In the Time of Famine

by Michael Grant

  An old man with a shapeless hat pulled down in front of his face stumbled toward them. Suddenly, he pitched forward onto the ground. The dazed crowd, lost in its own misery, stepped around him and paid him no mind.

  Michael knelt down beside the man and rolled him over. The face was so bloated Michael almost didn’t recognize John Lacy, the feisty old-timer who’d stood with him at the Cork quay.

  Dermot looked over Michael’s shoulder and his eyes widened when he saw the telltale blackening of the face. “Get away, Michael. He’s got the fever.”

  “It’s John Lacy. He needs help.”

  Dermot grabbed Michael’s arm and pulled him away violently. “For Jasus’ sake, do you want to kill the lot of us?”

  Michael pulled away from Dermot. “We can’t leave him to die on the road.”

  As he lifted the comatose man and slung him over his shoulder, Dermot backed away in horror. “What are you doin?”

  Michael waved his brother off. “Go home, Dermot. And mind, don’t you be tellin’ Da about this.”

  Michael started back down the road carrying the unconscious John Lacy. Dozens of people streamed past them, but no one gave them so much as a glance.

  Michael kicked open the doors of the Fever Hospital, carried Lacy to a bed, and put him down gently. A nurse was tending a patient with her back to him. Michael called out to her. “Nurse, this man needs help.”

  The nurse turned and Michael and Emily came face to face. For a moment they stood there, silent, neither knowing what to say.

  Emily was the first to find her voice. “Is it your father?”

  “No, no… A friend.”

  At that moment, Dr. McDonald came by. He glanced down at Lacy and called to an attendant. “Get this man out of here.”

  Michael turned on the doctor in fury. “I don’t care if he’s poor. He’s sick and by God you’ll treat him.”

  “He’s dead.” The doctor shook his head and walked away.

  Michael looked down at the dead man and backed away in confusion. “But, I spoke to him not a moment ago.”

  For the first time he looked at the people in the beds around him—frightening skulls covered by gaunt, yellow-skin, hardly human. Then it sunk in what he’d done. He’d carried a fevered man! He rubbed his hands on his coat, as though that could rid him of the contamination.

  “I spoke to him not a moment ago…” he repeated to Emily.

  Emily’s heart went out to him. Michael Ranahan might be impertinent. He was certainly infuriating, but—he was also a man of compassion.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, not knowing what else to say.

  She’d seen this reaction before. People brought sick relatives in. One minute they were alive, the next they were dead. It was something that was hard to reconcile—unless you’ve seen too much of it.

  Michael continued to back away, bumping into beds. Then, panicked, he turned and bolted through the doors.

  He ran and ran, as though the sheer act of running would itself wash the fever from him. He ran and everywhere he ran he saw death. He bumped into a man carrying his dead wife on his back…. He jumped into a ditch and almost stepped on a rat gnawing on a dead baby’s face….

  Bodies everywhere. Bodies and more bodies….

  Blindly, he ran across an open field toward the river. Toward cleansing waters! Without slowing, he plunged headlong into the frigid water. The cold stabbed at him with a thousand daggers. Involuntarily, he cried out in pain, but he gritted his teeth. Good comes from pain. Isn’t that what the priests had told him? Pain was good for his soul. Good for his body. He imagined that every stab of pain meant that the fever was being ripped from his body and it consoled him.

  In the water he stripped off his clothing and, naked, dove underwater. The cold took his breath away. He gasped, came to the surface, took another breath, and dove under again.

  It was like a baptism. He would be renewed. Given new life. A second chance. Please God, he prayed, give me a second chance. He dove under the frigid water a third time.

  He came to the surface, but more slowly this time. The cold had begun to sap his strength. The riverbank was only twenty yards away but, somewhere in the recesses of his cold-benumbed mind, it occurred to him that he didn’t have the strength to reach it.

  He was suddenly very tired. Hypothermia was taking control of his body, leeching power from his muscles. He was losing sensation in his legs. His arms were leaden and refused to tread water any longer. He felt himself sinking down, down into the black abyss of the river. His entire body resonated with a painful and wondrous tingling.

  The water was suddenly—warm.

  Warm as in—birth. He was eight years old again, helping his father birth a calf for the first time. It was winter and the barn was cold. He blew on his little hands to keep warm, but it did no good.

  The cow lay on her side, lowing, wide-eyed with fright and anticipation; her flanks heaving in and out like a giant bellows. Then, inexplicably, a small head appeared under her tail. Michael looked at it in wide-eyed fascination. How did it get there?

  “Go ahead,” Da said. “Take hold of the head and pull gently.”

  Michael did as he was told. There was resistance, but he pulled harder, harder, and suddenly, the calf, fully formed with a head, a body, and four spindly legs, gushed forth in a cascade of warm, sticky liquid.

  “Watch him,” Da whispered. “He’ll be on his feet in a minute.”

  But Michael wasn’t watching the calf. He was looking at his hands covered in the warm, sticky substance. He rubbed his hands together. They were warm. The cold was gone.

  Now, as he sank deeper and deeper into the river, he became detached from his body. Without alarm, he watched his body sinking down into the darkness and he was not only unafraid, he welcomed it. Down there in the darkness was peace. Down there was no more hunger. No more death. No more guilt.

  As he slowly spiraled down, bubbles rushed against his ears playing the most fantastic music. The water, soft as a mother’s breast, embraced his body. If this was death, it was nothing to be afraid of. He let his body go, giving himself up to the river, offering himself in expiation for those men who’d died at the quay….

  Then, something bumped him. Slowly, he turned and came face to face with a bloated, grinning maw, black eyeless sockets, and hair waving in the current like seaweed. A dead body claimed by the fever and it was here in his comforting waters. The waters that were to be his home for all eternity!

  No! He could not be with death and disease for all eternity!

  Jolted out of his lethargy, he looked up toward the light. Toward life. With every ounce of strength he willed his body to go back up. Despite lungs spent of air and burning as though he’d swallowed lye, despite arms and legs that had lost all feeling, he began to go up, up…

  He broke the surface gasping for precious, sweet air. He flailed toward the shoreline, clawed his way up the muddy bank, and lay there naked, shivering and exhausted.

  Then, he began to laugh uncontrollably. The river had spit him out. Given him life. He was a new man. Reborn of the river.

  He rolled over on his side, gasping for breath, and watched the cadaver float face down on the gentle current with arms stretched wide, as though embracing the river.

  Chapter Fourteen

  April 1847

  Ballyross, Ireland

  For days afterward, Michael washed his hands incessantly—much to the amusement of Dermot, whose idea of washing his hands was to spit on them and rub them briskly on his trousers. Da noticed the excessive hand washing as well, but said nothing. There was a lot going on lately that he didn’t understand.

  Michael became obsessed with the thought that he might pass the fever to his family. Ever vigilant, he watched them for early signs.

  Once, Granda, who was in his moods, caught Michael staring at him. “And what are yer lookin’ at?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “Then stop gawkin’ as though you expect the de
vil to fly out me arse.”

  Michael avoided touching members of his family, which wasn’t difficult. The Ranahans were not a demonstrative family and there was little touching between them. Finally, after three weeks and no symptoms he decided he and his family were clear of the fever.

  Michael had taken to accompanying Mam when she went to the village to shop. There were more strangers on the road now and while most of them were harmless, pitiful souls, there were some who had mischief on their minds and others who were so crazed by hunger that they were capable of doing terrible things.

  O’Mally’s bakeshop was just down the road from the church. Mam had heard that Frank O’Mally had gotten hold of some grain and was selling bread. By the time Michael and Mam arrived, there was a long line outside the bakeshop.

  As they slowly shuffled closer to the front door, Michael looked at the empty window and remembered how in the old days it used to be full of every manner of baked goods. As a child he would stand in front of that window, wide-eyed, dreaming of eating those fantastic cakes and buns sculptured with mouthwatering creams and icings. When a customer entered the shop, he’d run to the door so he could smell the delicious aromas coming from inside.

  He never did get to taste a cake or bun. On the rare occasion when there was a bit of money, Mam bought a loaf of bread as a treat. Hot bread, dipped in buttermilk. He was certain no fancy cake or bun could taste better than that.

  Now the window that had tempted him with so many lovely treats was vacant. Gone were the fancy cakes and buns. In its place just a sad, empty space with faded rings where the dishes had once sat on the oilcloth cover.

  Finally, it was their turn and they squeezed inside the crowded little shop. The portly, red-faced O’Mally stood behind the counter, wiping his hands in his apron as he transacted his business. Michael envied him. There was a rumor that the baker was going to shut his shop and go out to America.

  O’Mally held up a tiny loaf of bread.

  “Tis the last one,” he announced.

  “Give it here,” a desperate woman with wild red hair shouted.

  A gaunt woman about Mam’s age elbowed the redhead aside. “Never mind her, I have seven mouths to feed.”

  Bug-eyed Barry Scanlon pushed the two women aside.

  “I’ll give you half a shillin’,” he said to O’Mally.

  “Sure that’s ten times what it’s worth!” the redheaded woman said.

  There was silence as O’Mally pursed his lips and considered his options.

  “Done,” he said.

  As he reached across the counter to hand the loaf of bread to Scanlon, the redheaded woman snatched the bread. The gaunt woman, grabbed at the redheaded woman’s arm and the bread flew into the air. Dozens of desperate hands reached for it. The loaf bounced off the tips of their outstretched, clutching hands. For a moment, the loaf seemed to defy gravity. Then, suddenly, it vanished. There was a mad scramble as the loaf hit the floor. Frenzied hands tore at the tiny loaf until it was reduced to mere crumbs. The redheaded woman pushed the gaunt woman. A man punched another man who’d bumped into him, and all hell broke loose. Punches flew. Hair was pulled. Screams and shouts filled the tiny shop.

  Men and women who had been neighbors and friends before the famine thrashed about on the floor in a tangle of arms and legs. Someone pushed Mam. She lost her balance and fell on top of the pile. Michael reached for her and caught two punches to the head before he was able to disentangle her from the pile. In wide-eyed horror Mam pulled her shawl around herself protectively, watching her neighbors brawling over crumbs. “In the name of God what’s got into them?”

  Michael took her by the arm and rushed her toward the door. He didn’t know what had gotten into them, but he was certain they would see this kind of behavior more and more.

  Michael stood across the road from the Fever Hospital, hoping to get a glimpse of Emily. He’d been doing this every day since he’d brought John Lacy here over a month ago. He’d seen her only three times—once standing outside talking to a young doctor with a wispy yellow mustache, another time going home, and another time when she opened the front door to let someone in. She didn’t see him and he didn’t try to approach her.

  Why do I come here day after day? Why do I waste my time here? He didn’t know the answer to those questions and it left him feeling confused and foolish. Da was right. She was not for the likes of him. The few times he did talk to her he’d made a proper eejit of himself. But, still, here he was.

  He was about to leave when the door opened and she came out. Before he could duck behind a tree, she spotted him and waved. Embarrassed that she’d seen him, he waved back and started to hurry away.

  “Michael. Wait.”

  He turned and was mortified to see her coming across the road toward him.

  “How have you been?” she asked when she caught up with him.

  “Fine.”

  “And your family?”

  “Fine.” Jasus, can I not put more than two words together when I talk to her?

  “I’m so sorry about your friend. The one you brought in.”

  “Oh, aye. So many are dyin’.”

  He turned away from her intense green eyes. She looked tired. There were rings under her eyes and she looked alarmingly thinner. But she was as beautiful as ever. He wanted to tell her that she should get more rest, but instead, he nodded toward the hospital and said, “It’s a good thing you’re doin’ there.”

  “Thank you. I don’t know, sometimes it just doesn’t seem enough.”

  “I’m sorry,” he blurted out.

  She looked puzzled. “About what?”

  “What I said to you about the blankets and all.”

  “Oh, that. After I calmed down I realized you were right. Five badly sewn blankets. My God.”

  She laughed and he realized it was the first time he’d ever heard her laugh. It sounded like the most beautiful music he’d ever heard.

  “What are you staring at?”

  “What? Oh…” He was staring at her. Disconcerted, he turned away, toward the west. The sun was almost touching the mountain tops.

  “Well, I’d best be goin’.”

  He couldn’t tell her that his Da would be standing at the door waiting to lock and bolt it as soon as the sun set. She’d think they were a family of eejits.

  “Michael, do you know my name?”

  “What—? Oh, Mistress Somerville.”

  “Mistress is not my first name. It’s Emily.”

  Michael nodded, not sure where this was going.

  “Please call me Emily.”

  “All right, …Emily.”

  “So”—now she was beginning to look as uncomfortable as he felt—“I’m glad your family is well.”

  “Aye. Thank you.”

  “Well, goodbye then.”

  “Aye. Goodbye.”

  He ran all the way home to beat the setting sun. As he trotted along the River Road, he thought about their conversation, savoring every word she’d said. Then, something suddenly occurred to him—he should have asked about her family.

  Eejit.

  As he trotted up the road toward the cottage, he heard his Grandmam keening. That could mean only one thing—someone in the family was dead or dying. With a pounding heart he rushed inside to find the family huddled against one wall.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Tis himself,” Da said. “He’s got the fever.”

  Granda was lying in his bed. Even in the gloomy light, Michael could see that the old man had the near-dead look of those poor souls he’d seen in the Fever Hospital.

  There was a rushing in his ears and he felt hot with guilt. I thought enough time had passed! I thought the family was out of danger! “We’ll keep him warm,” Michael said in desperation. “He’ll be all right.” He started toward the old man. Da yanked him back.

  “He can’t stay here, Michael.”

  “It’s his home. Where is he to go?”

&nb
sp; “For the love of God, will ya listen to me? He can’t stay here. He’s got the fever.”

  “All this talk about keepin’ the family together and you won’t help your own Da?”

  “What good is the family if we’re all dead?”

  Father and son stood face to face.

  Once again, they might have come to blows, but then Granda spoke. “Listen to your Da, Michael,” he said in a small, weak voice. “I’m a dead man and I know it.”

  Grandmam began to keen louder.

  “Ah, will you whist, woman. All that caterwaulin’ will only hasten me demise.”

  Sadly, Michael realized his da was right. There was nothing they could do for the old man except watch him die. At least in the Fever Hospital there were doctors and medicines. There he at least had a chance.

  Michael picked the old man up, stunned at how light he was. He could feel the old man’s bones through the rag blanket.

  “I’ll take you to the Fever Hospital, Granda.”

  The old man shook his head. “You’ll do no such thing. You’ll dig me a scalp.”

  Michael was appalled at his granda’s suggestion. A “scalp” was nothing more than a hole in the ground, two or three feet deep, covered over with sticks and pieces of turf. It had become the only shelter available to families who had been turned out of their cottages and left homeless.

  “I’ll not leave you in a ditch,” Michael said.

  “And I’ll not go to the Fever Hospital to die among strangers.”