JOHN AND DEIRDRE

by JoAnn Baca

For Linda S.

And from that day forward, John always kept

a light burning in his window by night so

that Deirdre might find her way back to him.

And in the deepest part of winter,

when the snows lay thick against the

walls of his cottage, and the cold wind

came shrieking from the north, John

would take down his bow, and he would

walk through the forest, calling her name

until his voice was hoarse and the tears

froze hard upon his face. But she never

answered, and until his dying day . . .

John . . . never saw her . . . again. 

Catherine looked up as Vincent walked into Father’s chamber, her face changing from puzzlement to a broad smile as she rose to greet him. He reached out and took her hand, and she stepped gingerly from among the seated children gathered at Father’s feet. They were all applauding the conclusion of the story of John and Deirdre, obviously familiar with it, although Catherine was not.

Catherine had, for the first time, participated in the All Hallow’s Eve tradition of listening to Father tell ghost stories before the young ones scattered to do their trick-or-treating. She had come Below early with treats of her own, then happily joined in when invited by Samantha and Eric to sit and listen to the scary tales.

Dressed as Maid Marian, she made the perfect partner to Vincent’s Robin Hood, complete with matching hooded capes and intricately carved leather masks. A jaunty pointed cap sat perched on Catherine’s head, her hood thrown back upon her shoulders.

As they left through the tunnels to go Above, Catherine couldn’t help but congratulate herself for thinking of these costumes, most especially the green tights that hugged Vincent’s legs beneath his brown leather tunic. A shapely calf and a hint of steely thigh made her sigh inside. But her contemplation of her partner’s physical attributes was spoiled by a nagging question.

“Vincent, that story…”

He cast a quick glance in her direction before focusing ahead on a particularly rough patch of ground they were navigating. “The one Father finished as I came in?”

“Yes,” Catherine said. “I thought I knew all the traditional Halloween ghost stories, but that one was new to me … and somewhat unsettling. Who wrote it?”

“Ahhh, therein lies a bit of a ghost story too,” he remarked.

As he helped her down from an overhang to a new-to-her passageway, he caught her eye. “And tonight is the perfect night to tell you of it. The story will last as long as our trek Above, if you don’t mind hearing me talk the whole way.”

Catherine couldn’t imagine anything nicer than listening to that honey-warm voice melt all over her as they walked. She nodded. “Please.”

After she had successfully navigated the more treacherous part of the path, he inclined his head, took her arm, and began to speak.

“Years ago, when I was still a child, there was an old man who lived Below with us for a time. He was, even more than most, a loner. He participated in chores when assigned, but was a morose old soul who spoke little, and disappeared when not required to be somewhere, and he made it clear he did not wish to be followed or bothered. I would overhear the adults discussing him from time to time, wondering what tragedy had caused him to abandon the world, but several of us who had become intrigued by this man had surreptitiously followed him, and we knew he actually traveled to the world Above by nearly undetectable paths – ways which today we use, but then were unknown to our world at large.

“I could not follow him Above, of course, but the bravest of our small group …”

Vincent paused and smiled at the recollection, prompting Catherine to guess, “Devin?”

He chuckled softly. “Who else? Yes, Devin followed him several times, and when he returned, Devin reported that the man always went to one particular place – a small abandoned house that bordered on an old cemetery. He would sit inside and light a candle, almost as if waiting for someone. Devin would have to leave well before dawn to avoid detection, so he never knew if anyone approached the run-down building. But it seemed even to us as children that this man would be more dour and irritable the day after each such visit Above. We didn’t know why.”

Catherine halted their progress to dislodge a stone from her shoe. Vincent held her by one arm to steady her, and when she had finished, she captured his hand with hers. They continued through the tunnels hand in hand.

“The old man died a year or so after he came Below to live. I assisted Mary and the elder Pascal in removing his meager possessions from his chamber; already we were pressed for space, and there was someone waiting to move in. We didn’t have much to do – a few boxes held all his belongings, mostly clothes and books … and a journal.

“I brought the books to the library and began to shelve them. At the bottom of the box was the journal. Inside it was inscribed With love all things are possible. It was signed … Deirdre.

Vincent stopped walking, turned to Catherine, and said, “I began to leaf through the journal. The earliest date was February 23, 1930. From the contents, it was clear that John and Deirdre were lovers. For reasons not clear from the journal, they could not be together. But they met secretly at a little cottage set within a wooded area close to a large cemetery.”

Catherine felt a shudder of premonition raise gooseflesh on her arms. Vincent caught the light of recognition in her eyes and nodded.

“For months they met when the moon was full. He would arrive first, light a candle, and place it in the window. Deirdre would be guided by the light. His descriptions of their time together ….” Vincent’s crimson blush was evident even in the dim light cast by the torches lining the passageway. “They loved each other very much.”

Almost afraid to ask, Catherine murmured, “But something happened to her?”

He nodded. “While coming to him one winter’s night in the midst of a blizzard, the full moon was hidden behind storm clouds. She must have gotten lost, the little candle in the window unseen. Perhaps she missed her footing and slipped in the darkness. Or she paused to rest and fell asleep in the cold, never to awaken again. He found Deirdre at first light, having searched for her for hours. She was already cold and lifeless, beyond saving.

“John was numb with shock for a month. For some reason – perhaps only because it was habit, for he seemed to be sleepwalking through his life – he went to the tiny cottage again at the next full moon. He lit his candle, placed it in the window … and finally gave in to his grief. He was wild with it, howling his pain into the dark night where no human ears could hear.

“There was a sound at the window, and he looked up, startled, fearing he had been discovered in the abandoned cabin. But it was no living being who looked in upon him. Call it a trick of the light, or wishful thinking, or a waking dream – Father believes it was one of those – but John insists in the journal that Deirdre was there.”

Catherine gasped and one hand clutched the fabric of her suede vest. She stared up at Vincent, rapt, awaiting his next words.

“She appeared to him as he had seen her in life – warm, and pink-cheeked, glowing with health, a smile of love on her face. She spoke his name – Father believes it was only the wind sighing – and held out her hand to him. John fell to his knees and begged her to stay, prayed that some miracle had occurred and she was alive again, prayed even that he had gone mad for a month and now was back in his right mind, that Deirdre had not died …. All this he wrote in his journal.”

There was a hitch in Vincent’s voice and he had to stop speaking for a moment, his emotions clearly clouding his face. When he could trust himself to have a steady voice again, he added, “John’s words would break your heart to read them, Catherine. They did mine.”

She nodded her understanding and came closer to him, so she could hold one of his arms in both of hers. “Tell me the rest,” she begged, tears beginning to trickle down her face.

“You can guess the rest. John reached out to Deirdre, but just as their fingers were about to touch, she shimmered and disappeared. He ran outside, heedless of the cold, calling out to her, searching for her. He couldn’t find her.

“He returned every month at the full moon. For decades, Catherine. He lit the candle for her. Even when the cottage was barely standing, he continued his pilgrimage each month, searching, calling her name. The journal became a monthly reflection of the futility of his vigil, entries for every full moon throughout the rest of the 30s, into the 40s, the 50s … until his death in the mid-60s.

“I went searching for her grave after that. I believe I found it: Deirdre Howard, 1905 – 1932. It’s the only gravestone with a name and dates that fit the journal entries.”

Catherine’s tears fell in earnest now. “And John? Is he buried in the catacombs?”

Vincent’s gaze shifted. “Father thinks so … everyone from that time does. He was buried there.”

“But ….?”

Lowering his gaze, Vincent admitted, “After I read the journal, I couldn’t get John and Deirdre out of my mind. It helped that, pressed for a new ghost story, Father began to use the germ of their story to tell a tale to the children. He downplayed some aspects of it, and invented others – the bow, for instance, and the deepness of the woods – but essentially he relates what John wrote in his journal, which has become such a part of our Halloween traditions. By now, I doubt there are a handful of people Below who know of the journal, or who remember John; the story has passed into myth.”

“You started to tell me about John’s final resting place,” she reminded him, although by now she had an inkling what he would tell her, knowing Vincent as she did.

“You already know,” he chided her gently.

She nodded, nearly certain. “I think so. When you were older, strong enough to do it on your own, secretly, you brought John to his Deirdre, and buried him with her … one night when the moon was full.”

“Yes.” Was it a whisper, or the wind?

They emerged from the tunnels into an old graveyard. Catherine searched the edges and saw what she now expected to see: the remains of an old cottage, moldering in ruin, barely discernable through the trees.

“There’s a full moon tonight,” she observed.

“There is. And I was hoping to tell you the real story tonight … and bring you to the grave that John and Deirdre share.”

He took her hand, and eagerly she followed him.

There was no gravestone marked with John’s name, but it didn’t matter. Denied in life, the lovers were together in death for eternity.

“He never got over her loss,” Catherine mused.

“No. With a love like theirs … sometimes that loss is beyond mortal healing.”

She wiped away tears as she contemplated his words, this moment, the sad history he had just related. Finally she turned her face to his. “Beyond mortal healing.” Her gaze was fiery in the soft moonlight as she added, “Never leave me, Vincent.” She squeezed his hand with hers and repeated, “Never!”

Her eyes demanded a truth from him that he could not deny her.  By uttering it, he was opening a door to a whole new world for them both.

It was beyond time.

So he returned the intensity of her gaze and vowed, with all his soul, “Never.”

Behind them, unseen, a glimmer of ghostly candlelight appeared for a moment near the ruins of the cottage. Beside it, two silvery figures formed from the mist and, for a moment, embraced. And after that All Hallow’s Eve … no one ever saw them again.