Three Wishes for Jamie

by Charles O'Neal

  Jamie came awake when Tavish called from the opposite bank. He sat up groggily and put on his shoes. “We’re invited to stay the night and ride into Atlanta in style,” Tavish crowed. “Come along with you. Whisha, man, you’ve waded across with your boots on. You act like you’ve been drinking.”

  “If I could bottle the stuff on which I’m drunk,” said Jamie, “I’d be the richest man in the world. Better … nor I nor the world would know the need of money.”

  “What sort of blather-am-skate is that?” said Tavish. “Come along.”

  With Jamie following at his heels, the Speaker recounted what he had learned at the horse trader’s camp. “They have small liking for strangers,” he said. “The dogs would have torn me to pieces had it not been for Maeve. There’s a colleen for you; a princess right out of a fairy story. There be five or six families with such a plather of children and dogs that they only sort them at nightfall.”

  Jamie made no comment and Tavish continued. “Would you believe it, lad, offshoots of the tinkers, they are! Living in tents like they do at home—but rich! Not a family of them has touched solder to pot in two generations. Horses and mules and Irish lace, with an occasional piece of tweed, is what they trade in now.”

  The six or seven tents of the horse traders were ranged in a semicircle about large community stoves and tables. The pine trees gave additional shelter and the ground was smoothly carpeted with pine needles. Chairs and benches were spread about under the trees. Some were rugged, homemade affairs, but here and there velvet-upholstered and oversized leather Morris chairs sat incongruously under the sky.

  The tent houses were large, rectangular canvas affairs, all dark green in color, with a heavy center pole and four shorter poles to uphold each corner. It was a warm spring day and the sides of the tents were rolled up, leaving the interiors open and revealed. On the high center pole of each tent was hung a crucifix. At one end, and dominating the interior of every tent, was a giant double bed, neatly made and covered with a rich spread of Irish lace. The beds varied between mahogany, brass, and fumed oak, but in size and grandeur they could have been the pride of any Victorian bedroom. Each tent was further equipped with large commodes or chiffoniers and mirrors, while cots and smaller beds for the children were pushed out of sight beneath the master bed.

  In a poverty-ridden community, there was no sign of poorness here. The children were loved and well fed. It showed in their racy wildness and lively tongues. They spoke a jabberwocky of English and Gaelic, and filled the camp and woods surrounding it with quick, ringing laughter.

  The uniqueness of the scene was lost on Jamie. Tavish introduced him to the men of the camp and he acknowledged their friendly greetings in a semidaze. There was Shiel Harrigan, who was the leader of the camp and Maeve’s father; Tade Hennessy, Brave Dan Devlin, Jaunting Jim Donner, Me-Dennis O’Ryan, and Foxy Fergus O’Flaherty. In the brief hour that Tavish had been loose in the camp, he had learned every man’s nickname and history. His gay spirits and countless stories captured the affections of the men and the woods echoed with their laugher.

  Jamie had spun himself into a cocoon of dreams. He was present but took no part in the common activity of the camp. His eyes were on the women who stayed modestly separate from the men. It was nearing the supper hour and they were busy about the stoves and tables preparing the evening meal. Jamie could see Maeve moving among them. He heard his voice joking and making casual conversation with the men, but his attention never strayed from the girl with hair like sunshine. Not a movement or gesture of hers escaped him. The smallest act became endowed with a peculiar grace of its own and found a sort of musical accompaniment in his heart.

  “How can I go on, loving her more and more, when even now the length and breadth of me is one great ache?” he asked himself.

  One thought troubled him. What if Maeve did not take his love seriously. What if she laughed and said no man could care for a girl in a few short hours. How would he convince her?

  Someone touched his shoulder. It was Shiel Harrigan, Maeve’s father. “The supper is on,” he said. “You’ll sit at my table. We eat ahead of the women here.”

  Jamie followed him to a plain, rough table near the stoves. Harrigan was a broad, well-built man of medium height. In his weather-beaten face were only occasional traces of the beauty his daughter had inherited, but their eyes were alike; tilting upward at the corners, and appearing young and old, wise and gay at the same time.

  Tavish sat on Harrigan’s right, Jamie on his left. An older woman, whom Jamie took to be an aunt or cousin, set a jug and three glasses on the table. Harrigan poured three drinks and proposed a toast to the visitors.

  Here’s health and long life to you;

  The woman of your choice to you;

  Land without rent to you;

  And death in Erin.

  To Jamie, in whose state liquor could have only a sobering effect, the words seemed deeply prophetic.

  He sat silent throughout the meal, aware only of Maeve’s form flitting between the stove, the tent, and the table. He hungered to look at her but dared not, for fear his secret would spill from his eyes. She must know, or at least suspect his feelings, he thought. There seemed to be no other young man of marriageable age in the camp—a fact for which Jamie felt extreme relief. For a few tortured minutes when Tavish was introducing him to the men, he was afraid Maeve might have been bespoken by one of them.

  Tavish regaled the company with news and gossip of the old country. Though few of the horse traders had been born in Ireland, they listened avidly to Tavish’s stories as if every character and hill and stone was known to them intimately.

  Dan Devlin brought out a set of Irish pipes and played the old familiar songs: “Eilleen Aroon” and “Like Hares on the Mountain.” Maeve stood where the warm glow from the fire touched her face and sang in a high, sweet voice:

  Were I and my darling, O heart-bitter wound,

  On board of a ship for America bound.

  Jamie was grateful for the dark. It cloaked the depth of emotion that suffused his being and left him weak. One by one the children fell asleep and were gathered up by their mothers and tucked into bed. The women soon followed. The sides of the tents came down with sharp, rustling sounds and the lamps within cast dim silhouettes upon the canvas walls.

  Maeve and her aunt, whom she called Bid, were the last to go. The girl flashed Tavish and Jamie a smile. “God be between you and harm,” she called, and disappeared into the shadows.

  “If I live twice two hundred years, I’ll never forget the wonder of this night,” Jamie promised himself.

  The men sat awhile smoking and conversing in low tones. One by one they knocked out their pipes, muttered a quiet “God bless …” and slipped away.

  Harrigan led Jamie and Tavish to an open wagon some distance from the tents, near the rope corral in which the horses and mules were tethered. There was a thick layer of straw in the bed of the wagon and the chief of the horse traders furnished an armful of quilts.

  “You’ll be comfortable the night,” he said. “God keep you.”

  “Sure, I could sleep on two flat rocks in the middle of a stream with never a drop of wet, I’m that worn out,” said Tavish. “Put your hand in God’s, Shiel Harrigan. It was a day of days when we set eyes on your lovely daughter.”

  When Harrigan was gone the two men removed their shoes and wrapped themselves in the quilts. Jamie had no desire to go to sleep. The hunger in his heart made him wakeful. He lay staring upward at the spangled sky and finding in every pattern of stars the outline of Maeve’s face. The fine, lace-edges of the pine boughs above seemed wisps of hair that caressed her cheeks, and the wind in the upper branches became her human sigh.

  The aching knot in Jamie’s breast became intolerable and he sat up with a strangled cry. “Tavish,” he said, “are you awake?”

  The older man stirred and mumbled a grudging “No.”

  “Listen carefully,” Jamie continued, “in the mo
rning you shall speak to Shiel Harrigan … first thing.”

  “Oh, I will … I will,” grumbled Tavish sarcastically. “‘The top o’ the morning to you, Shiel Harrigan,’ I’ll say. ‘And how’s your morning’s morning this morning? Did you rest well, God grant?’ Oh, I’ll speak to him … never fear. Now go to sleep.”

  “I mean speak to him for Maeve … for me.”

  “Oh, to be sure … to be sure,” Tavish scoffed. Then he sat upright. “Jamie … do you know what you’re saying? Sure, now, you’re dreaming. ’Tis a nightmare you’re having, and small wonder … sleeping so close to the horses.”

  “It’s no dream. My heart is worn to a silk thread for the love of her.”

  “If you ben’t dreaming, then I pray God ’tis me. Marry with Maeve, is it? Sure, you’ve spilled your wits somewhere back along the road, my fine buachail.”

  Jamie seized the old man and shook him savagely. “Are you forgetting I’ve been promised the woman of my choice? Sure then, I choose Maeve. Think you I’ve traveled half the world around to find her and then not say out what’s in my heart?”

  “All right, Jamie, all right; compose yourself, lad. Sure, I’ll speak for you,” Tavish soothed him. “God’s darling, you are, but don’t forget we’re little better than ghosts now, with nought but the clothes on our backs and given the length and breadth of us for a place to sleep down with the horses out of cold charity. ’Tis all well and good to speak of fairy promises and dreams and wishes. But when the talk is of marriage, you’ll find the old ones standing out for money and hens and feather beds. With a stem of sense, you’ll know what I’m saying is true, lad.”

  “I can read it in her eyes. She’ll have me, in spite of her father’s money and his hens and his feather beds,” Jamie said.

  A buoyant assurance swelled inside him. He believed his own words. The force of his love would sweep everything before it. Una’s promise would be kept. Hadn’t his first wish—for travel—been granted? Hadn’t he been led straight to Maeve? Now the rest was up to him. The path of destiny lay sharp and clear and strewn with rose petals.

  “When she knows what’s in my heart, she’ll have me,” he proclaimed confidently.

  Tavish had been thinking. “The situation is delicate and calls for care,” he said. “These are a people who do not take favorably to outsiders. If the wind of a word of this gets out, sure the two of us will be turned loose to find our way to Atlanta as best we can. So … we’ll not speak until we’re but a day’s ride away. That will give us time to impress Shiel Harrigan and the others with what a lovely boy you are. With luck, and in the small while we have, and if the Devil hasn’t baked Harrigan with too hard a crust, we might … remember, I only said ‘might,’ win from the man a charitable listening to our suit.”

  “Hear the words of a man who has looked into tomorrow and has the gift of prophecy,” Jamie assured him. “Maeve’s father will open his arms to me, as to a son.”

  Tavish settled himself once more to sleep. “Who can reason with a young man,” he sighed, “when the lightning of love has struck?”

  Jamie lay staring into the wide and starry sky, relishing his wakefulness. The seconds were so rich in exquisite happiness he didn’t wish to lose one to oblivion. Contentment, like a warm, enveloping blanket, settled over him and the soft thumping of hoofs in the corral near by lulled him finally to sleep.

  Tavish was snoring gently when Jamie awakened at dawn. The smell of wood smoke stung his nostrils pleasantly. The women of the camp were stirring already. The thought of Maeve sent Jamie leaping from his bed. Without waiting to put on his shoes, he opened the ropes and began to herd the mules and horses into the stream, using the same technique he had observed the day before.

  As he was finishing, Maeve’s soft, silvery laugh sounded behind him. “Sure now, you’re waking the creatures out of a sound sleep to water them,” she teased.

  It was easy to laugh with her, Jamie found. He took the buckets she had brought. “The stream is murky here. Come, I’ll take you to a magic spring, where the water is of such marvelous sweetness, ’tis said that whoever drinks it falls in love with the first person they see.”

  Maeve wrinkled her nose playfully. “Oh, the blather. I know the name of every spring from here to Atlanta and I never heard the tell of such a place! What would be the name of this wonderful spot?”

  “The Spring of the Seven Sisters! There’s a legend about the place that’s God’s own truth. A prince of the underworld who lived hereabouts, fell in love with the youngest of seven sisters. When he invited her to come and share his underground palace, she laughed in his face, because he had long green hair like the moss that grows at the bottom of the stream, and pink eyes like a rabbit, and a red nose like a bog-Irishman who has lived all his life on praties and poteen …” Jamie stole a look over his shoulder at Maeve, following at his heels.

  “Oh, the blather-am-skate,” she hooted, “there’s not an ounce of truth in the whole of it.” But the tale had caught her fancy and her eyes sparkled with interest.

  “’Tis true as truth,” Jamie protested. “It was written in a book.”

  Maeve was impressed. “What happened when the youngest sister refused to marry with the wicked prince?” she asked.

  “He determined to capture her against her will and placed a spell upon the water, so that when the youngest sister drank at the spring, she would fall in love with the first man she saw.…”

  “Which would be the prince with green hair,” prompted Maeve.

  “Sure that was the way he planned it, but plans often go awry. The youngest sister was very beautiful but she had six older sisters who were plain enough to frighten kites from a cornfield. When the seven of them came to the enchanted spring, they drank in the order of their ages: the oldest first, and so on. Well, the wicked prince was hiding beneath the water, and when he heard the oldest sister drinking, he sprang to the surface, thinking to show himself to the youngest. Instead he was seen by the ugly oldest who promptly fell madly in love with him. Six times the underworld prince appeared and six times he was seen by one of the ugly sisters, until they were all six in love with him. Only the youngest, the one he wanted in the first place, was left.”

  “What happened?” demanded Maeve, enchanted as a child by the story.

  “They were all drowned,” said Jamie placidly. “The six ugly sisters were so mad for the love of the wicked prince, they flung themselves into the water trying to reach him. And the youngest was drowned trying to rescue her sisters.”

  “’Tis terrible,” Maeve protested. “Why did the youngest have to die?”

  “’Twas the fault of the book. Sure books do terrible things to people,” Jamie teased.

  “But the youngest was beautiful. She oughtn’t to have died.”

  “Aye … she was the beauty of the world. With hair as blond as sunshine … like your own,” Jamie said softly.

  Maeve’s cheeks flushed a bright pink. They had reached the point of their meeting the day before. “I must go back now,” she said. “They’ll be wondering why I’m so long in bringing the water.”

  “Don’t you want to drink at the magic spring?” Jamie asked.

  Maeve shook her head. Her manner had become cool and distant. “I have no time for magic springs … or stories of underground princes and the like.” She turned and walked swiftly toward the camp.

  Jamie filled the buckets and followed slowly, hurt and humbled. A sharp word from Maeve had turned the surging happiness within him into a weight of misery. His bantering lip-liveliness was gone and the buckets which had danced in his grasp before, now dragged at his arms like leaden weights.

  The camp was in the midst of breakfast when they returned. Maeve took her place among the women, while Jamie sat again beside Shiel Harrigan. No comment was made about his carrying water for the chief’s daughter, but out of the corner of his eye Jamie saw the woman Maeve called Aunt Bid speak sharply to the girl.

  The aunt was a tall, d
ominating spinster, whose eyes saw and registered everything with an old maid’s acumen. She had taken over the rearing of Maeve ten years before when the girl’s mother died, and had guarded her dead sister’s child with a zealousness that scarcely could have been equaled had Maeve been her own.

  The horse traders broke camp after breakfast and were on the road in an hour. They moved southward toward Atlanta, traveling steadily but easily, so as not to weary the animals. Their camp sites along the way were already laid out, having been used many times before, and the problem of making and breaking camp had been reduced to a minimum by the speed and precision gained from years of practice.

  Tavish rode in the lead wagon, with Shiel Harrigan, Maeve, and Aunt Bid. Jamie had to content himself with the second wagon, driven by Jaunting Jim Donner. He caught glimpses of those ahead from time to time, and heard Maeve’s silver laughter at Tavish’s endless sallies, but he was as removed from her as if they dwelt in different planets.

  In the evenings after camp was made, a festive air infected the horse traders. It increased as they drew nearer and nearer to Atlanta. Jaunting Jim explained to Jamie how other camps of horse traders were making their way toward the Georgia capital from all over the South. There they met during the last week in April to bury those who had died on the road during the year and whose bodies had been sent ahead for burial. There would be one great mass funeral. Marriages would be performed, betrothals announced, and babies christened, in one all-embracing festival. The young people would meet, mingle, and court one another.

  “’Tis a fair and funeral all rolled into one,” Jaunting Jim said. “None of our people would miss it, unless they were laid out in a box—and then they’d be there in spirit.”