she’d never surpass the grief of that summer afternoon when Tadgh arrived, his eyes blank and his hair littered gold with the harvest chaff.
Johanna is dead, he had said. My wife is dead.
Johanna, dandelion child, gone like clocking seed on the wind and, as she felt the field of oats rise up about her, the scythe falling from her hand, there came the thought: This is it. The tide is come and I will let it take me.
Had it not been for Martin . . . He had found comfort in Micheál, that now-motherless foundling brought by Tadgh in a turf basket. He had urged her to care for the boy, to dribble milk into his piping, empty mouth. He had loved him. Found reason for happiness in him.
‘He looks as though he is dying,’ Nóra had said that night as they sat, drowned in grief. It was evening. The harvest sun had fallen and they had left the half-door open to allow the pinking dusk to spread throughout the room.
Martin had lifted the boy from the basket, holding him as though he were an injured bird. ‘He is starved. Look at his legs.’
‘Tadgh says he does not talk anymore. Has not spoken for six months or more.’
The griping boy calmed in the embrace of his grandfather. ‘We will fetch the doctor for him, and we will make him well. Nóra? Do you hear me?’
‘We cannot afford a doctor.’
She remembered Martin’s wide hands, the kindness in the way he stroked the boy’s hair. The dirt under the rough callouses of his skin. He had petted Micheál in the same way he soothed spooked horses, speaking with a calm tongue. Even that night, stabbed through with grief for their daughter, Martin had been calm.
‘We will fetch the doctor, Nóra,’ he had said. Only then had his voice broken. ‘What we could not do for Johanna we will do for her son. For our grandson.’
Nóra stared at the empty stool that had held her husband that summer night.
Why could God not have taken Micheál? Why leave an ill-formed child in the place of a good man, a good woman?
I would throw this boy against a wall if it would bring me back Martin and my daughter, Nóra thought. The notion horrified her no sooner than it had crossed her mind. She glanced at the sleeping boy and crossed herself in shame.
No. It would not do. To sit slumped by the hearth, thinking dark thoughts, was no way to welcome the dead. This was no home for her daughter’s spirit, or the returning soul of her man, God have mercy on them.
While Micheál slept, Nóra rose and filled the pot with water from her well bucket, dropping in as many potatoes as she could spare. With those set upon the fire to boil, she arranged stools around the hearth: Martin’s place, closest to the flame, another for Johanna beside it. They might be gone, she thought, but with God’s grace she could welcome them again for one night of the year.
When the lumpers had softened, Nóra drained them onto the skib and placed a noggin of salted water in the middle of their steaming flesh. She ate a few, slipping them out of their skins as quickly as she was able and dipping them into the water to cool and flavour the potato. Then she took Martin’s pipe out of the nook in the hearth wall, wiped the dust out of the bowl and blew through the stem to clear it. She set it on his stool.
As she went about the room, snatching cobwebs from the low rafters and straightening the cross by the window, Nóra allowed herself to think again of when her daughter was little and when they were all together as a family. She remembered the first years, when Johanna was still soft-cheeked, playing with nuts gathered from wild trees: hazelnuts, acorns, chestnuts. She thought of the potato lamps they made, hollowed out by Martin and handed to Johanna to scrape out faces. Holes for eyes. Gaping mouths.
By the time Nóra finished the Samhain preparations, the usual evening sounds of lowing cattle and the cries and calls of men returning inside from work had long ceased, and all was still and silent except for the
Johanna is dead, he had said. My wife is dead.
Johanna, dandelion child, gone like clocking seed on the wind and, as she felt the field of oats rise up about her, the scythe falling from her hand, there came the thought: This is it. The tide is come and I will let it take me.
Had it not been for Martin . . . He had found comfort in Micheál, that now-motherless foundling brought by Tadgh in a turf basket. He had urged her to care for the boy, to dribble milk into his piping, empty mouth. He had loved him. Found reason for happiness in him.
‘He looks as though he is dying,’ Nóra had said that night as they sat, drowned in grief. It was evening. The harvest sun had fallen and they had left the half-door open to allow the pinking dusk to spread throughout the room.
Martin had lifted the boy from the basket, holding him as though he were an injured bird. ‘He is starved. Look at his legs.’
‘Tadgh says he does not talk anymore. Has not spoken for six months or more.’
The griping boy calmed in the embrace of his grandfather. ‘We will fetch the doctor for him, and we will make him well. Nóra? Do you hear me?’
‘We cannot afford a doctor.’
She remembered Martin’s wide hands, the kindness in the way he stroked the boy’s hair. The dirt under the rough callouses of his skin. He had petted Micheál in the same way he soothed spooked horses, speaking with a calm tongue. Even that night, stabbed through with grief for their daughter, Martin had been calm.
‘We will fetch the doctor, Nóra,’ he had said. Only then had his voice broken. ‘What we could not do for Johanna we will do for her son. For our grandson.’
Nóra stared at the empty stool that had held her husband that summer night.
Why could God not have taken Micheál? Why leave an ill-formed child in the place of a good man, a good woman?
I would throw this boy against a wall if it would bring me back Martin and my daughter, Nóra thought. The notion horrified her no sooner than it had crossed her mind. She glanced at the sleeping boy and crossed herself in shame.
No. It would not do. To sit slumped by the hearth, thinking dark thoughts, was no way to welcome the dead. This was no home for her daughter’s spirit, or the returning soul of her man, God have mercy on them.
While Micheál slept, Nóra rose and filled the pot with water from her well bucket, dropping in as many potatoes as she could spare. With those set upon the fire to boil, she arranged stools around the hearth: Martin’s place, closest to the flame, another for Johanna beside it. They might be gone, she thought, but with God’s grace she could welcome them again for one night of the year.
When the lumpers had softened, Nóra drained them onto the skib and placed a noggin of salted water in the middle of their steaming flesh. She ate a few, slipping them out of their skins as quickly as she was able and dipping them into the water to cool and flavour the potato. Then she took Martin’s pipe out of the nook in the hearth wall, wiped the dust out of the bowl and blew through the stem to clear it. She set it on his stool.
As she went about the room, snatching cobwebs from the low rafters and straightening the cross by the window, Nóra allowed herself to think again of when her daughter was little and when they were all together as a family. She remembered the first years, when Johanna was still soft-cheeked, playing with nuts gathered from wild trees: hazelnuts, acorns, chestnuts. She thought of the potato lamps they made, hollowed out by Martin and handed to Johanna to scrape out faces. Holes for eyes. Gaping mouths.
By the time Nóra finished the Samhain preparations, the usual evening sounds of lowing cattle and the cries and calls of men returning inside from work had long ceased, and all was still and silent except for the
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