The next morning, after a breakfast of cold cereal, Elizabeth and the children got back into the Nomad and drove to town. Like many small towns, Largo, West Virginia had a few houses lined up on a grid of dirt streets that surrounded a few prominent structures: a white clapboard Baptist church, a brick funeral home and a General Store, painted a dark, barn red. Elizabeth parked in front of the store and led the way up the wooden steps to a covered porch with several rocking chairs. Three old men sat there, gathered around a checker board on a barrel. They tipped their caps to Elizabeth and went on with their conversation.
Will climbed into one of the chairs, rocking madly, while Conn followed Elizabeth inside. Ceiling fans moved the air in the dark interior of the store. It took a moment for Conn’s eyes to adjust after the bright sunlight outside. Everywhere she looked, there were shelves packed with goods – groceries, hardware, books. From the ceiling hung plows, chairs and rakes. It seemed that every available space was crammed with things for sale. She paused in front of large wooden barrels filled with nails of different sizes.
“Can I help you?” asked a man behind the tall glass-fronted counter. He peered at them through thick glasses, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead despite the ceiling fans. He had a heavy walrus moustache that obscured his mouth.
“Mr. Walsh? Do you remember me?” Elizabeth asked. “Elizabeth Cuthbert. Fiona Cook’s granddaughter.”
“Elizabeth!” Mr. Walsh exclaimed. “My goodness, girl, it’s been an age since we seen you ‘round here!” He turned to the doorway behind him, pulled aside the curtain and bellowed, “Betty? Betty! Come on out front and see who’s here!”
A large woman emerged, her gray hair pulled back into a loose bun from which several strands of hair had escaped. She was drying her hands on a white apron that covered her front, stretched tightly across her ample bosom. She looked curiously at Elizabeth for a moment before exclaiming, “Land sakes! Elizabeth, I don’t believe it! What brings you back to Largo?”
“We came here to wait for Daddy,” piped up Will, who had come unnoticed to his mother’s side.
“Are these your children?” Mrs. Walsh asked, noticing Will and Conn for the first time.
“I’m Will,” Will announced, standing on his tiptoes and pulling himself up with his fingertips to see over the tall counter.
“Pleased to meet you, Will,” Mr. Walsh smiled. At least Conn thought it was a smile. All she could actually see was his moustache moving. His bespectacled gaze shifted to Conn as he asked, “And what is your name, young lady?”
Conn looked at him for a couple of seconds before answering, “Connemara Faolain Mitchell.”
“Good gracious,” said Mrs. Walsh, her eyebrows lifting, “That’s quite a name for such a little thing.”
Not wanting to be left out of the conversation, Will quickly added, “My whole name is William Joseph Mitchell.”
“Well, well,” Mr. Walsh chuckled, “welcome to Largo, William Joseph and Connemara – ?”
“Faolain,” said Elizabeth. “It’s a family name. Anyway, we’ve come to live at Nana’s house while my husband is overseas. We need these groceries and cleaning things,” she said, handing Mrs. Walsh a list. “And I wondered if you could recommend someone who could do some work around the house.”
Mr. Walsh frowned as he thought. “Probably the best handyman ‘round here is Abraham Lincoln Greene. He don’t have a telephone, but tomorrow is Saturday. He always comes to town on Saturday. I’ll tell him to come by your place,” he paused, glancing around to make sure no one else had come into the store, “if you don’t mind that he’s a Nigra,” he whispered loudly.
Elizabeth blinked two or three times before replying, “No, I don’t mind. Ask him to come by the house whenever he has time, please.”
She turned back to Mrs. Walsh who was boxing the items on the list. “Are you still postmistress here, Mrs. Walsh?”
“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Walsh smiled, looking up as she put a sack of potatoes into the box. “I’ll get you set up with a postbox when I’m through here.”
Conn wandered off, exploring the mysteries of this store. It was so unlike the military exchange on base. She sniffed, and followed the scent of leather to a series of hooks anchored to the wall in a back corner, hung with bridles, halters and lead ropes. Longingly, she ran the smooth leather of a bridle through her fingers. Conn’s dearest wish was to have a horse of her own, but being in a military family made that impossible. They’d never even been allowed a dog. The closest she ever got to her dream of having a horse was in her detailed and vivid games of make believe. She heard her mother call her name, and reluctantly put the bridle back, enjoying the lingering scent of leather on her hands.
When they got home, the children helped Elizabeth with a more thorough cleaning of the kitchen. They gathered up and sorted all the food that had been left, throwing away anything that looked too old or showed signs of animals having gotten into it, and wiped the pantry shelves clean before putting any of the new groceries away.
“Let’s see about this stove,” Elizabeth said. She opened one of the enameled doors and placed a few small pieces of kindling inside on top of some crinkled newspaper. When she lit the paper, the dry wood quickly caught, but smoke soon began backing out of the open door into the kitchen.
“Conn,” she called, still squatting in front of the stove, “turn that handle,” pointing to the coiled metal flue handle on the stove pipe.
Conn did as she was told, and almost immediately, the stove belched a thick cloud of black smoke and ash into Elizabeth’s face.
Startled, Elizabeth fell back onto the kitchen floor and blinked, everything except her scrunched eyes blackened by the smoke. Sputtering and coughing, she got to her feet, waving her arms to fan the smoke away.
“Well, I don’t remember Nana doing it that way,” she said ruefully as Conn and Will giggled.
The children pumped water for her so she could wash her face.
“Let’s have lunch,” she said as she toweled off. “Then you can go play.”
After a quick lunch of sandwiches and milk, Conn and Will hurried outside to explore. The barn near the house immediately drew their attention. Built into a hillside, the stone foundation opened onto the low side of the hill by means of a huge wooden sliding door that was too heavy for them to open. They climbed up the hill and around the other side of the barn where there was a smaller sliding door they were able to push aside enough to slip through. Taking a moment to let her eyes adjust to the dim light, Conn saw an old tractor sitting there, its green paint chipped away in places. There were old gas and oil cans and a mower meant to be pulled along behind the tractor. Up above them was a loft accessible by a wooden ladder. Over at one end of the barn was a set of wooden steps leading down to the stone level below.
“Wait for me!” Will cried as Conn disappeared down the stairs.
It was much darker in the lower level, and Will clung to the back of his sister’s shirt. This level had a packed dirt floor and several stalls. A few bits of harness hung from nails, the leather cracked and brittle.
“Let’s go,” Will whispered. “I don’t like it down here.”
“Okay.” Conn agreed grudgingly, deciding to come back later with a flashlight and explore more on her own.
Will started back up the steps, and as Conn reached for the handrail, she thought she detected movement out of the corner of her eye. She stopped and stared into the darkness, but could see nothing. She was aware of a sudden chill and realized she had goosebumps.
“C’mon,” Will urged her.
“I’m coming,” she said, with one more glance around.
§§§
Orla and Eilish sat outside the cottage, a freshening breeze tickling their faces as they sewed new undergarments for the girls to take on their voyage to America. Eilish had looked sadly at the few things they had to pack in their small bags – an extra dress for each of them, Orla’s handed down from her mother, and Caitríona’s from Orla; an extra pair of shoes, bought used with some of Eilish’s precious lace money.
“At least you shall have something new to take with you,” Eilish had insisted, using a bit more of her lace money to buy the softest, finest linen she could afford.
Caitríona sat in the grass, keeping an eye on the baby, who was beginning to crawl. She watched her mother worriedly; her face looked wasted and ill.
“You’re not strong enough to have another baby,” Brónach had pronounced, laying her knowing hands on Eilish’s swelling belly. She was known to all as the seanmhair, though she wasn’t actually anyone’s grandmother. She was the mid-wife and knew much of the old ways. “‘Tis not moving enough. You need to eat more.”
“I’ll be fine,” Eilish had insisted, but Caitríona could see that this baby, her twelfth, was sapping her strength. She knew her mother’s heart was as broken as hers and Orla’s, though she would never show it. She had seen her mother slipping food from her own plate onto theirs, trying to make sure they were strong enough for the journey ahead of them.
“All because that bastard won’t keep his hands off her,” Caitríona thought angrily as she watched her mother sewing. In a one-room cottage separated only by a drape, she heard things in the night. “No man will ever do that to me.”
Eilish glanced up and caught Caitríona’s eye. “Daughter,” she said, “go to my bed and fetch the parcel under my pallet.”
Caitríona did as she was bidden, returning a moment later with a cloth-wrapped parcel which she handed to her mother. Eilish set her sewing aside and unfolded the cloth to reveal a small leather-bound book and a smaller leather pouch. She handed the pouch to Orla, who opened it and pulled out a wooden rosary.
“Oh, Mam,” Orla breathed, “it’s beautiful.”
“It’s been blessed with holy water,” said Eilish, her voice cracking just a wee bit. “To keep you safe in your travels.”
She turned to her younger daughter and held out the book. “I know you write things.” Caitríona flushed. She hadn’t thought anyone knew about her small collection of “scribbles,” as she called them. Paper was hard to come by, and she hoarded every scrap she could get her hands on. “Now, you can write your thoughts properly. And show them to me someday.”
Caitríona’s face hardened as she tried not to cry.
“It’s not a wake, child,” Eilish said.
“‘Tis!” Caitríona cried. “We’ll never see you again!” She couldn’t stop her tears, and ran from the cottage. She ran through the neighboring fields where sheep and cattle grazed until, clambering over a stone wall, she topped a hill at the bottom of which was the seanmhair’s cottage, surrounded by old trees which sheltered it from the winds. The old woman was outside, tending to her plants. She spotted Caitríona with her red curls blowing in the breeze and waved to her, beckoning her down the hill. Wiping her tears from her cheeks, Caitríona descended the slope, crossing a small rocky stream at the bottom before climbing the gentle rise to the neat white cottage. This cottage had always seemed mysterious to Caitríona, with its bundles of flowers and herbs hung to dry from the rafters and little urns filled with roots and leaves.
“Come in, lass,” said Brónach, leading the way inside. “Sit with me by the fire,” she said, her black eyes peering up at Caitríona. Caitríona took the other stool near the fire, watching the seanmhair as she pulled the steaming kettle toward her and began dropping crushed leaves from some of her pots into the hot water. It was impossible to tell how old she was, with her white hair contrasted against her smooth skin. Caitríona knew that Father Cormac, the local priest, disliked Brónach, disparaging her as “unholy.” Eilish said that was rubbish. She said it was only because the seanmhair knew how to brew teas and medicines for ailments that Father Cormac could only pray over, big lot of help that was.
Brónach put another block of peat on the fire and swung the kettle back over the flames to heat. Caitríona watched as she took yet more leaves from other pots and crumbled them into two earthen cups. Within a few minutes, she poured the hot water from the kettle into the cups, allowing the leaves to steep.
All of this took place in silence. Brónach put the kettle back on the fire and turned to Caitríona. “I hear,” she said at last, “that you and Orla are to go to America.”
Caitríona nodded as Brónach handed her one of the cups, and took the other herself. Caitríona sniffed at the aromatic steam rising off the hot liquid. It smelled of heather and lavender, and it smelled like the wind blowing in off the sea. It made Caitríona’s heart ache for all the things she would never know again.
“Drink, child.”
Caitríona had the feeling Brónach could read her thoughts as she raised the cup to her lips. She could feel the brew warming her as it went down her gullet, spreading out to her limbs with a tingle and making her face feel as if it glowed.
“What is this?” she gasped, a little frightened.
“‘Twill help us see what is in store for you,” said Brónach.
“You can do that?” Caitríona whispered.
“Aye, if the Dagda will show us,” Brónach said, her eyes narrowing a bit.
“The Dagda?” Caitríona repeated, her mouth gaping. She made a quick sign of the cross.
“Do not insult the old ones with Christian nonsense,” the seanmhair snapped. “The Dagda, his daughter Brighid – they cannot kill the old ones, so they turn them into something they can understand, into saints. Phah!” she said, spitting into the fire where her spittle sizzled and steamed.
Caitríona was frightened now. Brónach reached over and took her cup and, muttering a few words in the Irish, an older form than Caitríona could understand, she threw the remaining liquid into the flames. Peering intently, she watched the shapes assumed by the steam and smoke as it rose. She then turned her attention to the sodden leaves remaining in the cup. Still muttering, she drank deeply from her own cup and looked at the wet leaves there as well.
Caitríona was feeling strange. It seemed to her that the cottage was all in darkness, though it must surely still be day. The fire was the only light, and she found herself unable to look away from the flames. Brónach closed her eyes, swaying on her stool, and from her mouth issued a voice not her own.
“Ill-fated shall your progeny be;
From each generation after thee
Only one girl child shall survive
To carry on and keep alive
The hope to right a grievous wrong,
Until the one comes along
Who may set the past to rights.
None may help her in her quest, or
Ease the burden laid by her ancestor
On shoulders much too young to bear such sorrow.
Not since barren fields stole all hope for tomorrow
Has such a one been needed,
When father sold daughter for land he was deeded,
And plunged his soul into endless night.
Hatred is poison, like blood on the fields,
Father to daughter, a blackened soul yields
Naught but mem’ries of what once was good.
A child, ne’er soiled by hate or greed could
Bring forgiveness and healing to those long gone.
With the dead laid to rest, the living move on,
Freed at last by a soul blessed with light.”
Caitríona stared aghast at Brónach’s face, lit from one side by the fire as she slowly came out of her trance. Tears fell from the old woman’s eyes as she stared at Caitríona. “Gods be with you, lass.”