Tale of love and freedom, of a man, a woman and a nation.
Excerpt
Chapter XIII
“Danu did not know if she understood the question, but she knew it was fundamental and had to do with life and death.”
Brother Muris stood with his back to the door, wiping the chalkboard with a damp cloth. It was not time for the students to arrive and the sound of the door opening surprised him. He turned to see a woman standing in the doorway. He noticed the black hair that protruded from under a red scarf. He observed the position of her arms that made sharp points to either side as her hands rested on her hips. He saw the raised chin, but it was the eyes that startled him. Dark and feral, they challenged him. He pressed his fingertips together in a gesture, half prayerfully, half condescension. His words were no invocation.
“You are disturbing me, woman. What do you want?”
His eyes widened when she responded, “I am Danu Foley.”
“Ah, he said and the sound came from deep in his throat, spat out as if he had swallowed something unpleasant. “So you are the mother of the American boy.”
“Is he not more Irish than you?” The teacher narrowed his eyes and frowned but Danu met his gaze and held her ground.
“You are impertinent,” he said and turned his back and rubbed the cloth against the blackboard. He paused, looked over his shoulder and snapped at her, “Leave now woman and I will ignore the fact that you have set foot in my classroom uninvited and demonstrated your lack of manners. Perhaps that explains the conduct of your son. You require discipline, Mrs. Foley. You have no husband for such purpose. Oh yes, we know of your husband but there are others who can administer discipline.”
“Would you put your hand on me, or your strap,” she looked at the wide leather belt, hanging on the wall, as you did my son?”
Brother Muris turned slowly and faced her. Danu raised her hand. It trembled as she pointed at him but her voice was firm. “Another blow, another touch of your hand will send you on the path to purgatory.”
The teacher’s elegant face showed no emotion except for a slight raising of the eyebrows. “Would you threaten me, woman? You a woman with no husband, no estate and no shame.” He opened his delicate, thin lips and laughed.
Danu looked at the teacher. They were nearly the same height and she moved her face close. He stepped back.
“Touch my son again and this woman with no estate will go the Bishop, to Dublin, to Rome if I must.”
“They would laugh at you.” He sneered and glanced at the door. He heard the sound of boys’ voices outside and wished she would go away.
She spoke again, more softly, “They laughed at others too. Did they not laugh at Joan of Arc?”
His laughter came in a loud burst. “Would you be burned at the stake?” he said.
“And would not the flames touch you?”
Brother Muris stopped laughing, stepped backwards until his head nearly touched the star. He made several unintelligible sounds and then spoke in a tone as close to a growl as his elegant demeanor permitted, “You shall be disciplined, woman.” He said it again, loudly and began to lecture to her. “Discipline, discipline,” he said. His voice formed each syllable perfectly but Danu had turned away. The white-faced man continued his speech. His mellifluous voice expounded on the sinful nature of the undisciplined woman. He spoke louder, “Did not a woman bring sin into the world? Would not Parnell’s voice still be heard if he had turned away from the corruption of woman?”
“Brother teacher, do not put your hands or your strap on my son again,” Danu interrupted.
“You dare speak in such a manner, you, an undisciplined woman, a shame to the county.”
Danu did not hear the last. She tugged at her red scarf until it took the shape of a cowl and covered her ears and then turned and walked through the door. She left the door open and students stared curiously through the door at the teacher as he continued his harangue with folded hands and pale face, voice quivering. “For Adam was at peace until the woman was created from his rib. Woe unto the boy who is raised by a woman without the discipline of a man.”
Maccan was not in class that day or the next. His mother had left it up to him. Each morning he told himself that he would go back to school the next day. But he did not return to the schoolhouse and the days turned into seasons and seasons passed. Maccan Foley left his boyhood behind and passed into that troubled limbo when a youth was neither boy nor man.
Maccan walked through the spongy turf. His face caught the soft, damp west wind. Around him sky and land mixed in a thick tier of moisture. Sod splashed with each step and spray fell upon circles of moss. Ahead of him he saw a jagged rank of ducks flying quickly over a cluster of bushes. The sound of the shotgun followed and he stopped and watched the honking ducks. He came near the bog and walked past turf stacks and shallow ditches where cottagers had cut peat. The sod became softer and once he stepped upon bright moss and sank up to his knees. He pulled himself out and walked deliberately, breathing in the strong scent of the bog and listening to sounds of small things moving in the grass and water. He came to a long bank, rich with dark peat, and stopped. On either side still water filled large bogholes. Their somber surfaces reflected the slate sky. He heard something move behind him and when he turned and looked into a man’s face, he thought for a moment it was Brother Muris. The sight made him step back and the figure extended a hand and caught him from falling into a hole.
“I am Oliver Pray,” said the man and Maccan looked at the face under the floppy hat and the shotgun cradled in his other arm. “Lord Cairns,” he said. Maccan saw the casual resemblance to Brother Muris, but the teacher would have to spend seasons in the weather to obtain the attributes of the face that stood before Maccan.
“I know about you,” said Maccan.
“Do you now and what are you doing in this place?”
“Just walking,” answered Maccan and when Lord Cairns asked him why he was not in school. Maccan hesitated. “Because,” he said, “Just because.”
“Schooling is a good thing. I went off to school when I just a boy.” Oliver Pray stopped talking and his face darkened. “It’s mostly good,” he said and he spoke quickly of a boy in a large, cold school.”
Maccan did not speak and Lord Cairns, nodded, “I suppose school is not always enjoyable. Sometimes the boys can be–.” He did not finish.
“And the teacher?” said Maccan softly and watched Lord Cairns nod.
“Ah yes, the teachers,” he said and looked at the shotgun in his arm and Maccan wished that he had had a weapon, something like the great spear of Cuhulan, to smite Brother Muris. The thought made him feel ashamed and he dropped his head.
“Books, that’s the ticket. Do you read, boy?”
Maccan poked at his glasses and spoke rapidly and Lord Cairns nodded and shifted his shotgun to the other arm.
“Come with me, boy, and I will show something that will delight you.” The hunter’s eyes glimmered and he smiled. The smile made him look younger.
Maccan shook his head and wondered about his mother.
Lord Cairns removed his hat and pushed his fingers through his hair. It was turning gray on the sides. “Your mother, indeed,” he said and looked at the slate colored puddle in the bog hole. “Of course you must ask your mother.”
“But what will I ask her?”
Lord Cairns hesitated for a moment and stared at the dark water as if there was something of great interest there. He did not look at Maccan as he spoke. “Ask your mother if you can come to my house and see the library.” He lifted his shotgun, spun round and walked away. Maccan watched him stop, turn and come back. “To see the books.” He moved his lips to say more, decided not to and walked carefully through the bog. Once he stopped and called back, “Step carefully,” he called. “And watch the pits made by the peat diggers. Once a man nearly drowned here.” As he walked away the dead birds tied to his belt swung back and forth.
Maccan wanted to ask him why he killed so many animals. He would do that some time.
Maccan found hardness in his mother that had not been there before. The reason for the change escaped him. Perhaps the cause could be the increased forbearance of maturity or the difficulties of her circumstances. Yet he felt there were other reasons beyond his understanding. Still, her attitude surprised him when he talked to her about the invitation of Lord Cairns. The look she gave, severe and hostile, startled him and had snapped her reply, “You will not go there and I will hear no more about it.”
He replied angrily, “I will not go to school and the man has books in his house.”
“Would you not rise in the world, would you be like your–,” she stopped herself. “You must learn things to rise in the world and school is where such things are taught.”
“I will not go back there,” he replied.
Again she surprised him, “If you will not go to school, then you will go to work and bring home pence for your own support.”
“Where would I find a job?” At first the idea frightened him but then he pictured himself bringing home a golden guinea and placing it on the table while she gaped in astonishment. His mother’s words broke his vision.
“Are you not speaking like a man and does a man not work? And can you not find work in County Meath where the fields are rich and the farmers are as content as their cows? Talk to the men who work on the roads. There are jobs enough there.”
Maccan saw her glance at his hands and then at his glasses and her eyes softened. “Oliver Pray said that he would show me his library.”
“You will not go there.” The chill returned to his voice.
“Then I will talk to the men who work on the roads.”
“I will,” he said and he sat down by the fire and carved a piece of leather to plug the hole in his shoe.
A team of horses pulled a heavy wooden rig down the winding dirt road. The man who sat astride a high seat sucked on a pipe with a bowl as big as his nose. He let the reins hang loosely while he sucked and then chewed his pipe. Two others sat behind on the back of the platform, adding their weight to a thick, oak timber. Their lean bodies appeared ill suited to the purpose. The three men wore woolen tweed jackets and narrow neckties and if the jackets had been less wrinkled, their trousers less soiled and their shoes less dusty, they might have been attired for a day’s work in a bank or office. In fact they were a gang of road workers dressed, so they believed, as good as the next man. On this day they were dragging the road in a futile attempt to smooth ruts and fill holes. It had not rained in a week and Maccan watched them approaching. The wagon left a rising wake of yellow dust. The man on the iron perch sucked and tugged on the reins. The men watched Maccan step into the road and wave. He told them that he willing and able and looking for work. The men laughed until they inhaled thick dust and began to choke. They coughed and laughed more, not unkindly but at the preposterous sight of a rangy, bespectacled figure with narrow shoulders and small hands standing in the road, daring to join them. They laughed more when they realized that he had no idea of how to go about procuring a position on the road gang.
“Would you be so unkind as to mock a poor soul who would do a man’s work?” shouted the man holding the reins to those in back and he looked at Maccan, chewed on his pipe, and told him to sit with the other two men. They chortled and pointed out the obvious. “Man, is he not lighter than a feather for all the good he’ll do?”
Maccan scrambled onto the timber and sat beside the two men. His feet dragged in the dirt as the horses moved slowly down the road. The two men wanted to know whose recommendation Maccan had secured and they whooped and spat when they found he had none.
“How’s this for a job, laddie,” asked a red-faced man whose jacket was too tight and whose thin necktie barely made it round his thick neck, leaving only a short bit of fabric in front. “Would you like to sit on your arse like this and ride down this fine road and collect a wage?”
It seemed like a splendid idea and Maccan nodded and the men laughed.
The man on the high seat, whose name was Ed McGlynn, winked or twitched, Maccan could not discern which, and pronounced, between sucks, that they might give him a bit of a try. His heavy eyelids closed and opened and his lips turned into a sneer. Yet, when he turned and asked Maccan who he was, his voice had a kindly quality. John Donaldson and Vincent McGrath were the names of the others and they peered at the newcomer and joked, delighted by the turn of fortune. Donaldson took Maccan’s hand and examined it and laughed. Maccan lifted his face and enjoyed the game of hide and seek played by the sun and clouds. The ride lasted little more than a mile. Donaldson and McGrath hauled up the plank and the horses pulled the wagon down a long incline tangled with gorse. They stopped by a rain-filled stream that poured down a green tumulus, gushed beside the road and then joined the Boyne. The peat-dark water twisted against a large outcropping of stone and broke into two coiled fingers of foam. Anchored on an immense slab of river-worn rock, two antique, stone arches reached for each bank and supported a narrow bridge. The old bridge had been shedding its stones into irregular heaps on the central rock. Serried, sharp stones lined both sides of the bridge and the gaps where the stones had fallen gave it the appearance of an elder’s man’s teeth. McGlynn stopped the wagon and the men jumped down. Maccan watched the crew chief walk out on the bridge, lean over the side and spit into the foam. McGrath laughed and Donaldson passed out large hammers and crowbars.
“Take them lad,” said Donaldson and Maccan dragged the tools onto the bridge. He leaned out and looked down at the turbulent stream below. McGlynn studied the water carefully, spat again and squinted.
McGlynn sent Maccan back to the wagon and from underneath the wagon, he pulled out a wide ladder, dragged it to the men and they lifted it over the side until it rested on the supporting stone and made a sharp angle against the bridge. Maccan poked fat it and it wobbled. “Down you go, lad,” said McGlynn. “Bring up the stones, one at a time.” Something about “one at a time” made the others chortle and they put their hands in their pockets and waited. Maccan hesitated, looked at the twitching eyes of McGlynn and the grinning faces of Donaldson and McGrath. The three men gathered at the top of the ladder to watch the newcomer. Maccan pushed his glasses firmly on his nose, swung his leg onto the ladder and started down. The ladder shook and so did his legs but a small tree had grown up the side of the bridge and he seized it for support and slowly wiggled down to the rock. His feet slid on slick moss and he reluctantly let go the ladder and carefully made his way to the pile of stones. They were lighter than he had expected and he turned, stepped carefully and pulled himself up the ladder, pressing his knees against the bridge for support. He put the stone down and looked at McGlynn who ignored him. Donaldson picked up the stone and carefully fitted it into one of the gaps and McGrath tapped it home with the bar. They looked at Maccan and he climbed down and picked up another stone. The second stone was the same size as the first but it felt heavier. The third made him gasp and strain and he nearly dropped it. On the next trip his legs grew stiff and his feet clumsy. The weight of the stone ran down his legs and turned his feet into ponderous sacks. He slipped and came close to sliding down the rough edges of the rock into the swift water below. Another trip and his fingers began to bleed and his nails broke. His forearms bore the brunt of the weight and they stung, useless as twigs. Veins swelled and throbbed and the flesh on his forearms began to bleed. Down again he went and exhaustion drove him to his knees. His arms shook, his fingers hurt and he clung to the ladder, made a whimpering noise and stepped into the shadows under the bridge and hid himself in shame. But he could not hide so he circled clumsily round the stones and then bent and shoved his wounded fingers underneath a stone and staggered to his feet. He couldn’t hold it, slipped, dropped the stone, fell and slid head first slid down the rock, bouncing and slithering over the crag and down into the froth. The loose stone fell close to his head and he clutched his glasses. Water enveloped him, soft and cool, and when his head came up, he opened his mouth to breathe only to suck in water. The current picked him up and spun him and pulled him under the surface. His head touched coarse bottom sand that tore at his face. He tried to push himself up but current sucked him down and pushed him farther downstream. His heart banged loudly and his chest burned and then it seemed that everything inside his body would explode. He kicked frantically. Suddenly all became black. His mouth opened and he swallowed more water. Oddly, an instant of clarity occurred and a voice in his head spoke, “So this is what it is like.” And then, suddenly, he bounced off an outcropping of sharp rock and found himself washed up on a fringe of sand. His glasses still rested on his nose. He looked up at the bridge and saw the blank face of McGlynn.
“Widdershins,” he heard Donaldson laughing and screaming at him. “What in the name of Jasus do you expect?”
“Come up here, Maccan,” called McGlynn and he leaned over the bridge and shook his head. “Come up here, now. We’ll take our break.”
Maccan sat up, scrambled up a layer of rock, stamped his wet shoes and slumped back to the bridge. A large puddle formed when he sat down. Widdershins, Donaldson told him, was circling against the sun.
“I should have warned you,” laughed Donaldson and Maccan looked at McGlynn in disbelief but the crew chief sucked and then chewed his pipe and said nothing. “When you circle round to pick up the stones, go with the sun not against it. Didn’t the old ones tell us that,” laughed Donaldson and McGrath nodded.
“Bad things are after happening to a man and he disbelieving such things.”
Maccan scoffed, “Surely you don’t believe in such things.
“Not at all,” said Donaldson, “But there they are after all.”
Maccan glanced at McGlynn who leaned back against the side of the bridge. “Ah well, there are people who say they do not believe in such things, but there are queer things after all.” He looked down at the river, “Today the young ones knows it all,” he pronounced with a lung clearing spit.
“Indeed,” added Donaldson. “And would you be sitting here drying on the bridge if she did not spit you out like an undersized throut.”
It took Maccan a moment to gather that throut was a fish. “Who spat me out?”
“Herself,” said Donaldson, “Boand herself. Is it not her own river.”
“And is she not the river herself,” said McGrath and Maccan could not tell if they joked or not.
“Boand, lad, Boyne, in the old days men called the river after the goddess. You mock her when you go against the sun,” said McGrath and Maccan asked McGlynn if he believed such stuff.
“Ah well, maybe I do and maybe I don’t.”
“Widdershins,” said Donaldson.
“Nonsense,” said Maccan.
“A little holy water would help after all,” said McGrath and McGlynn stuck his hand in the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small bottle.
Maccan waited for more superstition. My God, he thought, McGlynn was going to sprinkle holy water on the river. “Nonsense,” he said again.
“Suit yourself,” said McGlynn and he lifted the bottle and drank. Donaldson and McGrath did the same. “Sure the holy water will calm her down,” said Donaldson and he took a long drink and handed the bottle to Maccan. It burned his nostrils and he gave it back.
“Don’t be showing off at all,” said McGlynn and he put the bottle back in his side pocket.
The three men leaned their backs against the stones of the bridge. Maccan looked at their blackened fingers and the thick calluses on their palms. Donaldson was diminutive like Brother Muris but the cords in his neck and wrists bulged and Maccan had the thought that this man could lift the teacher with one arm. The other two were not large men but they could heft stones easily and talk to each other as they worked. They got up easily and Maccan wearily joined them. McGlynn led them off the bridge and down the rocks until they reached the stream. They bent, cupped their hands and drank. Maybe this was the real holy water thought Maccan and he splashed with his hands. McGlynn told him to go to the rig and look under the iron seat. “There’s a pair of gloves there. Take them yourself and put them on.” They were too large, but Maccan had never received a better gift. Twice he climbed down the ladder; twice he turned with the sun and staggered up the steep climb with stones.
McGlynn watched him, looked him up and down, twitched and then rearranged the tasks. Donaldson slid quickly down the ladder, made a little turn with the sun and began to bring up stones. “You take the wheelbarrow,” McGlynn said and Maccan pushed the stones from the ladder to the other two. At first he grinned blissfully. Easy, he thought, compared to his previous labor. But bliss soon became blisters and the wheelbarrow added pounds with each trip until his arms, neck and back knotted and throbbed and then his legs turned to granite as heavy as the massive block that supported the twin arches. Each trip with the wheelbarrow became an ordeal. The long arms of the barrow defied him and became heavy prongs. His fingers burned and then he could feel them no more except for lines of agony underneath his nails. He fell and lost his load. He scrambled, moaned and staggered on. He resisted an urge to go over the side and jump into the stream and then he began to hear laughter in the swish of the water. The goddess laughed at him and he wanted to drop his burden and flee. When McGlynn called a halt, he did not hear and clutched the arms of the wheelbarrow until McGrath seized them. He staggered to the wagon, climbed on the back and shut his eyes while the two horses moved slowly down the dirt road. McGlynn and the others consumed more holy water and Donaldson began to sing, “Too ra loo ra loo, Too ra loo ra lay.”
When he reached the cottage, he nodded to his mother, climbed to the loft and fell into his bed.
The next day he waited beside the road and McGlynn took the pipe from his mouth and greeted him. They did not go back to the bridge. McGlynn led them to a washout and they stopped the wagon, took shovels and rakes and looked at the road.
“Do you want a shovel or a rake,” asked McGlynn.
“Either,” said Maccan and McGlynn sucked on his pipe and the others laughed.
“Either one,” said Donaldson. “Will he not take either a shovel or a rake.”
“And is he not a terror with both of them?” said McGrath.
Maccan raked and listened to McGlynn tell him all the many things that would have to be done to procure wages.
“Would it help if I gave you some of my first wages?”
McGlynn chewed on his pipe, “What kind of a question is that to ask? He sucked, “Maybe it would and maybe it wouldn’t. Get on with your work.”
In the middle of the day the rain came, soft and steady and while they leaned on their tools and pondered the meaning of any of it. McGlynn told Maccan to get the wheelbarrow and as he walked away bits of their conversation carried to him. “Do you know who his father was?” asked McGlynn.
“Is there a man in Meath who does not know about Rory Foley and he being dead in America,” said Donaldson and he glanced at Maccan who approached with the wheelbarrow.
McGrath narrowed his eyes, “When you think of the father who struck a man down with a pitchfork and running away to America, the Yankee boy is no more queer than to be expected and him with a father as strong as a tree.”
Maccan dropped the handles of the wheelbarrow and raised his hands. The only words that he heard clearly were ones labeling him a Yank. “I’m an Irishman,” he called out and clenched his fists as he walked towards the men.
“Would you fight the three of us?” asked Donaldson and McGrath muttered something about a pitchfork.
“Ah now, no more of that,” said McGlynn and Maccan looked at three wiry figures in their tweed jackets and their muddy boots. Their lined faces seemed pinched and their gnarled hands and bent fingers looked like the stems of old trees.
“I’m Irish,” he said again. “Do you hear me, McGrath?” His words drew loud laughter and McGrath cleared his throat and spat.
“Would you look at the little fellow with his fists clenched and his face the color of a turnip and what kind of an Irishman would that be?
“One that frightens me,” laughed McGrath and he winked.
“Get the barrow, boy,” said McGlynn with a twitch and Maccan turned and carried out the instructions but he walked with his head down and refused to speak to the others.
A cold northwest breeze came in off the moor and blew in their faces and played games with a man on a bicycle who wobbled down the road and slowed to watch the workers. The rider’s long legs caught the gravel and the bicycle jerked to a stop. Maccan looked at a tall, thin figure with a pale narrow face crowned by long dirty straw-colored hair. A loose green sweater draped over the lanky upper body and a long red scarf wrapped round the man’s neck and supported his large head.
“Now there’s four fine Irishmen if I ever saw them,” he called out, “Doing your bit for Eire.”
McGlynn puffed suspiciously and Donaldson nodded. McGrath muttered something under his breath.
“And wouldn’t Kathleen herself, the daughter of old Houlihan, smile on us this day for all the grand shoveling and raking that we be doing for ould Ireland,” said Donaldson and McGrath laughed.
The shovels paused and the men listened quietly when the figure began to speak to them in some alien tongue.
“Do you not know your own language?” he asked.
“Indeed, it’s a odd thing you should ask that for this very morning I talked to my ould woman in me own language and she understood every word I said,” said McGlynn, his speech slipping out between sucks on his pipe.
The tall man climbed off his bicycle and spoke rapidly. “It was Irish I spoke and Irish should be taught in the schools and learned by the likes of you.” He waved his hands and spoke pleadingly, “You there, boy,” he waved a long finger at Maccan, “Do you not agree, Irish for Ireland.”
“I do indeed,” said Maccan but Donaldson’s voice was louder.
“Will talking the Irish raise my wages. Will this shovel be something else in Irish after all?” He shook his tool at the man on the bicycle.
“Did I not look in a mirror this morning and say to myself ‘Am I not an Irishman?’ ” McGrath’s pointed to his face and the traveler laughed.
The bicyclist told them of the Gaelic League, those who would have Irish taught in the schools. His words came out in smooth burst with more English than Irish tones. He waved his hands and opened his eyes wide. “Irish words for Irishmen,” he said and Donaldson asked him what he knew about Irishmen.
“True enough, you may be closer to the soil of Ireland than I am but if you do not know your own true language than I am more Irish than you, am I not?” The angular man spoke like a teacher addressing school children.
“And do you know the difference between a ram and a ewe, an oar and a plow, a yew tree from an ash?” asked McGrath.
“I do,” came the reply, “And do you know the difference between a free man with his own language and a slave?”
“Off with you now, you and your fairy tales,” snapped McGlynn and he snarled at his crew. “Crafty advice often comes from a fool. Have you no work to do?” He glared at Maccan.
The rain turned to a fine mist and the men leaned to their roadwork. The bicycle seat squeaked and Maccan looked up and watched the tall man mount his bike. He called to them in Irish and peddled down the damp road, splashing through puddles, his unkempt straw-colored hair streaming behind his lanky figure.
“Could he not be right?” asked Maccan and McGlynn scoffed and snarled that the man had the hands of a woman and the face of a priest.
“The gaum has never done a day’s work in his life. Sure and he can read a book in some dry nook and peddle down the road telling honest men how to speak and him never done an honest day’s work in his life. Don’t I know his type, meddler, soft hands, soft head and talking about dear old Ireland when he couldn’t tell the difference between an Irishman and a fooking Chinee and him Protestant to boot.”
They saw the man on the bicycle again, on three other days, but he never stopped, although as he passed he called out to them in Irish and once he shouted in English, “Do you know your own country?” Maccan waved his cap and McGlynn watched the lanky man peddle awkwardly and said, “Begob, he’s as dim as ditch water.”
Most days it rained but on a fair fall day, the wind turned and came from the south, the sky opened blue and clear and Maccan worked in shirtsleeves. He thought about the thin man on the bicycle and then about school. They were working on the bridge and he listened to the river and did not notice the figure on horseback until she had ridden by. He looked up just as Sadia pulled her horse to a stop and trotted back towards him. She sat easily in the saddle and Maccan admired the shape of her legs, outlined by tan riding pants. He looked at her high boots and tried to calculate how many days’ work it would require to buy such a pair. She sat and watched him for a moment, did not speak and then laughed and tossed her red hair, wheeled her horse and trotted away. For the rest of the morning Maccan thought of red hair and shapely legs, wearing tight riding pants and high boots.
The sun passed low and he put his tools on the wagon, waved good-by and walked past the fringe of the bog and down by the river. The stepping stones were slippery and he kept his eyes on them and nearly jumped into her when he leaped to the bank.
“Maccan Foley, are you avoiding me?” Sadia laughed and lifted her face. He had forgotten how beautiful she was and he told her so and she smiled and took his hand. Her breath enveloped him and she squeezed his hand and then his arm. “Why Maccan, you have muscles.” He looked to see if she mocked him but her eyes avoided his gaze. Her fingers stroked his shoulders and he puffed up his chest to meet her fingers. “I’ve missed you,” she told him and they walked hand in hand up the hill and toward the cottage. They saw the stars gradually becoming visible. Maccan made out the sword of Orion and the handle of the Plough. He stopped to look up and Sadia asked him if were earning real money.
“That I am,” he said and she looked at him and nodded.
“But school, all young gentlemen go to school.”
At first he remained silent and then pointed out that he was no gentleman. What would she know of the need for an extra sixpence? The money spent for her boots would bring food to the cottage for half a year. She brought her face close, smiled and kissed him softly on the mouth. He closed his eyes and breathed in her scent and he felt her fingers touch his neck and back. She kissed him harder and he tasted her breath. His hands tightened on her and he pulled her toward him but she pushed him away. When he reached for her, she took his hands and held him back but she kept his hands and squeezed them when they walked to the cottage.
“Come in and warm yourself by the fire” he said told her. “My mother will put the kettle on the hob.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t do that. I must be away home.” Sadia brushed her lips against his and her hair gleamed red in the light coming from the cottage.
“I will walk with you,” he said.
“Oh no,” she whispered and she slipped away quickly into the shadows cast by the gorse beside the boreen.
The next day the crew went back on the bridge and set stones tightly, making an angled balustrade along the sides. When Maccan peered below at the peat-stained stream, he thought of Sadia for when the water sprayed it shone red like her hair. He watched the water twist and flash and heard its hiss.
“Would you be after spending the whole day staring at the river,” growled McGlynn and Maccan pushed his glasses back on his nose and walked to join the others.
Danu Foley moved the chair closer to the hearth and sat down before a small mirror on the wall. She used to look at her reflection when she was a child. Once a mother laughed and told her than she would soon have to share it with a sister or brother but she never did. There was no sister or brother. She loved the elaborately carved border that framed thick glass cut in the shape of a Gothic window. The looking glass used to frame her mother’s face. Danu remembered her, brushing her hair before the glass. She hesitated and looked at own reflection. The image that peered back at her seemed to belong to a stranger. It was younger than she had expected and the hair that edged the face fell in dark tangles, but she saw something in the features that troubled her and she stared it for a long time. She got up, went to her bedroom and found her hairbrush and returned. She stroked slowly, each side and down the back. Something moved in shadows behind her and she turned quickly, her mouth fell open to speak and then she clamped it shut. The striped cat bounded and leaped and Danu shut her eyes for a moment. She had not done that for a long time, turned to speak to Rory or heard his footsteps. She looked again in the mirror, closely, her face seemed older and she brushed faster. She turned her head from side to side and bent her neck. Only the slightest trace could be seen and she exhaled slowly. The face is the glass reminded her of her mother and she pushed her hair back and touched the tiny lines beside her eyes. “Hello old girl,” she said and the face in the glass smiled. Wind rustled the thatch and caused the turf to smoke. She had been a girl, yesterday it seemed, and now she was a woman and it had happened in one moment. She leaned back and stretched out her legs. Some days her left leg became tired and heavy. She reached down and massaged her calf. Some days the sickness she had endured reached out of the past and squeezed her leg. And the money problem, that squeezed her stomach. She had taken Maccan’s contribution reluctantly for her only source of income was the small amount sent to her each month by her brother.
Shadows crammed the cottage and she wanted space. She put down the brush and walked to the door. The stars were coming out and a crescent moon hung low over the distant hills. Something moved near the byre and she thought for a moment that Tommy Farrell had come back. It was only the cow, rocking from side to side and swishing its tail. From the doorway her eyes could sweep the horizon and when she walked down the path to the gate and she could survey the circumference of the hills of Meath. She looked out at the sea of hills, dark against the early evening sky. Faint starlight sprinkled and one brilliant astral body rose just over the tumulus of Tara. Yet, she could not see a light made by human hands. For an instant she imagined that she was the only person in the world. A profound sense of aloneness swept over her and she felt that all she was could be found in her sense of perception as she looked out at the dark, rolling hills and the brightening stars. She shook her head and stood quietly, a solitary figure outlined against the dim horizon, and then she raised her hands and pushed back her hair and turned and walked slowly through shadows towards the cottage. One shadow moved and a rider on a large horse emerged from the darkness. She made out the slouch hat and then the figure of Oliver Pray. He dismounted, held his horse by the bridle and walked toward her. She stepped back.
“Hold your place, Danu Foley. Don’t walk away from me, woman. A word from me would have you turned out into the ditch.”
She stopped and stared at him and she heard his breath coming in quick pants. The horse snorted and Lord Cairns pulled hard on the bridle. He began to speak, stammered and moved closer.
“Danu, I would speak to you,” he said and she turned away. His voice rose and the horse snorted. He had to shout. “Once we made a bargain about your husband. Have you forgotten?” The words came out in an angry appeal. It frightened the horse and it jerked its head.
She said nothing and he snarled at her, “Would you not speak to me, woman? Where are your manners? Have you forgotten how to speak to your betters?”
Danu walked toward the cottage and he called to her, “Wait, Danu, I didn’t mean that.” When she stopped quickly and turned to face him, horse and man flinched. She began to speak in a soft, deliberate tone.
“Forget you, how could I ever forget? Never would I have thought that you could speak of such a thing.” He began to speak but he stammered again and she put her hand on the bridle and pulled. The horse neighed. “For the love of God, why would you mention it now?” she said and when she looked into his shaded face, he turned away and for a moment remained silent and then he took off his hat and cleared his throat. When he spoke his voice came in a squeak and he coughed.
“I make you a proposition, Danu, another bargain, so to speak. This time the boy son will be the beneficiary of our pact.” He laughed nervously.
“I would rather be in the ditch, my lord.” Her voice hissed and she walked away from him and he stood and looked at her back and the left leg that moved awkwardly. He tried to speak but words did not come so he slammed the hat back on his head and tugged at the horse. He coughed.
“You misunderstand me, woman. It would be different this time.” The horse snorted and he screamed at her. “Don’t you understand, Danu? Do you not know what I can do?”
She did not look back but she heard the horse snort again, or perhaps it was Oliver Pray. The horse stamped again and she heard him cursing. She reached the cottage and walked though the door, turned and locked the bottom and did the same with the top. The looking glass was on the bureau and she picked it up and stared into it. A pale, intent face looked at her. Again something in the reflection troubled her, something in the eyes. Her hand found the brush and she sat and stroked her long hair. Later when she sat down at table with Maccan he asked her if she knew any Irish words. She told him that her grandmother had the Irish and his glance showed disappointment.
Rain pounded against the window in her bedroom and there was no dawn. Danu did not want to get out of bed and she covered her eyes but the thoughts, she could not cover those. At last she rose and walked to the window and looked out at bent grass, polished by the rain. A low mist covered the land and she stared out at somber fields and something in her gnawed and she felt hollow, lacking substance and if she stepped outside into the rain, she would be melted away. She thought of her son and she reflected that he too did not know where he belonged. “Do you know any Irish?” he had asked, an easy question to answer, but she had a question too and it could be asked in Irish or in English and she did not know the answer. Nor was she sure that she even knew the question but she understood that it was the most fundamental of all and had to do with life or death. Yet, she felt that one-day she would have to give her answer. Rain rattled against the window and slapped the thatch overhead. She sat on the bed and dressed, tied back her hair and went to the hearth, poked ashes off the turf, blew on the embers and swung the kettle over the glowing orange spot.
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Copyright 2008 Kenneth MacIver. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
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