Read Online The Pig Comes to Dinner by Joseph Caldwell - Free Book Online Page A

to a gorging pig came up to them. “We’ll go ahead then,” said Kitty.
    Up the winding stones they went onto the first landing, continuing past Kitty’s desk. She considered giving a preliminary lecture before making the final ascent, giving Kieran some clue as to what he was about to be told, hinting, perhaps, that he must withhold judgments as to her ability to live in a castle and not have her imagination overwhelmed by ancient lore and thrice-told tales. She decided to wait.
    He must already have some premonition. The sound of the harp had been too soulful for any returned squatters and too human to suggest the intrusion of angels.
    Maybe Brid and Taddy would be there. Maybe Kieran would see them. Were she and he not one? The implications of this thought were too complex and far too troublesome for Kitty to give it further consideration. Just the fleeting suggestion unnerved her. To be of one heart was acceptable. But it surely had to stop there. To be of one mind with anyone but herself was not permissible.
    Kieran would either see Brid and Taddy or not. That was hardly for her to decide. But if he did see them, would she be jealous? Would this make her not the unique person she believed herself to be? Would she welcome this rival for Brid’s and Taddy’s manifestations? To avoid further turmoil—a turmoil given about two seconds of conscious awareness—Kitty continued with even more determination up the stairs, Kieran following behind.
    The loom was there, the harp set down on the stool. Brid and Taddy must be off somewhere—if they were anywhere at all—doing who knows what. Again Kitty refused to entertain further speculation. She did not consider it part of the arrangement that she know what ghosts did when they were not in view. That was their business, and she had no intention of sticking her nose into matters that would tax even more her already overburdened imagination.
    Kieran picked up the harp. “This could hardly be the one we heard. No strings.”
    â€œIt was the harp we heard,” said Kitty. “It needs no strings.” She paused, swallowed, then said, “It was a ghost played it.” She paused again, then went on. “And we both heard it. I not the only one. Her name is Brid. His name is Taddy. They were at our wedding feast. And before you think anything, whether I might be making sport—or gone daft—I’m telling you the truth. Brid and Taddy. I’ve been seeing them. Like here, in this room. Brid there at the loom. Taddy playing the harp. Brid with no thread, Taddy with no strings to his playing. You don’t have to believe me. But you have to believe I haven’t gone away with my head.”
    More mournful than fearful, Kieran asked, “Can this be?”
    â€œWho are we to say what can and cannot be?”
    â€œWe’re rational. We’re sane. Or we were until we came to this—this place. ”
    â€œWe”—Kitty squirmed a little as if trying to test the fit of her dress—“we have a few adjustments to make.”
    â€œThe squatters—”
    â€œGhosts, Kieran. Ghosts. The ghost of Brid. The ghost of Taddy.”
    Without taking his eyes off Kitty, Kieran lowered himself down onto the stool, still holding the harp. “Ghosts,” he said.
    â€œYes. Ghosts.” Kitty’s voice was quiet. “They appear. And they disappear. They’re here, and then they’re not here. You can believe me or not, according to your way. But it’s God’s truth—and if it isn’t His, then it’s mine.”
    Kieran stared toward the window high on the wall. “Then I’ve seen them, too,” he said quietly. “Even when my own eyes watched them be here, then here no more. Brid in the great hall one evening when the cows first came. Taddy alongside the pig on the slope goes down to the stream. But I couldn’t admit who they were, what they are.