Read Online Spirited Away - A Novel of the Stolen Irish by Maggie Plummer - Free Book Online

Dika, too. One day she and Birdie were driving the cart through a
downpour and saw Ben grab the Gypsy woman, strip off her rain-soaked shift, and
violently ravish her in the muck, in full view of the rest of the Gang. Ben had
lifted his brown face into the hammering rain, appearing to relish Dika's
degradation.
           "No
look," Birdie had whispered.
           Freddy
nodded and fixed her eyes straight ahead. Cursing her own helplessness, she'd
hid her face and placed her hand on Birdie's steadying arm. 
           As
for the Millicent, she was her father's daughter. The more it rained the worse
her temper. When she wasn’t bullying Freddy, she was whining about her pinafore
ruffles going soggy and flat.
           Freddy
looked over at the girl, whose face was buried in her spelling book. Today Mrs.
Pratt had done her up in lavender and white. How was it possible that this
disagreeable creature was only two years younger than Aileen? Where was her
sweet sister now? Freddy had filched paper and pen during Millicent's lessons,
and had written long letters to Aileen and to Mam. But she had no way to send
them. She scribbled late at night in the kitchen alcove, by the meager light of
a single candle lantern, pouring her heart out in her native tongue. She
stashed the letters, paper, and pen behind the corn sacks.
           Today
Freddy felt peculiar, as if the constricting bodice was tighter than usual. Her
breasts hurt and she was tired. Tonight she would try to get some extra sleep.
She rose and moved behind Millicent to check the girl’s work. Her hip brushed
the sideboard, knocking a delicate china plate from its display mount and to
the floor. It shattered into tiny pieces.
           "That
was Mother's!" Millicent shrieked. She yanked off one of her shoes, sprang
from her chair, whirled around, and began pounding Freddy's legs with it.
"You stupid, stupid Irish cow! I hate you!"
     
     
    After
supper that evening, Freddy stood at the kitchen work table scrubbing a crusty
pot. She stopped, wiped her hands dry, and felt her tender breasts. "Why
do they hurt?" she wondered aloud, again picking up the pot.
           Behind
her, Una and Birdie exchanged a quick glance.
           "Have
you had your monthly flow?" Una asked.
           Freddy
turned to them and hesitated. She couldn't remember the last time. "I
don't believe so." Why were they staring so?
           "My
dear," Una murmured, "you are with child!"
           Birdie
rushed across the room and gave her a quick hug. "You, me," she said
softly, placing a strong brown hand on each of their bellies and shining her
hopeful, radiant smile.
     
     
    Sean
Gwynne's white hair glowed in the moonlight as the three of them knelt and
whispered prayers together by the window of his hut. For the moment the rains
had ceased and there was a break in the cloud cover. They couldn't risk lighting
a candle, he said, in case he was being watched. The thick stand of guava trees
behind the hut was alive with cicada song. The short, stocky priest finished
the prayer, made the Sign of the Cross, and rose. Una had said he was a Jesuit
who had managed to survive Cromwell's bloody attack on his native Drogheda.
           "Let
us sit," he murmured, lowering himself onto a stool next to his straw bed.
           "Thank
you, Father," Una whispered in her native tongue. "Freddy is in need
of counsel."
           "What
is it, my child?" the priest asked gently, turning his deep-set brown eyes
to her.
           "I
try to keep my faith," Freddy whispered. "But I am with child from
the rapes of Master…my heart fills with hatred…"
           "God
has sent us on a stony path, young Freddy," he answered softly in his
lilting voice. "But He also gives us strong shoes, that we may find our
way. You are stronger than you know. May you never fear the will of God."
           Freddy
nodded, mute, her eyes filling with tears.