The enticing aroma of freshly baked brown bread and scones sent her stomach rumbling, even though she had only just finished her own breakfast.
“Hello? Sinead?” She wove between the flour sacks and barrels of produce, making her way to the back counter.
“Weel, if it isn’t Moora Darrty!” Sinead came out from behind the counter and greeted Moira with a gentle embrace. “I was afraid ye’d never speak to me again after I said such awful t’ings about yer mam.”
Moira winced. “I admit, it was quite painful to hear, but I hold you no more responsible than myself for such stories. You were only conveying what you’d heard.”
Sinead’s shoulders fell, and her whole body seemed relieved at Moira’s words. “I’m so grateful, Moira. What can I do for ya?”
“I’ve come looking for some dried carrageen, and cheesecloth for a poultice.”
Sinead’s eyes widened, and she laid a hand on Moira’s shoulder. “Ye’re not ill, are ya? I’ll do all I can ta help ya.”
“No, no, I’m just fine.” Moira chuckled, touched by her friend’s concern. “One of my students has fallen precariously ill.”
“Oh, gracious, that’s a shame.” Sinead quickly set about gathering the needed items. “I’ll throw in some fresh lemons. If ya plan to make a tea with the carrageen, lemon helps cut the bitterness.” In no time at all, Sinead was back at Moira’s side with the needed supplies, plus a small loaf of bread. “If ya need help, I can come with on yer errand. What are the child’s symptoms?”
When Moira told her of the high fever, strident cough, and sallow skin, Sinead nearly dropped the goods in her hands. “God seeve us, it’s back!”
Moira relieved her friend of the seaweed, lemons, and bread, lest they tumble to the floor. What on earth had the girl so shaken? “What’s back? What do you mean?”
“Hardly two years back, a plague fell on this land like none have seen since the Great Famine.” Fear clouded her eyes, and she paced back and forth as she spoke. “Folk say it was brought to our shores from the men who fought in the Great War. Others say ’twas the wrath of God. At any rate, it was awful. Countless died, and nothin’ could bring any cure or relief.” Sinead stopped her pacing and looked Moira straight in the eye. “Ya canna help the child, Moira. Ya canna. It’s too dangerous fer yerself.”
“But it seems like he has no one else to care for him. I can’t just leave him to die.” The conviction in her own voice surprised Moira, given she was still wrestling with taking action at all.
Sinead’s eyes rolled upward as though searching her mind for information. Then she leveled her gaze back at Moira. When she spoke again, her voice was low and her speech slow and measured. “Just who is this child?”
Moira tried to think quickly, but her mind was like molasses on a cold day. What would her friend think of her bringing aid to her nemesis? Try as she might, she could not think of any reason to give an answer other than the truth. She heaved a sigh and gave her answer to Sinead’s feet, too embarrassed to look her in the eye. “Áedach MacSuibhne.”
Sinead snatched the bread and lemons from Moira’s hands. “I’ll not do a t’ing to help that scallywag. That lad’s been naught but trouble for this village. If he’s ill enough to pass from this world to the next, I say good riddance.”
Moira fell back a step, shocked at her friend’s vehement response—and sickened to see its similarity to that which was still searching to place roots in her own heart. “I don’t believe that. I know the lad is troubled, but that’s all the more reason he needs someone to show him kindness.”
“Wheesht! Listen to ye, miss high and mighty! Well, ye do what ye will. But if ye’re to be ’round the likes o’ him, ye can stay away from the likes o’ me.”
Tears stung Moira’s eyes as she searched for a response to the venomous change in Sinead’s demeanor. “You can’t mean that, Sinead.”
“I can, an’ I do.” Sinead dropped the bread and lemons onto the counter and crossed her arms. “If ye’re gonna risk yer life for some no-good thief like Áedach MacSuibhne, so be it. But ye won’t be bringin’ his illness ’round me, or this shop. So ye just do what ye must and be on yer way.”
Moira laid the money for the carrageen and cheesecloth on the counter and left in silence. She had known people would likely disagree with her decision, but she had no idea it would alienate her from those she had come to love most. She couldn’t deny still sharing some of Sinead’s animosity toward Áedach but also could no longer deny her call to obedience. She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and set a determined pace out of the shop, ready to do what she knew she was meant to do.
Chapter 31
As she made her way to the narrow lane where Áedach lay waiting for help, Moira tried to rein in her thoughts. She passed the pub with its dirty windows and black smoke ever curling from the chimney skyward. She was passing the road that led to the parish church, gray and foreboding, when something nagged at her. She stopped and surveyed the land and sea surrounding her. All was quiet except for the bare gorse branches clacking in the brisk Atlantic wind. Something was missing.
She checked the items in her basket. Carrageen, cheesecloth, a jug of hot water, all tucked carefully within the folds of her apron, which served as a basket lining. All was as she had intended.
“If ye decide to help, Peg and I will be there with ye, each step of the way.” Colm’s words bounded into her mind like a spring lamb on a grassy hill.
“Thank you, Lord, for the reminder,” she whispered, dismayed at how close she had come to repeating her mistake of tending to the young lad alone. Colm had once described where he lived—for giving the whereabouts of one’s home seemed a required portion of an introductory conversation in Donegal.
“Over the hill beyond the center of town,” he’d told her.
The hill wasn’t far from her now. Its crest loomed on the near horizon, and she recognized it as the hill she had ascended on her first day exploring Ballymann.
The journey to the top was just as arduous as it had been the first time, and she was grateful for the downward slope on the other side. Another small road, not unlike the one where Áedach’s hovel stood, peeked from behind a holly bush just as the hill flattened out briefly, before starting the ascent of yet another knoll. Thankful for the turn to flat ground, Moira started down the path.
Not more than fifty yards ahead, rising behind a hillock, Moira spotted one of the finest examples of a clean thatch she’d ever seen.
That must be Colm’s place.
Her steps quickened, and she struggled to keep the basket level as she dashed toward the cottage.
She arrived at the Sweenys’ door breathless but excited. Before she could knock on the post, the door swung open. “I was wonderin’ when ye’d show.” Peg smiled wide, her willowy hair swaying with her.
Moira couldn’t hold back the nervous laugh that bubbled within. “Yes, well, I suppose I was a bit slow to come around.” Heat crept up her cheeks.
“Tsk, tsk! The good Laird works with each of us in His oon way, in His oon time.” She patted Moira’s shoulder affectionately. “Now, just give me a wee sec and I’ll be right as rain and ready to go.” She ushered Moira inside and motioned for her to sit in a wooden chair near the door. Peg then scurried around the corner to what was obviously the kitchen, given the decadent scents wafting in her wake.
Humble but bright, the cottage was clean and inviting. Shame nipped at Moira. She hadn’t envisioned Colm living in such a quaint and lovely home, let alone married to such a delightfully kind woman.
Maybe I’m the one who knows not what I do.
In a flash, Peg reappeared carrying a large basket. Rounded tops of brown bread peeped over the edge and the strong scent of fresh tea floated in on ringlets of steam. Tucked behind the bread was a stack of lemons, as well as other small bags and containers that were unfamiliar to Moira.
Peg deftly slung a cape across her shoulders with her free hand and nodded for Moira to
open the door. The pair stepped out into the brisk spring morning and started for the main road.
“Wait! Wait, my dears!” Colm appeared from behind the house, winded and carrying a small whiskey jug. “Nothin’ cures the ails of the Spanish Flu like a bit o’ strong whiskey and ginger.”
“Och, ya crazy auld man.” Peg rolled her eyes, but she took the jug from her husband and pressed a kiss on his cheek.
Colm winked at his wife then turned to Moira. “I’ve sent Sean to the schoolhouse to tell your other students they can have the day off, Miss Doherty. Give ’em not a worry.”
“Oh, thank you, Colm. I completely forgot about the school.” A sheepish smile lifted the corners of her lips. “Some teacher, eh?”
Colm waved a hand. “Don’t give it another thought. Ye’ve important work at hand.”
After parting from Colm, the women walked in silence for a pace. Moira spoke first. “I can’t thank you enough for coming with me, Peg. But . . . how did you know I would do it?”
The old woman turned her face to Moira, the unmistakable twinkle of kindness in her eye. “Ye’re a fine lass, Moira. I knew ye’d eventually come around. And even if ya hadn’t, I was prepared to visit the lad within the hour.”
Peg smiled and Moira relaxed, feeling like she could trust the woman with her life.
“Ah, have ye seen our halla yet? There she is. Isn’t she lovely?”
Moira followed the direction of Peg’s outstretched finger. Her eyes finally fell on a long stone building, its roof thatched just as expertly as the Sweeny home. “My Colm thatched that, so he did.” Pride shone on her face. “Along with the church, this is the heart and soul of Ballymann.”
Moira slowed her pace as she approached the building with reverence. She pressed her hand on the wall, wishing the cold stones could share their memories. Had her mother rested her hand on this very spot? Moira’s throat tightened at the thought of her mother, young and carefree, strolling here with her friends. “It’s absolutely beautiful, Peg.”
The woman smiled but seemed confused by Moira’s intense reaction. “Come now, dear, we must be off. Poor Áedach has waited long enough, aye?”
It pained Moira to leave the hall so soon after discovering it. If she’d only continued on over the hill that first day, she would’ve stumbled upon the hall ages ago. Now she was finally here and had to leave before even getting to experience it. But she knew Peg was right.
Moira had selfishly let Áedach lay alone for a whole night before deciding to come to his aid. She wished she hadn’t promised him that she would return soon. Perhaps the illness had distorted time, making the lad unaware of how long she had truly tarried.
The pair continued on the way toward their patient, silence lending a quieting calm to their journey. Moira knew it was a rare thing to be so comfortable with another human being when no words were being spoken. She tucked the sweet satisfaction away in her heart and smiled to herself as they turned onto the lane where Áedach lay waiting.
Chapter 32
It was eerily quiet when Moira and Peg reached the hovel. No hacking cough rent the air, no groans echoed the child’s plight to the fields and rock walls. A sickening panic gripped Moira, and she suddenly wished she hadn’t waited for her feelings to catch up with her mind.
“Oh, Peg, why did I delay? Pray that my fear and selfishness haven’t cost the lad his life.”
Peg offered a sympathetic glance and gestured to the door as if to say, “There’s only one way to find out.”
The stench was nigh unbearable when Peg removed the bark door from its resting place. Pressing her handkerchief to her nose, Moira ducked her head inside the dark room, all the while praying to find the lad alive.
Áedach looked as though he hadn’t moved a muscle since Moira left him the evening before, and her ears rang from the silence. With reverent yet timid steps, Moira tiptoed next to him and slowly extended her hand to check his fever. Just before she touched his forehead, Áedach released a growling sigh. Moira screeched and fell back onto the dirt floor.
“Is ever’thing alright, dear?” Peg’s voice called, muffled through her own kerchief.
“He’s alive,” Moira answered. She couldn’t help but wonder if Áedach had done it on purpose. To put her in her place.
He lay still and silent once again. If it was a ruse, it was a good one.
“Áedach,” she murmured, “I’m going to check your temperature. There’s no need to fear.”
The lad gave no answer, nor any indication that he either heard or understood what she’d said. His skin was gray. And even though his eyes were closed, Moira could see they were sunken, and purple shadows hung in crescents under them.
She extended her hand once again, this time reaching her mark. Though as dry as a snake’s back, he registered even hotter than he had been before. “Peg!” Panicked, Moira called, “It’s worse than I thought!”
In an instant, Peg was at her side, unpacking the goods from the basket.
The women abandoned their kerchiefs now. The reek was no less revolting, but both had need of their full capacities. Moira hastily unfolded a square of cheesecloth and poured some of the dry carrageen in the center. She then gathered the corners together and wrapped twine around them before tying the string tightly in a square knot. She placed the pouch into a bowl and poured some of the hot water from her basket onto it, letting it steep.
Peg rolled the lad so that he lay on his back and opened the front of his shirt down to his navel. The tenderness with which Peg worked struck Moira, and tears sprang to her eyes.
Easy, Moira Girl. Focus on the task at hand.
Peg readjusted the cape Moira had left with the lad and nodded at her. “Ready.”
Retrieving the poultice from the bowl, Moira wrung the excess water from the bulbous pack and patted it around Áedach’s chest, covering him from shoulder to shoulder and from chin to navel, before setting the carrageen poultice in the center of his chest.
Peg worked deftly to assemble a tincture of the seaweed and hot water. She added a generous dollop of honey and a squeeze of lemon. She poured the liquid into the tip of a baby’s bottle and carefully squeezed a few drops into his mouth.
His lips, chapped and peeling, were lifeless and still.
She turned his head to the side, though only slightly. “Ya don’t want the créatúr ta choke, but we need the tincture ta drain down his throat.”
Peg’s aged and gentle hand stroked Áedach’s hair tenderly, and she hummed a tune Moira couldn’t place. As the sweet melody floated in the air, Peg gazed at the ailing boy as though he were her own child, no hint of disgust or judgment on her face.
No longer able to hold them at bay, Moira felt tears spill down her cheeks as she watched the tender scene.
The next half hour passed in much the same way. Peg sang comforting words, stroked Áedach’s hair, and occasionally squeezed a few drops of tincture onto his parched tongue. Moira refreshed the poultice with water from the kettle and reapplied the healing herb between trips outside for kindling to feed the fire.
When the tincture was gone and all the heat from the kettle dissipated, the two women prepared to take their leave. There was nothing more they could do.
“Áedach, peata,” Peg whispered into his ear, “Moira an’ me must be off now. But we’ll be back in an hour or two to check on ye.”
He neither moved nor spoke, but Peg laid a hand upon his heart and whispered a blessing before gathering her basket and stepping out of doors.
Once outside and a distance from the hovel, Moira slumped against a sturdy oak and breathed in the crisp, fresh air. She smoothed her hair and pressed her kerchief to her face. Caring for the one who had made her short time in Ballymann so painful had not been nearly as difficult as she had anticipated. However, she also knew there was no way she could have done it with the deep tenderness and unconditional compassion with which Peg had cared for him. She raised her eyes to look at the woman standing a few feet away.
Peg’s hands were pressed to the small of her back and she arched her chest toward the sky. When Peg straightened at last, she caught Moira watching her.
“What is it, dear?” She absently pressed the back of her hand to the younger woman’s cheek, which was growing more flushed by the second.
“Thank you, Peg.” The words threatened to catch in Moira’s throat.
Peg flapped her hand as though Moira’s thanks were a pesky fly buzzing around her face. “Och! Don’t be silly.”
“No, in earnest.” Moira reached for the woman’s hand. “I was determined to care for Áedach’s health needs . . .” Her voice trailed off as she stared at her feet, scraping an arc in the dirt. “At least, I was after the Lord convinced me thus. But . . . well . . . I would have treated him, yes. I would have done all the same things you did today. But you moved with such compassion, such tenderness. That I could not have done on my own.”
Peg smiled and patted Moira’s hand.
“I don’t know that I can say I’ve forgiven him for what he’s done,” Moira continued. “But watching you today planted a seed in my heart. A seed of compassion that makes me believe it could be possible . . . and makes me want to act in the same way you did, from now on.”
“Oh, sweet Moira.” Peg enveloped her in an embrace the likes of which Moira hadn’t felt since she’d hugged her own mother. “Ye’re a good girl, and ye have a good heart.” She backed away and cupped Moira’s face in her hands. “A good heart, indeed. The Laird is not finished with ye, dear.”
A Dance in Donegal Page 14