The Ghost of Lorna Darcy
[This short story was originally a part of my occasional series, Nancy of the Tenderheart, here we find a much older Nancy, now married and a mother.]
It was a cold and bitter night as Nancy of the Tenderheart sat on the hearthstone in front of the roaring fire with her young twins Isa and Ingham on either side of her, and as usual they were pleading for a story, like all children, more to delay their bedtime than the desire for history.
Nancy of the Tenderheart stared deeply into the flickering flames and said softly, “I will tell you a story of the bravest man I have ever known. He fought, not with a claymore, but with love and kindness.”
She never noticed their doubting looks as she gazed deeply into the fireplace with unseeing eyes, remembering the touch of a lost friend on her heart. A tear slid gently down her cheek as she began to talk.
Patrick Darcy was the kindest, most gentle man I have ever met. The twisted, tiny Irishman stood barely over the height of four feet, and his right leg and arm were twisted to the point of uselessness, he had the face of a child, and it reflected his personality, sweet and innocent, always bubbling with the softest, laughter, and never without a kind word, or a penny for those without.
Child and adult alike loved him, but he was adored by his wife, Lorna, the tall, striking Irish beauty. They had a love for each other that would fill oceans, and it showed plainly with every look and touch they shared.
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The war with the British had been hard on the village, many of the men had gone to the front, and those that returned were often terribly wounded. It was while watching one of these returning warriors, once a big, strong farmer, now a shuffling form, holding himself upright with a self-made crutch to balance against his missing leg that Patrick decided to become a medic.
I stood beside Lorna on the day he left, and saw the tears in her eyes, tears of pride that her man was doing what was so much needed, and tears of fear that he might never come back to her, but she said not a word to stop him, because this was his destiny, and she loved him all the more for facing it with his soft laughter.
************
It wasn’t long before his courage was known to both sides, for wherever the fighting was the thickest, there was Patrick. He carried no sword to defend himself, just his little sack filled with homemade bandages, tonics and powders.
He was too small and weak to carry the huge wounded men from the field, so he tended to them where they lay, with musket and cannon balls whistling overhead, never hesitating, and never stopping to think of himself. Just moving from man to man, doing the best he could for those still alive.
He never once refused a cry for help, and he tended the wounded on both sides equally. Oft times his gentle laughter was of more use than his medicines, as it gave dying men a friend to share their last few minutes with.
Then one-day destiny caught up with Patrick.
The Scottish force in that area had dwindled to twenty men, all heavily wounded, but too proud to surrender, when Patrick finally broke. The little man picked up a fallen claymore in his good hand, and shouted, “No more! I will not allow this to go any further.”
It was the first time he had ever held a weapon, and the fact that he could not even use it was plain to see as he could not even lift the point of the heavy sword off the ground, but, as he stood with bravery between the wounded men he had sworn to protect and the advancing British, a musket ball pierced his heart, and the brave little Irishman fell to the ground without a sound.
It was said that the British soldier who had fired that fatal shot knelt beside the body and wept, so great was the admiration for this small man who had done so much for both sides in this tragic war.
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On that same day as Patrick died, they found Lorna Darcy dead on her bed. There was not a mark on her. It was whispered that one musket ball had killed two people a thousand miles apart.
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Here the twin’s father, Robert McLeary, who had slipped unnoticed into the small cottage sometime during the story, picked up the story.
It was the next day that the ghost of Lorna Darcy appeared. In the middle of the day the sky turned dark without a cloud in the sky. A bitterly cold wind sprang from nowhere, and dulled the sound over the entire battlefield.
Then the very earth itself erupted with sound. The most horrible wailing I had ever heard. It chilled me to the very bone. It seemed to come from every rock, every twig and pebble. It was as if the very earth itself was refusing us permission to stand upon it.
All over the field men stopped fighting and stood shaking in fear, but it was nothing to the sheer terror they were due to face.
I blinked, and there she stood, she was as beautiful as I last remembered her, but now her face was twisted in the most ferocious anger. Throwing back her head she wailed, and I saw big men back quickly away from her, fear etched deeply in their faces.
The wail of the banshee, the most terrifying sound I have ever heard in my life, echoed around the battlefield. Those closest to her dropped to their knees and sobbed in utter terror, as she stalked through the dead and dying looking for her beloved Patrick.
That was the first time of many that I saw her. Her love for her Patrick kept her from the grave. Always she brought terror with her. Her cold, clammy hands rolled over the men lying on the ground as she looked for Patrick, and her wail followed her across the fields as her search proved once again fruitless.
On one of the bloodiest battlefields of the war, I happened to hear a dying man say, “Thank you Patrick.” As he stared into the empty air in front of him. Then from lips that had ceased to be a long time before, I heard his gentle laugh.
Suddenly the sky blackened, and men cowered in fear, scared half to death of what was to follow, but it did not happen this time.
She called his name, so softly I hardly heard the word, and suddenly there he was, bending over a dying man. He stood and with that gentle laughter that had followed him in life, he limped as fast as he could towards her, his child-like face glowing in pleasure.
I have never again felt the feeling I felt on that day. Love so strong that not even the grave could stop it. It flowed like a living thing between them, and as they touched, they shone brighter than the sun.
If I had ever doubted the power of love, I doubted it no longer after that day. I saw every man on that battlefield put his weapon away. I saw Scottish wounded being tended by British soldiers, and British by Scottish clansmen. Then each side turned from the battlefield and began the long walk home.
I was the last to leave the field that day, and I saw Patrick and Lorna still standing together, the love still glowing around them, until they faded from my sight, leaving only Patrick’s gentle laughter for the very last time.
