Redemption - Leon Uris [11]
Squire Larkin was soon on the crown of his land. Everything in view belonged to him. He blew on the fire until it flared and bit into the chill, then he reached into the tent and felt for the poteen, tossed one down and leaned against the great oak that he considered the personal altar and throne of his kingdom. A wind carried up faint bleatings and tinkling bells of the flock in the east pasture. The bells blended into a steady rising and falling tone as if the animals were having a natter with him.
“The beauty of Ireland lies slain! How the mighty have fallen! Ye mountains of Donegal, let there be no dew, neither let there be rain upon you, for the shield of the mighty is vilely cast away. He was lovely in his life. He was swifter than an eagle. He was stronger than a lion. How the mighty have fallen! Thou, Conor, thou hast been slain in thy high place! How the mighty…how the mighty…how the mighty…my beloved brother…has fallen.”
Liam dropped to his knees. “Conor!” he shrieked and the echo returned on the tinkling bells…CONOR…Conor…Conor…
“Oh God, man! I loved ye so!” Liam beat at his breast and groveled and screamed as his pain and confusion convulsed him. Felled to his hands and knees, he crawled and gagged and vomited and grabbed the great tree, wailing softer and softer into exhaustion.
A time later, a beastly chill cut through him. Liam awakened to a cloud pawing its way through the top of the hill. The fire was down. Liam moved quickly into the tent and wrapped himself in the heavy bedroll until his shivering quelled into rhythmic grunts.
“God,” he whispered, “punish me for that instant of elation that swept me when I read the cable. God, please punish me, I loved you, Conor lad, and that’s the truth of it.”
5
As Liam went up to the hills, so Rory headed down to the sea by the path that his stallion Rum Runner knew by rote.
Being in the saddle comforted him, even at such a grievous time as this. His most profound memory of his father’s affection came on his third birthday in the form of his first pony.
Rory was seven and RumRunner four when they made their lifelong partnership. In short order Rory was a full-fledged drover. Moving RumRunner into the midst of a flock was like leaping up onto a cloud, a sky of wool below him and the border collies circling and yapping and nipping butt.
RumRunner knew the weight of his master was heavy this night. As Rory reached into the saddlebag and withdrew a bottle, the horse set himself on automatic; four hours and one fifth of whiskey would see them down to Christchurch.
New Zealand kids were filled with wanderlust these days. They now had justification and rationalization to scream out against the entrapment that closes in on most island youngsters. Had there been no war on, they’d have probably invented one.
From the time of Conor’s visit, much of Rory’s curiosity had been filled by a parade of books, which found their way to him through Uncle Wally. He became a prolific reader, but strange, his drive to get out of New Zealand seemed pacified.
Rory had not been caught up in the war fever, partly because it made no sense for him to go halfway around the world to fight for the freedom of Belgium.
You inherit this, that, and the other from your parents, sometimes reluctantly. He had found their sense of peace that told him he would do his roving at some future day, when he was entirely ready and sound of mind about it.
By sixteen he was among the best sheep- and cattlemen on the South Island and had talked his father into raising domesticated deer, which was turning into a profitable venture. He also imported a few mules from Cyprus, which turned out not so profitable.
Although the yen to leave was there, the yen to stay was also there. It was Liam’s fears and suspicions that triggered Rory to look to the horizon. He loved the station, the country, his calling.
It had been years