“Go on inside, then,” Fergus ordered. He prodded Ben forward, not lowering his gun. “But stay away from Mr. Collins.”
24 December 1921
Something changed in Ireland around the turn of the century. There was a cultural revival of sorts. We sang the old songs and heard the old stories—things we’d heard many times before—but they were taught with an intensity that was new. We looked at ourselves and at each other, and there was a sense of anticipation. There was pride, even reverence, for who we were, what we could aspire to, and those we had descended from. I was taught to love Ireland. Mick was taught to love Ireland. I have no doubt Ben and Liam and Declan were taught to love her too. But for the first time in my life, I’m not sure what that means.
After our confrontation with Ben Gallagher, Anne and I stood beneath the trees, shaken by the event.
“I don’t like this world, Thomas,” Anne whispered. “This world is something the other Anne clearly understood and something I will never understand.”
“What world, Countess?” I asked her, though I already knew.
“The world of Ben Gallagher and Michael Collins, of shifting lines and changing sides. And the worst part is . . . I know how it ends. I know the ending, and I still don’t understand it.”
“Why? Why can’t you understand it?”
“Because I haven’t lived it,” she confessed. “Not like you have. The Ireland I know is one of songs and stories and dreams. It is Eoin’s version—we all have one—and yet even that version is softened and reshaped because he left it behind. I don’t know the Ireland of oppression and revolution. I haven’t been taught to hate.”
“We weren’t taught to hate, Anne.”
“You were.”
“We were taught to love.”
“Love what?”
“Freedom. Identity. Possibility. Ireland,” I argued.
“And what will you do with that love?” she pressed. When I didn’t answer, she answered for me. “I’ll tell you what you will do. You will turn on each other because you don’t love Ireland. You love the idea of Ireland. And each man has his own idea of what that is.”
I could only shake my head, wounded, resistant. Outrage for Ireland—for every injustice—burned in my chest, and I didn’t want to look at her. She’d reduced my devotion to an impossible dream. A moment later, she drew my face to hers and kissed my mouth, quietly begging my forgiveness.
“I’m sorry, Thomas. I say I don’t understand and then lecture you as though I do.”
We spoke no more of Ireland, marriage, or Ben Gallagher. But her words kept repeating in my head all evening, drowning out everything else. “And what will you do with that love?”
I sat at midnight Mass with Mick on one side, Anne on the other, and Eoin asleep in my arms. He’d started yawning during the entrance procession and was asleep before the first reading. He snored softly through Father Darby’s recitation of the prophecy of Isaiah, oblivious to all care, ignorant of the strain that bowed Mick’s head and furrowed Anne’s brow. His freckled cheek lay against my chest, against my aching heart, and I was envious of his innocence, his faith, and his trust. When Mick turned to me at the sign of peace, his voice soft, his face earnest, I could only nod and repeat the blessing, “Peace be with you,” though peace was the furthest thing from my heart.
Father Darby said in his homily that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God. It might also be said that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for an Irishman to stop fighting.
I was taught to love Ireland, but love should not be this hard. Duty, yes. But not love. Maybe that’s my answer. A man won’t suffer or sacrifice for something he doesn’t love. In the end, I suppose it all amounts to what we love the most.
T. S.
20
THE WHITE BIRDS
I am haunted by numberless islands, and many a Danaan shore,
Where Time would surely forget us, and Sorrow come near us no more;
Soon far from the rose and the lily and fret of the flames would we be
Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed out on the foam of the sea!
—W. B. Yeats
I came awake suddenly, unsure of the reason. I listened, thinking Eoin had awakened because he was eager to see if Saint Nick had visited in the night, but instead heard sounds I couldn’t identify.
We’d arrived home from midnight Mass in the early morning hours, everyone subdued and saddled with their private thoughts. Thomas had carried Eoin to his bed, and I’d trailed after them, helping Eoin into a nightshirt, though he swayed, half asleep, through the process. He was deeply asleep again before I pulled the covers around his shoulders. Brigid had not attended Mass but stayed behind to visit with her son without a houseful of guests. When we’d arrived home, she was in bed, and Ben was either gone or in the barn. I didn’t inquire after his whereabouts.
I’d wished Thomas a soft Merry Christmas and happy birthday, and I could tell I’d caught him by surprise, as though he’d forgotten himself or had not expected me to remember. I had gifts for him and a cake in the larder but would wait until later in the day to call attention to his birthday.
He had drawn me into his room and shut the door behind us, pulling me to him with quiet vehemence, ravenous yet reverent, kissing me like he’d thought about kissing me all night and didn’t know when he’d kiss me again. Thomas was not a ladies’ man. In fact, I had the distinct impression he’d never been serious about anyone before me, but he kissed with a confidence born of commitment, holding nothing back and demanding everything in return. Michael Collins had joked that if Thomas loved like he danced, I was a very lucky lady. Thomas loved like he danced, like he doctored, like he did everything else—with total commitment and careful attention to detail. We were both breathless and panting when I extricated myself and tiptoed down the stairs to my room.
Thomas, Michael, and Joe O’Reilly had spent much of the night in the library, the rumble of their voices and the occasional burst of laughter warming me as I drifted off to sleep.
Now dawn had broken, though the sun in the winter months was sluggish and slow, the sky shifting on a gradient of gray before finally finding daylight. I pulled on the deep-blue robe I’d left on the end of my bed, stuffed my feet into a pair of wool socks, and slipped out of my room and into the parlor, expecting to find Eoin inspecting packages beneath the tree. I found Maeve stoking the fire instead, her tongue between her teeth, a smudge of soot on her nose.
“Are you and I the first ones up?” I whispered, feeling like a giddy child.
“Oh no, miss. Eleanor, Moira, and Mam are in the kitchen. Dr. Smith, Mr. Collins, my brothers, and a dozen others are in the yard.”
“In the yard?” I hurried to the window, peering through the clinging mist and halfhearted dawn. “Why?”
“Hurling, ma’am! They’ve got quite a match going. My brothers were so excited they didn’t sleep a wink. Last Christmas, Doc gave them hurling sticks of their own and promised them they could play with the grown-ups this year. He had a wee stick made for Eoin too. He’s out there now, probably making a nuisance of himself,” she grumbled, and I was reminded of the old woman she would become, the Maeve with thick glasses who said she knew Anne well and who called Eoin a scamp.
“Eoin’s outside?”
She nodded and sat back on her heels, dusting her hands on her apron.
“Maeve?”
“Yes, miss?”
“I have something for you.”
She smiled, the fire forgotten. “For me?”
I went to the tree and took a heavy wooden box from beneath it. It was lined and quilted to protect the fragile items inside. I handed it to Maeve, who held it reverently.
“It’s from Dr. Smith and me. Open it,” I urged, smiling. I’d seen a tea set displayed in Kelly’s pawnshop and had recognized the delicate rose pattern. When I told Thomas the story, he had insisted on buying the entire set, complete with saucers, a pitcher, and a sugar bowl with a spoon.
Maeve gingerly opened the box, prolonging the anticipation for as long as she could. When she saw the little teacups nestled in pink satin, she gasped, sounding like the young lady she was becoming.
“If you would like a hurling stick of your own, I can arrange that too,” I murmured. “We girls shouldn’t miss the fun, just because we’re ladies.”
“Oh no, miss. Oh no. These are so much better than a silly stick!” She was panting in delight, touching the petals with soot-stained fingers.
“Someday, years from now, when you are grown, a woman from America, a woman named Anne, just like me, will come to Dromahair, looking for her family. She’ll come to your house for tea, and you will help her. I thought you might need a tea service of your own for when that day finally comes.”
Maeve stared at me, her mouth forming a perfect O, her blue eyes so wide they filled her thin face.
She crossed herself as if my predictions had frightened her. “Do you have the sight, miss?” she whispered. “Is that why you’re so clever? My da says you are the smartest lass he’s ever met.”
I shook my head. “I don’t have the sight . . . not exactly. I am just a storyteller. And some stories come true.”
She nodded slowly, her eyes clinging to mine. “Do you know my story, miss?”
“Your story is a very long one, Maeve,” I said, smiling.
“I like the big books best of all,” she whispered. “The ones with dozens of chapters.”
“Your story will have a thousand chapters,” I reassured.
“Will I fall in love?”
“Many times.”
“Many times?” she squeaked, thrilled.
“Many times.”
“I’ll never forget you, Miss Anne.”
“I know you won’t, Maeve. And I won’t ever forget you.”
I dressed quickly, loosely braiding my hair and pulling on a dress, my boots, and a shawl, not wanting to miss a chance to watch the match. I’d been raised by an Irishman but had never seen hurling even once in my life. They wielded sticks, their faces fierce in the morning mist. They darted and dashed, driving a small ball from one end of the grass to the other. Eoin wielded his own stick, though he was relegated to the sidelines with a small ball that he hit and then chased over and over again. He ran to me when he saw me exit the house; his nose was as red as his hair. Thankfully he wore a coat and a cap, though his hands were icy when I reached down to clasp them.
“Merry Christmas, Mother!” he crowed.
“Nollaig shona dhuit,” I answered, kissing his cherry cheeks. “Tell me, who’s winning?”
He wrinkled his nose at the men roaring and trampling over one another, their shirtsleeves rolled, their collars unbuttoned. He was clearly impervious to the cold and shrugged. “Mr. Collins and Doc keep pushing each other down, and Mr. O’Toole can’t run, so he keeps getting knocked over.”