Brandon followed Bridie up to the famine cemetery that had been set up high on the hill behind the town. A cart laden with bodies trundled up the bothereen, the rutted track that led to the graveyard. The wind was at their back as they trudged behind the death cart. The graveyard was just a field with a low drystone wall around it. Dirt was turned over in great heaps everywhere, piled high above the trenches where the bodies were stacked, dozens and dozens of them.
When Bridie saw the careless way the man took the basket from her, she wanted to strike him. But she turned away, took Brandon’s hand and ran back down to the village, taking breaths of air so sharp she felt her lungs would burst. She didn’t want to see Paddy laid in the ground, to see the small basket flying to its final resting place. When they were out of sight of the famine pit, she fell to her knees by the roadside and prayed. Brandon knelt beside her, his lips moving soundlessly and together they keened, in a voiceless grief.
After Paddy died, Mam wasn’t herself any more. It was as if a strange woman had moved into her thin body. Every day she crawled to the top of the nearest dune and sat staring out across the sea, her eyes the same deep blue as the waters of Dingle Bay. Then early one morning, she stood up and said, ‘We’re not staying here. The fever is in this place. I’ll not watch my babies die one by one.’
They followed her back into the town where thousands of other displaced people wandered aimlessly and squalor and chaos met them at every turn. They stood on a corner for a long while that morning, holding out their bowls, begging. Bridie shut her eyes. She couldn’t bear to see the pity on people’s faces. No one gave them anything. There were beggars on every corner and people lined up outside the priest’s house crying to be fed.
In the late afternoon, they passed out of the town and headed towards the beach. On the far side of the dunes, by the roadside that led up towards the cliffs, they found a ditch where the wind off the harbour couldn’t reach them. They huddled down for the night. Bridie lay awake for a long while, staring up at the stars. She couldn’t understand why she wasn’t weary. Streaks of pale pink and green light began to appear in the sky above her. ‘Maybe the world is near an end,’ she thought. She crawled across to where her mother and brother lay and snuggled in close against her mother’s back.
That night, as they slept in the open air, Bridie woke to the sound of her mother gasping in pain.
‘Mam, Mam, what is it? What’s wrong?’
Her mother’s eyes were wild and dark in the moonlight and she pushed Bridie away from her.
‘The baby, the baby’s coming, Bridie.’
‘The baby?’ Bridie held her mother’s sinewy hand and shut her eyes and prayed, prayed as she’d never prayed before. ‘Take the baby, sweet Jesus, but leave us our Mam.’
When it came, at last, just before dawn, it was a tiny thing, small enough to fit in the palm of Mam’s hand, and its skin was a strange pale green colour in the half-light. A changeling, too small to be human; a girl child, but too strange to be Bridie’s own sister. Bridie stared at it as it lay curled on Mam’s shawl, so still. Her prayer had been answered. Mam’s brow was damp with sweat, her skin clammy to touch. She folded her shawl over the baby and pushed it away from her.
While her mother slept, Bridie carefully gathered up the tiny changeling and climbed out over the side of the ditch. She walked down to the sea. When she reached the shore, she wrapped the baby in seaweed, winding thick dark strands of kelp around the tiny body. She didn’t hesitate when she reached the water’s edge, walking straight into the icy water. The dark bundle bobbed and weaved on the waves as she released it, floating out to sea, out to the mouth of the harbour, and on to the deep waters of the bay.
6
Road into darkness
Bridie woke on damp sand, and in a cloud of whiteness. A thick fog had rolled in over the water and covered the beach while she slept. When she held her hand out in front of her, she could barely see the outline of her fingers. She sat up and drew her knees against her chest. She was chilled to her marrow, and her ragged clothes were heavy with dew. The sound of the waves rolling in and her own jagged breathing was muffled by the fog; and yet she could hear voices – her father, the O’Farrells, little Paddy, and even the strange changeling baby. It was as if they were all just out of her sight, but she felt their presence so strongly that she could almost imagine the touch of their hands on her skin. For a moment she wondered if she too was close to death. Maybe this wasn’t a fog at all, but the dream place between living and dying. Maybe she had been washed away, beyond the ninth wave to a new world. But the cold sand beneath her felt rough against her skin and she could hear her own heart beating, blood pounding at her temples. She stood up slowly. Like a blind girl, one hand stretched before her, she walked into the swirling mist. She could still hear voices in the fog, but now they sounded real and warm and firm, not the voices of the dead. She couldn’t decide which direction they came from. It was the brightness that caught her eye and guided her forward. She stared at the point of light, a small flicker of orange and gold in the still, heavy mist.
There were a dozen people gathered around the blaze. Bridie stepped into the ring of light cast by the fire. No one spoke to her as she drew close to the flame and warmed her hands. It was as if life was flowing back into her. She gazed into the embers, not speaking, a strange calm spreading through her as the warmth crept into her body. She’d been cold for so long.
‘You’ll join us for something to warm the cockles of your heart as well, won’t you, child?’ asked a woman. She looked at Bridie with sharp blue eyes, and a network of little wrinkles creased her face as she smiled. Bridie stared disbelievingly and drew her wooden bowl and spoon out from under her dress and held it up. The woman nodded approval.
The big pot was taken off the fire and everyone gathered round. The delicious smell made Bridie feel faint. The woman ladled out the rich broth.
‘Now you mind, little one, not to eat too much nor too swift. When you’ve been fasting, your body’s not used to the shock of a good feed. Some poor souls kill themselves trying to eat too much too fast.’
Bridie took tiny little sips of the broth and felt the warmth of it through every part of her body.
‘And now you’ve supped with us, you’ll not tell anyone what you’ve had,’ said the old woman.
‘It was a stolen sheep, wasn’t it?’ asked Bridie haltingly. ‘Can I take some for my mam and my brother? Just a peck of something. If you give me a bone with a bit of meat left on it, I could fix something for them.’
‘Are you the little girl from the hut, west of the village?’
‘To be sure, but we’re from Ballyickeen, above Dunquin,’ said Bridie, finally finding herself again. ‘We came to Dingle to be with my Aunt Mairead but she’d gone to America. Then my little brother died and Mam wouldn’t stay in the hut ’cause she said it’s where Paddy caught the fever and surely we’d all die if we stayed there, so we’re sleeping in a ditch up beyond the dunes.’ The words tumbled out in a rush.
‘Bridie?’ came a voice through the mist. ‘Bridie O’Connor?’
Mrs MacMahon stepped around from the far side of the fire. Bridie hardly recognised her. They’d not seen each other since the day her father had lain on the lid in the MacMahons’ cottage at Dunquin. ‘Where’s your mother, girl?’
The fog was lifting and the harbour was azure in the morning sun as they walked over the dunes. Bridie led Mrs MacMahon to the ditch by the roadside. Curled in a huddle of rags at the bottom lay Mam and Brandon.
Mrs MacMahon knelt down beside Mam and stroked her hair. ‘Maire, it’s Kitty MacMahon. We’re going to Tralee, Maire. You and your little ones must come along with us. There’s nothing here in Dingle for any of us, nothing but misery and grief – but the workhouse in Tralee might take us all in.’
Mam gave a short cough, almost like a laugh. ‘Heaven help me, Kitty, I couldn’t walk to Tralee, I’m bound for the long road. But the children must go. Take the childr
en. If I should get my strength back, I’ll follow you. You’re a fine friend to me, Kitty, a fine good woman, you are,’ she said, and then she lay back down in the dirt, trembling.
Mrs MacMahon rested one hand on Mam’s brow and stroked it tenderly. ‘Now, you lay there a minute longer and rest yourself, Maire. Muiris and I won’t be leaving until all the mists have cleared. If you find your strength, you could join us.’
Mrs MacMahon took Brandon by the hand and tried to lead him up out of the ditch, but he looked wild and tore his hand away, kneeling down beside his mother and burrowing his face against her side. Mrs MacMahon looked down and shook her head.
‘We’ll wait on the beach for the children,’ she said, moving away from the edge of the ditch.
Bridie knelt beside her mother and looked straight into her dark eyes. ‘Mam, we can wait until you’re stronger. Then we can go together,’ she whispered.
Mam turned towards Bridie as she cradled Brandon’s head with one hand.
‘No, Bridie, I want you to go with Mrs MacMahon. I want you to take Brandon and for you both to go to Tralee and find shelter. There’s nothing for us here.’
‘But we don’t want to leave you,’ said Bridie, her voice rising.
Mam reached up and touched Bridie gently on the cheek to calm her.
‘Bridie, you know what you must do.’
‘I won’t,’ said Bridie, angry tears pricking her eyes. ‘You’ll come with us. You’ll come now.’
Bridie forced one arm under her mother’s back and tried to make her rise. ‘Help me, Brandon. Help Mam,’ she said through gritted teeth, trying to take her mother’s weight on her shoulder.
‘Bridie, girl, no,’ moaned Mam, a shudder coursing through her as she sank to the ground.
Bridie knelt down to make Mam try again but suddenly Brandon reached across and slapped Bridie hard across the face.
‘Leave her be, leave our mam alone,’ he shouted.
Bridie stepped away from them both and sat near the edge of the ditch, staring down at her mother and brother. Mam was stroking Brandon’s face and whispering to him as he lay nestled against her. The day grew bright and clear with only a touch of autumn cold. Bridie felt as though a storm should break over them, like the storm that was raging inside of her, but nothing more than a light breeze came drifting off the water.
It seemed they’d been sitting for hours when Mam called to Bridie, stretching one hand out to her. Brandon climbed up to take Bridie’s place, gazing out to sea.
Bridie pressed her face against her mother’s neck and wrapped her arms tight around the thin, fragile body. ‘It’s my fault, Mam. I never should have made us come here. We’ll go home now,’ she wept, fiercely. ‘I’ve brought the bad luck to us. I’ve lied and I’ve stolen from the dead and I’ve brought my family to this bad place. Mam, Mam, we’ll go home again and somehow things will come right.’ She choked back the tears, gasping as she spoke.
‘My little lamb,’ said Mam, taking Bridie’s hands and folding her thin, hot fingers around them. ‘There never was a brave woman who was not crooked and straight, and better we look for hope in the world than die lonely by our own hearth. Don’t you have a care for your mam. I’ll quench my thirst from the Stream of Glory before too long. Now, you’ll be my brave, fierce girl and do as your mam asks.’
Bridie wept until her face and throat were raw. It was as if her heart, which had been aching for so long, had finally been torn apart.
‘God direct you and give you courage for the long road, darling child,’ said Mam.
Bridie kissed her mother on the brow and then, gasping at the pain inside her, she staggered up out of the ditch.
Brandon walked beside Bridie, not looking at her as they made their way down to the beach. Bridie felt frightened by how still and quiet he was, his face fixed in an inscrutable expression. ‘Brandon,’ she said, trying hard to keep the bitterness from her tone. ‘This is what Mam wants us to do.’
Brandon turned and looked at her with his pale blue eyes and Bridie realised he was not accusing her. ‘We’ll have our little house, one day, won’t we, Bridie? The one half-gold and half-silver, and our mam will watch over us there, won’t she?’
Bridie slipped her arm around her brother. ‘To be sure, darling boy,’ she said, though the future stretched out before her like a road into darkness.
7
The death-house
The small crowd of ragged travellers moved steadily up the road away from town. Bridie didn’t look back, but she prayed, her lips moving fervently as they followed the path up to the Connor Pass on the road to Tralee. Hundreds of men and women were labouring to build a road over the mountain. Their shoulder bones stuck sharply through the thin fabric of their clothing and their eyes were glazed as they dug or hauled stones up the steep hillside.
It took all of the long afternoon to climb to where the path cut through the mountains. Bridie turned and gazed back at the land laid out behind them, at the arms of the peninsula wrapped around the harbour. Brandon said nothing as they all sat resting at the summit, but she could hear him humming quietly to himself, a strange, lonely tune.
Low clouds lay like fairy mist over the landscape and Bridie felt a stab of grief that somewhere so beautiful should be so cruel. She prayed for all the people she was leaving behind, her father at Dunquin, Paddy in the cemetery behind the town, and the strange changeling sister in the waters of the harbour. Most of all, she prayed for her mother, closing her hands and forcing hope against hope from her heart into the blue sky.
It seemed the whole of Ireland was on the move. Bridie didn’t look at the crumpled bodies by the wayside. She looked ahead, at the long road that wound its way around the peninsula and led to Tralee.
The adults didn’t talk with Brandon and Bridie often. Even Mrs MacMahon said little to them, as if any word spoken would take away from the energy she needed to take the next step. They slept by the roadside, huddled together for warmth, and rose early in the morning to continue the journey.
At Tralee, the streets teemed with people. There were soldiers in uniform, fat merchants, fine ladies in bonnets and full skirts; so many people who looked prosperous. Bridie found it hard to understand how some could be so well-fed when Dingle was full of wraiths. Brandon clung to Bridie’s arm, pressing himself against her. She tried not to show how overwhelmed she felt as people jostled them in the crowds and she struggled to keep up with the MacMahons.
When they reached the workhouse gates, they discovered a swelling crowd waiting outside. People jostled for a place and argued in whining tones. The air reverberated with the babble of English and Irish, the low wail of some child, the cry of its mother, as scores of people waited to be taken into the workhouse.
Bridie kept a firm grip on Brandon’s wrist and stood behind the MacMahons as they approached the porter of the workhouse. The man looked exasperated at Mr MacMahon’s questions and answered them in English. Even though she couldn’t understand what he said, Bridie knew by his expression that it didn’t augur well for them. She tugged at Mrs MacMahon’s dress.
‘What’s he saying?’
‘He’s saying there’s no place for us here,’ she said wearily, not meeting Bridie’s gaze.
Bridie felt her scar burn hot as she flushed with anger. She pushed her way forward and stood defiantly before the porter.
‘We’ve come from Dingle,’ shouted Bridie, as if raising her voice would make it possible for him to understand her better. ‘We’ve walked all this way because they said in Dingle that you’d take us in. My brother and me, we left our mam because she said you’d give us shelter.’
The porter turned away as if she were invisible.
‘There’ll only be room if more of them die,’ whispered a thin, dark man sitting hunched by the steps. ‘In the morning, when they take away the dead, then they let some of us who’s waiting in.’ The man looked close to death himself. ‘I’m praying they’ll find space for me inside before the day is out.
’Tis a terrible fate to die in the gutter.’
Bridie and Brandon sat down with the MacMahons and waited. As the day wore on more people arrived and milled outside the workhouse gate. A tradesman fought his way through the raggedy, starving crowd and the porter let him in, shouting at people to stand back. Bridie looked along the line. The thin, dark man they’d talked with when they first arrived had closed his eyes, and Bridie knew he wouldn’t get his wish to die inside the walls of the workhouse.
Bridie had caught a glimpse of the inside of the building. It looked like a big stone prison with dark figures moving about in the rank stillness. Something about it reminded her of the death village. The terrible wails of the crowd seemed to echo inside her head. Bridie drew her knees up against her chest, shut her eyes and covered her ears with her hands, not wanting to hear their cries. Suddenly, she felt Brandon’s small hand reaching for hers. She grasped it, and turned to look at her brother with gratitude, as if he’d brought her back from the brink of hell.
‘We’re not waiting here,’ she said. ‘We’re not ready to die.’ She stood up, pulled him to his feet and dragged him to the end of the street.
Mrs MacMahon glanced up and raised a hand to beckon them back, but Bridie moved away quickly, weaving through the crowd and out into a wide street.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Brandon, frowning. ‘Mrs MacMahon says they might have room for us tomorrow if we’ll be patient. She says Mam would want us to wait and that she promised she’d come after us.’
‘If she promised you that, boyo, then she promised a lie. Mam won’t be coming after us and that place is a death-house, not a workhouse. This wasn’t what our mam meant for us.’
Brandon flinched. Bridie felt a wave of grief and guilt break against her as the weight of her words made him hunch over in pain. How could he have not understood what leaving Mam had meant? He said nothing more, and his silence hurt her more than any accusation. Suddenly, it struck her how much more like Paddy he looked, each day, closer to becoming an angel. He folded his thin arms around himself and his face fell into the shadow of a swathe of red hair. She wanted to take him in her arms and comfort him, to hold him close and whisper lovingly, but the idea of it made her feel as if she’d unravel around him. She reached out and grabbed his wrist, dragging him onwards through the crowded streets. Bridie wasn’t sure where she was going, but she knew she had to get as far away from that death-house as she could, and movement fuelled her will to live.
Bridie's Fire Page 4