The Paradise Tree_A Novel

by Elena Maria Vidal

Child of Grace

  December, 1831

  “Though autumn leaves may droop and die, a bud of spring are you.”

  —“Castle of Dromore”

  Daniel warmed his hands on the lantern, which illumined the interior of the barn against the utter blackness of the December night. He was no stranger to the wailing of a woman in travail, having assisted at births when he was studying medicine in Cork, as well as being one of the eldest of a large family. The experience was infinitely different, however, when it was one’s own wife laboring with one’s own child, with no doctor or competent midwife at hand, only Mrs. O’Brien and Widow Hacket, who coaxed Brigit along between decades of the rosary. Daniel himself had told his beads so often that long night and the previous day he had lost count of the decades. Overwhelmed with exhaustion, he had not left Brigit’s side until now, and only then at the urging of the widow and his father-in-law. He realized then that he could not have borne the sound of her cries for another moment, yet thinking of his little bride in such pain and in so precarious a state made him too wretched to rest. He undertook to milk the cow, which was lowing in some discomfort because it was past the usual time for milking. The familiarity of the chore was the choicest balm for his anguished soul.

  Daniel thought back on the last eleven months since he had been married, of the hard work of clearing the land and making a farm and the much harder work of learning to be a husband to a spirited young girl. As the winter days lengthened into spring, he became gradually accustomed to the strangeness and the joy of her constant companionship. An obliging wife, she kept the cottage clean, and had a meal awaiting them when he and Owen came in from the forest, lake or barn. The novelty of having a mug of hot tea served to him before he realized the need of one; of having his socks and trousers mended and his linen washed; of having a poultice made for his chest at the first sign of a cough, kept him wondering how he had survived so long as a bachelor. Her rough edges, which consisted not only of illiteracy but occasional uncouthness, he sought to correct gently but firmly. Brigit, however, rebelled like a young colt, desiring the guidance that would help her to become a lady but at the same time resenting it.

  “Begorrah! You’re a cranky old man!” she shrieked at him, after a particularly vexing session in which he tried to show her the proper use of a knife and fork.

  Having Owen on the place did not help matters. Between his wife and his brother there was quickly formed a bond which consisted of jokes and teasing, winking and laughter, so that Daniel soon felt like an outsider in his own household. If it were not for the fact that he took Brigit to his bed at night, he would have thought she was Owen’s bride instead of his own. When Owen went into town on an errand, sometimes not returning for some days, Daniel feared he had fallen into drinking with some ne’er-do-wells and hoped he could make it safely home without being attacked by wolves. Brigit would become silent and morose. It was clear to him that things could not go on in such a fashion. He hoped that Owen would soon marry and move away, but if that did not happen, then it was Daniel’s duty to ask him to leave. The thought of parting again with a beloved sibling broke his heart in two. He kept telling himself that he was imagining things, that Brigit was fond of Owen only in a sisterly fashion. Perhaps he, Daniel, was committing the sin of rash judgment. Besides, he needed Owen’s help in building the farm.

  There was heavy snow on Saint Patrick’s Day that year, rendering it impossible for them to enjoy the company of any fellow Irishers. The three of them were left to make their own festivity in the tiny cabin, half submerged in a snowdrift. Owen was deep into his cups long before the ham was finished roasting, and made merry with many a ditty, sending Brigit into gales of laughter. After a hearty meal, they sat by the fire as Owen continued to entertain them. Daniel laughed in spite of himself, as he carved sumac spiles for the business of making maple syrup, for the sap would soon be running.

  “And now, Brigit, lass, give us a song or a story,” pleaded Owen with an ironical smile. “Let us see how the women of Meath compete with the women of Cork in singing and story-telling.”

  Brigit looked at Daniel and he nodded in assent. “Very well then,” she replied. “I’ll be giving you a story, the story of Deirdre, and you will see that the women of Meath can hold their own with the women of Cork.” She closed her eyes for a long moment, her lashes caressing her cheeks, and then staring into the fire, she began.

  There was a man in Ireland once who was called Malcolm Harper. The man was a right good man, and he had a goodly share of this world’s goods. He had a wife, but no family. What did Malcolm hear but that a soothsayer had come to the place, and as the man was a right good man, he wished that the soothsayer might come near them. Whether it was that he was invited or that he came of himself, the soothsayer came to the house of Malcolm.

  Daniel and Owen had often heard the tale of Deirdre, but as with any Irish story, half the pleasure was in the manner of the telling, which had from ancient times been regarded as the highest art. There ran in the veins of Brigit Trainor the blood of many royal bards, and the intonations of her voice summoned before the mind’s eye many scenes, arising from the mists of myth and forgotten history. She dramatically rendered the dialogue between Malcolm and the soothsayer. Although her curling hair was braided, bound and hidden beneath her linen housewife’s cap and her wool dress was brown and plain, her eyes, cheeks and lips glowed, becoming along with the fire the sole points of color in the drab interior of the hovel.

  ‘Well,’ said the soothsayer, ‘I saw in my second sight that it is on account of a daughter of yours that the greatest amount of blood shall be shed that has ever been shed in Erin since time or race began. And the three most famous heroes that ever were found shall lose their heads on her account.’

  After a time a daughter was born to Malcolm. He did not allow a living being to come to his house, only himself and the nurse. He asked this woman, ‘Will you yourself bring up the child to keep her in hiding far away where eye will not see a sight of her nor ear hear a word about her?’ The woman said she would, so Malcolm took them away to a large mountain, distant and far from reach, without the knowledge and notice of anyone. Deirdre and her foster-mother dwelt mid the hills without the knowledge or the suspicion of any living person about them and without anything occurring, until Deirdre was sixteen years of age. Deirdre grew like a white sapling, straight and trim as the rash on the moss. She was the creature of fairest form, of loveliest aspect, and of gentlest nature that existed between earth and heaven in all Ireland.

  Daniel regarded Owen, who was gazing at Brigit as if soaking up her form, perhaps seeing in the sixteen year old a new incarnation of the Deirdre of old. Owen seemed so sincerely besotted with her that Daniel fleetingly pitied his younger brother. Meanwhile, as Brigit continued, a hunter lost in the woods stumbled upon the hidden dwelling of Deirdre and her foster-mother, and awed by her surpassing beauty, betook himself to the palace of King Connachar of Ulster.

  ‘I have only to tell you, O king,’ said the hunter, ‘that I saw the fairest creature that ever was born in Erin and I came to tell you of it.’

  ‘And will you direct me to where she dwells? And the reward of your directing me will be as good as the reward of your message.’

  ‘Well, I will direct you, O king,’ said the hunter. Though early rose the song of the birds mid the rocky caves and the music of the birds in the grove, even earlier did Connachar, King of Ulster, arise with his little troop of dear friends, in the delightful twilight of the fresh and gentle May. The dew was heavy on each bush and flower and stem, as they went to bring Deirdre forth from the green knoll where she stayed. When the king saw the woman he had been in quest of, he thought he never saw in the course of the day or the dream of the night a creature so fair as Deirdre and he gave his full heart’s weight of love to her. Deirdre was raised on the topmost of the heroes’ shoulders and she and her foster-mother were brought to the Court of King Connachar of Ulster. With the love Connachar had
for her, he wanted to marry Deirdre right off there and then, but she said to him, ‘I would be obliged to you if you will give me the respite of a year and a day.’ He said, ‘I will grant you that, hard though it is, if you will give me your unfailing promise that you will marry me at year’s end.’ And she gave the promise.

  Here Brigit paused and looked down. Owen leaned forward and put his hand on her arm; Daniel sat immobile. “My throat is dry,” she said, and Owen leaped up and fetched a mug of beer. For a moment she held his face in her gaze; she flushed scarlet as her blue-green eyes shone with an ecstasy which Daniel had never before seen in any woman. Brigit took a few sips, and continued.

  Connachar got for her a woman-teacher and merry modest maidens fair that would play and speak with her. Deirdre was clever in maidenly duties and wifely understanding, and Connachar thought he never saw with bodily eye a creature that pleased him more.

  Deirdre and her women companions were one day out on the hill behind the house enjoying the view, and drinking in the sun’s heat. What did they see coming but three men a-journeying. Deirdre was looking at the men that were coming and wondering at them, they being the three sons of Uisnech that she had heard tell of, with white skin and raven hair, Allen, Arden and Naois. There was Naois, head and shoulders above the rest of the people of Erin. The three brothers went past without even glancing at the girls. What happened but that love for Naois struck the heart of Deirdre, so that she could not but follow after him. She girded up her raiment and went after the men that went past the base of the knoll, leaving her women attendants there

  Brigit paused again, staring steadily into the fire without a look at either Owen or Daniel. Daniel threw a log onto the fire; as it crackled and hissed he realized his heart was burning with anger and despair.

  Naois and Deirdre met, and Deirdre kissed Naois three times, and her color became as a crimson blaze of fire. Naois thought he never saw a fairer creature and Naois gave Deirdre the love that he never gave to thing, to vision, or to creature but to herself.

  Owen sighed loudly. Brigit started and looked at him; their eyes met and Owen held her steadily in his gaze. Daniel, observing their mingled rapture, flung himself up and towards the cabin door. “Come, Owen, you’d best be getting more firewood,” he ordered. Owen rose and followed him.

  “I’m going to tend the livestock,” Daniel muttered, lantern in hand, as he betook himself to the barn, forgetting to put on his coat. He heard Owen lumbering through the mounds of snow to the woodshed.

  Wading through the drifts, he felt not the cold; if it were not for the fingerless mitts he wore continuously on his hands they would have been too cold to move. After breaking the ice on the water troughs, he milked the cows. Scooping grain into a bucket, he brought it to one of the horses. At that moment, he doubled over as if in pain, sobbing his heartbreak into the hay and feed. He could not bear to hear the rest of the tale, of the flight of the Naois and Deirdre to Scotland, of the bloody battle, and the tragic ending, with the lovers being buried in a single grave. He felt himself to be the cheated Connachar, losing his bride to another. The wailing of the wind seemed an echo of his grief and sounded like a woman’s voice. He thought for a moment he heard his name uttered amid the swirling snow, far away yet close at hand. He raised his head and through his tears he blinked, for he saw in the lantern light what seemed to be a feminine form. He wondered if the banshee had followed him to Canada. And what a banshee, for it wore a high-domed white bonnet and wide linen apron and stood facing him sternly, arms akimbo. He sat up.

  “Mammy?” He wiped the tears out of his eyes.

  “Get up, Daniel, my son. Cease pitying yourself! Get back to the cabin and claim your bride. Tell Owen he had best be moving on!”

  He jumped to his feet, but there was a no one there, and no sound but the wind and the animal noise of the barn. Perhaps he had imbibed more beer than was good for him, but perhaps not. Daniel left the barn and trudged back to the cabin through the snow, which had ceased to fall, the wind having also died down. He knew what he had to do; the thought of it caused him no end of pain. The windows, glazed over by frost, shimmered in the night. As he came in the door, Brigit jumped up and flung her own heavy shawl around his shoulders.

  “You are a mad man, husband, venturing out in this cold without your coat!”

  Owen returned with an armful of logs, which he set down on the dwindling pile by the fireplace.

  “Owen O’Connor, gather your belongings at once,” said Daniel. “You may sleep in the barn tonight if you like, but by morning I want you to be gone from here.”

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” exclaimed Brigit, bursting into tears.

  “Bleeding Bonaparte,” muttered Owen. After staring dumbly for a moment, he betook himself to the loft where he kept his things. Daniel retrieved from beneath the straw tic, which served as his marriage bed, some beaver pelts. The fur was like gold in the wilderness. He handed them to Owen as he descended the ladder with his small parcel of belongings.

  “These should help you to get started elsewhere. They say there is work to the north in Bytown.”

  “Then I shall be heading that way,” said Owen. “Farewell, Daniel.” There was finality in his brother’s tone that froze Daniel to his core. He wondered if this was how it felt when one lost a limb in an accident. With a lingering glance at Brigit, coupled with a twisted grin, Owen went out into the night. Brigit cried out as if struck and huddled on the hearth in a deluge of tears. Daniel latched the door and bolted it, then knelt at her side. He cradled her head on his shoulder and wiped her tears with his flannel handkerchief.

  “I never saw in the course of the day or the dream of the night a creature so fair as yourself, Brigit, darling. I give my full heart’s weight of love to you. If you will abide with me here as my lady, my wife and my dearest love, then I shall be the happiest of men. I ask not more love than you are able to give, for the heart cannot be given for the mere willing of it. Whatever affection, though, you may have for me, we will build upon it.”

  “Oh, Daniel O’Connor, I made me holy vows to be a good and faithful wife, yet I have come close to bringing shame upon us.”

  He interrupted her, soothingly. “There has been no shame upon anyone, no shame at all. We shall pray to God to forgive each of us our sins. Owen is a charming rascal, and it is hard not to be fond of him. Let us wish him well, begging God’s mercy upon him, then let us be putting him out of our minds. He has his own life to live and we cannot have any part of it.”

  Brigit nodded and sobbed upon his shoulder. “All the same, I think I will be dying for the shame and sorrow of it all.”

  He held her all the nearer to his heart. “No, no, lass, I will not be letting you die.”

  “Oh, yes, I will die. I will,” she choked. “But fret not . . . I’ll be getting over it.”

  Along with the welcome signs of spring came signs that Brigit was with child. Daniel was overwhelmed with worry and elation and wished he could preserve her from the heavy work of maintaining the homestead, but except for some trouble with nausea she seemed more energetic and capable than ever. Meanwhile, they gave hearty thanks to God for having survived the winter. The cold nights and warmer days signaled the sugar maples to send sap upward. It was the first time he had tapped on his own, having helped John O’Brien in the previous year. He tapped over a hundred trees for it required forty gallons of sap to make one gallon of maple syrup. He boiled the sap out of doors, tasting it often as it thickened, for it scalded easily. In the end, though he was not wholly pleased with his efforts, at least they had some syrup for sweetening. He hoped for a better batch next year.

  The snows melted at last, leaving huge puddles of mud around the cabin, as new life quickened in the forest. Soon they awoke in the morning hearing a robin singing, followed by a rapturous chorus of birdsong. At Eastertide, Father McDonnell made his rounds so that they were able to ride to Kitley in order to confess and make their Easter duty. On the first day of May, Brig
it hung the straw tics upon the clothesline to air out, while boiling a cauldron of water in which to wash the linens and laundry. She lifted her voice in a Gaelic song, Fill, fill, O run, and the haunting lament soared into the budding trees of the forest. She was barefoot to save on shoe leather, with her skirts looped up and pinned in the back, revealing her deerskin petticoat, dyed blue from the bark of the soft maple; her hair was wrapped in a turban-like scarf. Daniel had begun to construct a loom for her on which to weave more cloth; she had done a great deal of spinning over the winter. He had just completed a shed for his anvil and forge so as to take up once more the trade of smith in order to maintain a flow of income. He was making ready to plow the field, which it had taken him months to clear of trees, stumps and rocks, when the dog began to bark.

  A stranger was approaching along the trail through the trees. It was a young man in Irish garb, with a buoyant gait. Daniel’s heart leaped. Was it Owen? Brigit gasped and became still as a stone. Daniel went to her side and put his arm around her. The personage drew nearer, waving his arm.

  “Daniel!” he called. The voice sounded vaguely familiar, not unlike Owen’s voice. Was it Michael, or one of his other brothers? Tears flooded his eyes as the identity of the traveler became clear.

  “Charles. Charlie,” he whispered, stumbling forward to embrace his youngest brother. The lad of eleven was now a youth of twenty-one.

  He hastened to introduce him to Brigit. “Mrs. O’Connor, meet me wee brother Charlie, now grown to manhood, as you can see. And Charlie, this is me own fair wife, Brigit Trainor O’Connor of Westmeath, now mistress of Long Point Farm.” Brigit curtsied prettily while Charles bowed in profound respect, doffing his worn cap. He was stocky with thick black curls, a pug nose and a grin that lit up his face as well as half the forest.