Delaney. Part XVI

Father Fitzpatrick wipes the sweat from Brother O’Brien’s forehead. He’s in a fevered delirium and has steadily worsened since the first signs of illness bound him to his bed.

The boys are quiet tonight. No banter now that their mate Eric lies convalescing alongside Brother O’Brien in his room. The troubled shouts of the Brother carry down the hall and are putting a pall over the spirit in the Friary.

“NO!” The Brother is shouting. “You shall not have her!” and he lifts his hands to Father Fitzpatrick’s neck.

“Brother,” Father is saying, “’Tis alright. It’s just me, Father Fitzpatrick.”

But O’Brien is caught up in some perilous battle. “In the name of Jesus Christ, I command you to release her!” He screams, face set as if dueling a demon.

“Brother Doyle,” Father calls. “Help me to restrain him.” And the Brother leaves Eric who lies listless in a bed near Brother O’Brien to assist the Father. Even with his help it is difficult to keep the man from attempting to strangle the Father.

“He’s in torment,” Doyle says, face writ with anguish for his fellow Friar. “Is there nothing more we can do?”

“Pray, Brother. We must pray.” And they begin to recite the Breastplate of St. Patrick.

We invoke today all virtues,
Against every hostile merciless power,
Which may assail our body and soul,
Against the incantations of false prophets,
Against the black laws of druidism,
Against the false laws of heresy,
Against the deceits of idolatry,
Against the spells of smiths and wizards,
Against every knowledge that binds the soul of man.
Christ, protect us today
Against every poison, against burning,
Against drowning, against death-wound.

Brother O’Brien ceases his thrashing and his lips move in recitation of the familiar prayer.

Christ with us, Christ before us,
Christ behind us, Christ within us,
Christ beneath us, Christ above us,
Christ at our right, Christ at our left,
Christ in the fort,
Christ in the chariot seat,
Christ in the mighty stern,
Christ in the heart of everyone who thinks of us,
Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of us,
Christ in every eye that sees us,
Christ in every ear that hears us.

We bind to ourselves today
The strong virtue of the Trinity,
We believe in the Unity of the Three in One,
The Creator of the Universe.
Amen.

And Brother O’Brien lies still as a ghost, then he opens his eyes halfway, a look of worry creasing his face.

“Delaney,” he rasps. “Where is the child?”

“It’s alright, Brother.” Doyle reassures. “Delaney is safe.” And the troubled look falls away.

“He’s not even here in the Friary,” Father says with encouragement. “He’s secure. Staying at Townley Hall. With the Cosgroves.”

“Cosgrove?” A shadow falls over O’Brien. “Cosgrove?”

“Yes. The family has taken him in these few days. The boy will be out of harm’s way there. Nowhere near the sickness.”

O’Brien is fading now, and with a final pleading look at Father Fitzpatrick and Brother Doyle, he passes into eternity.

****

“How ‘bouts a cheery rosebush Master Delaney?” Mr. Byrne asks.

The night prior was glorious. A warm bath, fresh clothes, a meal unlike any she had ever eaten, and then the kindness of the Cosgroves. The couple doted upon her all evening. Never mind their frequent references to Delaney growing up “to be a fine gentleman,” or Mr. Cosgrove offering to put her on the Drogheda boys’ cricket team. She’s made some peace with her identity as a boy. But the thing that was most comforting to her soul was the deep sense of belonging, that along with the sweet fragrance inside Townley Hall: orange blossom, lilac, and every now and again a whiff of sweet tobacco. It was an olfactory haven.

“I’ll tell Mr. Byrne tomorrow to let you plant something of your very own.” Mrs. Cosgrove had told her that night. “It can be your own bush or flower, and we shall think of you each time we see it.”

Delaney studies a few of the sprouts Mr. Byrne has growing in small clay pots, considering what it is that might best represent her.

“We’ve also got some seeds if you’d like to grow something what hasn’t even been put in the ground.”

“What’s this one called?” Delaney has walked over to one of the pots outside the garden shed, a pot which has a thorny sprig sticking up from dirt and a small white flower blooming near the top.

“Ahh, that’s what we call Blackthorn.” He says. “The very bush the soldiers used to weave the crown of thorns what they sat atop the head of Christ a’fore they hung him on the cross.”

She reaches a curious finger to the tip of one of the thorns and touches it gently.

“I like this one.” She says.

“Well,” he says, “t’aint exactly the sort of bush you put in a house garden. Rather large. Sometimes used as a hedgerow to keep out unwanted guests. I’ve been meaning to put something up along the drive into Townley Hall. Perhaps we shall grow a Blackthorn hedge.”

“Can I plant it?”

“This twig here t’won’t be enough to start a hedgerow. We’ll take some more clippings from the wild Blackthorn bushes I seen growing out in the south lawn.”

So, dropping a couple of pruning shears into a tool belt he lifts Delaney to the brown mare and sets off to the south lawn. One thing Delaney is learning about Mr. Byrne is that moment he has purposed to do a thing, all else can wait. The thing must be started before he can focus upon anything else.

Once there, he shows Delaney just where to clip the bush to capture a perfect sprig, and the two set about collecting several dozen clippings to plant along a section of the drive leading into Townley Hall.

The leather gloves Mr. Byrne has given Delaney are too big for her and they become cumbersome to work in, so near the end she takes them off to better grasp the pruning shears. But in the process, she pierces her finger on one of the thorns and cries out.

Byrne rushes to the child and looks down at the bead of blood rising from her finger.

“Where’s your glove, lad?” But Delaney is silent, wincing as Byrne grasps the finger in a tightly closed fist. He holds it for a moment, then utters:

“Christ be a virgin’ born,

And t’was pricked by a thorn,

Thik thorn never did a swell

And I trust in Jesus this ‘un never will.”

He opens his hand, his palm now reddened. The finger has bled generously for a single poke. He goes to a saddlebag and retrieves a rag, then tears a strip from one edge. He wraps the fingertip, tying the strip of cloth into a tight knot.

“I s’pect we have enough for the hedgerow, he says. And he lifts Delaney onto the horse, the pair head back to Townley Hall.

****

“My name is Mr. Rourk,” says Ash when Sister Shannon comes to the door of the convent. I wonder if I might speak with Sister Mary Eunice. The Brothers at the Friary directed me to her.”

“I suppose you speak of Brother O’Brien,” the Sister says smiling. “He was here just the other day.” And she opens the door wide for Ash.

“How is Brother O’Brien?” She asks. “He wasn’t feeling well when he left.”

Ash takes his hat off as he steps out of the late April morning sun and into the entryway. The day is pleasant, but he is glad to be in the cool of the echoing convent smelling of incense.

“I’m afraid I have rather bad news on that account.” He tells her, and Sister Shannon stiffens.

“It was Father Fitzpatrick who pointed me here. The Brother passed away yesterday, along with one of the children. Father believes it may have been some plague he was exposed to on his trip to England. Must’ve passed it along to one of the boys.”

The Sister is stunned, hand over her gaping mouth. She is choking on a wellspring of grief and turns away from the man.

“I’m so sorry, Sister.” Ash says, not knowing quite what to do with the suppressed sobbing of the nun who stands before him.

“Forgive me,” she manages, and she does not have the wherewithal to show him to a chair in the waiting area when she excuses herself. She simply walks across the room and vanishes down a hallway. Ash finds a chair and decides he can do nothing but wait and hope the woman will send Mary Eunice.

Voices reverberate from somewhere in the building. Concerned voices, one of them weeping. Now others. After several minutes he finally hears the click of heels on tiled floor coming his direction. It is an older nun in a white coif set against her black veil. It strikes him for the first time that he has never seen a nun’s hair. As a matter of fact, until he came to Ireland, he’s never seen a nun at all, except in pictures. London has no Catholic orders.

“I’m Sister Mary Eunice,” the woman says. “I understand Father Fitzpatrick sent you to us.”

“Yes.” He stands to greet her but does not know if shaking the hand of a nun is appropriate. He holds his hat in front of him instead.

“My name is Ash Rourk. A few days ago, I assisted two people …” he realizes how fully his voice fills the vast chamber, surrounded as it is by so many hard surfaces. He lowers it. “I helped a young woman and a girl to leave the Care Home in Drogheda.”

“Yes, you speak of Magdalene and Adrienne.”

“That’s right. Brother O’Brien,” and he’s unsure how to refer to a dead cleric, so he adds parenthetically, “God rest his soul. My brother and I, along with another, asked if he might conceal the women as they were being pursued. He took the fugitives to the Friary. So, I came to speak with Magdalene about a plan to return her to England, but Father Fitzpatrick sent me here.”

“You’ve come to let them know of a ship?” Mary Eunice asks. “Brother O’Brien spoke of this plan when he was last here.”

“That’s right. A few of us have hired a boat to England, my older Brother and me along with about a dozen others. I’d like to make good on our promise to take Magdalene and Adrienne back. It leaves tomorrow night.”

“Mr. Rourk,” she says. “Do you suppose there might be room on the boat for one more. Just a child of seven. She is in grave danger here in Ireland. I’m quite willing to pay whatever it may cost. I’ve spoken of her to Magdalene who has agreed to take charge of the orphan upon arrival in England.”

“I believe I can make such arrangements,” he says. “And don’t worry about the cost. Is she one of the orphans here at the convent?”

“Yes,” Mary Eunice says. “Well, no. It’s a long story. The child is hiding elsewhere. But I can deliver Magdalene and the two girls at whatever place and time you dictate.”

“There is a small landing on the edge of an open green near an abandoned school, ‘Our Lady’s College.’ We are set to depart tomorrow night, just after midnight. Do you think you can have them there?”

“I will do so, Mr. Rourk. The orphan as well. She is very special to me, as are the other two. Magdalene and Adrienne have endeared themselves to us in their short stay. We are sorry to see them go but grateful that you shall carry them to safety.”

“I will do my best, Sister. And might I …” he hesitates. “Might I see Magdalene myself, while I am here?”

“Certainly,” Sister Mary Eunice says. “Just a moment.” And to Ash it looks as though the nun floats out of the room, her perfectly starched, black tunic hovering just above the floor as she leaves.

In a short while she returns with Magdalene on her arm, though it takes a moment for Ash to recognize the woman. Magdalene’s long red hair is now swallowed by a habit, coif hugging her face like the headscarves of the Bengalis, and black tunic replacing the used clothing they had purchased at the thrift shop.

“Miss … Miss … I’m sorry. I don’t know your family name,” Ash says, recovering from the surprise of seeing her dressed as a nun. He rises from the chair and walks over to them.

“Apparently my last name is Rourk.” She says. “Mrs. Ash Rourk.”

He smiles. “But I did not know women of the cloth could marry.”

“You will excuse her vestments,” Sister Mary Eunice chimes in, a little confused by their exchange. “The other Sisters and I felt it would be less conspicuous if Magdalene dressed this way.”

“Spencer.” Magdalene says. “My family name is Spencer. But you may call me Magdalene. We are, after all married. Albeit illegally.” The edges of her mouth curl upward in a wry smile.

“I think I shall leave you two,” the Sister says, assuming she is not privy to some inexplicable inside joke. “The Sisters are taking the death of Brother O’Brien quite hard. He had visited us many times over the years and was well loved. I should tend to them.” Death is a part of life according to Mary Eunice, and the Sisters may take a moment to grieve, but there is work to be done.

“Of course, Sister.” Ash says. Then he leads Magdalene to a chair in the waiting area and sits across from her, giving a bit more detail about their departure for England and learning more about Magdalene’s family back in England.

****

“Strange,” Doctor Forsythe is telling Father Fitzpatrick. “Earlier I felt that Brother O’Brien and Eric were presenting symptoms of plague. Fever. Swollen lymph glands. Rash. But now I can’t be sure. I don’t see the telltale signs of plague in their deaths.

“And no one else in the Friary has shown signs of illness?” She adds.

“No, doctor.”

“Still, to be safe I believe we should burn the bodies.”

“Is that really necessary?” Father asks.

“I believe so. Along with anything you know they may have touched or worn. In case whatever caused their deaths be contagious. It is best to burn the bodies and completely incinerate any articles they may have handled.”

In the end, Father believes a burial is the best way to respect the dead but settles on a compromise. Their bodies are placed in open graves, side by side, along with the few things they may have handled while sick. Prayers are made and a hymn is sung. Then the bodies are drenched in kerosene and a match is struck and tossed upon them with a great whoosh.

“From the dust you were formed,” Father says. “And to dust you shall return.”

And so, in an instant, Eric, Brother O’Brien, some of their possessions, and a folded piece of paper in the Friar’s pocket – one that contains the only translation of Delaney’s tattoo – are consumed by fire.