Chapter 28

On Monday evening, Moira’s head pounded as she trudged along the narrow side street leading away from the village center. If the main road had seemed little more than a back alley when she had arrived in Ballymann, this road—if it could even be called that—was naught more than a widened footpath.

The news from the previous night, still raw in her heart and mind, weighed her down in heavy shackles of dread and doubt. Surely Mother wouldn’t be party to such a scandal?

Moira stooped and plucked a lone shamrock from the middle of the path, twirling it absently between her fingers. Studying its delicate leaves, she marveled at the tiny thing’s tenacity and sturdiness, how it managed to grow in the last place it seemed to belong.

I know how you feel, wee thing.

As she rose again, the weight of her mother’s history threatened to pull her down again. Much as it pained her to admit, the timing did seem to fit. And it would certainly explain why Mother had shared so little of her life here with Moira. And what about her dear father? She’d doted on him so—and he on her—before sickness had taken him from them far too soon. Was he even her real father? She shook her head, trying to dislodge the thoughts before they could take root.

“I refuse to believe it,” she told the patchwork of fields surrounding her. She straightened her apron and forced her mind to focus on her errand.

It shouldn’t be too much farther now. Little Aoife had given Moira the directions to Áedach’s house. The lad had been away from school for a whole week now. Despite the glorious peace his absence provided, as his teacher it was Moira’s responsibility to ensure her students were well educated. It was hard to educate them when they failed to show. Besides, getting a glimpse into his family life might provide some insight into how to handle his disruptive behavior.

Disruptive? Ha! Moira had long since realized his behavior had moved well beyond disruptive and bordered on violent.

She crested a hill. To her right towered the large oak tree Aoife had described. Standing a few feet from the side of the road, its roots poked up from underneath the rock wall that shared its space. This had to be the place.

Moira halted her steps and stared in disbelief. Surely this was not the boy’s home?

The hovel of rocks stacked into a ramshackle structure stood—just barely—at the base of the tree. Shocks of thatch—probably taken from Sean and Colm’s supply when their backs were turned—were stuffed, helter-skelter, between rocks and laid over the top for a makeshift roof. The foliage from the lofty oak no doubt provided even more coverage—in late spring and summer months, anyway. Today, though, the tree was bare.

Moira pressed the flat of her hand against her stomach. If this was his home, it was no wonder he looked and dressed the way he did. With careful steps she crossed the road, the shamrock in her fingers now forgotten and abandoned to the ground.

“Áedach?” Her voice quavered before threatening to disappear altogether. She didn’t know if she wished he would answer or not. As she neared the wall, the stench of urine, smoke, and drink assaulted her. Reaching into the cuff of her sleeve, she retrieved her handkerchief. She didn’t take time to admire the dainty needlepoint flowers her mother had embroidered on the corner, along with Moira’s initials. Rather, she stuffed the cloth under her nose and climbed over the wall, taking care not to topple the stones that had surely withstood centuries of gales.

A length of bark slathered in tar was propped over the opening of the shanty. “Áedach,” she called again. A low groan rumbled from inside. Was that human or animal?

Moira bit her lip and looked around to see if anyone else was nearby. How foolish she was to come alone! Even if there was no element of danger, it was inappropriate for a single lady to be in the home of a young man without a chaperone.

She had assumed his parents would be home, so impropriety hadn’t crossed her mind. And if she was honest, she knew no one would have agreed to come with her. In fact, they likely would have attempted to dissuade Moira from coming at all—which was why she had asked a child for directions to this place.

There was naught to be done now, though, save press on. She had called his name twice, and he had answered—at least something had responded. If she left now without completing her errand, she feared he might think she was taunting him. Besides, her curiosity was piqued. She needed to see how the lad survived in such squalor.

Her trembling hand reached for the primitive door. Once more a groan emanated from within, followed by an alarming cough. All thoughts of propriety and danger flew from her mind, and Moira removed the door from its place and stepped inside, ducking to keep from disturbing the roof.

Her stomach lurched at the reek that welcomed her. She willed herself, and her lunch, stable. The room was dark, and for a moment blackness was all she could see. As the dismal picture came into view, she fought to keep at bay the tears welling.

A pitiful pile of ashes smoldered in one corner, the so-called wall behind it scorched black from years of daily fires, she assumed. Along the opposite wall, which consisted of the rock wall and trunk of the oak, Áedach lay on a pile of rubbish, dried grass, and seaweed.

He was curled in a ball, and even in the poor light Moira could see he was dreadfully pale. His body convulsed as a hacking cough sliced the air. With his feet bare and filthy, and his clothes thinned and torn, Moira now saw him for the child he truly was. Here, in this moment, he was no more a threat to her than a blind kitten. Even as she crouched inside the low shanty, she towered above him. Her state of power over him was not lost on her.

Moira knelt on the ground beside him and tried to ignore the dank liquid seeping through her skirts. She chose to believe it was merely earth damp and not something viler. She cocked her head to look square at his eyes. They were mere slits, not focused on anything in particular.

“Áedach,” she whispered, “it’s Miss Doherty. Can you hear me?”

The lad lay still, but a slight blink of his eyes caught Moira’s attention. She rose quickly and poked her head out of the opening, once more surveying the landscape for anyone who might be of assistance. There was no one.

If only Ballymann boasted a doctor. Then I could turn the lad over to him and be done with it.

Alas, no doctor was to be had. Moira inwardly scolded herself for even getting into this situation in the first place.

There was no way to discern what sort of aid the lad required without first discovering the severity of his illness. She knelt at his side again. “I’m going to place my hand on your forehead.” She paused, studying his grimy hair and dirty face, loath to bring herself to touch him. “I must see how high your temperature is.”

Another pause. Then a blink.

She placed her hand across his forehead, and gasped. He was at least as hot as a fresh cup of tea, and his skin was dry as a bone. With her other hand she grasped Áedach’s fingers, then his toes. Ice cold.

“How long have you been like this?” The concern she heard in her own voice surprised her. No blink followed the silence this time. “Have you been ill this whole week?” More stillness. She placed the palm of her hand on his chest. His breaths were shallow and labored. Harsh rattles accompanied each exhale.

Moira removed her cape and laid it across the boy. The danger of covering a fevered body with too many blankets sprang into her mind. As a child, she had heard stories of neighbors who had died from such treatment. However, the lad needed some kind of covering, or the elements would surely do him in.

“I’m going to go find some help.”

Silence. A blink. His rib cage rose. She thought he might try to speak. Instead, another splitting cough broke the silence and violent convulsions rocked him. Moira’s eyes burned. From tears, the stench, or shock she could not tell. She backed out of the shelter before hopping the wall and sprinting up the lane.

“I’ll not be long before I return,” she called over her shoulder. As she neared the main road, a vision of Áedach cornering her in the schoolroom flashed across her mind’s eye. Her sprint slowed to a jog. The memory of his putrid breath on her face as he spoke his vile words snaked its way through her thoughts. Her jog slowed to a walk.

“Ye have no idea wha’ kind o’ power I hold over ye.” His words echoed through the deepest recesses of her being. Her feet stilled and she stood static as a stone. She surveyed the rugged Atlantic before her. But she saw instead Áedach’s eyes. Not the cloudy eyes she had observed today but the icy, ire-filled eyes from a week ago. Her body tensed at the mere thought of their last encounter, the fear strangling her once more.

She shuddered at the thought of his hands on her, his eyes looking over her like an animal to be tamed. He didn’t deserve her mercy. He deserved to . . .

Moira clasped a hand over her mouth, terrified at the direction her thoughts were taking. Never before had she wished ill against another, yet the thought came so easily in regard to Áedach. She had truly feared for her safety that day alone with him in the schoolhouse. It was no secret the lad not only hated her but also wished to harm her—and wished it by his own hand. It would be unwise of her to help him return to health just so he could continue his quest. Would it not?

“God help me.” She groaned, wrapping her arms around her trunk. Hugging against the cold, aye, but also holding back the anguish roiling within.

The clouds parted over the water and the sun gleamed over the lapping waves. But the sight did nothing to bolster her spirits. Guilt joined the cesspool of emotions as she turned for home. Áedach needed immediate aid, and she was the only one who could provide it—the only one yet aware—and likely the only one who would care.

But even her caring seemed far paler than it ought to have been.