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"I won't do this," she said, but her voice sounded distant and without authority, or any power at all to speak to her own self. "Get away from me, Lasher, get away from me. I'm telling you. And Stella told Mother..." The thought was gone, just gone. An image flashed into her mind, an image from long ago of the teenaged Deirdre, her older cousin, high in the oak, leaning back, lids shut, hips thrust forward beneath her little flowered dress, the look of Bad Thoughts and Evil Touches, the look of ecstasy! And she, Gifford, had been standing beneath the tree, and she had seen the dim outline of the man, the flash of the man, and the man had been with Deirdre.
"Deliver us from evil," she whispered.
In all her forty-six years, only one man had ever touched Gifford like that, or like this--only one man had ever torn off her clothing, in jest or clumsiness, ever forced his organ inside her, and kissed her throat. And this was flesh, no ghost, yes, flesh. Came through. I can't. God help me.
"Angel of God, my guardian dear..." Her own words fell away from her. She had not consented, and then the horrible realization came to her that she had not fought. They would say she had not fought. There was only this hideous passivity, this confusion, and her trying to get a grip, and to push against his shoulder, with the palm of her hand sliding against the smooth wool of his coat, and his coming inside her violently as she herself felt the climax sweep over her, carrying her near to darkness and near to silence and near to peace.
But not quite.
"Why? Why are you doing this?" Had she spoken aloud? She was drifting and dizzy and full of sweet and powerful sensations, sensations like the scent and the powerful stride of his organ inside her, the pumping against her that felt so natural, so thorough, so good! She thought it had stopped and that she was turning over on her side, but then she realized she hadn't moved at all. He was entering her again.
"Lovely Gifford," he sang. "Fit to be my bride in the glen, in the circle, my bride."
"I think, I think you're hurting me..." she said. "Oh God! Oh Mother. Help me. God. Somebody."
He covered her mouth again as once more the hot flood of semen came into her, spilling over and out and leaking down beneath her, and the sweet soft enchanting sensations lifted her and tossed her from one side to the other.
"Help me, somebody."
"There isn't anybody, darling. That's the secret of the universe," he said. "That is my theme, that is my cry. That is my message. And it feels so good, doesn't it? All your life you've told yourself it wasn't important..."
"Yes..."
"That there were loftier things, and now you know, you know why people risk hell for this, this flesh, this ecstasy."
"Yes."
"You know that whatever you have been forever or before, you are now alive, and with me, and I am inside you, and you are this body, no matter what else you are. My precious Gifford."
"Yes."
"Make my baby. See it, Gifford. See it. See its tiny limbs; see it swim to consciousness; see it; pick it out of the dark. Be the witch of my dreams, Gifford, be the mother of my child."
The sun shone down on her, making her hot and uncomfortable in the heavy sweater, and the pain inside her woke her suddenly, pushing her all the way up through the mist until she squinted not into mist at all but into the glaring sky.
The pain twisted, pulsed. These were cramps, these pains. These were contractions! She willed her hand to slip down between her legs. She felt the wetness and held up her hand to see the blood. She brought it close to her face and the blood dripped down on her. She felt it. Even the glare could not stop her from seeing how very red it was.
The water struck her suddenly; big waves washed right up against her, ice-cold, immensely powerful and then dying away all at once as if sucked back by the wind. She was lying in the surf! And the sun rose beyond the high stack of glowing clouds in the east, and gradually spread across the blue sky.
"Ah, do you see it?" she whispered.
"I'm sorry, my darling," he said to her. He stood way way far away, a wraith against the brightness, so dark himself that she could make out nothing, except his long hair blowing. And then it came back to her, how silky his hair was, how very fine and black, and how good it smelled. But he was just a distant figure now. There was the fragrance, naturally; and there was the voice; that was all.
"I'm sorry, my precious. I wanted for it to live. And I know that you tried. I'm sorry, my darling deaf, my beloved Gifford. I didn't mean to hurt you. And we both tried. Lord. God, forgive me! What am I to do, Gifford?"
Silence. Again came the waves.
Was he gone? Her willowy Christ with his soft hair, who'd been talking to her for so long? The water washed over her face. It felt so good. What had he told her, something about going down into the little town, and seeing the creche there, with the little plaster Christ Child in the hay, and all the brothers in their brown robes. He had not asked to be a priest, only one of the brothers. "But you are meant for better things."
It cut right through the pain for a moment, that sense of lost hours, lost words and images, she too had been to Assisi, she had told him. St. Francis was her saint. Would he get the medal for her? Out of her purse? It was St. Michael, but she wanted it. He'd understand. If you understood about St. Francis you understood about St. Michael. You understood about all saints. She had meant to ask, but he had been talking on and on about the songs he used to sing, songs in Italian, and the Latin hymn, naturally, about the sunny hills of Italy and then that dark cold mist hanging over Donnelaith.
She felt nausea and tasted salt on her lips. And her hands were painfully cold. The water stung her! It came again, rolling her to the left, so that the sand hurt her cheek, and the pain in her belly was unbearable. Oh, God, you cannot feel pain like this and not...what? Help me.
She fell again to the right; she looked out into the glare of the Gulf; she looked into the full blaze of the morning. Lord God, it had all been true and she had failed to stop it, and now it had reached out through the great tangled mass of whispered secrets and threats and it had killed her.
But what will Ryan do without me? What will happen to Pierce if I'm not there? Clancy needs me. They can't have the wedding if this happens to me! It will ruin everything for them! Where in the name of God is Rowan? And which church would they use? They shouldn't go back to St. Alphonsus. Rowan!
How busy she was suddenly, making lists and charts, and drifting, and meaning to call Shelby and Lilia, and when the water came again, she didn't mind the salt so much or the numbing chill of it. Alicia didn't know where the Victrola was! Nobody did but Gifford. And the napkins for the wedding. There were hundreds of linen napkins in the attic at First Street, and they could be used for the wedding, if only Rowan would come home and say that--Good heavens, the only one she didn't have to worry about was Mona. Mona would be fine. Mona didn't really need her. Mona...!
Ah, the water felt good. No, she didn't mind it, not a bit, as they say. Where was the emerald? Did you take it with you, Rowan? He'd given her the medal. She had it around her neck, but getting her hand up there to clasp the chain was now out of the question. What was required now was an entire inventory, including the Victrola and the pearls and the emerald and those records of Oncle Julien's, all those old Victrola songs, and the dress in the attic in the box which had belonged to Ancient Evelyn. She turned her face this time into the water, thinking that it was probably washing the blood away from her, and off her hand.
No, didn't mind the cold water. Never had. She just minded the pain, the awful sharpening and grinding pain. You think life is worth it? I don't know. What do you think? This pain, it's not particularly unusual, you know, to feel pain like this, to feel this suffering, it's nothing special, you know, it's just. I don't know if it's worth it. I really really don't.
Five
MOTHER WAS MISERABLE now. She could not free herself from the tape that bound her arms. She struggled. And Emaleth tossed in misery, listening to Mother cry. Mother was sickened by the
soiled bed in which she lay; she turned her head to the side and sickness came out of her mouth. The world of Emaleth trembled.
Emaleth ached for Mother. If only Mother knew that she was there, but Mother did not. Mother had screamed and screamed. But no one had come. Mother had gone into a rage and torn at the tape, but it had not come loose. Mother slept for long periods and dreamed strange dreams, and then woke and cried again.
When Mother looked out the distant windows, Emaleth saw the city of towers and lights. She heard what Mother heard--the airplanes above, and the cars far below--and she saw the clouds, and when Mother knew the names of these things, so did Emaleth. Mother cursed this place, she cursed herself, she said prayers to humans who were dead. Father had told Emaleth who these humans were and that they could never help Mother.
