The Good People (42 page)

PART THREE

When the Hag is in Danger, She Must Run

Annair is cruadh d'n chailligh caithfidh si rith

1826

CHAPTER

SEVENTEEN

Bramble

M
ary 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.

‘Dear one, you’re safe now. You’re with friends. Tell us, Mary, what has happened to you?’

‘I want to go home.’ Her voice was notched with fear. ‘I want to go home.’

‘And so you will. But tell us first, Mary. Please, it vexes us to see you so.’

‘They will hang me.’

Peg’s family glanced at each other.

‘Hang you?’ asked Peg.

‘She done him in,’ the maid sobbed. ‘He’s dead.’

‘Who?’

‘Micheál!’

‘Breathe easy, Mary. There you are, take a breath and talk to me now. Are you saying Micheál is dead?’

The girl fought her arms out of the blanket and grabbed at her hair, pulling it over her face. She rocked back and forth on the floor of Peg’s cabin. ‘Mam,’ she whispered. ‘I want Mam.’

‘What did you see, Mary?’

‘I want to go home,’ the girl wept. ‘I don’t want to die. They’ll hang me for it. They’ll hang me for it.’

‘Don’t be thinking of hanging. Shhh. Tell me, Mary, what did you see? What has happened?’

Mary took a shuddering breath. ‘’Twas Nance,’ she stammered. ‘She drowned him and now he’s dead.’

Peg found Nóra sitting alone by her hearth, gazing into the dead ashes. The widow was sitting very still, the greatcoat bulging around her, hands folded around a
poitín
bottle in her lap.

‘Nóra? ’Tis Peg come to see you.’

The widow turned, her face blank. Peg saw that she had been crying: her eyes were red-rimmed and her nose wet.

‘He’s not here . . .’ She gave a little shake, then quickly uncorked the bottle and drank, spluttering, wiping her mouth.

‘Nóra. In God’s name, what has happened?’

‘I’ve looked for him, but . . .’ She squeezed her eyes shut and shuddered. ‘I came straight back, so I did. I ran here, Peg. I ran. I thought he might be frightened to be here alone.’

‘Are you talking about the boy, Nóra?’

‘He’s not here,’ she said in disbelief. ‘I came back because I thought . . .’

Peg eased herself down onto a stool. ‘You’re soaked through. Your clothes are wet and dirtied.’

Nóra looked down, as if surprised to see her damp skirts covered in leaf litter and soil. Bramble thorns clung to her apron. ‘I was in the river.’

‘What were you doing in the river?’

‘And then I came here. To see if Johanna’s –’

‘Nóra. Mary says that the change-child is dead. She’s beside herself and saying that he was drowned in the river. Is that true?’

Nóra’s expression darkened. ‘Have you seen him?’ She clutched at Peg’s shoulders, bringing her face close. ‘Mary. What did she say?’

‘Nóra, you’re frightening me.’

The widow’s breath was sour with whiskey. ‘Tell me what she said. Tell me what she said!’

Peg gently pushed Nóra away from her. ‘Mary Clifford tells me that Micheál is dead. She is saying he is drowned.’

Nóra was silent, jaw clenched. ‘No, Peg. Not Micheál.’

‘She’s saying she saw Nance drown the boy. Nóra, is that what happened? Did Nance drown the wee stricken child?’

‘’Twas fairy,’ Nóra bleated.

‘And did Nance drown the fairy?’

‘Mary ran. We turned and saw her running away.’

‘We? ’Twas you and Nance?’

‘I thought Micheál would be here,’ Nóra said. ‘I thought he would be returned to me.’

Peg took a deep breath. ‘Nóra. Is the wee cretin drowned?’

There was a knock and both women jumped. Father Healy stood in the open doorway, Peg’s son-in-law standing behind him. The priest’s face was grave, pouched with concern.

‘Nóra Leahy? What have you done?’

Nóra shook her head, unable to speak.

‘Your servant maid has just told me she witnessed the drowning of your grandson this morning.’

‘No.’

‘Nóra, is this the same lad you came to tell me about? The cripple boy? Have you gone and drowned him?’

‘He was fairy.’

The priest stood over her, aghast. ‘God forgive you. Where’s the boy? What have you done with him?’

‘He is not here.’

‘Nóra, have you gone and murdered that child? Tell me the truth now, or . . . I tell you, God will condemn you for what you have done.’

Nóra pressed her lips together and remained silent.

The priest had turned white. ‘Good God! Is she out of her mind?’

‘She’s had a shock,’ Peg muttered. ‘She’s not herself.’

Father Healy put a hand over his mouth. ‘You listen to me now. I’ve sent a man to the barracks. He is coming back with policemen. Do you understand me? Widow Leahy, listen to me. There are men coming to take an information from you. A sworn information. Do you hear me? Widow Leahy?’ His eyes dropped to the
poitín
in her lap. ‘Don’t be telling me she’s drunk. I’d not be taking any more of that, now.’ He nodded to Peg, who eased the bottle out of Nóra’s fingers.

‘I . . .’

The priest bent down to Nóra. ‘What’s that? What are you saying?’

‘I . . . I don’t want to be leaving this place.’

‘They’ll be sending a constable to speak with you. And it might be that they will take you with them.’

‘I won’t be going. I can’t be going.’

‘Nóra, ’twill only be for a small while,’ Peg cajoled. ‘I’ll look after your cow. Your hens.’

Nóra shook her head. ‘No, I’ll need to be staying. It might be that Micheál will be coming. If he’s not come today, perhaps he’ll be returned tomorrow. I’ll need to be waiting for him.’

Father Healy’s voice rose in exasperation. ‘If your servant maid is saying he is dead, he’ll not be coming back. Do you know where your grandson is? His body?’

‘Micheál is with the Good People, but now he will be coming back. Now he will be returned to me. Nance said ’twill be so.’

The priest said nothing. He walked towards the open door, then paused and looked back at Nóra with a mixture of disgust and pity. ‘If I were you, Nóra Leahy, I’d be praying.’ He gestured to Peg. ‘Make sure she doesn’t leave this place until the constable arrives.’

By the time Nance had returned to her cabin, she was shivering helplessly with cold. The river water had flooded her to the bone and she ached with it. The hunger she had felt so keenly over the past days had faded to nausea, and now that it was done, she wanted nothing more than sleep. Crawling to her bed of heather, Nance covered herself with her blanket and shut her eyes.

She dreamt then. She dreamt she was young and walking down the high street of Killarney, the mud of the road hardened by the heat of an early summer.

Suddenly, she was surrounded. Young women. Faces browned from their work outside. Baskets of fish on their backs, oozing scales. They called her name, mouths wide on the shape of it.

‘Nance!’

‘Nance, stop walking! We’ve a mind to talk to you.’

Her feet stopped. The ground warm on her soles.