“Thank you, Lord, for the church bells,” she spoke to the ceiling.
The chills eventually dissipated as the fire crackled awake and the tea worked its magic from the inside out. Her bones ached. She prayed it was merely soreness from sleeping in such an awkward position. She could not afford to be ill the first week. Nor could she afford to let grief or pains overtake her better judgment.
After seeing to her morning ablutions, she opened the door ready to venture out into the new day, determined to face whatever challenges awaited with strength and grace. Her breath caught in her chest as the sheer beauty of Ballymann struck anew with full force.
The sun shone bright—a rare occurrence in Donegal in February—casting rainbows over the emerald sea. Thatched roofs, frosted with dew, sparkled like jewels on velvet. Each breath brought a potpourri of grass, dew, and the sweet scent of turf. Moira closed her eyes, took one final cleansing breath, and stepped resolutely out the door.
Whoosh! Her slick-soled boot met with the dew-damp stone of the threshold, and her bum landed firmly on the limestone.
“Oof!” Moira sat stunned for a moment before glancing around to make sure no one had seen her fall. “Well, so much for a graceful start to the day!”
Laughter bubbled up from deep within. Though she knew she must look like a fool laughing on the damp walkway, she couldn’t stop. Before long, a rolling belly laugh drifted on the air over the sleepy town.
“I do believe it is going to be a great day, Moira Girl!”
Before rising to her feet, Moira noticed small white bits crushed on the stones before her. Several eggshells lay scattered on the path from her chalet. Some on the stones, pulverized from her fall. Others hidden under the bushes on either side of her doorway. Moira grimaced, searching for a reason they would be there, but no logical reason presented itself.
“A few eggshells never harmed anyone. At least they’ll keep the slugs away.”
Rising to her feet, Moira adjusted her skirts and brushed the dirt from her hands and backside. Looking around once more to make sure no one was witness to her comedic mishap, she started down the footpath to the main road.
She looked back for a moment and renewed admiration for her charming little home filled her heart. Passing the small market, Moira made a mental note to stop in after school. Busy thinking of a list of items she wanted to collect—tea, butter, flour, and bread soda—Moira barely noticed Bríd approaching before the woman was in front of her.
“Well, hallo, lovey. I missed havin’ ya ’round last night.” The old woman wrapped Moira in a warm hug. The pair rocked back and forth before finally releasing one another.
“It’s so wonderful to see you, Bríd! I was just on my way to school. Walk with me?”
Bríd feigned a deep think before linking her arm in Moira’s and heading off down the road with a lilt in her step.
“So, peata, how are ya findin’ the chalet? Are ya keepin’ the fire lit, now?”
Moira laughed. She had missed the company of her friend more than she’d realized. Her heart stirred at the realization that she actually had a friend.
“Yes, ma’am—er, Bríd—the fire is lit, and I’ve gotten a little better at using the embers. At least I think I have.”
“That’s brilliant, peata. Glad to hear it.” Bríd eyed her. “You seem awfully chipper this mairnin’. All is right in the teaching world, I wager?”
Moira took a sidelong glance at the woman and smiled. “Yes, I’d say it is. A few growing pains still, but it’ll all come together in time. This morning has been a comedy of errors.”
The pair turned down the street where the school stood. Gravel crunched beneath their feet, and Moira wrestled with whether or not to tell Bríd about her little midnight serenade and waking up in the windowsill. While she dearly valued her new—and only—friend in Ballymann and wanted desperately to open up to her, she didn’t know how Bríd would react. Would she think Moira silly? Would she deem her an unfit role model for the children of the parish?
“First of all, I slipped coming out of the house.” She opted for the safe version. “I was quite the sight, I tell you. Then, I noticed a stash of eggshells scattered across the front walk.”
Bríd stopped, her brows furrowed as she looked Moira square in the eyes. “Eggshells, ya say?”
Moira chuckled. “Yes, it was the strangest thing. I guess a bird must have nested in the bushes nearby. Or perhaps they came from the large oak south of the chalet.” She paused, picturing the number and size of the shells. “Although, they seemed quite large for a nesting bird. They looked truly like hen’s eggs. Quite curious.”
Bríd rolled her lips between her teeth and then laid a hand on Moira’s shoulder.
Silence stretched between them. Each second Bríd didn’t speak was another brick on Moira’s already weighted heart.
Bríd’s eyes clouded.
“What is it, Bríd? What’s wrong?”
Bríd inhaled sharply and forced a smile. “I’m sure it’s nothin’, peata. I’m an auld woman, prone to superstition. I’m sure everything’s fine. Plus ya have the good Laird watchin’ over ya. Anyway, I’d best be getting home now.” She laid a kiss on Moira’s cheek before giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze and scurrying off toward the main road.
“Keep yer fire lit, peata!” she called over her shoulder with a wink and a wave before disappearing around the corner.
Chapter 15
Three o’clock could not come fast enough for Moira’s taste. At half-past two, the minutes had slowed to a crawl. Aside from a few well-timed pranks from Áedach, the day had passed with relative ease. The lumpy brown toad waiting in her seat after the lunch break was her personal favorite of the day. “How was Áedach to know I love toads?” she had asked the class. Snakes, on the other hand, were another matter entirely.
“Thanks be to God for Patrick driving all the snakes from this land,” she muttered to herself while stoking the fire. Whether or not Moira believed the tale, the fact remained that no wild snakes existed on the Emerald Isle.
The day reached its lowest point when Moira took a large gulp of tea and was rewarded with a mouthful of soggy peat instead. She reminded herself to say an extra prayer for the lad during her evening devotions.
Yes, pray he survives the school year.
Moira regretted the thought as soon as it had formed but couldn’t deny the nugget of truth buried in the sentiment. She had no idea how she was going to not only finish the year with her pupils having learned all they needed but also with her sanity intact, the way things were currently running with the boy. His pranks and outward disrespect were growing in frequency and severity. Clearly ignoring the issue served only to feed the lad’s confidence.
You must address it, Moira Girl. But . . . perhaps tomorrow.
“Miss Doherty, why is yer feece so red?”
Moira jolted out of her reverie to find Aoife standing next to her, innocent curiosity floating in the child’s eyes.
“What, dear?” Moira pressed a hand to her cheek. Roasting. “Oh, I must’ve been standing too close to the fire, sweetheart. I’m alright.”
She couldn’t very well tell the child she was flushed with embarrassment over her harsh thoughts toward Áedach. At least she hoped that’s all it was.
The church bells began to chime, and Moira’s head pounded in unison with each peal. The students, however, instinctively began closing books and dropping pencils, slate boards, and sticks of chalk in various containers around the room.
For once the chimes came to her rescue.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Moira said, “Very well, children, thank you for a lovely day.”
Mostly lovely anyway.
“Be sure to eat a hearty supper and get lots of rest. I’ll see you all in the morning.”
Relief flooded Moira when the door closed behind the last child and their chatter and laughter faded into the distance. Not only had Bríd’s odd reaction that morning left her with a strange sense o
f dread the rest of the day, a dull ache had taken up residence in the back of her throat. All she wanted was to grab the items she needed at the market and get home to a nice cuppa in front of the fire and then an early bedtime.
What a quirky little place. The till sat on a long, rough counter running the length of the back of the store. Various dishes bearing sweets and baked goods crowded each nook and cranny. Her eyes could scarcely take in all the canisters of tea, tobacco, and the few medicinal herbs available, as well as large sacks of flour, oats, and sugar, loading the floor-to-ceiling shelves behind the till counter. Moira could almost hear the ledges groaning under the weight of it all.
She meandered around the store, taking in each eccentric detail to keep like wee treasures deep in her heart. The scent of tea leaves, stale tobacco, and fresh-baked scones hung in the air. Moira’s stomach growled and her mouth watered for a decent cup of tea. She fingered strange vegetables resembling white carrots, adding their earthy notes to the medley. She admired the odd towel or lace table runner scattered in among the usual groceries.
“I’ll be right wit’ ye, dearie,” called a voice from behind a curtained doorway.
Moira craned to find its source.
A second later, a young woman with an apron at her waist rounded the corner. “So, now, sorry to keep ya waitin’, dearie. What’ll it be for yas?”
A wide grin broke across Moira’s face upon seeing the woman. She’s young!
Other than Sean, Moira had yet to meet another soul anywhere near her own age. The young lady’s round face bore a rosy hue with a set of deep, welcoming dimples marking the center of both cheeks. Piercing blue eyes stared back at Moira, with eyebrows raised.
“So, do yas want anytin’ or will ya just stand there and stare?” A hearty laugh rumbled from the young lass. Moira liked her instantly.
“Right. Sorry.” Moira echoed the girl’s laugh and stepped closer to the shopkeeper. “I was just so shocked to see someone my own age, I didn’t know what to say,” she offered in a stage whisper.
“Ah, right so! You must be the Yank—er—teacher.”
Though Moira hadn’t thought it possible, the young woman’s smile grew even bigger. She skipped over to Moira, leaving mere inches between them.
She returned the girl’s smile. “I’m Moira. Moira Doherty.”
“Well, now, Moira Darrty, yas have a right good Irish name for a Yank, so ya do.” The robust young woman grabbed Moira’s hand and gave a hearty shake. “I’m Sinead. Sinead McGonigle. I’m pleased to make yer acquaintance, so I am.”
“Yes, me too,” Moira said. Though unexpected, Sinead’s boisterous manner and bubbly personality refreshed Moira’s spirit.
“Now, dearie, what can I get yas? I’m sure yas didn’t come in here to chew the fat with the likes o’ me.”
“To be honest, the conversation is quite refreshing, even if it wasn’t my main reason in coming to the market today.” She shrugged. “It’s been a bit lonely. I wasn’t sure I would ever have a friend my age again.”
She bit her lip. Don’t be so presumptuous. Of course, Sinead had grown up here, and running the local market, she must be well connected. Perhaps she didn’t need, or want, another friend.
“Oh, I don’t doubt that, dearie. Northwest Donegal isn’t exactly the social center of Ar’land.” Another guffaw was followed by a snort. Sinead clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide.
Moira stifled a giggle. “Very true.”
“Anois, what can I get fer yas?”
“Right. I’d like a small slab of butter, some tea, a half kilo of flour, and a hundred grams of bread soda, please.”
Moira couldn’t help but track Sinead as she collected the items. The discovery of someone so similar to her—yet so vastly different—revived Moira’s hope of having some semblance of a normal life. She hadn’t even realized that hope had withered in so many days of relative solitude.
Sinead scooped flour into a small canvas sack. Fine white dust floated up around her. “So, that’s the last of it. This should be all yer messages.”
Moira pressed her brows together. “I, er, messages? Did a letter arrive for me?”
Sinead jabbed a chubby fist on her hip and cocked her head to one side. “Wha’?”
The two stared at each other in silence for a moment, both clearly searching for what to say.
Moira broke the silence. “You said you had . . . messages for me?”
“Yeah?” Sinead gestured to the pile of groceries on the counter.
Moira turned her gaze to the items. “Those are messages?”
Sinead raised her eyebrows and nodded emphatically. Once again her throaty laugh shattered the air.
Moira found it useless to resist and added her own laughter to the mix.
“I see I have a lot to learn. Where I come from, messages are . . . well . . . messages from one person to another.”
“I don’t know about America, but here in Donegal, messages are the nairmull things you collect from the market.” Sinead paused, crossing her arms over her chest. “Do ye have a word for that over there in the States?”
“We call those staples.”
“Ya don’t say? Staples?” Sinead wagged her head. “I t’ink maybe we should meet again soon for some language lessons, dearie.”
“That’s very kind of you. I do hope to learn Irish someday, but for now it’s a bit overwhelming. You know, with me still settling into the school and whatnot?”
“I’m not talkin’ about layrnin’ the Gaeilge, dearie. I’m talkin’ about our so-called common tongue. Yas need to layrn how to talk our English or you’ll never survive.”
Sinead’s laughter again punctuated the conversation.
Moira gathered up her messages and headed home, chuckling now and again the whole way.
Chapter 16
Moira barely reached the table in her chalet and dropped all of her messages onto it. A moment longer and they would have crashed to the floor. She made a mental note to bring a basket to the market next time.
“Phew!” Breathless, she leaned against the edge of the table and shook her arms to release the cramps from carrying her load. When her breath had steadied, she turned her attention to the fire. It was burning but only just. She stoked the turf and added two briquettes.
Please let them take fire quickly.
Positioning herself onto one of the creepie stools, she stared deep into the red embers and allowed her mind to drift.
Tap, tap, tap.
Moira turned and stared at the door as though doing so long enough would allow her to see through it. She waited and listened. Nothing. She returned her attention—and her chilled fingers—to the fire.
The thumps that followed left no room for doubt. Moira pried her backside from the low, awkward stool and made her way to the door.
“Yes?” Moira said.
“I have a message fer yas!”
Moira swung the door open. “Sinead, welcome!” She stepped aside. “Please come in. What can I do for you?”
The effervecsent girl marched into the chalet and looked around. “Well, now, isn’t this just fine and dandy? I’ve never seen the inside. We all figured there’d be a cauldron and broomsticks, wha’ with the auld witch—er, Miss—McGinley havin’ lived here.” Bright red splotches climbed up her cheeks.
“Well, I’m no witch, I can assure you. Only creepie stools and books for me,” Moira said, trying to hide her smile.
Sinead gave a sheepish shrug and her gaze fell to her feet.
“Oh! I nearly forgot.” She shoved a package at Moira. “Ye left yer tea back at the market. I thought ye might be needin’ tha’ tonight, so.” She smiled and her dimples reappeared in earnest.
“Good heavens, yes. I had been waiting all day to come home and have a cuppa. I would have been one pitiful mess had you not rescued me. Join me in a cup?”
Sinead pursed her lips. “Why not? I’m sure Mammy won’t miss me for a while yet.”
Moira hung
the kettle over the fire and gathered the cups, milk, and sugar.
Sinead helped herself to a seat at the table, and the two women set about getting to know each other.
“Ya know, it mightn’t be my place to say this, but ya really shouldn’t leave eggshells lyin’ about. If ya aren’t sure what to do with ’em, bring ’em to me, and I’ll feed ’em to our pigs.”
“I know they’re a bit unsightly, but I figured the rain and wind would take care of them soon enough. I’m not bothered by them.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I didn’t put them out there. I assume a bird dropped them or someone passing by did for some reason.”
Sinead whipped her head up to meet Moira’s gaze. “Wait . . . are you tellin’ me tha’ someone else put those shells there?”
“Yes.”
“Tsk! I don’t like that ’tall now, sure I don’t. Don’t ya know tha’ eggshells are the preferred home of”—she shifted in her seat nervously and looked around before leaning in close and whispering—“the wee faeries?” Sinead knocked on the wooden tabletop twice.
“Fairies? Oh, how lovely!” Moira clapped her hands.
“Shhhh!” Sinead bolted to her feet. “I don’t know what ye Yanks think, but here in Ar’land those t’ings are mischievous little devils. Always lookin’ for ways to make life miserable for us human folk, so they are.”
She searched the room with wide eyes, then took her seat again. Moira could feel the girl’s breath on her neck as she whispered ominously, “If you didn’t put those shells out there, someone is tryin’ to bring the faeries to ye.”
Moira’s eyes widened and her mouth fell open. “Why?”
Sinead’s shoulders rose and fell nonchalantly. “We’re a people of blessings and curses. Not a witch-type sort o’ curse but rather wishing their enemies ill. Ya know, ‘May you have an itch but no nails to scratch with.’ That sort of t’ing.”
Moira stared at Sinead in disbelief.
Sinead continued, unaffected. “But if they don’t want to get close enough to say it to ya directly, the best way to get the job done is to set the faeries on ya.”
A Dance in Donegal Page 7