“We have to bury her next to Hannah,” Conn insisted. She worked for hours with Abraham to make a simple coffin, laboring to carve a simple Celtic cross into the top.
She had sat down and described the last dream in detail for her mother and Molly. “I don’t think she ever knew that Hannah hadn’t died that night,” she said sadly.
After some discussion, the three of them decided against notifying anyone else of the presence of other bodies in the tunnel. “They’ve been buried there for over a hundred years,” Molly argued. “I think it best if they stay there.”
“I don’t understand,” Elizabeth said to Molly later as they sat together on the porch swing watching the children out in the yard.
“You don’t understand what?” Molly asked.
“The connection between Caitríona and Hannah.”
Molly looked askance at her. “They were lovers,” she said matter-of-factly.
The look on Elizabeth’s face was comical. “How do you know?” she asked, non-plussed.
“Conn told me.”
The expression on Elizabeth’s face a moment ago was nothing to the one it wore now. Molly waited for her to process this information.
“What exactly does she know?” Elizabeth asked carefully.
Molly shrugged. “I don’t think she was shown anything intimate, but she understands that they loved one another, that they were in love.”
“But she’s only eleven!” Elizabeth said indignantly.
“Whatever she is, she is most definitely not ‘only eleven’,” Molly said calmly. “No normal eleven-year-old could have done what she has done.”
Speaking very deliberately, she continued, “Elizabeth, I believe that the fact that Connemara was capable of understanding their relationship was the reason she was the one Caitríona was waiting for. She needed someone who could truly understand the anguish she felt when she thought Hannah was dead. It was the thing that drove her to do what she did in that tunnel.”
Elizabeth frowned as she considered the significance of Molly’s words. “Are you saying…?”
Molly shrugged again and smiled. “Who knows? Does it really matter? Abraham told me that she asked him once why love should be so hard to understand. Good question, don’t you think?”
***
A small procession made its way to the Faolain family cemetery. It was a glorious August morning, cool and dewy. Birds were singing joyously. Columbine and morning glory were blooming in profusion, climbing the grave markers and the stone boundary of the tiny graveyard. The Mitchells stood gathered around the freshly dug grave, joined by Abraham, Molly and Jed. Together, they lowered the coffin with ropes, settling Caitríona Ní Faolain at long last into her final resting place next to Hannah.
Elizabeth gave Conn a small nod of encouragement, and she picked up the Bible she had brought from the house. As she opened it, she said, “Caitríona spent her last hours in that tunnel praying for forgiveness. This is the Miserere, the 51st Psalm.” And she read,
“‘Have mercy on me, O God, in your goodness,
in your great tenderness wipe away my faults;
wash me clean of my guilt,
purify me from my sin.
For I am well aware of my faults,
I have my sin constantly in mind,
having sinned against none other than you,
having done what you regard as wrong.
You are just when you pass sentence on me,
blameless when you give judgement.
You know I was born guilty,
a sinner from the moment of conception.
Yet, since you love sincerity of heart,
teach me the secrets of wisdom.
Purify me with hyssop until I am clean;
wash me until I am whiter than snow.
Instill some joy and gladness into me,
let the bones you have crushed rejoice again.
Hide your face from my sins,
wipe out all my guilt.
God, create a clean heart in me,
put into me a new and constant spirit,
do not banish me from your presence,
do not deprive me of your holy spirit.
Be my saviour again, renew my joy,
keep my spirit steady and willing;
and I shall teach transgressors the way to you,
and to you the sinners will return.
Save me from death, God my saviour,
and my tongue will acclaim your righteousness;
Lord, open my lips,
and my mouth will speak out your praise.
Sacrifice gives you no pleasure,
were I to offer holocaust, you would not have it.
My sacrifice is this broken spirit,
you will not scorn this crushed and broken heart.’”
No one spoke as she finished. She closed the Bible and said, “I hope you find the peace you were seeking.”
***
Later that night, sitting in her bed in the moonlit darkness, listening to the night sounds of summer outside her window, Conn waited. When all was quiet, there came the chill and the light she knew would appear.
“You have done what no other could,” Caitríona said. “You fulfilled the seanmhair’s prophecy.”
“I didn’t think I was… after the fire,” Conn murmured.
Caitríona said, “You could have given in to the hatred, but you didn’t.” She lowered her eyes. “I was consumed by it. You could never have done what I did.”
“Will you be able to… move on, now?”
Caitríona nodded, smiling a little, the first smile Conn had seen on her face. “I hope Hannah will be waiting for me.”
“I found a journal entry from 1890,” Conn told her. “After Lucy, the next Peregorn witch, her name was Nell, she wrote that Hannah was a soul living with one foot in this world and one foot in the next. I think she’ll be waiting.”
Caitríona’s silvery form faded a bit.
“You won’t be coming back again, will you?” Conn asked.
“No, child,” said Caitríona. “The bottom step of the hidden stairs is a secret box. There, you will find my journal.” She regarded Conn for a long moment. “One last gift am I permitted to give you, though you may think it a curse. Your father will not be coming home. He has gone on.” She paused at the tears that sprang to Conn’s eyes. Softly, she said, “‘Tis the not knowing that tears a soul apart. Farewell, Connemara Ní Faolain.”
Caitríona faded away and Conn’s room was once again lit only by moonlight and filled with warm night air.