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“No.” Finn’s head was lowered, his chin rested on his chest, his eyes stared at his boots. He did not move his head; did not look at Padraig. “I despise your God. Haven’t I made that plain enough? I despise your religion. I was born a pagan of pagan parents. I have lived as a pagan. I shall die as a pagan. I have stood proudly on these two pagan feet of mine. I have earned my living with these two pagan hands. I have stared the world straight in the eye and never looked away. I have begged for nothing. I have cringed before no god, neither yours nor anyone else’s. How can a man get up off his knees and ever straighten his back again?” Finn raised his head. “No, Padraig. Grovelling is not for me. It’s not for any man.”
Finn was widening the gulf between him and Padraig. But he felt that the fault was Padraig’s. Finn had never filled Padraig’s head with women’s silly notions; he had never urged him to go to Belfast or to Armagh or to Rome; he had never asked him to come back.
“Finn, God is always there if…”
“God is nowhere, Padraig.” Finn’s voice had risen in exasperation. “How often do I have to repeat it? There is no God. Most importantly there is no God in this house. I forbid you to preach at me. I refuse to hear your missionary mouthings. I want nothing to do with your God, your religion or your Church. If we can get that straight from the start, your stay among us, be it short or long, should be at least pleasant.”
Silence. For the first time Padraig heard the ticking of the long-case clock. It no longer chimed as it used to. Tick, tock; tick, tock; tick, tock. It measured out seconds that were minutes long. Padraig’s hands were sweating. They even trembled slightly. What could he do to open the eyes of this strong, stubborn, old man?
“God belongs in your church, Padraig. See that you keep him there. Or you can bring him with you into homes where he’s welcome. He’s not welcome here. At least not while I’m alive. Maybe Jinnie and Caitlin will open the door to him and bid him come in when I am gone. Maybe not. Caitlin has more sense, but Jinnie’s a weak old woman. Especially where you are concerned.”
Finn paused, thinking of something. Then his thoughts came out in a slow mutter. “And Caitlin too, I suppose. Weak where you are concerned.”
Finn looked at Padraig, sizing him up, trying to see him as Mother Ross did, as Caitlin did. Yes, a woman might fall for that ascetic, suffering look, that thinness and pallor that appealed for suckling, for a woman’s nourishing care. Certain women responded to that need in a man, or indeed in any other living thing: animal, bird, child, flower.
Libros Libertad 