Chapter 11
11
Owen paced back and forth alongside the wagon, his chest burning. Not from his wounds this time but from anger. Frustration. He ripped his flatcap from his head and tossed it into the wagon bed. He raked the fingers of his left hand through his hair and let his head fall back as his gaze searched the sky.
The stars were veiled, and the dark expanse that stretched above him seemed a giant void. The doctor had said it was too early to tell for certain, but that Owen would likely lose the use of his right hand. The gashes had gone far deeper than he’d realized and while they’d managed to keep infection at bay, McGinley had had to stitch through several layers of tissue, working with jagged edges that had been ripped by Haggerty’s less than razor-sharp blade, which tore his flesh rather than cut it. Owen’s greatest fears were being confirmed. He was going to lose everything that he’d ever held dear. It wasn’t enough that God had taken his parents and siblings from him, save Aileen, but He had to allow this to happen too. For Owen to lose the ability to earn any sort of reasonable or respectable living. He felt utterly alone. Abandoned.
Deep in his spirit, a voice echoed. Be strong and courageous.
Owen dropped his gaze from the sky and looked around. Strong? Courageous? What did that mean?
Before he had a chance to suss out the meaning, the church doors opened and the parishioners trickled into the night.
By the time Saoirse and Aileen reached him, Owen was at the wagon step, his one good hand ready to help them board.
The first several minutes of the journey home passed in relative silence, save for the crunching of the graveled path beneath the wooden wheels. Owen stared into the darkness ahead of them, mesmerized by the swaying light of the lantern he’d lit and hung on the front hook.
“That was an interesting message, don’t you think?” Aileen’s question ripped him from his stupor.
“ Go deimhin ,” Saoirse replied. “I’d heard those stories many times over the years, but I’d never thought of them that way.”
Aileen shifted the reins in her hand. “Exactly, I was thinking the same thing.” She was quiet for a moment. “But I must admit, God’s plans do often seem a bit ... craiceáilte .”
Owen snorted. They seemed crazy, alright. Look at the mess he was in at the moment. If this was in any way part of God’s plan, it was just about the craziest thing he could imagine. Crazier still was the idea that his and Aileen’s quickest way back to stable ground was to teach Saoirse how to weave. He shook his head. It took years to reach master weaver status, and the colors and patterns Murphy’s wanted were extremely complex. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. The barleycorn pattern Owen had perfected—and that Murphy’s loved so much—didn’t so much involve a complex color pattern, but rather a combining of similar colors, which blended together from afar, allowing the unique texture to shine through. Saoirse might be able to figure out a plain weave, but it would still take months, if not years, for her to become proficient enough at it to meet the high standard Murphy’s required. But the barleycorn? Not a chance.
“Do ya not agree, Owen?”
Confound his sister’s incessant questions. “I don’t know.” Be strong and courageous. Once again the phrase drifted, unbidden, through his mind.
Next to him, he could feel Saoirse studying his profile.
He wasn’t prepared to air all his thoughts on the matter at this particular time. And he certainly wasn’t prepared to foray into the potential meaning of this whole strong and courageous nonsense with his companions, so he chose only to offer, “God does move in a mysterious way.”
****
Back in the solitude of the barn that was swiftly becoming Saoirse’s new home, she stood at the small square window and stared out at the dark world. Though the inky black of night had fallen, she could still picture the rise and crest of every hill, the patchwork hem of every stone wall. She could imagine the McCreadys’ sheep meandering lazily through the fields or bedding down in a cove somewhere. The scene in her mind—and, in truth, the daylight—was as idyllic as it could be. To an outsider, this might appear to be the most perfect, charming life. And yet, the flock lived in the ever-present danger of being stolen or killed for their meat and wool. Owen and Aileen had to scrape by day to day, eking out a meager living through strenuous and intensely physical work. And still they were better off than most in the county.
The McCreadys had enough beds, multiple pieces of furniture, and at least a couple articles of clothing each. So many in the area had quite literally nothing other than the roof over their heads. Children went naked, or nearly so, their wee toes freezing year-round. Many families had nary even a stool to sit on, and their hearths merely smoked instead of allowing the soft heat to burn and permeate their home with its comfort since they didn’t have a way to properly dry the peat.
Just like Owen’s sheep, Saoirse’s thoughts meandered over hill and dale, ruminating on such thoughts until, similar to the creatures of habit they were, they wandered home to their own turf and bedded down in the memories of her family. Squeezing her eyes against the tears that were the close bedfellows of such thoughts, she pulled the plaid tighter around her shoulders. If the Lord truly was guiding each on his or her own path, the rector had been right—very little of what He did made sense. And, if she was honest with herself and with Him, most of His plans seemed downright silly. Dare she be brutally truthful and say stupid? It was almost impossible to see what God could be orchestrating with all that had transpired in the last six weeks, including bringing her here to the McCready farm only to send them into a full-on crisis.
The fleeting thought that He brought her here to be of help to them swept into her mind, but she swatted it away. Recent events had made it clear she did not bring aid or help in any way, only tragedy and despair. If she really wanted to help Owen and Aileen, she’d sneak away this very moment, never to return, and save them from her special brand of ill fate. And yet, she found herself shimmying deeper into the hay.
Once settled in, she rolled onto her side and let her eyes drift closed. A moment later, they sprang open again. She forced them shut only for them to fling wide open again. Though fatigue had long before settled on her shoulders, her mind refused to let her rest, so she lay on her side and watched the flames through the door in the stove. Each one flickered and twisted, reminding her of the Celts of old sending their petitions to the heavens through dance. And yet she had no such petitions to make, as she was certain God had no desire to listen to her pleas.
If she was going to stay with the McCreadys, she had to find a way to help support them beyond just weeding the garden and mucking out the stables. She refused to stay simply out of the selfish desire for their company only to watch them shrivel away into nothingness.
She thought back to how gracious Aileen had been since the night they met, and her heart warmed with gratitude. And then there was Owen. Though gruff and intimidating at first, she’d seen enough to know he was a sheep in grump’s clothing. Underneath his hardened exterior hid a tender heart.
And what an exterior. A vision of his eyes popped into the forefront of her mind, and she sighed. Her fingers wiggled as they recalled the feel of his grip when he helped her into and out of the wagon. And then there was the doct— No, don’t think of that.
She shook her head and flopped onto her other side, her face instantly cooling as she turned away from the heat of the stove. She pushed her attraction for Owen aside and tried to figure out what could have possibly put him in such a sour mood before the church service. Perhaps ill news from Doctor McGinley? Her heart lurched. May it not be so. And yet, it made perfect sense. He’d been in a pleasant enough mood before his visit, and the storm clouds had settled over his countenance after. Was his life in danger? He seemed too hearty of health for that. Certainly if he was on the verge of succumbing to his wounds, he’d be in poorer form. Unable to carry on as he had been.
Then it struck her—weaving. What if he was not able to weave again? Ever? No, that settled it once again in her heart and mind. She had to find a way to convince him to teach her how to use the loom.
****
At the breakfast table the next morning, the three sat around small bowls of steaming porridge and cups of tea. Stout had managed to find a place where he could lay on both Saoirse’s and Owen’s feet, with his head on Owen’s and his rump on hers. Saoirse wiggled her toes and Stout responded with a single wag of his tail.
Aileen was talking about what to put down in the garden next month, but Saoirse had no idea what she was saying. Her pulse quickened as she rehearsed in her mind what she was going to say to Owen. How she was going to broach the topic of weaving again.
She opened her mouth to speak, but Aileen barreled on ahead, obviously excited about her vegetable plans. “Bridie told me about a new way of putting down carrots so that they grow better. I can’t wait to try it.”
Saoirse took a long draw of her tea. The interruption had somehow stolen what modicum of confidence she’d built up, and now she was back to the drawing board. She glanced over at Owen. His bowl empty and his teacup halfway so, the man stared off, clearly not listening to his sister. Saoirse’s gaze flitted to Aileen, who appeared unfazed by the fact that she was the only one benefitting from her conversation—nae, oration.
Saoirse went back to rehearsing her own monologue. So, about that weaving...
Have ya given any more thought to my weaving idea?
Oi, stubborn auld man, let me weave for you.
She shook her head slightly and drained the last of her tea from the cup. Everything she thought of only made her sound daft. Or arrogant.
“Hello? Anybody home?” Aileen’s voice seeped into Saoirse’s consciousness. “Saoirse!”
Saoirse jumped and gave her full attention to the woman sitting across from her. “I’m sorry, I was ... what did you say?”
A peculiar expression crossed Aileen’s face, a mix of amusement and perhaps concern. “I asked if you’d meet me in the garden after you feed the horses to help me plot out the sowing for next month?”
“Ah, yes, of cour—”
“She can’t.” Owen’s voice still held the gravelly tone of sleep. He stacked his teacup in his bowl and stood. “She’s workin’ with me. Both o’ yas are.”
Saoirse and Aileen exchanged a questioning look, then turned to Owen.
“In the shed.” Apparently unwilling to expound on his thoughts, Owen punctuated the conversation by carrying his dishes to the basin and setting them down with a thud. Then he turned and lumbered outside. Stout attempted to scamper after him, but the door closed before he could slip out.
All three—Saoirse, Aileen, and Stout—stared at the door as if they expected Owen to come back in and offer more clarification. At length, Stout huffed out a heavy breath and shuffled over to curl up at Saoirse’s feet.
“Did he mean the garden shed?” Saoirse asked.
Aileen rose and gathered their dishes. “Don’t think so.” She shook her head. “Can’t remember the last time I saw him go in there. Besides, I’ve no clue what there would be in there for ye to do.”
Saoirse stood and poured fresh water from the kettle into the basin and began the washing up. “Could he have meant the barn?”
Aileen was silent for a long moment. “I think he meant the weaving shed.”