that of previous Advents, had this year developed a spiritual intensity she had never before experienced. Day after day, Ellen lived out every moment for Michael and her small family. Mother; wife; teacher; lover; spiritual well; guardian angel.
She loved the long dark wintry nights. Michael was around the house more, the children were out less. To her the short winter days were days of rest and prayer, days of gathering spirit-strength for the miracle of Christmas; days of gathering body-strength for the work of the year ahead.
Often in the dark she would slip away to her place by the lake shore, setting her face to the frothy wind rising off the face of the Mask. She loved how its waters could be. Whipped hither and thither by the wind which came whirling and swirling in from Tourmakeady and Glenbeg before sweeping on down to the unsuspecting Lough Nafooey – the Lake of Hate.
The Mask, too, could be a lake of hate. As it was tonight, seething and spitting at her, trying to beat her away from its shore. The spray stung her face, the winter wind flailing her long mane. Ellen, swept up in the moment, let it take her. She stood, first swaying with the wind then turning and turning like a frenzied dervish spinning between two worlds, the earth elements holding her, the air elements trying to suck her into a whirlwind which would carry her over the land beyond the mountain. If her body did not soar, then her spirit did, deliriously free of mortal toils and worries.
Now she was earth mother, sky dancer, fertile ever-lover – Danu, Mother Goddess of the Celts.
Her hair, sodden with lake-spray, streaked down her face. Slowly she drew both hands through the tangled curls, first combing it with her fingers, then pressing it to her, matting the soaked hair to her neck, shoulders and breasts, feeling its chill sensuality reach for her.
Calmer now, but still breathless, she felt regenerated, at one with the source of wind and rain, mountain and lake, sky and earth. World and otherworld.
Her hands continued their downward journey – seeking assurance that her body was still there, still with her – passing over the swell of her belly to her thighs. Yes, her baby was there, safe within her. And, in this moment, she, Ellen Rua O’Malley was the source of all things. Even life itself.
The wind lifted. The Mask quelled its fury and stillness came on her. Then the shock of her abandonment to the elements struck Ellen Rua. Now filled with remorse at giving way to her sin, she fell to her knees, her hand diving to her pocket, frantically searching out her rosary beads – and forgiveness.
From where he watched behind the hawthorn bush, Roberteen Bawn was terrified at the transformation he saw in his neighbour, Ellen Rua.
Hurriedly he crossed himself and muttered a frantic prayer: ‘God between us and all harm, Holy Mother of God between us and all harm.’
Then he tore away into the safety of the deep winter’s night.
8
The two acres of land farmed by the O’Malleys were held on a year-to-year basis. They were ‘tenants at will’ of Pakenham, with no security of tenure. There purely at the will – or whim – of the landlord.
It was Pakenham’s practice, before Christmas each year, to issue a notice-to-quit to each of his tenants. The tenant would then be called to account for his stewardship before the landlord or his agent. Provided there were no arrears, the tenant would be granted another year’s tenure – at an increased rent. For those unfortunate enough to have fallen into arrears for one reason or another, there was only one outcome: eviction. Most tenants had no choice but to accept the conditions imposed on them by the landlord.
Michael was called to attend Tourmakeady Lodge for a review of his tenantship on 8 December, the feast day of the Immaculate Conception.
A month had passed since the death messenger had manifested herself near their cabin, and yet no one had been taken. This was most unusual. Tradition had it that the Banshee called a night or two before the death would occur. Her visit was a signal for friends and relatives to gather and make their peace with the person whose death was foretold, and then pray over the departing soul. Ellen had never heard tell of an occasion where the death messenger had come and no one had died. The further the days stretched away, the more Ellen’s relief grew. Nevertheless, she was always watchful, always on guard.
This trip to Tourmakeady Lodge was Michael’s first journey of any length since Samhain. Despite her condition, she resolved to leave the children with Biddy and accompany him, just in case his time would come while he was away from her.
Ellen and Michael walked up the long approach to Tourmakeady Lodge. The verges of the driveway were lined with rhododendron bushes, which must have been a sight in full bloom.
This was Ellen’s first visit and she found it hard to understand how so many areas of good land could have been turned over to useless growth like flowers and shrubs, when it could have been used to grow food for the hungry. How could there be such plenty for one man in the midst of want and scarcity for so many? And why couldn’t she and Michael own their pitifully small two-acre patch? God knows, Pakenham didn’t need it, and with all the rent down the years they had paid its value many times over. It was wrong, so wrong.