“Shouldn’t I be telling my father I won’t go?”
“You know Liam. Once he’s formed his intentions, it wouldn’t matter one scant. He’s a thick one.”
“Yes. I know you’re probably right. But the thing is . . . I haven’t much tried to dissuade him. The truth is . . .” Clare worried she had said too much.
“Go ahead.”
She assured herself with his trusting eyes. “There’s some of me at this moment . . . which reminds me of the little girl I thought I left behind.” Clare looked at him expecting disapproval, but she saw none. “Not that I was ever brave like Maggie. I’ll never have her courage. But inside, I’ve always imagined going to strange places. Meeting fascinating people.”
“Adventure?”
“Yes. Adventure. In some ways I can’t wait to leave. To discover what lies at the other side of the ocean. Can you imagine?” She smiled, her face burning. “Am I a terrible person?”
“Why would I ever think that?”
Was he serious? Hadn’t he understood anything she had said? Clare was frustrated it even needed words. “Because. Me just abandoning them all. This farm. The boys. Cait. My mother, who can’t hardly put on her own shoes.”
The frustration of the day, the tiredness she was feeling, and the anxiety of what lay ahead built up to where she started to cry.
“Come, come now.” He shook his head. “You are the most talented, thoughtful, young lady . . . woman . . . I’ve ever known. But do you really believe this beloved island of ours will be swallowed by the tides when you leave her shores?”
She was not expecting to get chided and it caught her unawares. “No. Of course I don’t.”
He wiped a tear off of her cheek and lifted her chin so he could peer into her eyes. “You can leave Ireland, but Ireland will never leave you. Listen to me. The parish will take care of your family. Your ma. Your brothers and sisters. And your crotchety old man. We’ll tend to him as well. We need Clare to take care of Clare. For once in her life.”
With those words, a great burden lifted from her shoulders and gave Clare a sense of freedom she hadn’t experienced for some time. She looked at his face to determine if it was Father Quinn, the parish priest, or merely Quinn, the boy she admired from afar. Clare was drawn to him, and she embraced the young priest and felt comforted. She could sense the moisture of her tears drying on his opened collar.
“Will you being joining us, Clare, for your own celebration?”
She spun around at Seamus’s voice, having almost forgotten they were not alone. To her distress she saw all the guests huddled around the fire gawking at her and Father Quinn.
“We don’t want scandal to mar such a lovely day, dear sister,” her brother said, which resulted in a few nervous twitters.
“Be forgiving of our dear Clare,” chimed Fiona. “The good Father is still acquiring his spiritual disciplines.”
This brought laughter, which cleared the discomfort of the moment, for which Clare was grateful. She and the priest joined the group alongside her brother. Sitting next to Seamus was Pierce, from whom Clare thought she caught a glare of disapproval in the flickering light.
“Mrs. MacBrennan,” Clare said. “Will my last memory of you be as a blatherer?”
“Fine then, as I would prefer you to remember me in my true light.” Fiona raised her glass to the group. “To America.”
“To America,” they all replied in a staggered chorus.
Pierce’s father, Mac Brady, weighed in. “I’ve heard through way of reliable testimony that there are so many jobs over there for Irishmen, they’ll meet you on the docks, begging you to take wages.”
Fiona spoke up as well. “Well, I’ve heard it said you can earn more with a day’s shovel with the Yanks than you can draggin’ plow for a whole year in our fields.”
“That’s a dear shame seeing as my boy isn’t fond of lifting shovels.” Da tossed a twig into the fire.
Eyes shifted toward Seamus to see how he would respond, but Clare knew her brother wouldn’t give Liam the satisfaction of validating the sting in his words.
“And I’d say, Da, this potato whiskey was worth every blister on your fingers.” Seamus emptied the glass. “If there isn’t any to be had in the Promised Land, you’ll hear tales of how young Seamus swam back home.” He turned to their father and raised his glass. “To the poteen.”
“The poteen,” was the echoed cry.
When the toast settled, Father Quinn waved a raised arm to draw attention. “Should we share a few kindly words about those who will be leaving us? What say you, Madame O’Riley?”
“Would be tradition.” The keener turned to Clare and stared in a strange manner.
Mac put his arm around Pierce. “I will be first.” He cleared his throat and held an air until all gave him attention. “I remember this lad, my son, when he was no higher than me boots. And through the years, he got to feel me boots on a few occasions.”
Pierce nodded in agreement.
“But he’s grown up to be a fine man, he has,” Mac said, his voice growing in intensity. “This boy loves his country. This land. And it’s only because of his deep concern for his family that he’s willing to take leave from this place.”
Mac’s eyes glistened. “There won’t be a day, son, when your mother and I won’t wonder how you are, or where you be. This sacrifice of yours will ne’er be forgotten.”
Pierce seemed to feed off of the sincerity of his father’s voice and was moved by the sentiment. “Thank you, Father.”
Seamus gave him a teasing elbow. There was an empty silence as they anticipated their da would speak, but the moment filled only with the crackling of the fire. Clare didn’t look to her da. She didn’t want anyone to realize how much she craved the slightest hint of his affection.
After a duration of unease, Father Quinn prodded further. “Does anyone else have something to share?” He tried to make eye contact with Liam, but Clare’s father continued to gaze down into the fire.
“I have something.” The deep, sensuous words of the keener were unexpected. The graceful woman rose to her feet, advancing with well-practiced elegance. She carefully took off her hat and handed it to Father Quinn.
The woman reached with both hands behind her neck and unclasped a necklace around her neck. The pendant glinted as it emerged from the keener’s bosom.
In a ceremonious fashion, and with a wry smile on her lips, the keener bent down and, with each hand holding one of the ends of the necklace, asked, “May I?”
Clare nodded and her body shuddered in the cool air with anticipation. The woman’s long fingers reached behind her neck and pushed back Clare’s hair. The keener’s face was only a few inches from hers, and up close the woman appeared much older, and her brown, probing eyes and long, slender nose gave her a crowed appearance. There also was the prevailing charisma that Clare imagined was the fragrance of wealth.
As Madame O’Riley hooked the clasp, she bent toward Clare’s ear and whispered words in a firm and haunting tone. She pulled back and placed a finger before Clare’s lips. What she spoke was not to be shared. In full control of the moment, the keener displayed a measured smile, one wrought of confidence and melancholy.
When Madame O’Riley returned to her seat, Clare’s gaze slid to the pendant at the end of the chain. She cupped it in her hand and examined it in the dim light. It was braided silver in the shape of a clover with three leaves. In the center was a small translucent gem, but it was too dark to discern its hue.
When Clare looked up again, she realized her guests were grasping for an explanation. She froze, not knowing how she should respond.
“Do you like it, my dear?” Madame O’Riley said. “It was given to me years ago by a . . . close friend.”
Clare noticed her father was glaring at the keener wi
th disappointment.
“Yes.” Clare caressed the pendant. “It’s quite lovely. A most unexpected gift.”
“How kind,” Fiona said, breaking into the awkwardness. “I’m shamed to say it, but my gift is only words. I believe I can speak freely for all of us. Will be a sad day in the morn when the three of you young ones leave us behind. Will be a poorer place without you.”
Fiona rose and gave hugs to the three of them, and a few other guests joined in the procession. As they each returned to where they were sitting, a solemn sense of imminent loss came upon them and several began to cry.
Then, as a cresting instrument in a symphony, a voice chorused in and raised the sound of mourning in a majestic way. The keener’s mouth opened in sacrifice to the night sky, her face writhing in such profound emotion all spiraled into her expression of grief.
Soon, many of them wailed together as one, although each to their own sorrows—and for the first time today, Clare sensed they all were gripping with uncertainty of the future. Without words and beyond measure of time, they connected in their pain, reaching out in desperation for God to breathe mercy into their lives.
After a while, the coolness in the air subdued the strength of the dissipating fires, and Clare felt uncomfortably cold. It was late enough for her to be exhausted, but nervousness about what lay ahead kept her alert, her thoughts rising as a nearing storm.
Worries about the family she was leaving behind were blended with a creeping exhilaration for the unfolding unknown. It was years since Clare embraced the idea of tomorrow, and she greeted this both as an old friend and a guilty pleasure.
There were also the strange words the keener shared with her in confidence, which kept repeating in Clare’s mind. What did they mean?
Father Quinn put his arm around Clare, and she rested her head on his shoulder. No one said a word.
Chapter 5
On the Road
Clare smiled in her sleep. There was a laughter to her dreams she rarely enjoyed while awake.
The warm body cuddled next to her gave her a sense of security. She had grown accustomed to sharing her bed in the loft with her siblings, which satisfied the practical need of surviving the frigid nights.
When she slowly opened her eyes, Clare experienced an odd sensation of motion just as her fingers felt the coarse hair of her sleep mate. She sat up with a start and heard the giddy cackles of Seamus and Pierce. Suddenly, the memory of hitching a ride on a swine wagon returned.
Seamus placed his face beside the snout of the pig lying beside her and puckered his lips. “Has the lady forgotten me morning kiss?”
Clare straightened her dress and brushed the straw from her hair, relieved to see the area she was sleeping in was relatively clean. “How long was I asleep? Where are we?”
Just then they hit a bump and the three of them, along with the six pigs who shared space in back of the cart, were hurled in the air.
The bounce was big enough to erase the smirk from Seamus’s face. “I’d say you slept through about twenty of those.”
“We’re about a half day out from Cork at this pace.” Pierce was sculpting a piece of wood with a pocketknife.
Clare replayed the last week in her mind. By the time all of the guests had left the wake that night, the three of them managed only a few hours of sleep before assembling at dawn in front of the Hanley farm, their bulging knapsacks in tote.
Many of the town’s families arose to escort them out with a farewell parade. Sleepy-headed children held the hands of their elder siblings, while mothers toted babies on their arms and hips as even the grayed citizenry hobbled along with the aid of walking sticks.
After a long and teary embrace, Caitlin stayed behind with Ma, who watched listlessly from a chair in front of the house as the clattering throng moved as one down the dirt road.
As they passed by rain-worn hovels along the way, more of Branlow’s residents joined the procession, and by the time they all arrived at Turner’s Crossing, there were nearly four score gathered to pay their respects. The final gifts of sweet cakes, seed loafs, soda crackers, potato bread, white scones, and sacks of potatoes were gratefully received, despite needing to be forced into their sacks.
After the last embraces and kisses on cheeks were shared, the three ventured away to the encouragement of shouts and prayers from those they were leaving behind. Clare only had the courage to look back once, and her eyes sought out Father Quinn, who raised a hand in farewell. They churned with a good pace and in near silence for the first few miles.
Now days later, thumping in the back of the cart, their emotional separation from their family and friends seemed distant. Since leaving, they sloshed in tumultuous rainfall, poached slumber in the fields of farmers, slunk by dark strangers, struggled to find warmth in chilling winds, and after several days of arduous travel, welcome indeed was the sight of the hog cart pulling up beside them.
Despite the unpleasant smell and the jolting ride, there was luxury in the knowledge they had a ride all the way to Cork.
Their ride on the wagon, though it paced slowly, was still much swifter than fellow migrants who lumbered on foot by the hundreds. There were the young and strong who had vibrancy to their steps. But many were entire families, whose progress was curtailed by the weakest among them: the sick or crippled, small children and aging grandparents. Many carried their life’s possessions on their shoulders or in handcarts so overfilled they were on the brink of toppling.
The nation was on the move.
“You’ll be happy to know, dear sister, we lightened your pack while you were sleeping.”
Clare didn’t know whether to feel grateful or violated. “You didn’t throw anything away, did you?”
“No, your precious books are split between your two mules here, although I’m sure we’ll assess some type of fee for our services.”
“So Clare,” Pierce grinned, “are you ready to share your little secret?”
Her hand went to her pendant and she stroked it. “I told you already, the keener asked me not to share.”
“But you never promised her you wouldn’t,” Pierce said. “It’s just the two of us.”
“The hogs can be trusted,” Seamus said. “They told me themselves.”
“There’s not much to entertain you, I’m afraid.” Clare decided the boys were as justified as she was to hear Madame O’Riley’s words. “She told me once in New York I was to give this pendant to some man named Patrick Feagles.”
They both looked at her as if to say: Is that all?
“I told you both there wasn’t much to it. Other than she said this Patrick Feagles would be most generous once it was returned.”
“Generous?” Seamus raised a brow. “Now that makes it more tempting. How big a town is New York, do we know?”
Just then, there was a neighing of horses, and the wagon slowed, and then angled to the side of the road before coming to a complete stop. In a few moments, a gray-stubbled face peered over the edge of the wagon at them.
Finn, the pig farmer, cleared his throat and spat before speaking, and when he did, Clare could see there wasn’t a tooth visible in his whole mouth.
“We’re losing our light soon,” the old man said. “Are you hungry at all?”
They exchanged looks of agreement.
He cleaned out his ear with his finger. “Me cousin and her husband. Friendly folks they are and she’s handy with a kettle. They live just a way off the main road.”
Without a genuine protest, they rolled again and passed through peasant farmland, speckled with houses more like rock shanties.
Clare leaned back and rested her arms on the walls of the wagon and observed Seamus’s exchanges with his boyhood friend. Her brother seemed relaxed and happy, something he usually only feigned within the shadows of his father.
> The clopping of the horses brought Clare back to the day Ronan, who was just beginning to walk at the time, had his leg crushed by the family’s milk cow. The damage caused the bone to protrude from the skin above his ankle. When Breandan Collins arrived, he promptly assessed the injury to be beyond his talents.
“But sir,” Clare’s father said, as Ronan screamed in the background, “you’re the only healer in Branlow.”
“Aye, with horses and chickens, this is true.” Breandan stroked his beard as sweat beaded on his forehead. “But your child needs a doctor. I’ll take care of the boy’s pain, but you need to head to Roscommon proper and fetch someone properly trained.”
Her father blanched. The city was thirty miles outside of town, and it was raining in windy sheets.
“You can take my mare,” Breandan said. “She’s out front. Go on. Get going. The sooner we can get his leg set, the better chance your son will have of ever walking again.”
“Shall I go with you, Da?” Seamus looked up to his father with an expression of deep pleading. “I want to help Ronan.”
Clare would never forget the silent exchange. Her father had dismissed Seamus with a poisoned look of disgust, and then her brother’s confidence drained, his shoulders slumped, and his head went down.
Da jacketed himself and headed out into the tempestuous night and Ma hollered at him to hasten.
Less than thirty minutes later, their da returned sporting a bloody gash on his forehead and with his clothing soaked and covered in mud. He was too proud to admit that he had never ridden a horse before, and it was no night for learning.
With no other choice, the animal doctor labored through the crude surgery, managing to save the leg but leaving Ronan with a permanent hitch.
That night, when the downpour relented, Seamus had been taken out by his father and given the reed in the field. When her brother climbed into the straw mattress next to Clare, the pains on his back caused him to whimper in muffled groans.
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