Lucas stood up from his seat. “What’s the man saying?”
Riley pressed himself away from the bar counter, his ruddy complexion growing even redder. A few more patrons sauntered over to eavesdrop on the conversation. “Why are you looking at me like fools? You know what the smell means. It’s the rot.”
The gathering crowd began to murmur, and soon most in the room were around Riley and nudging closer.
Casey pressed him. “Are you sure? Are you certain the roots are bad?”
“What? None of you looked for yourself?” Riley’s gaze darted around seeking an answer. “I wouldn’t have thought the whole room of you for cowards.”
Lucas pushed through the gathering crowd and poked his finger in Riley’s chest. “Liar. That’s what you are. You’re too full of the drink to know your toes from your ears.”
The room silenced as Riley responded with a raised fist, but then his demeanor dissipated into something more akin to pity. “All of it.” He buttoned up his wool jacket. “Black. Black. Every last tater in me field. The ground is nothing but a grave of corpses.”
Riley’s eyes moistened. He spoke in a defeated tone. “It’s the death fog. The death fog brought it in. The full harvest will be ruined. It will be the ruin of us all, I’m afraid.”
He pulled a coin out of his coat pocket and placed it on the counter with a snap. “Night lads. God be with you. May God be with you all.” Then he hunched out the door.
Riley’s dreary words draped the room and only a few cursory comments were exchanged. He had merely put a voice to the dread in their hearts.
Some put on their coats, hats, and scarves and sifted out of the pub. Others dwelled, choosing to mend sorrow with drink.
But the stout in Liam’s mug was no longer sufficient to quell the writhing in his stomach. His plight would be worse than most as he had risked his entire crop on the potato this season, a decision he had thought would at last reap a season of prosperity.
All that remained was the faltering hope that the contagion had not spread to his fields. The death in the air could be from farms downwind.
Riley must be wrong.
He picked up his shilling from the counter and unfurled from the stool, his mind in a blur.
Liam drifted out of O’Shannon’s and down the road. Gradually, he shifted into a limping gait, that of a broken mare, sometimes tripping over rocks and divots in the low light. When he did, he would curse, lift himself up, and move up the stream of adversity, as he always did.
Liam struggled to console himself with the belief his life was too full of misfortune for God to strike him yet another blow.
So he ran.
Chapter 1
The Hovel
“He’s gone. I can’t see him anymore.” The boy flashed an expression of glee.
Clare thrust her arms on her waist. “Davin Hanley. Shut that door before your ma takes ill, and I’ve told you about disrespecting your father as such. For all he does for you? You must be ashamed.”
Davin scowled. “I’m just happy for Da, that’s all. Now we won’t be such a bother.”
“We’re not a bother.” Caitlin gathered the bowls and spoons from the table.
“Cait’s right,” Clare said. “There’s much on his mind, what with raising the likes of us in these troubling days.”
Ronan waddled to the doorway and put his arm around his younger brother. “Come. There’s a cow that’s been missing ya.”
“That’s it, off you go to milk her, boys.” Clare put her hand on Cait’s shoulder. “And you tend the chickens. Not too much as the feed is low. While you’re at it, make sure those ladies know they’re behind on the rent.”
Caitlin giggled. “Their eggs?”
“Tell them I’m serious.” Clare wagged her finger.
“That I will.”
Clare waved at them with the backs of her hands. “Why are you all tarrying? Hup, hup. Much to do still.”
When the three of them emptied out of the door, Clare sighed. “Much to do still.” She actually embraced complete exhaustion. Throughout the difficulties of her labors, she anticipated it as the treasured visit by her evening angel. It meant the family would soon be asleep and she could finally pass her heavy torch to the maker of dreams.
Although one more day of her fading youth would escape her, those she loved would be safe. At least until the morning sun delivered new burdens.
She hurried to clean the dishes. It wouldn’t take the boys long to milk the heifer, empty the tin pail into a jar, and lower it by twine to the bottom of the cool waters of the well to keep it fresh until morning. Caitlin returned eggless and helped her older sister finish the cleaning just as Ronan and Davin returned from their chores.
Clare provided evening lessons in reading and arithmetic, made certain they bathed well with careful inspections, and now it was time for her to lead evening prayers.
“All right now. Let’s offer our thanks to the Lord.”
“Thank Him for what?”
Clare glared at Davin, but before she could respond, Ronan rapped him on the side of his head.
“Why did you do that?” Davin rubbed the feral brown tufts of his hair.
Clare was disappointed to see the task of brushing his hair was yet undone.
Ronan pointed up above and glared at Davin. “Don’t be making the Almighty angry when you’re standing next to me.”
The seriousness in his command made Clare smile. But how much longer would Ronan get to rule over his brother? With his lame leg, it was just a matter of time before Davin would be strong enough to assert himself.
Caitlin joined them, her wavy blonde hair draping over the front of her faded yellow dress. The dress was the one Uncle Tomas gave Clare as her sixteenth birthday present, and when it no longer fit, Caitlin adopted it as if it were brand new.
When her uncle was still alive, he always was kind to them, bringing gifts and sharing fanciful stories of fairies, ghosts, and faraway lands. For years, Clare didn’t know why this would make her father angry, but as she grew older, she recognized it as envy.
In speaking about Clare’s father and uncle, Grandma Ella had shared how the two fought since they were boys. “Jacob and Esau had nothing on these ones, I tell you.” Her grandmother always saw life through a veil of Scripture.
Standing a few inches above Ronan and Davin, Caitlin reached out her arms in expectation and soon they all were clasping hands in a circle.
Clare glanced over her shoulder at her mother, who was in a chair knitting the same scarf she had been working on for nearly two years. “Ma. Are you going to join us?”
“Hmm?” Ida looked up with a weary, troubled face. “What? How’s that?” Her expression darkened. “No. I have no desire for praying.”
“As you wish.” Clare bristled but tried not to show it. She heard the same sentiment almost every day since her youngest brother drowned as a toddler.
“All right, Davin. Since you’re in need of much penance, we’ll have you pray.”
Looking up to Clare as if to protest, he let out a deep breath and bowed his head. There was something in his spirit that was so appealing to her, but she feared the day would come soon when the trials of life and her father’s cruel disposition would dampen his flame.
Davin squeezed his eyes shut and spoke with sincerity. “Lord. We thank You for the taters.” Then whispered, “Which we eat every night.”
This was met with a sharp tug of his hand by Ronan, who stumbled before catching his balance.
Undeterred, Davin continued. “I pray for my ma. That she’ll learn how to smile better. For my da.” He glanced at the door behind him. “For my da. That he’ll talk to me kindly. For Cait. That she’ll get a new bonnet. The blue one with the ribbons that she likes.”
C
aitlin opened her eyes and grinned. “Thank you, Davin. That would be lovely.”
“And I pray for . . . I pray for my big sister that someone will finally marry her. Amen.”
“Oh, Davin.” Caitlin looked up at Clare to see if she was offended.
Clare smiled, but the innocent barb resonated. At her age, a woman was close to being out of time, a bruise her father often poked. Perhaps love and adventure only did exist between the worn covers of her books.
“Sorry. I forgot Ro.” Davin, with a sense of devotion, clasped his hands. “For Ronan. I pray I’ll grow bigger than he. So I can give him the whipping he deserves.”
Ronan grabbed a handful of his little brother’s hair and tugged it, which drew an immediate yelp.
“That will do,” Clare broke in with an intensity that captured their attention. She decided to complete the prayer on their behalf. Since her Grandma Ella passed, Clare struggled to believe there was anyone listening to her petitions. But prayer still had a role in the proper upbringing of children. The fear of God was a helpful tool of discipline, and one she wasn’t willing to discard.
“Lord, please continue to hold my family in Your gentle arms.” The words seemed inauthentic and Clare hoped it wasn’t obvious. “We thank You for the daily food You provide, this beautiful home we share. We are so grateful for Your favor. Amen.”
“A-men,” they chorused. The boys headed toward the ladder to the loft to compete for their favored position in the straw bed they all shared, but Clare grabbed Davin by the arm. “Brush.” She motioned to Caitlin.
With her brother wriggling in her grasp, Clare watched Ronan labor up the ladder as Caitlin retrieved the hairbrush from the drawer. Although the interior of the tiny home was confining, it was meticulously groomed, with food bins, dinnerware, and knickknacks all organized against the wall on evenly distributed wooden shelves.
Caitlin handed the brush to Clare, and after a few jabs through the hair on his impatient head, Davin climbed up to bed. But Caitlin just stood there.
“Well? Have you something on your mind?”
“You look tired,” she said to Clare with some hesitation.
“Because you all are tiring. Now off to sleep, you.”
But Caitlin didn’t budge. She stood as if she had something else to say.
“What?”
“Well. Will I look tired as well soon?”
Clare let the words of the question sink in before she answered. She carried the challenges of the family on her shoulders, and although she resolved herself to an uneventful life, she yearned for Caitlin and the boys to have more.
“The face of a princess will never wrinkle.” She put her lips to Cait’s forehead.
Caitlin hugged her sister in return and then went up the ladder to join her brothers in the loft. Her legs vanished over the last rung, and Clare turned her attention to her mother, who had nodded off in her chair.
Kneeling beside Ma, Clare removed the knitting tools from the woman’s brittle grip and picked the scarf up from the floor. It was tangled and knotted. It saddened Clare to recall how beautifully her mother’s hands once clothed the entire family.
With a gentle touch, Clare tucked the stringy, gray hair behind her mother’s ears. Oh, how grief had aged the woman. Even in the calming arms of slumber, Ma looked troubled.
Kevan’s death was still hovering in her mother’s fragile mind. Last Saturday would have been the boy’s fifth birthday had he not fallen into the creek that fateful day. Although Ma could barely function in ordinary day-to-day duties, she had a remarkable awareness of that date.
The anniversary of his death was difficult for Clare as well. It brought back the haunting vision of her mother sitting in that chair, eyes vacant, while holding the limp toddler in her lap, his moist skin a pale blue.
In many ways, the tragedy extinguished the last flicker of Clare’s youth. Following her mother’s ensuing breakdown, she was next in line to assume the duties and responsibilities of the matriarch.
“Up we go, Ma. Let’s get you to bed.”
Clare helped the fragile woman to her feet and escorted her to the far corner of the room. There she pulled back an opening through the hand-embroidered canopy Grandma Ella made as a wedding gift. It didn’t provide much privacy for the bed, but in Clare’s mind it represented the last symbol of her mother and father’s threadbare marriage. She obsessed to maintain the fabric to its original beauty, but the years of turf smoke in the room left the linen with a yellow tinge and a sooty smell.
She helped her mother curl into the bed and laid a worn wool blanket over her. Clare seated herself on the edge of the bed and watched the frail woman fall asleep.
“Nightie, Mam.”
Clare rose and became aware of the aching in her back and the throbbing in her temple. It was only when she was no longer tending to others that the pains in her own life surfaced.
She stood still, allowing a silence to confirm her two brothers and sister had settled to rest above in the loft. The room was eerily still, save the crackling of the fire, as the red glow of its burning peat cast shifting shadows upon the walls.
Margaret’s chair was angled at the table, and out of habit Clare straightened it. She ran her fingers over the time-smoothed oak chair and tried to imagine her older sister sitting there, her laughter winning the room. Clare didn’t blame her father for favoring Maggie, because her sister had a natural radiance about her few could match.
What kind of life would Clare have had if Maggie never left for America with her Uncle Tomas four years ago? Certainly she wouldn’t be carrying this burden alone.
She immediately felt shame for her self-pity and punished herself with guilt. Such a horrible tragedy her sister endured, and here Clare was feeling sorry about taking on some additional chores.
She went to the bookshelf above the mantel and ran her slender hands over the cracked leather bindings, as if there were something magical in the touch of her fingertips that would discern a proper choice. Clare had read these few books many times over; the adventuresome places and intrepid characters so well known to her they seemed as real as her life here on the farm.
Something compelled her to pull down the Holy Bible her grandmother had given her before she died. It was the very one Nanna read to her often when she was a wee girl. Clare’s face burned at the dustiness of the cover. Her grandma would have been mortified and rightly so.
With the Bible in one hand, she lifted Maggie’s chair and grabbed a heavy blue knit shawl from one of the hooks on the wall. After shifting a few things in her clutches, she placed her hand around the cold iron handle of the smoke-stained oak door, opened it, and winced when the hinges let out a moan.
Clare stepped into the coolness of the fog-enshrouded night and paused to allow her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Then she sank into the oak chair and experienced closeness to Maggie in some strange manner. Clare wrapped the shawl around her shoulders and absorbed the gentle chorus of the evening’s sounds.
She had hoped the moon would provide enough light for her to read, but the murky clouds prevailed and the book lay unopened on her lap.
Somewhere in the uneven chants of the night winds, she sought out a healing voice above the din of her life. Her imagination drifted to sweeter places and she fought back the weariness, grasping on to what remained of the day.
Nevertheless, Clare faded as the aroma of death closed in around her.
Chapter 2
The Roots of Change
Clare woke with a startle.
It frightened her to realize she was still outside and sitting in Maggie’s chair with the Bible in her lap. Clare always tried to be in bed before her father got home from the pub each night. He was a difficult drunk, and Clare found it prudent to be at least feigning sleep in her bed when he would stumble back.
> She stood and grabbed the book in one hand, the chair in the other. But before she turned, Clare glanced along the road leading away from home. Something was amiss.
She strained her eyes and sought out moving shadows through the fog. Nothing. But her nerves were on edge.
In a short moment, she discerned a figure approaching off in the distance, and even in the mist-obscured moonlight she could tell it was moving toward her at a hurried pace.
Is it an animal?
Instinct flooded and Clare scrambled to find a stick or a shovel, something she could use to fend off a predator. But then she could tell it was the shape of a person, and soon the pounding of feet could be heard. Clare’s heart pressed against her chest until she realized it was her father, Liam, and the tension released from her body as quickly as it had arrived.
But why is he running?
His breathless voice shouted, “Clare. Clare. Get the lantern.”
The urgency in his words sprung her to action. She flung open the door loud enough to wake them all, but there wasn’t a stir in response. Clare tiptoed to the mantel and grabbed the oil lantern. She bent down, dipped a thin stick into the peat fire, lit the lantern’s wick, and the glass chamber filled with light.
Clare hustled outside where she discovered her father crouched over, struggling to catch his wind. The lantern’s glow highlighted the weathered lines of his face.
“Bring that to the field.”
“What’s wrong, Da?”
She didn’t expect him to answer, and he didn’t. He skittered in bent fashion toward the potatoes they planted in spring. Clare hesitated, not knowing if she should step ahead to light his path or if she should just stay out of his way.
When they arrived at the first row of planted roots, her da fell to his knees.
“Give me light, girl. This is why you’re here.”
Clare leaned down to hang the flickering lamp close to the ground before him. As she did, Clare could smell the foul odor of the night. She weighed her growing concern and curiosity against her wariness of her father’s mood and chose to remain silent.
Flight of the Earls Page 2