“Would you do something, Tom? Would you go and see a doctor?” Farrell’s voice came from the darkness.

“For what?”

“I think you should, Tom.”

“Damn it, I’ve managed without them till now.”

“All right, then, good night.” Farrell moved away.

“Take my car.”

“No, no, I’ll walk. It’s all right.” And then the voice said hesitantly, “We’ll forget about all that, Tom. It’s a closed book.”

“What?” he demanded. “What’s a closed book? What the hell are you talking about?”

But Farrell’s footsteps moved quickly away, crunching the gravel toward the gate. And Father Conroy turned to grope his way to his front door, somewhere, a long way, ahead.

*

He dreamed that night he was in a wood, rooted in one spot. A wind blew, branches threshed, the trees strained all around him. Leaves began to fall, slowly at first, then with gathering force, until a tempest of leaves rushed past him. They filled the spaces between the trees, moving with a strange sound, like the distant drumming of hooves. The sound grew louder and louder, until it seemed that the whole wood was on the move, galloping away from him. Then the sound died away into the distance, and he was left standing alone.

Chapter 9

When the first light came through the uncurtained window, he began his slow roll out of bed, eyes closed, mind slipping into its cogs for the long haul up out of sleep. At the cold touch of the linoleum on the soles of his feet, his right hand moved, jerking out the outline of the cross over forehead and chest. He was erect now, and the flinty light was forcing its way between his eyelids, shining into him. And he was still resisting it as he groped for his clothes.

Shivering, he pulled on his trousers, hopping on his good leg as he forced the other leg past the creases, which seemed to have stiffened with frost. The house was silent, no slam of the back door or pounding of feet in the hall. It was ten minutes after Mass time. What was keeping Gabriel?

As he put on his vestments in his oratory, he knew there was something he should remember. Someone to meet? Some message to pass on? What day of the week was it, anyway? He turned to where Gabriel usually knelt, but the boy wasn’t there. Little tipper, he thought, I’ll straighten his legs for him!

He tied the cincture about his waist and ducked down to peer out through the little window at the bullocks moving stiffly in the field, blowing their long breaths before them. A hardy day, by God! How was that pony keeping?