The CHILDREN OF THE WIND quartet is a sweeping Irish–Australian saga made up of Bridie’s story, Patrick’s story, Colm’s story and Maeve’s story, four inter-linked novels for ages 10 and up, beginning with the 1850s and moving right up to the present.
Bridie’s Fire
Becoming Billy Dare
A Prayer for Blue Delaney
The Secret Life of Maeve Lee Kwong
KIRSTY MURRAY is a fifth-generation Australian whose ancestors came from Ireland, Scotland, England and Germany. Some of their stories provided her with the backcloth for the CHILDREN OF THE WIND series. Kirsty lives in Melbourne with her husband and a gang of teenagers.
OTHER BOOKS BY KIRSTY MURRAY
FICTION
Zarconi’s Magic Flying Fish
Market Blues
Walking Home with Marie-Claire
NON-FICTION
Howard Florey, Miracle Maker
Tough Stuff
KIRSTY MURRAY
First published in 2003
Copyright © Kirsty Murray 2003
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Murray, Kirsty.
Bridie’s fire.
For children.
ISBN 1 86508 727 0.
I. Title. (Series: Murray, Kirsty. Children of the wind; bk. 1).
A823.3
This project has been assisted by the Commonwealth
Government through the Australia Council,
its arts funding and advisory body
Designed by Ruth Grüner
Set in 10.7 pt Sabon by Ruth Grüner
Printed by McPherson’s Printing Group
3 5 7 9 10 9 8 6 4 2
To Ruby Joy Murray,
my brave and fiery girl
Contents
Acknowledgements
1 Ride a wild pony
2 The hunger
3 St Brigid’s Eve
4 The going away
5 Fever and changelings
6 Road into darkness
7 The death-house
8 Black dogs and broken houses
9 Pilgrim souls
10 Riot
11 Angel, go before me
12 Land of forever young
13 The voyage south
14 Winds of freedom
15 The New World
16 Beaumanoir
17 Gilbert Clarence Arthur Bloomfield
De Quincey
18 By the waters and the wild
19 Silken threads and golden needles
20 The fate of girls
21 Sea change
22 Hearts of fire
23 Ember prayer
24 Gold dust
25 Billy Dare
26 Leap of faith
27 Midnight
28 The choice
29 Alone
30 The night fossicker
31 Eddie Bones
32 Songbird of the South
33 A troupe of stars
34 Broken promises
35 The living and the dead
36 Starry, starry night
Author’s note
Acknowledgements
Bridie’s story is the first of four novels in the CHILDREN OF THE WIND series. In both Ireland and Australia, countless kind souls generously provided me with their time, their knowledge, their family stories, their understanding of themselves and their connections with the past. Many people have helped these stories come to life over the past few years, but for the moment I will confine my thanks to those who helped with Bridie’s Fire. I would also like to acknowledge the support of the Australia Council in funding this project; without its support, none of these stories would have been told.
In the West of Ireland I am grateful to Father Pádraig Ó’Fiannachta for his wisdom and insight; Con Moriarty of Lost Ireland for some fabulous yarns; Gerry O’Leary of the Kerry Historical Society for a wealth of information; Tim Clarke, Heidi and Fionn O’Neill for their generous hospitality; and especially Alice and Shanthi Perceval for their love, support and companionship.
In Dublin I thank Margaret Hoctor, Elaine Ryan, Con Sullivan and Ruth Lawler for their time and their kindness, and also the staff of the National Library of Ireland for patiently answering a convoluted list of questions.
In Melbourne I am indebted to Judy Brett and Graham Smith, Mairead McNena, Catherine O’Donoghue, Alice Boyle, Val Noone, the Celtic Club, the Caroline Chisholm Library, Clann an Ghorta, the La Trobe Library at the State Library of Victoria, and my ever-reliable local favourite, the Yarra Plenty Regional Library Service.
Special thanks to Peter Freund of Her Majesty’s Theatre, Ballarat, for his fabulous insights into the history of theatre on the goldfields, and the wealth of material he provided. And to Trevor McClaughlin for his commitment to reconstructing the lives of the orphan girls.
I am also very grateful to Rosalind Price for her continuing faith, and to Sarah Brenan, John Bangsund and Penni Russon for their persistent clarity and annoying attention to detail.
And of course, most importantly, there are the people who have had to live with this project and still have more blarney to suffer before it’s finished: Ruby, Billy and Elwyn Murray, and Ken, Romanie, Isobel and Theo Harper. Thanks, guys.
1
Ride a wild pony
‘Bad scran to you, evil prince,’ said Bridie, thrusting her stick at Brandon. ‘Pick up your weapon and I’ll kill you three times over!’
Brandon waded out to where his driftwood sword floated on the waves, while Bridie leapt nimbly from one black rock to another until she stood on the one that jutted out furthest into the ocean.
‘C’mon, boyo, the great warrior Queen Medb is ready for battle!’
Brandon looked up at her and grinned. ‘That’s two times you’ve let me kill you,’ he said, ‘and I’ve only had to die this once. So, you know, I’m thinking I’ll not risk another thrashing.’
Before she could reply, he ran down the pebbly beach to join the other boys.
Bridie watched him for a moment and then turned to face the sea. She shouted a victory cry, her voice ringing out across the waves. Her friend Roisin glanced up from where she was gathering shellfish from the rocks. ‘What are you shouting about now, girl?’ she asked.
Bridie stretched her arms wide, as if she could embrace the wind. ‘Do you ever feel, on a summer day like this,’ she said, ‘that if you sing out they’d hear you calling on all the islands, hear your voice all the way to America?’
Roisin tucked a wisp of red-gold hair behind her ear.
‘All I’m feeling is my empty belly. Mam will be wild that I’ve spent the morning larkin’ about with you and not gathering shellfish to thicken the pot.’
Bridie jumped down from the rock, sending a spray of seawater into the air.
‘I’ve a sack full of periwinkles and I’ll
give you the lot, girl.’
‘I can’t be taking them from you.’
‘But I’m wanting you to take them,’ said Bridie, running across the beach and picking up the small hessian sack that she’d left near the base of the cliffs. She pushed the bag into Roisin’s arms. ‘There are more little ones in your house than in ours.’
‘You’d best be taking them,’ said Brandon, joining them. He was followed by Roisin’s small brothers, Mickey and Jim.
‘You never know what I’ll do if you cross me, Roisin O’Farrell,’ teased Bridie. ‘Why, when I was a strip of a girl, I was so mad at our dad for going out in the currach without me that I jumped off the cliffs at Dunquin.’
Roisin laughed and slung the bag over her shoulder. ‘I know that old story. My mam told it to me. She says there’s no one as wild in the whole of Ireland as Bridie O’Connor in a rage. God bless you, girl.’
Roisin and Bridie walked along the beach, calling for their brothers to keep up. Mickey and Jim straggled behind, picking up coloured pebbles. They were scrawny boys with round pale faces and thin gold hair. Brandon looked big and sturdy beside them. Bridie watched him with pride as he showed them how to skip stones across the surface of the ocean, his curly red hair bright against the blue water. The wind picked up, making the pebbles skitter off course, but Brandon stepped into the waves and sent a purple stone skimming smoothly out to sea.
They were turning onto the cliff path when, out of nowhere, a black pony came charging up the beach, with surf churning white about its hooves. There was no time to get out of its way. It skidded to a halt, rearing up so close that Bridie could smell the hot scent of horseflesh as its black hooves scraped against her shoulder.
‘It’s the pooka!’ she shouted. ‘Run!’ She stumbled backwards, trying to herd the other children behind her, but before she could stop him, Brandon slipped past, stretching out his arms to the wild pony.
‘It’s only a frightened beast,’ he said, glancing back at Bridie. ‘If we’re still, she’ll know we’re her friends.’ The pony lowered its head and nuzzled his chest, as if it understood his words.
Roisin reached out for her little brothers. They stood a short distance up the path, poised to run, but Bridie took a step closer until she felt the pony’s breath warm against her cheek.
‘If it is only a frightened beast and not the devil’s own mare, why don’t you prove it, boyo,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you get on her back and take her for a ride. I dare you!’
‘You come away from it, Brandon!’ shrieked Roisin, grabbing her brothers’ arms and dragging them further away. ‘You climb on its back and it’ll take you into the surf and drown you. You know those stories, Bridie – why, you told them to me yourself! The black pony will take you across the sea to the fairy folk or bring the devil to your door. How can you be daring your own brother to risk it!’
Bridie and Brandon looked at each other, and they both laughed as their thoughts entwined.
‘Man alive, Roisin, you don’t think I’d be daring him and not taking the dare myself?’ She turned to Brandon and gave him a leg up. The pony stamped its feet and snorted anxiously, shying away.
‘What are you doing?’ shouted Roisin. ‘You O’Connors, you’re both flaming mad!’ She ran up the cliff path, with Mickey and Jim chasing behind.
Brandon sat astride the black pony, stroking its neck with long, gentle movements, and all the while whispering sweetly until the animal grew calm again. Then he gave the signal and Bridie carefully guided the pony to an outcrop of rocks so she too could climb on its back. When they were both securely mounted, Brandon leaned forward and coaxed the pony into a walk. It shied into the surf until the waves washed against its flanks. Bridie felt a ripple of alarm.
‘Are you sure she won’t take us out to sea?’ she whispered.
‘She won’t be doing that. I’m thinking she’s a runaway from Lord Ventry’s stables,’ he answered quietly.
The pony broke into a canter and they rode along the water’s edge with the wind biting their cheeks, the animal swift and powerful beneath them. The surf roared in their ears as they rounded the point. Bridie wrapped her arms tight around her brother and felt the excitement in his taut body, his heart beating as if it were her own.
They’d only just sent the black pony on its way, and were walking homewards along the beach when Bridie spotted their father’s currach riding the crest of the waves, heading towards them. She cupped her hands and shouted, and their dad waved back. He beached the boat and jumped out, clasping three shimmering fish hooked together. Brandon held the catch while Dad and the other men dragged the currach high onto the beach, and then together they set out for home. Dad whistled all the way up the steep cliff path.
Inside the house, Mam was busy scraping hot potatoes from the embers of the fire. Bridie hurried over to help, rescuing her baby brother, Paddy, from the mess he was making in a small pile of cold ash. He laughed at the faces she pulled when he tugged at her dark curls. Shifting the tiny boy onto her hip, she took him into the late summer twilight.
They sat on the bench outside the whitewashed house and Bridie shared her potato with Paddy, feeding him small mouthfuls with her fingertips. Brandon came out and joined them, hungrily scooping out the hot sweet flesh from the skin.
Her mother put her head around the door and smiled at them. ‘Thanks be to the great God who spared you to me, Bridie. The O’Farrells are paying us a visit this evening and I’m hoping you’ll be minding the little ones so Kitty and I can have a fine old gossip while we sew.’
‘I can tell them about the great hairy ghost that lives under that lump of stone by the lane.’
‘Don’t you go frightening Roisin,’ said Mam.
‘It’s true,’ said Brandon, with his mouth half-full of spud. ‘Bridie’s already given her a death of fright this morning.’
‘What’s the boy talking about?’ asked Mam.
Bridie reached over and cuffed Brandon on the head. ‘Never you mind, Mam. I’ll tell some fine old fairy stories that will keep the lot of them out of trouble.’
Half an hour later, Roisin came running up the path to their house, clutching a handful of bright flowers, her long red plaits bouncing as she ran.
‘But sure I’m glad to find you home,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d be under the sea by now.’
Behind her were all the O’Farrell family – Kitty O’Farrell with one of her baby twin boys on each hip and a crowd of small red- and golden-haired children milling around their father.
‘Blessing o’ God on ye, Seamus O’Connor!’ said Mick O’Farrell. His tired face lit up with pleasure as Bridie’s father pulled a long-necked bottle of whiskey from the cupboard and set it on the table.
Bridie loved these evenings, when the house was full of people, the warm scent of whiskey and tobacco, and the sound of lively talk and music. When Bridie’s mother sang, Bridie thought her voice was the loveliest in all the west of Ireland. The room grew still as she sang the story of a beautiful girl with a broken heart, whose love had gone across the sea to America and was never heard from again.
‘One day I’ll be going across the sea to America, like Uncle Liam,’ said Brandon, when the song was finished.
‘Now why would you be thinking such a thing?’ asked Roisin. ‘No one’s ever heard from your Uncle Liam.’
‘To be sure, he’s rich and living in a grand house,’ said Brandon.
‘But you’ll not really be wanting to do that, Brandon,’ said Bridie, putting an arm around her little brother. ‘You’ll be wanting to come and live with me in my house, not with Uncle Liam. I’ll have my own little house, and one half of it will be red gold and the other half, the lower half, it’ll be silver; and I’ll have me a red door, and the threshold will be copper, I think, and the thatch will be so lovely, like the wings of magic, white-yellow birds, like you’ve never seen, not even in your dreams. And you and me, we’ll live there together for ever.’
Brandon grinned sh
yly, glancing across at the O’Farrell children with pride in his eyes. There was no other girl that could tell stories like his sister. But Roisin folded her arms across her chest and glared at Bridie.
‘You and your fairies!’ she said. ‘First you tell me that if you ride a pooka, it will take you out past the ninth wave, to hell or the otherworld. Then you and Brandon go riding on that beast, and here you are, safe and warm. And then you tell me that fairies are living in the mounds near the beehive huts. I went like you told me, girl, and I waited in the dawn, like you said I should, until the cold crept into my bones, and not one fairy did I see, nor any magical folk.’
Bridie looked from Roisin to Brandon and laughed. Then she put on her most serious expression. ‘But sure I’ve seen them, my darling girl. With my own eyes, I’ve seen the fairies weaving pishoge over by St Brendan’s hut.’
Brandon nodded. ‘I own to God, she speaks the truth.’
Roisin looked suspiciously from sister to brother, and then suddenly she laughed.
‘Devil a lie, Bridie O’Connor,’ said Roisin, ‘but I want to believe every word you say.’
The grown-ups grew louder as the whiskey took hold, and their talk became more troubled. They spoke of the crops that were failing again on the other side of the mountain and of the terrible suffering that all Ireland was enduring. The children snuggled down together in front of the hearth, watching the last embers flicker while Bridie whispered stories of all the magic things she’d seen in the hills and fields around their homes. In the glowing turf Bridie could almost see the vision she described: a beautiful faerie queen in a shimmering gown with feather-white pieces of fabric floating about her and dewdrops like tiny pearls on every fold of her dress. Even Roisin was entranced by the description, and when Bridie looked down into their bright faces she could almost believe that every word of the stories she told was true.
She nestled down closer to her brother and began another tale.
2
The hunger
The next morning was bright and clear. Bridie woke with Brandon and Paddy a tangle of limbs and tousled hair on the pallet beside her. The O’Farrell children were gone. Someone must have woken them quietly and then moved Bridie and her brothers to their bed.
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