Witch Hunt (15 page)

“My mother and — ”

“Your sister and her husband. I know. It’s a shame that your father died last year. His heart, wasn’t it? But I guess that’s what prompted your deciding to take a bride — to ensure the name is carried on.” She smiled, popped a slice of sausage roll into her mouth, and chewed. “We’ve checked into you, as you can see.”

Tyler looked away from the unsightly mush that slithered around in her mouth while she talked, and gazed into the warm gold of brandy that filled the snifter he held.

“We’re not going to surrender our daughter to just anyone, even though you do come highly recommended, of course. Ever since the persecutions, we’ve had to be so careful,” another slice of roll was popped into the maw, “lest spies infiltrate our ranks and learn our secrets. We can’t afford another massacre, or the old ways might be stamped out for good. Of course, the persecutions I refer to were hundreds of years ago, but I understand you lost family less than a hundred and fifty years ago.”

“Yes, my great-great-grand — ”

“Parents, I know. They died during that awful time in Salem. Nasty thing, that was. Shows us that we can never be too careful. Never too careful.”

The servant girl interrupted their fireside chat. “Excuse me, Sir Cedric, but there’s a young boy from the village here to see you.”

Cedric looked relieved, and Tyler suppressed a grin. No wonder Sir Cedric could only get it up with that country girl. Well, Tyler thought, he would have Sheila for diversion.

“Send him in,” Sir Cedric said.

“Cedric!” the maw bellowed. “We’re entertaining.”

“Now, my dear, I would think that at this late hour it must be important, or the child wouldn’t have come all this way in the dark.”

A tiny boy walked into the parlor, his hands clutching a small hat in front of him, his eyes wide with fascination.

“All the way in, boy,” Cedric said.

The visitor inched his way deeper into the room, toward the large easy chair in which Sir Cedric sat.

“Never been to the big house before, son?” Sir Cedric asked.

“Nae.”

“What do they call you?”

“Phelim.”

“Well, Phelim, what’s your business?”

“Miss Cassie sent me to say that her da, Angus Callaghan, he’s up and died, sir. There’s a wake in the makin’.”

Sir Cedric’s face fell. “Old Angus, eh? He was a good man.”

“Aye, sir, he was that, true enough.”

The intense sincerity in the tiny boy’s manner touched Tyler, and, despite the solemnity of the moment, he smiled.

Sir Cedric bent toward the large platter of appetizers and scooped some treats onto a linen napkin, which he handed to Phelim. “Here’s for your trouble, son. Tell Miss Cassie that I’ll be by to pay my respects.”

Phelim stuffed the napkin into his shirt and offered an awkward bow toward the women, then turned and hurried from the room.

“You’re not going there tonight?”

Gwendolyn’s harsh tone made Tyler cringe.

Sir Cedric downed his brandy in one gulp. “Angus was one of us. Of course, I’ll go see him off. Want to come, Tyler?”

“Take a guest to see a dead man?” Eleanor’s tone was even more abrasive than Gwedolyn’s.

These women gave fresh meaning to the word
witch
, Tyler thought as he excused himself and accompanied Sir Cedric.

Angus was laid out on a board that rested on his old bed frame. The straw mattress had been burned so his spirit wouldn’t linger in its comfort. A white sheet draped the body, making it appear wraithlike, and two smooth stones were laid on his closed eyes to keep them that way. A rack of stag horns was at his head, and a large seashell full of seawater rested at his feet. A dozen candles were alight in the small cottage, and the big black pot in the fireplace simmered with stew.

A dozen people were already crammed into the small cottage when Sir Cedric and Tyler arrived. Cassie, dressed in a simple dark blue dress, greeted them at the door and ushered them in.

Sir Cedric handed her a bottle of quality whiskey. “It was Angus’s favorite.”

She clutched it to her bosom. “Aye, he’d be pleased.”

“Cassie, you remember my companion here from the river? This is Tyler Hawthorne, a visitor from America.”

She made a slight curtsy. “Sir.”

Tyler was startled by how perfectly the color of her eyes matched the dress she wore. “Miss Callaghan.”

“I’m Cassie to folks.”

“Too bad about Angus.” Sir Cedric moved gingerly toward the body. “How did it happen?”

“He was helpin’ me fix supper, and he tripped, poor old fool. Fell on the butcher knife. ‘Twas a sorry way to go.”

Tyler recognized the symbolism of the horns at Angus’s head — they represented the god of death come to claim the soul of the departed — but didn’t understand the seashell. He gestured to it and shook his head.

“‘Tis there to lure Manannan, god of the sea,” Cassie said. “He drives his chariot ‘cross the tops of the waves to ferry the souls of the faithful from death to Mag Mell, the land of happiness.”

“Ah, like our Summerland.” It was the name his own English tradition gave to the Elysium.

The guests gathered in a circle around Angus’s body. Solemn greetings were shared among the tenants and their landlord, and Sir Cedric introduced Tyler to Angus and his mourners.

“Cassie, darlin’. I was goin’ to pass the cup full of my poteen here,” an elderly man raised a jug of homemade liquor, “but I see you have somethin’ much more fittin’. Don’t you think it would do better in our bellies than keeping your pretty tits warm?”

Cassie looked down at the whiskey bottle she was clutching to her chest. “Oh, to be sure, Murphy. Hand me the cup.”

The cup was, in actuality, a ritual goblet. Tyler recognized it as such, even though he had never seen one exactly like it. The stem was made of gold and fashioned in the shape of a phallus, and the cup was silver and womblike. Theirs was a fertility religion, and their deity a father/mother god worshiped in a variety of guises. Suddenly, Tyler felt a sense of utter unity with these people. Even though they were strangers and of a different nationality, they were of the old blood … his blood.

Cassie filled the goblet with whiskey and raised it to Angus. “The greatest blessin’ the gods can give us in this world is to be born again among our own. We pray you find us again, Da.” She took a sip and passed the cup around the circle. Everyone drank reverently, and lustily, requiring that the cup be refilled several times.

There was a loud commotion at the door, and Father O’Donnell stumbled through the doorway, tripping over the form of Phelim, who had tried to stop his entry.

“You damnable little runt!” the priest cursed as he went sprawling.

“Ah, Father, you’ve come to pay your respects,” Cassie said.

Father O’Donnell stood up and brushed himself off, his pudgy face red from anger and embarrassment. “‘Tis sorry I am for your father’s passin’. Thought I’d come and offer him a blessin’. ‘Tis never too late, you know.”

“Thanks for your concern over his soul, but we’ve already offered his blessin’.” She handed him the goblet. “You’re welcome to join in the toast.”

He shrugged. “Aye, I’ll toast to old Angus.” He took the cup and was raising it to his lips when he froze, his eyes fixed upon the golden phallus he held. “Jaysus Christ.” He let go of the cup, and Phelim dove to catch it. “Heathen sinners.” His eyes fell on Sir Cedric, and he pointed at him with a shaking hand. “Are you one of them?”

“Father O’Donnell, I’m their landlord, you’re their priest. The Almighty is the only one with the right to pass judgment — read your own Bible. Now, I realize you’re relatively new to these parts, but unless you learn to dwell in harmony with these people, I’m afraid I’ll have to request your transfer to another parish.” He reached down, took the goblet from Phelim, and refilled it with the last of the whiskey. “Now, I’ve got a pecker, you’ve got a pecker, and I understand old Angus here had a pretty good pecker himself. If you’re going to be put off by the simple facts of life, you’re never going to get these people to listen to you; and if they shut their ears, your hopes for converts are right out the window.” He thrust the cup at the priest. “So, are you going to toast to old Angus?”

Father O’Donnell, looking properly chagrined, accepted the goblet. “May God bless your heathen soul, Angus Callaghan.”

Father O’Donnell stayed long enough to partake of Cassie’s stew and potato bread, then made his escape.

“Thanks be that the father didn’t preach too much,” Murphy said. He uncorked the jug of poteen and started it on its rounds.

“Aye, but he got in his digs.” Cassie removed Angus’s good pipe and smoking tobacco from a shelf and offered it to Sir Cedric.

He declined, pulling his own pipe and pouch from his coat pocket. “Tyler, perhaps?”

Tyler accepted the smoke, and while several of the women took up keening by Angus’s body, the men shared stories of Angus’s life. After a time, with the loud wailing and storytelling vying for supremacy, the air become a raucous din, and Tyler stepped outside to relax his aching head.

After a few minutes, Cassie followed. She found him sitting on the low stone fence that surrounded the cottage. “Might I sit with you, sir?”

Tyler laughed. “It’s your fence, and I’m not a sir. Call me by my given.” He gave her a sideways glance. “So, how are you feeling?”

“It’s anticipatin’ the lonely I’m about right now.”

“Your mother?”

“She died at my birthin’. Both Ma and Da were well on in years when they made me. She was too old to tough it out.”

“You’re what, about twenty?”

“That I am.”

Tyler, well aware of her ripeness, spoke the obvious. “Why don’t you marry?”

Cassie chuckled. “Were you lookin’ about that room tonight? There’s no man in this village, of the old ways, who’s less than twice my age — unless you count little Phelim, but that’s a wee bit young for my needs.” She paused. “And you, what age are you bein’?”

“About half again your age.”

“Sure, and that’s better than twice.”

There was a long pause.

“I’ve come here to marry Gwendolyn Watkins.”

“Miss Gwen is a loud cow, but I’m sure she’ll be bringin’ a fat dowry.”

Tyler felt both amused and defensive about Cassie’s observations. “I’m rich enough that I don’t need the dowry.”

“Then whyever would a man such as yourself be wantin’ to marry a loud cow?”

Tyler sucked in his breath as Cassie’s words struck a raw nerve. The primary ambition of his intercontinental quest had been to find a wife of the old religion. Gwendolyn’s wealth and position had merely sweetened the pot. But did it sweeten it enough to overlook the truth of her undesirability as a woman?

Cassie grabbed his hand, hopped off the fence, and urged him to follow her. “Come on, then. A walk through the sweet heather on a summer night with an Irish lass might be somethin’ to remember on those cold American nights spent with Miss Gwen.”

The raw discomfort of his groin he had been nursing all day instantly melted away and was replaced by a quickening throb. Tyler didn’t resist her invitation.