most.
I am a drunk old woman crying over ghosts that do not come, Nóra thought.
Micheál had woken. He wailed in his bed of heather, eyes round and dark. Nóra staggered over to where he lay and slumped to the ground. She stroked his head and tried to sing to him as Martin had done, but the tune was mournful and her voice broke on the words. Eventually she rose and fetched her husband’s greatcoat from her bed. Wrapping it around her and breathing in his old scent of burnt coltsfoot, Nóra eased herself to the ground next to Micheál.
‘God and Mary to you, Nance.’
Nance looked up from her knife to see a shawled figure in the doorway.
‘Old Hanna?’
‘And getting older with every passing day.’
‘Come in and God welcome.’ Nance helped her visitor to a stool by the fire. ‘Is it for yourself you’re come?’
The woman grunted as she sat down, shaking her head. ‘’Tis my sister. She has a fever.’
Nance passed Hanna a cup of fresh milk and nodded at it. ‘Drink. Tell me, how long has she been sick, and does she eat?’
‘She eats nothing, but takes a little water. The sweat pours from her and she shivers as though she is bitter cold. But we have the fire high, and ’tis warm as you like in with her.’
‘I can give you the cure.’
‘Praise be.’ Hanna took a sip of the milk and pointed to the knife in Nance’s hand. ‘I’ve come and stopped you from your work.’
‘’Twas only thistles I was cutting. For my hens. Musha, curing fevers is my work.’ Nance put the blade down and walked to the corner of the room, taking a little cloth bag from it. She untied the leather string of the bag and, using her fingertips, carefully sprinkled the herb from it into the neck of a brown glass bottle, muttering under her breath.
‘What is that?’ Hanna asked, when the bottle was filled and Nance had finished her charm.
‘Meadowsweet.’
‘Will it cure her?’
‘Put the dried flowers drawing on the boil as soon as you get home to her. Give her three drinks off the top of it and she will be as well as she ever was.’
‘Thank you, Nance.’ Hanna was relieved.
‘But don’t be looking behind you until you’ve reached the lane. Don’t be looking at the Piper’s Grave or the whitethorn, or the bottle will empty.’
Hanna looked grave. ‘Very well, so.’
‘Finish that milk now, and God be on the road with you.’
The woman drained the cup and, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, stood up and reached for the bottle.
‘Remember what I said: don’t look back.’
‘Very well, Nance. And God bless you.’
Nance walked Hanna to the door, farewelling her with a wave. ‘Close your fist around that bottle there.’ She waited in the doorway and watched the woman walk from the woods towards the settled valley, her eyes down and her shawl pulled firmly about her head, as though to blinker herself against even a passing glance at the fairy ráth and the whitethorn, red haws glistening upon the branches, blood-bright.
It was not so often that women came to her for herbal cures. Most women in the valley knew enough to tend to the daily blights and bruises of living: wild honey for the inflamed and crusted eye, comfrey for pained bones, yarrow leaves pushed inside the nose to make it bleed and relieve the pounding head. Nance knew the people visited John O’Donoghue for brutal surgery, trusting his blacksmith’s strength to pull the rotting teeth from their mouths or slip the dislocated shoulder back snug into its joint. They came to her only when their own poultices of gander dung and mustard or their teas of king fern failed to halt the infection or smother the cough. They came to her only when their panic had begun to fight the bridle, when their children continued to lie slack in their arms, or they knew that whatever illness plaguing them was more powerful than red dandelion or penny leaves or the salted tongue of a fox.
‘’Tis something else this time,’ they would say,
I am a drunk old woman crying over ghosts that do not come, Nóra thought.
Micheál had woken. He wailed in his bed of heather, eyes round and dark. Nóra staggered over to where he lay and slumped to the ground. She stroked his head and tried to sing to him as Martin had done, but the tune was mournful and her voice broke on the words. Eventually she rose and fetched her husband’s greatcoat from her bed. Wrapping it around her and breathing in his old scent of burnt coltsfoot, Nóra eased herself to the ground next to Micheál.
‘God and Mary to you, Nance.’
Nance looked up from her knife to see a shawled figure in the doorway.
‘Old Hanna?’
‘And getting older with every passing day.’
‘Come in and God welcome.’ Nance helped her visitor to a stool by the fire. ‘Is it for yourself you’re come?’
The woman grunted as she sat down, shaking her head. ‘’Tis my sister. She has a fever.’
Nance passed Hanna a cup of fresh milk and nodded at it. ‘Drink. Tell me, how long has she been sick, and does she eat?’
‘She eats nothing, but takes a little water. The sweat pours from her and she shivers as though she is bitter cold. But we have the fire high, and ’tis warm as you like in with her.’
‘I can give you the cure.’
‘Praise be.’ Hanna took a sip of the milk and pointed to the knife in Nance’s hand. ‘I’ve come and stopped you from your work.’
‘’Twas only thistles I was cutting. For my hens. Musha, curing fevers is my work.’ Nance put the blade down and walked to the corner of the room, taking a little cloth bag from it. She untied the leather string of the bag and, using her fingertips, carefully sprinkled the herb from it into the neck of a brown glass bottle, muttering under her breath.
‘What is that?’ Hanna asked, when the bottle was filled and Nance had finished her charm.
‘Meadowsweet.’
‘Will it cure her?’
‘Put the dried flowers drawing on the boil as soon as you get home to her. Give her three drinks off the top of it and she will be as well as she ever was.’
‘Thank you, Nance.’ Hanna was relieved.
‘But don’t be looking behind you until you’ve reached the lane. Don’t be looking at the Piper’s Grave or the whitethorn, or the bottle will empty.’
Hanna looked grave. ‘Very well, so.’
‘Finish that milk now, and God be on the road with you.’
The woman drained the cup and, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, stood up and reached for the bottle.
‘Remember what I said: don’t look back.’
‘Very well, Nance. And God bless you.’
Nance walked Hanna to the door, farewelling her with a wave. ‘Close your fist around that bottle there.’ She waited in the doorway and watched the woman walk from the woods towards the settled valley, her eyes down and her shawl pulled firmly about her head, as though to blinker herself against even a passing glance at the fairy ráth and the whitethorn, red haws glistening upon the branches, blood-bright.
It was not so often that women came to her for herbal cures. Most women in the valley knew enough to tend to the daily blights and bruises of living: wild honey for the inflamed and crusted eye, comfrey for pained bones, yarrow leaves pushed inside the nose to make it bleed and relieve the pounding head. Nance knew the people visited John O’Donoghue for brutal surgery, trusting his blacksmith’s strength to pull the rotting teeth from their mouths or slip the dislocated shoulder back snug into its joint. They came to her only when their own poultices of gander dung and mustard or their teas of king fern failed to halt the infection or smother the cough. They came to her only when their panic had begun to fight the bridle, when their children continued to lie slack in their arms, or they knew that whatever illness plaguing them was more powerful than red dandelion or penny leaves or the salted tongue of a fox.
‘’Tis something else this time,’ they would say,
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