Chapter 20
20
When they finally arrived back at the house, Owen sent the ladies inside while he put the wagon and horse away.
“I need to feed Fadó, then I’ll be back down,” he’d said.
As they shuffled inside, Aileen went straight to set the kettle on and started slicing the brown bread she’d made earlier that morning. Meanwhile, Saoirse saw to the fire. She’d have much rather swapped roles with Aileen—if she never tended another fire in her life, it would be too soon. Though, restoking the embers and adding a few new spates of turf was far better than ensuring the flames were died down enough to safely leave the house without letting the fire go all the way out. It was widely believed that to let a home’s fire go all the way out would cause the soul of the home to flee, allowing bad luck to be ushered in. However, in Saoirse’s experience, it seemed to be just the opposite. And because of that, she was thankful that Owen had seen to the task of readying the fire for their absence this afternoon—something she would avoid doing for the rest of her life, if possible.
“Ya alright there?”
Saoirse blanched at Aileen’s voice. She turned to her and smiled. “Grand, so.”
Aileen leveled a look of disbelief at Saoirse. It was only then that she realized tears were streaming down her face.
“Fer a girl who’s alright, ya sure do a load of cryin’,” Aileen said, crossing the room with two steaming cups in her hand. She lowered herself into one of the high-backed chairs and handed a cup to Saoirse.
Saoirse swiped at her cheeks, embarrassment and anger swirling in her chest in equal measure. Embarrassment at having her emotions so on display, and anger at herself for not being able to even think of her family in passing without tears automatically following suit. “It’s nothing.” She sniffled.
Aileen tsked and shook her head. When she met Saoirse’s gaze again, nothing but compassion shone in her eyes. “Look,” she said, gesturing for Saoirse to take the other seat. “I know I’m not yer sister, or yer mam, but I do feel like we’ve become friends, aye?”
Saoirse nodded, her gaze dropping to examine the liquid swirling in her cup.
“I also know ya must’ve been through somethin’ fierce to wind up out here in the wilds o’ Donegal all on yer own.” She paused, her eyes boring a hole into the side of Saoirse’s face.
Saoirse took a sip, refusing to look at her friend directly.
Aileen sighed. “All I’m sayin’ is, ya live here with us, help provide for us, share our resources. I’ve heard ya crying in the night, and while I can’t imagine what ye must’ve been through, I just want ya to know ye can share yer heart too.” She slurped her tea. “That’s what family does.”
The stinging behind Saoirse’s eyes forced her to squeeze them shut, new rebellious tears spilling over as she did. Drawing in a long breath, she filled her lungs with the comforting aroma of the tea and the strident scent of the fresh turf as it caught the flames and forced her emotions to steady. When she opened her eyes and finally met Aileen’s gaze, she was overcome with a sudden urge—nae, a need—to tell her everything. Carrying her secret was proving to be far more burdensome than she’d expected, and she hated the way it felt hiding such a big piece of her story from the people who’d been so generous to her. At the same time, overwhelming fear gripped her. What if they hated her for it? What if they kicked her out?
In the back of her mind, another voice whispered, What if they don’t?
She wrapped both hands around her cup and lifted it to her mouth, the hot, creamy tea bolstering her courage as she allowed herself to recognize just how tired she truly was. Not how exhausted she was from her labors on the farm or in the weaving shed. But how weary her spirit was from carrying a burden she was never meant to carry. Her soul was thin and sheer, like a banshee blown about on the gales, haunting her every move. Would sharing her load bring freedom or more pain? She couldn’t wait any longer to find out.
She drew in one more long, deep breath, then released it with a sigh. “On my last day back home—”
The door slammed open, and Owen stomped in and over to the stove. He tried to lift the kettle with his right hand, but it went crashing to the floor. He released a guttural shout and pounded the table with the side of his other fist. “Hang it all!”
Both Saoirse and Aileen shot to their feet. “Are ya alright?”
“Did ya burn yerself?”
“I’m fine!” He sank into one of the wooden chairs at the table and dropped his head into his good hand.
Both women rushed to his side. Aileen carefully scooped up the kettle, leaving the small pool of water seeping into the packed-dirt floor, and set it back on the stove. Saoirse laid a quiet hand on Owen’s shoulder.
“Give it time,” Aileen said.
Owen’s hands flopped to the table, his head remaining low. “There is no time,” he said, punctuating each word with a bounce of his hands. He swiped under his nose as he stood and crossed over to the fireplace. “I don’t know how many more times I can have this conversation. There was barely enough time before all this”—he swung his arm in an arc. “There’s more and more obstacles at every turn, each one stealing even more time than the last.”
Aileen tossed her hands. “Well, I dunno what ya want me to tell ya. I’m not goin’ to blow sunshine up yer ... I’m not gonna lie and say, ‘Sure, it’s grand, now. Go on and do all yer things.’”
“No one is askin’ ya to,” Owen replied.
Aileen turned and wiped the already clean counter with a rag. “Coulda fooled me,” she muttered under her breath.
Saoirse’s glance flitted to Owen. Either he didn’t hear his sister’s remark or was choosing to ignore it.
She joined Owen at the fireplace, the gentle heat warming her feet as she approached. “I can’t imagine how frustrating all this must be for you—the injuries, the missing sheep, an’ all.” Her gaze dropped to her feet. “And doin’ it all with an extra mouth to feed.” She picked at a thread on her sleeve. “But,” she continued, “you are not in this alone. Aileen and I will do all we can. And I know you know that.”
Owen’s head bobbed. “I do.” He rubbed his right wrist. “I just hate havin’ to rel—” He shook his head. “I just hate this.” The rubbing continued.
Saoirse laid a hand on his forearm, and he stilled. She waited until he met her gaze. “It’ll come.”
He nodded and thanked her, but the shadow behind his gaze belied his doubt, and the sadness keeping the smile from reaching his eyes tugged at Saoirse’s heart.
It would come, wouldn’t it? It had to. Right?
****
“ Siúil ar aghaidh iad .” Owen punctuated his command for Stout to walk the sheep forward with a shrill, quick whistle. Stout took off, his excited pants leaving puffs in the chilly air. Owen watched the dog do what he did best. His body was pressed low to the ground as he sprinted toward the herd, his breathing a rhythmic huffing that expressed his joy at working. As a younger pup, Stout would get so excited while working that he’d terrify the sheep into running away, and they’d be almost impossible to corral. But he’d also been eager to learn and took great pride in a job well done. Now a seasoned professional at the tasks he was asked to perform, Stout knew exactly when to slow down and creep around the back or side of a group, when to sprint at them head-on, and when to use a combination of trotting and barking or yipping to get the stubborn sheep to yield to his will.
Owen absently wondered if God were to work like Stout, what tack was He currently using in Owen’s life? If Owen was honest with himself, the Lord felt awfully absent lately—napping back at the shed, perhaps. Owen grimaced briefly as his gaze drifted to the sky—part in fear that a bolt of lightning was on its way to end Owen’s life for such disrespectful thoughts, part in a sheepish shrug. “Can’t blame me though, can ya?” he spoke to the clouds with a chuckle.
In all honesty, however, Owen felt very much like one of the herd who had been allowed to drift away. And for the first time ever, he wondered if that was how his own herd felt when he let them roam free for long stretches of time. He sighed and flexed his right hand. Or, at least, tried to. The cold air had stiffened it even further. A brisk wind whirled around him, flinging water from the branches of the ash trees overhead, turning his mind once again to things above. Of course, he still believed in God, in His power, and in His goodness. Owen swallowed. Perhaps the goodness part was a bit of a stretch at the moment, if he were honest. The goodness bit had been vexing him most. If God was so good, why was Owen in the predicament in which he currently found himself?
“Good dog. Time now.” Stout obeyed, slowing his pace. His open mouth, with the corners pulled back, made it look like he was smiling. “Good. Walk up.” Stout slowed further and approached the three sheep taking refuge behind a gorse bush, then coaxed them into the larger fold of sheep. In fact, Owen usually let them roam more freely than this, but given recent events, he worried every second they were out of his sight. He wondered if they were annoyed at his increased presence of late, or if they’d even noticed. Before long, Stout had all the remaining sheep gathered and was looking to his master in expectation.
Owen whistled a pattern. “Come by.” Stout rounded the herd clockwise. When he reached the back of the group, Owen added, “Now home.”
Stout barked once and set to work wrangling the herd home to the field Owen most commonly used as a pen when the sheep weren’t allowed to roam freely. As they trudged over the hills, Owen’s thoughts returned to matters of faith. He allowed his mind to mull over the last two messages Father Cunningham had given and tried to imagine the scenarios surrounding the battles he’d spoken about, but it all felt muddled now. Owen couldn’t remember who fought at Jericho or why Gideon was so afraid. All he could recall with clarity was the idea that God’s battle plans often made no sense. Before now, that idea had comforted him, but now he found it deeply unsettling.
He jogged ahead of Stout and the herd to open the rustic wooden gate blocking the entrance to the field. Stout deftly ushered the herd inside and looked expectantly at his master. Stout’s eyes were bright with pride and excitement, and his tongue lolled off to one side, tail wagging. “ Sin é .”
Stout barked and ran to Owen’s side, rubbing against his leg. “Good boy,” Owen said, scratching Stout’s head. “Good dog.” Stout grunted once, then turned and began trotting toward the barn and home.