Song of the Silent Harp (8 page)

The women, hunched for the most part in a dimly lighted corner across the room, were noisily reviewing the contents of the letters to which they had been privy. This group, while loud enough in its own right, was far more somber and inclined to expound in great detail about the horrors inflicted upon unsuspecting voyagers who, alas, had not lived long enough to see the sweet shores of America.

Morgan noted that Nora didn't seem to be a part of either group, nor of the smaller cluster of young girls who sat off to themselves, giggling and casting an occasional flirtatious glance toward the lads across the room. Instead, she stood off to herself, her eyes dull and fixed.

An unexpected rush of desire to comfort her seized him, only to ebb as he accepted the fact there was nothing he could do. The kind of loss Nora had suffered over the past months was a grief only God Himself could relieve. Still, he could not quite dismiss the frustration of wanting to encourage her, all the while knowing that Nora would no more turn to him for consolation than she might to an Englishman for mercy.

When Daniel John walked up at that moment, Morgan spoke before he could conceal his annoyance with the situation.

“Ah, I was beginning to think I was invisible to the Kavanaghs this evening.”

The boy gave him a blank look.

“Your mother has as yet been unable to see me.”

Daniel John was quick to reassure him, but Morgan didn't miss the lad's troubled expression. “Mother is sad, is all, Morgan. She…she has very little to say these days, even at home.”

Disgusted with his own churlishness, Morgan forced a smile. “I know, lad. I suppose I've always been a bit touchy where your mother is concerned.”

“But why, Morgan?”

The question on the boy's face was entirely innocent, and Morgan hesitated, uncertain as to how to reply. “Well, now, I expect it's because I've always valued her good opinion, you see. Your mother is a grand woman, and why wouldn't I want her to think well of me?”

“Oh, but she
does,
Morgan! I know she does! You were great friends once, after all. It's just that…”

The boy faltered, and Morgan hastily changed the subject. “Pay me no mind, Daniel John. I've a toothache that's been driving a dagger up my skull for most of the day; it's made me as cross as a bag of cats. Come along now,” he said cheerfully, slinging an arm about the boy's thin shoulders, “let us go and say hello to your mother.”

At their approach, Nora's eyes took on the startled expression of a skittish foal. Morgan sensed with impatience that she was vastly uncomfortable in his presence. He supposed he deserved that from her, but it grieved him to see her look at him so.

More than her awkwardness around him, though, he was concerned about her appearance. Her always willow-slim frame was thin to the point of
gauntness; she looked wan and frail and not entirely well. He wondered if she were eating, wondered as quickly if she and the family still had food left from what he'd given her. He would make it a point to get Daniel John alone before the evening ended and see what he could learn about their situation.

She finally managed a smile—for her son's sake, Morgan suspected—and a murmured “Hello.” They exchanged stiff, uncomfortable bits of conversation for a time, with the boy doing his best to alleviate the tension. Morgan did manage to learn that Tahg was no better—he was, in fact, worse—and that Old Dan's condition had also deteriorated.

When Daniel John eventually drifted off to talk with another lad from the village, Morgan stepped closer to Nora to prevent her from escaping him. “And you, then, Nora, how is it with you?”

She tensed, avoiding his gaze as he stared down at her. “We're getting on. As well as the next, I'm sure.”

“That's not entirely reassuring, given conditions in the village.”

She shrugged, still not meeting his eyes. “They say we're to have more relief soon. New soup kitchens and distribution centers.” Clearly she was unconvinced. “Have you heard so?”

She looked at him, her eyes so large and anxious that he hadn't the heart to tell her what he knew. Even if more relief
were
to come to their all-but-forgotten village, it would likely be too late for most of Killala, just as it had been too late for so many other towns throughout the country. True, numerous centers had been established all across Ireland, but they were far too few, and the soup served by most of them was little more than worthless greasy water, a pitiful excuse for even the most meager nourishment.

“Aye, I have heard,” he mumbled. Now he was the one to look away.

“What requirements will there be, do you know?”

He looked back at her. “Requirements?”

She nodded. “Sean O'Malley is saying you must meet certain requirements to be eligible for the relief. He says the rules are strict.”

“I would expect so.”
Strict and entirely unrealistic,
he thought bitterly.

When he said no more, Nora went on. “I must be certain we will qualify. For Tahg and the Old Man, especially.”

For a moment, Morgan felt a hot stab of resentment and anger at the helpless fear in her eyes: resentment that one so innocent and good should be degraded to such dependency, and anger at himself for being virtually powerless to help her.

“As I understand it,” he said, carefully choking back the bitterness he felt, “recipients must be certified to have no means of support. They must have
no animals, and their potato patch must be a total waste.” Pausing, he then added, “And you must give up all land more than a quarter acre.”

Her eyes widened with alarm. “But the land is all we have!”

Wanting more and more to avoid this conversation, he gave a small nod of agreement. “They know that only too well, I should imagine.”

A reluctant understanding dawned in her eyes. “You're saying they don't
want
us to survive, aren't you? That even when the famine ends, they mean for us to die.”

“That possibility has occurred to some,” he answered sourly. “The land, you see, will be far more profitable to the landlords as grazing land, rather than parceled out as it presently is, in tenant farms. Some believe that Mother England intends to clear the land of people so she can populate it with cattle. Perhaps,” he finished, “the lads like young Tim there are doing the Queen a great turn by sailing for America.”

Nora searched his eyes for a moment. “And is that what you believe?”

He answered her question with a shrug, feeling a tinge of relief when Sean O'Malley walked up just then, sparing him the need to say more.

“Did I see you bringing your harp inside this evening, Morgan?”

“You did, Sean.”

The older man's expression was sober and somewhat strained. “Would you give us a tune, then? A song for Tim and his mother, perhaps?”

Morgan put a hand to O'Malley's once burly shoulder, keenly aware of the sharp protrusion of bone beneath his fingers. “I will do that, Sean, and gladly. Have you a special one you fancy?”

“One of your own, I should think, Morgan, if it's no trouble. Something just for the lad, if you would.”

Ashamed of his eagerness to escape the pain in the grieving father's eyes, Morgan gave a short nod and started for the corner by the fireplace to retrieve his harp. Even as he crossed the room, a song began to form on his tongue. Words and melodies had ever been within easy reach for him. From the time he was a lad it seemed that the Lord had placed a storage box of songs within his heart, from which he never had to do more than simply lift the lid and reach inside to select the one he wanted. He knew that he was known more for his words—his verses, and lately his essays in
The Nation
—but in truth he found his greatest pleasure in choosing words to fit melodies equally his own.

And so he sang his song for Tim O'Malley, and although it was a sad song that poured forth from him, he was able to give it a touch of hope as well. For while the lad undoubtedly had a terrible, bitter time ahead of him, he
was at least doing something to save himself and perhaps eventually some of his family, too.

Morgan cradled the harp against his shoulder and plucked the brass strings with his fingers. The sound vibrated into his chest as he caressed the ancient instrument with the familiar touch of a lover returning to his beloved. For a moment—for just a moment—his heart vibrated, too, with the hope of something better to come. But the fleeting echo died as quickly as it had begun, and when the last strains of Morgan Fitzgerald's song for Tim O'Malley had ceased, darkness closed in around the poet's soul once more.

By the time he had finished, the “wake” had reached the hardest moment of all, the time of the final parting. The guests would commiserate with the family, then make their tearful goodbyes before departing to allow the O'Malleys a private farewell. Afterward, young Timothy would exchange embraces with his family, then turn and leave, for the last time, the cabin in which he had grown to manhood. Off he would go with his paltry worldly goods and a brave wave of his hand as he put behind him forever his loved ones, his past, and his heritage.

The closing of the coffin, as it were. How many from the village, Morgan wondered, would repeat this same scene in the weeks and months to come? Indeed, how many would
survive
long enough to repeat it?

His eyes went to Nora. Her face was stricken, drawn with grief for her friends and, he sensed, dread for her own family. At her side, Daniel John's face was ashen and taut with his own bewilderment and unanswered questions.

At that instant Morgan felt a suffocating hand of apprehension slip down and close around his throat. He was struck so hard he almost reeled at the power of his unspoken but ever-present love for these two. The small woman in the coarse black dress was as lovely and as noble to his eyes as if she were a princess in satin, and the long-legged boy at her side might have been his own son, so dear to his heart had he long been.

Sudden fear for them both loomed up as strong as a physical presence, and he knew at last why he had returned to Killala long before he had planned. His intention had been to stay with the lads in the hills, dropping down at night only when he had a need to. There he could think and write and even find a bit of temporary peace. But something had called him back, some urge he could neither name nor resist.

He recognized it now and was infinitely thankful to have heeded its call. Without knowing how he would accomplish it, he knew he was here to save Nora and her sons from the darkness gathering on Killala's horizon. How much he could do and how soon he should act depended in part on
Michael's response to the letter he had written him—the letter he should have received by now.

If Michael were willing to help, and if Nora were willing to go, there was still hope for her and the boys. But one thing was certain: Every day that went by eroded their hope and compounded the danger. To wait too long might well mean disaster.

And yet wait he must. In the meantime, he would do what he could to help them survive.

If Nora would let him, that is.

Nora asked young Moira Sullivan from up the road to pay a call at the cottage while she and Daniel John attended the O'Malley farewell supper. Old Dan had grown far too weak to be of any real help to Tahg; more and more Nora feared the old man might fall, with nobody nearby to help
him.

Moira had already gone when they returned home, so Nora went immediately to check on the old man, then Tagh. Both were asleep, though Tagh was tossing and moaning. Ashamed that she had left him for so long, Nora hurried from the room to get a cloth and some cool water.

She stopped just inside the kitchen at the sight of Daniel John, framed in the open doorway, standing as still as a statue.

“Ach, Daniel John, close the door! 'Tis cold enough in here as it is, without—” His white, stricken face stopped her in mid-sentence. “What is it? What's wrong?”

“The cow is gone!
” he blurted out, his eyes wide and frightened. “Someone has taken Sadie!”

Fear clutched at Nora's heart as she stood staring at him. Then she bolted across the kitchen and out the door. Coatless, she scarcely noticed the damp, stinging cold of the night as she ran around the side of the cottage with Daniel John right behind her.

As he'd said, the cow was gone, rope and all. Panic rose like a flood tide as the dreadful reality of their situation washed over her. Their one remaining source of food was gone.

“Perhaps she wasn't taken, though…perhaps she simply broke her rope and is roaming about…somewhere.” She heard the trembling in her voice, felt her knees threaten to buckle beneath her.

“Aye, that could be,” Daniel John agreed quickly. Too quickly. “I'll have a look. She's probably nearby.”

“But you can't be wandering about in the dead of night, not in this cold.”

He looked at her. “And we can't afford to lose Sadie, Mother. I don't think I should wait.”