But in all his years helming the Greenbriar, Harrity had never had a stowaway—at least that he knew of—and he wasn’t about to start now. Like having a prowler in your house. You simply didn’t allow it.
Maguire had started the talk that first night out of Haifa. Harrity’s thought at the time was that Dennis had been nipping at the Jameson’s a little earlier than usual. He’d let it go and not given it another thought until two nights ago when Cleary said he’d seen a woman on the aft deck as they were passing through the Malta Channel.
A temperate man, Cleary. Not the sort who’d be after seeing things that weren’t there.
So Harrity himself was keeping watch on the aft deck these past two nights. And so far no woman.
He turned his back to the wind and struck a wooden match against the stern rail. As he puffed his pipe to life, relishing the first aromatic lungfuls, a deep serenity stole over him. The phosphorescent flashes churning in the wake, the balmy, briny air, the stars overhead, lighting the surface of the Mediterranean as it stretched long and wide and smooth to the horizon. Life was good.
He sensed movement to his left, turned, and fumbled to catch his pipe as it dropped from his shocked-open mouth.
She stood there, beside him, not two feet away. A woman…at the rail, staring into the east, back along the route they’d sailed. She was wearing a loose robe of some sort, pulled up around her head. Its cowl hid her features. Now he knew why Maguire had thought she’d been wrapped in a blanket.
He shook off the initial shock and stuck his pipe bit between his teeth. He should have been angry—furious, for sure—but he could find no hostility within him. Only wonder at how she’d come up behind him without him hearing her.
“And who would you be now?”
The woman continued her silent stare off the stern.
“What are you after doing on me ship?”
Slowly she turned toward him. He could not make out her features in the shadow of the cowl, but he felt her eyes on him. And the weight of her stare was a gentle hand caressing the surface of his mind, erasing all questions.
She turned and walked away. Or was she walking? She seemed to glide along the deck. Harrity had an urge to follow her but his legs seemed so heavy, his shoes felt riveted to the deck. He could only stand and watch as she followed the rail along the starboard side to the superstructure where she was swallowed by the deeper shadows.
And then she was gone and he could move again. He sucked on his pipe but the bowl was cold. And so was he. Suddenly the deck of the Greenbriar was a lonely place.
‡
Cashelbanagh, Ireland
Like everyone else, Monsignor Vincenzo Riccio had heard the endless talk about the green of the Irish countryside, but not until he was actually driving along the roads south of Shannon Airport did he realize how firmly based in fact all that talk had been. He gazed through the open rear window at the passing fields. This land was green. In all his fifty-six years he could not remember seeing a green like this.
“Your country is most beautiful, Michael” he said. His English was good, but he knew there was no hiding his Neapolitan upbringing.
Michael the driver—the good folk of Cashelbanagh had sent one of their number to fetch the Monsignor from the airport—glanced over his shoulder with a broad, yellow-toothed smile.
“Aye, that it is, Monsignor. But wait till you see Cashelbanagh. The picture-perfect Irish village. As a matter of fact, if you’re after looking up ‘Irish village’ in the dictionary, sure enough it’ll be saying Cashelbanagh. Perfect place for a miracle.”
“It is much farther?”
“Only a wee bit down the road. And wait till you see the reception committee they’ll be having for you.”
Vincenzo wished he’d come here sooner. He liked these people and the green of this land enthralled him. But the way things were looking lately, he wouldn’t get a chance for a return visit.
And too bad he couldn’t stay longer. But this was only a stopover, scheduled at the last minute as he was leaving Rome for New York. He was one of the Vatican’s veteran investigators of the miraculous, and the Holy See had asked him to look into what lately had become known as the Weeping Virgin of Cashelbanagh.
The Weeping Virgin had been gathering an increasing amount of press over the past few weeks, first the Irish papers, then the London tabloids, and recently the story had gained international attention. People from all over the world had begun to flock to the little village in County Cork to see the daily miracle of the painting of the Virgin Mary that shed real tears. Healings had been reported—cures, visions, raptures. “A New Lourdes!” screamed tabloid headlines all over the world.
It had been getting out of hand. The Holy See wanted the “miracle” investigated. The Vatican had no quarrel with miracles, as long as they were real. But the faithful should not be led astray by tricks of the light, tricks of nature, and tricks of the calculated human kind.
They chose Vincenzo for the task. Not simply because he’d already had experience investigating a number of miracles that turned out to be anything but miraculous, but because the Vatican had him on a westbound plane this weekend anyway, to Sloan-Kettering Memorial in Manhattan to try an experimental chemotherapy protocol for his liver cancer. He could make a brief stop in Ireland, couldn’t he? Take a day or two to look into this weeping painting, then be on his way again. No pain, no strain, just send a full report of his findings back to Rome when he reached New York.
“Tell me, Michael,” Vincenzo said. “What do you know of these miracles?”
“I’ll be glad to tell you it all, Monsignor, because I was there from the start. Well, not the very start. You see, the painting of the Virgin Mary has been gracing the west wall of Seamus O’Halloran’s home for two generations now. His grandfather Danny painted it there during the year before he died. Finished the last stroke, then took to his bed and never got up again. Can you imagine that? ‘Twas almost as if the old fellow was hanging on just so’s he could be finishing the painting. Anyways, over the years the weather has faded it, and it’s become such a fixture about the village that it became part of the scenery, if you know what I’m sayin’. Much like a tree in someone’s yard. You pass that yard half a dozen times a day but you never take no notice of the tree. Unless of course it happens to be spring and it’s startin’ to bloom, then you might—”
“I understand, Michael.”
“Yes. Well, that’s the way it was after being until about a month ago when Seamus—that’s old Daniel O’Halloran’s grandson—was passing the wall and noticed a wet streak glistening on the stucco. He stepped closer, wondering where this bit of water might be trickling from on this dry and sunny day, for contrary to popular myth, it does not rain every day in Ireland—least ways not in the summer. I’m afraid I can’t say that for the rest of the year. But anyways, when he saw that the track of moisture originated in the eye of his grandfather’s painting, he ran straight to Mallow to fetch Father Sullivan. And since then it’s been one miracle after another.”
Vincenzo let his mind drift from Michael’s practiced monologue that told him nothing he hadn’t learned from the rushed briefing at the Vatican before his departure. But he did get the feeling that life in the little village had begun to revolve around the celebrity that attended the weeping of their Virgin.
And that would make his job more difficult.
“There she is now, Monsignor,” Michael said, pointing ahead through the windshield. “Cashelbanagh. Isn’t she a sight.”
They were crossing a one-car bridge over a gushing stream. As Vincenzo squinted ahead, his first impulse was to ask, Where’s the rest of it? But he held his tongue. Two hundred yards down the road lay a cluster of neat little one- and two-story buildings, fewer than a dozen in number, set on either side of the road. One of them was a pub—Blaney’s, the gold-on-black sign said. As they coasted through the village, Vincenzo spotted a number of local men and women setting up picnic tables on the narrow sward next to the pub.