Darcy burned her fingers on the kettle. She jumped back from the hearth, muttering an oath and then straightened up to examine the blisters on her hand. It was no surprise that the accident had happened. She was edgy and excited tonight. She had just received word that the contraband had rounded Rough Point and would demand her guidance ashore.
The weather was violent, and she could hear the waves smashing and tumbling against the rocks on the Kerry coastline. Wispy clouds sailed across the yellow moon, and the wind swept wildly across the cliffs and down through the valley.
The two-room cottage of Darcy McBride and her brother Liam was warm and quiet. The peat fire cast a warm glow across the tidy room and the clean white-washed walls. A large kettle bubbled over the fire, filled with a hearty evening meal.
As Darcy bent down to shovel more coals onto the lid of the Dutch oven baking her soda bread, a gust of wind burst the cottage door open, startling her. She stopped to tuck her hair back in place. In Gaelic, Darcy means dark, and her hair was long, full and indeed dark as coal. It was in pleasing contrast to her fair skin, and although these characteristics were admirable, it was her intense green eyes which set her apart from other women. They were framed by long, dark lashes, and the color reflected the emerald hills of Kerry. Although her dress was shabby and her feet were bare, there was nothing lacking in this young woman’s spirit.
Darcy was fiery and proud, her strength forged from years of deprivation. Darcy and her brother Liam had faced the famine of 1740. They watched their mother and five siblings wither away until their skin hung on their bones like dry parchment paper. Death found them in the end.
Darcy and Liam survived, emerging as strong and resolute young people, actively rebelling against the repressive system which caused the mass starvation. Times were hard in Ireland in 1755. To squash what was left of the Irish-Catholic, the British had imposed severe constraints on every facet of a Catholic's life. No Catholic could vote, buy land or worship openly. Existing clergy could remain, but new clergy was strictly prohibited. Each Irishman coped with it differently. Some of them accepted it while others rebelled. Some drank the hard times into oblivion but most existed with a surly resentment which boiled a country.
Liam and Darcy McBride chose illegal trade as their avenue to rebellion and survival. In their community smuggling was an old and well-respected vocation. Liam accepted the job of owling, as the locals called it, with eagerness. Irish wool was traded for French brandy, and this enterprise provided food for the table and satisfied the desire to retaliate against the British oppressors.
Smuggling was a centuries-old tradition in southwestern Ireland. Absentee landlords demanded exorbitant rents for unyielding lands, and the British paid paltry sums for the Irishman's wool. The government allowed the Irish to trade with no other country but Great Britain, so the residents struck a bargain with France to trade Irish wool for French brandy. The agreement fed the community but at a high cost. The penalty for smuggling was death, and even if a smuggler enjoyed a life undetected by the authorities, he ran the risk of drowning in the treacherous waters off the coast of Kerry.
These dangers though were not what caused Darcy's anxiety tonight. Liam told her that the current shipment not only included brandy but a more unusual cargo a dangerous and more valuable commodity than any wine.
The suspense sent a thrill of anticipation through Darcy. The danger was exhilarating, but she also felt guilty. Wishing for an atmosphere of peril seemed reckless, so she pulled a pewter cross out of her bodice, wrapped her fingers around it and asked for forgiveness. She took great comfort in this necklace from her mother. The Celtic cross was a sacred symbol in Ireland. Huge stone crosses dotted the landscape everywhere, reminding the faithful that a shred of Catholicism remained.
Darcy dreaded the thought of going out tonight. She knew the wind would snap her apron and twist her hair into knots, blinding her as she traveled up the bluff to hold her lantern high.
"Where could he be?" she asked irritably, as she paced up and down the dirt floor of the cottage. Darcy waited anxiously for her brother and news of the ship's arrival.
In spite of years of starvation, the young woman was tall and her bones were straight. Knowing the benefits of flaxseed tea, Darcy's mother had insisted her children drink the foul-tasting beverage, and it resulted in healthy, white teeth for Darcy and Liam as well.
Suddenly, a large man sprang into the room, bringing the wild wind inside with him.
"It's here, Darcy! You must gather your things quickly!" barked Liam McBride. Darcy's heart began to thump in her chest.
"Don't just stand there, find your lamp!" he roared.
Liam took three large steps over to the hearth and quickly ladled out a bowl of stirabout. At first glance, one would not guess that Liam and Darcy were siblings. As much as Darcy's looks were dramatic and beautiful, Liam's were coarse and unrefined. He was rawboned and hunchbacked and his brown hair was dirty and tangled. He seldom looked directly at anyone and always emitted a surly unsettled presence. His one desire in life was to outmaneuver the British, and he channeled every fiber of his being into hating the existing order.
In spite of his sour attitude, Liam had never been cruel to Darcy. The two had a bond rooted in blood and survival, and Liam loved his sister dearly.
"Don't let that candle go out, and hold it high! We must make no mistakes tonight," he demanded.
"Don't you accuse me of mistakes, Liam McBride. I've always done right by you," she snapped back.
Liam realized his tone had been sharp, and he softened. "You're right, girl. You've been here with me all along."
Tonight’s endeavor had made them both edgy. From the start, Liam had been against the group's decision to obtain this cargo, and he resented the extra danger and risk that it posed. "Go now and remain at the abbey until I arrive with the others," he said.
Darcy turned and unlatched the door. When she stepped out, the wind spun her apron around her body and sent her hair flying madly about her face.
She picked up her lantern and walked briskly towards the abbey bluff. She was worried about the candle resting precariously inside her lantern. If it was to blow out, it would mean precious moments lost running back and relighting it. Her lantern was the beacon for the French vessel, and if she wasn’t there, the ship would miss the rendezvous. Down below the cliffs in a narrow inlet, Liam went to wait with the others. The men had packed their curraghs with wool for the French. They, in turn, would provide the Irish with brandy. The curragh was the only small craft navigable in these treacherous waters. The small boats were constructed of tarred canvas stretched over a wicker frame.
Darcy's heart was racing. She ran wildly uphill blinded by gusts of wind. Steadily upward she pulled herself until at last she saw the ruins of the ancient Cistercian abbey. The skeleton of what had once been a seat of enlightenment and devoutness was now reduced to decay. There was no roof and the black fingers of the abbey walls reached to the heavens in ruined desperation.
Darcy did not like coming here. Even though she was not superstitious, she always felt the presence of something restless and unsettled within the abandoned walls. It was as if the dead Druids and monks resented being driven away and continued to haunt the environs of the abbey.
Although Darcy did not like being in the abbey at night, she realized that it was the highest and most visible point along the coastline, and it was her responsibility to be there as a beacon for the French vessel. Halfway up the bluff, she stopped to catch her breath. The ascent was steep, her walk had been brisk, and she bent over double, panting.
When she stood up straight and brushed her tangled hair from her eyes, a cloud moved off the moon, shedding light on an ashen sail moving along the coastline. Panicked, she raced up the hill to hail the vessel with her lantern. She ran through the abbey to a vaulted opening facing the sea. She thrust her lantern high, stretching her body to its full height. Oh please let them see it. They must see it!
She moved the beacon from side to side, but the ship continued past the abbey. Her stomach sank, and just as she was about to give up she thought of crawling on top of the old stone cross in the churchyard.
Out she dashed to the Celtic sculpture, looked up at the sky and whispered, "Forgive me," and quickly scrambled to the top of the stone cross holding the handle of the lantern in her teeth. She stood upon the crossbar and thrust the lantern high into the night sky, swinging it back and forth desperately. She stretched high on her tiptoes. The vessel seemed to have stopped. When she spied three wickerwork curraghs cross the cove toward the ship, she was jubilant.
* * *
The men worked swiftly in the moonlight, exchanged their goods and then with silent speed they slid back to shore. All was done in a matter of minutes, and the owler’s mission was complete.
Darcy waited for Liam sitting on the cold, stone floor of the abbey. She was at her ease now, leaning on a wall with her knees drawn up, watching the moonbeams sparkle on the waves. The jagged walls of the abbey surrounded her, sheltering her from the wild wind. She sighed and stretched like a cat. Her dark hair was scattered across her shoulders, and she put her head back, closing her eyes.
Pleased with herself for hailing the ship, Darcy knew she could rest now. Soon Liam and the others would come to bury the casks of brandy in the abbey churchyard.
All of Kilkerry knew Liam as the local grave digger and on any day one could see him winding his way up to the abbey churchyard bearing some soul to his final resting place, but what many of the townspeople did not know was that Liam buried residents by day and brandy by night. Many a deceased resident of Kilkerry slept next to their favorite beverage, and the owlers thought it was a grand honor bestowed upon those who passed.
Darcy reflected on what sort of cargo it was that they were to bury tonight in addition to the brandy. What could be so dangerous that she could not know the identity of it until the last minute? She speculated on a number of options. Was it guns? Surely Liam was not transporting guns. An insurrection would be suicide. Perhaps jewels?
Darcy dismissed that possibility as well. Shrugging her shoulders, she gave up guessing and yawned. Suddenly, she heard something which sounded like a footstep. It is too early for Liam to be up on the bluff with the cargo, and superstitious villagers fear the restless monks, so what could it be? She rose, straining her eyes in the darkness, as cold fear washed over her. Finally, Darcy shook her head and chuckled, attributing everything to an overactive imagination. She turned to step out of the abbey and came face to face with a tall figure in a dark, hooded robe. A bolt of terror shot through her, and she stood frozen, unable to move or to speak.
Every tale of phantoms and apparitions at the abbey raced through her mind, and the specter moved silently toward her with a white hand outstretched. She stepped back and gasped.
Suddenly Liam stepped out of the shadows and hissed, "Don't be a fool, girl. It's not what ya think."
The figure in black reached up and lowered his hood. There in the moonlight stood a tall man with a pleasant face. "I am pleased to meet you," he said in a gentle voice. "I am Father Etienne, your new parish priest."
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