Hunger, page 7
“Do it silently anyway,” said Fiona.
So we all cursed silently in Irish.
“And we should visit a holy well,” said Neil.
“Who knows where a holy well is, Neil?” Murray punched his brother in the shoulder.
“It’s time, then, let’s do the telling.” Fiona looked around. “Who’s our volunteer?”
“Me.” Teagan nodded.
“And you have to do it in English,” said Kearney. “Remember?”
We’d agreed to do our tellings in English. To practice. Because in America people spoke English . . . and these days more and more Irish families were getting on ships and going to Canada and from there to America, where everyone had plenty of food. None of our mas and das were talking about getting on a ship—not yet, at least. Who had the money for tickets? Which was just as well, because every Irish person alive had a fisherman relative who’d been lost in the depths. The sea could be treacherous. Staying might turn out even more treacherous, though. We kids had decided it was best to be ready.
“I remember, I do,” said Teagan, in an English sweetened by a quick Irish tongue and just the smallest trace of something else—maybe her first mother’s Welsh. “I’ve been planning this, practicing. And the recipe took a lot of thinking, a lot of searching my memory from when I was little, with my first family. I’m pretty sure I have it right—both what I’m going to say and how I’m going to say it. So listen.” She held her hands out, just like our priest did when he wanted us to listen. “You need a sharp cheese. Cheddar is best. Good Welsh cheddar.”
“I’ve never tasted it,” said Kearney.
“You will now. Shut your eyes. Go on, now—shut them tight. This cheese, it’s firm, but not hard. You have to press down, but then your teeth sink in slow. It’s creamy, but . . . oh, I don’t know how to say it in English.”
“Then say it in Irish,” said someone.
“It’s not the kind of cream that comes up with a mere flick of the tongue,” said Teagan in Irish. “You have to lick and lick it. It would take hundreds of licks to eat it. So you don’t really lick it.”
“I want to lick it,” said Kearney.
“Hush, Kearney,” said someone, and I was sure it was Alana.
“It’s allowed,” said Teagan. “You can lick it if you want. Now you grate that cheese and add butter and milk and chopped mustard. Can you smell it? Does your nose itch inside?”
“Mine does,” said someone—probably Noreen. But I knew it was true, because my nose itched inside too.
“Good.”
“Switch back to English,” said someone.
“Now you add Worcestershire sauce,” said Teagan in English. “And don’t ask what it is, because I don’t know the Irish word. It’s brown and sharp from vinegar but sweet from molasses, and it’s the best thing in the world. So you heat it all with pepper and salt till it’s like smooth cream, and you pour it over toast and then bake it.”
“You cook it twice?”
“Twice. Once in the pot and once in the oven. And it’s just so good. You have to wait, to make sure it won’t burn you. . . .”
Someone clapped. “Like with spuds.”
“That’s right. But you wait only a little bit, because it’s important to gobble it down before it’s cool.”
“You can’t say ‘gobble,’ ” said someone. “That’s an Irish word.”
“It’s Irish and it’s English at the same time,” said Teagan. “It’s even Welsh.”
“Maybe it’s every language,” said someone.
“It’s not. My da told me.”
“Gobble gobble gobble,” said someone softly.
“Gobble gobble.” And soon everyone was saying, “Gobble.” We said it over and over till we were all laughing.
“That was a good telling, Teagan,” said Emmet.
“Well, now,” said Murray, shifting back to Irish. “Who gets the giving?”
This was the first time we’d done a giving. It had been Deirdre’s idea, because with each passing week the telling seemed to satisfy less—we needed something more. Cunning Deirdre, and now she wasn’t even here to be part of it.
“How do we choose?” said little Paddy.
I hadn’t thought of that. From the looks on the others’ faces, I could tell they hadn’t either. Maybe Deirdre had devised a plan, but it looked like she hadn’t told anyone. “I’ll choose,” I blurted out.
“You can’t choose,” said Murray. “You’ll choose yourself.”
I shook my head hard. I’d never choose myself.
“Or Paddy,” said Fiona.
“Fair. I’ll do it fair.” I stared at them hard, each in turn. “Everyone can hold out their hands, and I’ll shut my eyes and feel the tips and just stop at someone.”
“Then you can’t be the one who gets it,” said little Paddy. “You’ll be left out. That’s not fair.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want it.” And I didn’t. It would be wonderful. But I didn’t deserve it . . . not after having that feast in the woods that day. Being left out now would offer the beginning of atonement. Good.
“What if you know whose hand it is?” said Noreen. She shook her head. “I think we should all go pick a leaf and hide it. You know, cover it up. Then the one who picked one that’s most like the one Lorraine picked will win.”
We nodded, then quietly scattered. Winter leaves were everywhere. I squatted in the middle of a patch of plants, shut my eyes, and picked one at random. I opened my eyes. It wasn’t a leaf at all—it was a purple petal from a sweet coltsfoot. A pretty little thing, all fragile. It smelled like vanilla. I loved winter wildflowers, and sweet coltsfoot was my favorite. I put it on one palm and quick cupped the other over it so no one could see. Then I stood and went back to our original spot and waited.
Everyone came back with hands cupped just like mine. I had expected them to squabble—at least the boys—but they just looked big-eyed at one another and didn’t say a word. I held out my hands, then opened them. Everyone opened their hands. Green leaves of many types. But Carrick had a groundsel petal. “Carrick,” I said.
I expected someone to object that Carrick’s was yellow, while mine was purple. I expected someone to object that petals weren’t really leaves. I expected someone to cry. But no one did any of that.
We all handed over our tiny and precious gifts from pockets and wherever else we’d been storing them. A dried berry. A sliver of onion. A shriveled mushroom. Bits of food—just one bite’s worth. Carrick would get to eat them all.
And for a moment maybe, just maybe, he’d feel full.
CHAPTER NINE
Nola
Where are you going?”
Little Paddy stopped and looked back at me. “Nowhere.”
“You can’t walk and go nowhere.”
“You go off and do whatever you want all the time,” said little Paddy. He flicked his hand at me like Da sometimes did when I annoyed him. “You’re busy. Go. I’m busy too.” He turned and walked slowly off.
I wasn’t busy. Not anymore. All the chores were done. I had gathered the holly boughs—the best kind, with bright red berries—days ago. I’d helped Ma make the wreath that hung on our front door. Da had made the traditional crib to put near the front door, and I was the one to decorate it. I had gone searching and found ivy with bunches of purple berries. All those winter berries had no right to look so juicy, given that they were so poisonous, but at least their beauty would grace our home. I wove the ivy in and out the side sticks of the crib and frosted the berries with a cream made of starch and water. And just the day before, I’d helped Da clean out the chimney. Our cottage was ready for the holiday.
There was nothing left to do. Or nothing I would have any part in. Da would take care of finding the big Yule log. And Ma would do the cooking, whatever that meant.
But really, deep inside me I hoped it meant something good. Maybe Da or Ma or both of them had a surprise saved up for the holiday. It was possible. After all, if we kids could scrape together morsels for a giving, Ma and Da could come up with something that surprised little Paddy and me. They could. It was possible.
I coughed. The corners of my mouth cracked. My skin was so dry, even a cough could tear it. Little Paddy’s skin was dry too; his hands flaked. Now I watched his wing bones poking out against the back of his shirt, till he disappeared behind hedges. Ma and Da were off somewhere, and though Christmas was any day now, I suspected it had nothing to do with that. I was anxious about them. Their faces had been grim when they left. I was anxious about all of us.
Keep the faith.
The cold was bad and getting worse each day. I thought of the fever hut—that’s what we were all calling Deirdre’s family’s hut. Ma knew more about fever than anyone could ever want; her parents and sisters had all died of it when she was just a little older than I was now. So she had made the rules and all of us obeyed: We weren’t allowed to go near the fever hut and they weren’t allowed to come out. I didn’t want a fever, of course not—but I kept thinking maybe they were lucky to have fever right now. I couldn’t remember winter ever being this cold before.
I walked back inside our cottage and picked up Margaret. She looked the same as always. I shook her. She was silent.
I walked over to Muc, who was asleep. I sighed dramatically. Muc didn’t stir.
A silent bone and a sleeping pig.
I put Margaret back on the sleeping mat and walked outside, in the direction little Paddy had gone. He hadn’t told me not to follow, after all.
He wasn’t hard to find; he was sitting near a hedge, crooning to something in his hands. I craned my neck. Why, it was a hedgehog. That darling baby, I guessed, the one he had named Pointy. And it was now twice the size it had been when Da caught it. Which meant it was still very small, that’s how these creatures were, but, oh glory, how it had grown. I gaped. Somehow little Paddy had managed to tame it, a remarkable feat, since I was pretty sure hedgehogs curled away somewhere for the winter. We never saw them when the ground was cold. Little Paddy had a way with animals. I guess I’d always known that, but I didn’t like to think about it too much. I didn’t have a way with anything. He was patient; I wasn’t. Maybe it took patience to get good at anything.
Little Paddy laughed and chattered away at the animal. It had been a long time since I’d heard him laugh. Nothing in our home these days excited a laugh. I was tempted to join them. I wanted to laugh too. But it might ruin it for him. This was his treat. And he’d earned it, with all his hard work of training the creature.
I snuck away, toward our cottage again, because I couldn’t think where else to go. We weren’t supposed to stray this morning, though no one had explained why. Maybe I could get Muc to chase me around the outside of the cottage. She used to do that when she was young. She used to be the best piglet ever. But she’d never want to run now. In truth, I didn’t think I could manage a run either.
I was coming up behind the cottage when I heard Ma and Da on the other side.
“Poor Nola. Poor, poor baby.”
“Stop saying that, Catherine. It doesn’t change anything.”
“I keep thinking about her ma, losing such a babe—such a tiny one. I couldn’t bear it.”
“You could bear it. You would. And she will. Everyone’s bearing that kind of loss, everywhere you turn.”
“But baby Nola. The sweetest ever.”
“Hush, I said. She’ll bear it. And she’ll bear losing all the rest of her babes too. She shouldn’t have let those folk in her home. You said it yourself. I’m glad you were cunning. We’re safe, at least. We’re not losing anyone.”
My ears felt like when I dunked myself underwater, like the water was locking all this noise inside my head. I came around the cottage. “Losing?” I said. “What do you mean?” I knew what Da meant, though. Still, I prayed he’d tell me I was wrong.
“Lorraine!” Ma’s face went blotchy as though someone had belted her. “You look a sight. Do you have the fever?” She rushed over and put the back of her hand to my forehead. Lately she was in the habit of doing that several times a day.
I stepped away. “I’m healthy, Ma.” I gulped the air and forced myself to ask. “Did baby Nola die?” My own words felt unreal to me.
“Come inside, by the fire.” Ma shooed me in through the door.
I moved like nothing—like I was empty skin—lighter than the air. “Tell me.”
Ma went over to my sleeping mat and picked up Margaret. She smoothed her with one hand, then stopped and stared at her. “Nothing but a bone, really.”
This was like Sunday, when everyone else knew something I didn’t know and no one was letting me in on it. My head pressed tight from the inside so hard, I could barely see straight. If Da hadn’t been there, I might have screamed, really screamed. “Tell me.”
“Still, you shouldn’t leave her on the mat,” Ma said in a drifty kind of way. “All lonely. Poor Margaret.” Ma’s face went still.
“Tell me. Did she die?”
“She did.” Da stepped close to me. His hand came down soft on my shoulder, then stayed like a heavy lump. “Baby Nola died last night.”
The words had a life all their own. They sat on my head and weighed me down much more than Da’s hand. Now they slid down the front of my face, cutting off my breath. Then down to my chest. My heart had to fight to beat.
“From the fever? The one that killed that man and his children?”
Da nodded.
I felt my lips moving. “What about the others? What about Deirdre and Quinlin and Riley?”
“They all have the fever.”
“But will they die?”
“No one knows,” said Ma, coming back to life.
“Da said they would. I heard. He said their ma will lose all of them.”
“Da doesn’t know,” said Ma. “Only God knows. Look at me. I lived when everyone else in my family died. It’s up to God.”
Keep the faith. Faith meant acceptance. Acceptance felt beyond me.
There had to be some reason for it all. How did it happen? But I knew the answer to that, too. “It was the beggar man, wasn’t it? The one with the children.”
“Beggars are rife with the lice that carry black fever.”
“That’s why you made them stay outside, far from our cottage.” My ma was cunning. Like Da said. I should be grateful. I was. But I still wanted to scream.
“At least it’s a faster death than starvation,” said Da.
Starvation. He’d said the word I hated so much. It felt like a blasphemy. It was all-powerful—worse than the devil himself. In its face, we were helpless. I couldn’t bear to be helpless.
Starvation.
Did it really lie ahead? It hadn’t looked so horrible on Granny’s face. But maybe she had decided not to show it. That would have been like her.
Who says fibs are wrong?
My hands curled into fists. I refused to be helpless. I went out the door.
“Where are you going?” called Ma.
But I didn’t look back. They wouldn’t follow me. What would be the point? Besides, they didn’t have the energy. No one had the energy for anything extra. But what I was doing now wasn’t extra—I had to have the energy. I moved as fast as I could.
“Don’t go near the others.” Ma was shouting now. “It’s not safe. Not till the fever runs its course.”
Ah. So they really might follow me—they might waste what little energy they had. I couldn’t allow that. And I couldn’t put Ma through that worry. I stopped and turned.
Da was many steps behind me. He stopped when I did. I could hear his panting, even from here.
“I won’t go near them,” I said loud enough for him to hear. “I won’t go near any of them. I promise.”
Da looked at me and nodded. I could tell he was relieved he didn’t have to catch me. He let his head drop, then turned and went back to the cottage.
It was a long walk to the base of the hill. Longer than last time. Long enough for shock to turn to sorrow. Words etched themselves in my brain: Baby Nola shouldn’t have died.
The hill seemed steeper. The sharp rocks hurt the underside of my feet, and the ground was tricky—I nearly fell a few times. I had to be careful; hazel scrub could hide the entrance to a deep cave, and if I landed inside one, how would I find the strength to climb out?
The wind was mild, and I was glad for that. But still, I thought longingly of my old jumper. Next time I’d wear it. Ma hardly looked at me these days, after all. Fatigue blotted out anything but the necessities. Ma wouldn’t even notice it was too small for me now.
The little stream where the watercress had grown was nothing but a twisty line of mud that cracked rather than squished. I didn’t waste time searching for cress. Cress couldn’t stave off starvation.
Starvation. That really was the key to it all. If they hadn’t been starving, the beggar and his waifs wouldn’t have come to us. The fever wouldn’t have spread.
And now sorrow turned to anger. Baby Nola shouldn’t have died.
By the time I reached the top of the hill, I felt light-headed. Dizzy almost. I didn’t turn around to look toward the islands or the phantom cliffs. I couldn’t risk doing anything extra.
Nothing ahead looked familiar. I wasn’t sure which path I’d taken last time. Still, the castle had to be off to the right, no? That was south. It had to be south. Only, my brain wasn’t working like it should. And I felt vaguely worried at how much time all this was taking. I ran and stumbled and ran again. A floppy run, as though my arms and legs weren’t attached right. But it seemed running was called for, as though running was easier than walking when you went downhill, as easy as falling.
And fury was propelling me forward now. Baby Nola shouldn’t have died.
Finally, the grove of trees appeared. They seemed skinnier than last time. Absolutely bare of every last leaf. Who would have a party with her dollies among those bleak trees? No one. Miss Susanna wouldn’t be there. She couldn’t be. It wouldn’t make sense.
I walked slowly now. I didn’t want to see that there was no one among the trees. I didn’t want to hear the silence.
