Read Online Grandmother and the Priests by Taylor Caldwell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Taylor Caldwell
Tags: Roman, Catholic, irish, Miracles, bishop, Scots, priest, Welsh, Early 20th Century, Sassenagh, late nineteenth century, Monsignori, Sassenach, mass
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stumbled out to the jaunty-cart, which smelled of hay and dung and rotten apples, and which possessed two large and uncertain wheels. He sat on the side seat and had to cling for dear life as the shepherd whipped up the cart and it lurched and dipped and soared over the broken road. He was grateful, for the first time, for the shawl an old village woman had knitted for him. The piercing cold of the dank dark night chilled him except for his shoulders and neck and chest, which the shawl protected. The horse snorted and shied; the cart slipped, almost upset. The black trees hung over the priest’s head. Then a wheel fell off, the horse broke away, and the priest was thrown to the ground.
The breath was knocked out of him. Cursing, the young shepherd helped him to his feet and found a stone for him to sit on. “Don’t bother about me!” the priest said, angrily. “Go back at once to the Lady Dolores and tell her I am on my way, and if you love your master talk to him. Talk, talk, to him!”
“He’s locked in his room,” whimpered the shepherd.
“He won’t kill himself so long as you talk to him,” said the priest. “Don’t you understand, you fool, that his soul is in mortal danger? Go on, at once!”
He almost struck the blathering lad in his desperate anxiety. “Go! Tell the Lady Dolores to talk to her husband also! You’ve got faster legs than I. Run — run as if the devil were after you!”
The priest was afraid that his leg was broken, for it was numb and throbbing. Despairingly, under moonlight as cold as ice, and as shifting as shadows, he rubbed the leg and prayed. He sat alone on the stone; he pulled up his trouser leg; there was an ugly gash, bleeding and deep, on his flesh. He wrapped his handkerchief about it, gasping with pain and despair. Then he cautiously flexed his leg. It was not broken. Still, when he pushed himself to his feet he almost fainted with the pain. Apparently be had torn ligaments. His ankle and knee pounded with fire and agony. The village was far to his left, and if he attempted to reach it for help and a wagon, he would lose time. The castle was nearer, though not to be seen as yet in this forest of great twisted trees and underbrush. “Even if I must crawl, I must get there,” he said, grimly, and prayed harder and more fervently than he had ever prayed in his life.
Moving slowly and feebly, sweating an icy sweat in his pain, almost swooning, feeling the blood dripping down his leg, he moved from tree to tree, gasping, groaning. Thorns grasped at him; when the moon disappeared he collided with trees, knocking his head. He heard owls hooting, and the raucous cries of disturbed rooks, and rustlings in the undergrowth. Thankfully he recalled that there were no snakes in Ireland. Once or twice, without volition, he raised a weak shout for help, and only the owls answered him or some frightened bird. Once or twice he forgot where he was going, where he was, for the pain was worsening and was by now unbearable. He had to drag the leg after him, holding on to trees, to the tops of sturdy bushes. He blinked icy water from his eyes; his head was ringing like a great bell. The shoe on his injured foot felt like a cast of iron, for his flesh was swelling rapidly.
Perhaps it was his pain and his despair that made the moonlight take on a weird cast, shimmering and dancing. He was only thankful that he could see a little better. His forehead was bruised from his collisions with trees. His whole tortured body cried for rest. His leg dragged behind him like a swollen log, smoldering with flame.
He could not see the ground. He was knee-deep in swirling mist. He caught glimpses of floating white shapes in the forest, almost human, formed of the fog. And then he reached a tiny open glade in the forest, filled with the curiously moving moonlight.
A young man was sitting on a log in the glade, smoking (at midnight!) a pipe as casually as if he were home
The breath was knocked out of him. Cursing, the young shepherd helped him to his feet and found a stone for him to sit on. “Don’t bother about me!” the priest said, angrily. “Go back at once to the Lady Dolores and tell her I am on my way, and if you love your master talk to him. Talk, talk, to him!”
“He’s locked in his room,” whimpered the shepherd.
“He won’t kill himself so long as you talk to him,” said the priest. “Don’t you understand, you fool, that his soul is in mortal danger? Go on, at once!”
He almost struck the blathering lad in his desperate anxiety. “Go! Tell the Lady Dolores to talk to her husband also! You’ve got faster legs than I. Run — run as if the devil were after you!”
The priest was afraid that his leg was broken, for it was numb and throbbing. Despairingly, under moonlight as cold as ice, and as shifting as shadows, he rubbed the leg and prayed. He sat alone on the stone; he pulled up his trouser leg; there was an ugly gash, bleeding and deep, on his flesh. He wrapped his handkerchief about it, gasping with pain and despair. Then he cautiously flexed his leg. It was not broken. Still, when he pushed himself to his feet he almost fainted with the pain. Apparently be had torn ligaments. His ankle and knee pounded with fire and agony. The village was far to his left, and if he attempted to reach it for help and a wagon, he would lose time. The castle was nearer, though not to be seen as yet in this forest of great twisted trees and underbrush. “Even if I must crawl, I must get there,” he said, grimly, and prayed harder and more fervently than he had ever prayed in his life.
Moving slowly and feebly, sweating an icy sweat in his pain, almost swooning, feeling the blood dripping down his leg, he moved from tree to tree, gasping, groaning. Thorns grasped at him; when the moon disappeared he collided with trees, knocking his head. He heard owls hooting, and the raucous cries of disturbed rooks, and rustlings in the undergrowth. Thankfully he recalled that there were no snakes in Ireland. Once or twice, without volition, he raised a weak shout for help, and only the owls answered him or some frightened bird. Once or twice he forgot where he was going, where he was, for the pain was worsening and was by now unbearable. He had to drag the leg after him, holding on to trees, to the tops of sturdy bushes. He blinked icy water from his eyes; his head was ringing like a great bell. The shoe on his injured foot felt like a cast of iron, for his flesh was swelling rapidly.
Perhaps it was his pain and his despair that made the moonlight take on a weird cast, shimmering and dancing. He was only thankful that he could see a little better. His forehead was bruised from his collisions with trees. His whole tortured body cried for rest. His leg dragged behind him like a swollen log, smoldering with flame.
He could not see the ground. He was knee-deep in swirling mist. He caught glimpses of floating white shapes in the forest, almost human, formed of the fog. And then he reached a tiny open glade in the forest, filled with the curiously moving moonlight.
A young man was sitting on a log in the glade, smoking (at midnight!) a pipe as casually as if he were home
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