When Eamon came over on Christmas Day to exchange gifts with Fidelma, Maureen had been happy for her sister, but inside she was close to tears because Paudeen wasn’t coming with something for her. And he’d not be getting the gansey she’d been knitting for him since September. She’d spun the raw, untreated báinín wool herself on the spinning wheel she’d been given for Christmas four years earlier. The strands, rich in lanolin, would be waterproof and ideal for wearing on the Princess Macha. Och, well. The knitting of it hadn’t gone to waste. Tiernan had been delighted to receive it on Christmas and was wearing it today.
She’d overheard her brother telling Da that he’d be meeting Paudeen at the road up to the peat bog. She’d no idea how Paudeen would get there from Ring, but that was none of her business. The pair of them would be going wren hunting, and Tiernan already had blackened his face with burnt cork.
The hunting was for later. Now Malachy and the O’Hanlons, Tiernan, Da, Ma, Sinead, Fidelma, and herself were assembled in the kitchen waiting for Da to tell his Saint Stephen’s Day story, an annual ritual as well observed in the O’Hanlon household as the lighting of the Yule log the day before. There’d only been one Saint Stephen’s that Maureen could remember when Da hadn’t told the tale, nor had there been any wren hunting that year either.
She unbuttoned the front of the green cardigan Sinead had given her. With the range and the stove both lit, the room was toasty warm. Sinead’s three-month-old daughter Maeve was asleep in a crib on the floor. Finbar, who sat on Sinead’s knee clutching a stuffed dog, pointed at Tiernan’s daubed face and gurgled.
Hurry up, Da, she thought. Every year he’d tell the story of why young Irishmen blacked their faces, hunted wrens, and used them as a device to collect money for the hooley that would be held that evening. His story was as familiar and comforting as the chimes of the clock. And she wanted to be comforted. Mind you, she thought, the wrens did get no comfort, so.
They were little, rich brown–coloured birds, all of four inches from the tip of their beaks to the ends of their short, cocked tails, which they would flick continuously. A wren weighed four ounces. Wrens had been hunted on this day since Celtic times. She felt sorry for the little things, the poor wee crayturs.
“Will you get a move on, Finbar?” Ma said. “New Year’s Eve will be over before you tell your tale.”
Maureen smiled and wondered how often Ma had heard all of Da’s stories, but she would still listen out of love for the man.
“I will, as soon as everybody’s sitting down,” he said, settling his duncher more comfortably on his bald pate.
Maureen, Tiernan, Ma, Fidelma, Sinead, with Finbar on her lap, and Malachy all sat round the table with Da at its head. He began to tap his foot and sing. Tiernan and Malachy joined in.
The wren, the wren, the king of all birds,
On Saint Stephen’s Day was caught in the furze,
Although he is little, his family is great,
I pray you, good landlady, give us a treat.
Tiernan smiled at her as Maureen mouthed the words. She’d heard Da and her brothers sing the song every year on this day for as long as she could remember. She wondered if big brother Art was singing it in far-off Philadelphia, then realized he’d probably still be in bed.
Da said, “That’s the first verse of the song the wren boys sing from door to door as they collect money for food and drink for tonight’s wren dance.
“Why the wren? And why a céili? Well, I’ll tell you.
“This is what it was. Before Saint Patrick came here to Ireland, the Celtic people believed that the robin, who stood for the New Year, had to slay the wren, who stood for the old year, before the year would turn. So they killed wrens and celebrated that with a great feast on the night after their Alban Artuan, their Christmas. The whole thing is that old.
“Once Christianity came, the Celts were told that they had to give up their superstitious ways.” He chuckled. “Silly, wasn’t it? If you’d a good excuse for a hooley, why give it up?
“The new priests said this was to become the feast of Saint Stephen, a martyr who was stoned to death shortly after the Crucifixion. And do you know what your forebears did?” He paused, then said, “Come on, you tell us, Maureen. You’ve all the makings of a seanachie yourself.”
She blushed at the praise. Telling instead of listening would keep her from thinking on Paudeen. She carried on with the story the way Da would have.
“It is what it was, so. Just because the Celts were pagans didn’t mean they were stupid. Hadn’t Saint Stephen tried to escape from his pursuers by hiding in the bushes, and hadn’t the chattering of a wren betrayed him? Well, now, with that as a good Christian excuse for retribution, they blacked their faces like Tiernan there so no one would recognize them, and exactly as they had done in the old days, they went out, killed a wren, and collected money to pay for a great ta-ta-ta-ra that night the way they always had. But they persuaded the priests that they were honouring Saint Stephen.”
“And,” said Sinead, clearly not wanting to be outdone by her little sister, “there was soon another good reason to kill the wren. When the Vikings were pillaging Ireland, before Brian Boru threw them out in 1014 at the battle of Clontarf, a wren gave away an Irish raiding party that was sneaking up on a Viking camp.
“It started pecking at crumbs on a drumhead and the rat-tat-tat of its beak on the drum skin woke the camp, and the Irish were all killed.”
“Aye,” said Da, picking up the thread, “and it does be said about a wren alerting Oliver Cromwell’s troops the same way when he was ravaging this country in 1649. I think myself that that’s more likely. I don’t think Vikings used drums.” He shook his head. “But no matter what reason you give to justify doing it, to this day groups of boys, aye, and men like your brother black their faces and go wren hunting.” He hesitated. “I only remember one Saint Stephen’s when they did not.”
“We all do,” said Malachy. “Four years ago.”
Maureen shivered.
Da continued. “They kill a wren, tie it to the top of a pole, and decorate it with ribbons. Then away they go from house to house.” Da began to sing.
My box would speak, if it had but a tongue,
The men joined in.
And a penny or three would do it no wrong.
Sing holly, sing ivy—sing ivy, sing holly,
A drop just to drink, it would drown melancholy . . .
Da laughed. “There’s only another forty verses. Will we go on?”
“You will not,” said Ma. “If you have to sing today you can give us a couple of your come-all-ye’s at the party tonight.”
“Fair enough, Roisín,” he said. He winked at her, then continued. “So there it is, the story of the Saint Stephen’s Day wren.”
“And if we’re going to get one, I’d best be on the road.” Tiernan rose.
“You take care, now,” Ma said softly. “Do not be going onto the high pasture.”
Maureen glanced at Fidelma and saw the frown on her sister’s brow. Saint Stephen’s Day was always a trial for her.
“We’ll take care all right. Never you fear, Ma,” Tiernan said. “And I’ll even take care of the salty sailor man who doesn’t understand the land very well.”
Och, but he does understand the sea, Maureen thought. I only wish he could understand me.
Tiernan lifted a cudgel from behind the door and opened it. Bright sunlight spilled into the room. He called, “None of you worry, now. We’re only after going to hunt the wren. The bushes up by the peat bog will be full of them, and we’ll have our bird in no time.” His voice grew serious for a moment. “And don’t worry, Ma. We’ll not go near the high place.”
“Good,” said Ma, with a glance at Fidelma. “And don’t stay too long for I think it might snow, and if it does start, get you off that hill as fast as you can.”
“We will, so,” Tiernan said. “Eamon’s meeting us at the crossroads with his Da’s lorry, and we’ll be off to
Clonakilty in no time to collect the wren money.” He looked out into the brightness of the day and said, “I don’t think we need worry about snow today.” He was laughing as he closed the door.
Maureen had to strain to hear Ma saying in a very soft voice, “But we are expecting snow,” and her mother’s face in that warm kitchen was the only one that didn’t smile. Ma rose and went to the range. “I’ll make us some tea.”
Thinking of Ma boiling water for tea in the cosy O’Hanlon kitchen brought Kinky right back to her own kitchen at Number 1 and the tatties she had half boiled not very long ago. It was time to put them on to roast and to give the bird another basting.
She busied herself and managed to raise a small blister on her right wrist when it brushed against the hot oven. As soon as she’d finished holding it under a stream of cold water from the tap, her mind went back to Da saying to Malachy, “Will you give me a hand in the byre? I want to move two of the beasts.”
“I will, so.”
She had watched the two men leave. They were coatless and hatless. The day was warm, so if Ma had seen snow it must be coming later. By the time it did, the boys would be snug in Eamon’s lorry, the one she’d ridden home in after her row with Paudeen. Och, blether, she told herself, stop moping and give Ma a hand.
Maureen rose and crossed the floor. She took down a tin and started putting pieces of Ma’s homemade Scottish shortbread onto a plate.
The morning passed quickly. Once they’d enjoyed their tea and shortcake, it was time for her to help Ma with the turkey carcass and hambone, which were being boiled to make stock. Then she made a start on the “Dear Aunty” letters.
Fidelma had gone to her room for something and Sinead asked Ma and Maureen to keep an eye to Finbar, who was now playing on the floor. Sinead took her howling baby, Maeve, to be changed.
Maureen was always amazed by how much noise a small baby could make. She smiled, but her smile soon fled when she heard a very different noise. It was wind howling through bare-branched trees. The walls of the kitchen became blurred, the range and stove vanished, there were no cooking smells, only a chill in her nostrils. Maureen saw flakes, whirling and flying, and small sheep huddled against a gale. A vixen stalked over a drift. A vixen with the face of a woman.
31
Maureen felt an arm round her shoulder. “What is it, a chara?” Ma asked quietly.
Maureen stood and buried her face in her mother’s bosom, seeking to be comforted like a very small, scared child. She took three deep breaths, then straightened and looked into Ma’s eyes. “I saw snow too, lots of it, Ma, and sheep and the vixen.”
“The fox-woman?”
“Aye, so.”
Ma held Maureen more tightly. “You saw more than me, girl. There were only a few flakes for me. I didn’t think too much of it then, so. Not enough to forbid Tiernan. Only enough to warn him so he could tell Paudeen when they met, but—”
“And now you think I’ve seen something dangerous?” Maureen stepped back. Her hand went to her mouth.
“We both watched it snowing . . .” Ma lifted an arm, hand palm up, in front of her. She gestured at the sun-dappled hillside. “You’d not think it could snow on a day like today.”
“And four years to the day after Connor was lost.” Maureen clenched her fists. Paudeen. Tiernan. She thought of the Death card she’d seen last August, the white stuff in Paudeen’s hair. Maureen looked up to where clouds were forming, dark they were and heavy, and the sky’s once-smiling face now scowled.
Ma lowered her arm.
“And”—it cost Maureen a great deal to talk about him, but she ploughed on—“I’ve seen Paudeen before with white stuff in his hair. I thought it was sea spume, but now I’m not so sure. It could have been snow. But I don’t understand about the sheep.” Or the vixen, she thought. Maureen shivered and hugged herself.
Ma’s eyes narrowed and she shook her head. “Nor me.” She pursed her lips, then said, “I think we should send Da and Malachy after Tiernan to tell him and Paudeen to come back at once.”
Maureen swallowed. She’d no idea at all what she’d do if they brought him here today. What would she say to him? That didn’t matter, she realized. She just wanted him safe. She wanted him back.
“You stay with the child,” Ma said. “I’ll go for the menfolk. Better so, for there’s still no need for you to let on you are fey like me. I told you before, the less folks who know the better, and even in families tongues can wag. I’ll tell them I’ve seen a blizzard coming, and they’ll understand what needs to be done.”
“Go quick, Ma. Hurry.”
Maureen sat alone at the table and waited for Da and Malachy. She watched her nephew playing with his stuffed doggie, chewing its ear, gurgling, quite unaware of the terrible worries of his aunty as the clouds outside spread and dressed the sky in mourning. “Hurry up, Ma,” she whispered. Maureen didn’t hear Fidelma come back.
“Why do you want Ma to hurry up?”
Maureen turned to her. “Ma’s seen more snow coming. Look out there.”
“Mother of God.” Fidelma stared out the window. “Not again. Not on another Saint Stephen’s.” She sat at the table and held her head in her two hands.
Maureen stood beside her sister and rested a hand on her shoulder, remembering her sister’s pain when Connor disappeared, her overwhelming grief when his body was found. And now Tiernan and Paudeen were in peril on the very same day and in the same circumstances. Were the O’Hanlons cursed? Had someone looked at them with the evil eye?
Ma and the men returned. The sunlight had been snuffed out, and the first flakes were falling.
“Ma’s right,” Da said. “Right it was going to snow, and right to send us after them. If the blizzard she’s seen is starting, the sooner we get them off that hill the better. I don’t know about Paudeen, but Tiernan’s not dressed for the cold.”
Ma said, “I’ll heat some beef tea and put it in a thermos while you’re getting ready. Finbar, get you a knapsack, and the whiskey. Malachy, there’s a hurricane lantern on that shelf; grab it.”
Maureen could see, as she had many times, where Sinead had learnt her way of organizing things.
Da grabbed the bag, stuffed in the bottle of John Jameson, pulled the men’s coats and hats from pegs behind the door, and chucked Malachy his.
Ma looked at the cow-clap lumps that had fallen off their boots in her clean kitchen. She tutted, but Maureen understood why they hadn’t wasted time worrying about the floor.
Maureen rose. “I’m coming with you.” And she would brook no denial. “I’m going to my room to get dressed warmly. I’ll only be a shmall minute, so wait for me, Da.”
“I will not,” he said. “It does not be a job for a girl, so.”
“And why not? Why not, Da? Tiernan’s my brother. Paudeen’s . . .” She shook her head and felt the prickling behind her eyelids. He’s the man I still love, she thought, but she couldn’t say it out loud.
She saw Da’s eyes soften and fill with understanding as he said quietly, “We’ll wait, muirnín, but hurry.”
Maureen fled upstairs. She sensed someone behind her and turned.
Fidelma stood on the landing. “I didn’t go out the last time,” she said. “I’ve rued it to this day. I’m for coming too.”
“Bless you,” Maureen said. She hugged her sister before heading for Tiernan’s room, where she lifted a pair of his heavy pants and an old necktie and then went to her own room.
She heard Ma calling, “Girls, one of you bring four blankets from the hot press when you come down.” Fidelma answered, “I will, so.”
Outside the window, great flakes were being blown horizontally past. Maureen could hear the branches of the sycamores rat-a-tatting against the windowpanes. There was a piercing whistling that she knew of old. It always happened when a strong easterly wind blew over the chimneys and played on them as if the row of pots were the devil’s ocarina.
She put on a string vest, like the one she’d o
nce grumbled about writing a thank-you letter for, a woollen shirt, a light jumper, and a heavy sweater. She remembered that Tiernan was wearing the raw wool one she’d knit for him, and she hoped it was keeping him dry and less cold.
His trousers were too big so she used his tie as a belt. The pants legs were soon tucked into thick woollen socks. She started to sweat, but one look outside to where the snow was already starting to drift chilled her inside.
When Maureen came back into the kitchen, Ma and Sinead, holding Maeve, stood together as Da helped Malachy into the straps of a knapsack. Her brother-in-law carried a hurricane lantern. Fidelma, bundled up like Maureen, was distributing blankets.
Maureen rapidly crossed the room, but as she passed the table she felt a chill as if she were in an icy pocket of air, even though the rest of the room was toasty warm. The hairs on the nape of her neck rose and she shuddered. The temperature plummeted and goose pimples stood out on her forearms. Her teeth chattered.
The chair, the very one Connor had knocked over in his haste four years ago, clattered to the floor, though no one was near it save a wispy shapeless mist. She wasn’t seeing him clearly this time, but she knew he was there.
She picked up the chair and said to the others, “Clumsy of me. Sorry.” But under her breath she whispered, “I know the Thevshee can move things. Connor, do this house no harm . . .” Then as an afterthought she added, “And if it’s true that ghosts have to obey the commands of the living, get you up to the high pasture where you belong and watch over my brother and Paudeen.”
“What?” Fidelma asked.
An Irish Country Girl Page 24
