House of Rougeaux(48)

Margaret sat down on the grass. “Will you sit with me, Josie?”

Josie looked up at Hetty, who smiled. “Go on,” Hetty said. “I’ll lie down next to Joah.”

Margaret’s lilting voice painted pictures in the air.

Long long ago in this ancient land

A battle took place where two hills now stand

And on the plain there lay the slain

For neither the battle was won

So the bard did sing of these fairy hills

Where bloom the white flowers and daffodils

One big one small Si Bheag Si Mhor

And never the battle is won





Josie relaxed against Margaret’s shoulder, and soon closed her eyes. A few minutes later she was asleep, and Margaret left off singing. Hetty felt quite drowsy herself.

“Hetty,” Margaret whispered, “do you remember the place I used to go with my Ma, the spring pool back in Ireland? The thin place?”

Hetty nodded, waiting for Margaret to say more.

“When I am near to Josie, I feel as though I’m there. Hetty, I believe Josie herself is like a thin place.” Margaret looked up at the sky for a while, then turned her eyes back to her friend. “My Ma used to sing a certain song, one she sang only at the spring pool.”

“Would you sing it for us?” Hetty whispered back.

Margaret cleared her throat and began to sing in Irish, not English. The strange sound of the words blended with the melody, and seemed to carve the air, like water rushing over the hard edges of stones.

In her mind’s eye, Hetty saw a pool rippling in a wide stone basin. The words Margaret sang pointed to markings scattered here and there on large rocks, alighting on one and then on another like dragonflies, and then flying away down a path between two green hills.

As Hetty followed the path the earth grew drier until a red dust covered her bare feet. She felt a warm weight on her back, and the tight muslin carrying cloth tied across her chest. It did not seem strange to her that Josie was a baby, or that the path beneath her feet widened into a road made for wagons, with tall grass growing on both sides.

The road rolled up and down with the hills. The sky above was blue, with white clouds sailing like boats, and the fields around were rich with flowers. Hetty thought it must be well past midday, as the sun was not high. She must think about what to make for supper. The others would be waiting, and hungry.

She couldn’t see too far ahead, as the sun was in her eyes, but she could make out a single tree on a rise, and thought perhaps she saw a figure standing beneath it.

“Who could that be, Josie?” she said. “Whoever it is, I know they won’t mind if we stop there for a rest.”

Hetty walked further and then knelt to untie the carrying cloth, so Josie could step to the ground. Not a baby now, but her tall, long-legged self again. Josie ran lightly down the road and into the grass.

“So many flowers, Maman! Look how pretty! I want to make a bouquet for Papa.” Every time Josie bent to pick a stem Hetty lost sight of her. Gradually they approached the rise, Josie skipping ahead of Hetty, with bunches of flowers in each hand.

The tree was full of shadows.

There was a figure, a woman, Hetty could see her now, holding out her arms. The voice was deep, raspy with age, but unmistakeable.

“Ayo, my dear.”

Hetty had not heard that name, her other name, in what seemed like centuries. She faltered and stumbled forward.

“Come, child.”

Strong arms kept Hetty from falling. She clung to the long blue skirts. Leathery hands lifted her face. Hetty saw the eyes like black fire, the high round cheekbones, the face of her aunt, her Tata Abeje.

Flowers fell at their feet. Josie stood by with empty hands and Tata turned her gaze on her, reaching out to lay her long fingers over the back of Josie’s head.

The setting sun burned red, bathing the fields in amber light and putting a glow through the branches of the tree. Tata was singing, a low, rhythmic song, and she drew lines in the air over Josie.

Hetty could feel her own heart beating in time with the song. She felt the rush of blood through her body like a river.

The sky darkened, turning the fields blue, then black, as night fell and the first stars appeared.



* * *



A baby was crying.

Hetty opened her eyes.

Margaret bounced Joah in her arms. He flailed his little fists, protesting the injustice of waking up after sleep, and then rubbed at his eyes.

Josie was a little ways off, crouching in the grass, and seeing Hetty ran to her, smiling.

“Maman, look, three kinds.” She held a clump of tiny flowers in her cupped hands, red clovers, daisies and miniature violets.

“Will you bring them home to show Papa?” Hetty asked, not quite fully awake yet.

Josie picked out a daisy and tickled Joah’s leg with it, making him laugh despite his tears.

“There now, that’s better,” Margaret said. The baby squirmed and she set him down. He sat on his fat knees, reaching for Josie’s flowers. “Josie,” Margaret said, “can you put a braid in my hair? I can’t go back to town looking so wild. Shad will scold me.” She smiled at Hetty and then looked out toward the river. “Isn’t this a beautiful place?”

“Very,” said Hetty, picking up one of Josie’s daisies.