by Peter Troy
Ethan realized that it was exactly one week ago, when he returned home from the Mass with Aunt Em, that they were told by his cryin’ Mam that Aislinn was gone. Now, as he’d done then, he bounded up the stepladder to the loft he’d shared with his sister since they moved in two years earlier, once Sean and Da were off to America. He sat on his bed, two five-by-one-foot wooden planks raised just off the floor by corner posts. Aislinn’s bed was across from it, the two of them separated by their collection of eleven books stacked neatly on a small plank, held up on either side by painted rocks used for bookends. They called it The Library. The first six volumes’d been given to Aislinn when she saw them piled beside the trash bin in the Brodericks’ library and Mr. Broderick caught her skimmin’ through them. Since that time he’d given her five more, and she and Ethan had read them all several times, though she generally had to help him with some of the more challenging ones like Paradise Lost and a collection of the Shakespeare.
Every Saturday night, until two weeks ago, the two of them took a scene from one of their books and acted it out for Mam and Aunt Em, often taking what Aislinn called poetic license with the tragic scenes, much to the approval of their audience. Loud applause always greeted them when Hamlet, or Romeo and Juliet, or other doomed heroes were spared in the end. But even the happy memories brought the water to his eyes now, so he left the books in their place and took a minute to fully compose himself before going back down the ladder.
His Mam and Aunt Em were busy cooking the biggest feast they’d seen since Christmas. There’d be three small turnips, a little cabbage and wheat flour bread, and as a special treat, they’d each get a few ounces of beef cut from the scraps fed to the Brodericks’ dogs. Aunt Emily had cut it and stuffed it in her pocket when nobody was lookin’—she called it Aislinn’s severance, whatever that meant—and he knew that this funeral supper would chase away The Hunger for at least one night. But when it was ready they ate in virtual silence, chewing everything slowly, tryin’ to make it last as long as possible. Ethan felt terribly guilty and he was sure his Mam and Aunt felt so too. Aislinn hadn’t eaten a meal like this for the last few months of her life, and the only reason each of them had so much now was because there were only three of them left to eat it. And so, as the food hit his empty belly, he found none of the usual satisfaction or relief, only shame.
That night, sleeplessly staring around the darkness, he could tell when Mam or Aunt Em were awake by the sounds of their sniffles. And much as he tried not to, his thoughts wandered to that day, just three Saturdays ago, and the last time he and Aislinn had performed one of their scenes. He’d rushed home that day with nothin’ more than a quick wave to Mr. Hanratty, carryin’ the usual pocketful of oats and even more of a bounty in his other pocket, four pieces of jerky that Mr. Broderick’d given him for stayin’ late. It wasn’t like he’d had any choice but to stay, what with Mr. Broderick and his daughters still out there ridin’, but it was a nice thing he’d done all the same. It made Ethan feel even guiltier than usual about taking the pocketful of oats, even though Aunt Em always said it wasn’t really stealin’, just doin’ the Lahrds work for Him, feedin’ th’poor and such, like th’loaves an’ fishes in th’Bible. But his guilt quickly faded when he reached home that evening since it was Saturday night and Aislinn’d already picked out a scene for the play.
Sure, it turned out to be the last time she’d been anything like herself, but Ethan let the thoughts press fully on him now, as if to give her the proper sort of remembrance the dead should have no matter how much it hurts the ones left behind. And this wistful recollection gave way to the dreams that linger on the edge of sleep, needing only to close his eyes to be taken fully back into the moment …
I was thinkin’ we’d do a bit from The Odyssey, she says as soon as you hit the top step to the loft. I think I can read for ya, but you’ll havta do th’performin’.
She seems weaker than she’d been just that mornin’, but you’ll not mention anything of it.
What part? you ask and even start gettin’ a little worried about the idea of doing your first solo.
When Odysseus is given the bag t’contain all th’winds so dey can make it home t’Ithaca, she says. And then you remember the jerky in your pocket, and hold the four pieces up to her, proud as can be.
Where’d ya get them? she asks, smilin’.
Mr. Broderick gave ’em t’me for stayin’ late, you say, like you’ve done somethin’ important to earn them. You can have mine Ais’.
Ahhh no, Ethan, she says wavin’ her hand. One’s plenty.
It doesn’t matter anyway since Mam cooks the jerky in the soup for supper.
And you’re all excited to taste the flavor of beef again, even though you’re thirsty afterwards from the salt. Then Mam and Aunt Em settle in their stools and Aislinn lies in Mam’s bed with The Odyssey out and open before her. You go up to get your blanket, then step outside, while Aislinn sets the scene, talkin’ about how Odysseus was given this great sack to hold all the winds of the seas. And when you come back in, you bounce all around the cottage, like a man holdin’ the winds in a sack’d do. You bounce from side to side of the cabin, and they all laugh, Aislinn even, and the more you swoon, the more they laugh, so you swoon even more. After a minute or two of that, you, Odysseus, settle down to sleep. And Aislinn reads on, about how the members of his ship’s crew talk of the treasure they think Odysseus is keeping hidden from them in the sack. So you spring up and assume the role of Odysseus’ jealous crew, and Aislinn pauses as you move from one spot to another around the sack, speculatin’ about whether it’s gold or silver or even something better inside. You open your mouth wide, and pretend to talk, and point to the place where you’d laid down as Odysseus. And when you put your hands on your hips like you’re angry at that empty spot on the floor, Mam and Aunt Em and Aislinn laugh some more, and you ham it up for as long as the laughin’ lasts. Then Ais’ continues readin’ aloud, telling them about how Odysseus’ men decide to open the sack and see what’s inside.
And you open it up and bounce all around the cottage again, even bouncin’ out the door and screamin’ and howling as you grab hold of the doorposts and pretend to hold on for dear life. And Mam and Aunt Em and Ais’ laugh harder than ever ’til Aislinn starts coughin’ and you come back in and close the door tightly.
After just a moment, when she collects herself, she finishes readin’ the scene, the final lines about Odysseus going back to sleep on the deck of the ship, sad that he’ll have to face more years lost at sea. And when you lay back down on the floor, playin’ Odysseus again, Mam and Ais’ and Aunt Em all applaud hard as they can.
There are two encores that night … first the part where Odysseus blinds the Cyclops, and then, when they still want more, you have another go at the bit from Richard III, only much better than the last time, since Aislinn’d explained to you what, Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer … and so on, really means, which starts with the fact that it isn’t really about the actual winter, or summer, at all. You always need … needed … Aislinn’s help with the Shakespeare.
And that’s the end of that evenin’s performance, but later that night you and Ais’ talk about what books Mr. Broderick might give you the next time he makes a trip to England. He’s sure to bring back a couple of brand-new ones with leather bindings and pages that feel like they’ve been pressed with a hot iron, and you and Ais’ll get whichever battered old ones the new ones are pushin’ off the Brodericks’ shelves. Ais’ hopes for another from Shakespeare, or maybe some Byron, but you’re hoping for The Iliad to go along with The Odyssey.
And then you and Aislinn talk about America and what it’ll be like when you ALL get there. And even though Da and Seanny are havin’ a tough go of it sendin’ the money to bring you over, Aislinn keeps sayin’ that it’ll all be different soon enough, that just because you and she and Mam and Aunt Em and Seanny and Da have been given this particular startin’-off point in life, growin’
up poor and such, that doesn’t mean that’s where your endin’-up point has to be.
Ya know Ais’, you say after listnin’ to her wonderful sorta dreams made into words, I think maybe I’d like t’be an actor when we get over dere.
Or a teacher maybe … a professor … or a writer, even.
You could do that Ethan, she says. You could do any of those things. Sure ya could, you’ve got a worlda livin’ left t’do …
And that was the end of the story he allowed to be converted into a dream, for that night at least. He opened his eyes back up to stop the flood of memories and stared at the light from what was left of the fire reflected off the thatched roof just a few feet from his face. Still, try as he might, there was no escaping one final thought about his sister … that, despite how often she’d told him about all the grand things he might do one day, how she filled the minds of the kids along the Lane with thoughts of the very same adventures … here she was, left to spend eternity without ever havin’ made it more than a few miles from the place where she started out.
SUMMER 1847
The spring planting took place two weeks late that year. The ground hadn’t been frozen in months, but what with the disastrous potato crops of the past two years, nobody was willin’ to bet completely against the first April snow in anyone’s memory. Despite Aislinn’s death and the loss of her wages, Ethan’s family was doing better than most of the families along the mile-and-a-half lane between the Church and the Brodericks’ house. Even though the three of them earned the half-wages of women and children, it was enough to pay the rent on the cottage and their eighth of an acre. The potatoes Ethan and his Mam and Aunt planted weren’t meant to make up more than half of their diet, unlike most people on the Lane. So with a little help from the occasional cabbage or chicken carcass Aunt Em’d nick from the Brodericks’ kitchen, and the handful of oats Ethan brought home from the livery each day, they’d managed well enough until the fever caught up to Aislinn. Still, with a bag of flour costin’ three and four times what it had just a year before, they knew The Hunger all too well.
Mam and Aunt Em worked late at the Brodericks’ almost every day now, and Ethan stopped at Mr. Hanratty’s most days on his way home from the stables, dreading the idea of returning to an empty cottage with nothin’ but memories for company. Mam’d long before warned him about Mr. Hanratty and the trouble to be found in the old man’s words. It had something to do with why Seanny’d wanted to go off to Dublin to join the Young Irelanders before Mam and Da sold everything they could and Da took Seanny off to America lest he end up on a prison ship to Australia. But that was all before The Hunger, and before the three of them had moved to the Lane to stay with Aunt Em. Surely everything was different now, he figured, and even if it wasn’t, the old man’d become his friend, telling him stories that were almost as interesting as those in his books back home. And never once had there been a mention about the Young Irelanders except for the one time Mr. Hanratty called them a buncha blowhards unfit t’wipe Wolfe Tone’s arse for all da good they’re doin’, whatever that meant.
When Mr. Hanratty said it was safe to plant, Ethan dug up the small patch next to their cottage and put in the few healthy tubers they had from the year before. Each of the last two years people up and down the Lane had planted their potatoes as they’d always done, harvesting the new ones in July, and the full-grown ones in September. But nearly all of them had turned black in the ground or within a week after bein’ harvested. For several days in a row now, they put what remained of their hope into the soil, plantin’ the few sprouts they had, touchin’ them with the beads while reciting a rosary and askin’ the Blessed Virgin to protect this year’s crop. Still, Mr. Hanratty said it didn’t matter if the blight was completely gone, since the paltry amount of plants that could be put into the ground would yield far less than what was needed to feed the people through the winter. There’d be more starvation, he said, more funerals, more people sitting almost lifelessly outside their cottages, their gaunt faces stained green around the mouth from the grass they chewed to keep death at bay.
Ethan learned about far more than farming at Mr. Hanratty’s. As they tended the potato field, checking for any early signs of disease just beneath the surface, the old man’d share the stories of his younger days. It was here that Ethan learned of Wolfe Tone and the Rebellion of ’98. Mr. Hanratty’d lean against his wooden spade and get a far-off look on his face and tell Ethan about the late spring of that year, when the Rebels controlled pockets of territory throughout the country, and for the first time in a century an Irishman knew what it was to be free in his own land. Then Mr. Hanratty’d lose that mystic gaze and point to his left leg and tell of how he was shot by a Redcoat at Ballynahinch. Soon after that the rebellion was over in County Down, and eventually the English tied their noose around the rest of Ireland, but he always had those few weeks, Mr. Hanratty said, to recall with reverence and delight.
That was the way Mr. Hanratty could sum up all the subsequent years of his life, it seemed. Little pockets of happiness that he said were like the water cupped between two hands. You could struggle against all hope to hold on to it, watchin’ it spill out and evaporate drop by drop, or you could drink it up while you had it. Mr. Hanratty’d drunk it up long ago.
He’d married Orla, whose hair was th’speckle o’ light left of a spring day five minutes after th’sun had gone to sleep and whose eyes th’Lahrd musta gleaned from the surface of Strangford Lough fresh o’ th’morn’ she was brought into th’world. Ethan couldn’t help but smile when Mr. Hanratty described her in such ways, glancin’ back across the horizon for a moment or two as if that was where the memory of her was stored. After they were married he became a tenant farmer as his father’d been, and they had a son and then a daughter in the first five years together, years he spoke of as blissfully as he did those brief days of freedom in ’98. They had a sow and a few chickens and a small vegetable garden to go with their potatoes, and Mr. Hanratty worked the nearly two and a half acres that paid the rent and fed and clothed his family with a little left over to save each year. Sunday mornings they’d go to the Mass, and then he’d have a visit to the pub, where he and his friends’d tell stories and talk a little treason for a while before it was home to a grand supper and a turf fire. Those five years were glorious, Mr. Hanratty said, and what made them all the better was that they knew they were glorious, something most folks don’t figure out until long after such times are gone. But their happiness was shattered when little Brea died before she turned three, and then two years later Orla was gone from the cholera as well. Her funeral was the last time Mr. Hanratty’d set foot inside a church.
Ethan figured that his friend had pretty good reason to be one of those bitter old men who sat outside the pub most afternoons, but Mr. Hanratty generally spoke only of those happy years, and before long Ethan began to see the years Aislinn was with them in much the same way. She was the water that’d finally slipped out of their hands, and he was comforted by the thought that at least they’d known they were happy while she was here, despite The Hunger. Still, he hoped there’d be more happy years, never quite the same to be sure, but with some measure of what they’d once known. The idea that happiness’d be a stranger to him from the age of twelve was a frightening prospect and he asked Mr. Hanratty one day about the years after his wife’s death, hopin’ to hear of a new happiness.
Ethan lad, Mr. Hanratty said with a knowin’ laugh. If it’s a happy tale yer after, den sure you was bahrn in th’wrong land.
But there were good times after that, he later found out. Mr. Hanratty’s son grew old enough to work the land with him and they managed pretty well for those few years, findin’ bits of contentment to overcome the loss. Then Henry Munro Hanratty grew into a man himself and took after his father just a little too much.
It’s me own fault fer namin’ th’lad after me commander from Noinety-Eight, Mr. Hanratty said of his son’s Christian and middle names. When th’lad was bahrn
, I was still a young buck an’ t’ought I’d be showin’ me arse to d’English by havin’ me son carry on dat name. What else could th’lad turn out t’be but what he did, pissin’ on th’Crown like his old man’d done. They shipped him off t’Australia noineteen years ago. I’ve not heard worda him since.
Ethan looked up at Mr. Hanratty and wanted to console him, so he turned to the response he’d heard people use before when it came to the loss of loved ones.
Well, you’ll see ’em all again in Heaven, he offered.
But it didn’t have the soothing effect he sought, and Mr. Hanratty looked sharply at him with anger in his eyes for the first time since Ethan had known him.
Any god good enough t’have a place like heaven’d never allow da t’ings goin’ on down here t’continue, he said sternly. It’d be th’bleedin’ English he wiped out wit’ a blight on dere land, jus’ like de Egyptians an’ th’ten plagues in th’Bible. It’d be the damn Dukes and Lords off to the workhouse insteada the good folks that already do all the bleedin’ work! It’d be Queen Victahria herself watchin’ her country’s children die from Th’Hunger.
Ethan was sorry to have asked Mr. Hanratty to dig up such sad memories, and he began to wonder if it was the stories of rebellion his Mam didn’t want him hearin’, or if it was the sad stories of loss. Grown folks were always doin’ that, he thought, tryin’ to pretend that everything will somehow be better for the children than it was for them. But Mr. Hanratty’s look softened when he glanced at Ethan’s worried face.
