Gwenny did as he said. Benjamin burst into loud sobbing as Jacob started saying Our Father. He panted a few times. “Our Father,” and after but a few words he slipped into Gaelic. “Arr uh nee-ehr, air nee-uv.”
“Ma,” called Cullah. “Please let me in. It’s been so long, Ma.” The voice began to weep! “Ma-ma?” I reached for the latch on the bar at the door. Its cries broke my heart.
“Stop!” screamed Jacob. “It’s a trick, Resolute. In the name of God, don’t open it. We will not open! Do you hear, spirit? Your tricks do not work here. Go and menace some other for by the name of God we shall not let you in.”
“I am not a spirit, sir!”
“At midnight,” I whispered to Jacob. “At midnight the hallows return and saints rise to heaven. Then if Cullah is still there—”
Jacob hissed at me, “It is not Cullah, woman.”
Then I thought to ask it questions. “Who are you?”
“Brendan MacLammond.”
I sank to my knees then. Was my son killed, too? “Whence came you?”
“From a river and a fort, north in the Canadas. My father follows me. My friend accompanies me. We will perish if you let us not in, for we are starved. Mother, please believe me.”
“It is All Hallows,” I called. “I cannot open the door.”
The voice was silent for a long time. “Mother? I didn’t know what day it was. Oh, how may I prove it is I? Gumboo! By the sword of Eadan Lamont and the cross of Holy God, I tell you the cross of gumboo binds me to you and him.”
I looked at Jacob. He raised his face to me as if he felt my stare and he whispered, “Ghosts would not call on the name of God. Nor fairies. It sounds like Cullah.” I threw the latch and lifted the bar. Behind me Jacob took a firebrand from the hearth and held it high, ready to fight off the minions of Satan if need be.
Into my house walked a man wearing a filthy plaid. He had a young man’s beard but his face was so dirty it matched his hair and I knew him not. He was tall and thin but broad of shoulder, as if not yet filled in. He wore English boots and a tattered leather shirt under the long plaid across his shoulder. He held the door ajar. “Ma!” he said with a great smile. “It is I, Brendan. Oh, but you had me so afrighted, thinking you would not open to me. Hold a moment. I have brought a man with me. He’s been wounded but holding up. Rolan? Can you make it here?”
“Brendan?” I feared touching him, but if he were my son, I should want to hold him as any mother would. Was this my son or a fairy? Did I dare believe it?
At that moment a gaunt fellow appeared dressed in ragged summer linens that had once been tan. His beard, too, was one of youth, but longer and fairer. He shivered as if the bones of him could rattle together. I would not have thought it possible, but he was thinner than the first. Nothing but bones and filth. He had an oozing wound on his neck wrapped around with what looked to be a man’s old stocking, for the toe of the sock stood out at an angle like a flag and still bore imprints of dirty toes. He tried to bow but could not move his head. He said, “Plaisir de vous rencontrer, mademoiselle.”
“Not ‘mademoiselle.’ She is my mother. Ma, this is my friend Rolan. We’ve come from the fighting. We’ve done with it. I tried to turn him in but they told me to kill him, and I nearly did. But he did not die. My time was up, you see, and he was my prisoner but we got separated and we were both afraid of the Indians. We had to get away from the Indians for the army left us abandoned in the woods. We had such a long way to go and got to be friends on the way home. Since I am not a soldier anymore, I’m my own master again and I chose to call him friend. Well and aye.”
The blond man said also, “Well and aye, madame.”
“You are French? Fran?ais? Vous êtes fran?ais?” I asked. “Brendan?” I asked the first man. “But your voice, it was Cullah MacLammond calling me. Or, I thought, calling his mother. You frightened me to my death. It is you, Brendan my son?” I raised my arms to embrace him.
“Ma, better not touch me until I have a chance to scrape a few layers of dirt. I’ve been itching. Oh, so great to see you all.” He turned to Jacob. “Grandpa Jacob? You believe I am myself, don’t you? Have I changed that much? Gwyneth, you? Ben, don’t cry. Be a good wee man, there. It’s I, your brother. Where’s little Dorothy-dolly? None of you know me?”
I said, “My son went away a boy. You have a man’s voice and a man’s body. I did not expect that a year and a quarter of fighting and foraging would put height on you. To appear on All Hallows, we could not be sure it was not some spirit. Or that your father had not died and his ghost came to torment us. If you are not Cullah, where is he? And close the door. We do not have wood to heat all of Lexington from our hearth.”
The man laughed. “My mother would always be practical.” He smiled and closed his eyes, tears emerging from them, coursing through dirt and making clean stripes on his face. “I am home.” He dropped to his knees. “Thank God I am home.”