crackle of the fire and Micheál’s quiet breathing. Nóra poured out piggins of buttermilk for Martin and Johanna, starting at the sudden screech of a barn owl outside. She placed the wooden cups beside the stools and knelt to say her evening prayers. Leaving the rushlights burning and her grandchild sleeping, Nóra went to bed with a small bottle of poitín , and sipped at it until she felt herself dissolve with the heat of the liquor. The high fire that had been burning all evening had dried the air in the house and, in the warmth of it, Nóra fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.
It was midnight when she heard the noise. A muffled thump, like a fist against a chest. Nóra sat up in bed, her head throbbing. It wasn’t Micheál. The sound had come from outside. She had not imagined it, surely.
Looking out to the main room and the hearth, she could see her grandson’s sleeping form. The turf burnt red. All was wine-dark.
Nóra heard the sound again. Someone was outside. Someone wanted to get in. There was a noise on the thatch, like a stone thrown against the house.
Her blood darted through her veins.
Was it Martin? Johanna? Nóra’s tongue was dry with fear. She placed her feet on the ground and rose, glancing around the room, swaying. She was drunk.
There was another sound – a clinking, like a fingernail tapping on a tin bucket. She made her way into the main room of the cabin. There was no one there.
Another thump. Nóra let out a soft cry. She wished she hadn’t been drinking.
Laughter sounded.
‘Who’s there?’ Her voice sounded feeble.
Another muffled laugh. A man’s laugh.
‘Martin?’ she whispered.
‘Hallowe’en knock!’ growled a low voice.
Nóra’s breath caught in her throat.
‘Hallowe’en knock! A penny a stock. If you don’t let me in, I’ll knock. Knock. Knock.’ There was a sudden pounding against the mud wall of her cabin.
Nóra flung open the door. In the light of the high, slender moon she could see three men standing in front of her, their faces covered in masks of rough cloth. Holes had been cut out for their eyes and mouths, giving them an expression of menace. Nóra stepped backwards in fear as the young man in the middle skipped forward into the cabin, laughing.
‘Hallowe’en knock!’ He did a clumsy jig, rattling the long string of hazelnuts that hung around his neck. His fellows started giggling behind him, but their laughs faded as Nóra started to cry. The dancer stopped and pulled the mask from his face, and Nóra saw that it was John O’Shea, Peg’s grandson.
‘Widow Leahy. I’m –’
‘Damn you all!’ Blood drained from her face.
John glanced back at his companions. They stared, slack-mouthed.
‘Get out, John,’ Nóra hissed.
‘We didn’t mean to give you such a fright.’
Nóra gave a short, barking laugh. The other boys took their masks off and looked to John. Valley boys, all of them. Not her husband. Not her daughter. Just bold, masked boys.
‘Taunting widows are you now, John?’ She was shaking like an aspen.
John looked uncomfortable. ‘’Tis Samhain. We’re after soul cakes.’
‘And money,’ his friend mumbled.
‘’Twas just for a laugh, is all.’
‘And are ye laughing, lads?’ Nóra raised her hand as if to slap them and the boys shrank back against the open door. ‘Ye spalpeens. Stalking new-made widows in the dead of night! Waking good folk from their sleep with your unholy ways!’
‘You won’t say to mamó ?’ John twisted his mask in his hands.
‘Oh, Peg’ll be hearing of it. Away with ye!’ Nóra picked up a stool and flung it at them as they ran out of the cabin into the night. She swung the door to, fastened the latch and leant her head against it. For one tender moment she had thought it was Martin and Johanna at her door. Stupidly, she realised that she had been anticipating their faces. The shock of the lads and their awful masks had shaken her, but it was the ruined expectation that had hurt the
It was midnight when she heard the noise. A muffled thump, like a fist against a chest. Nóra sat up in bed, her head throbbing. It wasn’t Micheál. The sound had come from outside. She had not imagined it, surely.
Looking out to the main room and the hearth, she could see her grandson’s sleeping form. The turf burnt red. All was wine-dark.
Nóra heard the sound again. Someone was outside. Someone wanted to get in. There was a noise on the thatch, like a stone thrown against the house.
Her blood darted through her veins.
Was it Martin? Johanna? Nóra’s tongue was dry with fear. She placed her feet on the ground and rose, glancing around the room, swaying. She was drunk.
There was another sound – a clinking, like a fingernail tapping on a tin bucket. She made her way into the main room of the cabin. There was no one there.
Another thump. Nóra let out a soft cry. She wished she hadn’t been drinking.
Laughter sounded.
‘Who’s there?’ Her voice sounded feeble.
Another muffled laugh. A man’s laugh.
‘Martin?’ she whispered.
‘Hallowe’en knock!’ growled a low voice.
Nóra’s breath caught in her throat.
‘Hallowe’en knock! A penny a stock. If you don’t let me in, I’ll knock. Knock. Knock.’ There was a sudden pounding against the mud wall of her cabin.
Nóra flung open the door. In the light of the high, slender moon she could see three men standing in front of her, their faces covered in masks of rough cloth. Holes had been cut out for their eyes and mouths, giving them an expression of menace. Nóra stepped backwards in fear as the young man in the middle skipped forward into the cabin, laughing.
‘Hallowe’en knock!’ He did a clumsy jig, rattling the long string of hazelnuts that hung around his neck. His fellows started giggling behind him, but their laughs faded as Nóra started to cry. The dancer stopped and pulled the mask from his face, and Nóra saw that it was John O’Shea, Peg’s grandson.
‘Widow Leahy. I’m –’
‘Damn you all!’ Blood drained from her face.
John glanced back at his companions. They stared, slack-mouthed.
‘Get out, John,’ Nóra hissed.
‘We didn’t mean to give you such a fright.’
Nóra gave a short, barking laugh. The other boys took their masks off and looked to John. Valley boys, all of them. Not her husband. Not her daughter. Just bold, masked boys.
‘Taunting widows are you now, John?’ She was shaking like an aspen.
John looked uncomfortable. ‘’Tis Samhain. We’re after soul cakes.’
‘And money,’ his friend mumbled.
‘’Twas just for a laugh, is all.’
‘And are ye laughing, lads?’ Nóra raised her hand as if to slap them and the boys shrank back against the open door. ‘Ye spalpeens. Stalking new-made widows in the dead of night! Waking good folk from their sleep with your unholy ways!’
‘You won’t say to mamó ?’ John twisted his mask in his hands.
‘Oh, Peg’ll be hearing of it. Away with ye!’ Nóra picked up a stool and flung it at them as they ran out of the cabin into the night. She swung the door to, fastened the latch and leant her head against it. For one tender moment she had thought it was Martin and Johanna at her door. Stupidly, she realised that she had been anticipating their faces. The shock of the lads and their awful masks had shaken her, but it was the ruined expectation that had hurt the
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