Gospel (26 page)

Poor Faith, Lucy thought, feeling sleep coming on.

No doubt Faith was with the sisters now. How they'd caress and adore her as she wavered between taking vows or not. How Sister Miriam would warmly befriend her, comfort her fears, describe the rewards of a life of chastity—that is, until Faith, with much tears and theatricality, had actually taken her vows and become a sister. Then how they'd descend upon her. “Just because you're new do not expect any special privileges!” How they'd be jealous of her youth and her popularity with the students, if she managed it. Yes, they would undermine Faith, discipline and criticize her, reduce and annihilate her until in middle age she would be their sister in bitterness. Oh, considered Lucy, it is surely the lowest ebb of female behavior in human experience: the bitchery of nuns.

And it was women like this that Lucy had once planned to make her life's companions! This was the path Lucy's own mother had hoped she would follow—her own mother who loved her! Who should have wanted only the best for her! To end up like her namesake, Aunt Lucy: as bad as any of them, capable of exuding righteousness and disapproval, capable of endlessly remembered scores to settle and grievances and pettinesses, incapable of radiating even the tiniest emanation of love. Better the slut circuit with her sister Mary, better Christian Hall and all he entailed!

(We understand how you'd see it that way.)

Yes, thought Lucy, as weariness overtook her, Christian sure looked good, but frankly he doesn't have a thing on David McCall.

J
UNE
28
TH

Around noon O'Hanrahan, Rabbi Hersch, and Lucy sat in the near-deserted pub of the Crown. They glanced at the clock, sighed, shuffled nervously, and the professor repeatedly read the same paragraph in a book about ancient African scripts.

“You know,” said the rabbi, “Philip's book is the definitive one on that subject.”

“This text is perfectly adequate.” O'Hanrahan was not happy to see Father Beaufoix's eminence reasserted.

Lucy let out an audible exhale of boredom, hoping someone would talk to her. Most of the village's working men were at the cannery, she had been told, and lunch hour was not until one
P.M.
, when the pub would become alive again.

Rabbi Hersch: “Where is this guy? Could Father Keegan have gotten some of his facts wrong, Paddy?”

“He's just a half-hour late.”

Presently, the door opened and they heard the little bell tinkle. A slender, tall man in a long black overcoat, pallid with thinning brown hair and a somber expression, presented himself. Jack the publican eyed the man oddly but when he saw the stranger join the table with Dr. O'Hanrahan, he went back to polishing his pint glasses with a bar towel.

“Dr. O'Hanrahan?” the man said, looking at the rabbi first.

The professor identified himself.

The stranger eyed Lucy and Rabbi Hersch. “And who…”

O'Hanrahan: “This is Mr. Hersch, my associate from Hebrew University, and Miss Lucy Dantan, my assistant from Chicago University. Please, be seated.” Lucy noticed that the professor did not advertise Mr. Hersch as a rabbi.

The pale man sat down without introducing himself; he began immediately speaking in a clipped, educated British accent:

“Needless to say this transaction must be conducted with the utmost secrecy and care. It was no easy thing to acquire this document and it is to be understood that you have been summoned by the Father General as our greatest hope of deciphering said document. It is and must remain property of the … of the order.”

Lucy looked at the rabbi, whose glance darted to O'Hanrahan.

“Of course,” said O'Hanrahan simply.

“I shall tell you a bit of the history of this scroll. Fortunately the collector who bought it in Rome, in April of this year, a German man, did not comprehend its value. In fact, one of our order posed as an assessor and informed him that the scroll was, indeed, an unimportant curiosity. This German collector put the scroll on the market soon after. Then we sent another of our brethren, Father Quinn, whom you shall meet on Rathlin Island.

“Father Quinn, posing as an antiques collector, displayed a mild interest in this document and in another scroll as well. We concluded by buying two scrolls, leaving the German gentleman with the impression that he had cheated us upon the second one, when all we desired was the first one.”

“Commendable,” said O'Hanrahan, impatiently.

“It is now with us upon Rathlin Island in our retreat.” He paused and assessed how interested his listeners were. With a glance to the left and right to see if anyone else was listening, he continued: “You will hire a boat sometime this afternoon. Four
P.M.
would be most convenient. We shall meet with you, discuss the arrangements, and I hope, Father, you will join us in a service.”

O'Hanrahan nodded serenely.

“Very well. I shall see you then.”

Then the man pulled his coat tight and left.

Everyone shifted as the pub door closed, breathing more freely.

“Father?”
Lucy asked the next second.

Rabbi Hersch: “Father Patrick O'Hanrahan, Society of Jesus, a Company man.”

“Miss Dantan,” O'Hanrahan began humorlessly, “these people are not likely to give this scroll to a lapsed Jesuit, so for the moment I am returned to my former profession. That's why we stopped in Belfast, to pick up my little priest costume. Morey, stop smiling.”

“Heh-heh, it'll be something seeing you in a collar again. Not since Jerusalem in 1950 have I seen such a sight.”

“I'm going to the island by myself, if you don't mind.”

“Nonsense,” said his friend. “It's my university's scroll and I want to make sure you get off the island with it.”

“Do you really think, Morey,” asked O'Hanrahan, “that your rabbinical presence is going to make dealing with these kooks any easier? Look, I met Father Creech in 1956 and he was a looney-tune then. He had a master plan to cripple the Soviet Union in order for the West to attack and reestablish a government there friendly to the Holy Roman Church. And…”

“Go on,” said the rabbi.

“It is thought,” O'Hanrahan said in a low tone, “that this order was instrumental in smuggling thousands of Nazis and war criminals out of Central Europe to Argentina at Pius XII's bidding—that's just a rumor but I wouldn't be surprised. Father Keegan keeps up with these guys more than I do and he says they still have a program for the Conversion of the Jews.”

“Was that program or
pogrom?
”

Lucy said, “I didn't think the Jesuits were anti-Semitic anymore.”

The men looked at her and then at each other.

“They're not exactly your card-carrying Jesuits,” said the professor.

“Well, then, who exactly
is
over there?”

“They're a breakaway group,” O'Hanrahan said slowly, “but beyond that, I couldn't tell you much more. We owe this meeting to Father Keegan, who is their go-between in Dublin, but he doesn't know very much about them either.”

Lucy asked, “Do I get to come?”

“No,” said O'Hanrahan.

“Yes,” said the rabbi. “It'll take the heat off me if there's another in the party.”

This was a shock to Lucy. Since when did her existence win the rabbi's approval?

O'Hanrahan stared out the window at the gusty day, the wind spitting the rain against the panes of glass. “Gonna be a lovely crossing,” he said. “I'll see if I can get some Dramamine at that little corner shop.” Then he stood up, and downed the rest of his Bushmills Black. “Aaaaah. Well, I better put on my penguin suit, and work up some Latin salutations for our hosts.”

O'Hanrahan bowed to the table and went upstairs.

Lucy waited until he was out of earshot. “Thanks for letting me come along, Rabbi, sir,” she said.

“I got my reasons.”

“Do
you
know,” she asked as delicately as possible, “who these people are on Rathlin Island?”

The rabbi looked down at his coffee. “Honestly, little girl, I'm not sure whom we're dealing with. Some breakaway group, as Patrick said.”

“You think they're dangerous?”

“All fanatics are dangerous.”

*   *   *

Around 3:30 Lucy emerged from her room, in her baggy sweater over a flannel shirt, her jeans, and a long overcoat that was David's sister's lent for her stay in Ballymacross. She also borrowed a knapsack from the McCall family closet and put in a more formal change of clothing, a dark skirt and blouse. O'Hanrahan emerged from his room in full priest's attire, and the rabbi soon followed, wearing something warm and nondenominational.

The rain had abated. They walked the half-mile down the main highway to the cliffs and the muddy path leading to some concrete steps and the jetty with the fishing boats moored there.

“I wish you two would stay here,” said O'Hanrahan. “I'm going to be lying my head off from the time I leave, doing my Jesuit shtick, and I don't want you guys laughing.”

“Believe me, Paddy,” said the rabbi, “nothing about this strikes me as funny. I say we get our hands on the scroll and run for it.”

“Run where? Once we're over there, we're stuck until they fetch us a boat.”

“I have no intention of staying over there. Let's get Matthias and leave tonight.”

O'Hanrahan returned crabbily, “I have no control over any of this, Morey.”

Mr. McCall walked up from the jetty shaking his head. Too rough. His friend wouldn't take them over there, not upon a boat this small leastaways. However, there was a Mr. Sweeney in Ballycastle who went out in worse seas than this. Moments later, they hopped in the McCalls' sedan and Mr. McCall drove the trio twelve miles to Ballycastle and the piers. Sweeney the ferryman in late-summer months ran a boat service to Rathlin Island and, though not happy about it, he finally was persuaded for £20 to run them across before the incoming storm.

“You mean the storm isn't even here yet?” asked Lucy.

O'Hanrahan frowned. “Still time to back out.”

“You're staying put, little girl,” whispered the rabbi.

The three pilgrims felt their stomachs tighten looking upon their bobbing tiny craft.

“Aye, ah wouldnae set oot wi' me boot in this're muck,” Mr. Sweeney said in Lucy's ear, above the howling wind. “Skelpin' doon the day.…”

“Excuse me, sir, but I don't speak Gaelic.”

“'s English,” said Mr. Sweeney.

Lucy frowned as she watched the little skiff roll up and down as the waves slapped the pier. Over to the west, at Carrick-A-Rede, the waves splashed against the foot of the cliffs, sending the birds scattering.

Sweeney stepped unsurely into his craft and started up his motor, amid his mutterings, predictions of doom. He tossed Lucy a damp life jacket that smelled of mold, and the rabbi and “Father” O'Hanrahan were thrown one too. Even stepping into the skiff was a challenge, and Lucy clung to the gunnels after the boat was away from the pier. Oh St. Christopher, she thought … nah, he's fiction. St. Clement, tied to the anchor and thrown overboard … not exactly a cheery thought in these circumstances. St. Paul? Everyone nearly drowned on that boat except the saint, and she was no saint, so she'd better go straight to the top, she thought, offering up an Our Father.

(We didn't ask you to get in that tiny boat in a storm.)

Holy Spirit, she concluded, her eyes tightly closed, grant us success on the voyage if it be Thy will …

(Oh, hold on tight.)

It was worse than she expected. She could see the waves rising toward the boat but there seemed to be no rule as to which ones tossed the boat like a seesaw and which troughs the boat fell into. Away from the shore now, the passengers felt the wind unimpeded; the gale harassed Lucy's face with Lucy's own salty, windblown hair. Sweeney told the rabbi something, which was passed on to O'Hanrahan then to Lucy, through cupped hands: Rathlin Island had a concrete pier and there was no way in these waves Sweeney was going to risk smashing his boat against the concrete.

“Bring us into the shallows and we'll jump off and run ashore,” said the rabbi, determined.

The drizzle turned to driving rain. Supported by an icy wind, the rain stung Lucy's face and all her energies were focused on Life After This Boatride. “What?” she hollered above the squall. “We're swimming ashore?”

“Wading,” said the rabbi, “or we don't get over there.”

“By the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea!” sang O'Hanrahan.

Rathlin Island looked fearsome ahead of them, standing windswept and barren against a black afternoon storm-sky that rumbled and churned fiercely as if harboring the wrath of the Old Testament God, a disgruntled Scotsman, the clouds lit from within by pulses of eerie, summer lightning. With each gravel roll of thunder, Sweeney cursed this venture, calculating the proximity of the lightning and the storm's center. Lucy wiped the rain from her face to see a black-robed figure standing on the brown, treeless hill that led down to the rocky shore. Not the same man as this morning. This priest or monk stood perfectly still, observing dispassionately.

“Our welcoming committee,” said the rabbi, huddling himself beside Lucy.

Lucy could see he wore an old-fashioned priest's cassock, as Sweeney brought the boat closer in the shallows, a crescent-shaped cove of agitated gray-blue water.

“Ah darenae bring her no closer'na this-here,” he yelled. And then Mr. Sweeney handed Lucy a plastic grocery-store bag with a few letters in it, wrapped tight in rubber bands. “The post!” he yelled, and with a nod of his head directed her to take Rathlin Island its mail. As Lucy and Mr. Sweeney leaned to the one side of the boat, the rabbi, wincing, lowered himself over the other side into the three feet of water.