Did Hattie know (did anyone know) how much innocent blood spilled in Derry over the years of the occupation or how much more blood might yet spill? Ireland’s suffering began with the betrayal of fairies. Those who cut down the sacred groves doomed themselves and all their descendants!
Hattie was surprised by her aunt’s vehemence, and concerned at Indigo’s reaction; but Indigo’s expression became thoughtful. Jesus was betrayed too, she responded. But after the Pharisees tried to have Jesus killed, he left the Sea of Galilee to return to the mountains beyond Walker Lake, where he was born. As Aunt Bronwyn listened, she glanced at Hattie to see her reaction to the child’s comment.
Hattie nodded. It was true; six or seven years before, newspapers reported the Indians claimed to have a Messiah, a Christ of their own, for whom they gathered to perform a dance. Hattie followed the reports in the New York Times. It all ended rather badly; settlers feared Indian uprisings, and in South Dakota the army killed more than a hundred dancers.
Aunt Bronwyn shook her head slowly; her expression was solemn. Indigo stopped playing with the spools and the parrot, and looked up at them; she told them not to worry: the soldiers would not find the Messiah and his family or the dancers because they fled far away to the east. By winter it would be safe, and the Messiah would return with the first snow.
Hattie was about to caution Indigo about exaggeration and falsehood when Aunt Bronwyn asked Indigo if she had seen the Messiah. Indigo nodded eagerly; they all were so beautiful. Aunt Bronwyn smiled and nodded. Here on the remote islands people sometimes heard the sounds of voices and drums in the night; through the fog or rain mist at night people sometimes saw the silhouettes of dancers around fires on the hilltops. Indigo’s eyes were round with delight as she nodded vigorously.
Hattie cleared her throat; she wanted to change the subject before her aunt went any further and confused the child with superstition. But the old woman’s face was bright with enthusiasm as she rattled on about sightings along the shore in the fog and mist; the people saw his Mother, sometimes with a child they called the Son of God. Indigo and her aunt exchanged smiles; yes, the Messiah and his dancers were safe.
Hattie was at a loss for words. Her mother had complained of Aunt Bronwyn’s growling terriers and the cattle on the front steps, but she never mentioned Aunt Bronwyn’s enthusiasm for Celtic mythology. Why, her aunt had left the church altogether! Hattie was critical of developments in the early church, yet she never considered leaving the church entirely. Hattie did not want the child to become confused—certainly not by the notion old stones should be worshiped!
The intensity of the storm seemed on the wane. Hattie returned the thesis notes to the portfolio. Just then Edward appeared in the doorway clutching his left hand in a towel soaked with blood.
Their dinner of picnic food was forgotten as Aunt Bronwyn and Hattie cared for the deep gash in Edward’s left hand. Somehow the freshly sharpened knife slipped as he practiced diagonal cuts on green willow twigs. Hattie applied pressure to the wound with a clean napkin while Aunt Bronwyn went to call the coachman to go for the doctor. A dozen stitches were required to close the wound, and Edward was pale and shaken when the doctor finished. By the time they remembered dinner, it was nearly eleven o’clock and they were too tired and overwrought to eat more than a few bites before they all went to bed.
An emptiness in her stomach woke Indigo just before daylight; she could barely make out the silhouette of the parrot asleep with his head tucked under one wing. She took a sip of water to try to quiet the hunger and wished she had more of Mrs. Abbott’s ginger cookies. It was much too early to get up, so Indigo lay in bed thinking about Sister Salt and Mama, and her longing for them made her chest ache until tears filled her eyes and rolled down her cheeks into her ears. Her sobs and sniffles woke the parrot, who watched her curiously. She had one hopeful thought that stopped the tears: On their walk to the excavations the day before, she heard Aunt Bronwyn mention a Christ Church to Hattie and Edward, but Indigo didn’t see which direction she pointed; she was too shy to ask where it was, but it must be nearby. Today she would ask Aunt Bronwyn to show her the Christ Church. The Messiah and his followers went away when the hot weather came, and though she knew it wasn’t likely, still she thought it might be possible that he stopped at his church in England on his way to the Holy Land.
At the first sounds from downstairs, Indigo got up, and with Rainbow on her shoulder, she went to the dining room, where the coachman’s wife served her and Aunt Bronwyn tea and hot shortcake. After she ate two shortcakes and drank two cups of tea with sugar and milk, Indigo asked Aunt Bronwyn if Christ Church was nearby. She thought she heard it mentioned and she thought they might find out if the Messiah and his followers had been seen nearby. Aunt Bronwyn’s expression was thoughtful—yes, there were a number of churches and even villages with the name Christ Church. Then she smiled. Indigo was right, she said; Christ might be at any of those places. He might be anywhere.
The morning after the storm was clear and sunny and the air rain-fresh and fragrant with the damp plants and new flowers. They left Edward with his citrus books, his injured hand elevated on a small pillow, in a garden chair under the arbor of rambling white roses.
The coach took them up and around to the hilltop park estates of the wealthy, who resided in Bath for a month of gambling and therapeutic baths each year. Hattie asked if these were the old families of Bath, and Aunt Bronwyn laughed merrily. Fled long ago, they had, to escape the milling flocks of tourists and vacationers and the traffic jams like this one forcing their coach to inch past the hotels and shops. The sounds of the street traffic, music from the organ grinders, and shouts of the street vendors made conversation difficult. Indigo leaned out the window to get a better look at the toys—windup dogs and bouncing rubber balls sold on the sidewalk by men and boys dressed in white.
Once out of town, Indigo was excited to see the trees and vegetation of the river valley gradually give way to a rolling plain of grasses that appeared soft and lush in all colors of green, yellow, and copper. Aunt Bronwyn pointed out the window; off in the distance, if one looked very carefully, one could see the largest of the upright stones; next to this stone and still hidden from view was the old church. The lurching of the coach and the shifting sunlight on the plain made the boulder difficult to see until they got closer.
As they neared them, Hattie was quite amazed at the size of the upright stones—they were as tall as the church walls and as broad as the bow of a steamship. She felt a bit foolish because she had expected old stones on the scale of the stones in Aunt Bronwyn’s garden.
They parked in the shade of an upright stone that dwarfed the horses and coach, but they no sooner got out than another coach pulled up. Aunt Bronwyn exhaled indignantly when she saw the occupants; the young men appeared to be archaeology students, who eagerly followed their professor with measuring rods and notebooks in hand.
“Curses, curses,” Aunt Bronwyn muttered under her breath as the group tramped down the meadow path to the center of the stone ring and began to measure the distances between the giant stones. To avoid the archaeology class, Aunt Bronwyn took them first to see the old Christ Church near the burial cove.
How odd to build a church here, so far from the village, Hattie thought. The church site was down the slope of the hill from the giant boulders, which appeared to dwarf the church structure until one reached the churchyard.
To Indigo, the huge upright boulder appeared to be a giant blackbird’s head and the two great overturned boulders on either side were the giant bird’s wings outstretched.
A rusted chain and lock secured the church doors, but they were able to peek through the crack between the doors to see the bare stone room. Only the stone steps and massive altar stone, supported by blocks of stone, remained; the altar’s stones were cut from the same sandstone as the three giant horizontal stones that formed the entryway to the ancient burial mound.
The location of the church, be
tween the stone circles on the hilltop and the smaller stone ring and burial mound, was intended to discourage the people from their midsummer bonfires and all-night dances. Stories claimed the stones of the circles here were once guests and members of a wedding party who danced all Saturday through the night to the sabbath, when suddenly the sinners dancing in their circles turned to stone. While she was talking, Aunt Bronwyn kept an eye on the hilltop, and when the students and their teacher began to make their way toward the church, Aunt Bronwyn nodded at Hattie and Indigo and they walked briskly up an outlying path to avoid the group.
Indigo touched each of the giant stones along the circular path; the dark stones were rough with melted pebbles and rock fragments. Tiny quartz crystals in the great sandstone boulders glittered in the late morning sun; Indigo ran her finger inside the circles and spirals incised in the limestone—they looked like big eyes to her; and they were eyes, Aunt Bronwyn explained, the eyes of the original Mother, the Mother of God, the Mother of Jesus.
Indigo felt a rush of excitement and raced over the fragrant damp turf to the center of the great circle, where she sang out the words of the song from long ago: “The black rock, the black rock—the rock is broken and from it pours clear, fresh water, clear, fresh water!” Yes! The Messiah and his family stopped by this place on their journey to the east; Indigo felt certain of this.
Just then another vehicle—an open buggy full of sightseers—arrived, and Aunt Bronwyn shook her head and Hattie called to Indigo and they walked back to their coach. The best time to visit the stone circles was in the autumn or winter, without the commotion of so many sightseers. She preferred to visit the stones just as the fog and mist of a storm swept over the hilltop, because then it was possible to feel a marvelous energy and life from the stones. Hattie nodded; she took a last look around, embarrassed that she felt nothing from the boulders and curious to know what the measurements of the archaeologists might reveal.
Indigo sat on the edge of the seat all the way back to the house, her face bright with excitement. She did not expect to see Christ at his church, but it was reassuring to see the hilltop and great stones where he and the others stopped from time to time. She hoped Rainbow had not screeched or disturbed Edward while they were away. They’d carefully hung the brass travel cage from a stout rope tied in the main branch of an old yew tree inside the entry yard of the old cloisters, where the coachman’s wife, who liked pet birds, promised to reassure Rainbow he was not abandoned. Loud screeches greeted their coach even before it stopped, but the coachman’s wife reported he was quiet until then; a blackbird couple from the orchard kept him company most of the morning.
Although Edward’s hand was not quite healed, he booked them on a ship that departed Bristol for Genoa the following week. Hattie no longer slept soundly in the old cloister, and she worried Indigo would be misled by her aunt’s eccentric ideas.
The day of their departure for Bristol, Aunt Bronwyn read them an article from the London Times: certain Coptic scrolls obtained years before by the British Museum had just been authenticated. Hattie’s hands shook as she held the paper. So! Her intuition had not failed her! True words were beautiful words! She must write to her father. Poor Dr. Rhinehart! He died the previous year, before his life’s work could be vindicated; but she was more fortunate; now she could petition the thesis committee to reconsider their decision. But almost as soon as she had the thought, she realized she had no desire to return to the committee or to the thesis, though she could not explain this reluctance. She should have felt elated; instead she felt much as she had at the time of the committee’s original decision—worn down and sad—though she smiled bravely as she passed the article back to Aunt Bronwyn. Edward did not ask to see the article but he congratulated her, saying science had done its job for the muddled humanists. A bit later she excused herself to finish packing, but once in the room, she felt strangely tired and lay on the bed without removing her shoes.
At the pier, tears filled Aunt Bronwyn’s eyes as she smiled and hugged Indigo to her big bosom. “You must bring Indigo again,” Aunt Bronwyn said, and promised to visit them next year in Riverside when the weather in Bath was gloomy. Moments before, she gave Indigo a package that held a small silk-bound notebook where Aunt Bronwyn hand-printed the names (in English and Latin) of medicinal plants and the best conditions and methods to grow them. All the other pages in the green silk notebook were blank, ready for Indigo to draw or write anything she wanted. Bundled on top of the notebook with white ribbons were dozens of waxed paper packets of seeds wrapped in white tissue paper. Aunt Bronwyn also packed a large hamper of food and treats for the voyage. Their farewells were cut short by a light rain that gave way to a downpour. Indigo could not fight back the tears after their hug as she and Aunt Bronwyn parted. The parrot made a loud screeching sound that stopped her tears as she petted the bird and whispered reassurances to him.
Part Seven
THE STEAMSHIP departed in the early evening with the tide; despite the rain, the sea was calm. A day away from the Canary Islands they woke to a bright sunlight and blue sky. The warm temperatures reminded Indigo of the desert; the peaks and troughs of the ocean waves made her think of odd barren mountains and hills of salt water. As they neared land the seagulls floated on the ocean’s surface and caused Indigo to mistake them for big sea flowers. Rainbow squawked and made no mistake of their identity—they’d kill him and eat him if they could, Hattie explained.
The voyage past Gibraltar was calm and quite lovely. Edward remained in the cabin with his hand in a basin of hot salts the cabin boy changed once an hour on doctor’s orders. Hattie and Indigo with her parrot enjoyed the fresh air and sun on walks on the deck. Edward joined them for the evening walk. He continuously squeezed a small latex rubber ball in the injured hand to limber the tendons as Hattie described the schools of flying fish they counted; Indigo had a good head for numbers.
The tedious daily regimen of the hand soaked in steaming water subdued the infection, and the wound was nearly healed. When they were not counting seabirds, Hattie and Indigo practiced spelling the words from the story of the Chinese monkey. Hattie felt relieved to be fulfilling at least a part of the agreement Edward made with the boarding school superintendent—to continue teaching her to read and write.
For geography they accepted the ship captain’s invitation to visit the bridge, where he showed them the maps and charts that guided them toward Gibraltar. On the wall chart of the Mediterranean, Hattie pointed out Italy and the town of Lucca, where they’d visit Aunt Bronwyn’s friend; here was the island of Corsica they were bound for. The captain expressed surprise Americans would risk a visit to such a lawless place (the mountains were full of bandits and revolutionists!), a place with so little to offer the traveler. Hattie stepped back from the chart at once; she regretted the mention of their final destination, but thanked the captain for his concern about their safety. She signaled Indigo to follow her, though they’d only just got there.
Was it her exhaustion that left her so enervated and short-tempered? She fully intended to discuss dangers in the hills of Corsica with Edward after they reached Lucca and she had time to rest.
Indigo’s spelling list for the week included words like “wicked,” “hundred,” “scriptures,” and “scoundrel” because the Chinese monkey was in a lot of trouble. She enjoyed the assignment to use each of the spelling words at lease once in a sentence she made up herself. Hattie was surprised at the sentence in which a policeman was called a “scoundrel” by the Messiah.
Edward locked the cabin doors at night because he feared Hattie might sleepwalk, but she slept soundly every night except the last night before they reached Genoa. That night she dreamed she was awakened in her berth by a soft glow in the corner of the cabin, a glow that seemed to spread even as she watched it. She recognized the glow as the light she saw in Aunt Bronwyn’s garden, and when she sat up in her berth she was shocked to see Edward’s empty berth.
Where could he be
? As she leaned over to get a better look at the little antechamber where Indigo slept, she caught a glimpse of him that set her heart pounding. He was standing by the small writing desk in the dark with a bundle in both hands. She was shaking so badly she had difficulty finding her voice. She did not want to wake the child or disturb the other passengers, so she whispered his name loudly; but the figure in the shadow did not respond. Surely Edward did not sleepwalk! She watched transfixed by the luminous glow that emanated near the figure. Suddenly the radiance increased now as bright as a gas lamp and she saw it was the tin mask from the sacred spring.
She tried to call out to Edward but she could not seem to get the words out. The mask began to advance with the light through the darkness until suddenly it covered the face of the figure in shadow. “Edward!” she called out, and woke herself and Edward. She assured him it was nothing, a nightmare, and he turned in the upper berth to go back to sleep.
Hattie listened to the sounds of Edward’s breathing and the beat of her heart, and concentrated on slowing her heartbeat to match the rhythm of his breathing. Certain thoughts sent her heart racing and had to be locked out; all the old feelings swept over her if she permitted herself any thought of her thesis. Somehow the news of the authentication of Dr. Rhinehart’s old scrolls only made her feel worse about her rejection by the graduate school.