Chapter 8

The tranquil, soothing power of a simple cup of tea always took Moira by surprise. The company of a friend didn’t hurt, either, of course.

In Ballymann less than a week, Moira felt a true bond forming between her and Bríd. A friendly cuppa and chat filled her with renewed peace as she sat with the woman on Sunday evening.

“Yer chalet is nearly ready for ya, peata,” the woman said before taking a bite of toast.

Moira’s jaw fell open. “Already?” She wiped a napkin across her mouth.

“Aye, it’s a wee bit earlier than we expected, but a woman needs her own place, doesn’t she?” Bríd prattled on about curtain styles, cooking over a turf-fired stove, and ways to make a new house a home.

Moira, however, struggled to turn her thoughts from snapping twigs, Buach, and his cackled threats—the memory of his clawing fingers haunted her more and more of late. She longed to ask Bríd more about what the old man might have meant about her mother, but she couldn’t manage to eke out the question. She didn’t want to press Bríd too much too soon and push her away. Feigning interest in the woman’s stories, Moira dutifully sipped her tea. When the teapot had been sufficiently emptied and the conversation fell to a natural lull, Moira excused herself and headed to her room.

She scanned the humble chamber, attempting to sort through the melting pot of emotions churning within. The prospect of finally starting her own life and making her own home sent flurries of excitement to her heart. Yet a pang of sadness rang deep as well. The seed of doubt that had planted itself firmly in her gut days earlier sprouted at the idea of living alone.

Would she ever feel truly settled? Could she care for and protect a house, even a tiny chalet, in the manner needed? Would it ever truly feel like home?

Home.

The word dallied in her mind, swirling and swaying like a leaf on the breeze before finally settling silent and heavy on her heart.

It had been days since she’d truly thought of her home across the water in Boston. Until now, anytime thoughts of home or family threatened to surface, Moira tucked them away. There was too much to do to get bogged down with nostalgia and loneliness. But now, sitting alone in her small room in the top corner of the guesthouse, the memories were too great to suppress.

Overcome by the magnitude of the task before her and the sense of loss for all she had left behind, Moira wilted onto the bed.

Surrounded by a fog not unlike the one she had seen from her perch the day she arrived in Ballymann, she could neither see nor feel her feet.

“It’s too much! I can’t do this!” she called into the abyss. Her voice bounced and echoed around her, though no walls contained her. “I don’t know what I am doing. I can’t speak the language. I’m all alone. Do you hear me? Alone!”

I will never leave you. I will never abandon you.

Moira spun about, the fog encompassing her more and more with each breath.

You look at the path before you and your eyes rest upon the obstacles. I will be with you, whispering the way, where you should turn, to the right or to the left.

Once more, Moira searched for the source of the voice. As she turned, she suddenly found herself sitting up in bed. Beads of sweat covered her forehead, her heart beat wildly within her chest, and she panted for breath like a horse just across the finish line.

The dream unsettled her. It was a dream, wasn’t it? How could such powerful words both encourage and frighten? Dusk shrouded the room in shadow and still she sat.

Exhausted from an emotional day and looking ahead to what promised to be another trying day as she began school the next morning, Moira wrapped herself in the soft comfort of the duvet and tried to rest.

Moira stood in the open doorway of the school and stared into the silent room, bathed in the silver-gray light of predawn. Had she eaten breakfast? Washed her face? Not one recollection of that morning remained in her mind.

God, give me strength. A shiver ran down her spine—from cold or nerves she couldn’t say, but it was enough to shake her into action. As she inhaled deeply, the aroma of dust, musk, and days long past filled her lungs. The fragrance filled her heart and mind with a new sense of purpose and confidence. She strode resolutely across the room to her desk and readied her things.

Confident she had allowed herself plenty of time before the students arrived, Moira busied herself arranging papers and looking over lesson plans and notes scribbled in the margins of well-worn pages.

Church bells shattered the early morning silence. Moira startled, knocking over a box of beads at the interruption of the bells’ insensitive peal. The beads she’d planned to use in a sums lesson later that morning bounced and rolled on the plank floor.

“Och!” she screeched, scrambling to rein in the wayward beads, moving more like a newborn lamb clamoring to find his legs than a qualified teacher.

Still the bells tolled. “Good gracious me, I think they can hear you all the way in Boston!”

Three more clangs split the air. Hunched in mid-stoop, Moira froze. How many times had the bells tolled? No. That cannot be the time.

Alas, it was nine o’clock. The bells had beckoned the pupils from their homes, and they would be arriving any moment. Depositing the remaining beads from her hand into the box whence they came, she fumbled through her papers to find the roll sheet.

Caoimhe.

Deirbhle.

Cian.

Eoghan.

Her heart sank. “How can I greet them at the door if I don’t know how to pronounce their names?” She banged a fist on her thigh. Why had she waited until now to look at the list? It would have been easy enough to ask Bríd how to pronounce the names, but it was no matter now. The students were on the way.

She steadied herself against her desk, bowed her head, and whispered a desperate plea. “Help me, Lord.”

I am with you. The promise reverberated deep in her soul, bolstering her with a confidence she couldn’t explain and had no business possessing. At that moment the door opened.