The Good People (51 page)

‘What did she take, Peg?’

‘Some things of Martin’s. The
poitín
. The pipe. The coin you had. Clothes. What butter was here before, and some other food. The salt.’

Nóra looked up and saw that the wooden box was gone. ‘’Twas from my wedding.’

‘She would have taken the cow only there were some of us told her to wait until we had news of the verdict.’

‘I might have been hanged, Peg.’

‘I know.’

Nóra felt like she would choke. She pulled at the loose skin of her throat, pressing her chin against her knuckles, and began to weep. Peg extended a hand to her and Nóra took it with the grip of the drowning, squeezing her fingers until the old woman grimaced in pain. Still, she let Nóra sink her nails into her skin.

‘He isn’t here,’ she sobbed.

‘I know,’ Peg said softly. ‘I know.’

It was some time before Nóra could speak again. She sat with her face streaming, chin slippery.

Peg crossed herself. ‘Thank God in his infinite mercy you are saved.’

Nóra wiped her eyes. ‘They thought us mad. The fairy talk. They didn’t give in to it, but the girl said ’twas not done with the intent to kill and so they could not be calling it murder.’

‘After the arrest Father Healy read to us from the
Chute’s Western Herald
. It said you were of good character, Nóra. There’s none here who can say you are anything other.’

‘There’s a rhyme about me that says otherwise.’

‘You’re a good woman, Nóra Leahy.’

‘I wanted to be rid of the fairy.’

‘He was a burden to you.’

‘He was not Johanna’s son. There was none of my blood in him.’

Peg brushed the hair out of Nóra’s eyes. ‘’Tis a queer thing. For all the badness that has been in this place, folk are saying that with the changeling out of the valley there is peace again. That surely the boy was blinking the hens and the cows, for now the profit is back. Women who thought they might not have enough to keep shadow stitched to heel are calling for the egg man, purses filling again. Those who thought they might be on the road paid their rents after all.’

‘Daniel says this place is lost to me.’

Peg clucked her tongue. ‘’Tis a shame, but sure, you’d be rattling around on your own.’

‘Did they find who lay the
piseóg
?’

‘They say ’twas surely Nance, but fortunate that ’twas found so soon and set to rights by the priest. There was no time for the curse to be sinking in the soil. Kate was spouting at the well, saying sure ’twas Nance, for don’t curses come home to roost, and ’tis what happens to folk who wish others ill. Their wickedness catches up with them and they find themselves in Tralee with a nice rope collar.’

‘Kate Lynch!’ Nóra spat, growing tearful. ‘Coming in here and taking what belongs to me after Seán’s bidding. I’ll be going over there and taking it all back. The salt box!’

‘Nóra . . .’

‘She believed it more than anyone. She believed it more than anyone! How dare she talk about rope collars. We’re kin, after all.’

Peg tenderly wiped the tears from Nóra’s face. ‘Kate’s gone.’

‘What?’

‘Kate Lynch. Seán returned from Tralee this morning to an empty cabin. She left some days ago, we think. Taken all she took from you, and all the egg and butter money. Seán says ’twas a small fortune gone missing from under the bed.’

Nóra gaped at her.

‘Oh, he’s in a fit over it. Went straight out today searching for her, saying she might have been taken.’ Peg gave a small smile. ‘Says the tinkers have been on the roads, might have stolen her. Oh, and there’s the usual talk of the fairies at the biddy well. Some are saying she’s been swept, others are telling Seán to go to the Piper’s Grave on Sunday night and she’ll be riding out on a white horse.’

‘Kate’s gone?’

Peg nodded. ‘Aye. I’d bet my good leg and my bad that the poor woman won’t be coming back.’

Nóra was thoughtful. ‘And Áine?’

‘She lives. I heard Brigid Lynch has been going in to care for her.’

‘Thanks be to the Virgin.’

There was silence.

‘Peg, I thought for a moment . . . When I came back, I thought I heard him in the bedroom.’

‘Nóra . . .’

‘I thought ’twas him. Peg, when I was up in Tralee, I kept dreaming of him. Dreaming I’d return and he’d be here, waiting. That perhaps there was some delay on him that morning in the river, that it would take time before he was restored to me.’ She began to cry again. ‘Peg, the fear was on me that I’d be hanged and he’d be here waiting for me!’

‘Oh, Nóra.’

‘Waiting for his grandmother, but she’d be lying in the pit at Ballymullen!’

‘There, now. You’re not to be hanged. You’re back where you belong.’

‘But he’s not here!’ Nóra shook her head. ‘Oh, I can’t stay in the valley.’

‘Nóra, there’s no place else for you to go.’

‘Look!’ She swept her arm around the empty cabin. ‘This is all the home I had, and ’tis gone to me. I am all alone. All alone, and no choice but to go in with Daniel and Brigid when I was the woman of my own house.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘Martin is dead. Micheál . . . He’s not here.’ She clutched at her heart. ‘I don’t know . . . I don’t know what has happened.’

Peg took up her hand and stroked it. ‘Ara, you’ve got me, have you not? And ’tis a blessing to have your nephews, God protect them. You’ll keep company with Brigid, and sure, ’tis no bad thing to be in a full house.’

‘Full house or no, I am alone,’ Nóra whispered.

‘Come now, woman. Count your blessings! You’re not alone – you have plenty kin in this world left to talk to and share the heat of a fire with. God knows it has been a terrible winter for you, and a terrible hardship it must have been sitting in gaol thinking you’d be gone to God. Nóra, there’s none that envy you for that. But you’ve come home to hens in the roost and cream in the pot that you might be taking with you. And would you look next to you, Nóra, for don’t you have old Peg too?’

Nóra squeezed Peg’s hand. ‘Do you think . . . Micheál, it might be that he’ll come home to me. One day . . .’

Peg pursed her lips.

‘He will. For that was no human child. Was it, Peg?’

‘No,’ murmured Peg eventually. She rubbed Nóra’s hand. ‘No, Nóra.’

‘And it may be that he’ll come back.’

Peg gave her a long look. ‘But if it happens that he stays away under hill, with the Good People and the lights and the dancing . . . Well, ’tis worth knowing that there is always worse misfortune to be had.’

There was a sound at the door and Nóra looked over to see Brigid staring in at them, a large basket in her hands.

‘God and Mary to you, Nóra Leahy.’ Brigid blinked at her, unsmiling. She was pallid from her time indoors, and Nóra thought she seemed frail.

‘Why, Brigid! ’Tis good to see you up and out,’ said Peg, a note of forced cheerfulness in her voice. ‘I’ve not seen you since your churching.’

‘A lot has happened since I saw you last.’ Brigid stepped over the threshold and stood by the dead fire, looking down at Nóra. Her face was blank. ‘Daniel said they very nearly hanged you.’

Nóra nodded, her mouth dry.

Brigid’s expression hardened. ‘Dan said Nance deserved to hang. For what she did to Áine. For the
piseóg
. For the bittersweet.’

Nóra stared at her, unable to speak. It was Peg who answered.

‘Brigid, come now. Let’s have none of that. I’ll tell you something. Nance was always a strange one amongst us, but ’tis no rhyme nor reason behind her murdering babies and catching women on fire, no matter the preaching Father Healy has against her. Áine’s skirts caught as women’s skirts sometimes do, and ’tis no use in blaming another for the fire’s liking of a low apron. And did Nance not do her best to be with you in your time of need?’

Brigid paled, still looking down at Nóra. ‘She did it, didn’t she?’

‘Did what?’

‘She drowned that boy.’

Peg glanced between them, her beady eyes alert.

‘’Twas fairy,’ Nóra croaked.

Brigid chewed her lip. ‘Did you see her? After the trial?’

‘No. I lost her in the crowd.’

‘Do you know if she was thinking of returning to the valley?’

‘’Tis where she lives. She’ll be wanting to get back to her cabin. ’Twas all I could think about on the road. Getting home.’

Brigid shook her head. ‘She’ll have no home here. Not now. Get what you need, Nóra. I can’t be waiting all night. ’Tis near dark.’

Peg held out a hand. ‘Brigid? What are you saying, child?’

‘’Tis her fault, after all. Come on, Nóra. You can’t be staying here.’

‘Brigid. What is happening?’

‘Dan said I wasn’t to tell. Nóra . . .’

‘What?’

Brigid bit her lip. She was breathing quickly, gripping her basket so hard that her knuckles were white.

Peg was reaching for her blackthorn stick. ‘Let’s go, Nóra. To Nance’s.’ She shuffled towards the door, looking sickened.

Nóra started rising to her feet.

‘There’s nothing to be done,’ Brigid burst out. ‘’Tis decided.’ She shot a finger out to Nóra in warning. ‘’Twas decided when you were away. And you are lucky that ’twas not decided against you!’

Nóra’s stomach swooped in fear. Slowly, her hands trembling, she took Brigid’s proffered basket and silently began to collect her belongings.

Nance stood by the woods, gazing at where her
bothán
had stood. Four days’ slow walking on the road from Tralee, the long shuffle home on feet stippled with pain, and the cabin was gone.

They had burnt her out. All was ash.

She sank down in the long grass at the edge of the clearing, in the shadows where she would not be seen from the lane, and, exhausted, she slept. She curled into the sweet-smelling summer ground and let her fatigue overwhelm her, until the evening breeze began to blow. She sat up to a sky washed in red cloud.

They must have been careful about it, she thought, sitting up against a tree and looking out over the scorched ground. Had they heaped the roof with dried fuel? Maybe they had quickened the flames with
poitín
. The fire had been high – the uppermost leaves of the nearby trees were black, and half the trunk of the oak was burnt. She stood and walked to the tree and ran her hands carefully over the sooted bark. Charcoal crumbled away, leaving her fingers dirtied. Without thinking why, she brought her palm to her face and blessed herself with the ashes.

Nothing was left. Nance stepped over the crumbling lengths of cindered beams that lay on the ruined ground, poking amongst them for any belongings that might have survived. She found what remained of her gathered wool, once carefully combed and carded, and now a hairy clot upon the ground. The smell of smoke was thick. There were no herbs left. Her stools, the turf, even the clay pots of fat had been burnt to nothing.

It was only when she found the small iron clasp of her goat’s lead that she felt the surge of grief, gutting her as swiftly as the swoop of a knife. She closed her eyes and folded her hands tightly about the flaking metal, and imagined Mora, the door shut against her, the fire rising about her. Crying, she began to dig in the ashes for bones, but the light was fading and she could not tell what might be the handle of her tin pail, and what might be the slender remains of her faithful goat.

The night fell starry. The moon rose thin-lipped. Nance sat down in the dead embers of her home, and dug with her hands until she felt the residual warmth of the fire in the soil. She lay in it and blanketed herself with ashes.

Nance gasped awake the next morning at the sound of footsteps. Hauling herself up out of the weight of soot, she looked wildly around her. It was not yet dawn, but the sky had paled to the blue of a robin’s egg.

‘Nance?’

She spun around. A man stood at the edge of the fire’s dark stain, peering intently at her.

Peter O’Connor.

‘I thought you were dead,’ he said, covering his mouth. He stepped over and helped Nance to her feet. She noticed he was trembling.