The Good People (36 page)

Nance walked the river’s length, dragging a broken branch behind her. It was a rare day of February sunlight, and she could see that
spring had sent its first flush through the world. Despite the cold, she could smell the change in season.

The trees would soon be tipping with green. In a month or two bluebells would rise to make hallow the forest floor. Bare branches were brimming with life, and there was a haze over the fields. Alder buds swelled, and the men had begun to prepare the ground for crops. Soon there would be movement in the soil, pollen in the water.

Nance staked out the waking earth and pulled the tender shoots of herbs before the dew dried. They were gifted to her. She knew the smell of their sap like a mother knows her children. She could have found them in the dark.

As she walked Nance thought of the changeling, remembering the long purple mark on Maggie’s face. Would it be enough to wave the hot iron close to the skin? Would it be enough to tell the fairy child what they planned to do if he did not leave for good? Maggie had told her the other ways they might try to force the return of her abducted mother if the foxglove did not work. St John’s wort. Measured doses of henbane. Boundary water.

But never the blistering poker. ‘Not on my life,’ Maggie had said. Even though it had brought her back from the fairies. Nance closed her eyes and pictured the scar tissue, the puckered skin tight against the cheek. She imagined the iron against it, the hiss and steam and the sticking burn at the touch of the red poker and shuddered.

A strange noise interrupted Nance’s thoughts. A hard, ragged breathing repeating itself on the breeze. Putting down her makeshift sled she crept between the trees until she could see the smoke of her cabin. There was a figure making its way down the path. A man, coughing, almost running to her door. His arms were wrapped about his ribs as he jumped over exposed roots and fallen branches.

Peter O’Connor.

Nance stepped out from behind the alder and oak and into the clearing. Sensing movement, Peter turned and slowed to a walk.

‘Nance,’ he called throatily.

‘What is it, Peter? What has happened to you?’

The man retched loudly, dropped to his knees and threw up. Hunched over on all fours, he vomited again, then wiped a long strand of saliva from his mouth and sat back on his heels.

Nance placed a gentle hand on his back. ‘There now,’ she said. ‘Take it easy. Take a breath, now, Peter. Take a breath.’

Peter looked up at her, wiping his lips. One eye was purpled, swollen, the lashes squeezed between the puffed, bruised lids. His nostrils were crusted with blood, and he wore an expression of such abject anger that Nance crossed herself.

‘Peter. Come inside.’

He nodded, unable to speak. She helped him rise and directed him towards her cabin. After glancing around to see if anyone was about, she shut the door and tied it fast with straw rope.

Peter stood, his head and arms hanging from his body like a man condemned.

‘Sit down.’ Nance tugged his arm and pointed to her pile of heather. ‘Better yet, lie down. Let me get us a drink.’ She fetched a bottle.

Peter’s hand trembled as he pulled out the stopper and brought the lip to his mouth.

‘And another. Now, when you can, tell me what has happened.’

‘Seán Lynch,’ Peter spat. He rummaged in his coat and pulled out his pipe and tobacco. Nance waited as he stuffed the bowl with a shaking thumb and kindled the dry leaf. ‘He turned on me. He had the lend of a horse. Treated her ill. And when I went to have words with him about it, he nodded his fist at me.’ He sucked deeply on his pipe, wincing as the stem brushed against his split lip. ‘Sure, Seán is no easy man to get along with, but you should have seen him. He was in one. He would have killed me.’

‘Is there no other grievance he has against you?’

Peter blew out a heavy lungful of smoke, shrugging. ‘I mentioned his woman, Kate. That fired him up some.’

‘They’re not great with one another.’

He shook his head. ‘She looks like a kicked dog these days.’

‘He’ll get what’s coming to him.’

‘Will he?’ Peter squinted at Nance through the smoke. ‘I’m worried for you, Nance. Seán is after telling Father Healy that you’re against God. ’Tis a hard start to the year, Nance. Tomas O’Connor had a cow down and for no good reason. Found her dead and swollen by the river, and no knowing how she wandered there. Took five of us to haul the body out the water, and she in calf too. Daniel Lynch’s woman. Brigid. The wee mite dead. I’ve no mind for hen talk, but didn’t Old Hanna find all her chickens dead and laid out without their heads. Some say foxes, but to just take the head? The bleedin’ women are in pieces over their churns. I was on rambling to O’Donoghue’s, and there’s a pack of them there, fussing John for nails and ironwork and charms to bring the profit back to the milk. There’s a woman up the mountain, says she cracked one of her eggs the other day. ’Twas no yolk to be had in it. ’Twas filled with blood! Some say ’tis our Good Neighbours at mischief. Some say ’tis the Leahy boy.’ He offered Nance the draw of his pipe. ‘Some say ’tis you.’

Nance was silent. She accepted Peter’s pipe, wiped the blood from the stem and let her mouth fill with the rough smoke.

‘You have no hand in
piseógs
, do you, Nance? Seán’s saying he’s after finding the suggestion of
piseógs
on his land. Stones turned strangely. Flints pointing at the crop ground.’

‘To lay a curse is to set it on your own head.’

Peter nodded. ‘Faith, I knew you were a Christian woman. You’ve always been kind to me.’

‘Would you tell them when you hear it, Peter? Tell them I have no hand in that badness.’

‘Not even for Seán Lynch?’ He cast her a sideways look.

‘Seán Lynch has been against me for years. If I had it in for him, he’d have been pissing bees and coughing crickets long before now.’

Peter smiled and Nance saw that he was missing several teeth. He took another long draw. ‘Do you think ’tis the Leahy changeling?’

‘You tell them I will have that boy restored. I will have the fairy out and the boy returned.’

‘Has he the evil eye, do you think? Only, it makes sense, Nance. The cratur comes to the valley and ’tis only grief we’ve known since. And a strange kind, too. Eggs of blood and men passing at crossroads, and rumours of hares sucking the cows dry of milk.’ He cast Nance a dark look. ‘The dreams I told you about, Nance. I keep having them.’

‘You dream you drown.’

‘Aye. I’m all under water and there’s hands holding me there. Holding me fast. There’s a burning in my lungs and I have a yearning to breathe, but though I’m looking up and I can see the sun beyond the surface, and the trees, there is a face there too.’

‘Who is murdering you?’

Peter shook his head. ‘I can’t make him out. But Nance . . .’ He sat up on the heather, dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘After today, I’m thinking it might be Seán.’

‘’Tis a dark thing to think of a man.’

Peter was insistent. ‘I couldn’t account for his belting me the way he did. Like he wanted to kill me, so I said. And then, I was sitting there with John and Áine, as battered as a
sliotar
, and I think of it. He knows I think well of you, Nance. Even mentioned it. And if he’s thinking you’re behind the badness in this place, the powerful mischief going on, well.’ He leant back, raising his hand to his swollen eye. ‘He might have a notion that I’ve a hand in it too.’

Nance sighed. ‘Peter, bless you, no one thinks you’ve a hand in
piseógs
. No one gives in to that.’

‘They might think you’ve taught me.’

Nance thought of Kate all those years ago. The flashing needle in her hem. Her talk of turning stones, of walking against the sun. ‘If someone has it in for another, the
piseógs
come natural. God forgive them, they always think of something.’

Peter gave her a careful look, then tapped out the dead ash in his pipe. He was about to refill it when he paused, glancing at the door. ‘Did you hear that?’

Nance listened. The sound came again and they looked at each other, eyes widening. Somewhere in the valley, a woman was screaming.

It seemed that everyone in the fields had heard. As Peter and Nance made their way from her cabin to the lane they saw men running from their work, throwing their tools down and dropping their reins. Women emerged from the cabins by the Macroom road, blinking in the sunlight, children gawping by their aprons.

‘What’s that?’

‘Did you hear it?’

‘Good God, do you think someone’s after being killed?’

‘Where’s it coming from?’

A group of people gathered in the lane, fear on their faces. ‘’Tis not an eviction, surely,’ they said. ‘’Tis not yet rent day.’ Then one of the men pointed at the O’Donoghues’ bellows boy, running full pelt up the road to where they stood. His face was wild, his dirty hair sticking to his forehead in sweat.

‘Help!’ he cried. He stumbled on a rock and went flying on the road, then picked himself up and continued to run, arms wheeling in panic, knees grazed. ‘Help!’

‘Tell us! What is it?’ The men ran to meet him, grabbing his arm and the boy let out a yelp. ‘’Tis Áine O’Donoghue,’ he shouted. ‘She’s caught herself on fire.’

There was a crowd of people in the blacksmith’s yard by the time Peter and Nance arrived, their faces anxious and intent. They stared at Nance from lowered brows as Peter dragged her across the dirt and pebbles into the open door of the O’Donoghues’ cabin.

‘I’ve Nance Roche here! The doctress! I’ve brought her,’ Peter cried, spitting blood and pulling Nance through the doorway. For a moment Nance could see nothing in the dark room. Then she saw two figures on the ground. Áine was writhing on the floor as her husband tried to calm her and hold her down.

There was an awful smell of burnt flesh. The bottom of Áine’s dress was black and burnt, the cindered cloth sticking to her legs. Nance could see her skin through the weave, already blistered and gruesome in moist, pink shine. It looked as though she had been flayed across the shins. Áine’s eyes were shut and her mouth was wide and issuing a hellish scream.

‘God have mercy on her,’ Nance whispered. There was the smell of vomit, and Nance saw that John was being sick on the ground. The sight of the retching blacksmith holding his wife’s blistered ankles jolted her from horrified silence, and she found herself telling Peter to find some butter and
poitín
, and to get John a sip of water.

Nance dropped to her knees. ‘Áine,’ she said calmly. ‘Áine, ’tis Nance. You are going to be alright. I’m here to help you.’

The woman kept thrashing on the ground. Nance caught hold of her arms. ‘Áine, be still. Be still.’

There was a sudden silence and Áine stopped struggling and fell limp.

‘Is she dead?’ John gasped.

‘Not dead,’ Nance answered. ‘’Tis too much for her to bear. ’Tis a faint. John. John, listen to me. I need you to go outside and tell everyone there to leave. Tell them to go and pray for her. And then I need you to go and fetch me ivy leaves.’

John got up at once and left, lurching sideways across the yard in the disorientation of his horror.

The bellows boy was standing rigid against the wall. ‘We heard her shouting. John and I. We were out in the forge and we heard a screaming. We thought she was being murdered and all. We came in and she was all aflame. John got the blanket from the bed and beat her with it until the fire was out.’

‘He did well to think so quickly.’

Peter was silent for a moment. ‘Look at the legs of her. Nance, will she die of it?’

Nance sat back on her heels. ‘I’ll tell you if there’s need to send for the priest and the sacrament. But now we have to take her to the river. Can you carry her, do you think?’

Peter and the bellows boy lifted Áine from the floor and carried her out of the room. John had sent some of the people on their way, but many remained, watching with hands over mouths, as the men stumbled down the slope to where the river lay.

Peter and the boy held the unconscious woman in the flowing water by the neck and feet. The water was freezing and the men shivered, their jaws locked with cold, their clothes wet to the waist. John had his eyes closed and was praying on the bank, muttering to himself. Peter held Áine with gritted determination, gently lowering her legs into the water in an even, steady rhythm. Ashes lifted from the woman’s dress and were swept away by the current, greasing the surface of the river.

Nance crouched on the bank, watching the men with a keen eye. ‘You will not die,’ she announced to Áine. ‘You will not die.’ She held the hem of her skirt to her waist and filled it with hart’s tongue fern and ivy leaves, plucking them with John from where they grew at the feet of the oak and alder, ash and holly.

The crowd had not dispersed. Many of the valley people were still stubbornly standing in the blacksmith’s yard when they returned from the river, dripping and shaking with the cold. The onlookers crossed themselves at the sight of Áine’s burns, but none ventured inside the cabin with them. The hearth had grown cold, and the room was filled with smoke and the smell of burnt hair.