Galway Bay (4 page)

“I’ll go first and explain. You see, my family thinks I’m going into the convent in September.”

“What?” Michael shouted, startling Champion, who pulled away from him. “You—a nun?”

As Michael grabbed for the reins, I started running, my loose hair streaming out behind me. “We’ll sort it out later,” I yelled over my shoulder to him. “I can’t be late for Máire’s wedding!”

Chapter 3

S
UCH RUCTIONS AND UPSETS
—worse than the riptides in Galway Bay itself. “Honora the Good having a wee court with a handsome gypsy laddie. Wonderful!” Máire said, and laughed.

But Da was very angry. “You can be sure the rest of this lad’s band is waiting for us to be dancing at the crossroads, so they can sweep into Bearna and rob every house,” he said.

“Best of luck to them. They’ll find little worth stealing,” said Granny.

“He’s not a gypsy,” I said, “though I wouldn’t care if he was.”

“Enough,” Mam said. “You and I, Honora, will go to Miss Lynch tomorrow, in case she was watching from her window and got the wrong idea.”

“In
case
, Mam?” Máire said. “I’m sure she watched every move and motion.”

“We were behind the rock, Máire. She couldn’t have seen much—”

“
Stop
right there, Honora,” Da said. “In less than three months you will join the Holy Sisters and be a credit to us and every fisher family in Bearna.”

“But I can’t be a nun. Michael Kelly came to me out of the sea this morning—like in one of your stories, Granny!”

“What are you talking about, Honora?” Mam said.

“I fell in love, Mam, like Deirdre did and Grainne and Queen Maeve.”

“Honora, whist!” Da said.

“You don’t understand, Da! I’m not the girl I was this morning. I’m changed. . . .”

My three brothers rushed into the room, Dennis going right up to Da, nearly as tall as him at only fifteen. “The gypsy’s gone,” he said.

“We saw him ride away!” said Joseph, thirteen, small like Mam and Máire, bouncing on his toes, swinging his hurley.

Hughie, just six, came over to me. “A mighty horse, Honora!”

“Well, that’s done and dusted,” Mam said. “Now, could we go to the chapel? The whole parish is waiting for us.”

“Not to mention the groom,” Máire said. She shooed us out the door toward the chapel, then pulled me back from the others. “Fellows like that mean no harm. A bit of sport with a pretty girl, then on their way.”

“Not Michael, Máire. He was serious.”

“Did he give you a time and place to meet him?”

“We didn’t have a chance. We—”

“Well then”—she shrugged—“a nice memory to take with you to the convent.”

“Honora, Máire, hurry!” Mam called to us.

He’ll have slipped into the chapel. I’d told him about the wedding. He’ll be there among the guests.

He wasn’t. All the while Father Gilley was joining this man and this woman, I was sneaking looks from our front for-the-family pew at the congregation behind me. Not a sign of Michael in the rows of fisher families, all the Bearna ones, the Clare and Claddagh people, too, and our Keeley cousins from Connemara come in their hookers and púcáns. Had he found a place among the farming men and their wives who’d walked down from the hills? A surprising number here. There’s Rich John Dugan, a man with a lease of thirty acres and a herd of ten cows, and a friend of Da’s. But not a glimpse of Michael. Nor was he standing in the back with the cottiers and laborers who never missed any wake or wedding.

Michael was off to see the wide world. A very small world, this one, crammed into Bearna Chapel. What adventure here? Still, when Michael lifted the water to my lips, I . . .

Face front. Quick. Miss Lynch has caught me turning around. Had she seen Michael and me on the strand? I don’t care. I’ll tell her I’ve changed my mind. Hadn’t Mother Superior said there was a trial period, to make sure? Michael hasn’t left. He couldn’t have.

The ceremony ended. Máire winked at me as she came down the aisle holding Johnny’s arm. She does know about fellows. A bit of sport? I can’t believe that—not of Michael.

A hundred or so people walked up to Paddy’s Cross for the dancing, one half chatting about the wedding, the other half wondering out loud about Honora Keeley and the gypsy. Farmer and fisherman united in gossip.

I’d ducked away from Máire and Johnny and my family, who were talking to Miss Lynch, and was searching the crowd for Michael. Near me I heard Rich John Dugan, say, “A tinker, surely, or where would he get the horse?”

John Joe Clancy, a fisherman, answered, “He probably stole it. The soldiers will be upon us in no time and a disaster altogether.”

“That boyo’s long gone,” Dugan said. “He was seen riding hell for leather along the high road. Good riddance.”

Long gone? Please God, no.

Father Gilley rode past me, nodding his head at the “God bless you, Fathers” that came up from the crowd.

Granny Keeley came up next to me. “Sure, look at him on that fine horse—the king! That man would never risk his head to say Mass for people gathered at a secret place the way priests did in the penal days.”

“Granny, what if Michael Kelly’s gone? What if I never see him again? I’ll die.”

“You won’t.”

“I can’t go to the convent, as if nothing’s happened. I love him. God sent Michael, I’ll tell Miss Lynch. Marriage is a holy vocation, too. Wasn’t Saint Bridget always matching couples?”

“I did think it a shame that after you spent so much time learning my stories you’d not be telling them to your own children when I’m gone. Never saw you as a nun, Honora, so even without Michael Kelly coming along, I—”

“Don’t say ‘without Michael Kelly,’ Granny, please. I don’t want a world without Michael Kelly.”

“Honora, catch yourself on. Have some sense.”

I heard the music. The fiddler McNamara from Doneen. But also . . . “Granny. Listen . . . the pipes! He’s here, I know it! Michael Kelly’s here.”

And there he was, sitting on a big rock near the crossroads, playing the uilleann pipes. He had the bag tucked under his elbow and was pumping his arm to push the air in and out while his fingers moved up and down the chanter.

“He didn’t leave. He didn’t.”

I started toward him, but Granny stopped me. “Don’t make a show of yourself. The neighbors are watching,” she said. “Remember, this is Máire’s wedding. Don’t interrupt the dancing. Wait.”

I found Máire and Johnny and told them the piper was Michael Kelly. “He’s good, isn’t he?” I said.

“And charging nothing,” Johnny said. “The fiddler McNamara said this fellow was waiting here at the crossroads, pipes ready.”

“He’s good-looking,” Máire said. “Not that I’ll be noticing men anymore.”

“Better not, Pearl,” said Johnny as he put his arm around her and brought her into the reel.

Da and Mam were right in the middle of the dancers. I’ll tell them about Michael when they stop for breath. Granny stood close to me. I didn’t dare to even try to catch Michael’s eye. He’s seen me. I’m sure of it.

After two more sets, Da called for the dancing to stop. He’d jugs of poitín from Connemara to pass around, and the bonfire my brothers and Johnny made from dried whin bushes and fallen tree branches pilfered from Barna Woods was ready to light.

Johnny and Máire threw a burning piece of turf on the mound. It blazed up to great cheers—St. John’s Fire, a celebration of the Baptist and of midsummer’s night. The jugs went around the circle at the bonfire. I saw Michael walk away into the darkness beyond Paddy’s Cross. Granny had moved closer to the flames.

I can’t wait any longer. I slipped away. He was leaning against a stone wall, watching Champion graze in a small bit of pasture. I reached my hand out to him. He took it.

“You didn’t leave.”

“How could I? Champion likes this place,” he said, “as much as I do. And the farmer only charged me a few pennies.”

“Good.”

Michael pointed across to the far hills where other bonfires flamed out against the darkness. “At home we drive the cattle through Saint John’s Fire to bring health to the herd.”

“Not many herds left around here,” I said.

“Some good land, though. Champion and I have been looking today.”

“You have?”

“We’d want to lease a good few acres, high up, with a clear view of Galway Bay.”

“Michael, I was so afraid you’d left.”

“I’m going nowhere, Honora.” He tucked me under his arm, holding me as carefully as he had his pipes, and I . . .

“God bless all here.” Granny.

“Granny, this is Michael Kelly.”

“I know.”

“My granny, Mrs. Keeley,” I started.

“I’m very glad . . . ,” Michael began, but Granny waved him quiet.

She filled her pipe from a small tobacco pouch and tamped it down. Michael took a piece of straw to the bonfire, came back, and lit the pipe for her.

“Thank you,” she said to him. “Good tobacco. My son gave Máire a fine wedding.” She drew on the pipe. “Her husband Johnny’s a fisherman. The right kind of match,” she said. She puffed again and then exhaled some smoke. “He’d never allow a daughter of his to marry a smuggler or an outlaw.”

“I’m not one of those. You have my word,” Michael said.

“You’re not a settled man.”

“I was and will be again,” Michael said. “I’ll work hard. Honora will want for nothing.”

“There’s a price money can’t pay,” Granny said. “Has Honora told you about our kinswoman Queen Maeve?”

“She mentioned the relationship.”

“Did she explain Maeve’s bride price?”

“I didn’t, Granny,” I said.

“Then I will. Fadó,” Granny began, and settled herself on a big rock near the wall.

“A long time ago,” I whispered to Michael.

Granny pointed to the low wall, and Michael and I sat on it. Granny nodded at us.

“Maeve was a great queen, ruling her kingdom fairly. She felt no need of a husband because under the law in those times a woman’s power and position didn’t depend on a man.”

“The Brehon laws,” I put in.

Granny nodded, then went on. “Maeve’s soldiers were her thigh companions, and all was well with her. But one day she decided she did want a husband to be at her side—a king as noble as she was herself. So. Maeve set her own bride price. Three requirements—and what was the first one, Honora?”

“She required a man without meanness,” I recited, “because she was great in grace and giving, and a stingy man would embarrass her.”

“What about that, Michael Kelly? Are you a generous man?” Granny asked.

“I was taught to offer the Fáilte Ui Cheallaigh, the Welcome of the Kellys, to one and all, and never to pass a beggar by.”

“Good.” Granny went on, “Maeve demanded a man without fear. Why, Honora?”

“Because she liked a bit of contention and wanted a man easy with give and take.”

We both looked at Michael.

“I’ve got that one all right. Didn’t I tell you, Honora, Kelly
means
‘contention’? I was reared on give and take.”

Granny nodded. “Fine. Now the third one—tell him, Honora.”

“Maeve needed a man without jealousy because she liked to have one man in the shadow of the other.”

Granny and I waited.

Michael didn’t say anything. Then, “Without jealousy,” he said. “That might be hard. My father often recited this poem: ‘Love comes and goes, but jealousy is bred in the bone.’ A monk wrote that verse in the margin of the manuscript of the Book of the Hy Many, the history of the Kellys. I used to think that if even monks feel that way . . .” He took a breath. “I don’t envy anyone and I’m not a begrudger, but if another man . . . Maeve had thigh companions, you say?”

“But I wouldn’t, Michael,” I said. “Other men, I mean. Even Maeve didn’t—”

“She did,” said Granny.

“But, Granny,
you
said ‘without jealousy’ means more than just . . . Well, Miss Lynch says there’s symbols in poems and stories and paintings, one thing standing for another. A rose means Our Lady, so the thigh companions are symbolic, and no jealousy means trust and—”

“No jealousy,” Granny said to Michael.

“All right. If the thigh companions are symbols and not . . . then I will. I do. I mean I can be a man without jealousy and without . . . what else?”

“Meanness,” Granny said.

“No meanness, I agree to that.”

“Fear?” I asked.

“No fear. I have that one,” Michael said.

“Jealousy?”

“Yes. I mean, no jealousy—at least not on purpose.”

“Good. You may speak to my son.”

I jumped off the wall and went to Granny, Michael following after.

“Thank you, thank you,” I said, and hugged her thin frame.

“I’m grateful,” Michael said.

“I’m not saying Honora’s father will accept you. There are practical matters to be considered.” She stood. Though Granny’s as tall as most men, she had to look up at Michael.

“I do have skills,” he said to her. “I’m a blacksmith as well as a piper.”

“But you’re far from your home place,” she said.

“Not by choice, but maybe not by chance, either. I planned to go adventuring, but now, well, a tale can take a turn.”

“It can,” Granny agreed. “Honora herself was headed down another path.”

“She mentioned that,” Michael said. “I surely wouldn’t want to interfere with . . .”

I spoke up. “I’m not going to the convent. Granny agreed. She’s glad,” I said.

“But your mother’s not happy and your father’s confused. You must explain to them before Michael meets them,” Granny said.

“I will, of course.”

“What age are you, Michael?” Granny asked.

“Eighteen.”

“Isn’t that perfect, Granny? Máire says if a man waits too long to get married, he gets set in his ways.”

“Mmm. It’s not only time shapes the character. Maeve needed a man well able for a strong woman. So does Honora.”

“I know,” he said, “and I will try to be worthy of her—a husband without meanness or fear or jealousy.”

“I believe you will. Now. I’ll tell my son to expect you tomorrow.” She left us.

“I should go, too,” I said. “I see Mam and Da leaving the bonfire.”

Michael took my hand. “Slán abhaile, Honora. Until tomorrow.”