I blurted it out then. “Your coin didn’t even help to save the Neelys,” I said. “I dropped it into the well.”
She reached out with both her hands and put them on my cheeks. “The well, but why?”
I spread out my hands. “I thought the bailiff was in back of me, but it was only the dog.”
“The dog,” Anna said.
I couldn’t tell her where the dog was. Instead I sat there staring at the fire. “When Da comes home …,” I began. “I haven’t forgotten. We will give the coin to you first. Somehow.”
Anna leaned forward. She traced the line of my chin with her hand. “We will talk about this,” she said. “I have things to say to you. But now you must take the milk to Patch.”
I hooked the pail’s handle under my fingers and went to the door with it. “I know so much about the plants now.” I stopped, looking down at the milk. “I’ll never forget.” I’d be like Anna now, able to heal.
“And something else,” I said. “I will never leave you. I will stay with you always, and take care of you.”
She raised her head, smiled, and shook her head the slightest bit.
I took the pail to the end of the field, glancing around to be sure no one on the road might take it away from me. I kept calling until at last Patch raised his head and came to me across the wall.
CHAPTER
16
After Patch finished the milk we ran our fingers around the inside of the pail, licking each finger until there was nothing left. I began to think. If Devlin had taken Anna’s cow and her pig, if Devlin had come for the rent …
What about our rent, and Da not home with the money?
What about Muc? What about Biddy and her sister?
I left the pail on its side. I took Patch’s hand. “We must go home, a stór,” I told him. “We must go quickly.”
We went down the road, Patch dragging his feet. My own legs felt like pieces of lumber that had washed up in the surf: numb and heavy. But somehow we crossed the stony field to our doorway.
Granda was on the floor, rooting through one of the baskets, mumbling to himself. Celia was kneeling at the hearth, blowing on the turf. No one else was there. I leaned against the doorway, holding my side, trying to catch my breath. They looked up. Celia’s nose twitched—a sign she was going to say something I didn’t like. “I’m going to kill Biddy’s sister,” she said. “She hasn’t laid an egg in days. She doesn’t have enough to eat.”
My mouth watered. Poor sister. I couldn’t help it.
Granda glanced up at me, waiting for me to say it wasn’t a good idea. But I couldn’t. He went back to rooting in the basket and pulled out an old frieze jacket. “Warm enough for this weather,” he said, brushing it.
I hardly paid attention. “Devlin hasn’t been here then,” I said.
Granda stopped brushing and Celia turned away from the hearth, still on her heels.
“He took Anna’s cow,” I said. “And her pig.”
Celia rubbed her hands on her skirt. “We have to count on Muc and the piglets to come.”
“Six piglets,” Patch said.
“We don’t have the money for the rent,” I said, shaking my head.
“If only Da were here.” Celia lowered her head. “Was he ever this late in coming?”
He’d always come by this time, I thought. “If he could be anywhere, he’d want to be here.”
“I know that,” she said. “Do you think something has happened?”
I didn’t want to answer. The ship might have foundered. He could have starved on the road. He could be sick.
Granda sat, thinking. “When Devlin comes, you will ask him for a few days,” he said. “I will go to Galway to find your father.”
Celia said, “I will go.”
Just then we heard the horse coming down the road. My hands began to shake. With one movement, Celia grabbed up Biddy’s sister and was out the door with Patch in back of her. She darted around the side of the house, holding on to the hen. I shooed Biddy out, but there wasn’t time to do anything about Muc.
At the doorway I watched the horse come closer. Devlin was on his way from the Mallons’, coming toward us. Outside Biddy’s sister clucked, more than clucked, screeched. Inside I heard Granda fall over something, metal clattering against the stones of the hearth, Granda groaning.
Devlin wheeled the horse around, dust flying. “I’ve come for the rent,” he said.
I hardly paid attention to him. I went back into the house to Granda. He pulled himself to his feet and I reached for him, holding him tight.
Devlin had followed me inside. “You know why I’m here.”
“My da …” I could hardly speak. “He’s fishing out of Galway. As soon as—”
“The rent is due, and half from last time.”
I shook my head.
“I will tumble the house and put you out on the road,” he said. “But for now I will have the pig and the hen.” He walked back to the doorway, his hands sweeping over the field.
By the mercy of God the other hen had stopped screeching.
“You will still owe the rent.” He glanced across the yard at poor Biddy pecking on something, at Muc trying to find a blade of grass to ease her hunger. He pulled a small book out from under his cape and wrote something in it. “Bring them to the dock. They’ll have a sea trip to England.”
Then he was on his horse again, following the road away from us. Granda sat down heavily in front of the fire, and Celia appeared with scratches on her face and hands.
“You saved the hen,” I said, and ran my hand along her reddened cheek. “You are a great girl, a stór.”
“And you,” she said, “you as well.”
That afternoon, I thought, was the saddest in my life. “Send the sister off,” I told Celia. “We will keep Biddy.”
“Eat Biddy?” Celia asked, shocked.
“Never,” I said.
She nodded. “That is why we must keep the sister and let Biddy go.”
I knew what she was saying. If we did not eat soon, how could we go on?
We made a meal of the sister, closing the door tightly, hoping that no one would come. Still, I saved two morsels for Anna. I would have saved a third for Sean Red because he would have done that for me, but they had sent him down to work on a road near the bay and I didn’t know when he would be back.
When the poor little meal was finished, Granda stood up. “I will go down to Galway to find your father before it is too late.”
Once his mind was made up, neither of us could change it. Celia and I stared at each other, thinking of what had to be done. I spoke first. “Celia will go with you. She is older and stronger.”
Words I would never have said before. And what I didn’t say was that staying in this house alone at night with Patch was the worst thing I could think of and I couldn’t do that to Celia.
“And Nory will watch out for Patch.” Celia bit her lip. “She will wait on the chance that we miss Da.”
Only one road went to Galway, and it wound along the coast like a ball of yarn let loose, Da had said. “You won’t miss him if he’s there,” I told her. “Just stay on the road.”
Celia and I stared at each other. We knew we might never be together again. “I will hear you singing always,” she said.
They left early the next morning, moving slowly enough for me to take the comb out of the basket and run after Celia with both pieces. “Take it,” I said. “Keep it, half yours and half mine.”
“I know why you said you’d stay,” she said, taking one of the pieces and pressing the other into my hand. “I will never forget it.”
I wanted to tell her I remembered that day we had broken the comb, remembered her staring at Patch’s bed and deciding not to take the road to Galway. If she had, I thought, she wouldn’t be taking this terrible trip now. She’d be in Brooklyn, America, safe. I couldn’t say that, though. I’d never get the words out. I ducked my head. “Celia, loyal and true,” I managed
.
She ran a strand of my hair through her fingers the way Maggie had done. “Stay alive.”
I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t even speak.
She ducked out the door. She grabbed Patch up from the step, hugged him, then took Granda’s hand. She turned one last time. “Someday …”
I knew she was thinking of Smith Street, Brooklyn, and all of us together. Except that she didn’t know they would be there and I would be here. I could never leave Anna. I owed it to her to stay.
We stood there and waved, Patch and I; then it fell to me to wrap Biddy, limp and quiet, in a bag, and to tie a rope around Muc’s neck.
Muc. How we had counted on her piglets! I remembered when Da had brought her home. “One day,” he had said, eyes crinkling, “we’ll have piglets for the rent. With turf in the hearth, potatoes in the pit, and a thatch on the roof, we’ll need nothing more to keep us happy.”
“Unless it’s a bit of soil that belongs to us,” Granda had said sharply. “A land that’s free of the English.”
I shook my head, then left Patch with Anna and took the road to the harbor. I wasn’t alone. A long line of people were leading animals. Mrs. Mallon with two goats, someone with a pony and three or four pigs.
I thought about singing. I even opened my mouth, but my throat was dry and not a sound came out. Instead I just walked with the others. All of us were quiet; only the animals made sounds.
One of Devlin’s men rattled by on a cart with a few pieces of furniture: a wooden chair, a settle, a pile of rusty tools.
At the dock in the noise and the rain, I saw Anna’s cow and her pig, and men whipping animals onto planks of wood that led to a ship. It was a ship filled with food that was going away from us forever.
And then I hurried home to smoor the fire. Patch and I went to bed without food, to think about Brooklyn, New York, and Celia and Granda out on the road to Galway.
CHAPTER
17
Which was worse? Being alone in the dark house with Patch, or having nothing to eat but warm water with a few leaves floating around on top? No mussels were left, no limpets, no dulse. Strangers had come to the sea and taken everything, and now even they were gone.
I sat at the hearth that night, glad that Da had left us with enough turf to burn until he came back. I closed my eyes, missing him so much I had a pain in my chest. For a moment I saw him under the waves. I sat up straight. I couldn’t think about that. And then I saw it, poking out of a basket. My knitting. Better yet, Celia’s. Two shawls. Mine was fuafar, but the other was lovely. “Great girl, a stór, Celia,” I whispered.
Patch looked up from his wall of stones. “Are you saying your prayers, Nory?”
I smiled at him. “No, talking to my own self.” I patted the floor next to me and he scooted over, skinny as a strand of the wool.
“Do you remember potatoes?” He had the sound of an old man.
I gave him a hug. “I’ll knit these shawls as fast as I can, and we will take them to Ballilee straightaway and sell them.”
“For coins?” Patch asked dreamily.
“Yes,” I said, “and we will turn those coins into food. What do you think of that?”
I turned Celia’s shawl right side out, then wrong side out. I fiddled with the needles. Knit next? Purl? Do something about fringe? I sat there with the knitting in my lap, staring first at the wool, the color of oats, and then at the turf in the hearth, bits of glowing orange blocks. My legs were heavy and my arms weak. It was hard to think.
Patch shook me. “Don’t sleep, Nory.”
I jumped. The fire was low now, and outside it was dark. I sat absolutely still, trying to listen to the creakings that might mean footsteps. The sídhe. Or strangers looking for food, looking for turf, ready to take them from me.
On my lap was food, a shawl to be turned into coins, turned into a loaf of bread, if I could just think about how to do it. I took a breath. “We will go to Anna’s,” I said, “and show her the shawl and she’ll tell me how to finish it.”
“And she will give us milk,” Patch said.
I shook my head. “No. The cow is gone. Gone with Muc and Biddy to England. They will be English animals now, not Irish.”
I thought about leaving Patch there in the house alone. I wondered if he was too weak to walk across the double field to Anna’s. But I could see him falling asleep, leaning forward, and tumbling into the fire.
Not only that, I was afraid to go alone.
The wet grass squeaked under our feet. I closed the door carefully so no traveler would think it was empty, and took Patch’s hand in mine. I knew the sídhe searched for boys to drag down into their rings. But Patch’s skirt was long enough to dip along the ground, and his hair covered his ears. No one could guess he was a boy.
I stood in front of the closed door and peered across the yard and at the road. I looked everywhere to be sure no one was out there. “Come on now,” I said. “We are safe.”
The Mallons’ house was a black smudge in the fog, the stone walls sleeping, the worn path quiet as we tiptoed over it. We ran the last few feet, breathless. I raised my hand to knock at Anna’s door, but before I touched the wood, the door opened, and we rushed inside.
Anna looked pale and sick, but her voice was strong. “It is late for a visit,” she said.
I held up the knitting. “I don’t know how to finish this.”
She took the shawl from me and put it on the table. I was so glad to be there, so glad Patch and I weren’t alone, that I sank down on the floor in front of her hearth.
Anna swung the kettle over the fire, and when the water bubbled up she threw in a handful of dried herbs.
Patch was asleep in an instant, fallen across the straw in the corner. Anna covered him with a rusty black coat and came back to the fire to give me a cup of the water and to pour one for herself.
I sipped at the bitter drink, telling myself not to think about the trip back to my own dark house, or the mist outside, or the sídhe hiding in the hedges to grab at our feet.
Instead I watched Anna take the bundled-up knitting from the table. As I took the last sip, she moved closer to the fire and began to knit. She picked at the wool, patted it, dug the needles into it, and then her fingers were flying, the yarn moving up and over one needle and across to the other.
Patch’s breath was soft and even in his corner. I breathed with him, thinking of Maggie and Da, of Celia and Granda out on the road, and of Sean Red. Where was he sleeping? Was he lying on the side of the road near the bay, freezing this night, or had he made it back to his house? I shivered.
And then I thought of Anna’s son, Tague. If it had been daytime with the door open and the light coming in I would never have asked. But inside we were close together, and warm, with the fire throwing great shadows on the stone walls. The only sounds were the click-click of the needles and Patch’s breath, and I blurted out, “Tell me about Tague.”
The needles clicked for another moment. Then she began to talk. “He was always singing, never still. And after he was gone the whole world seemed quiet. I thought there’d never be another like him.”
I swallowed my tea.
“But then,” she said, “years later, I began to watch someone, a small child backed up against a wall, her mother dying, and there was nothing I could do.” She held out her hands. “Nothing I knew would save that young mother.”
I made a sound. Mam. Of course, she would have tried to save Mam. How could I have thought otherwise?
Anna nodded. “This child had such love in her, a laughing child, brave like my son. She sang. She climbed over walls. She left gates open. She danced through the cemetery and over the cliffs.”
Anna ran her old hands over the shawl in her lap. “And I loved her for that. Loved her always.”
Me. She was talking about me.
“But there was more,” Anna said. “I had spent a lifetime learning about plants and what they could do to heal.” She bent her head. “I had to tea
ch all this to someone. I knew that the girl who sang, the little girl who could remember the words and the songs, would remember the herbs and the magic of them.”
She looked up and I could see the tears in those faded blue eyes. “But she was afraid,” Anna said. “Afraid of my magic, afraid of me.”
I pressed my knuckles against my mouth. “Oh, Anna,” I said.
She reached forward, grasping my hand. “My coin didn’t matter. I’m an old woman and it doesn’t make any difference if I die, as long as I pass that healing on to you.”
I wiped the tears that dripped down my own cheeks. I was bursting with love for her. I reached out to pull her close to me and leaned my head against her cap.
CHAPTER
18
I dreamed of an apple, a shiny green one. The sweetness of it was in my mouth and the juice ran down my chin. I opened my eyes. Patch and I lay in a tangle of old coats with bits of straw covering us. Anna stood next to the bed with an apple in her hand.
Still a dream, I thought.
But this apple wasn’t shiny green; it was wrinkled and almost as gray as the cloth that was tucked up under my chin.
An apple.
“Where did you get that?” I leaned up on one elbow, but Patch reached across me. Anna was almost smiling. “I saved it.” She put it in his hand.
We sat on the edge of her bed, Patch and I, taking turns. I held it out to Anna once, and then a second time, but she shook her head and motioned for us to eat. We ate until it was finished, core gone, seeds gone, everything gone, even the stem. And Anna watched, nodding.
We lay back against the straw, wishing for something else to put into our mouths, wishing for another apple. Patch began to whimper. I put my hand on his arm to stop him from saying what I wanted to say myself.
He said it anyway. “Do you have another apple, Anna, please?”
She touched his soft hair. “I finished the shawl during the night,” she said. “The wool is good, and the stitches are fine and even.”