Chapter 13
13
Saoirse sat at the table, tying and untying a weaver’s knot on a thread she’d fastened to the leg of the table. After a couple days of practice, she’d finally mastered the process—well, perhaps mastered wasn’t the right word. But she was able to create the knot with ease and speed, then tug it loose just as easily when needed.
Yesterday, Owen had shown her how to thread the four sets of heddles that hung from the bar over the loom, and she began to see just how integral the weaver’s knot was to the whole operation. Each strand of warp had to be passed through the small eye of all four heddles and secured with a weaver’s knot. As rain and sleet pelted down outside, Saoirse had learned how to set the heddles to lift the right threads at the right times for the pattern Murphy’s had ordered. A push of a pedal or pull of an overhead handle caused the strings of the heddle to tug up or down, allowing the shuttle to pass through. Then the pedal was released and another one selected, and the shuttle was sent back. The whole process was far more involved than she’d ever dreamed. The colored thread on the shuttle had to be cut and tied off, and a new color tied on every time the color needed to change—which in this pattern was often, in order to create the speckled, haphazard design that mirrored that of the slate-and-heather-covered hills of Donegal. Saoirse hadn’t done any actual weaving yesterday, but everything was now set for her to start. Once she finished her breakfast, and after a few more practice knots, she was to meet Owen in the shed for her first go at weaving.
The door opened and Saoirse curled around herself, hiding against the icy blast of air that came in with Owen.
“Muise, that wind would cut ye in half,” he said as he hurried to the fire. “Then quarters.”
Saoirse chuckled.
“Ah, g’on with yerself,” Aileen said, mixing up a fresh batch of brown bread. “Ye’ve been going on for days about how ya can feel it in your waters that a freeze was comin’. Just stay there by the fire and enjoy the fruits o’ your premonitions.”
Owen shot a playful glare at his sister. Then a satisfied grin spread across his face. “It’s good weavin’ weather.”
Aileen flapped a dough-covered hand. “If ya say so.” She turned her attention to Saoirse. “I’m just glad it’s you and not me up in that icebox.” She shivered dramatically.
“It should be you in there,” Owen said, crossing over to the stove and hovering his hands over the simmering kettle. “Ye both should be learning the trade.”
“So ye say now.” Aileen cackled. “Where was that attitude when I was a wee gairl, itchin’ to learn only to be told it was men’s work, eh?”
Owen rolled his eyes and poured himself a cup of tea. The perfect punctation to any Irish conversation. Saoirse smiled as she untied the thread from the table leg and wound it up to practice with later. She was just about to warm herself with one more cuppa before heading up to the shed when Stout suddenly sprang up from his spot at the hearth, sprinted to the door, and began barking earnestly.
“Oi! Quiet, you,” Aileen scolded.
Owen shushed his sister, crossed the room, and tugged his coat and hat from the peg. “What is it, boyo?”
Stout whimpered and scratched at the base of the door as though he was trying to dig a hole underneath it. When Owen didn’t move, Stout stilled, pinned his gaze on his master, and gave one loud, strident bark.
“It’s the sheep,” Owen said. “Looks like the weavin’ will have to wait,” he said to Saoirse as he tugged the door open.
“Will we come with you?” Aileen asked, hurrying to grab her cloak.
“No.” Owen turned and jabbed his finger toward the women. “Stay here. Could be dangerous.”
Aileen sighed as she latched the door behind him.
Saoirse’s heart pounded against her chest and she stared at the door as if she could see Owen’s form retreating over the hill. She turned back to Aileen. “Bandits?”
Aileen shrugged. “Could be, I s’pose. But it’s an odd time for them to hit, what with the weather an’ all.”
“True.” Saoirse chewed her lip. “Unless that’s precisely why they would choose now to strike.”
A shadow of fear crossed Aileen’s face and her gaze drifted to the window over the basin. “Let’s pray it’s not so.”
****
An hour later, Saoirse had helped Aileen finish the brown bread, chopped veg for their lunch stew, and practiced more knots than she could count. The wind whipped outside, and Saoirse’s heart jumped with every bump and thud. Surely Owen should be back by now, shouldn’t he? If it were bandits, how would he fight them off? What if he was hurt again? Or worse?
Saoirse shook her head, forcing her thoughts in a different direction. Stout’s bark had sounded completely different the night the bandits attacked. He sounded fierce. Ferocious. Today he sounded ... worried. Alarmed.
Aileen had gone to the barn to see to her chores there and to ensure the horses’ water hadn’t frozen. Unable to take another moment feeling useless sitting around the house, Saoirse filled a flask with tea, wrapped a few hunks of bread in a cloth, and dropped both in a satchel that hung by the door. She whipped her cloak and hat from the peg, slipped her feet in a pair of wellies, and hurried out into the elements in search of Owen.
Hunched against the wind and squinting against the ice shards stinging her face, she first glanced at the weaving shed. It was dark and closed up tight. A quick peek in the barn window revealed he wasn’t in there either. Shielding her face against the elements, she scanned the horizon in a slow circle. Nothing. At last, she headed off toward the field she remembered Owen saying the sheep were being moved to yesterday.
Tromping into the wind, it took ages to crest the two hills between the house and where she knew the sheep were supposed to be. Legs and lungs burning, cheeks both stinging and numb at the same time, she finally reached the hilltop she’d been aiming for. Just down the other side, parallel to a stone wall, Owen was hunkered down, his slicker draped over him. Stout sat by his side, keeping watch over the fields surrounding him. When he saw her, the dog stood, tail wagging. His front paws did a little tippy-tap dance, but he didn’t leave his master’s side.
Saoirse hurried down the hill. “Hello, Stout. There’s a good boy.” She ruffled the wet fur behind his white ears.
Owen’s head popped out from under his jacket. “I told ya to stay put.”
“Is everything alright? Are you hurt?” she asked, ignoring his comment.
When he sat fully straight, Saoirse saw for the first time the ewe lying in front of him. It released a painful bleat. Saoirse sank to her knees next to Owen. “Oh, the poor thing,” she said. “What is it?”
Owen stared down at the helpless creature. “She’s in labor.”
Saoirse’s brows soared. “In February?”
“Aye.” He nodded. “Some sheep lamb as early as late January, but my flocks don’t usually until nearly March.”
“So it’s too early.” Saoirse absently scratched Stout’s back as she watched the labored breathing of the mother-to-be.
She looked at Owen’s face. His cheeks and the tip of his nose were bright red, and his lips held the slightest tinge of blue. “You’re freezing.” She reached into the satchel and pulled out the flask of hot tea.
Owen eyed it for a brief second, then took it from her hands, spun the lid off, and sniffed. He took a small sip, then poured some on his hands and sank into the relief. “Thanks,” he said as he tugged his slicker tighter around his shoulders and turned his attention back to the ewe. “I think she’ll be fine if we can just get her to birth the lamb. But I can’t get a good enough grip on it.” He held up his still-bandaged right hand.
Saoirse swallowed hard, looked from the sheep to Owen and back, then scooted closer to Owen. “What can I do? How can I help?”
Owen sighed, and he studied her face for a moment. Saoirse couldn’t read whatever thoughts or emotions were swirling behind his eyes, but he seemed to be at war within himself. After a moment, he moved over and gestured for Saoirse to take his place.
“Normally sheep can lamb on their own out in the field,” Owen told her.
Saoirse nodded.
“But this wee fella is breech.” He gestured to the ewe’s backside. Saoirse could just see a pair of hooves poking out.
Her eyes widened. “Breech? Are ya sure those aren’t the front hooves?”
Owen gave her a sympathetic look. His lips pressed into a line and slipped up to one side. “I’m sure.”
She looked back to the sheep, her heart pounding. “How can you be certain?”
He floated her another look. This one seemed to say “Do you really want me to describe how I know?” He lifted his messy hands, and that was enough to communicate everything Saoirse needed to know.
“Oh.” She swallowed hard. “Yes, I see.”
The ewe cried out, and her side tensed as another contraction took hold.
“Okay,” Owen said, “if you’re really going to be of help, you need to do exactly as I say, when I say it.”
Saoirse nodded again. She could do this. Right?
“Alright,” he continued. “Grab the lamb’s feet and pull straight back.”
Saoirse hesitated. What if she hurt the sheep? Or the lamb? What if she did something wrong and caused them both to die?
The intensity on Owen’s face deepened. “Pull now, before the contraction is over.”
Saoirse grabbed the lamb’s hind feet, trying to ignore the chilly, slimy mess under her fingers. She squeezed her eyes shut and tugged.
“That’s it. Pull,” Owen said. “Hard. Harder, but straight back.”
“I am.” She tried to ignore the quaver in her own voice. Despite her pulling, nothing was happening.
The ewe cried out again, this time louder and shriller. “Ye’ve got to really pull,” Owen said.
Saoirse did, and the lamb moved a little farther out into the world, but then stopped. “It feels stuck.” She started to shimmy the lamb side to side a little bit.
Owen’s hand gripped her arm. “No, don’t do that. It could cause the lamb to get wedged in the canal. Just pull straight back.”
Saoirse did as instructed, but her hands slipped and she fell back. Scurrying onto her knees, she grabbed the lamb’s legs again and pulled once more but still knew she was holding back.
Owen scooted over until he could see her face. “Saoirse, pull.”
“I am!” Tears blurred her vision.
Owen shook his head. “Harder. The ewe needs help.”
“I’m scared. I don’t want to hurt them.”
Owen sighed. “Ye’re not gonna hurt them unless you don’t pull. C’mon now, hard as ye can.”
Saoirse clinched her eyes shut and pulled harder. The lamb moved a little more. The ewe cried out again. Saoirse joined in with her own outcry, as she pulled with all her might. “I think I’m losing it. I can’t hold it.”
Suddenly, warmth enveloped her back, and strong arms reached around her. Owen’s left hand gripped her left wrist, while the fingers of his right did the same on her other wrist as best they could. Owen’s cheek brushed up against Saoirse’s as they pulled together.
“Okay, hold there,” he said, his breath tickling her ear. “I need to readjust my grip. We’ll go again when the next pain hits.”
Saoirse nodded, her gaze trained on the animal in front of her. The ewe stirred and cried out again.
“Go,” Owen grunted, already starting to tug.
Together, they pulled and pulled. Saoirse’s hands and forearms burned, and her neck strained. She relaxed a little to take a breath.
“No, don’t let up,” he said. “He’s almost there.”
Taking a deep breath, Saoirse pulled again, leaning back to push against Owen’s chest for leverage. Finally, the lamb’s hips popped out.
“Now, pull downward,” he instructed. “Toward the ewe’s feet.”
Saoirse nodded again, and they both adjusted their positions and pulled again. After three tugs, the lamb slid free and into Saoirse’s lap. The force of it caused her to topple backward.
Saoirse looked down at the newborn lamb. Joy bubbled up in her chest and poured out in a mixture of tears and laughter. “Hey, little fella. Happy birthday.”
The baby released a hearty bleat, and Owen joined in the laughing. Saoirse cleared the lamb’s face with her hand, and her head fell back, exhausted.
“Well done,” Owen said, his voice still in her ear. “Very well done.”
It was only then that Saoirse realized she was lying back on top of Owen, his arms still around her, helping her hold the heavy lamb. Despite the cold, she’d never felt so warm. So safe. So happy.
Eyes closed against the rain that fell on them, she fought the temptation to stay there in Owen’s arms and, instead, scrambled to sit up. “Sorry,” she said, then turned her attention back to her newest patient. “How are ya, wee lad?” The lamb baaed once more and wriggled free from her arms before wobbling up to stand on shaky legs. He was black as coal and bigger than any lamb Saoirse had ever seen. She was immediately smitten.
“Look at the size o’ him, Owen!” She turned to him. “No wonder he got stuck!”
Owen was wiping his hands on the wet turf when his gaze finally fell on the newborn. His grin faded, and his face paled.
Saoirse looked back to the animal, who was trying to take his unsteady first steps over to his mother to feed. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“He’s as dark as pitch.”
Saoirse smiled. “Not a spot of white! Isn’t he gorgeous?”
Owen’s taut gaze met hers, something akin to fear swimming in his eyes. “Don’t you know? If the first lamb of the season is black, there will be mourning clothes for the family within the year.”
Saoirse felt the smile slip from her face, and the familiar pang returned to her gut. No. It couldn’t be. There’d been enough mourning and loss already. Surely there wasn’t any substance to the old wives’ tale. “That’s just an auld legend,” she said, forcing a lightness to her voice.
As he lumbered to his feet, Owen pinned her with a look that said “If you say so.”