"No, I'm fine, and I didn't feel it, honestly. I was so anxious to get here,. make sure you were all right, that
I suppose I simply eliminated it from my mind. If I was bleeding internally I'd have known about. it long before now, I expect. God, Meggie, don't!" Her head had gone down, she was delicately touching her lips to the bruise, her palms sliding up his chest to his shoulders with a deliberate sensuousness that staggered him. Fascinated, terrified, meaning to free himself at any cost, he pulled her head away; but somehow all he succeeded in doing was having her back in his arms, a snake coiled tightly about his will, strangling it. Pain was forgotten, Church was forgotten, God was forgotten. He found her mouth, forced it open hungrily, wanting more and more of her, not able to hold her close enough to assuage the ghastly drive growing in him. She gave him her neck, bared her shoulders where the skin was cool, smoother and glossier than satin; it was like drowning, sinking deeper and deeper, gasping and helpless. Mortality pressed down on him, a great weight crushing his soul, liberating the bitter dark wine of his senses in a sudden flood. He wanted to weep; the last of his desire trickled away under the burden of his mortality, and he wrenched her arms from about his wretched body, sat back on his heels with his head sunken forward, seeming to become utterly absorbed in watching his hands tremble on his knees. Meggie, what have you done to me, what might you do to me if I let you? "Meggie, I love you, I always will. But I'm a priest, I can't .... I just can't!"
She got to her feet quickly, straightened her blouse, stood looking down at him and smiling a twisted smile which only threw the failed pain in her eyes into greater emphasis.
"It's all right, Ralph. I'll go and see if Mrs. Smith can get you something to eat, then I'll bring you the horse liniment. It's marvelous for bringing out a bruise; stops the soreness much better than kisses ever could, I daresay."
"Is the phone working?" he managed to say.
"Yes. They strung a temporary line on the trees and reconnected us a couple of hours ago."
But it was some minutes after she left him before he could compose himself sufficiently to seat himself at Fee's escritoire. "Give me trunks, please, switch. This is Father de Bricassart at Drogheda- Oh, hello, Doreen; still on the switch, I see. Nice to hear your voice, too. One never knows who switch is in Sydney; she's just a bored voice. I want to put an urgent call through to His Grace the Archbishop Papal Legate in Sydney. His number is XX-2324. And while I'm waiting for Sydney, put me through to Bugela, Doreen."
There was barely time to tell Martin King what had happened before Sydney was on the line, but one word to Bugela was enough. Gilly would know from him and the eavesdroppers on the party line, and those who wished to brave a ride through Gilly mud would be at the funerals.
"Your Grace? This is Father de Bricassart . . . . Yes, thank you, I arrived safely, but the plane's bogged to its fuselage in mud and I'll have to come back by train . . . . Mud, Your Grace, m-u-d mud. No, Your Grace, everything up here becomes impassable when it rains. I had to ride from Gillanbone to Drogheda on horseback; that's the only way one can even try in rain . . . . That's why I'm phoning, Your Grace. It was as well I came. I suppose I must have had some sort of premonition . . . .yes, things are bad, very bad. Padraic Cleary and his son Stuart are dead, one burned to death in the fire, one smothered by a boar . . . . A b-o-a-r boar, Your Grace, a wild pig .... Yes, you're right, one does speak a slightly bizarre English up here." All down the faint line he could hear gasps from the listeners, and grinned in spite of himself. One couldn't yell into the phone that everybody must get off the line-it was the sole entertainment of a mass nature Gilly had to offer its contact-hungry citizens-but if they would only get off the line His Grace might stand a better chance of hearing. "With your permission, Your Grace, I'll remain to conduct the funerals and make sure the widow and her surviving children are all right . . . . Yes, your Grace, thank you. I'll return to Sydney as soon as I can."
Switch was listening, too; he clicked the lever and spoke again immediately. "Doreen, put me back to Bugela, please." He talked to Martin King for a few minutes, and decided since it was August and wintercold to delay the funerals until the day after this coming day. Many people would want to attend in spite of the mud and be prepared to ride to get there, but it was slow and arduous work.
Meggie came back with the horse liniment, but made no offer to rub it on, just handed him the bottle silently. She informed him abruptly that Mrs. Smith was laying him a hot supper in the small dining room in an hour, so he would have time to bathe. He was uncomfortably aware that in some way Meggie thought he had failed her, but he didn't know why she should think so, or on what basis she had judged him. She knew what he was; why was she angry?
In grey dawnlight the little cavalcade escorting the bodies reached the creek, and stopped. Though the water was still contained within its banks, the Gillan had become a river in full spate, running fast and thirty feet deep. Father Ralph swam his chestnut mare across to meet them, stole around his neck and the instruments of his calling in a saddlebag. While Fee, Bob, Jack, Hughie and Tom stood around, he stripped the canvas off the bodies and prepared to anoint them. After Mary Carson nothing could sicken him; yet he found nothing repugnant about Paddy and Stu. They were both black after their fashion, Paddy from the fire and Stu from suffocation, but the priest kissed them with love and respect.
