Dreams of a Stolen Child
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
She is 6, and it is Sunday Mass. She is wearing new black patent leather shoes, and a lacy blue dress and hat that Uncle Tom told her suited the young lady she was becoming. Her hands are growing warm in the white gloves, but she's stopped noticing in favor of drinking in the music and the vivid colours in the church. The altar cloth. The windows. The statues.
Theresa's eyes keep straying from the altar to the statue of the Virgin Mary, which has been crowed with flowers for May. She likes the statue, not least because she thinks the outstretched arms look like Mary is wanting to hug the whole world. Theresa likes hugs. She enjoys hugging Uncle Tom even when his coat has strange odours clinging to it that he won't explain to her. She likes hugging Eamon and his brothers. But she wonders what it's like to be hugged by a mother.
"Oh, Mary, we crown thee with blossoms this day/Queen of the angels, queen of the May!"
Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum.
She is 14, and the whiskey no longer burns her throat when she drinks it down, glass after glass, bottle after bottle.
Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum.
She is 20, and the whiskey still calls to her, but she is learning to resist its siren song.
Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus.
"Can we at least be friends?" her father asks her. His words echo, then are drowned out by Black Tom shouting that Sean doesn't even deserve that much, as he was never around to tend to her skinned knees or dry her tears, and she shouts back that Sean hadn't had the chance because she'd been stolen away, and Sean shouts that if he'd known he'd had a daughter, he never would have left her alone, much less in the care of a thief and a killer who'd made an innocent child into a drunkard.
And the Blessed Mother is weeping, but still her arms are held out to cradle the world.
I will. For you, Mother, and for my sake as well, but for their sakes, too.
No more shouting. Bring not a sonic lance or a sword, but peace.
The scenes flick by quickly. Sean and Tom shouting at one another. Terry begging them to stop, begging them to look at her, and remember that she is the daughter of the woman they each loved, and that Maeve would never want them to hate each other for her sake, or Theresa's. She pleads with them until her throat goes dry. And they listen. They listen, and finally, their hands extend to one another in a cautious handshake, until Terry pulls them both into an embrace and they weep and laugh together. As a family. As it should be.
Cassidy Keep seems taller and brighter, and Eamon's face is wreathed with smiles now instead of clouded with the worry that had etched lines in his face even before his hair started turning grey. It's Christmas time again, and Sean and Tom are arguing goodnaturedly over how to decorate the tree, but when Tom stumbles on his way to the ladder, Sean stops him from falling and tells him to sit and be comfortable--he'll do the scrambling, if Terry would sing us a carol, lass? And she sings of peace on earth, goodwill towards men, and the Blessed Mother is smiling again.
It is springtime, and Sean and Tom are going with her to Maeve's grave, side by side, to lay their floral tributes on the turf next to the high carved stone, and tell her how sorry they are for how foolish they've been, and the mother in Heaven smiles.
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
She is 6, and it is Sunday Mass. She is wearing new black patent leather shoes, and a lacy blue dress and hat that Uncle Tom told her suited the young lady she was becoming. Her hands are growing warm in the white gloves, but she's stopped noticing in favor of drinking in the music and the vivid colours in the church. The altar cloth. The windows. The statues.
Theresa's eyes keep straying from the altar to the statue of the Virgin Mary, which has been crowed with flowers for May. She likes the statue, not least because she thinks the outstretched arms look like Mary is wanting to hug the whole world. Theresa likes hugs. She enjoys hugging Uncle Tom even when his coat has strange odours clinging to it that he won't explain to her. She likes hugging Eamon and his brothers. But she wonders what it's like to be hugged by a mother.
"Oh, Mary, we crown thee with blossoms this day/Queen of the angels, queen of the May!"
Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum.
She is 14, and the whiskey no longer burns her throat when she drinks it down, glass after glass, bottle after bottle.
Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum.
She is 20, and the whiskey still calls to her, but she is learning to resist its siren song.
Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus.
"Can we at least be friends?" her father asks her. His words echo, then are drowned out by Black Tom shouting that Sean doesn't even deserve that much, as he was never around to tend to her skinned knees or dry her tears, and she shouts back that Sean hadn't had the chance because she'd been stolen away, and Sean shouts that if he'd known he'd had a daughter, he never would have left her alone, much less in the care of a thief and a killer who'd made an innocent child into a drunkard.
And the Blessed Mother is weeping, but still her arms are held out to cradle the world.
I will. For you, Mother, and for my sake as well, but for their sakes, too.
No more shouting. Bring not a sonic lance or a sword, but peace.
The scenes flick by quickly. Sean and Tom shouting at one another. Terry begging them to stop, begging them to look at her, and remember that she is the daughter of the woman they each loved, and that Maeve would never want them to hate each other for her sake, or Theresa's. She pleads with them until her throat goes dry. And they listen. They listen, and finally, their hands extend to one another in a cautious handshake, until Terry pulls them both into an embrace and they weep and laugh together. As a family. As it should be.
Cassidy Keep seems taller and brighter, and Eamon's face is wreathed with smiles now instead of clouded with the worry that had etched lines in his face even before his hair started turning grey. It's Christmas time again, and Sean and Tom are arguing goodnaturedly over how to decorate the tree, but when Tom stumbles on his way to the ladder, Sean stops him from falling and tells him to sit and be comfortable--he'll do the scrambling, if Terry would sing us a carol, lass? And she sings of peace on earth, goodwill towards men, and the Blessed Mother is smiling again.
It is springtime, and Sean and Tom are going with her to Maeve's grave, side by side, to lay their floral tributes on the turf next to the high carved stone, and tell her how sorry they are for how foolish they've been, and the mother in Heaven smiles.