Chapter Twenty Four

 

 

October 1847

Ballyross, Ireland

 

It was just before sunset when Michael and his father, as was their custom, went into the field to painstakingly check every plant. When they were done, Michael stood up and stretched his aching back. “Well, there’s no sign of the blight.”

Da squinted at his small field with a look of distrust, as though he expected the leaves to turn black before his very eyes.

“They’re ready, Da.” Michael said, sensing his father’s indecisiveness. “We should dig them up tomorrow.”

“Hush your tongue!” an alarmed Da hissed. “We’ll do no such a thing,” he shouted into the field.

Michael shook his head at his father’s foolish superstitious notions. Since that first morning when the blight destroyed his potatoes, Da had gotten into his head the notion that the little people had heard him say he was going to dig up the potatoes and they’d punished him for his presumptuousness. Since then, he’d become convinced that it was bad luck to say anything about future plans.

To pacify his anxious Da, Michael shouted into the field. “You’re right. We’ll not dig them up tomorrow.”

But they both knew they would.

 

No one slept that night in the Ranahan cottage. Lost in their own thoughts, no one talked either. Each had their own special prayer. Da prayed that the terrible black rot would not come in the night. Mam prayed for an end to the great hunger that was threatening to destroy what was left of her family. Dermot dreamed about getting away from this place.

And Michael dreamed of Emily.

An hour before dawn, Da sat abruptly upright in bed. “Oh, Lord God in heaven. Do you smell it?”

“Smell what?” Dermot asked.

“The rot.”

Dermot sniffed. “I don’t.”

“Me neither,” Michael said.

“I can smell it, I tell ya.”

“Go back to sleep,” Mam said. “You’re imaginin’ it.”

“I’m not. Tis the blight. Can you not smell it, woman?”

“I cannot,” Dermot said. “Go have a look outside and see for yourself.”

“I will not. Tis bad luck to get up before the dawn.”

Michael got out of bed. He knew better, but all this talk of blight and rot was making even him jittery. Cautiously, he opened the door, half-expecting to be overwhelmed by that unforgettable stench of decay. Instead, he inhaled the damp, sweet smell of early morning air.

“Everything’s lovely,” he said.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Dermot said.

“Give it up,” Mam said.

“Well didn’t he scare the life out of me with his talk of the rot?”

Michael crawled back onto his pallet. “Dermot, for the love of God, go back to sleep.”

“How am I to sleep now?”

He didn’t. Nor did anyone else. They lay in their beds silent and tense until they heard the crow of a distant rooster. Then, as one, they got up and, trying to be appear calm, hurriedly dressed. Then, as a group, they cautiously stepped out into the thin light of dawn.

Da sniffed the air suspiciously.

Michael walked into the field, knelt down and touched a leaf. It was thick and soft with life. He pulled a plant out of the ground and squeezed a potato. Solid. He brushed away the dirt and bit into it. Firm.

He sat back on his haunches and his voice cracked with emotion. “The potatoes are lovely.”

Cautiously, Da came into the field. He knelt down next to Michael and pulled up a plant to see for himself. He examined it. Bit into it and waited a moment, as though he expected the potato to turn putrid in his mouth. Then he cautiously chewed. “Aye. Tis good.”

Mam and Dermot were next. As Michael and Da had done, each of them pulled up a plant and bit into the raw potato.

“Well?” Da asked.

“It’s lovely,” Mam said.

“Aye, it’s lovely,” Dermot echoed.

The four Ranahans sat on the ground in the field, surrounded by the healthy potatoes that would feed them till next year. The great hunger was over.

They were too stoic to cry and too reserved to express their elation, but no one was able to speak for a very long time.