CHAPTER TEN
Then once I actually get off the horse, my older body aching and creaking like it will never limber up again, I’m not done yet. Instead of going inside to create some artificial world we got so used to in Jacksonville, I have to tend to the animals. Even if I’ve got blisters or aches or desperately have to go to the bathroom! In a way, it’s actually marvelous to learn that you can’t control every moment of your schedule according to your whims and preferences. It’s particularly marvelous for your grandson to learn that lesson now, at his age, and marvelous that David and I are able to learn it-for the first time-at our age. Just as I can no longer automatically control my comfort level by flipping on an air conditioning switch, I can’t just park my transportation in the garage and get on with the next thing on my to do list. My transportation needs untacking, rubbing down, feeding and releasing into the paddock.
David’s grandfather used to tell David that when he was a boy he always said “no” to one thing every day. I guess that’s a concept that seems insane (or at least nonsensical) in today’s America. But maybe it has value in this new life of ours. I’m glad to see my son already understands how to do it. Me, I’m still trying to learn. Will write again later. I cannot tell you what a day I have ahead of me today!
Sarah put down her pen and flexed her fingers. The house was quiet. David had spent the night again at Dierdre and Seamus’s. Sometimes he ended up working so late that he just stayed. Unlike the first time it happened, Sarah had learned to hold off on the panic attack until noon the next day when she would inevitably see him riding over the rise. John was still asleep. Outside it was as dark as night, yet she knew her workday had begun. As soon as she lit the cook stove and boiled the water for their tea, she knew he would begin to stir.
They were two months into their new life.
As Dierdre had predicted, the village of Balinagh had virtually emptied. The dairy and all of the other shops were boarded up. The cottages on the perimeter of the town were empty as well. If they wanted news, as unreliable as it always was, they needed to go to Draenago for it—an impossible twenty miles further south. Sometimes they saw people traveling on the road and looking like they had all their belongings with them. Sometimes people actually showed up in their frontcourt asking for food or news.
They hadn’t seen anybody now for nearly three weeks. Dierdre predicted they were the only inhabitants left in all of western Ireland. While there was no way to know for certain, the thought made Sarah feel strangely safer.
John had gotten the idea to spell out “U.S.A.” in white stones on the upper pasture so that when the rescue helicopter finally came for them, someone would know there were Americans living there. Sarah and David had exchanged a look when John had suggested it but didn’t discourage him.
Life had fallen into a steady routine. John knew what he needed to do on his end: bait the rabbit trap; groom and feed the horses, goats and chickens; count and move the sheep; try to train the puppies. At night he repaired and cleaned tack, memorized Latin and French from a textbook they’d found in the cottage and taught himself chess gambits. The rest of his time was spent exploring the Irish countryside on horseback and watching the sky for the helicopter he knew was coming.
David went to Seamus and Dierdre’s at least once a week and usually twice. He always came back exhausted but arms full of preserves or late fall garden harvest and instructions from Dierdre to Sarah—on how to weave, the best place to dig for peat, and better ways to make goat cheese. When he was at home, he checked the rabbit traps, gutted and skinned the rabbits, cleaned the stalls, and constantly checked or mended the security of the doors and fences. If he could stay awake, he spent his evenings writing the philosophy book he had always been too busy to work on back home. With John, he had created a movable chicken pen that allowed the birds to spend every day on a fresh patch of grass. With effort, it could be moved with both of them dragging it. On the days that David was gone, John could hook it up to his pony and move it by himself.
For Sarah, her day began before it was light out. In the dark, she would pray. Later, she lit the cook stove and made the tea. At first light, she often wrote to her parents. If she had yeast she made muffins or if not made biscuits for everyone’s breakfast. She kept the cottage spotless—not easy to do with so much of their lives happening outside in the dirt and the wind. She cleaned and mended their clothes. She kept an inventory of the food cellar and made careful plans for their future meals. She milked the little goat daily and made bread dough every other day. She went in the barn often to check the horses for injuries. Evenings, she knit or read aloud. Sometimes she tested John on his Latin or French vocabulary. And she rode Dan at least a little bit even if it was only in the paddock every afternoon, rain or shine.
There was snow on the ground this morning and Sarah was glad that David had not tried to come home the night before. The sun was up and made mesmerizing sparkles on the snow. She began the ritual of starting a fire in the cookstove.
She couldn’t help but think any day now. She had to believe that every day took them closer and closer to the day they would be rescued or when news would come that life had returned to normal. She slid the pan of biscuits into the oven and closed the door, appreciating the brief blast of heat. The only thing she knew for sure was that it was early November and winter was coming.
She had decided to make a special meal for David’s homecoming. While not completely sure of herself, she had lately been exchanging frequent and detailed notes with Dierdre on how to kill and clean one of the chickens. There were eight now and they could afford to lose one to a meal. Besides, it had been several days since John’s rabbit trap had been fruitful and they were all getting tired of biscuits and canned beans.
From the beginning, she had worked to try not to see the birds as pets. It was hard. When she fed them, they rushed to greet her. They gave her the precious eggs that made life so much more bearable. The thought of killing one of the “girls” was difficult. But for a week or more now, she had begun to see the challenge as an important step to her being able to provide for her family. They all had to do difficult things in this new life. Looking at their animals as sources of food rather than affection or company was a new way of framing her worldview that Sarah was determined to master.
John came to the breakfast table and sat down. He looked half asleep still.
“‘Morning, sweetie.” She set his mug of tea down on the table.
“Is this the day you gonna kill Ethel?” John yawned.
She stopped. Is the child a mind reader?
“You…you named the chickens?” she asked.
He sipped his tea and then grinned at her.
“Just kidding,” he said. “That would be dumb, naming chickens. Which reminds me…” He bolted away from the kitchen table and flung open the bathroom door where the puppies had spent the night. They were growing stronger. He led them at a run to the front door and he flung it open. “Out! Out!” he said. Then he turned and went back to the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
Sarah smiled. She watched the puppies from the kitchen window. Whether from their horrific first few weeks in the world or the breed, they were a quiet and sweet couple of dogs. John had named them Patrick and Spongy. They adoringly followed him throughout his day. As soon as she was sure they wouldn’t foul the bed sheets, she was going to let them sleep in the bed with the rest of them.
John collected the dogs from outside and returned to the table.
“Did you wash your hands?”
“What’s the point? It’s the one part of me that’s always clean.”
“John…”
Grinning, he hopped up and went to the kitchen sink to wash.
“So when you gonna do it?” He asked over his shoulder.
Sarah took the biscuits out of the oven and slid one onto a small plate for him. She pried the biscuit open and put a sliver of goat butter and a dollop of one of Dierdre’s blackberry preserves on it. Then
she added a large scoop of scrambled eggs to the plate.
“As soon as possible,” she said. “Get it over with. Besides, Dad’ll be home by lunch which is when I’d like to…you know…”
“Serve her?”
She made a face at him that made him laugh. He pulled off two pieces of biscuit and fed them to his dogs.
“Gosh, Mom,” he said. “Is this egg one of Ethel’s, do you think? ‘Coz that’s what I call giving to the bitter end.” He laughed again, amused at his own wit.
Sarah wagged a warning spatula at him that just made them both laugh harder.
David pulled off his sweatshirt in spite of the dropping temperatures. He’d been steadily sweating most of the day.
Seamus and Dierdre’s farm was small by any standard, but it was still more than the couple could handle, and now with Seamus less than capable, the place—once surely as pretty as any postcard farm in Ireland—was falling down from neglect.
David had slept until five that morning, awakened by the rain on the farmhouse’s hard metal roof and the realization that he would be working in the mud and the rain all day.
Where’s the quaint thatched roof when you need it? he thought, already tired before the day had even begun. As he pulled on his wellies and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, Dierdre crept silently into the living room and set a large mug of coffee in front of him.
“Breakfast in a tick,” she whispered.
Wondering why she was whispering since he was clearly awake and he could see that Seamus was already moving about, David stood up and stretched the kinks out of his back. Could he ever have imagined back home that he’d awake to spend a full day in the kind of conditions he expected to be in today? He pulled back a corner of one of the curtains in the front room and peered out into the grey gloom of a rainy Irish morning in late October.
He wondered how Sarah’s parents were doing this morning. His own folks had passed nearly a decade ago—the tragic victims of a drunk driver on a country road. He had become very close to Sarah’s mother and father, in many ways even closer than to his own when they were alive. He tried to imagine the chaos at home and how his in-laws might be faring. Would the neighbors help them? Would they reach out and help keep them safe? He prayed they would. It surprised him a little to realize that, lately, he’d done quite a lot of praying.
“We’ll just be needing the cows milked,” Dierdre said standing at the kitchen table where David could see Seamus was now seated. “And maybe a few odd jobs.”
David nodded and joined Seamus at the table. The rain looked worse from the kitchen window.
Man, it was really coming down.
David smiled at Seamus. “Morning, Seamus,” he said.
The old man looked at him blankly over his morning cup of tea.
By noon, David had brought the cows in from the pasture—a pool of mud and water—and cleaned their tails and hooves of the muck and filth they’d slept in and then walked through. He had milked them, fed them, and returned them to the pasture. He had groomed, fed and released the couple’s pony into the paddock when the rain started to let up; repaired a hole in the wood and wire fence on the north section of the farm; fed the chickens, careful not to lose any; and raked their yard. Seamus had toddled along behind him like some present but witless supervisor.
He hated to leave Sarah and John alone so much but Seamus and Dierdre needed him. Sarah seemed to be handling it better than he could ever have imagined. Back home, to be honest, she vacillated between being a total basketcase about the most mundane things to somewhat of a control-freak. If he hadn’t been married to her, he wouldn’t have thought it possible for one person to be both. Frankly, it wasn’t the most pleasant living situation.
When he waved to Dierdre as she hung out laundry in the cold, wet weather, he felt an insistent ache run down both arms. Was all this just another case of him not being able to say no? Surely not. This was a world crisis needing everyone to pitch in and help each other. Back home, he had developed a reputation at work—a running gag, really—for being so accommodating that he invariably ended up doing his colleagues’ donkey work as well as his own.
Do nice guys really finish last? There seemed to be an argument for that in his department, at least, where he’d seen himself passed over for promotion twice for younger and more cutthroat professors. He watched Seamus tamp down the tobacco in his pipe and gaze, unseeing, to the horizon.
This is totally different, he decided.
It suddenly occurred to him that the two farms would do better to consolidate. The thought surprised him but as it took hold, it gave him strength and purpose. He would give Dierdre a little more time to come to the same conclusion herself and make the invitation and if she didn’t, he would suggest it. It made more sense for Sarah and John and himself to move in with Dierdre and Seamus, rather than the other way around. This was a semi-working farm with livestock and a garden, not a barely furnished tourist rental, although where they’d sleep he didn’t have a clue. Buoyed by the idea, and with the sun struggling to make an appearance behind the clouds, David energetically washed the couple’s pony gig. He had failed to drag it into the barn after the couple had returned to the farm the night before and the leather seat and tires were sodden and splashed with mud.
Before he took his first bite of the lunch Dierdre had prepared for him—with yet another pot of tea to wash it all down with—he wanted nothing more than to fall face first into the couch and sleep until morning.
And he still had a full afternoon’s chores to do.
Sarah’s morning had not gone well.
First, it had rained like it would never stop, forcing John to spend a good part of the morning indoors—never ideal for parent or child. Then, Ethel acted like she had prior Intel about the afternoon’s planned activities. From the minute Sarah came into the coop, the chicken ran from her. And because she ran, the other chickens became afraid and ran, too. After fifteen minutes of stirring up more feathers and dust than a down pillow factory explosion Sarah grabbed the chicken and stuffed her in a pillowcase.
Now she was sweating and nearly as upset as the chicken. She backed out of the coop, glad that John had gone to the sheep pasture. All laughter aside, this was upsetting in anyone’s book. She hurried with her squirming, thrashing bag of chicken hysteria to the area behind the barn she’d already designated the killing ground. Dierdre had told her it would all go much better if she was fast and sure about what she was doing. Assuming she’d already pretty much botched that tactic, Sarah took a moment to try to calm her nerves. The bag twitched and convulsed maniacally at the end of her arm.
Zen, zen, ommmm, peace, she chanted inside her head. Be at peace now. There is nothing more intimate than the taking of a life for the purpose of sustenance. I am, in fact, freeing you. Oh, this is nonsense. She gripped at the chicken inside the bag, feeling for its scrawny little neck and hoping she didn’t mistake it for a leg. Within seconds she found the neck through the burlap bag and, with the adrenalin pumping through her, wrenched as hard as she could.
The motion in the bag slowed and then stopped. Bright red blood began to seep out around her hands. Afraid for a moment that she’d literally torn the bird’s head off, Sarah dropped the bag in the snow, turned and retched up her morning tea. She sat down with a hard thump in the snow beside the now still bag and burst into tears.
David examined the broken fence by the eastern pasture. The three cows grazed peacefully nearby. Seamus’ dog lay dead in the ditch.
How did he miss this, this morning?
Had the fence been deliberately broken? And if they’d broken into the gate to steal a cow, why were they all there? It would’ve made sense to butcher the cow in the pasture rather than try to steal it on the hoof—considering the speed at which cows moved that would have been seriously counterproductive. The dog had its neck slit. Why would someone kill a dog? Were they trying to take out the couple’s alarm system? Was it just an act of senseless violenc
e? David shook his head and looked at Seamus who stared peacefully out across the pasture.
“Sorry about this, Seamus,” David said. “Did you hear him bark at all last night?”
Seamus only smiled.
David looked at the cows, then back at the dog. He hadn’t heard anything himself, but he had been so exhausted that his sleep had been more like a light coma than a slumber. The dog, if he had barked, would not have awakened him.
“Dierdre will know,” the old man said.
David nodded and turned to head back to the house.
“I’ll get the shovel,” he said. It didn’t look like he would be going home early today after all. He felt a wave of weariness and disappointment.
Sarah pulled the roast chicken out of the oven and set it on top of the cook stove. She had enough potatoes and garlic and wild rosemary to make a proper feast of the dish. She was out of yeast but David seemed to prefer the simple flour biscuits anyway. The aroma from the chicken dish nearly brought tears to her eyes. Never had she been more proud of a simple roast chicken.
She looked out the kitchen window with the hope that she’d catch a glimpse of David coming down the main road on Rocky. She frowned. It was after three and she had expected him hours ago. Out in the courtyard, she watched John as he put his dogs through their paces. He made them both sit and stay and then released them with little bits of muffin he had saved from his lunch.
She tapped on the window and he looked up.
“Let me know when you see Dad, okay?” she shouted.
He gave a thumbs up to indicate he understood and turned back to his training.
Sarah sat down with a cup of tea. She noticed a single chicken feather wafting alone in the corner of the room. The plucking and gutting had been nearly as traumatic as the killing. But the thrill of her accomplishment blotted out the pain and horror of the day. She looked at her beautiful golden brown roast, shiny with herbs and basted with goat butter.
A perfect, celebratory meal for the returning husband, she thought, her anticipation back. She stood up to look out the window again.
Four hours later, she and John finished their dinner alone. The anxiety in the pit of her stomach had made it impossible to enjoy the meal. Even John looked worried.
“Do you think something happened to him on the road?” he asked.
“I’m sure Dierdre and Seamus just needed him tonight,” she said, not at all sure.
“It’s just that it’s not like Dierdre to keep him two nights in a row,” he said. He walked to the front door and looked out at the road. “They know we need him, too.”
Sarah knew he was right. Dierdre would insist that David come home tonight.
“He’s been this late before,” she said.
“No, he hasn’t. Not ever.”
“I’m sure he’s fine.”
“Based on what?”
“John, did you do last check on the animals?”
He turned back to her. “Not yet,” he said.
“Well, why don’t you? I’ll clean up here and we’ll play a game of chess before bed.”
“You’re terrible at chess,” he said, shrugging into his coat.
“Well, you can read a book at the same time,” she said with a grin.
He left the dogs with her. As docile as the puppies were, they were still too undisciplined to be around the horses for long without having to dodge a well-deserved kick.
Sarah now went to the front door herself, as if watching would make David come, then turned and put away the roast chicken and leftover potatoes. Even without electricity, the refrigerator served as a fairly successful icebox, better at least than leaving food sitting out on the counter. They kept milk bottles parked out on the porch all night but meat couldn’t be left out without attracting animals. She wiped down the counters and wrapped the biscuits in wax paper to put them away for their breakfast.
It occurred to her that she had stopped taking her anti-anxiety medicine weeks ago. Funny. She had dreaded the day when she would take her last pill. Probably got more worked up about that than was rational. And then, things got so busy, she actually forgot to take them. She must have a week’s supply left in her suitcase. The real shocker was that, as relentlessly afraid as she was these days—for herself, for her husband and son, and for her parents back in the States—Sarah realized she didn’t feel that different without the pills. The thought stopped her. How could that be? she wondered.
All at once, both dogs stopped playing with the rag they had been tugging on. They stood in the kitchen, the hackles on their backs rising, slow menacing growls emanating from them.
Sarah’s hand froze as she was wrapping the biscuits and stared at the dogs.
In the next second, a horse’s terrified scream punched the air outside the cottage. Sarah dropped the biscuits and bolted for the front door and the source of the noise.
It was coming from the barn.
Free Falling, Book 1 of the Irish End Games Page 11
