What the Wind Knows(29)

A wave of sorrow and regret pinned me back against the pillows. I’d been so foolish, so careless. In that book Thomas Smith had lived, and now it was gone. We were specks, bits of glass and dust. We were as numerous as the sands that lined the strand, one unrecognizable from the other. We were born; we lived; we died. And the cycle continued endlessly on. So many lives lived. And when we died, we simply vanished. A few generations would go by. And no one would know we even were. No one would remember the color of our eyes or the passion that raged inside us. Eventually, we all became stones in the grass, moss-covered monuments, and sometimes . . . not even that.

Even if I returned to the life I’d lost in the lough, the book would still be gone. Thomas Smith would be gone—the slant of his words, the turn of his phrase, his hopes and his fears. His life. Gone. And the thought was unbearable to me.





19 March 1919

The Great War is over, but Ireland’s war is just beginning. An armistice was signed on 11 November, signaling the end of the bloody conflict and the end of conscription fears. Over two hundred thousand Irish boys still fought, even without conscription, and thirty-five thousand of them died for a country that doesn’t recognize their right to self-determination.

Maybe that boiling cauldron is finally ready to overflow. In the December general elections, Sinn Féin candidates won seventy-three of the 105 Irish seats in the House of Commons of the United Kingdom. None of the seventy-three will take their seats at Westminster. In accordance with the manifesto signed by each member of Sinn Féin in 1918, Ireland will form her own government, the first Dáil éireann.

Mick has been organizing breakouts for political prisoners, smuggling in files to cut through bars, throwing rope ladders over walls, and pretending the spoons in their coat pockets were revolvers to scare off the warders. He couldn’t stop laughing when he described the Mountjoy jail breakout and the fact that they got twenty prisoners instead of three.

“O’Reilly was waiting outside the jail with three bicycles!” he howled. “He came in here shouting that the whole jail was loose.”

Mick broke Eamon de Valera, the newly elected president of the Irish Republic, out of Lincoln Prison in February only to discover de Valera has plans to go to America to raise money and support for Irish independence. No estimates as to how long he’ll be there. I’ve never seen Mick so flabbergasted. He feels abandoned, and I can hardly blame him. The load on his shoulders is enormous. He sleeps even less than I do. He’s ready for all-out war, but de Valera says the public is not.

I’ve had very little time for collecting information. Influenza has broken out all over Europe, and my little corner of Ireland has not been spared. I hardly know what day it is most of the time, and I’ve tried to stay far away from Eoin and Brigid to protect them from the disease that must cling to my skin and clothes. When I’m able to come home at all, I remove my clothes in the barn and have bathed in the lough more times than I can count.

I’ve seen Pierce Sheehan and Martin Carrigan on the lake a time or two when I rowed across to check on the O’Briens. I know they’re bringing guns from Sligo’s docks. Where they go when they leave the lake, I don’t know. If they’ve seen me, they pretend not to; I suppose it’s safer that way, for all of us.

Peader and Polly O’Brien’s grandson, Willie, passed away from influenza last week. He wasn’t much older than Eoin. Eoin will miss the lad. They played together a few times. Peader insisted on spreading the boy’s ashes on the lake. Cremation has become preferable to stop the spread of the disease. Peader’s boat turned up on the Dromahair side of the lake day before last. Eamon Donnelly found it, but sadly, Peader wasn’t in it. He hasn’t come home, and we fear the lough has taken him. Now poor Polly is all alone. Too much sadness all around.

T. S.





8





THE MASK


I would but find what’s there to find,

Love or deceit.

It was the mask engaged your mind,

And after set your heart to beat,

Not what’s behind.

—W. B. Yeats

I wasn’t sure if Thomas sent Brigid or if she’d taken it upon herself, but she’d stomped into my room two days later and declared it time I was up and dressed. “When you didn’t come back from Dublin, I put your things in the chest there. I kept Declan’s belongings.” Her voice caught, and she finished in a rush. “I’m sure you’ll recognize your clothes. It isn’t much. The doctor is seeing patients in Sligo today. He said he’d take you to the shops for the other things you’re in need of.”

I nodded eagerly, climbing gingerly from my bed. I was healing, but it would be a while before I could move without pain.

“You look like a gypsy with that hair,” Brigid snapped, eyeing me. “You’ll need to cut it or pin it up. People will think you’ve escaped from an asylum. But that’s what you want them to think, isn’t it? If people think you’re crazy, you won’t have to explain yourself.”

I tried to smooth my dark curls, embarrassed. I couldn’t imagine myself with the Gibson Girl updo Brigid wore. I didn’t know if it was the fashion of the day, but I wouldn’t be adhering to it. Anne’s hair had been jaw-length in one of her photos, her hair curling softly around her face. I couldn’t imagine myself in that style either. My hair was too curly. With no weight from its length to hold it down, it would be enormous. As for Brigid’s assertion of craziness, it wasn’t a terrible idea. If people thought I was deranged, they would keep their distance.