by Amy Harmon
The night was clear and cold, and I pulled the crisp air into my lungs, battling the ringing in my skull, willing the clanging beneath my skin to quiet and slow. The rough reality of the tree anchored me, and I lifted my chin to the breeze, closed my eyes, and held tight to the trunk.
It wasn’t long before I heard his voice behind me.
“Anne?” Thomas was still breathless, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, his hair tousled, his suit coat discarded. “Brigid said you shot out of the house like your skirts were on fire. What’s wrong, lass?”
I didn’t answer him, not because I was contrary, but because I was close to tears, my throat tight and my heart so swollen and sore I couldn’t speak around it. The lough beckoned, and I suddenly wanted to walk along it, to taunt it and reject it, just to reassure myself that I could. I released the tree and moved toward it, desperate. Defiant.
“Anne,” Thomas said, reaching for my arm, stopping me. “Where are you going?” I heard the fear in his voice, and I hated it. Hated myself for causing it. “You’re afraid. I can feel it. Tell me what’s wrong.”
I looked up at him and tried to smile, lifting my hands to his cheeks and my thumbs to the indentation on his chin. He grasped my wrists and turned his face, kissing the center of my palm.
“You’re acting as if you’re saying goodbye, Countess. I don’t like it.”
“No. Not goodbye. Never that,” I protested, vehement.
“Then what?” he whispered, his hands moving from my wrists to my waist, drawing me to him.
I took a deep breath and thought how to best explain the persistent whisper of the lough that was always lapping at the edge of my happiness. In the darkness, feelings were harder to ignore and easier to unleash.
“I don’t want you to disappear,” I whispered.
“What are you talking about?” Thomas murmured.
“If I go back, you will disappear. I will still exist, wherever I am, but you will be gone. You will be gone, Eoin will be gone, and I can’t bear it.” The gong swelled again, and I leaned into him, resting my forehead against his shoulder. I breathed deeply, holding him in my lungs before I let him go again.
“So don’t go back, Annie,” he said gently, his lips in my hair. “Stay with me.” I wanted to argue, to demand he acknowledge the fallibility of his suggestion. But I embraced him instead, comforted by his faith. Maybe it really was that simple. Maybe it was a choice.
I lifted my face, needing his eyes and his steadiness, needing him to know that if it was a choice, I’d already made it.
“I love you, Thomas. I think I loved you when you were simply words on a page, a face in an old photo. When my grandfather showed me your picture and said your name, I felt something. Something shifted inside me.”
Thomas didn’t interrupt or profess his own love. He just listened, staring down at me, his gaze soft, his mouth softer, his touch against my back the softest of all. But I needed something to hold on to, and I curled my hands into his shirt the way I’d clung to the tree. His skin was warm from dancing, and his heart drummed beneath my clenched fists, reminding me that in that moment, he was mine.
“Then the words on the page and the face in the photos became a man. Real. Tangible. Perfect.” I swallowed, trying not to cry. “I fell so fast, so hard, and so completely. Not because love is blind, but because . . . it’s not. Love isn’t blind, it’s blinding. Glaring. I looked at you, and from the very first day, I knew you. Your faith and your friendship, your goodness and your devotion. I saw it all, and I fell so hard. And the feeling continues to grow. My love is so big and full and brimming that I can’t breathe around it. It’s terrifying to love so much, knowing how fragile our existence really is. You’re going to have to hold on to me, or I’ll burst . . . or maybe I’ll just float away. Up into the sky, out into the lough.”
I felt a tremor run through him from his gentle hands to his forgiving eyes, and then his lips were smiling and pressed to mine, once, twice, and again. His sigh tickled my tongue, and my grasping hands flattened against him, yielding. Then he was murmuring into my seeking lips, kissing me even as he spoke.
“Marry me, Anne. I’ll shackle you to me so you can’t float away, so we won’t ever have to be apart. Plus, it’s time you had a new name. It’s damn confusing to keep calling you Anne Gallagher.”
Of all the things I’d thought he’d suggest, marriage was not one of them. I pulled back, my jaw slack, and I laughed in disbelief. For a moment, I forgot about Thomas’s lips and searched his eyes instead. They were pale and guileless beneath the sheltering boughs and the light of the winter moon.
“Anne Smith is almost as ordinary as Thomas Smith,” he murmured. “But when you’re a time-traveling countess, the name isn’t all that important.” His teasing tone was at odds with his very serious proposition.
“Can we do that? Can we really get married?” I breathed.
“Who’s to stop us?”
“I can’t prove that I’m . . . me.”
“Who needs proof? I know. You know. God knows.” Thomas kissed my forehead, my nose, and each cheek before pausing at my mouth, waiting for me to answer.
“But . . . what will people say?” What would Brigid say?
“I hope they will congratulate us.” He pressed a kiss to my upper lip, then to the lower one, tugging it softly, urging me to follow his lead.
“What will Michael say?” I panted, pulling back so I could converse. I could picture Michael Collins congratulating Thomas while he whispered warnings in my ears.
“Mick will say something rough and irreverent, I’m sure. And then he’ll burst into noisy tears because he loves as intensely as he hates.”
“What—” I began again.
“Anne.” Thomas pressed his thumbs to my lips, cradling my face and quieting my stream of questions. “I love you. Desperately. I want to bind us together in every way possible. Today, tomorrow, and for every day after that. Do you want to marry me or not?”
There was nothing I wanted more in the world. Not a single, solitary thing.
I nodded, smiling against the pads of his thumbs, submitting completely. He moved his hands, replacing them with his mouth once more.
For a moment, I reveled in the possibility of permanence, in the clean, all-consuming taste of him. Promise sang between us, and I let myself hum along.
Then the wind shifted and the moonlight winked; a branch cracked and a match flickered. A tendril of cigarette smoke hung in the air, alerting us that we were not alone seconds before a voice rose out of the darkness.
“So it’s true, eh? You two. Mother said it was like this. I didn’t want to believe it.” I spun in Thomas’s arms, swallowing a gasp, and his arm snaked around me, steadying me as he stepped toward the stranger.
I thought it was Liam. His build and height were similar in the darkness, and the timbre of his voice was almost identical. But Thomas, cool and composed, greeted the man by another name, and I realized my mistake with a flood of relief. This was Ben Gallagher, Declan’s oldest brother, the one I’d not yet met.
“Anne,” Ben greeted stiffly, inclining his head. “You look well.” His voice was stilted, uncomfortable, his expression shrouded by his cap. He took a deep pull on his cigarette before he turned to Thomas.
“Collins is here,” he clipped. “I guess that tells me all I need to know about where your loyalties lie, Doc. Though judging from the way you were kissing my brother’s wife, I’m not sure loyalty is your strong suit.”
“Mick is my friend. You know that,” Thomas said, ignoring the jibe. Declan had been gone for five years, and I was not his wife. “Michael Collins was your friend too, Ben. Once.”
“Once we had a common cause. Not anymore,” Ben muttered.
“And what cause is that, Ben?” Thomas asked, his tone so soft it was hard to detect the venom, but I heard it. Ben heard it too, and his temper flared instantly.
“Feckin’ Irish freedom, Doc,” he snapped, tossing his cigarette asi
de. “Have you grown so comfortable in your big house with your powerful friends and your best friend’s woman that you’ve forgotten seven hundred years of suffering?”
“Michael Collins has done more for Irish freedom, for Irish independence, than you or I will ever do,” Thomas countered, conviction ringing in his voice.
“Well, it isn’t enough! This Treaty isn’t what we’ve bled for. We’re almost there, and we can’t stop now! Collins caved. When he signed that agreement, it was a knife in every Irish back.”
“Don’t do that, Ben. Don’t let them take that too,” Thomas warned.
“Take what?”
“The English have left their imprint everywhere. But don’t let them divide us. Don’t let them destroy families and friendships. If we fight each other, we will have nothing left. They will have truly destroyed the Irish. And we will have done the wet work for them.”
“So it was all for nothing, then? The men who died in ’16 and the men who’ve died since? They died for nothing?” Ben cried.
“If we turn on each other, then they died for nothing,” Thomas replied, and Ben immediately began shaking his head, disagreeing.
“The fight isn’t over, Thomas. If we don’t fight for Ireland, who will?”
“So our loyalty is to Ireland and Irishmen unless they disagree with us, then we mow them down? That’s not the way it’s supposed to work,” Thomas insisted, incredulous.
“You remember how it was, Thomas. The people weren’t behind us in ’16 either. You remember how they hollered and hissed and threw things at us when the Tans marched us through the streets after we surrendered. But the people came round. You saw the uproar when they started hanging our leaders. You saw the crowds cheering when the prisoners came home from England eight months later. The people want freedom. They’re ready for war, if that’s what it takes. We can’t give up the fight now. Look how far we’ve come!”
“I watched men die. I watched Declan die. I’m not going to start shooting at the friends I have left. I won’t do it. Convictions are all fine and good until they become excuses to go to war with people you once fought with,” Thomas said.
“Who are you, Doc?” Ben was aghast. “Seán Mac Diarmada must be rolling in his grave.”
“I’m an Irishman. And I won’t be raising arms against you or any other Irishman, Treaty or no Treaty.”
“You’re weak, Thomas. Anne comes back—where the hell have you been, anyway?” he hissed, turning on me in fury before shifting his gaze back to Thomas, resuming his argument. “She comes back, and suddenly you’ve lost your fire. What would Declan think of the both of ya?” Ben spit at our feet, the sound wet and thick, before he turned and waved toward Thomas, dismissing him, dismissing us.
“Your mother will be glad to see you, Ben. It’s been too long. Eat. Drink. Rest. Spend Christmas with us,” Thomas said, refusing to react.
“With him?” Ben pointed to the row of windows along the east side of the house that revealed the party in full swing. Michael stood near one, outlined in light, conversing with Daniel O’Toole. “Someone needs to tell the Big Fella not to stand in front of the windows. You never know who’s hiding in the trees.”
Thomas stiffened at the veiled threat, his hand tightening on my body, and I was grateful for the support when a voice spoke up from the shadows, accompanied by the unmistakable snick of a pistol being cocked.
“No, you never do,” Fergus intoned, moving toward us. A cigarette hung from the bodyguard’s lips, giving him a casual air completely at odds with the weapon he wielded.
Ben flinched, and his hands fluttered at his sides.
“Don’t do it,” Fergus warned quietly. “You’ll ruin Christmas for a lot of good people.”
Ben’s hands stilled.
“If you’re going to go inside, I’ll need that gun you’re thinking about pulling,” Fergus insisted calmly. “If you’re not going inside, I’ll still take it, just to make sure you live through the night. Then I’ll need you to start walking toward Dublin.” He let his cigarette fall, and without lowering his eyes, ground the butt into the dirt with the toe of his shoe. He approached Ben and without fanfare, searched him for weapons, removing a knife from his boot and a gun from his waistband.
“His mother is inside. His nephew too. He’s family,” Thomas murmured.
Fergus nodded once, a quick jerk of his head. “I heard. So why is he out here in the trees, watching the house?”
“I came to see my mother. To see my sister-in-law, back from the dead. To see Eoin and you, Doc. I’ve come here for Christmas for the last five years. I didn’t expect Collins to be here. I hadn’t decided if I was going to stay,” Ben reasoned, affronted.
“And Liam? Is Liam here too?” I asked. I heard the tremor in my voice, and Thomas grew rigid beside me.
“Liam’s in Youghal, down in Cork. He won’t be coming home this year. Too much work to do. There’s a war on,” Ben ground out.
“Not here, Ben. There’s no war here. Not tonight. Not now,” Thomas said.
Ben nodded, his jaw clenched, but his expression was one of disgust, and his eyes condemned us all. “I want to see my mother and the boy. I’ll stay the night in the barn. Then I’ll be on my way.”
“Go on inside, then,” Fergus ordered. He prodded Ben forward, not lowering his gun. “But stay away from Mr. Collins.”
24 December 1921
Something changed in Ireland around the turn of the century. There was a cultural revival of sorts. We sang the old songs and heard the old stories—things we’d heard many times before—but they were taught with an intensity that was new. We looked at ourselves and at each other, and there was a sense of anticipation. There was pride, even reverence, for who we were, what we could aspire to, and those we had descended from. I was taught to love Ireland. Mick was taught to love Ireland. I have no doubt Ben and Liam and Declan were taught to love her too. But for the first time in my life, I’m not sure what that means.
After our confrontation with Ben Gallagher, Anne and I stood beneath the trees, shaken by the event.
“I don’t like this world, Thomas,” Anne whispered. “This world is something the other Anne clearly understood and something I will never understand.”
“What world, Countess?” I asked her, though I already knew.
“The world of Ben Gallagher and Michael Collins, of shifting lines and changing sides. And the worst part is . . . I know how it ends. I know the ending, and I still don’t understand it.”
“Why? Why can’t you understand it?”
“Because I haven’t lived it,” she confessed. “Not like you have. The Ireland I know is one of songs and stories and dreams. It is Eoin’s version—we all have one—and yet even that version is softened and reshaped because he left it behind. I don’t know the Ireland of oppression and revolution. I haven’t been taught to hate.”
“We weren’t taught to hate, Anne.”
“You were.”
“We were taught to love.”
“Love what?”
“Freedom. Identity. Possibility. Ireland,” I argued.
“And what will you do with that love?” she pressed. When I didn’t answer, she answered for me. “I’ll tell you what you will do. You will turn on each other because you don’t love Ireland. You love the idea of Ireland. And each man has his own idea of what that is.”
I could only shake my head, wounded, resistant. Outrage for Ireland—for every injustice—burned in my chest, and I didn’t want to look at her. She’d reduced my devotion to an impossible dream. A moment later, she drew my face to hers and kissed my mouth, quietly begging my forgiveness.
“I’m sorry, Thomas. I say I don’t understand and then lecture you as though I do.”
We spoke no more of Ireland, marriage, or Ben Gallagher. But her words kept repeating in my head all evening, drowning out everything else. “And what will you do with that love?”
I sat at midnight Mass with Mick on one side, Anne on the ot
her, and Eoin asleep in my arms. He’d started yawning during the entrance procession and was asleep before the first reading. He snored softly through Father Darby’s recitation of the prophecy of Isaiah, oblivious to all care, ignorant of the strain that bowed Mick’s head and furrowed Anne’s brow. His freckled cheek lay against my chest, against my aching heart, and I was envious of his innocence, his faith, and his trust. When Mick turned to me at the sign of peace, his voice soft, his face earnest, I could only nod and repeat the blessing, “Peace be with you,” though peace was the furthest thing from my heart.
Father Darby said in his homily that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God. It might also be said that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for an Irishman to stop fighting.
I was taught to love Ireland, but love should not be this hard. Duty, yes. But not love. Maybe that’s my answer. A man won’t suffer or sacrifice for something he doesn’t love. In the end, I suppose it all amounts to what we love the most.
T. S.
20
THE WHITE BIRDS
I am haunted by numberless islands, and many a Danaan shore,
Where Time would surely forget us, and Sorrow come near us no more;
Soon far from the rose and the lily and fret of the flames would we be
Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed out on the foam of the sea!
—W. B. Yeats
I came awake suddenly, unsure of the reason. I listened, thinking Eoin had awakened because he was eager to see if Saint Nick had visited in the night, but instead heard sounds I couldn’t identify.
We’d arrived home from midnight Mass in the early morning hours, everyone subdued and saddled with their private thoughts. Thomas had carried Eoin to his bed, and I’d trailed after them, helping Eoin into a nightshirt, though he swayed, half asleep, through the process. He was deeply asleep again before I pulled the covers around his shoulders. Brigid had not attended Mass but stayed behind to visit with her son without a houseful of guests. When we’d arrived home, she was in bed, and Ben was either gone or in the barn. I didn’t inquire after his whereabouts.