by Hannah Kent
Heather
Mary stood in the crowded market street of Tralee, her eyes scanning the flocks of people that milled in the road. The day was hot, and she sweated in the new shift she had bought with the widow’s shilling. She had wrapped the clothes still filled with Micheál’s smell in a neat bundle and held this conspicuously at her hip, standing straight as a poker, her eyes meeting every casual and curious gaze that reached her. Let them see that she was for hire.
Pigs lay humped in the road, their squealing piglets in makeshift pens staked with pegs and string. Sheep, new-shorn, huddled under the eyes of boys and their fathers, capped, smoking, laughing at the women chasing a terrified chicken that had flown the straw coop.
Mary had asked Father Healy the road to Annamore after the trial. Had started walking the way, exultant, her heart thrilling in anticipation. She imagined the shouts of surprise as she rounded the corner, the little thumping feet hitting the dust as her brothers and sisters ran to her, wrapped their arms about her legs and waist and dragged her away to show her new-hatched chickens, scooping up the puffing, cheeping yellow. Her mam, lined and sombre as usual, but relieved to see her safe. Happy to have her home to work. And how she would work. She would tend the lazy beds until the stalks came thick and fast, and she would shake the soil from the clutch of lumpers, as yellow as butter, and no one would be hungry. They would boil them briefly, to eat them ‘with the bones still in’, as her da would say. And she would hold the little ones afterwards, or set them to sleep against the belly of the snoring pig in the corner, and all would be well.
She would forget Micheál. She would forget the strange boy bleating from the cold, who had curled into her neck for the warmth her body held there.
Mary had been thinking these thoughts, imagining her life back home, when she had stopped to drink from a well at the side of the road. A beggar woman was sleeping there, face heavily pocked. At first Mary thought she was alone, but at the splashing of the water something stirred under the woman’s dirty cloak, and a small, naked child emerged. A little girl, her blonde hair greyed with dirt, holding her hand out to Mary in patient expectation. Mary stared at her, water still dripping down her chin, and then slowly unwrapped the food the priest had given her for the journey. Dried fish. A heel of stale, buttered bread.
The little girl took them from her hand, then crawled back under her mother’s cloak to eat, the material quivering.
Mary had turned around then. The road back to Tralee seemed longer than the one she had taken from it, but a man and his wife heading into market on an open cart offered her a ride, and Mary took it, setting her bare feet on the spokes of the wheel and climbing up to the boards. She had set her eyes on the horizon, watching as the distance to Annamore lengthened with every step of the mule.
She would stand in the streets of Tralee all day if she had to. She would stand there until someone came and asked her, would she like to work a farm in summer, could she thresh and carry turf, and was she strong, and did she know how to churn?
I will take the first offer I get, Mary thought. There was no use in taking the measure of a face to gauge whether a place of work would be a safe one. It did not matter if the nose was red with drink taken, or if the eyes were webbed with the lines of laughter. There was no telling the shape of a heart from the face of the one who carried it.
The sun beat down on her. She was thirsty. Lifting the bundle up to her forehead to shield her eyes, she caught the scent of the fairy child in the old linen. Sour milk and stale potato. Hearth smoke and the cold night. All the witching hours awake with the changeling, all the wrapping of blankets and the fighting of his limbs, the sharp feel of his nails between her teeth as she carefully bit their lengths so he would not scratch himself in his dancing, in his fitting, in his strange reaching for the world around him. The hot feel of his tongue against her fingers as she fed him, the eyes sliding over her face and the feathers on his skin, the laughs dissolving into the air, and the screaming that pealed from him.
It knocked the breathing out of her.
Uncaring that people stared, Mary hid her face in the dirty bundle and wept.
After the trial, Nóra travelled back to the valley with Daniel. She had found her nephew waiting outside the courthouse, smoking in the sunshine and speaking with Father Healy. Both men had looked up as she approached, squinting in the glare of daylight.
‘They freed you then,’ Daniel had murmured, turning his pipe in his hands.
The expression on the priest’s face had been one of ill-hidden aversion.
‘You have much to thank God for,’ he had remarked. ‘You should have listened to me. I warned you, Nóra. I warned you that nothing good would happen for talk of fairies.’ His face had pinked. ‘Nance Roche did not stop with her nostrums, with her piseógs, with her heathen practices, and the Church will not stand for it, verdict or no. I can’t be tolerating superstitious belief upheld over true faith. Nóra, blind yourself no longer to the sin of pagan delusion.’
Nóra had stared at the priest, unable to say a word. It wasn’t until Daniel had placed a heavy hand on her shoulder and guided her away that she fully understood the meaning of the priest’s words.
‘He will excommunicate her,’ she had whispered to Daniel.
Her nephew had sighed and gestured down the road. ‘I’ll take you home, Nóra.’
They travelled to Killarney by mail cart, neither of them speaking. The other passengers stared at her, and Nóra realised that her clothes, returned after the trial, were still covered in river mud. She covered her head and face with her shawl, despite the heat. Nóra was glad Daniel did not want to talk. There was a weight in her mouth, upon her tongue. She did not quite know what had happened. All she knew was that she must return home, must see if Micheál was returned.
When the cart stopped in Killarney, she and Daniel walked to the outskirts of the town, then stopped at the door of a cabin, asking for food and a night’s lodging. They were hungry themselves, the woman of the house said. July was a mean month, a hungry month. God provide them with a fine crop and soon, or they would all be on the roads. Still, they were good people, she would feed them what she could and let them make beds out of straw and find a corner where they might sleep under cover, away from the night sky crawling with moonlight. Nóra fell asleep with straw scratching her cheek and woke before dawn. She washed her face in dew, and when Daniel woke, they walked the pale lane in the early-morning light as the robins swooped and the chitterling, waking animals rustled. As the day warmed and filled with people going about their business, carrying sleánta and creels, Nóra let her mind return to the child that would surely be waiting for her, saw her daughter’s face echoed in his features, saw Johanna when she was young and all seemed light and full of possibility, until she barely saw the road in front of them.
It was only as they returned to the valley and its crib of mountains, clad with heather purpling in the twilight, that Daniel spoke to her.
‘You’ll be staying with us, then.’
They had crested a hill, and Nóra was breathing hard. She stopped and stared at Daniel. ‘I’ll be staying in my cabin.’
Daniel kept his eyes firmly on the road before them, maintaining an even stride. ‘There was no rent paid on it.’
‘I’ve been late with the rent before.’ Panic rose in her chest. She ran to catch up with him. ‘Sure, ’tis no uncommon thing, to be late with the rent.’
‘You’ll be in with me and the little woman, Nóra.’
‘But Micheál will be waiting for me at my cabin.’
There was an uncomfortable silence. Daniel lit his pipe and clamped the stem between his teeth.
‘And what about my belongings?’ Nóra protested.
‘You can fetch them. But there’s a need to be selling the bed.’
Nóra cried then, wiping her face with dirty hands, until they rounded a corner and saw John O’Shea,
face already browned with the summer, the shadow of a moustache lighting golden.
‘Widow Leahy?’ He was standing in the lane, his hands full of rocks he had been pelting at a bird’s nest. ‘They didn’t hang you then.’
Daniel squinted against the setting sun. ‘She can’t stay to talk, John. Let her pass.’
‘Do you know there’s a rhyme about you?’
Nóra sniffed. ‘A rhyme?’
The boy put his hands in his pockets and began to sing. ‘Nóra Leahy, what have you done? You drowned your daughter’s only son! The lad could neither speak nor stand. Did fairies take him, hand in hand? Or did you take him to the water, the only son of your only daughter?’
Nóra stared at him, a sick feeling spreading through her chest. ‘God forgive you.’
John’s grin faded.
‘’Tis only a rhyme,’ Daniel interjected. ‘There’s been worse said. John, go and tell Peg that the Widow Leahy’s returned.’
The boy nodded and began to run down the lane.
Daniel turned to Nóra. ‘Don’t mind him. Go on with you to your old place and start collecting what you need. I’ll fetch Brigid. She can help you carry your things. You’ll be spending the night with us. She’ll make you comfortable. I won’t be in tonight. There’s business to attend to.’ He nodded to her, his face grim, then continued down the lane after John at a quickened pace.
When both men were mere specks in the distance Nóra sank to her knees in the dust of the road. The words of the boy ran through her head and she vomited, bile stringing in the summer wind.
The grass was high around her cabin. Nóra, gasping for air, pulled the door to and stood on the step. The room was musty. Dirt had blown in and the straw blocking the window was gone. Old rushes were eddied in the leavings of the wind.
‘God bless all here,’ Nóra cried, stomach heaving. She looked around the room, desperate for some sign of the boy, but all was still. The room was as she had left it, the hearth dead, the settle bed unfolded.
Nóra took a tentative step inside. ‘Micheál?’
Nothing.
‘Micheál? Dear one?’
Nóra shut the door behind her. Then a sudden noise sent her spirits soaring. She rushed into the bedroom, unable to breathe, hope mounting in her chest. She had been right! Micheál was here! He was under the greatcoat on her bed, here was the form of him, here he was sleeping.
But there was nothing under the coat except an unfolded blanket. Nóra clasped it, breathing quickly. There was a quiet murmur of a hen by her feet, and as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, Nóra saw that the chicken was broody, had settled on a nest scratched from old rushes and straw pulled from the mattress.
A slow uneasiness dripped through her.
Please God, she prayed, pulling back the blankets on her bed, growing frantic, more desperate. Please God, please Martin, please let him be here. ‘Micheál!’
Nothing. No sound but the cluck of the disturbed hen.
Unsure of what she should do, Nóra pulled on Martin’s greatcoat and staggered out into the main room, sinking onto a stool. Silence rang in her ears.
He wasn’t there. He had not been returned.
She had been so certain she would find him, perhaps sitting by the fire, eyes looking up to her as she entered. Martin’s face, Johanna’s colour. She rubbed her cheek against the rough frieze, taking long breaths of her husband’s remaining scent. Reaching into the pocket, she took out the dead ember and turned the char in her hands.
He was not there. She had been so sure.
Outside the birds sang down the sun.
‘God and Mary to you.’
Nóra turned, her eyes swollen. Peg stood at the threshold of the cabin, leaning on her blackthorn, looking on in silence.
‘He isn’t here.’
The old woman offered her hand to Nóra. ‘You’ve returned to us, God be praised.’ She waited as Nóra wiped her face. ‘What trouble,’ she murmured. ‘What sorrow. Come on with you, now. Sitting in the dark like this, and no fire lit. Well. At least the night is warm. I’ll sit with you for a bit now, shall I?’
She eased herself down next to Nóra, and together they sat by the ashes in the orange light of the sunset.
Peg pointed to the table and Nóra saw that cream was rising in a clean crock.
‘’Twas the son’s woman. She couldn’t bear to hear the beast bawling. Your butter is with me. For the safe keeping.’ Peg sucked her teeth. ‘’Tis back in the milk.’
Nóra nodded wearily. ‘That’s a blessing.’
‘There’s need of blessings in this valley.’
There was a sudden chorus of crickets. The women sat in silence, listening to the chirring.
‘They buried him in the cillín,’ Peg said finally. ‘Father Healy said ’twas best.’
Nóra blinked, staring at the dead fire.
Peg leant closer. ‘What in God’s holy name happened to the cratur?’
‘I was after being rid of the fairy, Peg,’ Nóra murmured.
‘When I saw you that morning, Nóra, you were soaked to the bone.’ She placed a hand on her knee and lowered her voice. ‘Did you give him a wee push?’
Nóra didn’t know what to say. She gently nudged Peg’s hand away before standing and rummaging for the bottle she’d left in the hearth nook. ‘Where is it, Peg?’
‘I’m not accusing you. ’Tis only, if you did, ’twould be –’
‘Where is it?’
‘Where is what?’
‘The poitín.’
Peg sighed. ‘Gone, Nóra. There was someone here . . .’ She threw up her hands. ‘I sent the boys down when I saw what they were about, but they took what they felt was theirs.’
‘Seán Lynch.’
Peg shook her head. ‘’Twas Kate. ’Twas a fear on everyone after the piseóg. After Áine. Kate was here and looking all about your churn. She was thinking ’twas the boy that blinked the milk and brought the baby out of Brigid. She was looking for signs of cursing. Says she found a flint by the dash. She said Seán had laid claim to your goods, that you were sure to hang, and she was to take some things while he was up in Tralee.’
‘What did she take, Peg?’
‘Some things of Martin’s. The poitín. The pipe. The coin you had. Clothes. What butter was here before, and some other food. The salt.’
Nóra looked up and saw that the wooden box was gone. ‘’Twas from my wedding.’
‘She would have taken the cow only there were some of us told her to wait until we had news of the verdict.’
‘I might have been hanged, Peg.’
‘I know.’
Nóra felt like she would choke. She pulled at the loose skin of her throat, pressing her chin against her knuckles, and began to weep. Peg extended a hand to her and Nóra took it with the grip of the drowning, squeezing her fingers until the old woman grimaced in pain. Still, she let Nóra sink her nails into her skin.
‘He isn’t here,’ she sobbed.
‘I know,’ Peg said softly. ‘I know.’
It was some time before Nóra could speak again. She sat with her face streaming, chin slippery.
Peg crossed herself. ‘Thank God in his infinite mercy you are saved.’
Nóra wiped her eyes. ‘They thought us mad. The fairy talk. They didn’t give in to it, but the girl said ’twas not done with the intent to kill and so they could not be calling it murder.’
‘After the arrest Father Healy read to us from the Chute’s Western Herald. It said you were of good character, Nóra. There’s none here who can say you are anything other.’
‘There’s a rhyme about me that says otherwise.’
‘You’re a good woman, Nóra Leahy.’
‘I wanted to be rid of the fairy.’
‘He was a burden to you.’
‘He was not Johanna’s son. There was none of my blood in him.’
Peg brushed the hair out of Nóra’s eyes. ‘’Tis a queer thing. For all the badness that has been in this place, folk are saying that with the changeling out of the valley there is peace again. That surely the boy was blinking the hens and the cows, for now the profit is back. Women who thought they might not have enough to keep shadow stitched to heel are calling for the egg man, purses filling again. Those who thought they might be on the road paid their rents after all.’
‘Daniel says this place is lost to me.’
Peg clucked her tongue. ‘’Tis a shame, but sure, you’d be rattling around on your own.’
‘Did they find who lay the piseóg?’
‘They say ’twas surely Nance, but fortunate that ’twas found so soon and set to rights by the priest. There was no time for the curse to be sinking in the soil. Kate was spouting at the well, saying sure ’twas Nance, for don’t curses come home to roost, and ’tis what happens to folk who wish others ill. Their wickedness catches up with them and they find themselves in Tralee with a nice rope collar.’
‘Kate Lynch!’ Nóra spat, growing tearful. ‘Coming in here and taking what belongs to me after Seán’s bidding. I’ll be going over there and taking it all back. The salt box!’
‘Nóra . . .’
‘She believed it more than anyone. She believed it more than anyone! How dare she talk about rope collars. We’re kin, after all.’
Peg tenderly wiped the tears from Nóra’s face. ‘Kate’s gone.’
‘What?’
‘Kate Lynch. Seán returned from Tralee this morning to an empty cabin. She left some days ago, we think. Taken all she took from you, and all the egg and butter money. Seán says ’twas a small fortune gone missing from under the bed.’
Nóra gaped at her.
‘Oh, he’s in a fit over it. Went straight out today searching for her, saying she might have been taken.’ Peg gave a small smile. ‘Says the tinkers have been on the roads, might have stolen her. Oh, and there’s the usual talk of the fairies at the biddy well. Some are saying she’s been swept, others are telling Seán to go to the Piper’s Grave on Sunday night and she’ll be riding out on a white horse.’