Excerpt: Vishnu Springs, Part 2: The Revenge

The boy handled the small mustard-colored tome and turned it around to read the words etched in black on the front cover: Dramatic Idyls – Robert Browning – 1879. He looked up at Ida with interest and slight confusion.

“Remember our discussion the other evening, about the great runner Pheidippides? Well, that poem is in this volume and hopefully you’ll find more to like in Browning. Even Eamon likes him, I think.”

“He’s English, miss, but not altogether unreadable.” With a wearied glance at Hire, he half bowed to them both. “It will be an early day tomorrow. If you’ll excuse me, I’d best get some rest while I can.”

Ida reached out and clasped his large white hand in her small one. “Of course, Eamon. We will take care of the fire and be along shortly.”

The old man nodded, turned and made his way out of the room. Hire watched him go and continued to stare at the door for several seconds after the man had exited.

Ida sighed, “I hope that I have done the right thing, Hire.”

He turned towards her. “How’s that, miss?”

She pointed to the seat where Hire had found Eamon. He made himself comfortable as Ida took the chair beside him. “My mother was determined to come along on our journey. I’m sure Eamon suggested that possibility to you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, I care for my mother a great deal, Hire. But I am ashamed to admit that I was just as determined that she not come with us. She has a tendency to take over every project, as you likely noticed during the events of the past few days. I knew what would happen. She would declare herself an expert at every turn, certain of where we should go and what we should do, despite the fact that the woman has spent precious little time touring America, and has only been to Europe once.” She sighed again, deeper this time. “I just couldn’t bear the thought of it. But she wouldn’t hear of us going alone.”

“We could have gone anyway,” Hire suggested.

“No. It… they were right, she and my father. Of course it was impossible for us to travel alone. Even Franklin tried to talk me out of it. I suppose he knew that where he failed my mother might succeed. The good lord knows my husband has felt the force of her will more than enough times to figure what might happen.” She looked over at Hire. “But listen to me going on. The point is I panicked. If we couldn’t go alone, we needed an escort who wouldn’t strain my wits. I suggested Eamon, and they agreed. But I feel bad about it. He has hard memories of the Old World. I told myself going back might help him, yet…”

“What happened to him?”

She lightly rubbed the binding of the Le Fanu volume in her hands while staring into the fire. “He left a lot of heartache behind. Both of his parents died in the famine while he was working to bring in any money he could. I think he still blames himself for not being able to do more for them. So, when my grandparents announced their intention to make a go of it in America, he was content to join them and continue in their employ. He left behind a girl as well, I think. But those memories are still with him, and he comes in here now and then to find ghosts in these pages, to read about the places he can’t bring himself to talk about.”

Hire nodded and looked into the flames, watching the crackling sparks float up the chimney. His mind was full of his own dark thoughts: of the madness in the eyes of Ebenezer Hicks, of the cruelty in the voice of Mrs. HIcks as she cursed her sons, of the treasure of twinkling gold coins he had lost forever, of his childhood which – despite his youth – seemed suddenly to have ended. Most of all, he thought of his mother, the kind young woman who had worked so hard for them both, his only family, a dear soul who would never embrace him again.

How long could such memories last? He considered Eamon’s age and decided he would rather not know the answer.