by Hannah Kent
Mary’s blouse was pinching under her armpits and she could feel sweat seeping through her collar. The Tralee courthouse was the finest, largest building she had ever stepped inside, but it teemed with people and Mary thought she might faint from the heat, from the stale air and the fear that lingered in the court from all those who had stood behind the spiked stand, protesting or accusing badness in the world. The violence in it. Beatings and burglary and theft and rape.
Mary searched the crowd for Father Healy. He had brought her to the courthouse from the home of the merchant family she had been placed with these past three months, but in the crush of the crowd she had lost sight of his face.
I have grown, Mary thought, running her fingers along the tight seams. ’Twill be the first thing I do when I return home. I will unpick these clothes and I will make room for myself.
She would have liked to burn them. Burn the skirt and the shift and the shawl and everything she had gone to the widow’s with. Put them on the fire and burn them into nothing, and dress in new cloth that Micheál had never touched. Despite the hard scrubbing she had given her clothes on arriving in Tralee, she could still smell the boy on her. The piss and sourness of him. Smell the nights awake, the wet mouth of him screaming into her chest. The peck soap. The mint. The dark mud of the riverbank.
Mary cast a look at the men who had been sworn in as jury. Over twenty of them. A shoal of gentlemen, black clothes and beards trimmed, sitting placidly amongst the swarming, jostling horde of those who had come to hear the verdicts pronounced over the prisoners led to dock. It had taken Father Healy and Mary a long time to reach the front of the crowd. People collected in dense masses around the lawyers, pulling at their sleeves, asking for justice. Court reporters stood nearby, eagle-eyed, some of them sucking at pencils. Mary took a deep breath. Her hands were damp with nerves.
One of the jurymen caught her eye and gave her a kindly smile. Mary looked away, towards the chair where the judge sat. The Honourable Baron Pennefather. He looked tired.
At the end of this rope of words was Annamore. That was what she had to remember. She had to answer the questions and tell them of her fear, of the strange and sorry things they did to the boy. How frightened she was of all the fairy talk, how she did not understand what it was they were doing. That she was fearful of God and prayed that He would forgive her.
God forgive her. For saying nothing, for doing nothing, for not splashing through the river to slap the widow and take up the boy and carry him home to her brothers and sisters. They would have made a pet of him, she thought. They would not have minded that he screamed from hunger when they, too, were always crying from it. In a cabin of too many, one more would not have made a difference.
Mary started. A hush had fallen, although an undercurrent of babbling continued amongst the people still squeezing themselves into the room. There was a straining of necks and she saw that they were bringing Nance and Nóra into the room, their wrists in irons.
The women’s months in gaol had changed them, had thinned them. Nance looked ancient. Dressed in the garb of the prison, she seemed to have shrunk ever smaller. Her white hair had taken on a yellow sheen in its unwashed state, and her shoulders were hunched. Nance’s eyes, as fogged as ever, looked around her in confusion and fear. She seemed alarmed to see such a vast crowd of people.
Nóra, behind her, was weeping. Mary was struck by the difference in her appearance. Gone was the righteousness, the stubborn chin. Now Nóra’s complexion was sallow and drawn, and she seemed to have aged several years. Her forehead was deeply lined. Despite the heat in the courtroom, she shivered uncontrollably.
Perhaps they will decide to hang them here, Mary thought, and fear creased through her stomach. It might have been her, standing there.
She wanted to leave the room. How could she speak in front of all these people? All these men in their fine clothes, and the judge come all the way from Dublin. She was only a girl from a bog. A girl of the rushes and the turf ground, where the soil oozed black and it was only ever grass and dust and clay underfoot, never the cobbles, never the lacquer of wood.
The counsel gave Mary a careful look. Smoothed his hair from his forehead, glossy with perspiration. She could feel her legs turn to water beneath her.
‘Let the record state that in the case of wilful murder against Honora Leahy and Anne Roche the first witness called is Mary Clifford of Annamore.’
Mary stepped up to the witness box. They passed her the Bible and she kissed it, her fingers gripping the leather tightly.
‘Mary Clifford, can you please identify the prisoners?’
Mary looked out at the sea of staring faces and saw, finally, the long forehead of the priest. He held her eye. Gave her a nod.
‘’Tis Nance Roche. And Nóra Leahy, who I served as maid to.’
‘Mary, in your own words, please tell the court how you came to work for Mrs Leahy.’
‘’Twas Mrs Leahy who came for me when I was standing at the hiring fair last November in Killarney. She offered me work and said she had a grandson, and offered me money to help her care for him and help her with the washing and cooking and the milking. So I went with her.’
‘Did she give any indication that the child was a cripple?’
Mary hesitated. ‘Do you mean, did she say he was crippled?’
The lawyer gave her a tight smile. ‘Yes. That is the question.’
Mary glanced at Nóra. She was staring, her mouth ajar. ‘She did not, sir.’
‘Can you please describe the state of Micheál Kelliher when you saw him?’
‘He was in the cabin with a neighbour, and I was frightened to see him. I had never seen a child like it. “What ails him?” I asked, and Mrs Leahy said, “He is delicate, is all.”’
‘Can you please describe what she meant by “delicate”?’
Mary took a deep breath. Her hands were shaking. ‘He was making a strange sound, and though old enough to be talking, he could not say a word. Mrs Leahy said, “There’s no walking in him either.” “Is it a catching sickness?” I asked, and she says, “No, he is delicate. There is no catching in it.”’
‘Did Mrs Leahy at any time describe the boy as anything other than her grandson?’
Mary looked again at Nóra. She was red-eyed.
‘She said, “He is my daughter’s boy.”’
‘In your sworn information you said that, although she had introduced the child to you as her grandson, in time Honora Leahy believed that the child was not her grandson at all, but was –’ the prosecutor paused, turning to face the jury ‘– a changeling. Is this correct?’
‘’Tis. She thought he was a changeling. There were others who also believed it.’
‘Can you tell the court what you mean by “changeling”?’
Mary felt the eyes of the jury on her. She stood, faltering, suddenly aware of her hammering heartbeat.
‘I mean a fairy.’
There was laughter in the crowd, and Mary was winded with shame. She could feel herself redden, feel the pricking of sweat under her arms. This was how they saw her, a stupid girl jumping at shadows, demented with fear. She remembered the mortification she had felt when the constable had asked her to sign the sworn information, and she had scratched a clumsy cross on the paper, fumbling the pen in her hand.
‘When did Mrs Leahy begin to refer to her grandson, Micheál Kelliher, as a fairy?’
‘She believed he was a changeling when Nance Roche pronounced him so.’
‘And when was this?’
‘In the new year. Or ’twas December. ’Twas the new year that we took the boy to Nance’s for the first cure.’
Mary saw, with a horrible jolt of recognition, several men from the valley amongst the mass of faces. Daniel and Seán Lynch were there, stony-eyed.
‘Mary, can you tell us why you went to Anne Roche?’
> ‘She came to us.’ Mary hesitated. ‘’Twas before Christmas. I was out milking and I came in and saw Mrs Leahy slapping Micheál. “The badness in you,” she was saying. She was beating him.’
There was a murmur amongst the onlookers.
‘She was beating him?’
‘His hand had caught in her hair and it had pained her. “He can’t help it,” says I, and Mrs Leahy said she was going to get the priest for him. But when the widow returned ’twas not with the priest but with an apron of nettles. Then she got down on her hands and knees over the boy and stung him with the nettles. “That is hurting him,” I said, but she did not listen to me. So I took the nettles and put them on the fire and I ran to Peg O’Shea for help.’
‘Did Honora Leahy ever explain why she was “nettling” Micheál Kelliher? Do you think she meant to hurt him?’
Mary hesitated. The laughter had stopped, and there was now a silent tension in the room. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Please speak up.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How did this incident lead to the involvement of Anne Roche?’
Mary licked her lips. Father Healy had not taken his eyes off her. ‘Peg told me to go to the river and fetch dock for the boy, and so I went, but ’twas on my return that I hurt my ankle. I could not walk. There was a woman come up to me – ’twas Nance Roche. She took me to her cabin for the ankle cure, and ’twas there I told her what Mrs Leahy had done. “I have a right to be talking to that woman,” she said, and then we returned to the cabin together and she saw Micheál.’
‘What did Anne Roche say to Honora Leahy when she saw the boy?’
‘“This cratur here might be fairy-born,” says she.’
‘And how did Mrs Leahy seem when Anne said this?’
‘I thought she was relieved to hear it, sir.’
‘Tell us, Mary, why do you think Honora Leahy, an established member of her community, a woman of good repute with a late husband of excellent standing, chose to listen to the opinion of Anne Roche – a woman who, as the court will hear, was impoverished, unmarried and, by all accounts sworn, an outsider with little to no financial, commercial or familial influence?’
Mary gaped at the lawyer, not understanding. She could feel sweat beading on her lip.
The counsel cleared his throat. ‘Mary, please tell us why you think Mrs Leahy listened to someone like Anne.’
Mary looked over at Nance. She had been slumped against the dock, frowning. At the mention of her name, however, she straightened her back and gave Mary a wary look.
‘Because she is a woman who goes with Them.’
‘Them?’
‘The Good People. The fairies.’ Mary waited for more laughter, but none came. ‘She has the knowledge of Them and their herbs. She told the widow that she could put the fairy out of him.’
Out of the corner of her eye, Mary noticed movement. A reporter stood, quickly writing something down.
‘Mary, referring now to the information provided in your sworn testimony regarding the treatment of Micheál, can you please tell the court how these women attempted to “put the fairy out of him”, and your own involvement, if any?’
Mary blanched. ‘I only did what was asked of me. I did not want to lose my wages.’
The prosecutor smiled. ‘That is understood. You are not on trial here.’
‘They – we – tried to put the fairy out of him with herbs at first. There was mint put in his ears, and another herb rubbed on his feet.’
‘Do you know the herb? Was it “lusmore”?’
‘Lus mór was given in the next cure. When the mint did not work I was sent back to Nance by Mrs Leahy. “There is no change in the boy,” I said, and so we were told to return and that is when they – we gave Micheál the foxglove.’
‘And when was this?’
‘January, sir.’
The prosecutor turned to the judge. ‘Let the court note that foxglove, Digitalis purpurea, is poisonous.’ He faced Mary. ‘Do you believe that the prisoners knew, in giving Micheál Kelliher foxglove, that they were giving him a substance capable of causing death or illness?’
There was a stifled cry. Nóra had brought her hands to her face.
‘I knew ’twas poisonous and I said so. But Nance said, “’Tis a powerful plant,” and I knew that lus mór belongs to . . .’ Mary stopped herself. ‘They say lus mór belongs to the fairies and so I thought there would be a cure in it. But now I know ’tis only superstition.’
‘Please describe how the foxglove was administered to Micheál Kelliher.’
‘’Twas a bath of it. And the juice set on his tongue. And when he started up with a trembling, and his mouth was foaming, we were told to set him on a spade and make as if to shovel him out the door, saying, “Away with you!”’
There was another stirring amongst the crowd. The court reporter was writing furiously. Mary wiped her sweating palms against her skirt.
‘In your information, Mary, you stated that the foxglove did have an ill effect on the child in the days after its application. You said that you were frightened for his life.’
She saw the boy again then, in the weak light of the cabin’s dying fire. Saw him shudder ceaselessly against her, his head listless on the mattress. Remembered the feel of his tongue against her finger as she hooked the vomit from his mouth and made sure he would not choke.
‘In the days afterwards I was scared he would die, so much water was coming from him, and he was unable to keep his food down.’ She blinked away a sudden urge to cry. ‘All the time he was shaking, sir. I thought he would die.’
‘It must have been terrible to see. Was Mrs Leahy as upset as you?’
Nóra was weeping openly.
She is scared, Mary thought.
‘Mrs Leahy was happy, sir. She thought she would have her true grandson returned to her. “’Tis no sin if ’tis fairy,” she said. But when he did not die from it, she went to Nance herself and they decided to take Micheál to the river.’
‘This was another “cure”?’
‘Yes, sir. I was to take the boy the next morning down to Nance’s with Mrs Leahy and together we would go to the river and put him in the boundary water. ’Tis the place where three streams meet. Nance said the power in the water would banish the fairy. “’Twill be cold,” says I, but ’twas decided and, although I was afraid, I did as told. And I hope God forgives me for it.’
‘What happened next?’
‘We bathed him in the river for three mornings running.’ Mary paused. Sweat trickled down her back. ‘And . . . on the last morning Nance and Mrs Leahy kept him under the water for longer than usual.’
‘And is that when Micheál Kelliher died?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What did you do when you saw the prisoners drowning the child?’
Nance was leaning forward in the dock, her mouth moving, muttering something under her breath.
‘I was not sure then if the child was drowned. I thought only that the water was cold. I did not want him to catch cold. And then I saw that he was not moving, and I thought, “They have killed him,” and ’twas then that I took fright.’
‘Did you say anything to the prisoners when you realised that the child had, in fact, drowned?’
Mary paused. Her pulse jumped in her throat. ‘I think so, sir.’
‘You swore to it in your information.’
The boy lifted from the river. The water running from him, his skin pearled with it, the dripping from his fingers glittering in the light.
‘What did you say, Mary?’
‘I said, “How can you hope ever to see God after this?”’
A murmur immediately rose from the crowd.
‘And did the prisoners reply to your question?’
Mary nodded. ‘Nance said, “The si
n is not on me.”’
‘Was anything else said?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘That was when the fear took me. I turned and ran to Peg O’Shea’s and I told her that the boy was killed. I was frightened for myself.’
‘Mary, before the defence examines you, could you please tell me what it was like to care for Micheál Kelliher? Do you believe he was burdensome to his grandmother?’
‘He could not help it.’
‘But was he a burden to your mistress? Was he a difficult and unloving child?’
The nights of wailing. The great, rasping screams. His head smacking against the clay, against her fingers as she tried to calm him, unplug his nose, ease his breathing.
Yes,’ Mary whispered. ‘Yes, he was a burden.’
‘Did Honora Leahy wish to be rid of him?’
‘She wished for the fairy to be gone. She wanted her grandson back, sir. A boy who would not scream and trouble her.’
The courtroom became noisy with conversation as soon as the counsel returned to his chair. Mary, relieved to have the gaze of the crowd off her, wiped the sweat from her neck with her sleeve. She looked at Father Healy, and he gave her a small nod of reassurance.
After one noisy minute, the defence lawyer rose. He introduced himself as Mr Walshe over the din, and waited several moments until the chatter subsided.
When there was absolute silence, he spoke. His voice was clipped, his words carrying across the room.
‘Mary Clifford, do you believe that Honora Leahy and Anne Roche took Micheál to the Flesk because they intended to drown and kill him?’
Mary hesitated. ‘Did I know he was to be killed?’
‘Do you believe that the prisoners intended to drown the child from the time they decided to bathe him in the river?’
‘I don’t understand, sir.’
Mr Walshe gave her a cool look. ‘Do you believe that murder was their thinking all along?’
Mary’s heart flipped in her chest. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know if Mrs Leahy and Nance Roche intended to kill the boy?’