Chapter 13

Moira sighed and flopped onto her back, lacing her fingers underneath her weary head. She wriggled her rump, trying to work a lump in the mattress to one side or the other and find a comfortable spot. She stared at the canopy above her, tracing every line and crease in the dingy canvas. The turf fire in the kitchen was slowly dying, filling the air with stale smoke that made her head ache.

After the mishap with Sean and the fire, Moira had struggled to regain composure with the class. Her bones ached with exhaustion, and she assumed sleep would come quickly. She closed her eyes and willed herself to rest, but no sooner had she released a deep breath than her eyes would rock open and the inner dialogue would begin again.

What in the world are you doing here, Moira Girl? You’re in way over your head. You can barely keep a fire lit, let alone guide and direct a schoolful of children to a brighter future. Surely there’s been some mistake.

Tears stung her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. There were no sobs, no rocking cries. Silent tears streamed, soaking her hair as she wept.

Why would Mother think I could do this? What would possess her to recommend me for such a task? She tried to recall the conversation when Mother had told her the news. But the thought of Mother filled Moira with an ache that threatened to swallow her whole. As she lay in the dark of night—tears soaking her face, her hair, her feather pillow—dread surrounded her like a lead cloak. She could scarcely breathe for the weight of it and struggled to keep her composure. Her eyes squeezed tight. Could she call up an image of her mother’s visage?

Soft, gray hair piled high into a tidy bun framed a kind, bright face. Tiny wrinkles surrounded bright blue eyes shining with kindness and love. Suddenly her mother was there in the room with her. Moira reached out a weary, trembling hand to stroke her mother’s precious cheek, only to find cold, dark air in its place.

She longed to hear her mother’s voice with its velvety lilt, softened by time and distance from her homeland. Moira strained to remember that voice, devastated that she no longer could.

Despair flooded Moira’s heart as the reality—and finality—of her mother’s death sank in. She struggled to catch her breath. She would never see her mother again. Never hug her. Never hear her voice utter prayers over Moira or sing as she tidied the kitchen. No longer held back, violent sobs racked Moira’s body. Her cries echoed in the tiny chalet. She didn’t care who could hear.

“Oh God! Help me! What have I done? What were You thinking? Why did You bring me here?”

The lyrics of a song her mother had sung to her every night of her childhood floated into her memory. Deep in the recesses of her mind she could faintly hear the clear, high voice of her mother as she tenderly sang while rocking back and forth, back and forth. Moira’s breathing slowed and the sobs abated. She pushed the woolen blankets aside and shuffled to the small, square window in the kitchen.

The shutters creaked open, and Moira stared into the dark, misty night. She shivered as the chilled air met her face, hot from grief and crying.The moon cast an eerie silver light over the village. Moira closed her eyes, took a breath, and began to sing.

Rest tired eyes a while

Sweet is thy baby’s smile

Angels are guarding and they watch o’er thee

Her voice, weak at first, grew clearer with every note. On the words with tones that hung long, she accented with runs of notes, adding to the ethereal comfort that accompanies an Irish lullaby. She continued, her voice growing stronger with each phrase.

Sleep, sleep, grá mo chroí

Here on your mamma’s knee

Angels are guarding

And they watch o’er thee

The birdeens sing a fluting song

They sing to thee the whole day long

Wee fairies dance o’er hill and dale

For very love of thee

Moira sang until the anxious thoughts drifted away and home seemed a comfort before her very eyes.

Sean lay in bed, mulling over what Colm had said to him on the rooftop earlier that day. Perhaps the old man was right. Could Sean truly make a difference, even as a thatcher, simply by following God and loving others sacrificially? His eyelids grew heavy. Though he had more to ponder, the promise of sleep lay thick upon him.

The night air seeped in through the cracked window above his bed. As Sean drifted toward sleep, he thought he heard the voice of an angel singing on the breeze.