A length of bark slathered in tar was propped over the opening of the shanty. “Áedach,” she called again. A low groan rumbled from inside. Was that human or animal?
Moira bit her lip and looked around to see if anyone else was nearby. How foolish she was to come alone! Even if there was no element of danger, it was inappropriate for a single lady to be in the home of a young man without a chaperone.
She had assumed his parents would be home, so impropriety hadn’t crossed her mind. And if she was honest, she knew no one would have agreed to come with her. In fact, they likely would have attempted to dissuade Moira from coming at all—which was why she had asked a child for directions to this place.
There was naught to be done now, though, save press on. She had called his name twice, and he had answered—at least something had responded. If she left now without completing her errand, she feared he might think she was taunting him. Besides, her curiosity was piqued. She needed to see how the lad survived in such squalor.
Her trembling hand reached for the primitive door. Once more a groan emanated from within, followed by an alarming cough. All thoughts of propriety and danger flew from her mind, and Moira removed the door from its place and stepped inside, ducking to keep from disturbing the roof.
Her stomach lurched at the reek that welcomed her. She willed herself, and her lunch, stable. The room was dark, and for a moment blackness was all she could see. As the dismal picture came into view, she fought to keep at bay the tears welling.
A pitiful pile of ashes smoldered in one corner, the so-called wall behind it scorched black from years of daily fires, she assumed. Along the opposite wall, which consisted of the rock wall and trunk of the oak, Áedach lay on a pile of rubbish, dried grass, and seaweed.
He was curled in a ball, and even in the poor light Moira could see he was dreadfully pale. His body convulsed as a hacking cough sliced the air. With his feet bare and filthy, and his clothes thinned and torn, Moira now saw him for the child he truly was. Here, in this moment, he was no more a threat to her than a blind kitten. Even as she crouched inside the low shanty, she towered above him. Her state of power over him was not lost on her.
Moira knelt on the ground beside him and tried to ignore the dank liquid seeping through her skirts. She chose to believe it was merely earth damp and not something viler. She cocked her head to look square at his eyes. They were mere slits, not focused on anything in particular.
“Áedach,” she whispered, “it’s Miss Doherty. Can you hear me?”
The lad lay still, but a slight blink of his eyes caught Moira’s attention. She rose quickly and poked her head out of the opening, once more surveying the landscape for anyone who might be of assistance. There was no one.
If only Ballymann boasted a doctor. Then I could turn the lad over to him and be done with it.
Alas, no doctor was to be had. Moira inwardly scolded herself for even getting into this situation in the first place.
There was no way to discern what sort of aid the lad required without first discovering the severity of his illness. She knelt at his side again. “I’m going to place my hand on your forehead.” She paused, studying his grimy hair and dirty face, loath to bring herself to touch him. “I must see how high your temperature is.”
Another pause. Then a blink.
She placed her hand across his forehead, and gasped. He was at least as hot as a fresh cup of tea, and his skin was dry as a bone. With her other hand she grasped Áedach’s fingers, then his toes. Ice cold.
“How long have you been like this?” The concern she heard in her own voice surprised her. No blink followed the silence this time. “Have you been ill this whole week?” More stillness. She placed the palm of her hand on his chest. His breaths were shallow and labored. Harsh rattles accompanied each exhale.
Moira removed her cape and laid it across the boy. The danger of covering a fevered body with too many blankets sprang into her mind. As a child, she had heard stories of neighbors who had died from such treatment. However, the lad needed some kind of covering, or the elements would surely do him in.
“I’m going to go find some help.”
Silence. A blink. His rib cage rose. She thought he might try to speak. Instead, another splitting cough broke the silence and violent convulsions rocked him. Moira’s eyes burned. From tears, the stench, or shock she could not tell. She backed out of the shelter before hopping the wall and sprinting up the lane.
“I’ll not be long before I return,” she called over her shoulder. As she neared the main road, a vision of Áedach cornering her in the schoolroom flashed across her mind’s eye. Her sprint slowed to a jog. The memory of his putrid breath on her face as he spoke his vile words snaked its way through her thoughts. Her jog slowed to a walk.
“Ye have no idea wha’ kind o’ power I hold over ye.” His words echoed through the deepest recesses of her being. Her feet stilled and she stood static as a stone. She surveyed the rugged Atlantic before her. But she saw instead Áedach’s eyes. Not the cloudy eyes she had observed today but the icy, ire-filled eyes from a week ago. Her body tensed at the mere thought of their last encounter, the fear strangling her once more.
She shuddered at the thought of his hands on her, his eyes looking over her like an animal to be tamed. He didn’t deserve her mercy. He deserved to . . .
Moira clasped a hand over her mouth, terrified at the direction her thoughts were taking. Never before had she wished ill against another, yet the thought came so easily in regard to Áedach. She had truly feared for her safety that day alone with him in the schoolhouse. It was no secret the lad not only hated her but also wished to harm her—and wished it by his own hand. It would be unwise of her to help him return to health just so he could continue his quest. Would it not?
“God help me.” She groaned, wrapping her arms around her trunk. Hugging against the cold, aye, but also holding back the anguish roiling within.
The clouds parted over the water and the sun gleamed over the lapping waves. But the sight did nothing to bolster her spirits. Guilt joined the cesspool of emotions as she turned for home. Áedach needed immediate aid, and she was the only one who could provide it—the only one yet aware—and likely the only one who would care.
But even her caring seemed far paler than it ought to have been.
Chapter 29
As she turned up the path to her door, Moira heard muffled voices coming from behind her house. She froze, her heart lodged in her throat. Instinct told her to run. Her feet, however, refused to move. Her main adversary lay helpless in a hovel half a mile away. Who else could it be?
Buach?
At that moment two heads—one topped with a tweed flat cap, the other a mop of chestnut brown hair—popped up over the ridge of her roof.
“Why, greetin’s to ye, Miss Doherty,” Colm called down.
“Are you alright?” Sean’s brow furrowed. “Ya look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
A spark of anger kindled inside Moira at the fright they’d just given her, but it fizzled just as quickly as it had come, replaced by a tidal wave of relief to see her friends.
“Well, you lads did startle me.” The words tumbled out of her, mixing with nervous laughter. “Whatever are you doing? The roof isn’t leaking again, is it?”
Colm’s sun-worn face crinkled with a smile. “No, no, she’s all sound for ya, Miss. We simply like to check up a week or two after a job, jus’ to make sure it’s holdin’ up well.”
The two men worked their way down and soon appeared around the north corner of the house. “I’m headin’ home,” Colm said. “You’ll be along shortly, Sean?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Could I make you a cup of tea?” Moira offered.
“I’d best not stay either.” Sean met Moira’s eyes. “Are ya sure you’re alright? I get the feelin’ there’s something more than just a startle from two auld thatchers.”
Oh, Sean, if only I could tell you.
Never ha
d her heart ached so deeply for a sympathetic ear. Her visit with Áedach weighed on her already heavy heart. She wanted nothing more than to confide in Sean what she’d just seen, as well as what she’d learned about her mother, to talk through the possibilities and logic of it all. But she couldn’t bear the thought of exposing her family’s shame and chance seeing even a hint of disappointment in Sean’s eyes.
She must have hesitated too long, because Sean stepped closer. “Come now, you know you can tell me anything.” His eyes implored her to trust him. She longed to share her heart, bare her soul to him.
Not yet, Sean. It’s too risky. She couldn’t share the burden of her mother’s indiscretions, but perhaps Sean could offer wisdom for her dilemma with Áedach. That would give reason enough for her fallen countenance and would likely appease his curiosity.
“I’ve learned that Áedach is quite ill. Gravely so, I fear.” She didn’t offer how she’d come to learn of the lad’s condition. “No one else seems to notice his plight. Or indeed if they have taken notice, do not deign to care, nor offer any service to him.”
“I see.” He tugged at the hair on the crown of his head. “And is that what vexes you so?”
Moira shifted her weight. “Well, now that I know, am I not bound to action?” She searched his eyes, hoping for some wise word to set things right. Part of her hoped he would spur her to care for the lad. Part of her silently pleaded with him to say something that would release her conscience from such a duty.
“I think”—he worked the back of his neck and shook his head slowly—“I think . . . perhaps I am not the one to advise ya on such a matter.” Irritation colored his voice. His lips formed a thin line, and his hand flopped to his side.
Was he irked with her, that she would seek such guidance from him? Was it his own lack of real authority on the matter? She suddenly regretted asking him at all.
“I see.” She stepped closer to her door, but his hand caught her sleeve.
“I’ve wanted nothing more than to throttle the boy from the first time he dared show ye any fleck of disrespect.” He released her sleeve and held his hands out, palms up, as if to convey his own confusion. “I fear that any advice I might give ya would serve my own interests more than his. But if he’s as ill as you say . . .”
“Yes, well, thank you for your transparency, Mr. McFadden. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve had a trying day.” She opened the door and stepped over the threshold.
As she closed the door, Sean’s voice wafted in its draft, “Good day, then.”
The chalet seemed emptier and more silent than usual. She’d checked that the latch locked fully behind her. Áedach may be on his deathbed, but who knew what manner of folk were abroad in this place anymore? She hadn’t seen Buach since their unpleasant encounter in Letterkenny. For all she knew he was lurking around the corner, sucking his tooth and waiting for the opportune moment to catch her unawares.
Moira went through the motions of stoking the fire and making a meal for herself. She worked over her lesson plans for the next day. It all felt like an exercise in futility. She despised the fact that her passion for teaching was being snuffed out by the swirling mix of confused feelings about helping her most troublesome student. A knock at the door sent her into the air, scattering the papers in her hands.
Using the door as a shield, she opened it just enough to see who was there. “Colm!” She swung the door wide and resisted the temptation to embrace the dear man. Her gaze then fell upon a lovely woman standing next to him.
Her hair, like tufts of spun cotton, was piled high upon her head. Her cheeks were plump and as rosy as currant jam. She smelled of cakes and rosewater, and the gentleness on her face filled Moira with such warmth she feared she might cry.
“Miss Doherty, this is the missus.” Colm glanced at his wife and gave a playful wink. “Peg, I’d like ya to meet Moira Doherty.”
Peg grabbed both Moira’s hands and pulled her in to place a kiss on both cheeks. “It’s truly a pleasure, dear. I’ve heard so much about ye already from me auld man here.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Sweeny.”
“Tsk! Nuy, nuy, me name’s Peg.” She shook her head merrily, which set her hair wobbling like a plate of cream custard.
“Right. Peg it is, then. Please, do come in.” The group made their way into the heart of the room. “Is there something I can help you with?”
Colm cleared his throat. “Well, I’m a bit embarrassed to say this to ye, but I canna help but give ye my two pence worth of advice.”
Moira knitted her brows, confused. “On what subject?”
He removed his cap and spun it in his hands. “I swear to ye, I wasn’t spyin’ on youse. But I . . . I heard what ye said to Sean. About Áedach.”
“Oh.” Moira slumped onto the edge of her table.
He must think me cruel. Or daft. Or both.
“Ye’re a kind lass, that much I can see straightaway,” Colm said. “And I know ye must be truly torn. I know how the lad has been to ya.”
You don’t know the half of it.
“Ye need to ask yerself,” he continued, “if you’re truly willing to let another human being suffer ’cause of his wrongdoin’s toward ye.”
To hear it said plainly in that way sent a shock of remorse through her. Moira buried her face in her hands. Was she truly capable of turning her back on someone in need, no matter how vile? She believed not. But to think of extending mercy to the lad drove bile to the back of her throat, burning as fiercely as her heart. She’d had no trouble having compassion the moment she saw Áedach lying helpless and dying in that squalid hole. Now, though, helping him seemed an impossible task.
All she could see in this moment was what he had stolen from her. The innocence he had nearly ripped from her reputation, the steadfast trust in her own mother he had taken from her. Áedach had robbed her of everything that mattered. How was she supposed to throw all that aside, risking exposure to his illness, to help him?
Peg moved next to her. “Ya see, none of us desairves grace. That’s why it’s called grace.” She ran a gentle hand over Moira’s shoulder.
“I don’t blame ye fer being hesitant to come to his aid,” Colm said. “Just know that if ye decide to help, Peg and I will be there with ye, each step of the way. And iffen ye don’t . . . we’ll see to the lad.”
Peg squeezed Moira’s hand. “After all, we’re God’s children too.”
The woman’s words hung in the air for a moment before she bussed the top of Moira’s head and the pair took their leave. “We’re God’s children too.” The words echoed in Moira’s mind.
“If I’m Your child, why are You allowing me to be in this situation?” She groaned the audible prayer when alone once again. When her prayer was met with silence—no sense of peace, no still, small voice in her spirit uttering an answer—she shoved thoughts of compassion and mercy out of her mind.
Chapter 30
Moira stirred the morning’s dying embers, hoping to revive them enough to heat a pot of water. With the back of her hand she wiped beads of sweat from her forehead, then her upper lip. She pretended not to notice her hand quivering as it stoked the ashes with the poker she kept near the fireplace. She told herself everything was fine. When the cinders refused to cooperate, she slumped back onto her haunches, exasperated.
Everything was not fine, and the dream from which she’d awoken only magnified that fact. In the dream, she’d flashed from one scene to the next, starting with Áedach’s face, pale and gaunt, staring into the distance. Suddenly there he was, strong and healthy as ever, pinning her to the desk at school with hand a poised over her chest. One after another the haunting scenes assaulted her slumbering mind, echoes of his maniacal laughter swimming in the background, when a new voice broke through the din.
“Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.”
Then all went black and silence settled over the dream world. A blinding flash broke the darkness, and before her was
a hill, shadowed in the dusk of a storm-filled sky. Silhouettes of three crosses divided horizon from heavens, when the image of Áedach’s face floated across the scene. That was the scene that startled Moira awake, drenched in sweat and panting.
As she sat now on the floor in front of the hearth, the early morning chill spreading as quickly as the heat from the hearth was fading, she knew the meaning of the dream. She knew none was worthy of grace; none able to earn through any scheme of man the salvation offered through the sacrifice of the cross. But what of the voice? Was it simply a reminder of Christ’s unconditional love? Or was there more to it? Did Áedach not truly understand what he was doing? Was there more to the story than was apparent?
Grace and judgment parried in a cruel tug-of-war for Moira’s heart. She desired above all else to love God well, and to serve Him the whole of her life. But could she do so if it required such sacrifice? She threw herself facedown on the floor and cried out to God.
“Help me, Father! Give me the strength to do what is right in Your eyes.” She lay there, prostrate and praying, until the words would no longer come. Her sobs slowed and her breathing returned to a normal pace. She pushed herself to standing, resolve slowly edging into the place where anger tried so desperately to remain.
As she had been praying, the truth of what God was asking of her grew stronger. She was still angry at Áedach for what he had done to her. And uncertainty of his intentions once he regained his health still sat like a rock in the pit of her stomach. But she determined, insomuch as was in her power, to not withhold the same grace that had been offered her. It would take time for her feelings to catch up to her resolve, if they ever did.
Please God, let my heart not remain hardened.
The sun was just peeking over the top of Mount Errigal when Moira set out for the market to purchase some carrageen moss. She had learned from her mother that tea made from the dried seaweed could soothe sore throats, and a heated poultice of the plant laid across the chest could calm coughs. It would be easy enough to gather carrageen herself down on the shores of Ballymann, but she had neither the time nor patience to dry it. Her earlier visits to the McGonigles’ market revealed she could fetch it already dried there, saving her both time and headache.
A Dance in Donegal Page 13