The Good People (48 page)

‘Will you tell the court, Mrs Leahy, if you agreed to pay Anne Roche for this great alleviation of guilt and trouble?’

‘She does not take money.’

‘Please speak up!’

‘Nance does not take money. Eggs, chickens . . .’

‘She takes payment in kind, is this what you are saying, Mrs Leahy? Was this the arrangement made between the two of you? That she would pronounce your crippled grandson a
fairy
, then work to
put the fairy out of it
through application of nostrums, herbal poison and, finally,
drowning
, and in kind you would supply her with the food and fuel she needed to survive?’

‘I don’t . . .’

‘You must answer yes or no, Mrs Leahy.’

‘I don’t know. No.’

All Nóra could think of as she stood there, hearing the counsel repeat his questions, was that her body was failing her. She trembled uncontrollably, her bare feet curling in cramp on the floor as she attempted to keep up with his questions. Had she been glad to see the foxglove taking its effect on the child? Had she been saddened when it had not killed him? Had she been in the river the morning Micheál was drowned, and if Nance was in a state of undress, why had she been fully clothed? Why did she insist on referring to the child as a fairy when, as she had heard, Micheál’s body had been found? Had she panicked and fled when she realised he had drowned, or had the drowning been her intention all along?

He was saying she had killed him. There was a pricking between her legs and, horrified, Nóra felt warm drops of urine roll down her thighs. She brought her hands to her face and began to weep in shame.

A hushed silence then. When Nóra opened her eyes she saw Mr Walshe rising out of his seat, his lips pursed in thought.

‘Is it true that you wished the best for the boy in your care, Mrs Leahy?’

Nóra’s tongue felt sluggish. She opened her mouth but no sound came out.

Mr Walshe repeated his question, as though he was speaking to an invalid. ‘Mrs Leahy, is it not true that you nurtured the boy when he came into your care? That you sought assistance from a doctor?’

Nóra nodded. ‘Yes. In September.’

‘And what treatment did the doctor prescribe for your grandson?’

‘Nothing. He said there was nothing to be done.’

‘That must have caused you great distress, Mrs Leahy.’

‘It did.’

‘Mary Clifford, the Crown’s witness, said that you sought assistance from your priest, Father Healy, also?’

‘I did.’

‘And what assistance did he offer you?’

‘He said there was nothing to be done.’

‘Mrs Leahy, am I correct in saying, then, that when the most careful nurture failed to restore the boy to health and strength, when neither doctor nor priest were able to avail you with medicine or help, you sought to find a cure via the only other means available to you? Through the local
doctress
, Anne Roche?’

Nóra’s voice came out in a whisper. ‘Yes.’

‘And when Miss Roche told you that she believed she would be able to
restore
your grandchild to you, in full health and with all the capabilities and mobility you saw in him when you visited your daughter two years ago, you had
hope
?’

‘I did.’

‘And who could blame you for that, Mrs Leahy? Was it
hope
that led you to believe that the crippled boy we now understand to be Micheál Kelliher was
fairy
? Was it
hope
and a
longing
to preserve the life of your grandchild that led you to assist Anne Roche in her “cures”?’

‘I . . . I don’t understand.’

The lawyer hesitated, wiped his forehead. ‘Mrs Leahy, did you hope to preserve the life of Micheál Kelliher?’

Nóra’s head swam. She gripped the irons about her wrist. The fairies do not like iron, she thought. Fire, iron and salt. Cold embers and tongs over the cradle, and new milk spilt on Maytime earth.

‘Mrs Leahy?’ It was the judge, leaning forward, his blue eyes rheumy, voice deep and concerned. ‘Mrs Leahy, the court is asking you if you have any further statement to make.’

Nóra brought a trembling hand up to her face. The iron was cool against her flushed cheeks. ‘No, sir. None other than that I only wanted my grandson with me. None other than that.’

Nance listened as the man they called Coroner presented himself as a witness, his clipped red moustache uttering words she did not understand.

‘Our inquest found that Micheál Kelliher came by his death following asphyxia, caused by inhalation of fluid and consequent obstruction of the air passages. Signs presented were consistent with drowning. The lungs were waterlogged, and there was evidence of river weed in the hair of the deceased.’

There was no mention of the yellow flaggers on the bank, the unfurling gold against the green and all the suggestion its blossom held. They did not mention the power in the boundary water, in the strange light that flooded the earth before the sun rose, in the actions of hungered hands.

‘In your professional estimation, sir,’ asked the counsel, ‘how long would the deceased have been held under the water for drowning and death to occur?’

The coroner was thoughtful. ‘Given that it seems the deceased was paralytic, either fully or in part, it may have taken less time than what may be deemed usual. I would venture to propose three minutes.’

‘That is three minutes of sustained submersion?’

‘That is correct, sir.’

‘Are there any other findings you feel compelled to include in your statement today?’

The man sniffed, twitching his moustache. ‘There were marks which indicate the possibility of struggle.’

‘And by marks do you mean bruises?’

‘Yes, sir. About the chest and neck. Inconclusive, but they did raise suspicions that the child was forcibly held under water.’

The counsel placed the tips of his fingers together, his eyes darting towards the jury. ‘Mr McGillycuddy, in your professional opinion, do you believe that the findings of the coronial inquest indicate that the deceased was murdered with intent? That his was a violent death?’

The man looked at Nance and lifted his chin. He gave a brief, curt nod. ‘I do, sir.’

Nance was ready when the court finally called for her statement. She had been waiting for the opportunity to tell her story, to reveal to the room the kernelled truth within the mass of stories and sworn informations and cross-examinations. She stood as Maggie would have done, straight-backed, eyes narrowed, and when they handed her the book to kiss, she did so with sincerity. They would not be able to fault her. She would show them the truth of her knowledge, her cure.

‘Miss Roche, please tell the court how you make your living.’

‘I give out the cure.’

‘Speak up, please, the court cannot hear you.’

Nance took a deep breath and attempted to raise her voice. But the room was hot, and the air seemed to catch on her lungs, and when she spoke again there was a groaning from the crowd.

‘Your worship, will you allow the prisoner to make her statement from the witness stand so that she may be heard?’

‘I will.’

An officer of the court led Nance to the box where she had seen the various speakers give out against her. After a day and a half listing in the dock against the courtroom wall, it felt strange to now be standing at a different place in the room, so much closer to the dark-suited men sitting with their shined shoes catching the gleam from the glass windows. Before they had appeared shadowy, but now Nance could make out their features: their dry lips and greying eyebrows, the lines surrounding their eyes. Some, she saw, were surely her age, and she wondered if, as a girl, she had seen them and their gentle-blooded parents on excursion to Mangerton. Had her hands picked the strawberries that their mothers had bought and pressed into their pink mouths?

‘Anne Roche, can you please tell the court how you make your living?’

‘I help people with the knowledge that I have been given, and they give me gifts in return.’

The counsel glanced at the jurors, and Nance caught the suggestion of a smirk on his lips. ‘And can you please explain what this “knowledge” is?’

‘I have the knowledge to heal all manner of ills and sickness, both those of an ordinary kind and those wrought by the Good People.’

‘Can you please describe the difference between the two?’

‘There are those which are of a common kind, but there are some ills which are the mark of the Good People, and they call for a different cure.’

The counsel studied her for a moment. ‘But, Miss Roche, what is the difference between the two?’

Nance paused, confused. She had already explained to him that she divined the mark of the Good People amongst the sick, that she administered to the ordinary bruise, the extraordinary swelling. ‘It might be that a man has built his house on a fairy path, and it is that which brings the sickness to him, or it might be something else entirely.’

‘So what you are saying is that people come to you with sickness, and it is only then that you
diagnose
whether their sickness was caused by
the Good People
, or otherwise?’

‘That is the truth of it.’

‘And how did you learn these things?’

‘’Twas taught to me by my own aunt when I was a girl and growing.’

‘And where did your aunt learn these nostrums and mysteries?’

‘When she was away with the Good People.’

The lawyer raised his eyebrows. ‘And by Good People, you mean to say the fairies?’

‘Yes, the Good People.’

‘Forgive me for my
ignorance
–’ there was a smattering of laughter from the crowd ‘– but why do you call the fairies
Good People
? It is my understanding that they are not people at all.’

‘It is out of respect that I call them the Good People, for they do not like to be thinking of themselves as bad craturs. They have a desire to get into Heaven, same as you, sure, Counsel.’

‘Miss Roche, I am acquainted with the fireside stories, but I must say that I do not give them credence. How do you know the fairies to be true?’

‘Because they took my mother and my aunt. I know there is no word of a lie in Them, for didn’t they lead me out of Killarney when I was poor and had no living at all, and didn’t they show me the way to the valley where I have been living for these past twenty years?’

‘You have seen them? How did they “show you the way”?’

‘Oh, I have heard Them talking, and ’tis truth I see Them as lights coming to me and leading me, and there have been times I heard Them dancing or fighting.’

‘They fight?’

‘The Good People are fond of fighting and hurling and dancing and singing. And ’tis true that they sometimes cause mischief, and that is why the people come to me: because I have the knowledge of the ways in which to undo the damage they cause. I have the knowledge and the cure if the fairies do be striking you or taking the profit out of your animals or crops, or the power out of your legs.’

A rising murmur lifted from the crowd, and Nance could see several onlookers whisper to each other from behind their hands. They were listening to her. Relieved to finally be heard, she began to talk of the ways the Good People pressed up against the known world. She spoke of the power in saliva, in urine, in dung, in water from the holy wells, or that which held the leavings of iron. Of holed and hollowed stones, of soot and salt.

‘The Good People have a mighty fear of fire and iron, and sure, ’tis the threat of these which will serve to banish Them, so they have no power against a reddened poker. And though they lay their claim to fairy plants and trees – elder, foxglove – if certain plants can be got without their interference, the power in them can be turned against those who lay claim to them. Sure, elder has a mighty mischief and
crostáil
, and the Good People ride its branches, but sure, I can wring the bad temper out of it. And there are a great many things aside, cures given to me by the Good People, which I may not say, for if the secret goes out of a cure, there will be no power in it at all.’