Dawn of the Golden Promise (50 page)

No…it could not be…she was too thin, had too much silver in her hair…the boy was too tall, too mature, a man grown.

He stared at them both, and recognition hit him like a hammer blow.

Nora squeezed her eyes shut for an instant, grasping Daniel John's hand before stepping out to approach Morgan. She must not, would not, allow him to see the pain that had seized her when she caught her first glimpse of his once vigorous body now confined to the wheelchair.

Other than the legs that would no longer support him, he seemed to have changed scarcely at all. The great, noble head, the flaming copper hair and darker beard, the soul-piercing green eyes, the aura of strength and power—all the attributes about the man that gave him the bearing of an ancient chieftain, a Celtic prince, seemed to have endured, unchanged.

Yet he sat immobile, a stricken giant, a fallen hero.
But he is still Morgan
, she reminded herself, and he must never see the pity that wrenched her heart as she drew near to him.

“Nora,” he said softly. “Ah, Nora,
ma girsha. '
Tis really you. I am so glad, so very glad to see you at last.”

He held out his hands to her. Nora tried to speak his name, but managed only a strangled sob. She hesitated only for an instant before leaning to press her cheek to his, accepting his embrace for what it was—a kind of homecoming, the welcome of a long-time friend and brother.

Daniel had all he could do not to crumble at the sight of Morgan in the wheelchair. It had been three years since he had last seen the hero of his boyhood, the one man he had respected and loved as much as his own departed father.

For years Morgan Fitzgerald had been a giant in his eyes. He was a powerfully set man, and most of the other youths in Killala had admired him, but Daniel's admiration and respect went far beyond an appreciation of Morgan's forbidding stature and breadth of shoulder. Daniel had esteemed Morgan for his intelligence, his wit, his daring, the reckless courage that had helped to keep at least a part of the village from total starvation.

An mhac tire rua
, they called him. The Red Wolf of Mayo. Later, he had been given a title of even more respect and affection: the
Seanchai.
The Storyteller, a beloved figure, revered throughout all Ireland.

But more than all else, Morgan Fitzgerald had been a friend, the uncle Daniel had never had, a mentor and example, an ideal and an inspiration. Leaving him behind when they departed Ireland had been one of the most painful things he had ever had to do. At the time he thought he might just as well tear out a part of his heart and throw it into the sea.

But now Morgan was here, here in America, in New York. They were together again, at least for a time. They would play their harps together and Morgan would tell the old legends, and just like before, the two of them would spend time together, laugh together, walk together—

He caught himself and swallowed hard.
They could not walk together…

As he watched the reunion of Morgan and his mother, Daniel forced the thought of the wheelchair out of his mind, along with the lost years and old sorrows of the past, and stood waiting, silently thanking God for this gift of a day. And when his mother finally moved aside to make room for him, he smiled into Morgan's eyes and stepped gratefully into the welcoming embrace of his former hero, his forever friend.

After Daniel John, the others converged on him, as if all at once.

Johanna was no longer a little girl. Morgan studied her, marveling at the graceful transition she had made from child to the threshold of young womanhood. The sharp little face with the pinched features he recalled from three years past had taken on a softness, a sweetness that could only be described as lovely. The dark red hair was brighter now, as copper-glazed as his own, its deep waves shot with gold and caught in a green silk ribbon at her neck.

She watched him as she signed his name on her hands, the way he had taught her so many years ago. And then she spoke it aloud, and Morgan thought he would surely weep at the sound of his name on those once silent lips.

“Un-cle Morgan.”
She said it twice, then smiled at him, obviously enjoying his delight in her accomplishment.

Even though Michael had written to him about Johanna's voice, the sound of it at this moment—the low pitch, the words articulated with such obvious effort—shook Morgan soundly.

Overcome, he could barely find his own voice. “By God's mercy, lass, your words are a song to my heart!” he told her, drawing her into his arms.

Whittaker stepped up next, passing the babe to Nora. Morgan had known about the man's losing his arm on board the
Green Flag
, but he had not seen the beard yet, so it took a second or two for recognition to dawn.

When it did, a slow grin broke over his face. Whittaker smiled back, and Morgan not only remembered how much he had liked the diffident Englishman, but realized how much he had been looking forward to seeing him again.

Whittaker extended his hand—which the English were not wont to do, Morgan knew. On impulse, he leaned forward and, instead of taking Whittaker's hand, pulled him into a quick, hard embrace.

He set him back then, just enough to study him. “Well, now, Whittaker, and aren't you the fine-looking gentleman these days? Being a family man would seem to agree with you, and that's the truth.”

Nora produced their wee boy just then, and Morgan pronounced him a fine, sturdy lad, the image of his mother—adding a wry aside that in matters of heredity, Irish blood would win out over the British every time.

Morgan heard a quiet clearing of the throat at his right, and he turned to look. The dark-haired man with the badge had remained silent and removed from the welcoming party up until then. In all the commotion and excitement, Morgan had almost forgotten his presence entirely.

But now the fellow came to stand directly in front of him. Morgan studied the roguish handsomeness, the somewhat cynical long line of lip. Finally he met the dark eyes and held them for the first time. A powerful wave of remembrance engulfed him, and at that moment he saw past the random threads of silver in the hair, the added muscle about the chest and shoulders, the dark moustache. For a brief, overwhelming instant he was back in Killala, sitting on the rickety dock, looking out across the bay, with his best friend at his side: Michael Burke, a sturdy lad who even then had had the same quick, appraising eye, the restless energy so apparent in the man now standing in front of him.

“It cannot be,” Morgan murmured.

“Ah, but it is, you red-headed roamer.” The dark eyes danced, the wide mouth quirked, and the granite jaw gave way to a broad smile.

Twenty years of memory came flooding in on Morgan. Overpowered by an entire tide of feelings, he squeezed his eyes shut, just for an instant.

When he opened them, he saw that Michael's eyes were red-rimmed and glistening.

“Mo chara,”
Morgan said, “Michael, my friend. 'Tis really you, then.”

“And didn't it take you long enough to recognize me, you rogue?” Though Michael's mouth still quirked with amusement, his voice sounded suspiciously unsteady.

He leaned toward him, roughly gripping Morgan's shoulders, pulling his head against his chest. They did not weep, of course. They were both strong men, after all; it would not do to make a display of their emotions in front of each other's families.

“Twenty years, man,” Michael muttered in Morgan's ear. “You were but a long-legged
gorsoon
in those days.”

“And you a hard-headed Mayo man set on making his mark in America.” Morgan hesitated. “Twenty years. Can it be, Michael? Are we really middle-aged men by now?”

“Not at all,” Michael shot back, still clinging to Morgan. “Do we not have beautiful young wives for ourselves? That being the case, man, we cannot possibly be middle-aged.”

The mention of their wives brought both of them up short. It was long past time to present their families, which they both did with a great deal of pride.

In the midst of all the fuss and excitement, it occurred to Morgan that only the Irish could make a tribal ritual out of a reunion. But, then, only a people so often displaced, so frequently exiled, could know the rare wonder, the incomparable joy, of coming together with loved ones once counted as lost.

36

I have a garden of my own,
shining with flowers of every hue;
I loved it dearly while alone,
But I shall love it more with you.

THOMAS MOORE (1779–1852)

A
nnie Fitzgerald awoke to a golden autumn morning, with sunshine flooding the bedroom. She blinked, waiting for her eyes to focus, then glanced about the room. For a moment she could not think where she was.

With a start she sat bolt upright in bed. Fergus! Where was the wolfhound? The great beast always slept nearby, at the foot of her bed. He would be eager to go outside….

Then she remembered.
She was in America!

The draperies were open. She had deliberately left them so the night before, intending to look out upon New York. Instead, exhausted from all the excitement of the day, she had dropped off the minute her head met the pillow.

But this was a new day. A day to spend in New York City, having the first real adventure of her life! Well, perhaps the second. Running off from Belfast to seek the
Seanchai
in Dublin City had been her
first
true adventure.