The Pig Goes to Hog Heaven (15 page)

Kitty believed it would be better if she went no nearer. She would respect Declan's solitude, allow him the grief upon which no one should trespass. Not daring to give voice to her sympathies or to her own newfound sorrows, she slowly turned away and went not back to the castle but off toward the rising slope of Crohan Mountain. She would wander quietly, slowly, among the ruminating cows. The walk would do her good. If good in this instance was possible. Including the threat that she was to become a Hag.

8

T
he obstreperous cross-eyed pig that Lolly and Aaron had given back to Kitty and Kieran—the one originally intended for the great feast—had, for whatever reason, calmed down during the days since its return to Castle Kissane. It had become docile and cooperative, which meant it ate and ate and ate and was now sufficiently fattened for advancement into the final phase of its prescribed destiny. It would now be surrendered to the butcher in Tralee. Both Kitty and Kieran had been given hints as to the source of the pig's serenity: the ghostly presence of the eaten pig.

As far as Kieran and Kitty could figure out, the living pig sensed rather than saw the phantom pig and the phantom had instilled a composure that bordered on joy. In an attempt to bring common sense—a contradictory phrase if ever there was one—to what they were witnessing, they decided that it was nothing less than true love, a love strong enough to defy death and find solace and even happiness in the sensed presence of the departed beloved. Had not the original pig, now the ghost of its former self, been given to Lolly because she was a committed swineherd? And was it not given back because it had lesbiotic leanings, the exercise of which had maddened the male swine, even though it had seemed not to have bothered the sows chosen as the objects of its heartfelt affections? It was more than possible that during the time of their shared residency, that of the original pig and the one originally chosen for the feast (the one now at Castle Kissane), that a relationship made in hog heaven had flourished, and when fate (also known as Kitty McCloud) had intervened, the surviving pig had been returned to its herd, where any sexually aroused shoat could intrude upon its bereavement with importunings that had cried out to that same heaven for rescue.

To some degree, answered prayers had sent the anguished animal back to the castle, there to be given the unseen company of its beloved. The upshot, of course, was that the pig had grown obese with contentment, and the end of this particular tale was now to be a lovers' parting.

Lolly swung the truck into the courtyard. The porked-up pig was slothfully sunning itself near the sheds where Declan was busy going about his thatching. She brought the truck to a sudden halt, got down from the cab, and regarded the fattened animal with satisfaction, ignorant that the courtyard was somewhat heavily populated. Brid and Taddy were solemnly watching Declan laying thatch on the second-farthest shed. The phantom pig was there as well, keeping faithful watch over its slumbering inamorata. Thinking she had Declan all to herself, Lolly strode toward him with a most unhesitant stride.

“Declan,” she called out, her tone exuberant, without the least trace of the uncertainties that had characterized her behavior when she had seen him here in this very courtyard, before she had taken refuge in the scullery rather than confront him directly. Her step was purposeful, her attitude confident. It was as though a spell had been lifted, some evil enchantment exorcised. This was Lolly of old, the self-approving woman who had found amusement in adversity and an easy pleasure in companionship, be it human or porcine.

“Surely the work you're doing restores Kerry to itself. How handsome it's all going to look.”

Declan nodded, his concentration not willing to accommodate interruption at this particular moment. Expertly he lay the reed in its course, careful not to show favoritism to one part of the roof over another, even more careful that the thatch be looser on the surface to ensure the rain's swift descent down the pitch of the roof. What could Lolly do but laugh at such determined indifference?

“No need to stop for me. I've not come to make a further spectacle of myself. You've been spared few things in your life, but let my foolishness be one of them. It was Lolly McCloud you were seeing those other times. And please, let's forget that unfortunate encounter in Caherciveen with that ridiculous woman.” (Lolly had apparently decided to overlook her own strange behavior and Declan's as well, as if poor Lucille had been the sole cause of the event's bizarre exchanges. Anything that would make possible the return of the Lolly Declan had always known.)

“Now I'm Lolly McKeever again. Oh no, I haven't shed my husband whom I dearly love, but I've recovered my calling … and my sanity. I'd only pretended to be a McCloud, as if a name legally taken could make a writer of me. I even wrote a book. As stupid a bit of nonsense as was ever put to paper. Can you believe that a woman of my intelligence and good sense would write a novel about ghosts and people crazy enough to fall in love with them?”

This managed to be of interest to the thatcher. For a moment too brief to be noted, Declan glanced over at Brid and Taddy, who were also giving their attention to the woman holding forth just a few feet away. Their response seemed to be a deepening bewilderment. It was as if the woman, with her ridicule of ghosts and her scorn for those who might love them, was saying that these were happenings beyond comprehension, a form of conduct to which they had never been introduced.

Declan's attention returned to the task at hand. Lolly, unequipped to observe the ghosts' consternation, continued. “Well, that's what I did. That's what I wrote. And it gets even worse. I put the ghosts in a castle, sort of like this one. And I was trying to think of ways to get the ghosts out. And do you know what Kitty—or was it Kieran—what
they
suggested? Blow up the castle. That's what they said. Sky high. It was supposed to end the curse or whatever it was. Now I have nothing against special effects, but blow up a castle and that would get rid of the ghosts? Isn't that a bit too much? But they went right ahead and said it as if they were some kind of authorities on the subject. Can you believe it?”

Declan had become even more interested. Still, he pretended to continue his work, his ears attuned to what was being said. The ghosts, too, had become more observant.

“And then I'm stupid enough to ask how. How do you blow up a castle? Then it was Kieran—or was it Kitty—who said, ‘There's gunpowder in the flagstones of the great hall.' How convenient, I thought. You need to blow up a castle and, who would have thought it, there's gunpowder right there all the time. Can you believe that someone would actually suggest such a thing? I'm new at the game—writing a book—but even
I
know you don't do a thing like that and expect readers to accept it. But I did it anyway. And I'm recovered now. No more ghosts. Madness it was. Part of the same madness that turned me from a keeper of pigs into a teller of tales. But I've left behind my wayward ways and I'll never stray again, believe me.”

Declan had stopped working. He turned to observe the speaker more closely. She was clothed in well-fitted jeans and a shirt, possibly her husband's, its blue deepening the blue of her eyes. And her auburn hair still caught and held the sun.

To rescue his concentration, he gave his attention to Brid and Taddy. It helped. Except that, to look at them, he could not avoid the old sadness. As a boy, it had been the same. After he was initiated into the family mysteries and introduced to ancient truths, he would come to the abandoned castle to find the pair roaming the rooms into which he would steal, the fields where he would walk, the turret landing where Brid would be at the loom, Taddy at the harp. And young Declan, still a child though considered a man, was there as well, their accepted if unacknowledged companion, himself awed by their beauty and made sorrowful by their exile. He would have done anything to complete their journey into glory.

But he had had no power of that kind. He had been given no knowledge of the rites that would speed them on their way. As a youth, he had pleaded with them to speak, to make some gesture that would hint at what might be required. But their powers, too, were limited. They had nothing to offer but their presence. At the age of fourteen, he decided never to come to the castle again. The sight of Brid had become more than his growing urges could bear. He would apprentice himself not to his father but to an itinerant thatcher. He would leave his village, his county; he would travel and only sometimes return, but never to the castle. Yet now, in his grief, he had come to seek solace among them—wanting, hoping, praying that they would be joined by his own dead, Michael taken by the sea, and the boy allowed to be their companion. Brid and Taddy, though, had no influence either. Shade could not call to shade, summoning those who, like themselves, were bereft of life but allowed to be company to the living. Emissaries of the divine they well might be, but their message was silence, and Declan must join his own to theirs.

From Lolly, however, he might have heard things of potential importance. Destruction of the castle would assure their release? It had been Kitty and Kieran who had told it to the woman standing there. Was it intimate knowledge or fanciful invention? If it was for them to know, it was for him to find out.

Lolly, with happy laughter, was poking and prodding the somnolent pig. An occasional grunt was all she received for her efforts. The ghostly companion was taking special note, lowering its massive head, readying itself for an assault—as if such an act were still possible. Which it wasn't, much to the woman's benefit.

Abandoning the less sensitive parts of the pig, Lolly, with an even more delighted laugh, struck a blow across the animal's snout. Screams not of pain but of indignity were sent forth. Encouraged, Lolly gave the snout another whack. This roused the pig to a standing position, the shrieks and squeals raised in both pitch and volume. It came out of the pen. The watchful companion, too, raised its own snout to the sky, though able to contribute no sound to the protest.

With skillfully applied encouragements, each thrust causing the pig to turn more toward the waiting truck, the animal was, in a vain attempt to avoid the humiliations, tricked into moving in a direction not of its choosing. With jabs and nudges of the most pitiless kind, Lolly sent the beast up the ramp and into the bed of the truck. The ramp was shoved on board and the tailgate secured. The pig continued its complaint as its beloved now braced its huge head and massive shoulders under the side of the truck, as if determined to upend it. Had the animal still been invested with its earthly bulk and strength, it might, in Declan's estimation, have been successful. But alas for the poor ghost, all effort, no matter how heartfelt, was in vain.

As if possible rescue had arrived, a cream-colored Bentley drove into the courtyard. Unmindful that it blocked the path in which the truck was aimed, the car stopped, its passenger side all but scraping itself against the trunk's bumper. Out of the Bentley stepped a man of slightly more than middle years, arrayed in linens and silks of muted colors except for the Hermès scarf tied ever so casually around the gentleman's neck, protecting it, no doubt, from the collar of the raw silk jacket that best conveyed the presence of money, rank, and privilege. So pleased with himself seemed the man that Declan had to make a special effort not to snort in the manner of the pig. With a condescending smile, the man advanced toward Lolly, who was now standing at the back of her truck. “I apologize for arriving unannounced,” he said, “but I happened to be touring the countryside and thought I'd pay my respects to Mr. and Mrs. Sweeney, who, if I am not mistaken, still reside here in the castle.”

“They're away” was all Lolly was inclined to say.

“Oh. How inconvenient. I suppose I should say it's my fault.” With an almost undetectable bow, he said, “Lord Shaftoe.”

Unbowed, Lolly responded, “Lolly McCloud, born McKeever.”

“My pleasure, I'm sure.”

“If you say so.”

A twitch of a smile distorted the man's mouth into a tight-lipped grimace. “McCloud, you say. Then you are related to the tenants?”

“Owners.”

“Of course.” Another twitch, but the same grimace.

“I'm married to Kitty McCloud's nephew.”

“Oh, then you are quite at home here.”

“I live elsewhere.”

“But your welcome is ever ready, am I correct?”

Lolly shrugged.

When Declan took his eyes off the man, he noticed that Brid and Taddy had vanished. As this was their sometime habit, it didn't particularly disturb him until the phantom pig's attention was drawn away from its beloved and given to the man now standing near the unimpressed Lolly. Declan, too, would be more attentive. This was hardly a casual visitor come calling.

“Would you mind?” Lolly was saying. “Your car is blocking my truck.”

“Oh. Sorry. Thoughtless, of course. But first, may I ask, does my name—Shaftoe, as I said—Lord Shaftoe mean anything to you?”

“Shaftoe doesn't. And Lord certainly doesn't.”

“Amusing, yes.” Instead of twitching, the man tittered. “But I must confess my reasons for stopping by are, I'm afraid, sentimental to a shaming degree. You see, this was my ancestors' home, and there has been some misguided contention between the present tenants and myself, which has been resolved, I must admit, in their favor.”

“So I've heard.” Lolly was still unimpressed. “Aren't you supposed to be in prison?”

“For a time, I was. Yes, yes. A diversion really. An unlooked-for opportunity to develop a skill I hardly knew I had, for racquetball. Such are the punishments imposed by a civilized society. And after all, one is not a lord for nothing, even in these days of diminishing regard.”

In contradiction to the man's words, there was, Declan noticed, an almost undetectable application of a flesh-colored cosmetic tinting his lordship's cheeks and forehead. The poor fellow was trying to cover over the pallor imposed upon those denied the sun. Racquetball, indeed. The man had languished in a cell—as befits a society given to lawful responsibility.