“What is all this?” Catherine asked in mock annoyance. “Didn’t I just spend an entire afternoon shelving these books?”
Father peered over his glasses, closing the volume in his hand. “Surely not these specific books! Other tomes, to be sure.” He smiled and gestured her closer. “Catherine, my dear, it is a joy to see you. It is far too quiet around here with so many away. Sit with me. Will you take tea?”
“I came for that very thing, Father.” She leaned in to kiss his cheek and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “I’ve missed you.”
Father rose with some difficulty, pulling himself erect with the aid of his cane. Hobbling with determination to the brazier, he prepared a fresh pot of tea and brought it to the table where Catherine browsed the many open books which covered the surface.
“Are you working on a particular project?”
“Ah, yes. I am indeed. I’ve taken on Vincent’s literature classes while he’s away. They were mine once before, you know.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from under one haphazard stack of books. “Vincent left us at Wordsworth and Coleridge. I had this ... wild thought ...”
Catherine cleared a space on the library table for her tea cup. “A wild thought? I’m dying to know what that might be!” Sinking into the chair, she paged through the notes. “Emerson, Thoreau, Alcott … Ellery Channing. The Transcendentalists! Oh, this is ... truly untamed.”
“And on to Dickinson and Whitman, even to Hawthorne and to Amy Lowell. You tease me,” Father said, “but it is ... a departure ... from the very detailed syllabus Vincent left for me. I still have a few independent thoughts.” Father tapped his temple and nodded. “It is a ... defensible segue ... from the British Romantics ... don’t you think?”
“Oh, yes.” Catherine reached over to pat his hand. “There is a truth ...”
“Beyond knowledge,” Father finished and beamed at her.
Catherine sipped her tea and her head tilted in thought. “I was in Concord once. My father took me there late in the fall, when I was thirteen. We went to Walden Pond, toured The Old Manse and Wayside and Orchard House. I desperately wanted one of those little half-moon desks like Louisa’s father built for her in her room. She wrote Little Women there. That afternoon, we walked up to the cemetery, to Author’s Ridge. It had been a glorious day, breezy and cool, but dark clouds had rolled in. Dad wanted to leave before we got wet, but I was determined to see all the grave stones. I walked up to Hawthorne’s marker and picked up an acorn that lay on his grave. This huge clap of thunder just ... blasted ... out of the sky. I thought he was speaking to me from heaven and I ... shivered ... with delight and fear. And then we were drenched getting back to the car. I kept that acorn on my desk for years, until it disintegrated into dust.”
“Perhaps you might enjoy leading a session of the class.” Father suggested. “This was a time in history when women took on new roles of intellectual and artistic leadership. I believe my students would benefit from your perspective.”
Catherine did not answer right away, but refilled their tea cups. She pulled her chair close to Father’s side and, sitting, reached for his hand. “Thank you,” she said softly. “Thank you for asking, but I’m ... I’m not really a teacher. I’ll think about it ... I need to ... participate. I want to ... but I’m not sure ...” She looked away, her eyes glistening in the candlelight.
Father pulled his hand from hers and touched her cheek, urging her to meet his gaze. “Catherine. You must trust what I say to you. This is truth ... our love for you has no price tag. It simply is. You are a part of us. Yes, I know ... I fought against it, but it was nevertheless true from the first moment. And it will ever be ... whether you teach a class or ... nurse the sick or sit and talk with an old man who enjoys your company.”
“Is it enough, Father, really? I ... you don’t need a lawyer Below, not very often anyway,” she said with a laugh.
“Let us pray we will not.” He paused, weighing his next words. “Truly, Catherine. To spend a Friday evening with the kind, intelligent and generous woman who loves my son? Who brings light from Above into his life ... and into mine? Yes, it is enough. You must ... simply let us love you.”
She covered Father’s hand with her own and then pressed a kiss into his palm, folding his fingers over it.
He swallowed hard and then softly cleared his throat. He rummaged for a book, opening it to a marked page. “I found this poem earlier this evening,” he said, “and I thought of you. You bring ... the colors to us, Catherine. Here. I’ll read to you.
“April had covered the hills
With flickering yellows and reds,
The sparkle and coolness of snow
Was blown from the mountain beds.
Across a deep-sunken stream
The pink of blossoming trees,
And from windless appleblooms
The humming of many bees.
The air was of rose and gold
Arabesqued with the song of birds
Who, swinging unseen under leaves,
Made music more eager than words.
Of a sudden, aslant the road,
A brightness to dazzle and stun,
A glint of the bluest blue,
A flash from a sapphire sun.
Blue-birds so blue,’t was a dream,
An impossible, unconceived hue,
The high sky of summer dropped down
Some rapturous ocean to woo.
Such a colour, such infinite light!
The heart of a fabulous gem,
Many-faceted, brilliant and rare.
Centre Stone of the earth’s diadem!
Centre Stone of the Crown of the World
Sincerity graved on your youth.
Your eyes hold the blue-bird flash,
The sapphire shaft, which is truth.” 2
Together, they sat watching the candles burn low, her hand gentle on Father’s arm. They said little, and when she stirred and rose, when she leaned in to kiss Father’s brow, she was sure he slept.
“Catherine?”
She pulled back, surprised. “I thought you were sleeping.”
“I should be. I’ve kept too many late nights. I can scarcely keep my eyes open during afternoon councils.”
“You could reschedule the meetings.”
“I could, indeed.” Father hesitated. “There’s some ... news from the work sites. I shouldn’t keep it from you ...” At her sharp intake of breath, Father hastened to continue. “Oh, dear! Don’t worry ... I didn’t meant to frighten you. There was a ... scare .. .but it turned out to be nothing. Only teenagers, urban spelunkers, Pascal calls them.”
“Did Vincent ... ”
“No, he only had to ... rumble ... at them from a distance and they scurried away. He sent an all’s-well message.”
“Cullen told me about the change in plans, about the two crews. Vincent will feel ... responsible to both of them. He’ll never sleep ...”
“You saw Cullen?”
“I brought a letter for Vincent down last night.”
“Hmmmph. No one told me you were here.”
“I had ... problems ... at work. I had to get right back Up. It’s a long and frustrating story,” she said, noting his inquisitive expression. “Another time.”
“Must you leave, Catherine? There’s something else ... something I’ve wanted to discuss with you for some time now. May I ... ask?”
She returned to her chair. “Of course.”
“About Vincent ... last winter ... before ...”3
“Before I came Below?” she prompted. “Before our wedding?”
“You should still be on your honeymoon. I deplore this ... interruption ... to your happiness.” Father steepled his fingers, gazing into the distance. “But yes. Then. Before. When Vincent seemed ... so inwardly turned ... as if he prepared for some final test. He was uncommonly silent and I was unable to reach him, though I tried. God knows, I tried. He did his work, led his classes, participated in council ... but there was ... something missing. His spark ... I knew he had not gone Above ... to you ... for weeks. Then he left us for the place he goes, the dark river, he calls it. I felt as if I had missed the essential clue, that I had failed him ... that he suffered some terrible thing ... alone.”
“I felt the same way,” Catherine answered.
“Has he spoken to you of it ... explained himself?”
“Not entirely.” She reached for his hand again. “Father, you mustn’t blame yourself. You could never fail him. It ... wasn’t you. Something happened soon after Winterfest ... I felt him retreat. I hope one day he will tell me all of it.”
“He seems ... recovered,” Father ventured, a question in his voice.
“Part of it is ... resolved,” Catherine answered.
Father started to speak and stopped, then began again. A blush darkened his face as he raised his gaze to meet hers. “Do you ... will you and Vincent ... have you spoken of ...”
“Children?”
“Yes.”
Catherine folded her hands and contemplated them. “Father, you will understand, won’t you, when I tell you that the subject of children is ... entirely ... between Vincent and me. The yes or no of it ... is ours.”
“Please forgive me. Forgive me for prying. I ... worry.”
“I’m not afraid, Father. Whatever we decide ... or whatever happens.”
“I know you’re not ... afraid ...”
“Is there something ... something that we should know ... that you haven’t told Vincent?”
“There is ... nothing. It is the never knowing that ... concerns me.”
“He would never hurt me.”
Father stared into the candle flames. “No, he could not.”
“If I could carry his child ...” Her arms crossed protectively, instinctively, over her belly and her voice caught in her throat. “But it is ... between us.”
Father stood, taking both her hands in his, and pulled her to her feet into his embrace. He pressed his cheek against her hair. “Your strength ... humbles me,” he whispered. “You cut what you know from what you do not know. You cast the remains behind and move only toward love. You’ve given all to love. You obey your heart. You refuse ... nothing.4 My dearest Catherine ... my daughter. I am blessed by you.”
__________________
Vincent settled himself near the door, into the shadows against the wall and into the night’s concert. The tunes were enthusiastic and hopeful; the rhythm kept by a stamping foot. As the musician moved from reel to jig to hornpipe, the tempo remained lively - no laments, not even a yearning waltz this evening. The moon, bright and full, pearled in the sky, and through the weathered cracks in the slatted door, Vincent could see the dark-shrouded figure of the man seated in an alcove and the flash of the flute’s silver keys under quick, sure fingers.
The day had worn on him. Pushing back his hood, turning his head left and right, he rolled his shoulders against the stones to ease the tension from his muscles. He took out the ivory rose and, with the velvet of it cool in his palm, allowed Catherine’s tender ministries to flood into his mind, a sensuous cradle of memory.
He closed his eyes.
It was his own breath that woke him, a deep sigh uttered in exhaustion into the silence. Vincent’s eyes adjusted and he could see the musician still sitting in the shadows, the flute athwart his lap. He closed his fingers over the rose, though not before the moonlight lit the petals in celestial relief.
“Don’t be afraid. I know you’re there.” The musician’s voice was low-pitched and gentled by his rich, sweet brogue.
He froze, stilling his breath, though his pulse hammered, loud in his ear. He could be away in moments, gone down the steps, the trap door shut behind him and through the gates, yet he did not move.
“It’s all right. Are you ... hurt?”
“I am not hurt,” he answered, his voice a whispery surprise even unto himself.
“I can help you. Let me, please.”
“I am well. I need ... no help.”
“Do you want a place to sleep tonight indoors? Are you cold?”
“No,” Vincent replied. “I have a home.”
“There’s some cold chicken left from my supper. You could have it if you’re hungry. Or I could get you a fry up, should you’d fancy something hot.”
“I’ve eaten well ... but thank you.” He gathered his legs beneath him to rise. “I should go.”
“Don’t go. Come out with you. You’re safe here.”
“No, I ... can’t.”
“The door ... I can help you get it open.”
“No.”
“Well, then, we must sit for a while just like this. We can enjoy the night sounds together. A companionable silence, they call it.” The musician settled back in his chair. “Or,” he added with a teasing cadence, “you can tell me if you enjoyed the music.”
Vincent said nothing, but shifted toward his escape.
“Ah, well," the musician sighed. "Tonight, I was practicing dance music for a ceilidh, a little house party in the neighborhood. But you’ve heard the sad songs too, on other nights.”
“You knew that I was here ... other nights?”
“‘Tis my business to know when someone’s on the other side of a wall. I’ve forty years of practice after all. I sensed your spirit here, yes ... on other nights.”
“A priest?”
“You'd see that. Most would.”
“What do you mean?”
“The collar, the expectations ... But I am only a man ... as you. With thoughts that crowd my mind. Worriments. Memories. Dreams.”
“Love,” Vincent added.
“Love,” the man agreed. “Indeed.”
“I was here.” Vincent revealed. “Last night. When you spoke with ... the man ... Flynn. I ... know his story.”
“It was in all the newspapers. And is again today, I saw ... He is a fine and rare specimen of man,” the musician continued. “A warrior who suffers for his greatest strengths.”
“Yet he would do it over again to save only one ... even at his own expense,” Vincent said, even as he counseled himself to silence.
“He would ..."
Vincent counted three deep breaths between them, a slow, shared rhythm.
"His story resonates with you. Are ... were you ... a soldier? A veteran?”
“No.” His reply was firm and final.
“Perhaps,” the man suggested, a comforting levity in his voice, “we could return to the subject of my music. I’ve worn out my usual audiences and can wring no more commentary from them. A performer lives for ... response, you know. You would be doing me a kindness.”
Vincent smiled, unable to resist a response. “Your music is truly beautiful, but often full of melancholy and loss.”
“‘We are the men that God made mad, for all our wars are merry and all our songs are sad.’”
“G. K. Chesterton."
“You know The Ballad of the White Horse? That is a bit ... obscure,” the musician said. “I’m fully impressed. I am.” 5
Vincent made no answer, his curious nature warring with his common sense as he rose and inched closer to the stairway.
“My name is Martin. Will you give me yours?”
As he stared down into his retreat, he answered. “Vincent.”
“Ah. Good. Vincent.” Martin said. “You’ve found out our secret, one I’ve only heard of in stories. Tell me. What’s it like in there?”
“Inside this passageway?” he asked, returning to the door. He searched for a sense of surprise at the query, able only to discern a subtle feeling of expectation.
“The old priest before me, an odd little man he was, told me he once traveled miles beneath this city, that he’d seen great waterfalls and swinging bridges and caverns studded with diamonds. He showed me the entrance to that world, a forgotten door in a dark closet off the sacristy. Then he pulled me through the the courtyard, whispering in my ear of the glories of the underworld, here to this second door. I thought him quite mad, of course.”
“Did you not try the way yourself?”
“The doors won’t budge. He must have barred them from the inside, though how he ... managed that ... is a secret he’s taken on to his grand reward. Oh, I’ve given them a hard rattle every now and then, but I’ve had no cause to break through. At most, I figured, I’d find a hallway full of the damp and the dark and spiders and maybe snakes, and I’d get only from that closet to this door in the end. I suppose there have been times when one might have wanted out and about by other than the front door. But you now ... you’ve found the ... other way in. Will you tell me about it?”
“It is best left ... secret.”
“And how did I know you’d be sayin’ that?”
“May I ask you a question, Martin?”
“‘Tisn’t yet a fair exchange, Vincent, but go on with you. Ask away.”
“Who is Lily?”
“Ah.” Martin said. “You’ve heard her name a few times, have you?”
“I have.”
Martin sighed and lapsed into silence but did not rise to leave, and in this intimate stillness, Vincent stepped back and leaned against the wall.
“How shall I start?” Martin asked. “She was ... is ... cuisle mo chroí. The pulse of my heart.”
“You loved her deeply,” Vincent prompted.
“I loved her. The word seems ... inadequate ... Have you known love, Vincent?”
“I have.”
“Was she the kindest, the most beautiful, most precious woman on earth?”
“She ... is.”
“Ah. She is.” Martin said. He tapped his foot, a rhythmic accompaniment to a private melody. “Her name was Lillian Burke. She loved me once and I was a fool.”
click HERE for Chapter 14
__________________
I'll read to you... Azure and Gold by Amy Lowell.
(1) Amy Lowell. Dreams
(2) Amy Lowell. Azure and Gold.
(3) Carole W. I Carry Your Heart. Chapters 1, 2, 5 & 11 for specific background.
(4) Ralph Waldo Emerson. Give All to Love.
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