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Cardinal
de
Bricassart
chartered
a
private
plane
in
Athens
;
he
,
Meggie
and
Justine
brought
Dane
home
to
Drogheda
,
the
living
sitting
silently
,
the
dead
lying
silently
on
a
bier
,
requiring
nothing
of
this
earth
anymore
.
I
have
to
say
this
Mass
,
this
Requiem
for
my
son
.
Bone
of
my
bone
,
my
son
.
Yes
,
Meggie
,
I
believe
you
.
Once
I
had
my
breath
back
I
would
even
have
believed
you
without
that
terrible
oath
you
swore
.
Vittorio
knew
the
minute
he
set
eyes
on
the
boy
,
and
in
my
heart
I
,
too
,
must
have
known
.
Your
laugh
behind
the
roses
from
the
boy
--
but
my
eyes
looking
up
at
me
,
as
they
used
to
be
in
my
innocence
.
Fee
knew
.
Anne
Mueller
knew
.
But
not
we
men
.
We
were
n't
fit
to
be
told
.
For
so
you
women
think
,
and
hug
your
mysteries
,
getting
your
backs
on
us
for
the
slight
God
did
you
in
not
creating
you
in
His
Image
.
Vittorio
knew
,
but
it
was
the
woman
in
him
stilled
his
tongue
.
A
masterly
revenge
.
Say
it
,
Ralph
de
Bricassart
,
open
your
mouth
,
move
your
hands
in
the
blessing
,
begin
to
chant
the
Latin
for
the
soul
of
the
departed
.
Who
was
your
son
.
Whom
you
loved
more
than
you
loved
his
mother
.
Yes
,
more
!
For
he
was
yourself
all
over
again
,
in
a
more
perfect
mold
.
"
In
Nomine
Patris
,
et
Filii
,
et
Spiritus
Sancti
...
"
The
chapel
was
packed
;
they
were
all
there
who
could
be
there
.
The
Kings
,
the
O'Rourkes
,
the
Davieses
,
the
Pughs
,
the
MacQueens
,
the
Gordons
,
the
Carmichaels
,
the
Hopetons
.
And
the
Clearys
,
the
Drogheda
people
.
Hope
blighted
,
light
gone
.
At
the
front
in
a
great
lead-lined
casket
,
Father
Dane
O'Neill
,
covered
in
roses
.
Why
were
the
roses
always
out
when
he
came
back
to
Drogheda
?
It
was
October
,
high
spring
.
Of
course
they
were
out
.
The
time
was
right
.
"
Sanctus
...
sanctus
...
sanctus
...
"
Be
warned
that
the
Holy
of
Holies
is
upon
you
.
My
Dane
,
my
beautiful
son
.
It
is
better
so
.
I
would
n't
have
wanted
you
to
come
to
this
,
what
I
already
am
.
Why
I
say
this
for
you
,
I
do
n't
know
.
You
do
n't
need
it
,
you
never
needed
it
.
What
I
grope
for
,
you
knew
by
instinct
.
It
is
n't
you
who
is
unhappy
,
it
's
those
of
us
here
,
left
behind
.
Pity
us
,
and
when
our
times
come
,
help
us
.
"
Ite
,
Missa
est
...
Requiescat
in
pace
...
"
Out
across
the
lawn
,
down
past
the
ghost
gums
,
the
roses
,
the
pepper
trees
,
to
the
cemetery
.
Sleep
on
,
Dane
,
because
only
the
good
die
young
.
Why
do
we
mourn
?
You
're
lucky
,
to
have
escaped
this
weary
life
so
soon
.
Perhaps
that
's
what
Hell
is
,
a
long
term
in
earth-bound
bondage
.
Perhaps
we
suffer
our
hells
in
living
...
