May the Road Rise Up to Meet You: A Novel (3 page)

And that was the end of the story he allowed to be converted into a dream, for that night at least. He opened his eyes back up to stop the flood of memories and stared at the light from what was left of the fire reflected off the thatched roof just a few feet from his face. Still, try as he might, there was no escaping one final thought about his sister … that, despite how often she’d told him about all the grand things he might do one day, how she filled the minds of the kids along the Lane with thoughts of the very same adventures … here she was, left to spend eternity without ever havin’ made it more than a few miles from the place where she started out.

The spring planting took place two weeks late that year. The ground hadn’t been frozen in months, but what with the disastrous potato crops of the past two years, nobody was willin’ to bet completely against the first April snow in anyone’s memory. Despite Aislinn’s death and the loss of her wages, Ethan’s family was doing better than
most of the families along the mile-and-a-half lane between the Church and the Brodericks’ house. Even though the three of them earned the half-wages of women and children, it was enough to pay the rent on the cottage and their eighth of an acre. The potatoes Ethan and his Mam and Aunt planted weren’t meant to make up more than half of their diet, unlike most people on the Lane. So with a little help from the occasional cabbage or chicken carcass Aunt Em’d nick from the Brodericks’ kitchen, and the handful of oats Ethan brought home from the livery each day, they’d managed well enough until the fever caught up to Aislinn. Still, with a bag of flour costin’ three and four times what it had just a year before, they knew The Hunger all too well.

Mam and Aunt Em worked late at the Brodericks’ almost every day now, and Ethan stopped at Mr. Hanratty’s most days on his way home from the stables, dreading the idea of returning to an empty cottage with nothin’ but memories for company. Mam’d long before warned him about Mr. Hanratty and the trouble to be found in the old man’s words. It had something to do with why Seanny’d wanted to go off to Dublin to join the Young Irelanders before Mam and Da sold everything they could and Da took Seanny off to America lest he end up on a prison ship to Australia. But that was all
before
The Hunger, and before the three of them had moved to the Lane to stay with Aunt Em. Surely everything was different now, he figured, and even if it wasn’t, the old man’d become his friend, telling him stories that were almost as interesting as those in his books back home. And never once had there been a mention about the Young Irelanders except for the one time Mr. Hanratty called them
a buncha blowhards unfit t’wipe Wolfe Tone’s arse for all da good they’re doin’
, whatever that meant.

When Mr. Hanratty said it was safe to plant, Ethan dug up the small patch next to their cottage and put in the few healthy tubers they had from the year before. Each of the last two years people up and down the Lane had planted their potatoes as they’d always done, harvesting the new ones in July, and the full-grown ones in September. But nearly all of them had turned black in the ground or within a week after bein’ harvested. For several days in a row now, they put what remained of their hope into the soil, plantin’ the few sprouts they had, touchin’ them with the beads while reciting a rosary and askin’ the Blessed
Virgin to protect this year’s crop. Still, Mr. Hanratty said it didn’t matter if the blight was completely gone, since the paltry amount of plants that could be put into the ground would yield far less than what was needed to feed the people through the winter. There’d be more starvation, he said, more funerals, more people sitting almost lifelessly outside their cottages, their gaunt faces stained green around the mouth from the grass they chewed to keep death at bay.

Ethan learned about far more than farming at Mr. Hanratty’s. As they tended the potato field, checking for any early signs of disease just beneath the surface, the old man’d share the stories of his younger days. It was here that Ethan learned of Wolfe Tone and the Rebellion of ’98. Mr. Hanratty’d lean against his wooden spade and get a far-off look on his face and tell Ethan about the late spring of that year, when the Rebels controlled pockets of territory throughout the country, and for the first time in a century an Irishman knew what it was to be free in his own land. Then Mr. Hanratty’d lose that mystic gaze and point to his left leg and tell of how he was shot by a Redcoat at Ballynahinch. Soon after that the rebellion was over in County Down, and eventually the English tied their noose around the rest of Ireland, but he always had those few weeks, Mr. Hanratty said, to recall with reverence and delight.

That was the way Mr. Hanratty could sum up all the subsequent years of his life, it seemed. Little pockets of happiness that he said were like the water cupped between two hands. You could struggle against all hope to hold on to it, watchin’ it spill out and evaporate drop by drop, or you could drink it up while you had it. Mr. Hanratty’d drunk it up long ago.

He’d married Orla, whose hair was
th’speckle o’ light left of a spring day five minutes after th’sun had gone to sleep
and whose eyes
th’Lahrd musta gleaned from the surface of Strangford Lough fresh o’ th’morn’ she was brought into th’world
. Ethan couldn’t help but smile when Mr. Hanratty described her in such ways, glancin’ back across the horizon for a moment or two as if that was where the memory of her was stored. After they were married he became a tenant farmer as his father’d been, and they had a son and then a daughter in the first five years together, years he spoke of as blissfully as he did those brief days of freedom in ’98. They had a sow and a few chickens and a small vegetable garden to go with their potatoes, and Mr. Hanratty worked the nearly two and a half acres that
paid the rent and fed and clothed his family with a little left over to save each year. Sunday mornings they’d go to the Mass, and then he’d have a visit to the pub, where he and his friends’d tell stories and talk a little treason for a while before it was home to a grand supper and a turf fire. Those five years were glorious, Mr. Hanratty said, and what made them all the better was that they
knew
they were glorious, something most folks don’t figure out until long after such times are gone. But their happiness was shattered when little Brea died before she turned three, and then two years later Orla was gone from the cholera as well. Her funeral was the last time Mr. Hanratty’d set foot inside a church.

Ethan figured that his friend had pretty good reason to be one of those bitter old men who sat outside the pub most afternoons, but Mr. Hanratty generally spoke only of those happy years, and before long Ethan began to see the years Aislinn was with them in much the same way. She was the water that’d finally slipped out of their hands, and he was comforted by the thought that at least they’d
known
they were happy while she was here, despite The Hunger. Still, he hoped there’d be more happy years, never quite the same to be sure, but with some measure of what they’d once known. The idea that happiness’d be a stranger to him from the age of twelve was a frightening prospect and he asked Mr. Hanratty one day about the years after his wife’s death, hopin’ to hear of a new happiness.

Ethan lad, Mr. Hanratty said with a knowin’ laugh. If it’s a happy tale yer after, den sure you was bahrn in th’wrong land.

But there
were
good times after that, he later found out. Mr. Hanratty’s son grew old enough to work the land with him and they managed pretty well for those few years, findin’ bits of contentment to overcome the loss. Then Henry Munro Hanratty grew into a man himself and took after his father just a little too much.

It’s me own fault fer namin’ th’lad after me commander from Noinety-Eight, Mr. Hanratty said of his son’s Christian and middle names. When th’lad was bahrn, I was still a young buck an’ t’ought I’d be showin’ me arse to d’English by havin’ me son carry on dat name. What else could th’lad turn out t’be but what he did, pissin’ on th’Crown like his old man’d done. They shipped him off t’Australia noineteen years ago. I’ve not heard worda him since.

Ethan looked up at Mr. Hanratty and wanted to console him, so he
turned to the response he’d heard people use before when it came to the loss of loved ones.

Well, you’ll see ’em all again in Heaven, he offered.

But it didn’t have the soothing effect he sought, and Mr. Hanratty looked sharply at him with anger in his eyes for the first time since Ethan had known him.

Any god good enough t’have a place like heaven’d never allow da t’ings goin’ on down here t’continue, he said sternly. It’d be th’bleedin’
English
he wiped out wit’ a blight on
dere
land, jus’ like de Egyptians an’ th’ten plagues in th’Bible. It’d be the damn Dukes and Lords off to the workhouse insteada the good folks that already do all the bleedin’ work! It’d be Queen Vic
tah
ria herself watchin’ her country’s children die from Th’Hunger.

Ethan was sorry to have asked Mr. Hanratty to dig up such sad memories, and he began to wonder if it was the stories of rebellion his Mam didn’t want him hearin’, or if it was the sad stories of loss. Grown folks were always doin’ that, he thought, tryin’ to pretend that everything will somehow be better for the children than it was for them. But Mr. Hanratty’s look softened when he glanced at Ethan’s worried face.

Ahh lad, but don’t you worry none, he said patting Ethan’s shoulder. Yer Da an’ brudder’ll be sendin’ money from over dere, and it’ll be off t’America wit’ ya before long. You’ll be pickin’ gold nuggets up off the streets an’ stuffin’ yerself ’til ya can’t stand.

Money did arrive just about the time they dug out the new potatoes in early July. They came out of the ground without any hint of disease, just as most of them had the two years before, only this time they didn’t turn black a week after harvest. Still, because so few tubers had been planted, the yield wasn’t much better than the previous two blighted years had been. It was enough for Mrs. Broderick to convince her husband to take them to her family home in Scotland so their two little darlin’s wouldn’t be exposed to any of the assorted diseases waftin’ their way up from the tenants’ farms. Only a skeleton staff would work the Broderick land and maintain the house, and Mam and Aunt Em were told of their release by Mrs. Broderick. She gave Mam six shillings as a severance, and gave Aunt Emily, who’d been with them since before their daughters were born, a single pound,
a bleedin’ shillin’ a year
, as Aunt Em called it.

Ethan was given the chance to stay and tend the horses until the Brodericks arranged to have them shipped over in a month or two. But there was nothin’ left in Ireland for them other than
scratchin’ a few potatoes from th’ground a month from now, then a winter of eatin’ th’Protestant soup an’ watchin’ each udder waste away
, as Aunt Em said. So on a cloudless summer evenin’ in the middle of July, they ate their final meal in the cottage, sitting in a silence almost as disruptive as what’d filled their home after Aislinn’s funeral, until, mercifully, it was broken by a knock at the door.

Evenin’ Mrs. McOwen, Mr. Hanratty said when Mam opened it.

Good evenin’ Mr. Hanratty, she replied, stepping back a little. Won’t you come in? We’ve a few new potatoes left an’ there’s some tea from th’Brodericks’. I’m afraid we’ve used th’leaves a few times, but dere’s still—

No, I’m not meanin’ t’interrupt yer supper. But I t’ank ya for de offer, Mr. Hanratty said in a more formal voice than usual. I know yer leavin’ in th’mahrnin’ an’ I brought this over for th’boy.

He handed her a cap similar to the one he wore, only smaller.

It belonged t’me son when he was a lad, Mr. Hanratty said. I t’ought young Ethan could make use of it.

Yes, I’m sure he’d like it, Mam said, extendin’ her arm toward the inside of the cottage again. Woncha come in fer a minute, Mr. Hanratty?

T’anks, but no. When you’ve said as many goodbyes as I’ve in me life, y’get t’avoidin’ ’em as much as ya can. He grabbed the brim of his cap and bowed his head slightly. My best t’ya, Ma’am, an’ yer sister, an’ th’boy. Safe journey.

And he was off down the path without another word. Ethan knew Mr. Hanratty wouldn’t want him to run after him to say goodbye, much as he wanted to do it anyway, so he simply stood with his Mam at the door and watched as his friend disappeared over the rise. He hadn’t anywhere near the experience with saying goodbyes that Mr. Hanratty had, but between seein’ off his Da and brother, and then Aislinn, he knew they were something to be avoided too.

When they’d finished supper, their meager packing began. Each of them would take two extra sets of clothes, their blankets and a few other trinkets. Ethan had originally hoped to take all of the books from The Library, but when he wrapped them in the satchel formed out of
his blanket, he realized that they’d be quite a burden to carry even
half
as far as they had to go. One by one he took out the books that’d been their least favorite among the collection, with the histories of England going first, since he didn’t particularly care to read about their glorious conquests anymore. When he got the number down to six, the load at last felt manageable. He opened the front covers of the ones that were to make the trip, and checked the names that’d been inscribed long ago, back when two pennies for a jar of ink was a reasonable expense. Each carefully penned inscription read:

Of course every bit of it had been Aislinn’s idea. She was always comin’ up with interesting sayings like that, he thought, and from the time she’d brought the first batch of them home, she insisted that books were like the land, since no one could ever really
own
such an eternal thing. And now, as he ran his fingertips over them, rememberin’ when he and his sister first proudly staked their temporary claim to such treasure, he couldn’t help but think of what’d concerned him from the first moment his Mam told him they were leavin’. Aislinn was to be the only one left behind.