A Dance in Donegal

by Jennifer Deibel

  “Are ya awake, pet?” Mrs. Martin whispered.

  Moira squinted at the light from the hallway.

  “You’ve already slept half the day away.” Her hostess chuckled.

  Moira sat up and stretched. The clock downstairs chimed eight times.

  Half the day, eh? A smile spread across her face. “Morning, Mrs. Martin. I do need to get an early start today.”

  “Would you be havin’ yer breakfast now then?”

  “Yes, that would be lovely,” she said through a yawn. “I’ll be down shortly.”

  Mrs. Martin slid the door closed and her footsteps scurried downstairs. The aroma of rashers, sausage, bread, and that distinctive strong black tea wafted through the draft of the closing door. A rumble gurgled in Moira’s stomach. She pawed through her bags and found the other dress she had packed.

  Moira smiled at the garment. “Hello again, old friend.” Although slightly more formal than her traveling dress, the light-blue frock seemed as appropriate for a walk in town as a visit to church. Thankfully it had not gotten wet in the torrent the night before. The one she had worn on her journey was still dreadfully damp and would not do for her first day in town. She dressed quickly, splashed water on her face, straightened her hair, and headed downstairs for her feast.

  The food was already set on the table when she arrived, but it was still piping hot. As she sat down, Mrs. Martin came around the corner with a fresh pot of tea and some toast with melted butter. Moira didn’t know where to begin.

  “I can’t remember the last time I had a good fry.” Moira eyed the array of dishes, delighted to find them just like the ones her mother had made on occasion.

  Mrs. Martin laughed. “’Tis one of the things we do best, eh?” She set the toast and butter on the table and returned to the kitchen.

  Though tempted to shove it all in her mouth at once, Moira exercised restraint and reached instead for a single piece of toast. Every few minutes Mrs. Martin passed by the open kitchen door in a blur, followed by a cacophony of clanks, thuds, and clinks. Moira wasn’t sure what kept her hostess so busy. Since she was the only guest in the house, Moira figured the workload would be rather light.

  Unable to contain herself any longer, Moira dug into the many dishes set before her. The food delighted Moira’s every sense. The sausage, cooked to perfection, popped when her teeth sank into the skin, and the inside burst into juicy goodness in her mouth. The rashers, salty and tender, were delectable, and the eggs didn’t run a bit.

  Warmed to the core by the delightful ambrosia, the morning chill melted away into a lovely glow. Refreshed and ready to face the day, Moira worked to rein in her excitement. Anxious to get out and see the town in the daylight, meet some of the locals, and gain her bearings, she gathered up her dishes and carried them into the kitchen. Owen and Mrs. Martin stood next to one another at the basin, chattering away in Gaelic, with the occasional burst of robust laughter punctuating the conversation. As he leaned over to grab the next dish, Owen bussed Mrs. Martin’s cheek.

  They’re married!

  “Where shall I put these?” Moira asked.

  Mrs. Martin whisked around, a shocked expression on her face. “Ya needn’t be pickin’ up after the meals, child!” she scolded. “Thanks for the thoughtfulness though. You can just set them here next to the press.”

  Moira did as instructed, setting her dishes down on the large wardrobe, then stepped into the hall. Relief energized her like a fresh breeze as she donned her coat and slipped out of the house. A twinge of guilt niggled at her belly for not telling her hostess she would not be attending Wednesday mass. It would have been the polite thing to do, but she wasn’t sure the woman would understand. While Moira was unfamiliar with the way things were done in this parish, she suspected the service would be officiated entirely in Irish, and she wasn’t sure she was ready for that.

  That’s not the real reason and you know it.

  Reluctant as she was to admit it, even to herself, she couldn’t ignore the feeling of unease that had nagged her while overlooking the church the day before. Usually places of worship inspired exactly that from her heart—worship. Yet for reasons she couldn’t explain, the sight of the church that day left her uneasy—whether from the unknown of it all or something else, she didn’t know. She turned her thoughts to the scenic landscape surrounding her.

  Walking aimlessly, Moira wandered down a narrow road—no more than a footpath, really—and found herself atop a small knoll overlooking the rugged Atlantic Ocean. She could imagine no better place to spend time in prayer and contemplation than on the boulder she found about halfway down to the sea. She sat and adjusted her cloak more tightly around her shoulders. Closing her eyes, she took in all that was unseen.

  Waves crashed on the shore, uttering secrets her heart could not yet discern. Tender sea grass rustled in the wind. The pungent, heady aroma of salt, earth, and air filled her lungs. Filled her heart.

  I know the thoughts that I think toward you. So audible was the voice in her heart that her eyes jolted open to see who was speaking. Nothing stood before her but the vast expanse of rugged terrain and sea. She closed her eyes again, listening.

  I am with you. I will never leave you.

  She breathed in deeply, as if trying to inhale the message itself, to make it a part of her very being. Uncaring about the passage of time, she sat still in that place—in that hallowed outdoor sanctuary—neither moving nor thinking.

  “Well now, what have we here, a thaisce ?” a voice rasped.

  In one swift motion, Moira was on her feet, staring face-to-face with a strange older man. His right shoulder drooped lower than the left, and his back was hunched. His eyes, gray and clouded with age and—she supposed—drink, stared far more intently at her than was either welcomed or appropriate.

  “I’m sorry, s-s-sir. I’m sorry if I intruded on your land.”

  “Oh, ná bac le sin, lovey—don’t ye worry aboot tha’. The land belongs to the Laird alone.” His voice was thin and tinny. Moira was convinced a hearty sneeze would rend his vocal cords in two.

  “Ya oughtn’t be sittin’ alone outside wit’ yer eyes clamped shut like ’at. Ya never know who might come up an’ snatch ya away.” He wagged his head. “Ye’re the spitting image of yer mammy, ya know.”

  Moira furrowed her brow. He knew Mother? Before she could ask him, a wheezy laugh escaped his lips and they curled into more of a snarl than a smile. One obstinate tooth poked through the man’s thin, cracked lips. Lunging toward Moira, he reached out and clawed at her sleeves, his laugh evolving into a bone-chilling cackle.

  Startled and horrified, Moira clutched her skirts in her fists and ran as fast as she could toward the main road. The man’s terrifying laugh chased her on the air. Her feet hastily traversed the rough terrain, her shoes stumbling over stones. It was as if an evil banshee had risen and chased away all magic from this mossy land.

  Moira plunged ahead, not bothering to see if she was being chased. Her toe caught on a root, and she hurtled toward the cold ground, blackness washing over her as the man’s hollow laughter echoed in her ears.

  Moira lay in a dazed heap, her knee throbbing. She had hardly a second to wonder how long she’d been lying there when a pair of strong, calloused hands grabbed her arms and lifted her in one smooth motion. Moira fought against the grip until she saw who held her.

  Not the older, cackling drunk. No rheumy eyes. These eyes were as green as the emerald shores. And they searched hers.

  “Miss? Are you alright?” His masculine voice was drenched in concern and confusion.

  She wriggled free from his grasp and fought to gain her bearings and make sense of what had happened. The beach lay behind her, and the main road stretched just beyond this new mystery man. She remembered where she was.

  “Miss!” His voice snapped her back to reality. She noticed the light stubble scattered over the jawline of his young, tan face.

  She wiped her eyes with her sleeve and turned to
run back to the Martins’ house. Once again, however, the stranger’s strong hands grasped hers and brought her around to look him square in the eye.

  “Are you okay?” His words were measured and calm but carried an air of authority that settled her nerves in the most peculiar way.

  “Please, pardon my clumsiness. I’m fine, thank you.” She gave him a weary smile and brushed the dirt from her skirts, careful to avoid her aching knee.

  “Ya won’t last long ’round here if ye constantly run into folk.” He winked as a deep laugh rumbled from his belly.

  Moira started to chuckle, then flinched and pressed her lips together. She narrowed her eyes to reduce his features to a mere silhouette.

  If it isn’t the welcoming committee from last night on the road. Annoyance shot through her veins and she balled her skirts in her fists.

  “Well, it appears I won’t last long around here no matter what I do.” She sniffled. “And thank you very much for the kind and hearty welcome last night. Fear not, I’ll do my best to stay out of your way, good sir.” With a whip of her once-styled plait, she turned sharply on her heel and headed back toward the guesthouse.

  “Wait! What happened?” he called after her, but she refused to stop.

  She glanced behind her as she took marked steps, attempting to retain what little pride she had left. The stranger’s eyes were fixed on her, and his hand worked the back of his neck.

  Once back at the Martins’, Moira burst through the door, tears clogging her throat. Fear, pain, and embarrassment vied for control as she bolted up the stairs and sank onto the bed. Blast it, if she wasn’t weeping tears at the rate of last night’s rainfall! She heard the door open with a creak. As gentle as a spring rain, a hand rested on her back.

  “Oh, peata, what’s wrong? Are ya okay?” the older woman crooned softly.

  Moira took a deep, shaky breath, willing herself calm once more, not knowing where to begin. She absently wiped her nose with the back of her hand and turned to face Mrs. Martin.

  “I was down at the seaside,” she began, not quite sure how much to divulge about what exactly she was doing there, “when this old man came up behind me. He started telling me I should be careful—that someone could snatch me away. Oh, I don’t know. It gave me such a fright. He had the most horridly wicked laugh, I thought for sure I was face-to-face with Lucifer himself.”

  “Och! That sounds just like yer man Buach.” She practically spat the name.

  “B—Boo-ac?”

  Mrs. Martin’s head bobbed. “Buach O’Boyle. Tsk.” Mrs. Martin inhaled sharply and continued. “Ya needn’t worry about him spiritin’ ya away. The man can barely lift his pint. And lift it he does, mm-hmm.” A blunt nod punctuated her statement.

  “But why would he say such things? He doesn’t even know me! What joy or sport could he get from frightening a young woman?” She closed her eyes, trying to recall what else had transpired with the man. “And then he said something about my . . . my mother.”

  “Aw sure, it makes no sense to nairmull folk like you an’ me. But ya wouldn’t be hearing folk sayin’ ‘Buach’ and ‘nairmull’ in the same breath, sure ya wouldn’t.” Mrs. Martin’s stare drifted somewhere far off. “Some say his mind left him years ago, along with his wife. Other folk say he sold his very soul to the devil. And pay ye no mind to what he said about yer mum. He says more than should be heeded.”

  So, I wasn’t so very far off, after all. It was strong drink that fogged his eyes. Moira winced at the thought and tried to drum up some compassion.

  “Doncha be feelin’ too sorry for that dairty ol’ man. He mightn’t be able ta take ya away, but he can do his fair share o’ worm-toungin’.” She patted her hair and tucked a wayward strand back in place. “For a man what’s said to have lost his mind, or have one foot in hell, folk sure do listen to what he has ta say. ’Specially if it’s to do with . . .” Mrs. Martin’s voice trailed off.

  “What? To do with what?” Moira insisted. “And what did he mean about my mother? Does he know something about her?”

  Mrs. Martin only shook her head, her lips pressed into a firm line. “No, lass. I’ve said mair than my share already. You just steer clear of ol’ Buach. I have yer word, have I?” She arched her brows in a no-nonsense manner.

  Moira searched the woman’s face. When there was no hint of more information, she resigned herself to obedience. “Yes, ma’am. I promise.”

  “Och! Ma’am’s fer old ladies and schoolmarms.” The woman’s eyes widened. “Oh. Heh heh. No offense, peata, no offense.” The woman chuckled as she headed toward the door.

  Despite her fright and a gnawing sense of doubt plaguing her gut, a smile played on Moira’s lips. “None taken, Mrs. Martin. None taken.”

  “Anois, come ya down the stairs and I’ll fix a nice cuppa and bit o’ toast, eh?” She stopped in the doorway and turned back. “And by the way, if ye’re to be stayin’ ’round Ballymann, ya can call me Bríd.”

  With that, the pair headed down the stairs for tea and happier talk, with Bríd still chuckling at her inadvertent slip of the tongue the whole way.

  Chapter 5

  The next day dawned clear and cold with a blanket of white frost covering the earth in a veil of diamonds and stars. Moira had awoken earlier than usual, with her nose an icicle and her toes numb despite being buried deep within the folds of her duvet.

  Although February was technically spring in Ireland, northwest Donegal was holding on to the last of winter’s chill with a firm grip. She dressed quickly to minimize her exposure to the cold and damp.

  Once again, as though summoned by Moira’s thoughts alone, Bríd appeared at the door with a jug of steaming water. “’Tis far tew cold a morning to be washin’ wit’out a bit o’ steam,” she stated with a dramatic shiver.

  A thousand needles bore into Moira’s fingers as she plunged them into the hot water. The shock gave way to sheer bliss as the warmth radiated up her chilled hands. Relishing every last ounce of heat, she lifted cupped handfuls to splash her face, wishing she could fit her entire body into the small basin of steaming water.

  She dried her hands and face quickly, and deftly assembled her hair into a long plait that she wrapped around the crown of her head. Stubborn black ringlets fell around the nape of her neck and her temples.

  “Ah, well.” She sighed at her reflection in the murky mirror. “Perfection belongs to the Lord alone, right?” She gave herself a curt nod in agreement and headed down the stairs.

  After another hearty breakfast, Moira prepared to explore the village a bit more and visit the schoolhouse for the first time. Feeling compelled to let her hosts know her plans for the day this time, she stopped at the doorway. “Thank you again for breakfast. It was delicious. I’m heading out to see the town today, hoping to get into the schoolhouse and set a few things up before next week.”

  “Will ya be back for lunch, then?” Bríd asked.

  “Yes, that’ll be lovely.”

  Moira stepped outside and took a deep breath. There was a freshness in the air she had never felt in Boston. It rejuvenated her spirit. It was like inhaling pure life with every breath.

  Just past the entrance to the guesthouse property, the road curved and headed east. Isolated bungalows stood scattered along the winding dirt road. Fields of bog, bordered with rustic rock walls, lay like a patchwork quilt between barns, sheds, and whitewashed homes that gleamed in the morning sun.

  She sensed something familiar about this place. Although she had never been here before, she could almost describe what was around each corner before she got there. Though unexpected, she welcomed the perception of familiarity.

  Even with peace washing over her, the muttered statement Bríd had made about the schoolchildren the first night rolled like a stone deep in the pit of her stomach.

  The day-to-day language of the village was Gaelic. Bríd had said so herself. Why, then, would they hire a young, English-speaking American teacher? Surely there were more experienced
, more qualified, Irish teachers.

  Moira came to a road that ran perpendicular to her current path. About thirty yards down stood a single-story building with pebble-smacked walls and a tin roof. As she got closer, it reminded Moira of a flower box topped with a slanted lid.

  Small windows lined the long walls. Soggy, hand-drawn pictures, paper cutouts, and other educational paraphernalia littered them, alerting the community of the children’s activities. That must be the schoolhouse. Moira smiled with quiet satisfaction. She had only finished her teacher training in October and had not yet been given a chance to put her skills to work. Pushing her doubts aside, she felt anticipation overwhelm her, and she ran, childlike, to the door, pushing it open.

  Inside, the humble building smelled of pencil lead, damp paper, and glue. She sighed.

  The pupils’ desks sat in tidy rows, each with a pencil atop, waiting for its owner. Moira strolled beside the back wall and ran her fingers along the large bookshelf that stood there. The shelves bowed with the weight of the collection of literary works. A large blackboard hung on the front wall. The teacher’s desk sat kitty-corner from it, allowing her to see all her pupils in one sweeping glance.

  Moira was so lost in thought, all else around her faded away. But a metallic click told her she was not alone.

  Chapter 6

  Sean McFadden stood outside the schoolhouse, memories of beloved old Miss McGinley—who was like a grandmother to him—swimming in his heart. Having spent countless hours after school with the teacher, poring over old books and discussing their favorite authors and stories, he had developed a close relationship with the older woman. Once finished with school, Sean would stop by during the day, as he had time, to help out with whatever he could. Whether it was lighting the fire or reading with the young ones while Miss McGinley presented a more challenging lesson to the older students, he was eager to do anything that would make the sweet teacher’s day easier.

  He had returned to Ballymann in January after completing his apprenticeship in Donegal Town. Other than being outdoors all day, he had never really enjoyed thatching, but his uncle had arranged for the opportunity. As there had been no other option for him after completing school—other than joining the country’s fight for independence—he’d had no choice but to accept it. Although he had enjoyed his time in Donegal Town, he had been anxious to return home and settle down in the quiet seaside village of his youth. When he saw a strange woman walk into the school, he had to investigate. Must be the new teacher, he thought. He approached slowly but followed her inside.