Chapter 25 #2
“It’ll be you and Michael only,” Da said softly, and I whipped my head up to look at him.
“I made some enquiries while we were in Kildysert, and his lordship used the doctored books to make me a wanted fugitive for rent theft. That means I won’t be let into the workhouse.
I’ll likely be arrested and sent off to the prison colony on the other side of the world. ”
The blood froze in my veins, but Da smiled warmly.
“Make sure ye both get there safely, love. Rest when ye can, and keep moving when yer able. Mr. O’Dea promised to send word to his sister in Ennis.
She’s matron of the workhouse, so hopefully she’ll be expecting ye.
” Da put his hand in his pocket and glanced at Michael.
“The minute he has a bit of strength, off ye go, and don’t look back, ye understand? ”
“Da … what are ye on about?” I asked. This sounded like goodbye, but he was fine. Well, as fine as circumstances would allow.
Da nodded and reached for the wooden dish we’d brought along.
I followed the action with my eyes, sweat pilling along my brow despite the cold.
He moved with purpose, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
In one smooth movement, he pulled a knife from his pocket, ran it over the skin of his inner elbow, and allowed the blood to drip into the bowl.
“Get it in him,” Da instructed, gasping through the pain.
“Da!” I screamed … or tried to. The exclamation erupted on a breath of air.
“There’s good iron in blood,” Da explained, wincing as he smiled. “Get it down Michael’s throat. Then we’ll refill it, and you’ll take your own share. Save that food for a few more days. There’ll be more to share between two, rather than three.”
“No, no, no, no, no.” My heart raced as Da squeezed his forearm against his bicep to stop the flow before handing me the bowl.
“Quick now, lest it go to waste,” he said.
I couldn’t move, frozen as I was, mouth open, brows furrowed.
“Maggie!” Da snapped. “Listen, will ye? Feed it to Michael. It gives strength, and mine will soon be gone, given how weakened my body already is. This is my gift to ye, love. Live. Live for me and yer mam. Live as we intended for ye to live when our love brought ye into this world. Take the blood. Do it now.”
With shaking hands, I complied, pinching Michael’s lips with one hand as I fed him our father’s blood with the other.
He sputtered in his deep sleep, but I watched his throat bob.
“Now hand it back, my darlin’,” Da said softly, reaching for the dish. “In a little while, take that vial from my pocket—the one Mrs. Moran gave ye—and feed it to me. The whole vial, mind. In large quantities, it should give a painless death.”
He took the bowl and released his forearm to allow the blood to flow, to fill it. For me. And again, for Michael.
And I watched, chilled to my soul, as my father slowly, painfully, gave his life for ours, all while cursing the name Moore-Vandeleur.
When Michael awoke, Da was gone, but I’d had no strength to move his corpse—despite the pints of rich, life-giving blood sloshing low in my belly.
I barely had enough strength to articulate what had transpired to Michael, but I wasn’t certain he had recovered enough wherewithal to understand what had happened. He just stared at me, then spent a good five minutes staring at Da’s stiffening body.
We walked on, Michael leaning heavily on my shoulder. As Da had instructed, I didn’t look back. Tears should’ve come, but they did not, for I was bereft of every—and any—ounce of feeling, both inside and out.
“Four days should bring us to Clareabbey, if we can muster enough strength to make a mile a day,” I said, more for the company of words spoken aloud than to Michael himself. “The O’Deas said there’s trouble there, so we should try to pass through as quickly as possible.”
“What kind … of trouble?” Michael asked, panting heavily. I glanced at him, noting the sweat pilling on his brow.
“A public works overseer was shot.”
“Shot? With a pistol?”
I nodded, shifting beneath Michael’s weight. “The Public Works Board organized around four hundred paying jobs to help with relief, but seven or eight hundred people showed up.”
“That’ll do it,” Michael said with a sigh. “No chance of meeting generous folk like the O’Deas there then. They’re all hurtin’. Christ Almighty! Had it been two months earlier we could’ve poached a little along the way, and I could have tried to find work to avoid the workhouse.”
The timing had struck me as particularly cruel too. If we could’ve trapped a hare or two, how many of us would still be alive?
I shook my head. “No matter. We’ll make it. We have to. If you can hold out a few more days, we can eat what Mrs. O’Dea gave us, then make our way into Ennis proper.”
A soft chuckle rumbled up Michael’s throat. “I’m slipping, Maggie.”
Brows furrowing, I shifted his weight, but he shook his head.
“No, you ninny. I mean, I don’t think I’ll make it.”
I scoffed. “Don’t even think about it. If you dare die, I’ll feckin’ haunt you.”
“I think you mean I’ll haunt you,” he said.
“Ye know what I meant, ye feckin’ gobshite.”
“Aye,” he said softly. “Let’s sit a while, Maggie-pie. If ye mean for us both to get there, then we should eat now, lest my fever get any worse.”
I nodded, for he was right.
There was no point in forcing him to shuffle on for a few more days if what little food we had wasn’t enough to rouse him.
And so, we sat on the side of the road.
And prepared to eat our last meal together—likely, our last meal forever—before entering the workhouse … where we might never leave and might never see each other again.