Glancing quickly down the stairs to make sure no one was coming up, she gently prized the door open and was startled to see, not a cupboard as she had expected, but a very narrow staircase built alongside the regular stairs, except it was hidden inside the walls. She crawled to her mother’s room and looked. She had never realized that the wall in that room was inset more than the wall of the stairwell. She pushed the panel closed and heard it click shut. She clicked it again just to make sure the mechanism wasn’t a fluke.
Her heart was pounding with excitement as she continued to clean her way down the hall. She kept pressing the mouldings, on the lookout for any other secret passages and wondering if her mother knew about the one she’d found.
She heard her mother moving around downstairs. “How are you doing up there?” Elizabeth called.
“Almost done,” Conn called back. She finished cleaning the last few feet of wainscoting with no further discoveries, and carried her bucket downstairs.
Elizabeth frowned. “Are you okay? Your face is all red.”
“I’m fine,” Conn protested as her mother laid a hand on her forehead to see if she was running a temperature.
“Hmmm,” said Elizabeth. “You don’t feel warm.
“It’s just the scrubbing,” Conn insisted.
“Well, thank you both so much,” Elizabeth said appreciatively. “That would have taken me the rest of today and tomorrow by myself.”
“That’s okay,” Conn said, resolving to try and help her mother more often.
“Mrs. Mitchell?” came Abraham’s voice through the back screen door.
“Come in, Mr. Greene,” Elizabeth called. “Please, you don’t ever have to knock or wait to be invited in.”
He nodded deferentially as he entered the kitchen. “There’s a storm blowing up, so I’m going to stop for today. The new mortar I already put in should set up before the weather gets here. I’ll be back tomorrow if the storm passes.”
***
The storm did indeed blow in with so much thunder and lightning that they couldn’t get a clear radio signal. The air became close and damp with the increased humidity.
“Just in case,” Elizabeth said as she gathered candles and flashlights, along with a couple of old oil lamps.
“I’m sure glad we have a bathroom now,” Will said as he and Conn brushed their teeth, listening to the downpour outside.
Lying in bed a little while later, Conn tossed restlessly, trying to find a cool spot on her sheets. She could smell the damp metallic air coming in through the screens as a steady rain fell, punctuated by continued intermittent flashes of lightning and low, long rumbles of thunder.
Elizabeth came in to kiss her goodnight. “Nana always told me it’s cooler down here,” she said, moving Conn’s pillow to the foot of the bed. She laughed as Conn frowned at her skeptically. “Just try it.”
Conn couldn’t say it was any cooler with her head at the foot of the bed, but at last she fell asleep. She didn’t know what time it was when she was startled awake. At least she thought she was awake. Someone had called her name. She lay quietly, listening in the dark for any sounds other than the rain and thunder. Just as she started to drift off again, she heard it.
“Connemara.”
It was scarcely more than a whisper in the dark. Conn couldn’t tell where it came from.
“Mom?” she whispered, her heart pounding a little faster. There was no answer. “Who’s there?”
For a long moment, there was only the sound of the falling rain, then, “You must speak my name,” came the whisper.
“But who are you?” Conn’s heart was beating a more rapid tattoo in her chest now.
“You know me.”
Conn frowned.
“You must speak my name,” the whisper insisted again.
Conn thought. “Nana?” Silence. “Fiona?” she tried again, using her great-grandmother’s name this time.
“Fiona knew me,” said the voice. “And Méav. Elizabeth knew me as a girl, but not now.”
Conn held her breath and then whispered, “Caitríona Ní Faolain.” This time it wasn’t a question. She knew.
A figure, misty and shapeless at first, appeared near the bed. Slowly, its form became more defined, more solid. As it did, the room’s air became chilled.
“I know you! I’ve seen you in my dreams,” Conn said as she recognized the wild curls, only faintly reddish now as if Conn were seeing her through fog.
“Yes,” said Caitríona. “I’ve been coming to you in your dreams.”
“Are you really Caitríona Ní Faolain?” Conn asked in awe.
“I am, child.”
“Are you a ghost, then?”
“I am… a shadow,” said Caitríona sadly.
Conn stared transfixed at Caitríona’s image. “Why do you come to me?” she asked.
“I need your help,” Caitríona responded.
Conn drew back a little. “What kind of help?”
Caitríona sighed and said, “Ah, Connemara, ‘tis a terrible shame my father and I brought upon our family, and a curse as well.”
“A curse?” Conn gasped. “What kind of curse?”
“A curse of deepest sorrow,” said Caitríona. “Punishment for our sins.” She closed her eyes and began, “Ill-fated shall your progeny be…”
Conn joined in, the words coming of their own accord, her mind filled with flashes of memory: an angry row in a little stone cottage, a feeling of terrible despair, an old woman’s face, lit by a peat fire….
“… A child, ne’er soiled by hate or greed could
Bring forgiveness and healing to those long gone.
With the dead laid to rest, the living move on,
Freed at last by a soul blessed with light.”
Conn looked at Caitríona as silence fell again. Caitríona opened her eyes and stared back.
“You are the one we have been waiting for, Connemara Ní Faolain.”
***
Conn awakened to a crystal clear morning, washed clean of all heat and humidity. She sat up and looked around her room, confused. That… that dream, if that’s what it was, had felt so real, as real as the other dreams she’d been having, as if she’d really had that conversation with Caitríona Ní Faolain. She dressed slowly and went downstairs to the kitchen where her mother was already making coffee.
“How about cereal this morning?” Elizabeth asked. “I don’t feel like heating the kitchen up with the stove, it’s such a lovely, cool morning.”
Conn sat, unanswering, as if she hadn’t heard.
“Connemara?”
Conn looked up. “Oh, um, cereal is fine. I can get it.”
“Are you all right?” Elizabeth asked. “Are you coming down with something?”
Conn shook her head. “I’m fine.” Instinctively, she felt she should not tell her mother about the previous night. She went to get a cereal bowl from the cupboard. As she poured milk over her cornflakes, she asked, “What ever happened to Caitríona Ní Faolain?”
“Why would you ask that?” Elizabeth asked.
Conn looked around. “This used to be her house. I know parts of her story, but what happened after she got here?” she asked, trying to sound no more than curious.
Elizabeth’s gaze lost focus as she tried to remember. “She disappeared,” she recalled.
Conn sat up straighter. “What do you mean she disappeared?” she demanded.
“Well, she came here with her daughter and a few freed slaves from the plantation. But a few years after they got here, she disappeared. No one knows what happened to her.”
Conn gaped. “But what happened to her daughter, then?”
“Deirdre? She was raised by the colored people who came with Caitríona. And then when she got older, she married a man named McEwan. They stayed here and farmed this land.”
“And they had Nana?” Conn asked.
Elizabeth nodded. “Yes, Nana – Fiona – was the only child who lived. I’m not sure how many
other children they had. There’s a cemetery somewhere nearby.” She stirred her coffee absently. “Nana was born in 1893.”
“And then Nana had your mother?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, now frowning a little at Conn. “And my mother, Méav, was again the only one who lived to grow up. I think there were a couple of children who died as babies, but I know Mom had an older brother who died in a farm accident when he was thirteen. Then it was just Mom.”
“Only one girl child shall survive,” Conn breathed.
“What?” Elizabeth asked distractedly.
“And you never knew your father?” Conn asked.
“No,” said Elizabeth. “Edward Cuthbert. My mother married him just before he was shipped overseas during the second World War. He was killed in action before I was born.”
“And your mother?” Conn asked, though she knew this part of the story.
Elizabeth took a sip from her coffee cup. “She died of polio when I was five. And I came here to live with Nana.”
“And then you met Daddy when you were in college?” Conn asked, never tiring of hearing this story.
“Yes,” Elizabeth remembered with a misty smile. “I went to a women’s college, Longwood, in Virginia. And my roommate had a boyfriend at the Naval Academy – one of many boyfriends, it turned out. Anyway, she talked me into going with her to a dance at the Academy to meet her boyfriend’s roommate.”
“And that was Daddy?”
Elizabeth nodded. “And that was Daddy. I think I fell in love with him before the first dance was over.”
“And now…” Conn began, but stopped. “Our family has had a lot of sadness, hasn’t it?” she asked quietly, the weight of her family’s history settling around her like a mantle, linking her to all the previous generations who had lived in this house. If her conversation with Caitríona was real, all the sadness was down to this curse, whatever it was – the curse she was supposed to break somehow.
Elizabeth looked into her daughter’s clear blue eyes. “Yes,” she said, “I guess we have.”
They stared at each other mutely for a long time, until Will made a sleepy entrance. Elizabeth took the opportunity to change the subject.
“What kind of birthday cake would you like?” she asked.
Conn’s eyes lit up. She’d almost forgotten she would be eleven in, she counted quickly, ten days’ time. June sixth. “Does it have to be a cake?”
“No,” Elizabeth laughed. “Whatever you want. It’s your birthday.”
Will looked up from his cereal. “We could have chocolate pudding,” he suggested.
Conn rolled her eyes. “You can have pudding on your birthday. I want cherry pie!”
“Cherry pie you shall have,” Elizabeth said, getting a pencil and pad to make a list. “What about for dinner? Anything special you would like?”
Conn thought for a minute. “Barbequed chicken and corn on the cob?”
Elizabeth wrote. “It may be too early for corn, but I’ll see.”
“Can we invite Mr. Greene?” Conn asked.
Elizabeth looked up in surprise. “I think that would be very nice, but –” she said firmly, “you must tell him no present. We just want the pleasure of his company for dinner.”
When Abraham returned later that morning to resume work on the chimney, Conn invited him to dinner.
“I would be honored, Connemara,” he said, looking pleased. He mixed up a fresh bucket of mortar and was setting up his ladder when he asked, “Have you been fishing recently?”
“Yes,” Conn said. “Fishing hooks work much better than a safety pin.”
He chuckled. “Yes, I imagine they do. I haven’t forgotten my promise to take you and William fishing one day, but it will have to wait until I have a little time off.”
CHAPTER 7
After nearly twelve weeks, the ship finally reached America. A hurricane had blown it off-course to the north. Caitríona, Orla and the others took it in turns to look out their small portholes at the approaching coastline of Virginia. Caitríona was disappointed in the flat, sandy shores covered in scrubby pine trees as they entered the mouth of the James River. Once safely anchored at Newport News Point, the English passengers disembarked first. Then, the twenty-two surviving Irish were allowed above decks. They were made to stay on board while the remainder of the cargo was unloaded. After so many weeks in the dark, dank hold, the heat and humidity of Virginia in July were too much for Orla. She became faint. Caitríona half-carried her to a bit of shade against the wall of the pilot house and propped her up against the varnished wood.
Though the smell of fish and brackish water was not pleasant, anything was better than the putrid air they had been breathing. Leaving Orla to rest with some fresh water, Caitríona went to the rail to watch the activity below. This harbor was not as busy as Cobh, but there was a great deal of commotion nonetheless.
The trunks and crates were hoisted up from the cargo hold and transferred to waiting barges. Next, the horses and livestock were taken off the ship, some to waiting corrals, others taken directly to the barges on which they would travel the next leg of their journey. Only then were the Irish ordered off the ship and also dispersed to the various barges that would take them to their destinations and their new lives.
Clutching their small bags, Orla and Caitríona crossed the gangplank to their assigned barge along with Ewan, the surviving stable boy, and Fiona. Seeing one another in daylight, Caitríona thought they all looked like the living dead – like during the famine, she thought. They had all lost a frightening amount of weight, their eyes sunken deep in their sockets, their cheeks hollowed, hair lank and lifeless. None of them had been able to bathe since before their voyage began. Orla clutched at the rosary hanging around her neck and whispered a prayer.
Patrick Doolan, the captain of the barge, looked upon them with a mixture of pity and revulsion. Shouting orders to his crew, he waited until the barge was safely underway up the river before ordering fresh water and bread for his passengers. He himself retrieved a smoked ham from his personal stores and cut slices off for them, the first meat they had had in nearly three months.
“Take it slow,” he cautioned. “You’ll be needing to give your bellies time to get used to real food again.”
As they traveled along the river, Captain Doolan checked on them as often as he could. He arranged for a small tub to be filled with water and shielded behind a blanket so the women could bathe and wash their filthy clothing. Ewan was thrown into the river by the crew, mostly Irish themselves, as they put in at Williamsburg to take on some cargo. One of the men tossed him a bar of lye soap and shouted, “You’ll not be comin’ back on board till you smell human again!” When he was pronounced fit to climb back on board, the crew good-naturedly gave him a set of clothes, declaring his own beyond salvaging.
The effect Orla had on the crew was dramatic. Clean for the first time in weeks, her black hair rippling in the breeze blowing upriver, when her beautiful face broke into a smile, the men stopped what they were doing, watching her with their caps doffed until Captain Doolan roared at them to tend to business.
Caitríona scowled as she watched all this from where she sat curled up in a large coil of rope on the deck. She felt like a foreigner as they traveled up this river so broad she could barely see the opposite bank at times. The sky felt crushingly huge above them. She missed the sounds and smells and sights of Ireland so that she thought she would never feel whole again. Her loneliness was intensified as Fiona began helping the barge’s cook, and Ewan was taken in by the crew and put to work. Orla, as often as not, was in the pilot house, keeping the captain company.
As the barge moved slowly upriver, it put in at Jamestown and other ports along the way, sometimes taking cargo on, other times off-loading some of what they carried, but the Irish bound for the plantation remained the only passengers.
Caitríona took to staying at the rear of the barge with the horses and cattle. Animals and humans alike were being
besieged by hordes of mosquitoes and biting flies. It was enough to drive them all mad as they swatted and bit and stamped at the biting insects. Caitríona was soon given the job of keeping the animals calm, as she was the only one they would allow in their enclosure when the bugs were biting. She gently talked to them, patting the cattle and rubbing the horses’ necks and faces, brushing them all with switches to keep the bugs off.
“You smell like a horse,” Orla said, wrinkling her nose as Caitríona lay down beside her under the stretched tarp that served as a sort of tent. The barge had no actual sleeping quarters for passengers as it so rarely carried any. There was a small area in the cargo hold where the crew hung hammocks each night. Ewan slept there with the men, while Fiona shared the tarp with the girls.
“Good,” Caitríona shot back as she smacked at a mosquito. “I’d rather smell like something honest and good from home than be prancing about making the men go all stupid.”
Orla’s fair cheeks flushed. “I don’t prance… I can’t help… Don’t be mad at me, Caitie,” she said, using the childhood nickname that never failed to cool Caitríona’s quick temper.
“I’m not mad at you,” Caitríona said grudgingly. “Only, I hate this cursed country.”
Orla laid a calming hand on her arm. “Don’t hate so. We’re here now, like it or no. We may as well make the best of it. ‘Tis no use constantly wishing to be somewhere we’re not.”
But Caitríona did wish. She wished so hard she thought her heart must burst from the strain of it – she wished for the cool sea breezes of Ireland, for the earthy smell of a warm peat fire, for the cleansing rains that fell soft on the fields leaving the hills and rocks glistening like jewels in the sun that would come out as the clouds scudded away. But all her wishing couldn’t take her from this ugly land where she felt she was wrapped in a hot, wet blanket so that she never stopped sweating, where the river went on and on, the boredom broken only occasionally by the towns and ports they passed.
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