dead.
ââMolly was crying like a madwoman. Others from over fields and houses were running to see. She flung herself on me, beating my chest with her tiny hands.
ââWhat in Godâs name have you done? Donât you know youâve
killed a lord who was going to take care of me with gold and silver and a house of my own? Youâve ruined me, you stupid boy.â
ââOn her hand was a ring of gold as wide as a beam of sunset.
ââWhat are you saying?â I dropped the rapier, took a step back from her, drenched in rich manâs blood. âYouâre to be married to me this week.â
ââWhat girl would marry an apprentice,â she rasped, âwhen she had a fine lord? Thereâs to be no wedding; there never was to be no wedding. And now youâve murdered the only man who could have saved me from a life of serving and fetching. Youâll hang, boyo. Youâll hang!â
ââShe reached in her bodice and pulled out my silver lily, threw it in my face.
ââOn All Saintsâ Day I fed myself on a jailerâs soup in place of wedding cake and watched the sun pass through prison bars.
ââThe day of my trial was in cold December, when all the birds had fled. Mr. Jamison found me a lawyer from Belfast who assured me there was a flaw in my indictment which could have me free. I had little hope. Iâd killed a man of high degree, and my only love was witness against me. What good would freedom do me anyway?
ââThe trial began with legal talk; lawyers and judges speak a language all their own. The lawyers met up at the judgeâs bench and jabbered again in Latin for the space of half an hour.
ââI could make out but little: â ⦠third page of the indictment no mention of the word fiancé ⦠page seven Briarwood misspelled ⦠page eleven a blacksmith, far cry from a silversmith ⦠shoddy work, flaw after flaw â¦â until at last the judge cried, âEnough. Step back!â
ââThe silence of the tomb was on the courthouse that day. The judge cast his eye about the place, slowly took in every face. At last he spoke.
ââThis indictment is riddled with flaws; I must release the prisoner until a new one may be filed.â
ââHe banged the gavel down; the room exploded. I scarcely heard a sound of it. I watched as Molly rose and departed the
place with never one look back at me at all. Not one. I soon left Ireland the same way.
ââMy name is Conner Devilin now, and I live in America. Iâve a fine wife and grown children and still more money in the banks than I know what to do with.
ââIt might have been that my fate would be to write these lines from a prison cell after killing a man in wild anger. But God devises various prisonsâsome are not made of stone and bars. For I wake from troubled sleep nearly every night of my life, can find but little rest. In my dreams I see her walking, setting fire to my heart, and cannot keep to my bed.
ââSo I write it down again in ink as black as night, but it is no use. The ending is always the same: I love her still, her voice like an angel, her tiny hands.
ââThereâs the proof on my table: the lilyâstill silver, not clayâbright as the moon, the only true pain, and the only real light, I will ever know.ââ
I looked up. Andrews snored softly in his chair; I had no way of knowing how much of the story heâd heard. I put it back in the trunk.
I suppose I had always considered the story, my obsession with it, an influential factor in my becoming a folklorist. It was not only the fact that its story explained derivation of the Devilin name or that it was impossible to tell what of it was truth and what fiction. There was something more emotional and immediate for me. In stacks and stacks of curling paper there were a hundred versions or
ââMolly was crying like a madwoman. Others from over fields and houses were running to see. She flung herself on me, beating my chest with her tiny hands.
ââWhat in Godâs name have you done? Donât you know youâve
killed a lord who was going to take care of me with gold and silver and a house of my own? Youâve ruined me, you stupid boy.â
ââOn her hand was a ring of gold as wide as a beam of sunset.
ââWhat are you saying?â I dropped the rapier, took a step back from her, drenched in rich manâs blood. âYouâre to be married to me this week.â
ââWhat girl would marry an apprentice,â she rasped, âwhen she had a fine lord? Thereâs to be no wedding; there never was to be no wedding. And now youâve murdered the only man who could have saved me from a life of serving and fetching. Youâll hang, boyo. Youâll hang!â
ââShe reached in her bodice and pulled out my silver lily, threw it in my face.
ââOn All Saintsâ Day I fed myself on a jailerâs soup in place of wedding cake and watched the sun pass through prison bars.
ââThe day of my trial was in cold December, when all the birds had fled. Mr. Jamison found me a lawyer from Belfast who assured me there was a flaw in my indictment which could have me free. I had little hope. Iâd killed a man of high degree, and my only love was witness against me. What good would freedom do me anyway?
ââThe trial began with legal talk; lawyers and judges speak a language all their own. The lawyers met up at the judgeâs bench and jabbered again in Latin for the space of half an hour.
ââI could make out but little: â ⦠third page of the indictment no mention of the word fiancé ⦠page seven Briarwood misspelled ⦠page eleven a blacksmith, far cry from a silversmith ⦠shoddy work, flaw after flaw â¦â until at last the judge cried, âEnough. Step back!â
ââThe silence of the tomb was on the courthouse that day. The judge cast his eye about the place, slowly took in every face. At last he spoke.
ââThis indictment is riddled with flaws; I must release the prisoner until a new one may be filed.â
ââHe banged the gavel down; the room exploded. I scarcely heard a sound of it. I watched as Molly rose and departed the
place with never one look back at me at all. Not one. I soon left Ireland the same way.
ââMy name is Conner Devilin now, and I live in America. Iâve a fine wife and grown children and still more money in the banks than I know what to do with.
ââIt might have been that my fate would be to write these lines from a prison cell after killing a man in wild anger. But God devises various prisonsâsome are not made of stone and bars. For I wake from troubled sleep nearly every night of my life, can find but little rest. In my dreams I see her walking, setting fire to my heart, and cannot keep to my bed.
ââSo I write it down again in ink as black as night, but it is no use. The ending is always the same: I love her still, her voice like an angel, her tiny hands.
ââThereâs the proof on my table: the lilyâstill silver, not clayâbright as the moon, the only true pain, and the only real light, I will ever know.ââ
I looked up. Andrews snored softly in his chair; I had no way of knowing how much of the story heâd heard. I put it back in the trunk.
I suppose I had always considered the story, my obsession with it, an influential factor in my becoming a folklorist. It was not only the fact that its story explained derivation of the Devilin name or that it was impossible to tell what of it was truth and what fiction. There was something more emotional and immediate for me. In stacks and stacks of curling paper there were a hundred versions or
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