“It’s noon,” said Father Donnelly. “I’ve brought you some lunch.”
Flynn focused on the ruddy face of the old man. He saw that the priest was staring at the ring on his finger. He got to his feet and looked around. Maureen was sitting at the table wearing a new pullover and eating from a steaming bowl. The priest had been there for some time, and that annoyed him. He walked over and sat opposite her. “Feeling better?”
“Much.”
Father Donnelly pulled up a stool. “Would you mind if I joined you?”
“It’s your food and your table,” said Flynn.
The priest smiled. “One never gets used to dining alone.”
Flynn took a spoon. “Why don’t they send you a … monk or something?” He took a spoonful of stew.
“There’s a lay brother who does the caretaking, but he’s on leave.” He leaned forward. “I see you’ve found the treasure of Whitehorn Abbey.”
Flynn continued to eat as he spoke. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist the temptation.”
“That’s all right.”
Maureen looked up. “What are we talking about, please?”
Flynn slipped off the ring, passed it to her, and motioned toward the opened chest.
She examined the ring, then passed it to Father Donnelly. “It’s an extraordinary ring.”
Father Donnelly toyed with the ring. “Extraordinarily large, in any case.”
Flynn poured a bottle of Guinness into a glass. “Where did it come from?”
The priest shook his head. “The last abbot said it was always here with the other things in that box. It may have been excavated here during one of the rebuildings. Perhaps under this floor.”
Flynn stared at the ring in the priest’s hand. “Pre-Christian?”
“Yes. Pagan. If you want a romantic story, it is said that it was a warrior king’s ring. More specifically, Fenian. It’s certainly a man’s ring, and no average man at that.”
Flynn nodded. “Why not MacCumail’s ring? Or Dermot’s?”
“Why not, indeed? Who would dare wear a ring larger than this?”
Flynn smiled. “You’ve a pagan streak in you, Father. Didn’t Saint Patrick consign the departed Fenians to hell? What was their crime, then, that they must spend eternity in hell?”
“No crime. Just born at the wrong time.” He smiled. “Like many of us.”
“Right.” Flynn liked a priest who could laugh at his dogma.
The priest leaned across the table. “When Oisin, son of Finn MacCumail, returned from the Land of Perpetual Youth, he found Ireland Christian. The brave warrior was confused, sad. Oisin rejected the ordered Christian society and longed with nostalgia for the untamed lustiness of old Erin. If he or his father, Finn MacCumail, came into Ulster today, they would be overjoyed at this Christian warfare. And they would certainly recognize the new pagans among us.”
“Meaning me?”
Maureen poured tea into three mugs. “He’s talking to you, Brian, isn’t he?”
Father Donnelly rose. “I’ll take my tea in the refectory.”
Maureen Malone rose, too. “Don’t leave.”
“I really must.” His demeanor had changed from paternal to businesslike. He looked at Flynn. “Your friends want you to stay here for two more days. They’ll contact me and let me know the plan. Any reply?”
Flynn shook his head. “No.”
Maureen looked at Flynn, then at Father Donnelly. “I have a reply. Tell them I want safe passage to Dublin, a hundred pounds, and a work visa for the south.”
The priest nodded. He turned to go, hesitated, and came back. He placed the ring on the small table. “Mister …”
“Cocharan.”
“Yes. Take this ring.”
“Why?”
“Because you want it and I don’t.”
“It’s a valuable relic.”
“So are you.”
“I won’t ask you what you mean by that.” He stood and looked hard at the priest, then took the ring from the table and placed it on his finger. Several new thoughts were forming in his mind, but he had no one to share them with. “Thank you.” He looked at the ring. “Any curse attached to it that I should know about?”
The priest replied, “You should assume there is.”
He looked at the two people standing before him. “I can’t approve of the way you live your lives, but I find it painful to see a love dying. Any love, anywhere in this unloving country.” He turned and made his way out of the cellar.
Flynn knew that Maureen had been talking to the priest while he’d been sleeping. He was having difficulty dealing with all that had happened in so short a time. Belfast, the old lady and the abbey, a priest who used pagan legends to make Christian statements, Maureen’s aloofness. He was clearly not in control. He stood motionless for a time, then turned toward her. “I’d like you to reconsider about Dublin.”
She looked down and shook her head.
“I’m asking you to stay … not only because I … What I mean is …”
“I know what you mean. Once in, never out. I’m not afraid of them.”
“You should be. I can’t protect you—”
“I’m not asking you to.” She looked at him. “We’re both better off.”
“You’re probably right. You understand these things better than I.”
She knew that tone of voice. Remote. Sarcastic. The air in the cellar felt dense, oppressive. Church or not, the place made her uneasy. She thought about the coffin through which they had entered this hole, and that had been a little like dying. When she came out again she wanted to leave behind every memory of the place, every thought of the war. She looked at the ring on his hand. “Leave the damned thing here.”
“I’m not only taking the ring, Maureen, I’m taking the name as well.”
“What name?”
“I need a new code name … Finn MacCumail.”
She almost laughed. “In any other country they’d treat you for megalomania. In Northern Ireland they’ll find you quite normal, Brian.”
“But I am normal.”
“Not bloody likely.”
He looked at her in the dim candlelight. He thought he had never seen anyone so lovely, and he realized that he hadn’t thought of her in that way for a long time. Now she was flushed with the expectation of new beginnings, not to mention the flush of fever that reddened her cheeks and caused her eyes to burn bright. “You may well be right.”
“About your being a lunatic?”
“Well, that too.” He smiled at the small shared joke. “But I meant about you going off to Dublin.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m only sorry I can’t go with you.”
“Perhaps, Brian, some day you’ll get tired of this.”
“Not bloody likely.”
“No.”
“Well, I’ll miss you.”
“I hope so,” she said.
He stayed silent for a moment, then said, “I still don’t know if we can trust him.”
“He’s a saint, for God’s sake, Brian. Take him for what he appears to be.”
“He appears different to me. Something odd about him. Anyway, we’re not home free yet.”
“I know.”
“If anything happens and I don’t have time to make a proper parting … well …”
“You’ve had time enough over the years to say what you felt. Time wasn’t the problem. Tea?”
“Yes, please.”
They sat silently, drinking their tea.
Flynn put down his cup. “Your sister …”
She shook her head. “Sheila is beyond our help.”
“Maybe not.”
“I don’t want to see anyone else killed….”
“There are other ways….” He lapsed into silence, then said, “The keys to the jails of Ulster are in America.”
A month later, when spring was firmly planted in the countryside and three weeks after Maureen Malone left for Dublin, Brian Flynn hired a car and went out to the abbey to thank Father Donnelly and to ask him about possible help in the future.