“I’d be . . . grateful,” Moira stammered.
“Never let yer fire go all the way out. That’s the way of the turf, ya know. Use every bit for as long as ya can. Sure, there’s fires here in Gweedore parish that have been burnin’ for a hundred years running.”
The old woman clicked her tongue in annoyance and worked quickly to remedy the situation. Moira looked on, eager to learn the ancient tradition, still not sure why Bríd was so upset by it.
With the fire properly lit, the ladies finished their inspection of the premises. Just beyond the fireplace, Moira pushed aside a thin curtain and stepped into a small room.
A large bed with tall oak posts and a wooden canopy draped with canvas the color of milky tea stood opposite a chest of drawers, a jug, and a basin for washing hands and face. Over the door hung a strange shape woven out of reeds.
“I never expected such a grand bed,” Moira said. “It’s absolutely lovely.”
“Grand’s got nothing to do with it.” The older woman chuckled. “Ya don’t want any creepy-crawlies landin’ on ya in the middle of the night, do ya?”
Moira stared at the woman blankly.
“Ye’ll find most families here in Ballymann have beds like these, though most don’t have the luxury of havin’ the bed all to themselves. When ya live in a t’atched house, ya live in a house with critters, damp, and drips. The canopy bed keeps ya cozy and clean—and critter free.” Bríd laughed.
Moira’s eyes stretched wide, and she inspected the roof carefully. Visions of beetles, fleas, and mites filled Moira’s mind, and she struggled to hide her dismay.
“Come on now, my girl. It’s getting late and you need a good dinner, a nice cuppa, and an early bedtime. After all, it’s a school night.”
Moira groaned and then chuckled as she walked with Bríd, arm in arm, out of the chalet and into the dusky evening heading for home—and tea.
Chapter 11
That night, no matter how long Moira lay quiet with eyes shut tight, sleep eluded her. Despite her bidding them leave her until morning, a million-and-one ideas for her new home danced around and around in her head.
Earlier, fear had tightly wound around her heart about the unknowns of her little chalet. When she had finally seen how lovely it actually was, she found it difficult to bridle her imaginings.
Be still, Moira Girl. There’s no need to lose sleep over a chalet. Her scolding did little good. Eventually, and far later than she would have preferred, sleep overtook her.
No sooner had she settled into the comfort of a dream than Bríd was knocking on her door, beckoning her to breakfast. Moira washed, dressed, and ate breakfast in the fog that inevitably follows a night full of hopeful dreaming, before finally making her way to school.
Never let yer fire go all the way out. That’s the way of the turf, ya know. Use every bit for as long as ya can. Bríd’s words echoed in Moira’s head as she absently made her way to the schoolhouse.
“Good thing I paid attention to how she lit the fire in the chalet,” she said. “I should get the turf going before the children arrive today.”
Determined, Moira swung wide the schoolhouse door and marched straight to the fireplace. A basket full of the rough briquettes sat off to the side, ready for use. As she stacked the turf in the hearth just so, a terrifying thought plagued her mind, stopping her in her tracks.
The fire has long been out in this house. What if the soul of this place, these children, has gone out with it, just as Bríd warned? The idea chilled Moira’s bones as she flopped to the floor in defeat.
I am the way, the truth, and the life, my dear one. Trust in Me, not a fire.
Closing her eyes, Moira allowed the truth to wash over her. Of course the state of a hearth and fire could never determine the soul of a person! And if these children, God forbid, didn’t understand the love lavished on them from their Father above, she was going to let them experience it through her. Bríd was full of superstitions. As, apparently, were many in the village. But Moira would hold to the truth.
She returned to stacking and arranging the turf the way she had seen Bríd do the night before and set it alight. As she finished, the children began to arrive.
“Marnin’, Miss,” called one child.
“Día dhuit,” croaked another.
Moira half-turned and smiled at her pupils when there was a tug on the back of her dress. She craned her head around to see Aoife, who smiled sheepishly, waved, then ran to her seat.
“Good morning, children,” Moira sang as she rose to her feet. “It’s so lovely to see you all again today. Yesterday we spent a lot of time getting acquainted, so today I’d like to dig in and get some good work done.”
As she spoke, the children’s eyes grew bigger. Some of the students chuckled, some coughed, but most simply sat with mortified looks plastered across their face. Realizing something was happening behind her, Moira turned just in time to be enveloped by a cloud of thick black smoke.
“Och! Someone open the door!”
Moira ran to the fireplace, waving her arms madly to dispel the smoke. All around her, children coughed and gagged, flailing their hands in front of their faces or hiding their noses inside the tops of their jumpers. In the corner, Áedach laughed hysterically.
“Morning, a Mhúinteoir.”
Moira stiffened. She turned toward the door. Please, God, don’t let it be . . .
“Sean—er—Mr. McFadden! What brings you to the schoolhouse this morning?” She hoped the burning in her cheeks wasn’t evident to everyone else.
“What brings me here?” he quipped, barely hiding a laugh. “Why, not much. Only that t’ick black smoke pourin’ out from the door there, that’s all.”
Moira buried her face in her hands. “I really don’t know what’s wrong! I just learned this last night. Och! This is just lovely.”
In three strides Sean was right in front of the fire. Moira was all too aware of his presence beside her, despite the fact her face was still buried in her hands. Through her fingers she saw Sean reach to put his hand on her arm, but he stopped short and lowered it to his side.
“Well now,” he said gently, “let’s just see what we can do about this, shall we?”
Moira lowered her hands and nodded, waiting to see what manner of sarcastic comment the man had prepared for her today.
Sean crouched in front of the hearth. “Ah, see? You’ve no kindling ’tall here. You need to put some grass or paper underneath the turf.” He gestured to a stack of dried grass and hay in a smaller basket to the left of the fireplace. “And then your biggest culprit is you’ve not opened the flue inside the chimney, like this.”
He turned a black iron lever jutting out of the left side of the chimney. Immediately, a rush of air sucked the smoke up the chimney, slamming the schoolhouse door.
“I see,” Moira said, straightening her skirts. Deep down she was grateful for Sean coming to her rescue. But she restrained her gratitude to keep the mood dignified. Proper.
“Thank you very much, Mr. McFadden. I’m much obliged to you.”
“And I’ll remember that you owe me, to be sure,” he replied with a sly smile and a wink.
Moira’s face burned once more. There was no hiding it this time.
Sean brushed the soot from his hands, bid the students farewell, and left as suddenly as he had come in.
“Now, children, I think that’s enough excitement for one day. If you’ll all take your seats, we can begin.”
The children shuffled around, wiped their desks of soot and ash, and found their seats. In the corner, Áedach still laughed.
Chapter 12
Fleecy clouds frolicked on the breeze like spring lambs, drawing Sean’s eyes upward. Setting his flask of tea aside, he eased onto his back with a heavy sigh. The freshly thatched roof, coarse yet forgiving, cradled him as his thoughts joined the clouds in their gamboling.
It had been a long time coming, but he had finally come home. At long last he was in the pl
ace he had been pining for all that time he was away, working now with the best mentor a man could hope for. So why did he still feel so restless?
His eyes drifted from sky to sea. She was calm today, her skirts of waves swirling like a lace gown in a waltz. Despite the peaceful scene before him, Sean couldn’t deny the angst churning deep within his heart.
“What’s your secret, old girl? How can you be so at peace?” Sean’s fingers found a loose strand of reed and brought it to his mouth. A familiar taste. Earthy. Rooted. Comforting. And a distraction from other thoughts he wrestled to untangle.
“Ya know, you’ll never plow a field by turnin’ it over in yer mind, lad.” Colm raised both woolly eyebrows but light sparked in his eyes. He nodded to his apprentice and climbed toward the ridge of the roof. Sean was familiar with the old proverb. It was one of Colm’s favorites when the lad was a little too restful for the man’s liking.
“Why do I always feel like you’re sayin’ more than what your words mean, Colm?” Sean chuckled as he heaved himself to standing.
“Come, now.” The old man’s voice was reassuring. “Ya know that when it comes to work, I’m all business.”
Colm always managed to have a twinkle in his eye, even when reprimanding. How was that? A smile played on both men’s lips. Sean joined his mentor at the ridge of the roof.
“All jestin’ aside, I canna help but notice ya seem a mite troubled of late. As though yer soul is in a wrestlin’ match with Fionn mac Cumhaill himself.”
“Aye,” Sean murmured. He might as well have been scrapping with the legendary giant the way his thoughts bandied him about. How much should he tell the old man? The truth of it was, Sean felt deep down he was meant to do something truly meaningful with his life, and he wasn’t sure how thatching was going to bring that to pass. Yet he loved and respected Colm and did not want to insult his life’s work.
“I dunno.” He shrugged. “I am so happy to be here in Ballymann. And I’m honored to be workin’ with the likes of ye.”
The twinkle returned to his mentor’s eyes as he cleared his throat and shifted his weight, clearly embarrassed by the compliment.
“It’s just that, well”—he paused, searching for the right words—“I’m grateful for the job, and to learn such an honorable trade. But deep down, I just want something . . .”
“More?” Colm finished for him.
Sean’s gaze shot up to meet the old man’s. Relief swept over him as he recognized nothing but compassion in Colm’s expression. “Well, yes.”
“Sit with me, lad.”
Both men bent carefully to perch themselves on the crest of the ridge. Colm’s large hand, calloused with time and hard work, rested on Sean’s shoulder.
“A man’s life is a high calling, to be sure,” Colm began. “And the fact that ye’re so moved to distress is a blessin’.”
Sean’s brow furrowed.
“A man who lives only for himself is a man with few convictions,” Colm continued. “However, conflict is not absent from his life. On the contrary! That man’s life is chockablock with the agony of constantly fightin’ to protect his own.”
Sean nodded slowly.
“But a man who lives according to a higher purpose”—Colm’s finger pointed skyward as he continued—“that is a man whose life may, too, be overflowin’ with conflict, but it’s the fight to protect others. Surely, his calling is to do rightly, to love compassionately, and to walk respectfully with his God.”
“I see,” Sean replied, fearful his face belied his words.
“Ya see, lad, it doesna matter a lick if ye’re a priest, a barkeep, or a thatcher by trade. When ya seek to love the Laird wit’ all yer heart, soul, an’ mind, and then seek ta love others selflessly, ye’re a man who will make a difference in this world one pairson at a time.”
Understanding dawned in Sean’s heart. The old man had a knack for helping him see truth in murky waters.
Chapter 13
Moira sighed and flopped onto her back, lacing her fingers underneath her weary head. She wriggled her rump, trying to work a lump in the mattress to one side or the other and find a comfortable spot. She stared at the canopy above her, tracing every line and crease in the dingy canvas. The turf fire in the kitchen was slowly dying, filling the air with stale smoke that made her head ache.
After the mishap with Sean and the fire, Moira had struggled to regain composure with the class. Her bones ached with exhaustion, and she assumed sleep would come quickly. She closed her eyes and willed herself to rest, but no sooner had she released a deep breath than her eyes would rock open and the inner dialogue would begin again.
What in the world are you doing here, Moira Girl? You’re in way over your head. You can barely keep a fire lit, let alone guide and direct a schoolful of children to a brighter future. Surely there’s been some mistake.
Tears stung her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. There were no sobs, no rocking cries. Silent tears streamed, soaking her hair as she wept.
Why would Mother think I could do this? What would possess her to recommend me for such a task? She tried to recall the conversation when Mother had told her the news. But the thought of Mother filled Moira with an ache that threatened to swallow her whole. As she lay in the dark of night—tears soaking her face, her hair, her feather pillow—dread surrounded her like a lead cloak. She could scarcely breathe for the weight of it and struggled to keep her composure. Her eyes squeezed tight. Could she call up an image of her mother’s visage?
Soft, gray hair piled high into a tidy bun framed a kind, bright face. Tiny wrinkles surrounded bright blue eyes shining with kindness and love. Suddenly her mother was there in the room with her. Moira reached out a weary, trembling hand to stroke her mother’s precious cheek, only to find cold, dark air in its place.
She longed to hear her mother’s voice with its velvety lilt, softened by time and distance from her homeland. Moira strained to remember that voice, devastated that she no longer could.
Despair flooded Moira’s heart as the reality—and finality—of her mother’s death sank in. She struggled to catch her breath. She would never see her mother again. Never hug her. Never hear her voice utter prayers over Moira or sing as she tidied the kitchen. No longer held back, violent sobs racked Moira’s body. Her cries echoed in the tiny chalet. She didn’t care who could hear.
“Oh God! Help me! What have I done? What were You thinking? Why did You bring me here?”
The lyrics of a song her mother had sung to her every night of her childhood floated into her memory. Deep in the recesses of her mind she could faintly hear the clear, high voice of her mother as she tenderly sang while rocking back and forth, back and forth. Moira’s breathing slowed and the sobs abated. She pushed the woolen blankets aside and shuffled to the small, square window in the kitchen.
The shutters creaked open, and Moira stared into the dark, misty night. She shivered as the chilled air met her face, hot from grief and crying.The moon cast an eerie silver light over the village. Moira closed her eyes, took a breath, and began to sing.
Rest tired eyes a while
Sweet is thy baby’s smile
Angels are guarding and they watch o’er thee
Her voice, weak at first, grew clearer with every note. On the words with tones that hung long, she accented with runs of notes, adding to the ethereal comfort that accompanies an Irish lullaby. She continued, her voice growing stronger with each phrase.
Sleep, sleep, grá mo chroí
Here on your mamma’s knee
Angels are guarding
And they watch o’er thee
The birdeens sing a fluting song
They sing to thee the whole day long
Wee fairies dance o’er hill and dale
For very love of thee
Moira sang until the anxious thoughts drifted away and home seemed a comfort before her very eyes.
Sean lay in bed, mulling over what Colm had said to him on the rooftop earlier that d
ay. Perhaps the old man was right. Could Sean truly make a difference, even as a thatcher, simply by following God and loving others sacrificially? His eyelids grew heavy. Though he had more to ponder, the promise of sleep lay thick upon him.
The night air seeped in through the cracked window above his bed. As Sean drifted toward sleep, he thought he heard the voice of an angel singing on the breeze.
Chapter 14
Clang! Clang! The church bells tolled, startling Moira awake. She tried to move but a shooting pain in her neck kept her still. Slowly her eyes focused on the fireplace. Why is the fireplace in my bedchamber? And why is it on its side? Her head and body ached, and her mind struggled to catch up. Gingerly she lifted her head and looked around, familiarizing herself with her surroundings.
“What in the world?” Confusion surrounded her like a fog. She sat in a chair by the open window in her front room. Dew covered the windowsill, her arms, and the crown of her head. She shivered from top to toe.
I must have fallen asleep singing! Her cheeks burned with embarrassment at her silliness. Images of home flooded her mind, surrounded by the familiar tune of her childhood. She remembered now.
The lullaby had done its job—it had put her to sleep. A peaceful sleep full of dreams of home and family, for which Moira was more grateful than she could express.
But to fall asleep in front of an open window and allow a chill to have its way with her had been foolish. She willed herself to stand and was by no means steady on her feet. Finally regaining her bearings and balance, she shut the window tight and tended to the fire before seeing to her breakfast.
The hot tea went down smoothly, warming every inch of her as she sipped. Although she had fallen asleep very late, she had somehow managed to wake up with plenty of time to eat a leisurely breakfast and fully prepare for the school day ahead.
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