Part 16

I assured him it was too weighty an affair for laughter, and that I was convinced that his head had the usual requisites for a head. He appeared to consider that statement thoughtfully, but finally he said:

“No—no, it has lived with me so long in silence that no words come to me for the telling. No—it will not be spoken.”

I saw that he was actually striving to nerve himself for some ordeal, and I kept silence, looking over some notes I had made for the defense: few and shadowy they are, too! My presence without speech must have got on his nerves, for as if to get rid of me he spoke at last.

“I may write it as the other records of our home were written—I—may do that. Yes—that is where it would be having the right place—in the record of the clan, for it is the ending of it—yes—and the right ending.”

I knew I could make nothing for his defense out of that sort of statement, so I ignored it, and left the jail after sending for paper, pen, and ink. I looked back through the bars and he was seated again, his head on his hands. I should not have been surprised to learn that he had forgotten the pen and paper were there. I have not seen him since.

But this morning there came to the office his half-brother, Raymond E. Brennan, from whom this crime has separated him beyond hope of reconciliation. Now that I think of it, they are not exactly half-brothers but by courtesy, since Brennan’s father married the mother of Fergal some years after he was born, and she a widow.

In his hand he carried a small square package.

“It is the book—” he said, “the book done by Kearmit the monk in a past century. I brought it myself, for the boy asked that you be let read it. It is a treasure of his house. He knew it by heart, and thought it a great treasure—as I fancy it may be, as such things go.”

His tone indicated that such things did not go far with him, though he was tolerant.

“Is it something concerning the case?” I asked.

“Not at all,” he said. “It is a collection of legends and songs of his mother’s house, done by a kinsman of theirs who was a monk. It is a very ancient house, Mr. De Nise. According to the records, there were princes and abbots among them when Ireland was in her glory. The work on the book is of the finest and worth seeing.”

“But I have made no request for the book, nor ever heard of it,” I said, for as the wrapper was taken off and I saw the richness and value of it, I hesitated to keep it. He looked at me in surprise.

“No? That is strange,” he said. “Ah, the poor lad; his head is wrong; that is it.”

“Did he tell you I wanted it?” I asked. “Please repeat to me exactly what he said; I am much interested in his case, and he speaks so little that every word is precious, as it may help to reveal hidden things.”

“I know that, and am glad he has a good friend in you. I cannot be that. I feel that it is his head is wrong, for he was ever a strange lad, delving in ancient records, and at home with thoughts too old for his years. His mother was a safe, natural woman and there were times he seemed ‘fey’ to her. He was born the night his father died, but he was like neither father nor mother. She told me that when she followed my father, and asked me to care for the lad. I did my best while I could, but I do not want ever to hear the old Irish of his voice again, or touch his hand again while I live.”

“What do you mean by the ‘old’ Irish of his voice?” I asked, and he looked at me with a little frown of perplexity.

“Do you know, Mr. De Nise, that is a hard question to answer to a man who has not heard the Gaelic about him. That lad was not brought up to the Gaelic speech, nor his parents before him, nor their parents, yet when he spoke first—English words, mind you—he spoke it with the sound on his tongue of the old Irish. That is not because he has not gone about and heard other speech: three years he was in France and in Spain. There was an old branch of his people came to Galway from Spain in the very old times. His mother said he came by the blackness of his hair from the Spanish kindred, for her people were fair always. But, as I was saying, no travel took the touch of the old tongue off him. You must have noticed, sir, yourself; it is as if he speaks in English but thinks in the old Irish.”

Now that explained exactly that baffling music of his intonation, and I was glad to have it cleared up for me; if cleared up it is!

“Yes—he has always been strange, but he was a lovable lad at that,” said Brennan. “I know it was his head went wrong all in a flash, and I hope the court so decides. But when I try to think kindly of him, there comes again before my eyes that awful sight of—ah—I cannot even speak of it yet.”

He walked to the window and stood with his back to me. I could see he was much agitated.

“Do not try to speak of it,” I said, “only try to tell me the word he sent concerning the book.”

Brennan gave me a letter from his pocket and walked again to the window while I read it.

There was no heading to the letter; it began abruptly in clear, decided penmanship.

“I know the sorrow of you—yet it may be there is a deeper sorrow I am now hiding. I know the hate of your heart for me—and all the world is with you in that.

“I am not sending to you in any complaining, for things are written, and the reasons are not shown to mortals, yet we must abide by that writing.

“I am sending to ask a favor for the man who would save—if he can—the last of my family, which he cannot. I would have lent to him for his reading, the book of the annals of our house. Not the genealogy in Gaelic with its translation, but the smaller book with the ivory cover and the silver clasps. It is the legends and songs of our bards in the other days before the harps of Ireland were broken by the mailed fist of the enemy. The man I want to have read it is a lover of books, and nothing like the ‘Book of Kearmit’ has he seen; not but what kindred clans had jewels of books, and more of them than in other lands, but the Saxon, like the Dane, in their plunderings, stripped them of the precious coverings, and left the vellum to rot or burn. They are few and rare at this day.

“The sorrow is with me for the reason that your life is in shadow. Always first in my heart was held my love of you. I am proud now to be knowing that, and on a day to be ... you will know it!

“On that day I may again call you brother—and the waiting for it is long to me.

“FERGAL.”

“That is the first word he has ever sent me, since that night,” said Brennan, “so I brought the book at once. I would do much more to be of use to any mortal in misery, but hear him, or see him, I hope I shall never.”

While he spoke a messenger came in with a package for me. I still held Brennan’s letter in my hand. As I glanced at the envelope just received I saw that the writing was the same—it was the first communication I had ever received from Fergal.

I opened it quickly, and found many large pages closely written; folded around them was a note. It said:

“Good Friend—

“A book of old Irish legends will be brought to your hand this day. Before reading the letter I send in this, I will ask you to read the book. There is one tale of the olden days I would have you reading. It is called _Randuff and White Enora_.”

I turned to Brennan. “I should like after all to look at the book,” I said. “Fergal will no doubt tell me why he wishes me to see it.”

Then thanking him for coming with it personally, I let him out as expeditiously as possible in my eagerness to see what the boy had sent me. It was a great temptation to read the letter first, but I put it aside and opened the book.

It is a curiosity in book-making and binding. The ivory panels of the back with their scroll work of silver were done by no prentice hand, and the lettering on the vellum is so fine I had to use a magnifying glass to get all the beauty of line in the illuminated initials. How the deuce did those Irish monks of the old days do such work with quill pens and no glasses? Whoever “Kearmit of Clan Cumanac” might have been, his work was that of an artist, as you will see when you come.

I did not linger long over the artistic binding or ornamental pen work, but turned at once to the story Fergal had mentioned. It was called _The Sad Tale of Randuff and White Enora_. It was written in verse, as many others were. I find that Randuff means “The Dark, Handsome One.”

In Tormond, north of the Shannon, dwelt the clans of Cumanac before the foot of the invader brought the curse on the land, and sent westward their mercenaries to wall themselves in, and to carve prayers in the stone over the gates, that the sons of the land might not rise in their vengeance and make ashes of their women and children as have the Saxons with the “mere Irish.”

But Brian is dust in Dunpatrick, and Cormac the wise has been dust a thousand years in Rosnaree, and besides them no king has arisen in strength to hold together the tribes, and strong to do righteousness on the adventurers who have their hirelings in mail to help them make profits off the land.

And of the last law of Edward’s councilors has come the evil of the death of Randuff—the sweetly dark one, cried now by the woman, and mourned by the very trees of the forests he had love for! Randuff of the princes of Cumanac, Randuff of the sweet voice, and that voice chanting the glories above all sweetness of mortal: Grief on the loss of that one!

Her name was Enora of the Saxons, and when she spread her net, and looked on him, it was a drug to his soul. The robe of a scholar he forgot, and holiness he forgot, and only marriage with her was the dream walking with him all the night. To his brothers in kindred he told his love and it needed not the telling, for all could read the wonder of it in his eyes—shadowed eyes the women of Cumanac are wailing!

The new law of the invader forbids bonds of marriage between their Saxon men and our Irish women—and much more is the strength of the law against daughters of English taking a name from an Irish clan, even though it be a princely clan. Grief on that day!

So it stands, and what is one man, even the youth Randuff, to do against that? What is one man to do with the pride of his clan like a black rage back of him? And their friendship and their love hidden from him? And their rule hard against him for that he would not tear the face of her out of his breast; and would not forget the White Enora of the sea-blue eyes?

Sons of lords of Spain sailed into the Shannon mouth. In their own ship they came, and young they came, and they were his kindred. Love in their own hearts made them brothers to Randuff, and they alone knew of the stolen nights of him in her secret chamber. Only they knew that he fared forth as a _duine_—leading the steed of her father ... as a servant unknown walked Randuff, son of princes, to follow the white feet of the woman of the other shore. Grief on that day! None but the sons of the lords of Spain knew it, and they knew it.

Sweet the plot for love was the plot of Randuff and the sons of the lords of Spain—and sweet the sailing to be when the bird of love flew south with them, for that was their dream!

But the maid of the secret nights had a long look in the blue eyes of her, and the look was long for a man who could put her near to the throne in the court of Edward. Such was her look, and such was the hope, and that was not in power of Randuff, son of prince of Cumanac, nor of any other of Erinn’s princes, and she grew in fear of the love-nights she had loved so rashly, and in fear of the lover who had dared much, and would dare more.

The Night of nights came when the sails were loosed, and horses were under the wall, and the lover in the secret door for the last time. And in fear of his wrath when she should say to him “No,” and in fear of her own kindred if they thought the truth of her—she took by her side a wolfhound of her knowing, and a keen knife to give help to the last. Grief on the night!

With fair treacherous words, and sad words, she told him the will of her kinsmen was heavy on her, and the fear on her was a great fear, and never again could the moon light their love-nights. Her beauty had been coveted by an earl of England, and her parting from wild Ireland would be a long parting.

So it was, and when in love his arms went around her, the wolfhound leaped to his throat, and her knife found the way to his heart. Grief on that night!

The cries of her were the cries of a child in fright, and her words were of terror, and these were her words: That to save herself pure from a man of the Irish wilds, she had used the knife, and she stood there holding back the hound from the blood of Randuff, and told this thing, and the eyes of Randuff on her, and the breath of life going from him!

Her kinsmen came there—and their rage was a great and terrible rage, and above all the rage was that of Alwynn, a priest of her blood, and it may be he is druid, too, for he is not christian surely; and it was the curse of curses he put on the youth there, not alone that he should die unshriven, but that no sons should ever again be born to the name, and the pride of the race, and its fruitfulness should die out even as the youth’s blood was flowing from the heart of him. Grief on that night!

And the strength of that hate, and the words of it, wakened Randuff out of the death spell, and in a great slowness he spoke again, and the people who heard it went cold, and the wanton white thing fell swooning, and none of them are forgetting it, and this is what he said there:

“When the last of our clan’s blood is gone from this life, Will but be when Enora finds death by this knife. If no sons shall be born to keep honored our name, From the grave one will rise to give death for this shame. And you err, White Enora, at thought that the moon Will no more light our meetings: a vision—a swoon Comes gray on my senses, yet through it I see Another life living for you—and for me!”

Death took him, and no mortal is knowing what meaning was in his words. The Spanish kinsmen told their tale, and sailed for the south, and earth glory and sinful glory are the portion of Enora of the wolfhound. She is near the throne surely, and the children of her are honored by her own name forever by the royal will.

This is the tale of Randuff and White Enora. It is put down by the hand of Kearmit of Cumanac as a sign against that family forever. No honor, no friendship, is ever to be taken by gift or grace of the people of her blood, and no other thing forever but war should be with that people. As White Enora with her wolfhound, and her knife for the lover, so is that blood to the blood of the tribes whose land they have coveted, and have left ravaged. May memory be with our people in the Day of days!

“By the Elements, and the Father, and Son, and Sanctified Spirit.”

In a different but clear hand two pages were added:

Such is the record of Kearmit, Kearmit, the holy of Cumanac, Truthful the word he has written—blessed the writing! Truthful the warning to tribes of the Cumanac, Truthful that warning! Against Alba whose own sons they sold in the market, and they not in hunger, Against that people whose daughters were coming like calves and sold like the cattle, Against that land whose mothers were sold and they with the unborn!— They are the men lacking blood but the blood of the liver, They are the men. The diolamhan fight all their battles. Loud is their laugh that Brabanters are fighting their battles, loud in their mocking! Evil was ours in the buying of children and mothers, evil in bringing that breed. Shadow to us for that breeding: treacheries born from the blood of their daughters. Weakness of heart in our clans buying slaves out of Alba. Slaves have been made of that buying;—slaves are our princes! Sad forever the purchase—Erinn in shadow is witness! Sing death forever ’gainst compact or truce with that people. Leave us forever unchristened one hand of our clansmen: The axe hand of battle for these who have sold us their daughters. Watch you forever ’gainst smiles, or sweet words, or hand claspings. Think on their mothers once sold to our men for our usage, Swearing of friends’ oath with them! Unchristened the axe arm of Erinn. Unchristened the axe arm forever to use in the cleaving Of tribes who would barter a friend as they sold their own daughters. This is the warning to pass through all lives to our people, This, and the maid of the wolfhound, and she with the dagger. That is the soul out of Alba—the white maid Enora! Leave all unchristened the axe arm of Erinn forever!

* * * * *

I finished the old chronicles, wondering why I had been asked to read of the intensity of the ancient hates, though I acknowledge that the form of the original is better than my faulty translation from the Latin. Then I opened his letter of which I send you an exact copy. I can’t let the original go—yet I want you to be entirely acquainted with all the evidence of which I am possessed. Call me up soon as you read it. Here is the letter:

My Good Friend—

Now that I have put my hand to it, you shall have your wish. To tell you will lighten the heart of me, and now that the end is so near I can see no harm coming from the truth. No man with the cleverness of you would take into court a letter such as this must be, and you will not tell the one man it would hurt—that you could not do; the worst you will do is to think me mad.

If it is so now, then I was mad at birth. Yet no one thought it. I was different but no worse than that, and I will tell it you.

My mother was of the blood of the Cumanac, though the name of the tribe is dead. Sons were not born—only daughters. The genealogy of our people is clear back to the days of Diarmod of the Foreigners, who is in hell if there be one! The women of our house married scholars, and into families of scholars. The record of that blood was the record of a province, and there was no generation of it lost.

I am different from my family. They were fair, I am dark as our ancient Spanish cousins. My mother wept often on my birthdays but would not say why to me. Later I learned that I was born the night of the death of my father. There were times when she cried out that I was born with his brains, and my questions of ancient things frightened her, for I spoke as a child of things I could not know as a child. She thought I had “the sight,” and she was frightened by it, for she was a quiet, God-fearing woman, with only dread on her for the side of life she could not see.

Because of that dread I grew silent about many things. I wanted to ask why, when I closed my eyes to sleep, I so often rose above my body and drifted there, held only by the thin invisible cord, waiting for the slumber of the body to release me until I could go free—where?

I wanted to ask why certain people, though dressed in sober friese, yet had rainbow rays of light visible—while others had clear white—and others the color of gloom.

I wanted to ask of the faint, sweet music of harps, heard in nights of clear cold and white snow under the moon—often I was out at dawn to find track of the musicians whose playing was unearthly sweet.

But I was only a boy, and I had learned to watch and learn if others were in the same wonder, but it was of no use. There were no tracks in the snow, and no one seemed to me to have ears or eyes for my mysteries.

So I grew to live much within myself, and my mother was a lonely woman. When the father of Raymond wed with her, it brought more content to us both. I think she feared the care of me as I grew older, and Raymond was the sort she could best understand.

It was after the marriage that I first saw the land of our ancient people. In Galway my mother’s husband had bought an old estate, and Raymond had great joy in plans for showing me the old castle—the secret dungeon—the hidden stairway and subterranean gallery whose exit they had not yet discovered.

That was the time I had the first glimmer of light as to where I had flown while my body slept!

For I turned to the hidden stairway before Raymond could tell me, and I took them to the ruins of an old monastic cell, and told them to lift a slab there to find the underground entrance—and it was there as I said.

My mother wept when they told her. I said I had dreamed it.

In looking over the ancient documents of transfer of the lands, its history was clear to the days of Edward the Third, when a beautiful daughter of the Saxon owner had become a court favorite, and left the wilds of Connaught to carry her graces to the eastern market. The name of her was Enora. I was reading Latin by that time and found her name in our own records by Kearmit. Raymond came by some deeds giving names of her descendants, and it was a game of interest to trace them down through the centuries.

Happiness was with me in that place; I had never heard the Gaelic until I heard it there, and the knowing of it seemed breathed into me with the air, for I was soon delving in every corner for songs of the ancient bards and seeking out old singers, and hearing over and over their tales of the breaking of Ireland’s harps by England’s laws that her music might be killed forever.

The tales were sad enough, but I was only a lad and no sadness stayed on me, for I was in more happiness than ever before. In my early childhood I had been long ill, and debarred from ranging in freedom the field or the mountains, but in old half-Spanish-looking Galway I walked into new life—and new strength. The nights and days were filled with the harmonies of mere living. I was as one who has hungered long for full warm heartbeats and who grows drunken with the rhythmic music of that pulsing—all the world and the harmonies of it were as chorus to me.

I enjoyed life with every breath of me—not as my mother and Raymond did, in quiet and serene, but with the lilt of a singing gladness that was but a reflection of every flower—an echo of every bird-song and the joyous, thunderous rhythm of the tide with its menace of mysteries.

The Gaelic came to me as though in sudden remembrance, and I lived in the very spirit of the ancient legends of the Land Wonderful where turrets of sunken cities are seen in a clear day at the ebb, and the magic island of the “Land of the Ever Young” rises above the waters to the west every seven years.

Ireland is the tragic “different” land from every other. The wish is with me that I could tell to you the influences in that land—the inherited influences by which an unread peasant can recite the loves and battles of Queen Maeve, and the flight of Grania and her Diarmod, as if the passions of them had been in our own day rather than twenty centuries back in the shadows. Every well and river, every hill and battle-plain, has its legend of god or goddess, of the Danaans or the later wondrous Fionn and the Comrades. Nothing is old there, because the spirit of it is young. It is why the music of it has had soul enough to reach through the world—Teuton and Briton and Gaul borrowed and renamed the music of Ireland and the legends of Ireland, even while Britain smashed Ireland’s harps lest the bards keep alive forever her kinship with the Spirits of Beauty.