A Dance in Donegal

by Jennifer Deibel

  Peg slumped down to sit on the bed, her gaze glued to the floor, her mind obviously elsewhere. Moira searched through the wardrobe and settled on a dark brown dress rather than the traditional black of mourning. They may yet find him alive. Please, Lord, let it be so.

  She dressed her friend in silence as tears slid ceaselessly down Peg’s cheeks. Once the buttons were fastened and dry stockings in place, Moira eased her to lie down on the bed, pulling up a quilt to cover her—the same quilt that had comforted Moira as she recovered from the attack. “Just rest. I’ll put the kettle on.”

  In a stupor, Moira shuffled into the kitchen, set the kettle to boil on the stove, and arranged the tea tray as thoughtfully as she’d seen Peg do so many times. How did this happen? What was Colm doing there? This can’t be real. The whistle broke through her thoughts, and she poured the steaming water into the teapot, watching as it turned golden brown when it hit the tea.

  She carried the tray to the room where Peg lay, the soft breathing and slow rise and fall of her shoulders indicating sleep had mercifully fallen upon her. Leaving the tray on the creepie next to the bed and setting the fire in the fireplace to rights, she slipped the door closed and made her way to the sitting room.

  A knock at the front door broke her reverie. Bríd stood in the doorway holding Moira’s faded traveling frock. “I thought ye might need somethin’ other than your gúna oiche to wear.”

  Moira looked down at her damp, soiled robe and nightgown. “Oh, thank you, Bríd. It wouldn’t do for me to carry on like this, would it?”

  Bríd shook her head with a sad chuckle.

  “Will you stay for tea?”

  “I won’t, peata, but thanks.” Bríd was already turning to go. “There’s loads more to be taken care of in town.”

  “Of course.” Moira waved her friend off, closed the door, and made her way to the sitting room, where she hastily changed her dress. She stood in the middle of the room and turned about, unsure what to do next.

  Unable to bring herself to clear Colm’s dishes, she slid into the upholstered chair and absently poked at the fire with a stick. Memories swirled like a gale around her—Colm standing at her door with Sean, hat in hand, eyeing the tea cakes on the table behind her. His weathered eyes winking down at his wife. His fatherly hand placed firmly on Sean’s shoulder.

  The door scuffed open, pale early-morning light spilled onto the floor, and Sean’s form filled the entryway. She raised hopeful eyes to his, dismayed to see him covered in soot. There was gut-wrenching sadness in his eyes. She raised her eyebrows. Is there any hope?

  Sean’s head fell forward, his eyes on his feet, and he shook his head so slightly she almost missed it. Sean’s knees buckled, and a cry welled up and out of him as his face collapsed.

  Moira flew over and caught him before his knees hit the ground, easing him to the floor. She held him close and stroked his head. “Shh, shh,” she crooned in his ear. “I’m . . . I’m so sorry.”

  Sobs rocked their bodies as they mourned their friend, their father figure. “I should’ve been there,” Sean whispered. “I should’ve saved him.”

  Moira could only wag her head over and over. Clasping handfuls of his shirt as she held him and sobbed.

  Limbs aching as she stretched, Moira did her best to ignore the dull throbbing in her forehead—a side effect of crying for hours. The warmth of the turf fire kissed her face, and she was surprised to find a plaid draped across her and a pillow under her head.

  “I couldn’t bring myself to disturb ye.” Sean was seated at the far side of the table, as far as he could get from her.

  Moira rubbed her eyes and stood, folding the plaid neatly and draping it across a chair. “My apologies for falling asleep.” She smoothed her hair down. “Have you heard anything from Peg?”

  His gaze turned toward the room where Peg slept, and he shook his head. “I believe she’s still asleep.” He rose to his feet, the chair scraping against the floor, and made quickly for the door. “I must go and see about arrangements for Colm’s—” His voice broke. Clearing his throat and straightening his posture, he continued. “I must see that everythin’ is in order. Bring Peg down to the halla in half an hour’s time. She’ll want ta escort her husband home.”

  Home? Whyever would they bring the body here? Her furrowed brow must’ve communicated her confusion.

  “For the wake,” Sean explained. “He’ll lay in repose here before he’s laid to final rest.”

  Moira swallowed the lump in her throat. “Of course.”

  Sean quit the house, the loud thud of the closing door punctuating their grief.

  How hard this must be for him. Lord, grant him peace.

  After tidying what few things were out of place and splashing some water on her cheeks, Moira went to see Peg.

  She knocked softly with the knuckle of her pointer finger and eased the door open. “Are you awake?” She peered around the door. Peg sat in bed, leaning against the headboard. Her eyes were red and swollen, her cheeks chapped from hours of weeping. “Oh, Peg.” Moira swept to the bed and wrapped her arms around her, both women crying anew. After a moment, Moira fetched a clean handkerchief from the press and handed it to the new widow.

  Peg dabbed her face and took a deep breath to quell the sobs. “Thank you, peata,” she whispered.

  “Em, Peg.” Moira cleared her throat. “Sean was just here. They’ll be ready for you down at the halla soon. To . . . walk . . . to bring Colm home.”

  Peg’s watery eyes studied Moira’s hands. “Aye.”

  “Shall I fetch your mourning gown?”

  Peg nodded. Moira retrieved the black muslin dress from its hanger and proceeded to prepare it—opening the buttons, unlacing the bodice. Peg’s hand stilled hers. Their eyes met and with a squeeze of her hand, Peg communicated what she could not voice.

  “Of course.” Moira brushed a kiss to her cheek. “I’ll give you some privacy.”

  Not ten minutes later, Peg joined Moira at the hearth. Moira whispered a prayer for strength and led Peg to the door. As they ventured out, three of Peg’s neighbors approached.

  “We’ll see to everythin’, love.”

  Moira recognized one woman as young Aoife’s mother. The other women, none of whom were familiar to Moira, nodded in agreement. One, a stout woman with hair the color of copper, reached out and squeezed Peg’s hand before heading into the house.

  Peg and Moira walked in silence toward the halla. As they approached the crossroads, Moira’s jaw fell open and Peg pressed her handkerchief to her mouth. Dozens of people lined both sides of the road. Some held flowers, others candles. Men had removed their flat caps and held them over their hearts in respect.

  When they reached the main road, Ballymann’s residents lined the streets in both directions as far as the eye could see. An uilleann piper played a mournful tune as Sean, the priest, Paddy, and another man carried Colm’s body on a makeshift stretcher out of the halla. Since it was draped in white canvas, it was easy to pretend someone else lay underneath. But the evidence of the far-reaching impact of Colm’s kindness, compassion, and goodness stretched along the streets of all of Ballymann. There was no denying it—Colm Sweeny was dead.

  Moira studied the faces of those she knew. Grief and anger were etched on the lines of Sean’s face, but he carried himself with the pride and dignity befitting his mentor. Peg stood straight and tall, chin lifted, though trembling.

  Oh, Peg, you need not be strong. There’s no shame in grief.

  Every eye followed Colm, and as the pallbearers passed Moira and Peg, the crowd turned in unison. On a hill in the distance, Moira caught a glimpse of Lady Williams. She stood, skirts rustling in the breeze, with a smirk on her face. Her eyes seemed to scan the crowd, and when they met Moira’s, what looked like shock registered on the woman’s face. Lady Williams looked from Moira to Colm’s body and back again. Moira furrowed her brow, confused.

  Focus, Moira Girl. ’Tis Peg who needs you now.

 
; With slow, marked steps, Peg led the town to bring Colm home one last time.

  Chapter 56

  The Sweeny house was awash with candlelight when Moira entered behind Peg. The neighbor women had lit hundreds of candles, many of which stood in the back bedroom. The linens were stripped, and white cloth covered the heather mattress. Moira watched in awe as the evening unfolded.

  Peg took her place by the fire—the seat of honor, as it were. Would that this honor could pass from her. The three women Moira had met on their way out followed Sean and the others as they carried Colm’s body into the room. They laid the stretcher on the ground and the men carefully lifted him onto the bed. Moira started to enter the room, but Sean held his hand up to her. He and the other men slipped from the room and closed the door. Sean pulled Moira aside.

  “Ye’ll want to stay out here,” he whispered.

  Moira furrowed her brow. “Can I not help?”

  “’Tis tradition for the neighbor women to wash and prepare the body.” He looked toward the door and his eyes darkened. “Ye’ll not want to see Colm in that state, Moira. He’d want you to remember him as he was.”

  Moira pressed a hand to her mouth, fresh tears pooling in her eyes.

  “There are other things I must attend to.” Sean’s expression softened. “I am sorry.” He briefly laid a tender hand on Moira’s shoulder.

  Assuring him she would be fine, she sent him to see to his duties. So many traditions and customs of which she was unaware. It was like a well-choreographed dance, each person knowing their part, each step familiar to them. Everyone but Moira. She did her best to be useful, making sure there was always water in the kettle and a fire in the hearth.

  All the mirrors had been covered, and the clocks were stopped, showing the hour at which Colm passed. Peg sat, stoic, in her chair and graciously received the endless stream of mourners.

  Without the benefit of the clock, it was impossible to track how much time had passed. It seemed hours before the door to Colm’s room opened and the three neighbor women emerged, faces somber. One by one they presented themselves in front of Peg. They shook her hand, kissed her cheek, and murmured the traditional Irish sympathies: ní maith liom do trioblóide—“I don’t like your trouble.”

  Once the women had all greeted her, Peg stood and squared her shoulders. She extended a hand to Moira, who grasped it immediately. The pair walked slowly to the room where Colm lay.

  Soft candlelight cast shadows on the walls. The women had done a fine job of preparing the room, so it was tasteful and beautiful. Crisp white linen adorned with black ribbons was draped across the body, and several pipes and dishes of tobacco and snuff were placed strategically around the room.

  Peg clutched Moira’s hand so hard her nails dug into skin, but Moira remained still. Despite Peg’s obvious grief, no tears fell as she stood by the side of the man she loved. After a moment, Peg leaned over and kissed the linen over Colm’s forehead. She whispered an endearment meant only for his ears, then gently touched her forehead, belly button, left shoulder, then right. “Amen,” she whispered and turned to Moira, giving her a slight nod.

  Moira took a moment to whisper a prayer of thanks for Colm and all he had done for her. She laid her hand upon his shoulder and dropped her head as she prayed. Sensing the presence of others in the room, Moira lifted her eyes and turned to join Peg at the door. A steady stream of men filed in and uttered their respects to Colm before taking a puff or two from one of the pipes in the room.

  Moira followed Peg back to the sitting room, where Aoife’s mother, the copper-haired woman, and the other neighbor were setting out glasses of poitín, pints of ale, and trays piled high with brown bread, cakes, and biscuits. Donations from the townsfolk, Moira assumed. In the corner, the mournful whine of the uilleann pipes whirred, and a fiddler tuned his strings. Another gentleman produced a bodhrán as visitors and mourners filled every nook and cranny of the house.

  Still, Peg sat in her chair, ever the gracious hostess, even in her grief. But it was Peg’s dry eyes that gave Moira the most pause. She vowed to keep a close eye on her friend and not let her succumb to the numbing effects of grief.

  The somewhat boisterous conversations filling the house fell to an abrupt silence. Whispers and murmurs floated to the rafters. Moira, sensing someone behind her, turned around.

  Lady Williams’s lithe figure loomed over her. A good head taller than Moira, the woman was foreboding indeed. Up close, the lines and creases on her face indicated she was far more advanced in years than Moira had believed. A stern expression was plastered on her face, and she looked Moira over for a long while before finally speaking.

  “Good day, Miss Doherty.”

  Moira curtsied nervously. “Good day, Lady Williams.”

  “I did not expect to see you today. Not . . . here, anyway.”

  Moira racked her brain for what sort of meaning the Lady held by that statement. Unable to find any she merely uttered, “Yes, Lady Williams.”

  Looking over Moira’s head toward the table laden with drink, Lady Williams sniffed and stepped past her, heading for one of the other women of Ballymann with whom to converse.

  Utterly confounded by the encounter, Moira reclaimed the seat across from Peg, whose face briefly registered the same confusion before returning to the somber countenance of a widow at the wake of her husband.

  As the day wore on, more people filled the house, spilling outside and milling about the fields surrounding them, despite the damp, dreary weather. Music poured forth ceaselessly from the group in the corner, each musician breaking as needed for a drink or breath of fresh air.

  No one spoke a word to Moira, though plenty shot dirty looks her way as they whispered with Lady Williams across the room. Some made a wide berth around her as they shuffled through the house, while others managed a tsk, tsk with a twitch of their noses as they passed.

  Throughout the day as Moira passed through the hall to refill the kettle or fetch another tray from the kitchen, she noticed that a woman from the area was always seated in a chair at the foot of the bed where Colm lay. Though not always the same woman, someone consistently occupied that seat—it was always a woman, and never Peg. Men filed through, doffed their caps, bowed their heads, and dutifully puffed from a pipe, yet there a woman sat. Moira assumed it was yet another custom she wasn’t used to.

  As evening approached, the crowd dwindled, but more people than Moira expected lingered. When the angelus—the countrywide ringing of the church bells to call people to prayer—rang at six o’clock, Sinead and her parents arrived, bearing armloads of fresh-baked scones and bread, and a fresh barrel of poitín.

  Moira stepped toward Sinead, who pursed her lips and turned in the opposite direction. Mrs. McGonigle offered a curt nod before greeting Peg and then heading in to pay her respects to Colm. Paddy made his way to a group of men congregated in the kitchen. Moira tried to ignore the hurt she felt at Sinead’s continued disdain, but each new shun was like lemon juice in a fresh wound.

  When the night had well fallen, and the candles dripped from their stands, a familiar scuffling made its way into the house, and a recognizable tsk, tsk caused the hair on the back of Moira’s neck to stand up. She turned and fell back a step as her worst nightmare appeared in the doorway.

  Buach.

  Chapter 57

  Buach approached Peg, hat gripped in his hands so tightly Moira thought he might soon rip it in two. “It canna be true.” His voice was thinner than ever, and it held a quaver that suggested tears were not far away.

  Peg leveled a measured gaze at him but said nothing.

  Buach lifted her fingers and brushed them with a kiss, murmuring the traditional sympathies before raising himself to stand as straight as he could. He avoided Moira’s gaze altogether, but when he caught Lady Williams’s eye, he flicked his head, motioning her aside.

  With the grace of a swan on water, Lady Williams made her way to the hallway with Buach struggling to keep up behind her. Af
ter a moment, heated whispers could be heard, but Moira found it impossible to discern whether they were speaking in Irish or English, let alone what they might be saying.

  “Stad! ” Buach’s raspy voice sliced the air.

  Lady Williams reappeared in the sitting room, her cheeks flushed. The same stern expression resided on her face but fear now clouded her eyes. Behind her, Buach shuffled toward the room where Colm lay in repose. Curious, Moira slipped in behind him.

  For a long while, Buach stood silent over the body, his hands twisting and untwisting his hat again and again, as though wringing water from a rag. Warmth grew near on Moira’s back, and without looking she knew Sean stood behind her.

  “Has he said anythin’?”

  Moira shook her head, keeping her eyes on the old man.

  All at once, Buach collapsed in a heap on the floor, sobs filling the air. His shoulders shook and unintelligible words poured from his mouth along with his wails.

  “Logh dom! Logh dom! ” he cried again and again.

  Moira glanced over her shoulder at Sean. His brows drew together. Confusion swam in his eyes.

  “What is it?” Moira kept her voice a mere whisper.

  “He’s asking . . . for forgiveness.” Sean’s eyes met hers, then they both looked back at Buach. He was still balled up on the floor, one hand clutching the hem of the burial cloth draped over Colm’s body.

  Lady Williams pushed past the onlookers crowding the door and stood over him. “There, there.” Her voice was flat and devoid of all emotion. “Come now, let’s get you some fresh air.”

  Buach straightened but remained on his knees. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Peg, tá brón orm! ” He looked straight at Moira. “Tá brón orm. Tá brón orm.”