Chapter 26
The children were like skeletons, their features sharpened with hunger and their limbs wasted, so that there was little left but bones … and the happy expression of infancy gone from their faces, leaving the anxious look of premature old age.
No, no, no, no, no, no!
Whatever had numbed my soul to its core thawed two mornings later, for Michael burned, his skin raging with fever.
“Wake up,” I hissed, shaking him. “Michael O’Shaughnessy, ye wake up this instant!”
We were there—Clareabbey, or about to enter its boundary—and smoke billowed from chimneys in the distance, promising people.
I scrambled to my feet, ignoring the pain that gnawed away my insides. That was the trouble with eating for strength; it took a few days for the pain to settle, before the stomach forgot its wants and needs.
“Help. I’ll go seek help,” I mumbled, eyes wide. This was different. Before, there’d been no assistance on the road, and nothing to do but watch each other die.
But here? Chimneys, people, aid.
We had naught to barter, but surely someone would take pity?
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I whispered, removing my cloak despite the cold. Gently, I placed it over Michael before turning on my heel, then paused.
I glanced down at my clothes, so tattered and torn they could hardly be worth anything. Everything swam on me now, and I knew others would see what I did when I looked at Michael—a walking corpse, skin so thin it hugged sharp, protruding bones.
We’d been starving, and on the road close to two months, for what should’ve been a two-day journey by cart, and ten days by foot, in normal circumstances.
I quickly removed the bodice—it still had all its buttons, so mayhap someone would take it in exchange for a little assistance.
Given what had occurred here, I didn’t expect to receive much help, if any, but, God above, I had to try.
As sporadic houses gave way to ordered streets, I was turned away from every door. No one had either the means or the desire to help.
One elderly lady told me to wait at her threshold, before returning with a ladle of broth and instructing that I cup my hands. “Disease-ridden,” she’d called me, wanting nothing of hers touching my skin lest such kindness brought death to her door.
My pride had long since vanished, and I cupped my hands to take the broth.
The hours stretched on, but enquiries on the whereabouts of a doctor led me on a goose chase ’round the streets—all merely pointing in random directions to send me away, far from them. For they were “better” than me, not nearly as starved and with rooves over their heads.
“Miss? Did I hear you ask after a physician?”
In a daze, I turned, and came face-to-face with a well-dressed gentleman—finely starched shirt-sleeves rolled to his elbow, wearing both waistcoat and full-length trousers. An Anglo.
Dark eyes widened as they drank in my countenance, and I feared what he saw there.
“My brother, sir,” I said, voice barely a whisper. “The fever … I fear he’s in trouble.”
Silence followed as the man stared, but as minutes ticked by, he roused himself with a shake. “Where?”
“I …” I wasn’t sure. I’d wandered so much I’d lost all sense of direction. Biting my lower lip, I glanced around, hating the telltale sign of tears-to-come stinging my eyes.
“Steady now,” said the man. “Where did you come from?”
“The Ennis Road, from Kildysert, just outside Clareabbey, sir.”
He nodded and gestured down the street. “Allow me to fetch my bag and a few warm blankets.”
“Are ye a doctor, sir?” I asked, not daring to hope.
“Doctor Fitzgibbon, at your service.”
Within fifteen minutes, we were on our way—I, bundled atop the fine pony Dr. Fitzgibbon insisted I ride.
“I’m that sorry I had naught to offer by way of food,” he said, for the tenth time. “I’ve been giving all I can to those affected by the pause on the public works project.”
I nodded, not caring. All thoughts and energy I had were for Michael.
“No mind, sir. We’ll make it to the workhouse soon.”
It took over a half hour to return to the spot where I’d left Michael, and Dr. Fitzgibbon went straight to work—leaving me atop the pony in his haste.
It took three tries to gather enough strength to swing my right leg over the beast’s rump, and by the time I finally struggled to the ground and shuffled to where Dr. Fitzgibbon knelt over Michael, something told me it was too late.
That I was too late.
“How is he, Doctor?’ I whispered, watching as he listened intently to Michael’s chest.
Dr. Fitzgibbon shook his head. “I fear naught but a miracle could bring him back. It’s incredible he made it thus far.”
I clasped my mouth with shaking hands, and sank, wordlessly, to my knees.
“The fever is two-fold,” the doctor continued.
“When the body enters starvation phase, the humors misalign, causing a susceptibility to catching all kinds of ailments. Night air, cold, exposure to the elements—all cause ailments. Unfortunately, feeding him won’t be enough, for something has taken hold in his lungs, I fear.
Medicine likely won’t work, as the body requires strength to heal.
But he needs nutrition to regain strength.
There could be a chance if the fever broke—”
“It’s broken before,” I offered, the words tumbling in a rush. “Twice.”
Dr. Fitzgibbon turned to me with brows raised. “How long has he been ill?”
“I … I’m not sure. We left our home in November—”
“It’s January fifth,” he interjected, pursing his lips.
January? I mouthed the word in surprise.
“Has he been ill all that time?”
“Maybe four weeks into the journey,” I said, my voice barely audible.
“I’m afraid the best I can do is call the body cart, Miss.” Dr. Fitzgibbon laid a hand on my arm, but I jerked away.
“No,” I said. “We’re going to make it to the workhouse.”
“They won’t take him in that state.”
“They will.” Reaching out, I tucked the cloak tightly around Michael’s shoulders.
“I fear he won’t last the night.” The words, though gentle, grated against my soul, against the promise I had made Da—that I would get us both safely to the workhouse.
“Then he’ll die surrounded by the only family he has left,” I said, glaring at the doctor. “Thank ye for coming, Doctor. I’m that sorry it was a wasted trip. For yer trouble.”
Slipping the bodice out from beneath Michael’s sleeping form, I offered it to him with two hands.
“What?” The doctor’s eyes widened.
“Ye could sell it and use the coin to help those ye mentioned earlier,” I said, glancing at Michael. He looked so … old. Like an elderly man awaiting death.
“Miss, you could use that coin yourself—”
“Nay. It’s straight to the workhouse for me. Give it to others who won’t have to sell their soul for a bite to eat.”
The doctor rose to his feet and took the bodice.
“Here, then,” he said, reaching into the pocket of his waistcoat. “If you must remain in vigil, at least build a fire for warmth.”
He pulled out a book of matches—a luxury I’d only ever seen at Kilrush House—and placed them in my hand.
“May God bless you and keep you. I’ll pray for you both.”
“Shh.”
I raised my tear-stained face to find Michael’s eyes half-open, focused, trained on me. I hadn’t notice him turn his head, worried as I was about the rumble in his chest, rattling with the inevitability we all face—but not like this. Too soon, too young, too unfortunate.
“Michael?” I whispered, pushing up to my elbows.
The fire I’d lit—thanks to Dr. Fitzgibbon’s match book—slowly waltzed in the breeze, a dance laced with death, in the final minutes of what could be his final hour. The surrounding grass made a comfortable bed, and I was grateful for this one small mercy—soft and damp, but not soaked through.
Michael straightened his head, gaze fixed on the sky above.
“It’s clear,” he wheezed, lips curling slightly.
I glanced upward, and sure enough, the bright white belt of glittering stars that oft appeared this time of year lit up the night sky, drawing nearly all attention from the breathtaking view of the usual constellations.
“Perfect,” I whispered, lying back in the grass.
Michael’s hand reached for mine, and I laced my fingers through his without thought.
“I l-love ye, M-Maggie,” Michael whispered.
“And I love ye, Michael.”
“Live, will ye?” he said, pausing to cough. “Live to spite them, for living will be the best revenge.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and breathed deep.
I couldn’t make another promise I might not keep.
“I’ll do my best,” I said, instead.
“Nay. Ye’ll live. Survive. Get revenge for yerself, for me, for everyone. Live, and leave a legacy for those who come after ye. Promise me.”
“I … I can’t promise. I promised Da I’d see us both safe, and I’ve broken it already.”
“That wasn’t a promise ye could keep, and Da knew it,” Michael said, afore coughs shook his body. “I’ll not be here come dawn, so ye’ll promise that ye’ll avenge us all by living.”
“I have a ways to go yet—” I began.
“The stars are so beautiful,” Michael whispered, squeezing my hand, before a sudden fzzt rent the night air in two.
Michael gasped, and my eyes widened.
“What in the—” I began, but stopped short as the scent of sizzling meat hit the back of my throat, drawing saliva to my mouth.
“P-prom-ise,” Michael demanded through clenched teeth. “Take it, eat it, and live, Maggie. My flesh is yours, a parting gift for vengeance. Regain your strength, and bring hellfire to them all.”
“Michael?” Eyes wide, my mind finally caught up to the latest chain of events, and I whipped my head around to glance at the fire.
Where Michael had placed his leg.
Calf-down.
Into the flames and embers.
It wasn’t meat cooking, it was him, him!
“P-promise me,” he gasped, squeezing my hand.
“I … I—”
“Promise!”
“I promise!”
And I would follow through. For Michael died not long after.
And, God forgive me, but I ate the flesh he’d so selflessly offered in the name of vengeance, tears streaming down my face as my teeth tore meat from bone.
And my soul, forever blackened, had hardened to steel.