Authors: Marita Conlon-Mckenna
Fields of Home (12 page)
‘Would he sell this holding?’ she whispered.
‘Maybe,’ John shrugged his shoulders. ‘But some are saying that us tenants should have the first right to buy at a fair price!’
‘Sure, what use would that be if we don’t have the money? They have us caught!’ said Eily angrily. ‘You know we could never afford to buy our farm.’
John stared moodily at the dying embers of the fire. ‘This is our home, Eily, and we’ve both worked hard on this land. They might evict a poor old woman like Agnes because she can no longer grow crops or fix up her cabin, but they’ll not evict us. I’ve no intention of letting them take our land!’
‘Promise?’ she said softly.
‘I promise,’ said John hoarsely, reaching for her hand.
MARY-BRIGID GASPED
when she saw her father’s face next morning. She watched, perplexed, as he walked slowly around the kitchen as if all his bones hurt. His left eye had turned a horrible purple-black colour.
‘Daddy! Daddy! What happened to you?’ she screamed, half-afraid.
‘I was in a bit of a fight, pet, and now I’ll have to take it easy for a few days.’
Mary-Brigid’s head was full of questions about who her father had been fighting and why, but one look at her mother’s white face and blotchy, tear-stained eyes, told her not to say too much.
‘Hurry along, Mary-Brigid, or you’ll be late for school!’ urged Eily, lacing up the child’s heavy black brogues and fetching a small can of milk and a wrapped chunk of soda bread for her.
Mary-Brigid ran to say goodbye to her father before setting off on the three-quarters-of-a-mile walk with her mother to the small white-washed school at the crossroads.
‘Ouch!’ he said, as she flung her arms around his neck. ‘Listen, pet, not a word about this to your teacher or any of your friends, d’ye hear?’
‘Yes, Daddy.’
‘If anyone asks you, Mary-Brigid, your daddy was at home here with us all night,’ added Eily.
Mary-Brigid stared from one to the other. She didn’t understand a bit of it, and now her mammy and daddy wanted her to tell a lie on top of everything else.
‘’Twill be a lie,’ she said softly.
‘’Twill be a fib,’ said her mother, ‘and one that you will tell if anyone asks you. You’re a big girl now and you know enough not to discuss the goings-on of last night with anyone.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Mary-Brigid, who, if the truth be told, felt more like a small scared girleen than a big girl who could be trusted to keep a secret.
The Hennessys were gone. Not a single one of the boys came to school and the schoolmaster was right annoyed with them. Joe Clancy, a twelve-year-old neighbour, had called to the cottage door, only to find it wide open. There wasn’t a trace of the twins or any of the family. They’d all scarpered.
‘Gone! Just gone!’ he told the whole class, as Mary-Brigid pretended to look at the map of Ireland on the wall and tried to make sense of what was going on.
The next few days she spent helping Eily with the heavy chores, trying to hold the cow steady as her mother milked it, and helping to clean out the small, stinking pigpen, while her father remained hidden indoors until the bruises on his face began to fade.
She missed the twins. ‘Twas lucky that she had the little cat to remember them by. She couldn’t help but wonder where they had run off to. At school Sally Nolan told her that the police were searching for Mr Hennessy. They said that he had half-killed the land agent and if they caught him he’d be put in prison forever or hung.
Mary-Brigid could hardly play or sleep with the worry of it all, and her dreams were haunted by the vision of her daddy in irons and chains being transported to some far-off land.
MICHAEL PATTED MORNING BOY’S SILKY COAT
. The large burn on his side had started to heal, the skin and hair finally knitting together. Glengarry was busy grazing, her long neck bent, her jaws chomping on the blades of grass. One hoof was held at an awkward angle, not supporting her properly. Both horses were still recovering from the fire. All the other horses had gone at this stage, sold off to the highest bidders, a few going to England.
Young Brendan had been offered a job with Mr Delahunt. ‘I’ll still see some of our horses, Michael,’ he said. ‘Won’t that be grand?’
Michael had to suppress a pang of jealousy as he saw the younger lad’s eager and excited face.
Toss Byrne had come down to the stables as the
horses were being sold off, moving among the burnt-out buildings. He gave Michael a horse-blanket, two worn bridles and two full sets of harness. Toss said goodbye to the horses in his own fashion. Michael watched the way he went up to each one of them, right up close, his head and lips almost touching their pointed ears, talking to them, whispering to them.
Michael watched as the old man walked towards Glengarry, his voice slow and soothing, getting her to lift her head and listen to him.
‘Michael!’ He beckoned, and Michael swung himself up over the wooden fence into the paddock.
Toss was whispering away in a low voice to the horse.
‘Michael, stand beside me! Listen to me!’ ordered Toss. Michael came nearer. ‘Michael, you already have the gift of handling horses,’ said Toss. ‘You like them and care about them and they know and feel it. They trust you because you treat them like intelligent animals, recognising that they get sad and nervous, and angry and scared, and happy and giddy, just like we humans do.’
‘Aye!’ agreed Michael.
‘Michael, you know I have no children, no sons. Today I want to give you a gift – well, much of it you already have. This was passed from my father to me. He got it from his father before him. Move right up
close by me.’ Michael stood beside the horse, his hand stroking her side. ‘Just listen!’
Toss began to whisper and Michael could make out the horse’s name, Glengarry. Toss whispered of wind in the trees and green grass growing, of soft rain that fell, and night sky that drew in and stars that watched from above. He spoke of horses that pulled and ploughed and helped man to till the earth that God gave them. He told of horses that carried men into battle in the names of kings and queens, of all the animal kingdom large and small, and of the horse’s place as a friend of man.
Glengarry stood totally still, listening, ears pricked, eyes wide and alert as the whispering went on. Toss spoke of times past, times present and times to come. He spoke of the races she’d run, the foals she’d had and would have, and the races they too would run.
Michael barely dared to breathe. Toss whispered to Glengarry of the life-blood that coursed through her body, the energy that must travel to heal her damaged leg and hoof. She seemed to whinny softly, blowing air down her velvety nostrils. Her heart seemed to beat strong and steady as the voice talked on and on to her.
As Michael listened the words changed. They did not seem like normal words, but ran together – it wasn’t Gaelic or English or French. But he could sort of understand it, just the way Glengarry seemed to.
Then Toss’s voice trailed off. Glengarry sniffed at the man’s head and hair, and Toss patted her playfully.
‘Aye! She’s a good one, Michael, a right good one,’ said the older man as they walked back across the field.
‘Thank you, Toss!’ said Michael. ‘I’ve never heard the gift of whispering before, it’s a rare thing.’
‘Now you must try it. It’ll help you with the horses in future, Michael, mark my words. Call Morning Boy!’
The young horse loved attention and cantered over immediately. Michael was nervous as he bent towards Morning Boy’s neck. ‘Morning Boy, born as the moon dipped and the sun rose warm from earth …’ whispered Michael.
* * *
It was only a few days’ walk to Eily’s home. Michael
took it good and easy with the horses. Glengarry’s leg was improving, but she was still fairly lame.
Walking through the open countryside reminded Michael of the time before when, hungry and scared, dressed in rags and starving, he had walked – walked because his very life had depended on it – with his sisters, Eily and Peggy, at the height of the Great Famine.
He gave a sigh of relief when he finally reached the townland where Eily’s cottage was. He had so much to tell them all, about the fire, and the Bucklands, and his
two horses. Another mile or two and he would see the whitewash of his sister’s cottage, where old aunt Nano would make him sit down like a travelling storyteller and go through all that had happened. He grinned to himself, longing to see them all again.
TO TELL THE TRUTH
, Mary-Brigid was glad to be outside and away from the cottage. Ever since the night her father had come home all bruised and cut, it was if a dark shadow, like a big black crow, had spread its wings and settled itself over them all.
She didn’t rightly understand it, and no-one had explained it to her, but it had something to do with the landlord and what had happened to old Agnes and the sudden disappearance of the Hennessys.
Her mother and father had changed too. Nowadays they were mostly quiet, as if they were watching and waiting for something to happen. Auntie Nano prayed and prayed – Mary-Brigid had never seen anyone pray so much. The old lady’s lips moved even in her sleep,
and Mary-Brigid could almost hear the words of a prayer. Jodie, even though he was only a small boy, sensed that all was not well and had become cranky and cross, and had her tormented with wanting to play and be distracted.
At least outside, with the soft breeze blowing and the white clouds scudding across the sky, they could try and forget about it.
‘Jodie!’ she shouted. ‘Look at the heron!’
Her brother’s dark, curly head turned skywards and they both watched the huge bird spread its wings and lift its long legs as it flapped to gain more height, flying slowly in a wide circle over their farm.
‘What’s he looking for?’ asked Jody.
‘A fish. A little flap from a fish in the stream or in the lake,’ she said, wondering if the heron could see them at all.
As the bird flew out of sight, Mary-Brigid became aware of the gentle clip-clop of a horse close by. She listened, wondering who would be out so near their home at this hour of the day. She had strict instructions to run home as quick as lightning if she caught sight of the landlord or any of his men, or, God forbid, the constable!
She held her breath, waiting to grab Jodie and run with him. Then she spotted the familiar dark curly hair and kind open face of Michael, her mother’s brother.
He was leading two horses, a fine big strong-looking one, though she seemed to be walking lame, and the most beautiful foal that Mary-Brigid had ever seen.
‘Michael!’ she screamed. ‘Uncle Michael!’
She ran like a whirlwind to met him, her dress flying around her as she raced across the tussocks of grass.
The two horses stopped, curious. Her uncle lifted her into his arms and hugged her.