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By Root 628 0

to acknowledge it, he would probably have admitted that he was plagued by guilt and by a sense of the tragedy of Matthew’s end: his only brother buried a stranger to him and the only other mourners a shower of moribund relics who seemed to almost envy the relief of the grave. It wasn’t his fault, there was only enough farm for one of them and his parents had decided Matthew was the brighter one and should go to the Brothers. Brendan recoiled from thought, took out the Farmer’s Sentinel, and plunged himself into “Bovine TB: the Curse of Progress?” The doors slammed, the porter blew his whistle, and the train shuddered and creaked out from under the dark canopy of Kingsbridge Station to begin its long haul through the night to Limerick Junction.

30

The morning after the funeral, Brother Loughlin could still taste the ashes in his mouth. He slammed the phone back into its cradle with tight-lipped fury. As if he didn’t have enough to do with things breaking all the time and only that incompetent janitor and his fool apprentice to fix them! This was the last straw! He had been fobbed off by Cardinal Russell’s personal secretary’s assistant, then by some nameless drone at the office of the Bishop of Spokes and Duggery, then by the personal secretary of Father Sheehan, Mulvey’s boss, and finally, to add insult to injury, by Mulvey’s damn insolent housekeeper. The woman even had the audacity to tell him to stop telephoning all the time, that it was doing his cause no good at all. It was his school! It was his miracle! They should be falling over themselves to talk to him!

“I’ll show them I mean business,” he bellowed. “I’ll show them I know how to manage a miracle site! Mrs. Broderick! Take a letter!”

“Come in!” called out Mr. Pollock before there was even a knock. The door opened and in strode Anthony, the large-lugged first year who seemed to have become the messenger boy for the whole school. “What is it, Mr. Antney, sor?” he asked, ever ready to mock the boy’s accent.

“It’s a note from de Head Brudder, sir.”

“And who is the Head Brother?”

“Brudder Loughlin.”

“That is right, sor.”

Mr. Pollock imperiously took the letter from Anthony and read through it before pursing his lips approvingly.

“You boys! Attention. This is a letter from Brother Loughlin, so listen and listen carefully:

All boys and all teachers are hereby informed that, in view of the increased importance of the school as a site of a miracle now under investigation by the Diocesan Investigator’s office, there will be no toleration of sinning—mortal, venial, or otherwise—within the school boundaries. All manner of sin by word, deed, or thought, whether committed alone or with others, will be mercilessly punished while we keep the site of this miraculous occurrence pure and free of stain. Tally sticks will be issued to all boys to keep count of their sins. Beating and confession will be administered after school each day. Every step will be taken to keep all boys in a perpetual state of Grace.

—Brother Loughlin, Principal

Copies to Bishop of Spokes and Duggery, Father Thomas Sheehan, S.J., Father Martin Mulvey, S.J.

Mr. Pollock glowered at the boys meaningfully and returned the note to Anthony without looking at him.

Tally sticks. The words echoed coldly in each boy’s guts. They knew about them but always figured they were something from dark times long ago. Brother Loughlin well understood this. There was no real extra efficiency in using tally sticks, but they were potent symbols. The humiliation of wearing them and their associations of repression were powerful tools against the boys.

31

The air of the Limping Gunman was rife with the ammoniacal smell of cleaning as Spud Murphy sat heavily at the end of the bar and pinched the bridge of his nose. The consumptive regulars at the other end of the bar ignored him completely. He was only an amateur drinker as far as they were concerned.

“Rough morning, Mr. Murphy?” asked Tom Stack, the barman, glancing up from his copy of the Daily Horse & Hound.

“Yeah. You could say that.”

“I’m sure