Prologue

The Death Fog

Branlow, County Roscommon, Ireland

September 1846

Most days blended into the grayness of Liam Hanley’s life, but this particular one haunted, a brooding prophetess tormenting the potato farmer with visions of his precious dream succumbing to the Irish downpour of misfortune, washing out his aspirations in familiar brown rivulets of defeat.

The shrouding twilight lingered and Liam, with rumpled and silvering brows, surveyed his ancestral field as if for the last time, his head throbbing with dark suspicions he had yet to share with anyone. A secret he wouldn’t reveal until absolutely certain of his shame.

He was like a general on the eve of a hopeless battle, while his soldiers, not fully aware of their impending doom, played cards in tents, exchanged uneasy jokes, and wrote letters for back home that would never arrive.

Just two days earlier, something sinister arrived in the ashen mist. This fog, an encroaching apparition, arms engulfing mud homes, stony hovels, and lowing cattle of his pastoral village, brought with it a peculiar scent of decay.

Beneath the usual earthy smells of peat smoke rising from rock chimneys, hoe-churned soil, and tall moist grass, the odor was subtle to discern. But for Liam, whose heart pulsed in rhythm with his land, the growing presence of the stench overwhelmed his senses to the point of debilitation.

Still, there remained a chance his instincts were deceived, and Liam clenched on to this fraying possibility with all his being as if it were the final breath left in his pained soul. Perhaps the foulness was merely a drifting wind from the bog or a rotting corpse of some stillborn calf.

As it was, the full revelation stood beneath his ragged and soil-stained leather boots. All he needed to do was bend down and rake his fingers through the soil.

But Liam wasn’t ready for the truth. Was it cowardice? Self-preservation? Or was he stalling in some bitter expectation the curse would be withdrawn?

These thoughts were interrupted by the unsuspecting laughter of his children echoing behind him. Their voices emanated from the one-room, thatched-roof mud hovel where many of the Hanley ancestry were birthed with groans, raised in squalor, and died without distinction.

Liam drifted down the short slope leading to the entranceway of his shanty. He paused before the bent oaken door and released a heavy sigh before entering.

The chattering halted, and the faces of his family looked at him with poorly concealed disappointment. And for this welcome each evening, he toiled without cease.

“Father.” Clare, his unwed twenty-four-year-old daughter, managed a smile. “The meal’s just now for serving.” With her flowing black hair, fair complexion, long lashes, and sparkling sapphire eyes, his daughter was too beautiful to be alone, but she sought more than this town had to give and was unwilling to accept her standing.

Liam hung his patched jacket on the iron wall hook and took his place at the head of the sagging dinner table. Ronan, his ten-year-old boy, limped to a seat, all the while tracking his father with eyes of apprehension.

The freckled and curly-locked Davin, the youngest by a couple of years, slid into his chair as well. He lifted his tin cup, put his eye to it, and then turned it upside down. “Is the well dry?”

“You’ll be last served now.” Caitlin, with blonde hair adorned with a faded pink ribbon, poured water into Liam’s cup from a wooden pitcher, her two jittery hands fearful of spilling.

Clare placed a large bowl of potato pottage in the center of the table and then, beginning with Liam, ladled portions for each of them.

“Seamus?” Liam started slurping his meal.

Caitlin glanced at Clare and then spoke. “Out.” Having served the water, she settled into her chair.

“He said he had doings with Pierce.” Clare shook her head and with her free hand pulled a wet rag from her dress pocket. She dabbed a splotch of dirt off of Davin’s cheek and then patted him on the head.

Liam grunted and pointed a dripping spoon in the direction of the two boys. “You turn out half as shiftless as your elder brother and I’ll trade you at the market for a new shovel. Might just do it otherwise.”

“Da. Speak gently. They can’t tell you’re quipping.” Clare positioned herself next to the rocking chair in the corner of the room where Liam’s wife, Ida, idled throughout the day.

“Quipping? You keep those words in your fancy books, where they won’t be frightening away working lads.” Liam cringed at the sight of his daughter beginning to spoon-feed the old woman.

The cackle of an ember from the peat fire drew Liam’s attention to the hearth, where the flames stretched for freedom. “Clare! Must you be so wasteful with the logs?”

“Ma had the shivers.”

“Ah, she did? Is that so?” Liam paused, brimming with the urge to speak his thoughts. Would it be anything but merciful if his wife took ill? Two years was forever to be in this condition. He had grieved when his little boy drowned, just as much as Ida, but he didn’t allow himself to go mad. Who would have provided? Who else but Liam?

“C’mon, Ma,” Clare said. “You must eat.”

“We can go to the bog and cut more peat,” Ronan said, his face brightening. “We’ll do that for you, Da. Clare will take us, will you?”

Davin didn’t wait to swallow his food. “He just wants the frogs. For their legs.”

“Not so.” Ronan glared at his younger brother.

“What nonsense is this?” Clare stood and wiped her hands on her apron.

“True it ’tis,” Caitlin said. “Seamus was ’splaining to Ronan if he chewed on ten legs, it would heal him up.”

Davin nodded with sincerity. “And with twenty? With twenty he could leap to the roof.” He motioned with his dirty hand from the table into the air.

Ronan shrunk in his chair.

“Is that so?” Liam said abruptly. He pointed to his cup and Caitlin lifted the pitcher, leaned over, and tilted the handle. The snapping fire and the trickling of water was all that could be heard.

Liam was aware his emotions were poisoned by today’s circumstances, but he lashed out nonetheless. “Not certain what’s more foolish. You two boys believing Seamus for anything, or the very thought of Ronan hobbling . . .” He started to chortle and it felt good. “Or you, Ronan, limping after frogs in the bog.”

He laughed for a few moments, then hacked a few coughs before drinking some water. His family gazed at him with numbness.

Clare walked over to Ronan and kissed the boy on the forehead. “He’s a fine frog catcher, don’t you know?”

Liam hated when his daughter intervened and played up her kindness, making him villainous. It spurred him to gouge deeper, and he was pondering a retort when he noticed something was askew. “Where’s the chair?” A sudden pulse of anger swelled.

Clare appeared as if she was going to joust for a moment but then submitted to his temper. “I’ll be right back with it.” She scurried outside the house for a few moments and then returned with one of the table chairs cradled under her arm.

“What was it doing out there?”

“I was writing in my journal out back. I’m sorry, I forgot—”

Liam stood, placed his palms on the table, and jutted his jaw. “For the last time, and this goes for all of you, Margaret’s chair is not to be moved. Have you any memory left of her?”

Clare’s eyes glazed and she looked down. “More than you know.”

He panned the forlorn faces, and regret came over Liam as once again he earned their disdain.

“All right.” His countenance softened as did the tone of his voice. “I’ll give you what you want. I will do you all a great favor.”

Liam grabbed his jacket, put on his hat, opened the door, and escaped into the darkness.

Once outside, as was his nightly habit, Liam began the two-mile journey to O’Shannon’s Public House, down the remote country road, walking over the faded footprints of many generations. Above, a nearly full moon glimmered, its brilliance restrained by a chilling mist.

Liam paused for a moment and took in the odd whispers of this uneasy evening. Then he lumbered forward, striving with each step to chase away his anxieties. Like a child’s tattered doll, he cradled his evening forays as his most-dear possession.

After some time, the lights of approaching buildings rewarded his tired legs. Closing in on O’Shannon’s, he yearned to hear the muted sounds of alcohol-induced joy, spontaneous song, and lively argument.

But tonight, the reverberations escaping the pores of the tavern were subdued, confirming the fears he fought to deny. His pulse began to beat its somber drum.

Liam entered through the creaking door, and the dimly lantern-lit establishment shared little of its usual liveliness. He slipped in unnoticed, save for a quick nod or two from those he joined at the bar, each perched like magpies on a dead tree branch.

He waved an arm at Casey O’Shannon behind the counter, who responded with an unimpressed roll of hairy-browed eyes and an unhurried approach.

Liam allowed the anticipation of drink to begin to replenish his spirits. “I’ll have me mine.”

The hulking proprietor shot a towel over his shoulder with an air befitting the second most important man behind Father Quinn Connor in this region. As he bent in, Liam could smell distilled grains on the barman’s breath.

“Yours is yours, Liam Hanley, when your tab is current.”

Liam heard this too often to be discouraged or even insulted. Besides, everyone knew Casey wouldn’t have a coin to his name if not for his wife’s side of the family.

“Mr. O’Shannon. Is this any way to treat one of your finest patrons? I’ll remember you well enough when you come to me parched, begging for a wee sip.”

Casey shook his head and turned. He returned shortly with a previously poured mug of stout, which had been sitting for many minutes to allow the head to settle. In Branlow, as in all of the Emerald Isle, no one paid for a glass of foam.

The brown liquid opiate, warm, frothy, rich to taste and bitter all of the way down, melted some of the pain of Liam’s life. It helped feed the fragile illusion that in this humble sanctuary, he was among friends.

Liam took his wool cap off and laid it on the bar. Brushing his earth-brown hair back with his hand, his fingers felt the dampness of the foggy night. He looked over to old Lucas Furley to his right, who was wringing his hands nervously around an empty glass.

Liam liked Lucas because he was a man Liam could pity above himself, which gave him some comfort. The old man was late to marry and drew more than a few raised eyebrows years back when he took the hand of a teenage lass as his bride. Less than a year later, he lost both his young wife and the baby at birth, and now spent most of his time drinking sadness from a glass.

A glance around the room revealed many of the local farming congregation engaged in hushed conversations, their wearied faces a tapestry of frustration and concern.

Only Niall Tavers seemed untouched by the melancholy. He was slumped over in his chair, as he was every evening at O’Shannon’s following a few pours. There was some debate as to how he had lasted seventy years in his condition, and wagers were placed almost daily on whether or not during the course of a particular evening, he would slump over for good.

With not many alternatives for conversation, Liam turned to Lucas. “It appears somebody dragged the clouds in here. ’Tis a sour mood, don’t you think?”

Lucas seemed reluctant to take his eyes off the bottom of his glass. “We could benefit from the cheer of your Tomas on a day like this, I suppose.”

The words pained Liam. It had been four years since his younger brother left Branlow, and still Tomas’s charm overshadowed Liam. Since he was a wee lad, and despite a lifetime of effort, Liam’s light always shone dimmer.

He took another slow draw of his stout and wiped the foam from his lip with the back of his hand. He tapped his fingers on the countertop, which drew Casey’s glance from the other end of the bar. Liam waved him off with his hand.

He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a shilling, and placed it on the bar, spinning it several times with his thumb and forefinger. The sight of money drew his thoughts away from the characters in the bar to the dim reality of his own life. He stared at the silver coin, running his thumb over Queen Victoria’s embossed profile. The shiny metal contrasted with his fingers, stained and cracked by the fields.

What does the queen know about an honest day’s labor?

Suddenly, the door of the tavern rattled open, attracting the attention of most of the patrons. A few welcomes and waves came out as the broad-shouldered Riley Flanagan entered, but he just grunted past them and placed his belly against the dark, polished countertop of the bar.

In a moment, Casey arrived with a tall shot of Irish rye for his newly arrived guest. He eyeballed the man while he wiped the counter. “What troubles you, Riley? Did the old lady cast you out again?”

The unshaven Riley drew the whiskey to his lips and snapped his head back. He mumbled something.

“What’s that you say?” Casey leaned in.

There was an uneasy pause and then Riley slammed the glass on the bar, which brought a lull across the entire room. In a loud and deliberate voice he said, “The roots gone bad.”

Lucas stood up from his seat. “What’s the man saying?”

Riley pressed himself away from the bar counter, his ruddy complexion growing even redder. A few more patrons sauntered over to eavesdrop on the conversation. “Why are you looking at me like fools? You know what the smell means. It’s the rot.”

The gathering crowd began to murmur, and soon most in the room were around Riley and nudging closer.

Casey pressed him. “Are you sure? Are you certain the roots are bad?”

“What? None of you looked for yourself?” Riley’s gaze darted around seeking an answer. “I wouldn’t have thought the whole room of you for cowards.”

Lucas pushed through the gathering crowd and poked his finger in Riley’s chest. “Liar. That’s what you are. You’re too full of the drink to know your toes from your ears.”

The room silenced as Riley responded with a raised fist, but then his demeanor dissipated into something more akin to pity. “All of it.” He buttoned up his wool jacket. “Black. Black. Every last tater in me field. The ground is nothing but a grave of corpses.”

Riley’s eyes moistened. He spoke in a defeated tone. “It’s the death fog. The death fog brought it in. The full harvest will be ruined. It will be the ruin of us all, I’m afraid.”

He pulled a coin out of his coat pocket and placed it on the counter with a snap. “Night lads. God be with you. May God be with you all.” Then he hunched out the door.

Riley’s dreary words draped the room and only a few cursory comments were exchanged. He had merely put a voice to the dread in their hearts.

Some put on their coats, hats, and scarves and sifted out of the pub. Others dwelled, choosing to mend sorrow with drink.

But the stout in Liam’s mug was no longer sufficient to quell the writhing in his stomach. His plight would be worse than most as he had risked his entire crop on the potato this season, a decision he had thought would at last reap a season of prosperity.

All that remained was the faltering hope that the contagion had not spread to his fields. The death in the air could be from farms downwind.

Riley must be wrong.

He picked up his shilling from the counter and unfurled from the stool, his mind in a blur.

Liam drifted out of O’Shannon’s and down the road. Gradually, he shifted into a limping gait, that of a broken mare, sometimes tripping over rocks and divots in the low light. When he did, he would curse, lift himself up, and move up the stream of adversity, as he always did.

Liam struggled to console himself with the belief his life was too full of misfortune for God to strike him yet another blow.

So he ran.