by BJ Hoff
Small hands grabbed for Evan, stuck to his skin, covered his mouth, and stole his breath. They were chanting something in voiceless whispers…taunting him, threatening him, warning him…
“God, help me!”
Evan shot bolt upright in bed, terror-stricken by the sound of his own strangled cry. For a long time he couldn’t move, could scarcely breathe. Huddled beneath the blankets, chilled by his own clammy skin, he trembled so violently that he shook the entire bed. He was wide awake, but unable to see anything in the thick, damp darkness of the bedroom.
Yet even now he could not escape the children. In the black silence of the night, their sunken, horror-filled eyes continued to accuse him as they took up the chant of Cotter’s complaint:
“We’ve long since run out of coffins, you know…We’ve long since run out of coffins.”
13
A Starless Night
Was sorrow ever like to our sorrow?
Oh, God above!
Will our night never change into a morrow
Of joy and love?
LADY WILDE [SPERANZA] (1820-1896)
Nora’s cottage was hushed, the silence in the kitchen thick and strained.
It had been over two hours since they shared the meal. The candle on the table had burned nearly to the bottom, but there was still a dim light from the fire Morgan had built out of a half-rotted log and some old copies of The Nation. The only sound to be heard was an occasional lapping of flames against wood and the low, mournful wailing of the wind outside.
Morgan sat across the table from Nora, watching her stare into the fire. She was still wrapped in his cloak and appeared almost childlike beneath its weight. He was again struck by the alarming pallor of her skin, even dappled as it was by the soft glow of firelight. She had not met his eyes for what seemed an interminable time, but merely sat, wooden and silent, almost as if she had forgotten his presence.
Moments before, Daniel John had retreated to his room—most likely, Morgan suspected, because he was unwilling to face the possibility of another argument. The heated exchange that had broken out between Morgan and Nora earlier had obviously upset the boy—and it had lasted the better part of an hour before finally being halted by a strangled fit of coughing from Tahg.
Tahg. Morgan could not help but wonder what was keeping the lad alive. He had reached the point in his illness where he would often become extremely agitated, sometimes even incoherent, often a seizure. Morgan had seen it before with lung fever; the afflicted would panic and begin to thrash about with a kind of savage energy before collapsing once again into a stupor. This time it had taken both him and Daniel John to hold the boy down while Nora worked to cool his skin with wet cloths.
Mercifully, he slept now; Morgan hoped that Daniel John might, too, although he thought it unlikely. What with the events of the day and the commotion of the evening, he feared the boy would find little peace this night.
This was not the way he had wanted it, not at all the way he had planned for it to be. He had hoped that his first mention of emigration would come only after a comfortable length of time spent in preparing Nora and her family to face the truth: that leaving Ireland was their only choice if they were to live.
Had there only been more time, perhaps he might have talked them around to the idea with some degree of calm and common sense. As it was, however, he had more or less been forced to hurl the suggestion at them with no warning at all. Their reactions had been predictably stormy.
At first Daniel John had responded with little more than bewildered amazement, saying nothing. Later, though, Morgan realized the lad’s aloofness had only been the precursor to a kind of dazed confusion. Even when the boy left the room and ascended the ladder to his bed in the loft, his stiff movements and glazed stare were unmistakably the mannerisms of one who has been badly stunned.
Nora, however, had been far more vocal, exhibiting a feverish kind of anger, protesting every point Morgan attempted to raise with a vigor he would not have expected, given her frailty. Finally, unwilling to risk her collapsing again, he deliberately broke off the conversation, urging her to at least consider the possibility he had raised.
He had left the cottage then, on the pretense of foraging for more wood. When he returned, he found her as she was now, silent and unyielding. At first he assumed her withdrawal to be the result of anger with him and his “daft ideas.” He had taken his time poking up the fire, then looking in on Tahg and the old man—both were sleeping—before finally coming to draw up a chair opposite her. Only after several moments had passed, moments during which neither of them spoke, did he see her lips moving faintly and realize that she was praying.
He took this to be a good sign. If she was praying, then she must also be thinking. Could he dare to hope that the Lord might be his ally in all this? Certainly he had thought to do his own praying about things, but given the sin-stained condition of his soul, why should he think any prayer of his would reach heaven?
Now, as he watched the firelight play over her face, memories of the young girl she had been unexpectedly filled his thoughts. Without warning, a crest of longing rose deep inside him, a wave of remembrance of lost joy so powerful and poignant he nearly moaned aloud. He did turn his face away so that he could no longer see the gentle curve of her cheek, the graceful line of her throat, and the softly pursed lips moving ever so faintly in petition.
Oh, Lord, I must not let her see…even suspect…the burden of love I still carry for her. There are times I ache to tell her the truth, to gather her into my arms and plead with her to love me again as she once did, to be mine for whatever time we might be able to steal together. Oh, God, for once help me turn a deaf ear to my own selfish desires and make me mindful instead of Nora’s good…
Aware that she had been praying—or at least making a numb attempt at it—Nora felt a sudden rush of guilt when she realized that she could scarcely recall her words. How long, she wondered, had she been sitting here, mouthing vain repetitions and meaningless pleas?
Forgive me, Lord. I cannot think…I simply cannot think…
She glanced over at Morgan, who sat staring into the dying fire as if oblivious to his surroundings. Something about his profile caused Nora to scrutinize him. Was it the uncharacteristic sag to his heavy shoulders, a slackness to his face she had not noticed there before? Surprised, she saw that there was an unkempt look about his appearance, and that in itself was enough to make her inspect him all the more closely. Careless as he might be about the company he kept or the manner in which he spent his days, Morgan had never been untidy or neglectful of his person. Tonight, however, an air of resignation seemed to hang about him. His always unruly curly hair was messed—was that why she had not noticed until now the thick brushing of silver at his temples? Even his clothing looked rumpled and worn—and so did Morgan. Faint webs fanned out from the corners of his eyes, deep grooves bracketed his mouth, and his usually bronzed complexion had grayed with the distinct shading of fatigue.
An unexpected, irrational stirring of sadness rose in Nora at the realization that, like herself, Morgan was growing older. Just as quickly she chided herself for her foolishness. She and Morgan were the same age, after all—neither of them chicks any longer after thirty-three years. Besides, considering the dissipated life some said the man had led, he actually looked quite fit.
As if sensing her appraisal, Morgan turned, smiling at her. Inexplicably, Nora felt a sharp stab of pain at the tenderness reflected in that smile.
“Tell me, ma girsha,” he said, “how is it that I’ve become an old dog while you’ve remained but a pup?”
Nora caught her breath at the way he seemed to have read her thoughts. “’Tis not a dog you’ve turned into, or so I’ve heard,” she stammered, “but a wolf. A red wolf,” she added pointedly.
When he did not reply, she continued to challenge him. “Did you think you would not be found out? Who else could it be? ’Tis said that the leader of this mountain gang of bandits
is a ‘huge tower of a man with wild red hair and an even wilder red stallion.’ Connacht’s own Robin Hood, they call him.”
Morgan lifted a questioning eyebrow, saying nothing.
“Oh, I know about England’s outlaw-hero well enough!” Nora snapped, irritated that he seemed bent on ignoring her accusation. “Was it not your father himself who taught me, at the school?” Her mouth thinned with indictment. “Daniel John knows, too. And aren’t you setting a fine example for him and the other children in the village, leading them to believe that it’s righteous to steal so long as it’s for a good purpose? Sure, and haven’t we seen the results this very day of such thinking?”
“Who else knows?”
“And is that all you will say for yourself, then—who else knows?”
“In the village. Who else in the village knows?” he repeated impatiently.
“There is talk. Did you think there would not be?”
He made a scornful, dismissing gesture with his hand. “There is always talk. I can’t recall you being one for village gossip, Nora.”
“And is that all it is, then? Village gossip?”
A shrug was his only reply.
A chill went over Nora, and she drew a shuddering breath. Until now she had only suspected the truth. In spite of believing him to be capable of the thievery and rebellion attributed to the notorious outlaw, a part of her had managed to resist the idea. Perhaps a foolish, lingering fidelity to their childhood friendship and young love had made her want to keep his memory unsullied. But the steady green gaze he leveled on her forced Nora to acknowledge what she had tried to deny for so long: Morgan Fitzgerald was indeed an mhac tire run. The Red Wolf.
A sudden torrent of anger surged through her, and she leaned toward him. “Why, Morgan? How did you come to such a thing? You with your fine education, your brilliant mind, your poetry and songs—how could you throw it all away as if it had no meaning and turn into a—a common outlaw? Is it the political business, then…this Young Ireland movement? Is it that?”
Morgan drew in a long breath, expelling it slowly. Shaking his head, he answered, “No. Oh, most of the lads are of the movement, I suppose, but the movement has no part in this business. That is one thing, this is another. No,” he went on in a weary voice, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, “this is about hunger. And survival. The survival of our families—our villages.”
Nora stared at him with dismay, awareness gradually dawning. “That is where the food comes from,” she said, watching him. “The supplies you bring into the village—to us—the medicine for Tahg, the money you said would pay our passage to America—” Appalled, she stopped. “Oh, you foolish, foolish man!” she cried. “Don’t you realize the destruction you are bringing down upon your head? They will hang you! Don’t you care at all?”
Morgan’s gaze never wavered as he reached for her. Feeling the warm, unyielding strength of his large, calloused hands closing over her own, Nora stiffened and tried to draw back. But Morgan held her firmly, leaning across the table, thrusting his face close to hers, so close she felt herself trapped by his eyes. “Do you care, asthore?”
My treasure. The old endearment from their youth brought scalding tears to Nora’s eyes.
“Do you care, Nora?” he repeated softly, bringing her hand to his face and laying her palm against his bearded cheek.
Panic seized Nora at his touch, the unexpected softness of his beard against her hand.
“Well, of course, I care,” she said, averting her gaze from his. “I would hardly want to see any man on the gallows.”
“Even a fool like me?” he prompted, a tender touch of amusement in his voice.
“Indeed.” She could not look at him.
“Nora?”
Unable to stop herself, she met his eyes, and the enveloping warmth she encountered there—an entire tide of feeling—was achingly familiar. Familiar, and somehow frightening.
Nora’s mouth went dry, her heart rocked, and for one mad moment no years of pain stood between them. She was a girl again, and Morgan her hero-lad. Startled, she squeezed her eyes shut to close him out. But when she opened them again she found him staring at her with a searching look that seemed to hold a myriad of questions. And in that brief, suspended breath in time, a knowing passed between them, an awareness that long-ago hopes had languished, but not died, that young love had paled, but not entirely fled.
And then it was gone.
He released her hands and rose from the chair. “I should go now,” he said roughly. “But will you promise me to think, Nora—really think—about what I have suggested to you this night? You must be the one to make the decision; you are still the mother, and responsible for the safety of your family.”
When Nora would have interrupted his admonition, he lifted a hand to stop her. “Remember, now, you need not worry about funds to pay your passage. As I told you, a number of passages are already paid, and a ship is on the way.” He hesitated, and for just an instant Nora caught a sense that he wanted to say more—indeed, was withholding something from her.
But his gaze quickly cleared, and he said firmly, “I will help you get Tahg and the old man…if he’s still living…to the pier. And I’ll see to your food supplies as well, getting them boxed and loaded onto the ship. The only thing that will be left for you to do is to pack the few personal things you may have need of.”
He looked away, then started for the door. Without warning, Nora was struck by the suspicion that Morgan was not so much concerned for their welfare as he was desperately eager to be rid of them. He had clearly gone to a great deal of trouble to make sure they would have no excuse for not leaving.
Why hadn’t she realized before now that they had become a burden to him? Of course, he would be anxious to see them out of Killala! For some unfathomable reason—a stroke of uncharacteristic Christian conscience, she supposed—he had assumed a kind of guardianship for her and her family. Clearly, he now had second thoughts, could scarcely wait to pack the lot of them off to America.
A sharp thrust of disillusionment tore at her heart. “How very neatly you have arranged my life for me, Morgan. I don’t suppose it even once occurred to you that you might be assuming too much!”
Her voice trembled with humiliation and anger as she continued to rail at him. “I can’t think what possessed you to feel responsible for me and my sons, but I can assure you it’s entirely unnecessary. Whether we do or we don’t choose to leave Ireland is none of your concern, you see. We will manage, and you’re not to fret yourself about us another moment.”
Morgan had nearly reached the door, but now he whipped around to face her, his eyes flashing a warning. Closing the distance between them in two broad steps, he hauled her up from the chair, his large hands completely engulfing her shoulders. “You can be the most infuriating woman!”
When Nora made no reply but simply stared up at him, he scowled and uttered a groan of frustration. “Can you not get it through that stubborn head that I’m only trying to help you?”
In truth, Nora seemed unable to do anything more than gape at him, wide-eyed. His immense frame filled the room, his burning eyes seared her skin, and for one wild instant she thought he might shake her soundly. But after another long moment his hands went limp and the fire in his eyes died away. Releasing her, he turned and, without another word, stalked out of the cottage.
Staring after him, Nora drew in a ragged breath. She glanced down, vaguely aware that she was still wrapped in his cloak. She started to call out to him but stopped, knowing he wouldn’t hear. Numbly, she lifted the corner of the rough, heavy frieze of his cloak and brought it to her face. The scent of winter, woodsmoke, and the vast outdoors flooded her senses; hunched over in weakness and regret, she moaned aloud.
Mother? Mother, are you all right?” Daniel John’s alarmed voice behind her made Nora straighten and turn.
He came to her at once. He was in his nightclothes, and Nora knew from the pinched look of concern and
anguish on his face that he had heard at least a part of the argument between her and Morgan.
“I’m fine, son,” she said in an unsteady voice. “But why are you not sleeping?”
He shook his head. “There’s too much to think about.”
Nora studied his young face, lined too soon with the cares and burdens life had thrust upon him. Putting a hand to his arm, she said gently, “Still, you must rest, Daniel John.”
“Mother…”
Nora waited, taken aback, as she often was lately, by the change in her youngest son: his soaring height, his spreading shoulders, the sharpening angles and planes of his long, handsome face, so like his father’s. He was only thirteen—almost fourteen, she reminded herself—but soon the last trace of boyhood would be gone, exchanged for the mantle of a man.
So quickly gone, that wondrous time of childhood, when worries were the responsibility of grown-ups, when dreams seemed more real than life itself, and almost as precious. Would Daniel John ever find time for his own dreams? Or was he simply to make the leap from child to man with nothing to bridge the distance? Indeed, she sometimes wondered if her son had ever been a child. Always, he had seemed older—stronger, wiser, maturer than many of the other children. Had she made him this way with her ever-increasing dependence on him?
“Mother, can we talk?” His tone held an urgency that pulled Nora back to their surroundings.
“I thought…now that Morgan is gone…we could discuss what he—what he suggested.”
She looked at him. “About leaving Ireland?”
He nodded.
“’Tis late, Daniel John,” Nora reminded him feebly, knowing herself to be too weak, too exhausted and…wounded to handle anything further this night.