The Good People

by Hannah Kent

  ‘That is correct, sir.’

  ‘Are there any other findings you feel compelled to include in your statement today?’

  The man sniffed, twitching his moustache. ‘There were marks which indicate the possibility of struggle.’

  ‘And by marks do you mean bruises?’

  ‘Yes, sir. About the chest and neck. Inconclusive, but they did raise suspicions that the child was forcibly held under water.’

  The counsel placed the tips of his fingers together, his eyes darting towards the jury. ‘Mr McGillycuddy, in your professional opinion, do you believe that the findings of the coronial inquest indicate that the deceased was murdered with intent? That his was a violent death?’

  The man looked at Nance and lifted his chin. He gave a brief, curt nod. ‘I do, sir.’

  Nance was ready when the court finally called for her statement. She had been waiting for the opportunity to tell her story, to reveal to the room the kernelled truth within the mass of stories and sworn informations and cross-examinations. She stood as Maggie would have done, straight-backed, eyes narrowed, and when they handed her the book to kiss, she did so with sincerity. They would not be able to fault her. She would show them the truth of her knowledge, her cure.

  ‘Miss Roche, please tell the court how you make your living.’

  ‘I give out the cure.’

  ‘Speak up, please, the court cannot hear you.’

  Nance took a deep breath and attempted to raise her voice. But the room was hot, and the air seemed to catch on her lungs, and when she spoke again there was a groaning from the crowd.

  ‘Your worship, will you allow the prisoner to make her statement from the witness stand so that she may be heard?’

  ‘I will.’

  An officer of the court led Nance to the box where she had seen the various speakers give out against her. After a day and a half listing in the dock against the courtroom wall, it felt strange to now be standing at a different place in the room, so much closer to the dark-suited men sitting with their shined shoes catching the gleam from the glass windows. Before they had appeared shadowy, but now Nance could make out their features: their dry lips and greying eyebrows, the lines surrounding their eyes. Some, she saw, were surely her age, and she wondered if, as a girl, she had seen them and their gentle-blooded parents on excursion to Mangerton. Had her hands picked the strawberries that their mothers had bought and pressed into their pink mouths?

  ‘Anne Roche, can you please tell the court how you make your living?’

  ‘I help people with the knowledge that I have been given, and they give me gifts in return.’

  The counsel glanced at the jurors, and Nance caught the suggestion of a smirk on his lips. ‘And can you please explain what this “knowledge” is?’

  ‘I have the knowledge to heal all manner of ills and sickness, both those of an ordinary kind and those wrought by the Good People.’

  ‘Can you please describe the difference between the two?’

  ‘There are those which are of a common kind, but there are some ills which are the mark of the Good People, and they call for a different cure.’

  The counsel studied her for a moment. ‘But, Miss Roche, what is the difference between the two?’

  Nance paused, confused. She had already explained to him that she divined the mark of the Good People amongst the sick, that she administered to the ordinary bruise, the extraordinary swelling. ‘It might be that a man has built his house on a fairy path, and it is that which brings the sickness to him, or it might be something else entirely.’

  ‘So what you are saying is that people come to you with sickness, and it is only then that you diagnose whether their sickness was caused by the Good People, or otherwise?’

  ‘That is the truth of it.’

  ‘And how did you learn these things?’

  ‘’Twas taught to me by my own aunt when I was a girl and growing.’

  ‘And where did your aunt learn these nostrums and mysteries?’

  ‘When she was away with the Good People.’

  The lawyer raised his eyebrows. ‘And by Good People, you mean to say the fairies?’

  ‘Yes, the Good People.’

  ‘Forgive me for my ignorance –’ there was a smattering of laughter from the crowd ‘– but why do you call the fairies Good People? It is my understanding that they are not people at all.’

  ‘It is out of respect that I call them the Good People, for they do not like to be thinking of themselves as bad craturs. They have a desire to get into Heaven, same as you, sure, Counsel.’

  ‘Miss Roche, I am acquainted with the fireside stories, but I must say that I do not give them credence. How do you know the fairies to be true?’

  ‘Because they took my mother and my aunt. I know there is no word of a lie in Them, for didn’t they lead me out of Killarney when I was poor and had no living at all, and didn’t they show me the way to the valley where I have been living for these past twenty years?’

  ‘You have seen them? How did they “show you the way”?’

  ‘Oh, I have heard Them talking, and ’tis truth I see Them as lights coming to me and leading me, and there have been times I heard Them dancing or fighting.’

  ‘They fight?’

  ‘The Good People are fond of fighting and hurling and dancing and singing. And ’tis true that they sometimes cause mischief, and that is why the people come to me: because I have the knowledge of the ways in which to undo the damage they cause. I have the knowledge and the cure if the fairies do be striking you or taking the profit out of your animals or crops, or the power out of your legs.’

  A rising murmur lifted from the crowd, and Nance could see several onlookers whisper to each other from behind their hands. They were listening to her. Relieved to finally be heard, she began to talk of the ways the Good People pressed up against the known world. She spoke of the power in saliva, in urine, in dung, in water from the holy wells, or that which held the leavings of iron. Of holed and hollowed stones, of soot and salt.

  ‘The Good People have a mighty fear of fire and iron, and sure, ’tis the threat of these which will serve to banish Them, so they have no power against a reddened poker. And though they lay their claim to fairy plants and trees – elder, foxglove – if certain plants can be got without their interference, the power in them can be turned against those who lay claim to them. Sure, elder has a mighty mischief and crostáil, and the Good People ride its branches, but sure, I can wring the bad temper out of it. And there are a great many things aside, cures given to me by the Good People, which I may not say, for if the secret goes out of a cure, there will be no power in it at all.’

  When she had finished, Nance took a deep breath and examined the jury. The men were looking at her with an expression she could not place. There was none of the lawyer’s acid curl of the lip, none of the scowling or wariness she had experienced before. No anger, no fear. She realised, then, that they regarded her with the same expression of those she had begged from: pity, shadowed with disdain. Her stomach sank.

  The lawyer was smiling to himself.

  ‘Miss Roche, do you accept payment for your . . . services?’

  ‘I don’t be taking money, for I’d surely lose the knowledge and cure.’

  ‘But it is true that you will accept gifts of fuel and food? Goods.’

  ‘Sure, that is true.’

  ‘Did you drown Micheál Kelliher in the Flesk on Monday, the sixth of March, in exchange for goods?’

  Nance frowned. ‘I’m not after drowning Micheál Kelliher, no.’

  ‘Both Mary Clifford and Mrs Leahy have stated that you ordered them to bathe Micheál Kelliher in that pool of the river Flesk, where the boundaries of three rivers meet. They say they had so bathed him for three mornings running, and on the last morning you kept the child longer under th
e water than usual.’

  ‘’Twas to banish it. The fairy.’

  ‘Not it, Miss Roche. Himself. Micheál Kelliher.’

  ‘’Twas no natural boy.’

  ‘He was a paralytic, we hear. Could neither stand nor walk nor speak.’

  ‘’Twas the fairy of it.’

  ‘He was your patient?’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘But you are not a doctor. You are ignorant of medical knowledge. Your training is only in nostrums. Old folk cures. Is that not so?’

  Nance felt a kick of anger in her chest. Over and over they circled with their questions. Did she not make herself clear? ‘I have the knowledge. Of the charms and the cures. Of the herbs.’

  ‘Mrs Leahy has said you led her to believe that you were capable of curing the boy, Miss Roche. If you have the knowledge, then why is Micheál Kelliher dead? Why could you not cure him?’

  Nance thought of Maggie, smoking by the warmth of the fire at night while the corncrakes filled the air outside with their long, scraping cries.

  What is in the marrow is hard to take out of the bone.

  ‘’Tis not Micheál Kelliher who is dead,’ she said finally.

  ‘Do you truly believe that, Miss Roche?’

  Nance brought her gaze level to that of the counsel. ‘That child died a long time ago.’

  There were exclamations from those listening in the court. Nance noticed the jurors shift in their chairs and exchange knowing looks.

  ‘Is there any other statement you would like to make to the court?’

  Nance hesitated. ‘I have told you my truth.’

  ‘That is all then, thank you.’

  Nance was fetched down from the witness box and returned to her place in the dock next to Nóra. While the counsel made his closing remarks, Nance ran the pads of her fingers over her crooked thumbs, swollen sore in the heat of the courtroom. They throbbed, and she tucked them into her palms, balling her hands into fists.

  There was a whimper beside her, and Nance saw that Nóra was shaking, staring as Mr Walshe raised a hand in an attempt to settle the crowd. An atmosphere of nervous excitement was issuing throughout the courtroom. She heard the judge wearily call for order, and one of the jurors sent a man to open the outer door of the court. There was a collective murmur of relief as fresh air fanned through the room.

  Nance saw that, for all the defence lawyer’s outward ease, Mr Walshe’s face was shining with sweat, his shirt visibly damp beneath his suit. He regarded the sober-faced jury.

  ‘Gentlemen, this case, although unusual and repugnant in the extreme, is not one of wilful murder. The Crown’s chief witness, Mary Clifford, who was present at the time the accident occurred, who witnessed firsthand Micheál Kelliher’s treatment not only at the Flesk on the morning of Monday, the sixth of March, but also in the months prior to his death, stood before you and – under oath – admitted that she did not believe the prisoners had deliberately drowned the child. Given her testimony, Anne Roche and Honora Leahy cannot be rightly convicted of wilful murder.

  ‘Gentlemen, Micheál Kelliher lost his life through superstition. It is true that the circumstances surrounding his treatment at the hands of the accused are extraordinary. It is true that the gross delusion these women operated under is horrifying. The scale of their ignorance is appalling. But it cannot be discounted as incidental. The accused acted on the belief that the deceased child, Micheál Kelliher, was a fairy spirit. A changeling, in the words of the Crown’s witness. Anne Roche selected a particular site of the river Flesk believed to be fairy-inhabited waters, and bathed him there with the assistance of Honora Leahy three mornings consecutively, contending that the falsely believed changeling would return to his supernatural realm.’

  Nance remembered the wildness with which Nóra had hauled herself up the bank when they had lifted the banished changeling from the water.

  ‘I will go to see if he is returned!’ The widow’s grey hair unfastening down her back as she grasped at tree roots and moss to drag herself from the river. ‘I will see if he is there!’ Lurching wildly through the ferns and bracken, branches swinging in her wake.

  Burying the body of the changeling in the Piper’s Grave, pimpled with cold.

  ‘Neither of the accused can write, gentlemen. Anne Roche, particularly, is unlettered and ignorant of the modern world, and her statement that “the child died a long time ago” is evidence of her benighted belief that the boy she was curing was fairy. Again, let me remind you that even Mary Clifford, who was witness to the act, has stated under oath that the child was bathed not with intent to kill, but to put the fairy out of it. Given this testimony, and the pitiful intellectual and moral ignorance and the advanced age of the accused, I recommend to you an acquittal of this charge.’

  Nance stared as the lawyer returned to his seat, fear rising in her throat. I have no ignorance upon me, she wanted to tell him. Don’t be telling them that would have me hang that there is no knowledge about me.

  Baron Pennefather cleared his throat. He waited until there was absolute silence before addressing the jury.

  ‘Gentlemen. Let me impress upon you that while a charge of murder may be commuted to manslaughter where life was taken away under the influence of sudden passion, this cannot apply to the defence’s argument that the life of Micheál Kelliher was taken as a result of superstitious belief.’

  ‘We will hang,’ Nóra whispered. ‘They do not believe. They think it superstition.’ Her voice shook, her tongue catching on the words. Nance’s heart thudded in dread.

  The judge took a moment to examine the waiting faces in the room. ‘It is clear that the ignorant actions of the prisoners demonstrate their belonging to a caste derived from hereditary or progressive immorality. Yet, it is not a mark of wickedness we find in this case, but rather the overwhelming suggestion and likelihood of low intellectual power in combination with strongly developed passions of the lower nature.’

  Nance began to breathe rapidly. What is he saying? she wondered. What is he saying about me?

  ‘In short, while this is a case of suspicion, and requires to be thoroughly examined into, I encourage you to recognise the superstitious motives that are clearly, albeit disturbingly, evident. And I ask you to consider the problems of women of advanced age in prison, unfit for transportation, who demand much attention through infirmity. Thank you, gentlemen.’

  Nance watched as the jurors rose together like a flock of grey-hooded crows and exited the room to decide their verdict. The noise in the courtroom was suddenly overwhelming.

  I don’t understand, thought Nance. I don’t understand.

  Looking down she saw that she still held her hands in fists.

  The jury were gone less than half an hour before the clerk and officer of the court began to settle the crowd. Nance felt her heartbeat rise in apprehension as Justice Baron Pennefather entered the room and resumed his position in the chair, pressing his hands together as stragglers forced their way inside, fighting for a clear view of the prisoners.

  Next to her, Nóra leant against the dock, her body slowly sinking towards the floor. Nance reached out to grasp her about the arm and Nóra’s eyes flashed open.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ she hissed, before fear splayed through her expression and she clutched at Nance’s retreating hands. ‘I don’t want to die,’ she murmured. She lifted her fetters and attempted to cross herself. ‘I don’t want to hang. I don’t want to hang.’

  Nance felt the widow begin to shake again.

  ‘Sore-wounded Christ. Oh, sore-wounded Christ, I don’t want to hang. Oh, please, Lord.’

  Nance began to rock on her feet, fear filling her stomach. She bit on her tongue until she could taste the iron of her blood.

  ‘Sore-wounded Christ, Martin! Oh!’

  ‘Quiet now.’ An officer nudged Nóra and she gasped, suddenly
gripping onto the wooden spikes in front of them to hold herself upright.

  The atmosphere in the court was like that in the face of an approaching storm. An uneasy hush. A gathering tension in the air as the jurors were admitted back into the court and, faces solemn, returned to their chairs.

  ‘I don’t want to hang,’ Nóra continued muttering next to Nance. ‘I don’t want to hang.’

  The judge’s voice carried across the room. ‘Have you found your verdict?’

  A white-haired man stood, hands carefully brushing down his trousers. ‘We have, Your Worship.’

  ‘What say you?’

  Nance closed her eyes. Imagined the river, the peaceful unknotting of water.

  She could feel Nóra shaking violently next to her.

  ‘We agree with Your Worship that this is a case of suspicion, however, in the charge of wilful murder against Anne Roche and Honora Leahy, we find insufficient evidence for conviction. Our verdict is not guilty.’

  There was a pause, and then the courtroom erupted in excited and furious reaction.

  Nance sank to the floor, her legs collapsing in relief. Shutting her eyes, the clamour in the hot air around her sounded like nothing more than a sudden downpour of rain. Summer rain breaking over the pine needles hot-scented in the woods, crisping leaves browning in the oak, the alder, the torrential blessing of heavy cloud over the forest, and the sweet gurgle of water towards the river.

  Nance only opened her eyes again when they hauled her to her feet to unlock the fetters. Blinking against the light, she was vaguely aware of Nóra, bent over, howling with relief, and beyond her, in the shifting, tidal crowd, Mary, staring at them with tears streaming down her pale cheeks.

  ‘Mary!’ Nance croaked. There was a heavy tug and the irons came off her wrists and in the sudden feel of lightness and freedom, she raised both palms to the sobbing girl. ‘Mary!’

  The girl spat on the ground. ‘I curse you,’ she mouthed. Then she turned and disappeared into the seething crowd.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-ONE