Black Harvest Read online

  Bridget Morrissey must have been very poor, left single-handed on a tiny farm with all those children, and anyway, that was much farther north, in Donegal. Donal Morrissey was ending his days in a tumbledown caravan, living on charity from the O’Malleys. He could never have been a rich man either, so it couldn’t be the same family.

  Ten minutes later Colin was down in the tunnel. The part that had intrigued him was at the top end where it widened out, and where the rocky ceiling had developed a split. Looking up you could see grass waving and a piece of sky.

  The storm had turned everything underfoot into mud. He squelched about shining his light over the rocky walls. The place smelt foul and was choked with litter. This was where the village kids congregated in the summer. They had carved initials all over the soft yellow rock.

  Just above his head there was a long ledge. He scrambled up on to it, the soles of his sneakers adding grey, rubbery skid-marks to the dozens already there. It seemed there was nothing new to discover; he just found sweet papers and more initials, “Sean loves Mo. True. Very True.”, “Daniel L. = Pauline B.” and “Kenny Boyce Rules OK.” What a let-down.

  The ledge was quite wide, at a pinch you could sleep on it. Colin lay down. He couldn’t see the sky any more because the rock jutted forward and blotted out the light. He closed his eyes. For the first time in days he was cool, the dampness of the walls was seeping into his clothes and a mouldy smell filled his nostrils. He might be a corpse, lying there.

  Over his head, through layers of earth and stones, he could hear thunder muttering again. What if a great storm blew up and filled the crack with mud, so he couldn’t get out? He could die here and nobody would know. He opened his eyes and grinned. He was getting like Prill.

  He shone the flashlight directly over his head. Even here someone had been busy with a red felt-tip pen. “I love Rosanna O’Shea,” he read, but the letters were very wobbly. It wasn’t easy to write with your hand bent back at a horrible angle. Whoever loved Rosanna must be very determined.

  Then he saw something else, bits of thin, spidery writing scratched into the rock. It was shaky copperplate script, the old-fashioned kind they’d been made to copy in First Year Juniors. “They shut the way through the woods,” he remembered writing laboriously, and “The Lord is my Shepherd”.

  Some of it consisted of sets of initials. “C.H.M.” he made out and “T.M.’48”. Next to them, in a bigger hand, was the name “Rachel”. Under this the scratching was much fainter. “Lord Have Mercy” was written quite small but with the capital “L” elaborated with wavy lines, and next to it, “Pray for us now and in the hour of our death”. All round the bits of writing, in a kind of frame, someone had scratched the word “Salvation”, over and over again.

  Chapter Fifteen

  WHILE PRILL SLEPT and Colin was flat on his back in the Yellow Tunnel, Oliver was digging steadily and feeling a bit uncomfortable about what he’d told Colin. He didn’t really want to make the den any bigger, there were other, more important reasons for going on now.

  The soil in the middle of the den, in the “hole within a hole”, was quite easy to move because it was finer than the rest. There were no hard clods, it was more like sand. It was here he’d found the silver thing and the shreds of silk, and a lot more pottery too, since then. He’d cleaned it all carefully and put it in a polythene bag. This was the place to dig.

  The black plastic rubbish sack was getting quite heavy and he’d dragged it out from the bushes to have it near him. The bones and pieces of wood inside weighed quite a lot, and it saved him the bother of climbing in and out all the time.

  The sky had been thickly overcast all morning and now Oliver felt a slight breeze on his face. It was getting quite dark and he could hear thunder in the distance. As he looked down into his den a large raindrop plopped on to his neck, followed by several more. Soon it was raining quite heavily, turning the freshly dug earth into thick mud.

  Oliver threw his spade aside, scrunched the mouth of the black sack together, and weighted it down with a brick. That was the end of digging for today. But before going in he glanced back. The pelting rain was washing away at his careful excavations quite rapidly. The simple force of water was much more effective than anything he could do.

  The rough hole was rapidly turning into a pit of mud. Puddles had formed in the bottom and the water splashed into them. As Oliver stared down something was happening, something that made him forget all about the cold water streaming down his neck, and the filth sloshing over his sneakers.

  Shapes were edging up out of the mud. At first they looked like the remains of trees, a mess of lopped branches flung down the hole in a heap. Some had rough knobs on the end and one was oddly patterned, a main stem with pieces curving out from it, like the teeth of a huge comb. As the rain lashed harder the branches turned pale brown, then yellowish, and something on its own was gleaming perfectly white, like an overturned saucer.

  Oliver opened his mouth and tried to breathe deeply. He couldn’t, neither could he swallow. It was as if a great lump of gristle had stuck halfway down his throat. Fear rose and washed over him. First he was hot and tingling, then he was icy cold. His mouth felt dry, like paper.

  He slithered down into the hole and tried to get his hands under the saucer thing, but it wouldn’t move, so he dug his fingers right down, trying to work out how deeply it was buried. It was hard, solid and quite narrow. Then one finger went into a hole. Oliver plunged the other hand up to the wrist in mud and got hold of the thing from underneath. Then he pulled hard.

  It resisted for a moment, then shifted. He tightened his grip and pulled again, leaning back on his heels so that he could use all his weight to free the thing. It came quite easily then. The mud made a soft plopping noise and closed up again.

  Oliver was no sitting in his hole plastered with mud. Aunt Phyllis’s scrubbed, combed little boy was totally un-recognizable. Every inch of flesh that showed looked as if someone had painted it with grey emulsion.

  He was staring at the thing in his hands. It was only small, about the size of a small melon, but the child couldn’t have been so very young, it had all its adult teeth; he noticed that they were quite perfect. He ran his hands over the skull and turned it over. At the back, just at the base of it, his fingers felt shreds of hair.

  Then something inside him snapped suddenly. He felt as if a giant boot had kicked him hard in the stomach and a spasm of pain jerked him to his feet. He flung his arms out, still holding on to what he’d found, and was violently sick in the mud.

  “When in doubt, have a bath.” Auntie Jeannie was always saying that; it was one reason he liked her. She wasn’t rigid about when you did things, not like his mother. At home it was bath – seven o’clock sharp; wash hair – Fridays; cut toenails – Mondays. On and on and on.

  He needed a bath now to get the mud off, calm himself down, and warm up. He was feeling cold for the first time since coming to Ballimagliesh and as he climbed into the bath his teeth were chattering. He didn’t stay in it very long, the water was lukewarm and made him feel shivery. Then he remembered the electricity supply was off. This might be the last hot water for a long time. The house was getting colder.

  He tried to wake Prill but she was fast asleep. He had peeped round the door and heard very deep breathing and the occasional snore. He’d given her a shake. “Prill, Prill. There’s something I’ve got to tell you,” he’d whispered. But she just wouldn’t wake up.

  There was an awful smell in the kitchen. Vomit. Oliver almost stepped into the yellow pool as he went across the floor to open a window. The dog had been sick again.

  She’d obviously tried to eat her dinner then sicked it up almost at once. She was back under the table, her nose buried in her great paws, but her eyes were open and staring at him lifelessly. He felt sorry for her. His mother wouldn’t let him have a pet because of the old people, and this dog had frightened him at first, she was so noisy and wild. But his two cousins adored her, e
specially Prill. Perhaps he could find that vet in Ballimagliesh and get him to come.

  He found a mop and bucket in the utility room and sloshed soapy water over the kitchen tiles. He’d watched his mother clear messes up, nurses were used to it. She was always very businesslike and so was Oliver. If you worked quickly you could just about stop yourself throwing up.

  When the floor was clean he threw Jessie’s food away and filled the bowl up with fresh water. He even patted her gently and she turned pleading eyes on him. Her dumb helplessness made Oliver want to cry. He must find that vet.

  Before going out he left a note on the kitchen table. “Gone to Ballimagliesh. Will bring some food back. Oliver.” Nothing about what he had found in the muddy pit. Outside he pulled Kevin O’Malley’s piece of corrugated iron down into the hole, covering everything up. Prill wasn’t likely to go poking about in this weather, but he wanted to be there if she spotted anything.

  He had planned to borrow Kevin’s racer, he could go fast on that. But it wasn’t there. Colin had obviously beaten him to it. He looked in dismay at the machine that was left, an ancient lady’s bicycle with a wicker basket fixed in front. It must weigh a ton. Still, the basket was useful. He placed the small package for Father Hagan in the bottom of it and pushed the old bike to the end of the track.

  Chapter Sixteen

  IT WAS THE wildest day Oliver had ever known. In a different mood he would have felt exhilarated, bowling along the empty road with the rain lashing down, and the huge wind flattening everything in sight as it sent huge branches skittering across his path, and all the time the distant thud of thunder, like gunfire. But after what had just happened the great gale unnerved him. As he battled with the wind he had one picture in his mind, the pattern of white on black that the water had picked out as it poured into the pit. The terror of that moment was in this storm, it was wrapped round his mind like a black cloth, and he couldn’t get free of it.

  He must tell Father Hagan. Who else was there? The phone was still dead and the O’Malleys had gone away. There was no smoke coming from Donal Morrissey’s chimney, and the boy sensed anyway that the old man was weary and wanted to be on his own.

  He pedalled hard through the village, lights were on here but there was nobody in the street, it was too wild now. The priest lived at the end, he remembered, near the shop.

  It was a great relief to see Father Hagan’s old bicycle propped against the kerb outside his house, but nobody came to the door. He banged three times and waited, then he peered through the letter box. There was no light on inside though the next door house was all lit up, as if it was winter.

  He walked round to the back and saw an empty garage with its door wide open. So the priest couldn’t be in Ballimagliesh at all. Oliver rattled the door handle but it was locked, so he sat down on the kitchen step and stared at the little garden. It was still pouring with rain, a gale was blowing and he was soaked to the skin. But he didn’t even notice.

  After a few minutes he took a notebook and pencil out of his anorak pocket and began to write something. The letter took a long time. It was hard to know just how much to tell Father Hagan and Oliver still hoped he might come back. But nobody disturbed him as he sat writing laboriously on the cold step.

  He folded the piece of paper in two and half pushed it under the door, then he found a stone to put on top of it so nothing could blow it away. Finally he took the package from his bicycle basket. He had wrapped the skull in newspaper then put it in a plastic carrier bag. He looped the handles round the door knob and left it there, gently swinging.

  It was easier going back because the wind was behind him, but he was starting to panic. He’d not forgotten Jessie but if he stopped now, to look for the vet, he might find himself pushing the bike back down that lonely road. If the sky got much darker he’d need lights, and the bicycle didn’t have any.

  The tin of soup he’d bought at the shop rolled about the wicker basket. It was only when he’d come to pay for his trolley of groceries that he realized he had left all his money at the bungalow. He had found two coins in his pocket to pay for the soup. And he was so hungry. Perhaps Colin would bring a lot of food back.

  He was glad when he’d gone over the hill and was on the flat again, past those trees. The two huge elms stood like lonely giants in a landscape where everything else was wizened and twisted by the prevailing wind from the sea. One tree was very rotten and a large branch had been torn off and flung into the road. The other leaned horribly, wheezing and groaning like an old man.

  Oliver did not hear it fall. The wind was pounding in his ears as he pedalled towards the bungalow, conscious only of his own heart thumping and the ache in his legs. But if he had looked round he would have seen that the trunk blocked the entire road and that a farm gate in a hedge had been turned to matchwood by the great branches. Ten minutes later and he could have been underneath them.

  Father Hagan didn’t get back to Ballimagliesh till eight that night. He took the note and the plastic bag inside and didn’t look at them till he had made himself some tea and listened to a news bulletin on the radio. His housekeeper, Mrs O’Rourke, was away in Killarney, visiting her sister. She went at the same time each year. Neighbours were very good when the priest was on his own. They brought meals in to him and left food on his doorstep when he was out. This was probably a loaf from Mrs Moffatt next door. He took everything into his tiny sitting-room, and sat down.

  “Dear Father Hagan,” he read. “Please could you come? The baby is so ill that my aunt decided to go to a hospital with her. Young Danny (from the bar) has driven her to Sligo. We are on our own at the bungalow. Colin and I have been digging a den where they are going to build a garage. I think I may have come across something important, but I’m not sure. Could you come and have a look? One thing I found was the skeleton of a big dog, but I’m not certain about this. (Here he had drawn an arrow pointing up to the kitchen door handle.) My cousin Prill is ill too; she keeps having nightmares and feeling sick. I don’t feel very well either. Please could you come? Yours sincerely, Oliver Stanley Wright. P.S. If you could come we would all be pleased. P.P.S. We think the dog’s got a bug. It keeps vomiting.”

  The priest read the letter again very slowly, noting that the boy had made four separate requests for him to go to them. He stood up and put his car keys in his pocket, glancing over the note again. He didn’t take the bit about the digging very seriously, small boys were often very self-important about their treasures.

  Then he unwrapped the newspaper and placed the skull in front of him, turning it over and over in his hands. He peered into the black eye-sockets, his fingers trembling. When the telephone rang in the hall he jumped violently and almost dropped it.

  The line sounded as if a blizzard was blowing down it. The person at the other end was yelling, but Father Hagan could only make out the odd word and asked the caller to repeat everything. It was David Blakeman phoning from Dublin. He had been asked to go to some hospital, it was an emergency; his baby daughter was ill and he was going to his wife. He wanted Father Hagan to look in on the three children, if he was round that way. They would both feel happier if someone could check up on them. He was very sorry to cause trouble and he would phone again tomorrow.

  “How is the baby?” Father Hagan shouted back. He thought he heard, “Rather ill, I’m afraid. They want us both to be there.”

  “Don’t worry about the children, I’ll make sure—” he began, more quietly, but the line had gone completely dead. He waited in case the phone rang again, but nothing happened, so after ten minutes he set off in his car for the Moynihan bungalow.

  Half an hour later he was back at the house. A road block had been set up with cones and flashing lights and nobody was allowed through. A farmer, John Ryan, was arguing with the Garda about the tree. Everyone knew that it should have been felled months ago. It was a mercy no one had been killed.

  Father Hagan had turned his car round and driven away quickly. He didn’t want
to be drawn into any arguments tonight. They all knew about John Ryan’s penny-pinching ways. Why foot a bill for tree-felling, if the council would pay?

  Nothing would be done about moving the tree till daylight came, and there was no other road to the bungalow. He picked up his telephone and dialled Dr Moynihan’s number. The shrill, unbroken, blaring noise told him the line was out of order. He slammed the receiver down in frustration, went into his sitting-room and relit the fire.

  When he read Oliver’s note again Father Hagan was frightened. He stared down at the neat handwriting and his finger traced the words, “Could you come?… If you could come…” The baby must be really sick if the father had been summoned from his painting commission in Dublin and the mother had gone away to Sligo, leaving the three children alone. They were ill themselves, sickly, unable to eat. Oliver complained vaguely of not feeling “very well”, but the girl had told him much more.

  They had all felt peculiar since setting foot in the bungalow and they had been throwing food away because it had gone bad in the heat. The warm, muggy weather had affected nobody else as it had the frightened family in that luxurious house, making them bilious, giving them sweaty, sleepless nights, causing the very fields round them to reek of decay. Even the dog was suffering. Father Hagan remembered it – Jessie, the big red setter he’d seen tied to the concrete mixer. She was a bit noisy and uncontrolled, but those children obviously loved her dearly. It would be terrible if the poor creature died for want of a few pills. He wondered if he ought to tell the vet.

  And there had been dreams too, figures that haunted them; the silent, distracted woman at the girl’s window and at the stores; the two beggars at the roadside who had torn at her clothes, like monkeys she’d told him, with hair all over their faces.