by Hannah Kent
Mary was nowhere to be seen.
The chickens were no longer in their roost, and Nóra reached a hand in for the eggs. There were four, still warm. Placing them carefully in the egg basket, she heard the creak of the yard door and spun around. Mary stood there, bundled against the bright cold of the morning, a steaming pail of milk in one hand, covered with a cloth.
‘Mary,’ Nóra gasped.
‘Good morning to you.’ Mary lifted the milk onto the table and began to strain it through the cloth into a crock.
‘I thought you had gone.’
‘Just an early riser, missus. Like I said. And you asking me to milk mornings and . . .’ Her voice tapered off. ‘Have I done something wrong?’
Nóra laughed in her relief. ‘Never mind it. ’Twas only because of last evening and, well . . .’ She paused. ‘Where is the spancel?’
‘I couldn’t find one.’
‘You milked Brownie without it?’
‘I did. She’s a gentle dear.’
‘The spancel is here. In that corner. I keep it inside so no butter stealer can use it against me.’ Nóra pointed at the tongs resting over the basket. ‘I’ve not seen that for some time.’
Mary reddened and picked them up, setting them back down by the fire. ‘They’re for the fairies, missus. So he isn’t taken. ’Tis what we do in Annamore.’
‘Well, I know what they’re for and ’tis the same here. It has been a long time since I had to be worrying about the fairies taking my child.’
Mary pinked. ‘Micheál . . . Well, the doty child wet himself in the night. I wanted to clean him but there’s no water.’
‘I’ll show you the well.’
The morning was clean and damp and filled with a brightness that glanced off the wet moss on the field walls, turning them a vivid green. It was cold, but the early sunlight was soft and golden, and lit the haze of smoke that drifted from the cabins. Mist pooled in the bottom of the valley.
‘The river is down there,’ Nóra said, standing with Mary in the yard. They had left Micheál in the cabin, walled in the potato basket, safe from the fire. ‘The Flesk, as we call it. You can go fetch water there if you like, but ’tis a long walk back with the pails and ’tis all uphill. Slippery too, in the rain. When the weather turns you’ll go there to beetle the clothes. ’Tis a longer walk to the well, but ’tis steady and kinder on my knees. All the women go to the well for their water. ’Tis clearer.’
‘Are there many that live in this valley?’ Mary asked.
‘Women? Just as many as the men, although there’s a few unmarried farmers. See that house closest to us? That’s where Peg O’Shea lives, the woman you met last night. She has a fine and full family. Five children and their children besides.’ Nóra pointed down the valley, where the lane dipped around the mountain to the flatter plain, as they began to walk. ‘And that place way down there – do you see the two buildings and the lime kiln a ways off? There, in the middle of the valley. That’s the blacksmith’s. John O’Donoghue and his wife Áine. ’Tis a great house for cuaird, for night-visiting. They’ve no children at all though they’ve been married ten years. People don’t speak of it. My nephew’s home is just beyond that, along the valley, though you can’t see it for all the mist. Daniel Lynch is his name. His wife is expecting their first child. You might see him and his brother about the place. They’ll help with the labour some. My husband died not long ago.’
‘Sorry for your trouble, missus.’
There was the sound of laughter, and Nóra, suddenly fighting tears, was grateful to see two women come around the slope with water pails in hand, joining them on the lane.
‘God bless you, Nóra Leahy,’ said one of them, pulling her cloak off her face so she could better see. Curly wisps of fair hair escaped from her braid.
‘And you too, Sorcha. Éilís. This here is Mary Clifford.’
The women looked at Mary with interest, their eyes narrowed. ‘To the well, are ye?’
‘We are.’
‘Mary, Éilís is the wife of the schoolmaster here, William O’Hare. He takes the children for their lessons by the hedgerows. And Sorcha is the daughter of my brother-in-law’s brother’s wife.’
Mary looked confused.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll meet them in time. There’s no hiding. Everyone knows everyone here.’
‘We’re all tied together, whether we like it or no,’ Éilís added, raising an eyebrow. She was a short bull of a woman with dark bags under her eyes.
‘Did you hear about Father Healy, Nóra?’
‘What about him?’
Sorcha puffed out her cheeks. ‘He heard about your man Martin’s wake. Didn’t it fire him up?’ She laughed. ‘You should have heard him speak at Mass. Oh, he had the anger up.’
Nóra shook her head irritably. ‘What are you saying?’
Sorcha leant in closer, swinging her water pail against her leg. ‘He had the word against your keener, Nance Roche. Preached against her, like. Said she’s not to be brought in for caoineadh. Said it is not in line with the Church.’
‘And what sort of wake would it be without keening?’ Nóra exclaimed. ‘Did you ever hear of such a thing?’
‘Oh, he was fit to be tied,’ Éilís added. She was enjoying the scandal. ‘He was spitting all over everyone. I had to wipe my face.’
‘We’ve a new priest,’ Nóra explained to Mary. ‘Father Healy.’
Sorcha stooped to pick up a dandelion and put it in her mouth, chewing on the leaf. ‘He doesn’t stand for much. I wonder how he knew Nance was at your cabin? He’d already left. ’Twas pissing down that night.’
‘Someone must have told him,’ Éilís suggested darkly.
The well was cut into the slope of the valley where the mountain met the level ground, a rough hole, surrounded by bushes of furze and heather. An ash tree grew nearby, to mark the place and to make the water sweeter, and tattered ribbons flapped from its trunk and lower branches in the breeze. There were already a group of women talking by the well, pails of water by their feet. They looked up at the sound of Éilís and Sorcha’s voices and greeted Nóra, eyes flashing quickly to Mary and glancing over her ill-fitting clothes. Some spat on the ground. ‘God be between us and harm,’ whispered another.
‘’Tis your red hair,’ Nóra muttered to Mary.
‘My red hair?’
‘Do you not meet with the spitting in Annamore?’
‘Never on my life.’
‘Well, don’t mind them.’ She nodded to two of the women. ‘This is Mary Clifford. She’s come to work for me. I’m showing her the well. Mary, you’ve met Sorcha and Éilís. This here is Hanna and Biddy.’
The women murmured greetings, then turned back to the huddle, intent on their conversation. They were also talking of Father Healy.
‘He thinks heathens are amongst us,’ said one of those gathered.
‘He didn’t say that! He thinks the old ways are just a superstition. He won’t give in to it.’
‘A priest should believe it more than anyone,’ Hanna remarked.
‘Those were his words. He thinks the Devil’s amongst us in more ways than one.’
As Nóra bent to draw the water she noticed that several women looked at her anxiously. A few patted her on the back as she pulled the bucket from the well, but few offered her little more than a greeting. When Nóra joined Mary with the filled pails, they began to walk the path back to the cabin without farewell.
‘Are they your friends?’ Mary asked.
‘They’re blood-tied to me, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘Why did they spit on the ground when they saw my hair?’
‘They think you might have the evil eye.’
Mary shifted uncomfortably, but said nothing.
‘Don’t be vexed over it. ’Tis just the way of it her
e.’
‘Sorcha seems a lively girl.’
‘Sorcha? What that one knows at cow-time the whole countryside will be repeating before moonrise.’
‘Is it true what she said about your priest giving out to the keener?’
Nóra snorted. ‘I don’t know what they be teaching them in the towns these days. What’s the good of stripping us of our ways? They’re as Christian as the both of us.’
‘Has your man, the priest, seen to Micheál?’
‘You’re yet to learn a few things about the people around here. But you may as well learn now that a priest is not often in the homes of the people without a palm of money.’
A putrid smell met them as they opened the door to Nóra’s cabin. Mary looked in the potato basket and saw that Micheál had shat himself. He sat upright in his own filth, hands sticky and eyes wide, as if surprised.
‘’Tis in his hair,’ Mary exclaimed, pinching her nose with one hand.
‘Take him outside and wash him then.’
Mary hauled the basket with the boy still inside out into the yard. The shit had already started to dry on his skin, and the dried ball of peck heath she scrubbed him with did little to loosen the dirt. Nóra brought out a scrap of grey soap made from fern ash and fat, and eventually Mary managed to clean the boy. The chill of the well water and the scraping of the heath on his skin made Micheál scream, and it was some time before Mary could soothe him. She paced the length of the yard, the chickens at her feet, bundling Micheál up in her shawl and singing to him. By the time he fell asleep, she was exhausted.
‘Bring him here to me,’ Nóra said, returning outside with her arms extended as soon as his cries had softened. She noticed the emptied pail. ‘Did you not use the barrel water?’
‘The what?’
‘The rain water.’ Nóra pointed to an old barrel standing by the byre. ‘Go back to the well, would you, and get us more drinking water. If anyone asks you why you’re back so soon, don’t tell them the reason. Say you’re a mighty one for cleaning. Don’t mention Micheál.’
Mary lugged the water pail back to the well, trying to ignore the smell of shit that lingered on her clothes and hands. She hoped that the clearing beside the ash tree would be empty of people, but as she rounded the corner, she saw that Éilís O’Hare was still there, talking to another woman she had not seen before.
‘’Tis the maid again,’ Éilís sang, noticing her at once and raising a hand. ‘Kate, this is . . . What’s your name again there, girl?’
‘My name is Mary Clifford.’
‘Mary Clifford. That’s the one I was telling you about. The Widow Leahy has help in.’ Éilís raised her eyebrows at the other woman, who stared at Mary with cold intensity.
‘I’m Kate Lynch,’ the woman said. ‘Éilís here was saying that you’re new to the valley. That you’re a hired girl.’
‘That’s right,’ Mary said. ‘I’m from Annamore. Up north.’
‘I know where Annamore is,’ Kate said. ‘Full of red-haired girls, is it?’
‘Only some,’ Mary said. She made to kneel down by the well to fetch her water, but Kate took a step in front of her.
‘We know why you’re here,’ Kate said. ‘I’m a relation of the widow’s and Éilís here is my sister. My man is the brother of Nóra’s dead sister’s husband.’
‘I’m sorry for your troubles,’ Mary murmured.
‘You’re here because of the child, are you not? The widow’s grandchild left after her daughter was swept.’
‘Swept?’
Kate took hold of Mary’s water pail. Her knuckles were red, swollen. ‘That boy is no ordinary wean, is he?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Éilís laughed. ‘The widow keeps him safe in her cabin, but we know. We know.’
Kate leant down and looked Mary in the eye, still gripping her water pail. ‘I’m going to tell you something now, girl, and you’d best be listening to me. Martin Leahy was a well man before the widow’s daughter was taken, and before that child came to this valley. But no one drops down at a crossroads and dies in good health without some kind of interference. As soon as that changeling was delivered . . .’ She stopped to spit on the ground. ‘As soon as that blasted cratur came into Nóra’s house, all manner of powerful trouble started, and now Martin is dead.’
‘You’re new to this valley, and I don’t expect you to understand what is going on around you. Not yet,’ Éilís said. ‘But there’s people here who are conspiring with Them, and it has caused a shadow to drop on us.’
‘That child Nóra keeps away from the eyes of us? I ask you, do you think that’s a natural boy?’ Kate hissed between her teeth.
‘He’s a cripple,’ Mary stuttered. She pulled at her water pail and Kate let it go with a grimace.
‘A cripple, is he?’
‘You’ve a lot to learn, Mary Clifford. The widow had no right bringing in a strange girl to care for that boy. Not after what he did to her daughter and husband.’
‘Has she told you about her daughter?’ Éilís asked.
‘I know she died.’
Kate slowly shook her head. ‘No, Mary Clifford. No. She did not die. She was swept. Taken. Carried away by the Good People. Oh, you’re laughing at that, are you?’
Mary shook her head. The woman’s breath was hot in her face.
‘How well it is that you are not afraid,’ Kate said. ‘But you should be. If I were you, I would go on back home to Annamore. No good will come of your work there, not in that house. Let you go on back to the widow and tell her that I know what that boy is, and that she ought to take remedies to banish him before someone does it for her.’
CHAPTER
FIVE
Alder
When Nóra heard the knock on her half-door she thought it was Peg. ‘Come in,’ she cried, not looking up from where she was dressing Micheál. She knotted the cloth about the boy’s hips, then, not hearing any movement, looked up. At first she could not see the visitor – the sun outside cast their face into shadow. But as the door creaked open a man stepped inside, taking off a ragged felt hat, and her heart clutched in recognition.
Tadgh.
Nóra stood, her breath suddenly sharp. Her son-in-law had changed since she had last seen him, when he had arrived bearing his starving son on the donkey. Tadgh had always been small and wiry, but now he seemed shrunken. He had grown a beard, but it was patchy and thin. He seemed untended.
Grief has withered him, she thought.
‘I heard Martin died,’ Tadgh said. ‘I’m sorry for your troubles.’
‘Tadgh. ’Tis good to see you.’
‘Is it?’ he asked.
‘How have you been keeping?’ Nóra showed him to the settle bed and sank down on a stool. She felt weak.
Tadgh shrugged. ‘Times are hard,’ he said simply. ‘How is the boy?’
‘Grand, so he is.’
Tadgh nodded absently, gazing about the room. ‘’Tis a fine place you have. I saw the cow. He has milk, then.’
‘Micheál? He does. There’s enough for him.’ Nóra pointed to where the boy, now cleaned, lay on a clump of heather.
Tadgh stood and regarded him from a height. ‘He’s unchanged then,’ he said suddenly. ‘There’s still that queer look to him. Is it illness, do you think?’
Nóra swallowed hard. She said nothing.
‘When he stopped walking Johanna thought he was ill. She thought he had caught something off her.’
‘Faith, ’tis nothing that time won’t heal, so I think,’ said Nóra, trying to maintain a steady voice.
Tadgh scratched his head, the sound of his fingernails loud against his scalp. He looked troubled. ‘He was such a bonny child. Such a fair little babby.’
‘So he is still, for all the difference.’
‘He
is not,’ Tadgh said decisively. He stared at Nóra. ‘For two years he was well. Then . . . I thought it might be the hunger, you know. I thought ’twas our doing. The place was so awful cold, and there wasn’t a lot we could give him. I gave him all I . . .’ His voice broke. Nóra could see that he was fighting to speak without emotion. ‘I thought I’d done it,’ he whispered finally, glassy-eyed.
‘Tadgh,’ Nóra breathed. ‘Tadgh.’
‘I thought he might be better here. That’s what they said. That it was just want of milk and things to eat.’
‘I’m taking good care of him, Tadgh. I have a girl in with me now.’
‘But he’s the same, isn’t he?’ He squatted beside Micheál and extended a hand out over the boy, waving it in his face. Micheál took no notice of it. ‘Do you think ’tis his mind, like?’
Nóra said nothing.
‘Johanna didn’t think ’twas the cold. Or the hunger.’
‘She thought it was the bug.’
Tadgh nodded. ‘At first. She thought it had gone into his legs like it had gone into her head. Stopped him from walking, like. Just as it stopped her from . . .’ He bit his lip and lowered himself to the ground, sitting cross-legged next to Micheál. ‘My little man. Your da is here.’
Micheál arched his back and shot a thin arm out in an aimless punch.
‘Look at him fighting.’
‘He does that of a time. He can move.’
Tadgh gave a sad smile. ‘But he is not walking.’
‘I try, sometimes. I set him up with his feet on the ground. Hold him, like, with the wee soles of him on the clay. But he can’t seem to put the weight of him down.’
They both looked at Micheál. He was staring at something on the ceiling, and as they looked up to see what had captured his attention, he let out a pitching squeal of laughter.
Tadgh smiled. ‘A laugh for your da. Maybe he’ll be talking next time.’
‘’Tis awful good to see you, Tadgh. You seem changed.’
Tadgh looked down at his hands, as if considering the black crescents of dirt under his fingernails. ‘I have been meaning to come.’
‘You have been busy.’