What the Wind Knows(87)
Maeve gingerly opened the box, prolonging the anticipation for as long as she could. When she saw the little teacups nestled in pink satin, she gasped, sounding like the young lady she was becoming.
“If you would like a hurling stick of your own, I can arrange that too,” I murmured. “We girls shouldn’t miss the fun, just because we’re ladies.”
“Oh no, miss. Oh no. These are so much better than a silly stick!” She was panting in delight, touching the petals with soot-stained fingers.
“Someday, years from now, when you are grown, a woman from America, a woman named Anne, just like me, will come to Dromahair, looking for her family. She’ll come to your house for tea, and you will help her. I thought you might need a tea service of your own for when that day finally comes.”
Maeve stared at me, her mouth forming a perfect O, her blue eyes so wide they filled her thin face.
She crossed herself as if my predictions had frightened her. “Do you have the sight, miss?” she whispered. “Is that why you’re so clever? My da says you are the smartest lass he’s ever met.”
I shook my head. “I don’t have the sight . . . not exactly. I am just a storyteller. And some stories come true.”
She nodded slowly, her eyes clinging to mine. “Do you know my story, miss?”
“Your story is a very long one, Maeve,” I said, smiling.
“I like the big books best of all,” she whispered. “The ones with dozens of chapters.”
“Your story will have a thousand chapters,” I reassured.
“Will I fall in love?”
“Many times.”
“Many times?” she squeaked, thrilled.
“Many times.”
“I’ll never forget you, Miss Anne.”
“I know you won’t, Maeve. And I won’t ever forget you.”
I dressed quickly, loosely braiding my hair and pulling on a dress, my boots, and a shawl, not wanting to miss a chance to watch the match. I’d been raised by an Irishman but had never seen hurling even once in my life. They wielded sticks, their faces fierce in the morning mist. They darted and dashed, driving a small ball from one end of the grass to the other. Eoin wielded his own stick, though he was relegated to the sidelines with a small ball that he hit and then chased over and over again. He ran to me when he saw me exit the house; his nose was as red as his hair. Thankfully he wore a coat and a cap, though his hands were icy when I reached down to clasp them.
“Merry Christmas, Mother!” he crowed.
“Nollaig shona dhuit,” I answered, kissing his cherry cheeks. “Tell me, who’s winning?”
He wrinkled his nose at the men roaring and trampling over one another, their shirtsleeves rolled, their collars unbuttoned. He was clearly impervious to the cold and shrugged. “Mr. Collins and Doc keep pushing each other down, and Mr. O’Toole can’t run, so he keeps getting knocked over.”
I giggled, watching as Thomas smacked the ball to Fergus, who deftly sidestepped a charging Michael Collins, his mouth moving as fast as his legs. Some things had not, and seemingly would not, change through the decades. Trash talking was clearly part of the game. Two teams of ten players each had been cobbled together from among the neighboring families. Eamon Donnelly, the man who had supplied the cart the day Thomas pulled me out of the lough, had joined in the competition, and he waved at me merrily before taking a swing at the ball. I watched, fascinated, cheering for everyone and no one in particular, though I winced every time Thomas skidded across the grass and held my breath when sticks clashed and legs tangled. Somehow everyone survived without serious injury, and Michael proclaimed his team the victors after two hours of intense play.
Everyone tumbled into the kitchen for refreshment—coffee and tea, ham and eggs, and rolls so sticky and sweet I was full after two bites. The neighbors were quick to disperse, heading home to their families and traditions, and after Thomas, Michael, Joe, and Fergus washed up and rejoined us in the parlor, we gathered around the tree and exchanged gifts. Michael pulled Eoin into his lap, and together they read the story we’d written. Michael’s voice was low and soft, the burr of his West Cork brogue around the words making my heart ache and my eyes smart. Thomas laced his fingers in mine, stroking my thumb in quiet commiseration.
When the story was finished, Michael looked down at Eoin, his eyes bright, his throat working. “Can you keep this for me, Eoin? Can you keep it here at Garvagh Glebe so we can read it together whenever I come to visit?”
“You don’t want to bring it to your house to show your mother?” Eoin asked.
“I don’t have a house, Eoin. And my mother is with the angels.”
“And your da too?”
“And my da too. I was six, just like you are now, when my father died,” Michael said.
“Maybe your mother will come back like mine did,” Eoin mused. “You just have to wish very hard.”
“Is that what you did?”
“Yes.” Eoin nodded soberly. “Doc and I found a clover with four leaves. Four-leaf clovers are magic, you know. Doc told me to make a wish, so I did.”
Michael’s brows rose. “You wished for a mother?”
“I wished for a whole family,” Eoin whispered, but everyone heard him. Thomas’s hand tightened around mine.