“And so the story’s told, Hennessy.”
“Told nothin’. Sure, it isn’t half told—it isn’t more than half begun, just.”
“But you can’t end a book that way. You have to end with an ending.”
“’Tis the best way to end a book, then. Haven’t ye taken the lass over the worst o’ the road an’ aren’t ye leavin’ her with the best ahead?”
“But what is there left—to find along the way? She’s found her work—that’s over with. She’s found her man—that’s over with. She’s found love—that’s over—”
Hennessy interrupted me almost viciously. I think he wanted to prod me instead of the ice. “What kind of talkin’ is that for a person who thries to write books about real folk? Ye harken to me. Do ye think because love is found ’tis over with? Sure, Leerie’s only caught a whiff of it yet—’tis naught but budded for her. By an’ by there come the blossom of it an’ the fruit of it. An’ when death maybe withers it for a spell—’twill be but a winther-time promise to bud an’ blossom again in the Counthry Beyond. There’s no witherin’ to love like hers. An’ do ye think because she has her man found there’s no pretty fancy or adventure still waitin’ them along the way? An’ do ye think Leerie’s work will ever be done? Tell me that!”
The shirr tightened into something like contempt. Hennessy looked down upon me with undisguised pity.
“Did ye ever know Leerie at all, at all, I’m wondtherin’—to be savin’ things like that? Don’t ye know for the likes o’ her there’ll be childher—Saint Anthony send them a nestful!” He crossed himself to further the wish. “An’ over an’ above the time it takes tendin’ an’ lovin’ them an’ rearin’ them into the finest parcel o’ youngsters God ever made—wi’ the help o’ their parents—there’ll be time left to light the way for every poor, sorry soul within a hundred miles o’ her. Ye can take my word for it; an’ if she never did another stroke o’ work so long as she lived—bein’ Leerie, just, would be enough.”
“You may be right, Hennessy, but it’s still no way to end a book.”
He came a step nearer and shook a warning finger at me. “Will ye listen? Faith, I’m wondtherin’ sometimes that folk read your books when ye have so little sense wi’ the endin’ o’ them. Don’t ye know that a book that ends wi’ the end is a dead book entirely? An’ who cares to be readin’ a dead book? Tell me that.”