by Ann Moore
Unable to bring his son back to life or his wife back to the world, Ryan poured his hopelessness into daily foraging. He was not alone in the wood or on the hills, and too often met with berry bushes picked clean, and tree limbs stripped of fruit. Angrily, he would thrust himself into the sharp, thorny thickets until, scratched and bloody, he reached those that no one else had found; fiercely, he scrambled to the tops of old trees for small, tart apples and green plums; furiously, he waded out past the rushing currents into the deep pools, standing still for hours in the freezing water until he bagged an eel. He hit birds with rocks, caught squirrels with his bare hands, tore apart rotting tree trunks for grubs and snails. All day he stalked, until at last he brought home food enough for another meal, and fatigue enough to sleep next to his wakeful and disturbed young wife.
Granna had been ill with fever, as well, but hers, like Mary Kathleen’s, left her exhausted, not dead. They lay together, the two of them, on Granna’s pallet pulled into the big room, and the old woman spent long hours whispering old stories in Irish to the little girl who’d never heard them before. She made Mary Kate a soft doll, which the child called Blossom, and she fed her the bits of food that Ryan brought home, putting into the child’s mouth most of what was meant to keep her old self alive. It gave her satisfaction to watch the color come back into her great-granddaughter’s cheeks, and to see the little tummy fill out over bony ribs. Though keen and watchful, Mary Kate was a somber child without the sparkle of life in her eyes; she spoke her few words seriously and listened to everything her elders said, nodding as though she understood what no two-and-a-half-year-old child should.
It was Mary Kathleen’s time to live, and Granna’s time to die; every morning the old woman awoke with a start when she realized she was still here, still in the cabin on her straw bed. Although she longed for Heaven, she was not unhappy, and counted each precious hour with her beloved family as a gift from her Lord. There was no need to speak of it to the others; they knew, and in their eyes, she could see the beginnings of their mourning. She was most content to lie in her bed, surrounded by the younger ones, watching Mary Kathleen gain a sure foot again, clutching her mothers skirts for balance. She rarely stirred herself anymore, except to sit on the bucket near her bed or lift her head for a glimpse of the sky out the window, but in her mind she wandered all the hills and glens of her youth, and visited all the people she had ever loved, and she was so very happy in those places.
It hurt Patrick to see his old mother-in-law wasting away to naught, and in his dreams he saw the reproach in his dear Kathleens eye for not making her passing less painful. But he could not force Gran to eat when, in his heart, he knew she was right; it was the young who must be kept strong. He had hoarded a small number of seed potatoes against the gnawing hunger and fear of death that haunted them all, and these he had planted in the spring. Now the tiny fields were lush and green, with blooms that promised an abundant harvest. All day long he sat, like other men, watching the waxy-leaved shoots with a sharp eye. Each day he watched the sky, measured the rain, examined the earth for strange bugs, checked the leaves for blight. Any odd insect, any imperfection, was immediate cause for alarm, and Grace watched her father age a year each time a discovery was made. He kept his panic in check, however, and left the potatoes where they lay, resisting the urge to dig them up too soon. In other fields, tall stands of corn grew strong, but the farmers dared not eat the grain themselves for fear of having nothing left to sell to England, and no money then to pay their rent. Patrick had an occasional newspaper from government people passing through the lane, and all accounts were optimistic; but he knew, as did anyone who followed farming in Ireland, that the crops were small, and that too few seed potatoes meant there would not be enough food to feed the people again this year.
Patrick would have to dig what he had and hide it from thieves and beggars; even then, it might not be enough to see his family through the winter. He did not let his mind wander that far. He only wanted to dig what there was and fill their bellies. Granna would not live the summer, and he feared that Aghna would become violent as he’d seen so many others who’d become lost in grief. She had lucid moments, but then she would beg and plead for Ryan to take her away from here, from this place that had swallowed her son. He could see the heartbreak in Ryan’s face and worried that the boy would give in before harvest, so much guilt over the son’s death and his wife’s pain. His darling Mary Kate had survived, thank the good Lord, and was getting stronger every day, her sweet face in the morning the one thing that gave him strength to keep on. But of them all, it was Grace he worried after most; Grace and the secret he knew she carried. He’d waited for her to come to him, but she had not, and so he watched her eat and tried to make sure she got a bit more than her share, and he saw to it that she rested herself and did not work too hard. If she could just hold on to it for another week, there’d be food enough to nourish them both.
Grace, unaware of her father’s watchful eye, kept herself busy on the long days caring for Granna and Mary Kathleen, and for Aghna, who was like a child again, mute and helpless, unless she was in the midst of a childlike rage. Grace stretched the food that Ryan brought back so that they might all have a small meal in the evenings, and ate the extra her father slipped her without protest. On hot afternoons, with Granna, Mary Kate, and Aghna all sleeping in the cabin, Patrick sitting on his bench in the shade, and Ryan long gone up the hill, Grace would walk up and down the lane, twisting the wedding band on her finger and watching the sky as if news might fall from it. There were no neighbors to ease the worry in her mind, no women to help her in her time: Katty O’Dugan’s cabin was empty, the family having given up and emigrated the year before; Bully Ryan had died on the works, walking through the cold day after day with his bad chest, and Julia had taken the children to the workhouse in Cork City where, by all accounts, they’d perished. The Kelleys were gone, and Old Campbell Hawes had drunk himself to death, leaving his widow to be cast out by Ceallachan for lack of rent; she’d turned down the offer of shelter with the O’Malleys and set out on foot for her brother in County Kerry. There were two families still living in cabins at the end of the lane near the avenue—Mister Neeson and his two sons, and Shane O’Daly, who, at fifteen, was the young husband of Niamh, herself but a girl and soon to bear her first child. Shane and Niamh were the only survivors of their respective families, and it was a blessing they’d found one another. They had joined together for work with the Neesons, planting potatoes on a plot behind the O’Dalys’ cabin, which Paddy and Shane guarded now the time for digging was at hand. But these were all the people left on a lane that had once been crowded with folk. Grace often caught out of the corner of her eye the flit and shiver of spirits drifting behind trees or rising up from hills, and to her ear, from out of the blackness of abandoned cabins, came echoes of songs sung long ago. She felt as though she walked more among the dead than the living, but she was not afraid. It was only the sadness of her people that drifted among the trees, left behind now that their souls had entered Heaven.
At night, weary of their own thoughts, the family would gather near Granna’s pallet to drink a little water and eat whatever had been found that day. They’d talk a bit or just draw comfort from the nearness of one another until, at last, it was time to lie down and escape into sleep where fields were full of gold and tables heavily laden.
On a morning late in August, Patrick left his post by the field to follow a movement in the grass, returning an hour later with skinned meat that he said was rabbit. Grace knew well enough it was but a skinny field cat, though she roasted it anyway and ate her share, thankful for the feel of meat in her mouth. There was still corn meal to be had in Macroom, but the trip was risky and, having survived the fevers in the spring, none of them were wont to go. Only Aghna spoke of leaving—when she spoke at all—but the place she yearned for was Galway.
“Does she know what she’s saying at all, then?” Patrick was irritated now that she’d b
een rambling for thirty minutes.
Grace rose and led the girl outside to sit on the bench, Aghna still insisting that their only hope was to be fishers of men, to go to the sea of Galway.
“Thank God for that,” Patrick sighed when they’d left the room.
“I’ll not be having you speak poorly of her, Da,” Ryan warned. “Isn’t she still my wife, for all I love her?”
“Musha, boy, she breaks my heart,” Patrick said. “Would we could bring the child back and ease her suffering, but we cannot.”
Ryan stood and paced in front of the open door. “I don’t know what was worse, that terrible silence for months or the talk that’s come upon her now!”
“Maybe she’ll start another baby and that will stop her thinking of going off.” Patrick fingered the stem of his pipe.
Ryan said nothing, but the look on his face did not escape Granna.
“What is it?” she asked him, her voice weak.
“I don’t think she can have another,” he said, and looked out the door to where she sat. “Her body’s not right, somehow …”
“Does she have the monthly blood?”
Ryan shook his head, turning red. “A little. Sometimes. Grace takes care of her that way.”
“And does she have pain?”
“All the time,” he told her, glad to speak of it. “Deep inside, she says, where the babies are meant to start.”
Granna’s lips drew tight and she looked at him with sorrow. “It happens in the terrible times,” she said. “The body knows it has not enough nourishment to keep two hearts beating, so it sends away the weaker one before it ever takes.”
He shook his head. “That’s not it,” he said. “She keeps to herself and won’t let me near, not even to comfort her! Oh, Gran”—he looked at her—“what am I to do, for the love of God?”
She gestured for him to come sit on the edge of her pallet and then she took up his hand in her own. “A woman goes away like your Aghna, because she cannot bear to be in the world anymore. Her pain is so great that her mind travels with the spirit world while her body stays on earth. She is with us, but not with us. All we can do is wait. And pray.”
“I’m afraid for her, Gran,” he said softly. “Sometimes I see in her face that she knows where she is, but she’s not making any sense. All this talk about going west.” He paused. “What if she just walks off by herself one day, and me not knowing anything about it?”
“What’s in the West? Does she tell you?”
“I know it sounds daft, but she says that the Jesuits in Galway have prepared a safe place for faithful Catholics among the Claddagh.”
Granna’s eyes grew wide.
“Aye,” Ryan said. “I know. She’s got Jesus and the fishermen of Galilee all mixed around with the Jesuits in Galway.”
“There are no Jesuits in Galway, boy, only the ring fishermen—and they’d not let Jesus Himself in their huts without proof of His birth among them.”
Ryan took a deep breath. “She thinks she belongs there, because an old relation of her mam’s was Claddagh.”
“Did her mother pass on the gold ring to her and does she wear it?”
“Nay.” Ryan shook his head.
“Does she speak the Claddagh tongue?”
He said nothing.
“Then they’ll have naught to do with her, and you know that. She’ll be just another transplanter.”
“She’s sure that miracles happen there every day—water turning into wine, manna falling from Heaven, fish and bread from a basket that never empties … she says we must go or there’ll be no room left!”
Patrick cleared his throat. “Well there are other folk beside the Claddagh, but even if you did find family to take you in, they say it’s no good in the West now the shore’s been scraped of dillisk and all the shell life picked clean. They’re not fishing the waters for want of boats and nets gone to buy food. Folks are eating the very sand just for the weight of it in their bellies.”
“I know, I know.” Ryan’s head fell into his hands. “It’s madness to think of it.”
“Five days and we’ll dig,” Patrick said reassuringly. “With solid food in her, her mind’ll come right again, and her body, as well. You mustn’t lose heart, son,” he added gently.
“If I did, I’d have nothing left.” Ryan got up from the bed and walked to the door. “I’ll go sit with her now, give Grace a break. She’s been looking too tired with caring for all of us of late.”
Patrick and Granna exchanged a look after he went out, Patrick raising his eyebrows in question.
Granna shook her head. “Not a word,” she whispered.
Patrick took the pipe stem out of his mouth and set his jaw firmly. “’Tis time we spoke of it,” he said. “She cannot carry this alone any longer.”
Grace came in, shaking the dust off her apron.
“I don’t know, but Aghna’s living in Galway already!” She smiled, but spoke softly so Ryan would not hear. Slowly, she lowered herself into the rocking chair and looked at Gran’s pallet.
“Mary Kate’s asleep already, is she?”
Gran nodded, stroking the little girl’s light hair.
“I’ll be glad when Lug Day comes,” Grace said, closing her eyes and resting her head against the back of the chair.
Granna and Patrick exchanged another look.
“Aye,” Patrick said. “It’ll mean a good birth for the wee one you’ve started.”
Grace’s eyes flew open and she sat up straight in surprise. She looked from one face to the other, unable to speak.
Patrick chuckled around the pipe stem in his mouth, and even Gran gave up the ghost of a smile for the look of amazement on Grace’s face.
“Do you think we’re daft, girl?” Patrick asked his daughter. “Haven’t we seen enough babies started to know the look of a woman carrying one?”
“I said nothing for fear it would come to naught,” she said softly. “I’ve lost others better fed than this.”
“Aye, but ’tis a full Irish child you carry now,” he paused. “A fighting child.”
“And how would you be knowing that, pray tell me?” Grace was stunned.
“Faith, your Gran is a wise woman and knows the way of everything. Always watching over you, she is. ’Tis her pointed out your wedding band.” He looked at Granna and his eyes twinkled. “And doesn’t it look just like the one Mary McDonagh wore all those years, but her dead and buried now?”
Grace had to laugh at their conspiracy, but then she became serious.
“You mustn’t speak of it,” she said quickly. “Not even to Ryan.”
Patrick frowned at her. “Have we not proven we can keep a secret, girl? We all know the trouble your one is in.”
Grace’s heart fell and she nodded weakly.
“And can you tell us anything about that brother of yours?” he asked.
“No,” she answered. “Morgan would not say, but I think they are together. They’ve got a good man looking out for them, and sure, he’ll get them out of Ireland before too long.”
“Your one’ll never go.” Patrick took the pipe out of his mouth and tapped it by habit before putting it into his shirt pocket.
“He must, Da.” Grace sat on the edge of her chair.
“And Sean?” Granna spoke softly.
“He’s meant to sail for America if he’s not already gone. Morgan is to follow when he can.”
Patrick rose and crossed the room, laying a hand on the damp head of his granddaughter. “So I’ll not see this one grow up, then.”
Grace looked across at his grizzled face, the white hair shaggy over his forehead. “We’ll not be leaving you, Da, nor Granna. When Morgan has got himself clear, he’ll send for us and we’ll all go. Ryan and Aghna, as well.”
Patrick shook his head. “Your gran and I are too much gone to make a home in another world,” he said. “And your brother and his wife must make their own way, the two of them.”
“Well, I’ll not be go
ing without my family, and there’s no more to say on it,” she said firmly, fighting back tears.
Patrick walked over to the rocking chair, and in a rare show of affection, pulled his daughter up and into his arms. “You’re a fine girl, Gracelin O’Malley, and every bit the fighter your husband is and your ancestor was.”
She closed her eyes against his shoulder.
“We’re your family that was,” he said gently. “Your family now is that beautiful child lying over there, the wee babe growing inside you, and your husband, fine man that he is.” He leaned back and smiled at her. “This cabin is not your home—Ireland is your home. And always will be as long as she’s got the likes of you and McDonagh to fight for her. And, of course, your brother, the revolutionary,” he added with a laugh.
“And you, Da,” she said softly.
“They’re coming in now.” He nodded toward the door, where Aghna leaned on Ryan’s arm. “But I want you to know that I curse the very day you married that Donnelly—may his soul rot in hell—and I’ll die a happy man if you’d only say you’d forgive me.”
“You’re never to say that, Da,” she admonished. “For I thank God he was my husband.”
Patrick glowered.
“Otherwise, I’d not have Mary Kathleen, and isn’t she the very light?”
“Bless you, child,” Patrick whispered, his face softening. “And may God bless your marriage to McDonagh, for he’s the man you should have had all along.”
Grace kissed his cheek, then stepped away as Ryan and Aghna came through the door, Aghna tired now, and silent, and Ryan’s face etched with worry and fatigue. Still, Grace thought with envy, they have each other at this moment, the feel of a hand on one’s arm, a beloved face to look upon. She put her hands across her belly and, at that moment, felt the quickening of life within. She put away all thoughts of anxiousness and worry. She must not lose this child.
August blazed into September. The potatoes had come up with nary a spot or blemish, and they had been stored in the bothan after all had eaten their fill. Grace had paid the rent and, with the last of her money, had bartered for three chickens and a rooster, which Shane O’Daly brought back from Macroom on the promise of eggs for himself and his wife, whose time was coming near. The city was fair starving, he reported back, even with warehouses full of grain and the stores stuffed with food again. Food prices were lower than ever anyone could remember, and Grace was happy for the oats and molasses they now had. But for the others it was not so easy; there had been no employment in Ireland and no wages—all the food in the world mattered not, if a man had no coin with which to buy it. The soup kitchens closed and no more meal was given out; England was glad to get the Irish off relief and off its hands. But still the Irish starved, and it was all the more bitter for what they’d survived the past three years.