‘Sure, the girl told me it smelt like the Devil. ’Twas the way Seán found it. He smelt it out.’
‘Trouble’s coming,’ Nance muttered. She seemed preoccupied. It wasn’t until they had reached the same place in the river that she spoke again.
‘Nóra, ’tis your turn.’
Nóra did not know whether the cramping in her guts was from excitement or fear. ‘What have I to do, Nance?’
‘The rite is the same as before. Do as the girl. Undress and take the wee fairy into the water with you. Be sure to place him all the way under three times. Every hair on his head under the surface. Let all parts of him under the power of the boundary. Let you don’t slip. That river looks mighty high this morning.’
Nóra nodded, her mouth dry. She took off her clothes with shaking fingers.
‘Perhaps I should do it again,’ Mary said. She had crouched down on a tree root and was holding the boy close to her chest. He groaned at the sound of the water, his head thumping against her shoulder.
Nóra held out her arms for him. ‘Enough of that, you know ’tis my turn. ’Tis how it must be. Give it to me, Mary.’
The maid hesitated. ‘Will you be careful with him?’
‘There’s no harm intended,’ Nance reassured her. ‘We’re only after sending the fairy child back to his own kind.’
‘He was so cold yesterday. ’Tis terrible cold for him. And him being so little, so thin.’
‘Give him to Nóra, Mary.’
‘Quickly!’ Nóra stepped over and took the child from Mary’s arms. Letting the blanket drop from his shoulders she lay him on the ground and pulled the dress over his head.
‘You’ve set him on a briar,’ Mary protested. Nóra pretended she hadn’t heard. She picked him up again and the boy suddenly grew angry, squawking, his fists swinging. Nóra felt his head smack against her collarbone.
‘Into the river with you now, Nóra. That’s it. Hold that branch there as Mary did yesterday. Don’t slip now.’
The changeling, when Nóra first held him under the fast-flowing water, opened his mouth in surprise. But it was no more than a baptism, a rush of river into the mouth, and Nóra lifted him into the air before plunging him down again.
‘In the name of God, are you or are you not Micheál Kelliher, son of my daughter?’
She had the sense that the changeling fixed her eye as the water flooded over his face for the third time, bubbles streaming from his mouth. She lifted him, dripping, and the sun broke across the surface. She had not noticed it grow light. Nóra clutched the fairy child against her bare chest and held him there until he burbled the river down her breasts and his lungs grew less ragged. She stood, shivering in the dappled water, and felt that it was true, in one day’s time she would have her daughter’s son restored to her, full-limbed and speaking. Standing in the river, she felt the promise of it in the current’s quiet insistence and in the skylarks above, suddenly praising the sky with flight.
There was a dark knot of women at the well later that morning, cloaks drawn over their heads despite the clear March weather. Their voices were hot with conspiracy.
Mary glanced at them from where she stooped to let down her bucket and saw several pairs of eyes flick her way, some of them looking boldly. All at once the huddle of women moved towards her. Mary jerked upright, lifting her chin and staggering from sudden dizziness.
‘You’re a friend to Nance Roche, are you not, Mary Clifford?’ It was Éilís O’Hare who spoke, a slant of accusation in her voice.
‘We were talking here amongst ourselves, thinking on who might have set that piseóg on Seán’s land.’
‘Well, it wasn’t me that did it, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
Éilís gave a high laugh. ‘Isn’t she a proud girl, thinking we were accusing her. Piss on nettles this morning, did you?’
The women laughed. Mary felt her spine run cold.
‘Whoever did it was up and about while ’twas dark. Not even the dog was barking, so says Seán.’
‘Might not have been so recent as that,’ said another woman. ‘Whoever set the piseóg might have put it down fresh, let it rot in time.’
‘Kate did say she’s been seeing Nance stealing about the fields in the blue of the morning when no one was about.’
‘Sure, but my man is an early riser and he says he would swear on his mother’s grave he saw an old woman accompanied by the Good People walking the lane in the dark. Near the Piper’s Grave, out where ’tis wild. And his eyes are keen.’
‘Keen enough to be seeing fairies now, is he?’
‘Faith, many men see things through the bottom of a poitín bottle.’
There was laughter.
‘It wasn’t drink! He hasn’t tasted a drop in his life.’
‘Is he after thinking ’twas Nance and her spirits?’
‘Ah well, they say she does be speaking with Them.’
‘Begod, ’tis true. She conspires with Them. She’s been asking them for the knowledge to steal butter and dry hens and burn up blacksmith’s wives.’
‘Terrible business.’
‘I wonder what the blood was,’ said one woman, eyes flicking nervously to Mary.
The women glanced at each other.
‘Could be from an animal,’ suggested one. ‘Could be a hare, killed and bled.’
Mary looked at the ground. She thought she was going to be sick.
Éilís spoke again. ‘If you see Nance, Mary, best tell her to watch who she’s after setting curses on. There’s none here who will be tolerating badness like that. Setting the fire against Áine. Bloodiness on Seán’s farm.’
‘Tell her to take to the road.’
‘She has the cure,’ Mary said feebly.
‘Sure, I went to her for the cure in days past, didn’t I?’ Éilís smirked. ‘And didn’t she near poke my eye out with a gander beak. She’s soft in the mind.’
‘Is it soft in the mind or hard in the heart, Éilís?’
Mary saw that Hanna had wandered over, her forehead creased. ‘You’d best get your story straight.’
‘Only a fool would go to a herb hag such as she.’
‘And are you still a fool, Éilís? Or did you leave that off when you married that great man of yours?’
Éilís scowled, but walked away, leaving Mary shaking.
Hanna reached over and placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t you mind her,’ she said. ‘You’re after taking that Leahy boy to Nance, are you not?’
Mary nodded.
‘You tell Nance Old Hanna knows that piseóg was none of her making.’ She dropped her voice. ‘Any woman could tell you what was in that nest. Sure, there’s plenty blood amongst women, and God himself knows that business is beyond Nance these days. My own self too! No, ’twas a hand closer to home, so I think.’
Mary stared at her, horror-filled.
‘Aye,’ Hanna said, nodding to where Kate Lynch was drawing her water. ‘Kicks her about the house. You mark my words, young Mary Clifford. She’ll kill him one day. If anyone is soft in the mind, ’tis her. His fists have knocked it so.’
Nance stood in the dark, smoking coltsfoot and watching the lane. For three days she had eaten nothing and in her hunger she felt altered, alert. The flare of her pipe was painful bright, her ears pricked to every rustle, every suggestion of movement in the dark. Hunger had hollowed her until she felt like a bodhrán. Tight-skinned, every impression on her body amplified. She thrummed.
Nance heard it then. Cutting through on the still near-dawn, the fox cry of the changeling. She shuddered, sucked on her pipe. Several long minutes passed until Nóra and Mary reached her, following the tiny light of the burning leaf to where she stood in the doorway of her cabin. The widow was walking strangely, her hands curled into fists, her legs wooden. As she got closer Nance saw that the
woman’s jaw was chattering, although there was no frost on the ground. She seemed agitated.
‘God’s blessings on you both.’
‘Faith but ’tis dark this morning.’ Nóra’s voice was high, saddled with expectation.
‘’Tis the last morning. ’Tis always darkest on the last morning.’
‘Were it not for that slip of a moon, we’d be lost.’
‘But you’re here. And Mary, were you afraid to lose the way?’
The girl said nothing, only the white of her apron showing in the gloom. Nance reached for her shoulder and felt her flinch.
‘There now. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’ll be protecting you and ’twill be light soon.’
Mary sniffed, and the changeling cried out again, spooking them all.
Nance held her arms out. ‘He knows we will return him to where he came from. Give him to me, Mary. I’ll carry him down to the water.’
‘He’s too heavy.’
‘I’m strong.’
‘I want to take him. Let me hold him.’
Nance saw Nóra cuff the girl on the shoulder. ‘Give it to Nance.’ The widow turned and addressed her. ‘You’d best be having words with the girl. She’s been whimpering and carrying on all the night through.’
‘Mary? Let me take the fairy.’
‘He knows,’ the girl whispered, as she reluctantly handed the boy over.
‘What?’
‘He knows where we’re going,’ she said, her voice plaintive. ‘As soon as he saw we were on our way to your cabin he started up with the screaming.’
‘Sure, the wee changeling doesn’t want to be going back under hill! He has had you to care for him. But ’tis time to be changing him back for the widow’s grandson.’
‘What will happen to him?’
‘He’ll return to his own kind.’
‘And it won’t hurt him?’
‘Musha, not at all,’ Nance replied, but an image of Maggie crossed her mind. The long scar.
The journey to the river seemed impossibly long with the changeling tight against her chest. The child, alarmed by Nance’s strange hands, cried into the wrinkled skin of her throat as they walked, the dew-strung grass slapping against their skirts. She felt his piss seep through his linen, a spreading warmth against her hand.
The widow whispered excitedly to Nance as they walked.
‘I had a dream last night. ’Twas no ordinary dream. Do you remember Peter O’Connor talking of lights at the Piper’s Grave the night Martin died? I dreamt I was out walking the fields in the near dawn – ’twas a kind of blue as this – and as I neared the fairy place, I saw three lights under the whitethorn. At first I was afraid to see them, but my legs would not stop their walking, and sure, as they brought me closer, I saw the thorn in bloom and the petals were on the wind, and in the raining and fluttering of all that blossom, I saw that the lights were no lights at all, but Johanna and Martin and Micheál.’ Her voice caught on their names. ‘The three of them, Nance, standing under the tree. Waiting for me. And there was music playing of a kind you’ve never heard before.’
‘Fairy music?’
‘Like something the angels might play. Singing, too. And I could see the Good People dancing behind them. Such dancing.’ There was fervency in the widow’s voice. ‘What do you think it means, Nance? Sure, ’tis a good omen. Do you not think ’tis a good omen?’
‘We will find out soon, Nóra Leahy. So, we will find out.’
The valley grew lighter until it became clear enough to see the river, darkly brown and fringed with the green unfurl of bracken, tipping over the stones in high current. Nance, breathing hard, handed Micheál to Mary and undressed, pulling her many layers of felt and wool over her head and folding them on the ground. Her breasts were moon-pale in the early light; the cold air tightened her skin.
‘’Tis the last time then,’ Nance said. She looked at Nóra and saw the widow standing stiffly upright, her arms tightly folded around her chest, eyes wide. Her whole body was trembling.
‘Mary, wait until I am in the river, then pass the boy to me.’
Mary stared at her, face white, saying nothing. She was on the brink of tears.
The cold of the river ripped the breath from her lungs. Nance waded in slowly, wheezing, stumbling as the mud of the bank gave way under her weight, gasping as the waterline rushed over the slack skin of her thighs and belly. God Almighty, it was fierce cold. The current was strong. Her hips ached. She felt the river against her legs, the way it stirred the small stones dislodged by her feet and turned them silently over.
‘Pass him to me now, then, Mary.’ Her teeth chattered and Nance wondered what would happen if she fell in the water. She felt old. Suddenly fragile.
The girl didn’t move. She crouched down on the bank and curled the boy further into her chest.
Nóra took a step towards her. ‘Mary, would you hand it to Nance!’
The girl pushed her face against the top of the boy’s head, averting her eyes. He let out a low groan.
‘Give him to me.’
‘’Tis a sin to be doing this to him,’ she whispered.
Nóra reached for the boy, who shrieked louder, but Mary held on tightly, her arms locked about his chest. She began to cry. Furious, Nóra plucked at her fingers, prying them from the child’s ribcage. ‘You’re a bold girl to be doing this. Shame on you.’ She slapped Mary across the face and the girl cried out, releasing him. Nóra slung the wailing boy over her shoulder, placed a hand over his screams, and stepped directly into the water fully clothed. She waded towards Nance, bracing herself against the press of the river, and offered her the crying child.
‘Please!’ Mary shouted from the bank. ‘Please! ’Tis a sin! ’Tis a sin to be doing this to him!’
Nance, shaking uncontrollably from the cold water, took the changeling and made the sign of the cross over his chest, the skin clinging to the bone. She looked at Nóra standing in the river, her back to Mary. The widow nodded and Nance plunged the screaming child under the water.
Mary collapsed onto the edge of the mossy bank, tears running down her face. ‘’Tis too cold for him!’ she cried. Her hands scrabbled at the dirt and she began to choke on her tears. ‘’Tis a sin!’
‘Whist, Mary,’ Nóra muttered, nodding to Nance as she hauled him up.
‘In the name of God, if you are a fairy, away with you!’
‘Please, Nóra! Please don’t be doing this to him!’
Nance thrust him into the river again, then lifted him clear of its surface, copper hair slick on his forehead, water gurgling from his mouth and eyes. Then finally, before he took a breath to cry again, she tightened her hands about his ribcage and pushed him into the rushing current for the third time. She glanced at Nóra and knew the woman could see the white thrashing of him under the foaming skin of the river, the flash of his hair like the quickening of a fish. Nóra met her eyes and nodded again and placed her hands on Micheál’s chest as Mary wept. Nance locked her arms and looked to the willow, long-fingered with catkins, and the slip of watercress nuzzling the bank. She felt her hands grow painful numb in the racing water, and felt the nick of the boy’s nails on her skin as he flailed, and she looked to the budding iris, their leaves clasped around their yellow flowers like hands folded in prayer, felt the wind in her hair as it suddenly embraced the trees and sent leaves and seed spinning onto the water’s surface, now broken by the child as he raised his hand and clasped at the air above him. Nance closed her eyes and felt his struggles subside and she knew then, without looking at the fight gone out of him, at the eyes glassy, that the river had taken the fairy as one of its own; that the river had taken its due.
PART THREE
When the Hag is in Danger, She Must Run
Annair is cruadh d'n chailligh caithfidh si rith
1826
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Bramble
Mary ran as though the Devil was after her. Splashing through the puddles lying glossy in the fields, over the lane and up the slope, with the flint of the hill studding her feet, pain striking through her heels and dawn light flooding the valley. She ran, her eyes blurred with tears, and her lungs hot and tight, cramps tearing through her side. She ran. She ran with terror pulling at her blood.
It wasn’t until Mary saw the shape of Peg’s cabin on the mountainside that she knew where she should go. Her instinct had been only to flee, to leave the horror at the river and the sight of Micheál’s pale head lolling against the sag of Nance’s body.
They had killed him.
Oh God in Heaven, they had murdered him and she had seen it, had let it happen.
The stillness of that little body as he was lifted from the water, ribs pressing against the skin of his torso, the drops slipping from his feet, falling back into the river. The triumphant, happy crying of Nóra, her skirt puffed about her, air trapped under the weave, as she had turned and, exalted, pointed to a blooming flagger. The head hanging at an angle, throat exposed to the sky above. And the birds: the birds suddenly filling the trees so that Mary’s shrieking was drowned out by their dawn chorus. All the birds, screaming at the light.
Mary ran until, tripping on a hidden stone, she fell, her hands immediately rising bloody from the scrape along the ground. She sat in the flint and soil and howled, bog-soaked, terrified.
It took an hour before Peg O’Shea could calm Mary and understand what it was she was saying.
The sound of the girl’s screaming had woken the house, and her son-in-law had run out to see what had happened. He had returned, carrying Nóra’s maid in his arms. She was in muddy hysterics, unable to talk, her breathing fast and rapid and her body shaking so hard that Peg had made her daughter swaddle the girl in a blanket and hold her fast.
‘Mary, what has happened to you? Tell us what has happened.’
The girl wailed, her nose streaming, mouth open.