They drag us down,
and push our faces into the mud.
We’re trussed up
like spring lambs,
and shoved into their cart.
The horse clops away from Nuala.
Her arms reach for us.
“Anna,” she cries.
Oh, Nuala!
The Barracks
WE pass Liam’s house.
The man stands outside,
staring at us.
Mae stands at her door,
as we pass the Donnellys’.
Blood is smeared across
my cracked teeth.
My lips are thick.
Still I try to scream,
“Nuala, left alone!”
Does she hear me?
The cart turns.
We’re on our way to prison.
Inside,
they pull off our ties.
They won’t let me sit near Da.
I’m forced against a damp wall
that drips with water.
Only a few sods of peat
warm this fortress.
I rub my icy feet together.
The wind sweeps in,
and waves papers on the desk.
A constable points his finger
at me.
“You tried to injure the earl’s men.
That’s a crime.”
He frowns.
“And worse,
you broke the window,
slicing the daughter’s sleeve.
Did you think
with that red hair,
you’d get away with it?”
I look around.
I have to escape.
The barracks door isn’t closed
all the way!
I see a wedge of gray sky,
a sliver of road.
I throw myself to my feet,
and slide through the space.
I circle the horse and cart
in front,
and dive across the road.
I don’t look back.
The field is circled by rocks,
by trees.
I scramble into them,
and crouch behind rough boulders.
The door bursts open all the way.
The men shout;
their feet pound across the road,
into the narrow field.
Will they see me,
almost buried
in these rocks?
My arms cover my head,
hiding my give-away hair.
I’m a kneeling statue,
except for the trembling,
and the breaths
I must take.
I could reach out and touch
their muddy boots.
They’re that close.
“She can’t go far,”
one of them says.
They move away,
still searching.
I wait for a long time,
until I’m soaked from the snow
beneath me.
I try to move,
but feeling is gone.
I rub my hands against my chest,
until they burn,
and then the soles of my feet.
The constable is wrong.
I can go far.
The Longford Road in Drumlish, County Longford
Away
Escape
HOLDING my skirt
above my ankles,
I tear through the cemetery
and splash along the creek.
I cross the road,
peering over my shoulder.
I don’t see them.
Not yet.
I trip
and go down hard,
my hands scraped,
a great tear in my skirt.
If only I could sleep
on this snowy ground,
for a moment.
But I scramble up.
Hurry, Anna, run.
I tell myself.
I reach our house, still there,
but inside,
everything is turned over
or broken.
“Nuala,” I call.
She doesn’t answer.
Could she be at the Donnellys’?
Please be safe, little sister.
A cup is shattered.
Mam’s favorite.
She’d hold it to her lips,
then reach out
to share a sip of tea.
I bend,
touch a shard.
The rush chair is on its side.
Oh, my book is underneath.
I reach for it
and tuck it in my skirt.
Safe.
At the doorway,
I stop for a last look.
Will I ever see my house again?
Or will the English tumble it
to the ground,
roof thatch scattered;
our bits and pieces,
an apron, a bit of a comb,
blown in the wind?
I almost see Mam,
lying on the bed.
I almost hear my voice,
the promise I made
to take care of the house,
the land!
Will I ever keep my word?
I run along the boreen
to the Donnellys’ place.
Their chickens startle up
with a flurry of feathers,
as I dart around them.
“Nuala, are you there?”
I call, my voice ragged.
Mrs. Donnelly comes to her half door,
swings it open.
“She’s here, child, don’t worry.”
I rush past her.
I have only seconds.
Mae puts Nuala in my arms,
a tornado:
hands waving, legs kicking.
“Put me down.”
“Ah, Noo-la,” I whisper,
stretching her name.
“Ah, my girl.”
I don’t stop.
One hand brushes
Mae’s shoulder.
I nod at Mrs. Donnelly,
small thanks
for taking care her.
Outside, I’m away from all I love.
I’m wanted.
On the run.
And Da!
Cold and hungry,
caught in the barracks.
Holding Nuala,
I try to think:
Where can we go?
There’s an aunt
I’ve never seen,
a Rogers like Mam.
“Ethna’s a weaver,”
Da said.
Stern and unfriendly,
she lives near the shore
of Lough Ree, outside Athlone.
Will she help us?
The sky fills with sleet.
Nuala sleeps, her face damp
against my neck.
My arms ache.
I slip and slide in the mud.
It’s still light,
but night is coming.
Three girls in an old stone ruin near Clonbrock House Estate, Ahascragh, eastern County Galway
(This image is reproduced courtesy of the National Library of Ireland CLON2156.)
The Shed
AHEAD of us is a shed.
Its doors bang open and shut.
I dart inside.
; If I reach out,
both arms would cover its width.
Are we safe here?
Bales of hay have become undone.
I throw handfuls over us.
Hiding us.
Warming us.
Nuala sleeps.
I stare at the starless sky,
through a hole in the roof,
and watch the moon
riding in and out
of the clouds.
I wonder…
will we reach Aunt Ethna?
“She’s skinny as a spider,
with a sting to match,”
Da had said.
“She’s known for her weaving,”
Mam had added.
“Her work is truly beautiful.”
Mam smiled.
“She uses a loom
built by our great-grandfather.
It’s a lovely thing,
Unusual.”
Da shrugs.
“Amazing that such a woman,
always angry, it seems,
can do what she does.”
He smiles too.
“Everyone has something.”
I wonder…
will I be caught
before I find her?
Dragged back to prison,
for how long?
Forever?
An ache in my chest
comes up to my throat.
Home, I think,
the rush chair,
days when we were all together:
Da, my brothers, and sisters,
Mam teaching me how
to make colcannon,
shredding cabbage,
slicing potatoes,
humming.
On a summer evening,
I chased Liam
across the field’s edge,
stopping breathless,
sinking down,
leaning against each other.
The Farmer
THE shed door scrapes open.
I startle up,
covering Nuala with one arm.
An old man with a pitchfork
rears back,
shocked to see two filthy waifs
nestled in the straw,
Nuala wakes and begins to cry.
Can I grab her?
Dart around him?
But the farmer says,
“Now, now.”
He rests the pitchfork
against the wall.
“Come up to the house.”
Will he turn us in?
My heart pounds.
I hold Nuala on my shoulder.
I can’t get around him,
can’t get away.
I feel my book at my waist,
as we go inside.
Food
FARM tools are stacked
against the wall.
A scruffy dog lies
under the table.
“Lost your place, did you?”
the farmer says.
He heats porridge over the fire,
and pours it into bowls.
“Sit,” he says.
With my sore feet lightly
on the dog’s willing back,
I raise the bowl to my mouth
and swallow, swallow.
The warmth spreads
from my throat to my chest.
His porridge tastes like Mam’s,
thick, filling.
“The bailiff is coming here,”
he says, and shrugs.
“This morning? Tomorrow?
Then I’ll be at my son’s,
my house gone.”
I hear the words,
Bailiff coming…
this morning…
I grab Nuala’s hand
from around the bowl.
I pull her up,
her chin dripping.
She screams, “Eat.”
I pay no attention.
I drag her out of the man’s house.
“Ah,” he says behind me.
He knows now I’m on the run.
“Hurry,” he says.
“Go.”
I stand at the step,
And look around wildly.
Nuala’s sobs against my ear.
Which way?
South. I want to go South.
But there’s no sun to guide me.
I must have spoken aloud.
He points.
“That way.”
Yes.
I run.
Stumble.
Nuala screaming again.
I kiss her filthy face.
Then, limping,
I go on.
The Road
I stop at last,
and hide behind a hedgerow.
Are we far enough away?
Can Nuala still be heard?
I put my hand gently,
over her open mouth.
“We are mice,” I whisper.
“Remember?”
She nods uncertainly.
“No one can hear us.”
I wipe her face with my skirt.
I’m up again,
Nuala at my side now.
We cross a field
puddled with snowmelt,
the first of many.
How far is it to find the Aunt,
with her spider sting?
How far is it before we see
Lough Ree?
Nuala tires
after chasing a rabbit.
She raises her arms to be held.
I see a road ahead.
Should I chance it?
I look back.
It will get us away faster.
I follow the road.
It turns,
and we turn with it.
Nuala points to people
as we pass them by.
One woman pushes a cart.
A child leans over the side,
a baby I can’t see is crying.
Another family walks slowly,
the father bent,
carrying a pack.
There are others.
Everyone is searching for a place
to stay,
somewhere safe,
now that the English have taken
their own places.
Will we go home one day,
with Da there,
to fold us in
with loving arms?
Oh Da, where are you?
I need you.
I’m so afraid.
An eviction on the Vadeleur Estate, Kilrush, County Clare
(This image is reproduced courtesy of the National Library of Ireland L_ROY_01767.)
Traveling
THE road takes us to a village
with a blackened stone church,
its steeple caught in the mist.
My arms are numb from holding Nuala.
Maybe we could go inside
and say a Hail Mary
while I put Nuala down
next to me.
Two policemen stand
in the road, twirling batons,
watching us.
Can they see that I’m wanted?
I walk past them quickly,
head down,
shoulders hunched,
until we’re out of their sight.
Another Shed
THAT night,
I look for a place
to pile hay over
us,
to soothe my blistered feet.
If only Nuala would stop whispering,
“Home, Anna,”
around the thumb in her mouth.
A barn looms up ahead of us.
The house is just beyond it.
No one is outside to ask for food.
To beg!
Da would be so ashamed.
We’ll sleep in that barn,
and try not to think
about the holes
in our stomachs,
the cuts on my feet.
With one hand,
I pull open the door.
Inside, there’s no wheat,
no grain.
It’s empty,
except for a few bits of straw
on the clay floor.
I close us in,
away from the bitter cold,
and wrap Nuala in my arms,
still crying.
We lean against the wall.
Not welcome,
I feel that.
I rest only for a moment.
The door opens.
A woman stands there,
hair and skirt blowing.
I think of her kitchen,
of milk for Nuala,
and maybe an egg for me.
She doesn’t say a word,
But with a hoe,
she motions for us to leave.
I pick Nuala up,
asleep now,
edge my way past the woman,
and look for the curve
in the road.
A misty moon lights the fields
and another house ahead of us.
I’m desperate for food,
for sleep.
I knock on the door,
but no one answers.
Is the house empty?
I sink down against the door,
with Nuala wedged in between,
and stare up at stars
burning in the sky.
Do I dare sleep?
Suppose the constable comes by.
He’ll see us,
of course he will.
But my eyes won’t stay open.
They close until
an owl hoots nearby.
I jump.
My heart pounds.
I sleep at last,
dreaming of Liam.
How Far?
I don’t wake Nuala yet.
The sun comes up
and touches us.
It’s almost warm
on that damp stone step.
I crouch there, guessing.
How many townlands
still to pass
before we see the waters
of the lough?
Before we see the Aunt?
No matter how mean she is,
she’ll know we’re kin,
A Slip of a Girl Page 4