Chapter 2
Durvla
Time drags as we cut and bundle various plants, change out the soil, and plant new seasonal flowers and herbs.
The sun is high in the sky by the time we finish.
We’ve all had to remove our overcoats and shawls.
Sweat gathers on the small of my back and my undershirt sticks to my chest. It will be a relief to get out of the greenhouse, even though I still have to make the trek to Ballybaeg.
We used to have an additional gardener that could’ve done the delivery, but she was apprehended for treason. I don’t even remember what treasonous deed she committed, but it leaves us with one less helper.
My stomach rumbles as we step from the hot greenhouse into the cool air. Amusement sparks in Orla’s blue eyes. “Whoa, hungry there, lass?”
I smile sheepishly. “Starving.”
Her ruddy face is splotchy from our hard labor. She pulls a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and mops her forehead. “Why don’t you stop by? Granny insisted I bring you over for some fresh bread.”
I hesitate. I want to check on Taig before I head to Ballybaeg and I’m running out of time. I don’t even know if Osheen made it back to look after him.
Orla regards me with wide, expectant eyes, much like her son’s.
I glance at the wagon that I’m toting around, filled with bundled plants that I still need to categorize and label before delivering them. “I have to get—”
“I’ll hurry her along. And with luck, Osheen may be able to accompany you on your journey.”
My teeth sink into my lower lip as I consider my options.
It’ll be suspicious and impolite if I still refuse.
I’ve known the Oakley family for most of my twenty-three years of life, and they’ve been kinder than ever since my mother died.
The least I can do is appease the elderly matriarch. “Alright, but I can’t stay long.”
Orla beams. “Great!”
I follow Orla to her house, walking right past my own. Sorry, Taig. My heart physically tries to tug me toward him, but I clench my hand on the handle of the wagon and keep in step with Orla. Osheen said he’d be there.
But what if he’s not?
Sweat slicks my palms. I really need to hurry. Before we even head up the pathway of worn-down grass, the mouthwatering aroma of fresh-baked bread reaches me. Sourdough. My stomach growls again, the traitor. Ahead of me, Orla’s shoulders shake with laughter.
She opens the door and I salivate, my knees wobbling.
A stout, elderly woman approaches, practically running toward us. Before I can prepare myself, I’m crushed against her ample chest. “Hi, Granny,” I say—she refuses to be called anything but. My mouth waters from the scent of dough and meat clinging to her shirt.
“Why has it been so long?” She holds me at arm’s length, her thick brows raised.
Lustrous waves of silver hair caress her shoulders, and fine lines wander from the corners of her eyes and mouth.
It’s obvious she’s laughed a lot in her lifetime.
How is she able to look beyond the gloom of this existence and find such joy? I wish I knew.
I smile awkwardly under Granny’s scrutiny.
“You are too skinny,” she declares, and I resist the urge to peer down at my soft middle and broad hips. “You need more meat on your bones. Let me get you some soup. Sit, sit.”
My stomach lurches as she shuffles off, her movements surprisingly quick for her size and age. “No, no. Granny …”
But she’s stopped listening to me.
“Ma, she needs to go to Ballybaeg to deliver dye plants before dark. We can’t have the workshops blaming her for slow fabric production, now can we?”
Thank you, Orla!
Granny’s shoulders slump. She turns away from the fireplace and the large pot warming over it, and shuffles over to the dining table instead.
A golden sourdough loaf sits there, steam still wafting off the crust. The knife slices through the bread, eliciting the phantom sound of a satisfying crunch in my memory.
My mother baked bread frequently when she was alive.
Granny returns to me with a generous chunk of sourdough wrapped in cheesecloth.
It takes all my self-restraint not to unwrap it and devour the whole thing. “Thank you.”
“Come back for supper.” Granny smiles and, before I can reject the offer, ushers me toward the door. I wince. Granny’s hands are deceptively strong from years of laboring in the fields.
I bid her and Orla farewell and shove the bread through the slit in my overskirt into the pocket underneath. Taking up the handle of the wagon again, I make my way back toward my house.
As I open the door, Finn nearly knocks me over.
I pat his shaggy head and he returns to where Osheen sits on the floor in front of Taig.
My shoulders relax and I step inside. “You’re here,” I sign.
It’s a relief to not have to focus on reading lips as I have been doing all day.
The exhaustion rushes in all at once, but I try not to focus on it.
My job isn’t complete yet.
Osheen smiles. “Did you doubt me?” He rips off a piece of the bread that he’d been feeding Taig before my arrival.
I know I shouldn’t, but doubt is rooted in my very being. After pulling the wagon carefully over the threshold, I crouch to remove my shoes then drop a kiss atop Taig’s chestnut curls. He glances briefly at me before turning back to Osheen for more bread.
My hands are stained green and blue, even though I’ve washed them more times than I can remember before leaving the greenhouse. One by one, I take the bundles over to my table. When they’re laid out neatly, I cut strips of parchment and ready my quill and twine, my scissors on standby.
As quickly as I can, I take note of the expected dye colors and their corresponding plants. I hate that I have to leave my home again, and especially that I have to rely on someone else to look after Taig in my absence. It’s foolish and risky.
Osheen taps on my shoulder, and I turn to him, blowing hair out of my face with a big sigh.
“Do you want me to make the delivery?” His face says he knows my answer already.
It’s kind, but I need the deeds to count toward my record, especially since I’m even more behind on my work now.
Taig spins slowly on his bottom and I almost smile.
“It’s my task,” I say, speaking only. I tear my gaze away from my little brother and back to Osheen’s worried face, signing again. “I have to go.”
He helps me load the bundles back into the wagon, and just as I’m putting my shoes on, he brings me a waterskin. “For the road,” he motions.
I smile at him. He’s the absolute sweetest. “Thank you.”
“Anything for you, Durvla. Hurry back, yes?”
No, I was planning to take my time, I want to say with bitter sarcasm.
I smile tightly before stepping out of the house again to set off on my unexpected journey.
Travelers, soldiers seeking shelter, and even Forayers have casually called my village, Ballybaeg, and Ballygort the Big Three.
Together, we provide food and clothing to Mainland, while our people struggle to survive on the bare minimum.
If I were to leave Cluain Baile, Ballybaeg is where I would go, but each time the itch to escape my village surfaces, I push it away.
It isn’t a possibility and it’s foolish to think otherwise.
The sun is sinking as I head back home with undyed hanks of imperfect wool that a worker from the mill so graciously gave me. I can already picture the sweater I want to make for Taig.
My breath puffs out in tiny clouds as I hurry across the sodden land.
I take a slightly different pathway, cutting across someone’s property, when I spot a basket sitting on the side of the road.
A bundle of fabric peeks out from inside the woven wicker.
Releasing my grip on the wagon handle, I approach the basket with caution.
A tiny foot and the pale profile of a little face pokes out from the fabric.
My stomach drops.
My knees squelch into the moist soil, and I don’t even hesitate before lifting the baby out of the basket.
Her eyes are closed, a small cleft bisecting one side of otherwise full lips to her button nose.
The foot peeking out is clubbed, turned fully inward.
Every little detail is so precious that I find myself memorizing it because, clearly, no one else cares.
There’s hardly any color left in her face and she’s cool to the touch, her breathing labored.
Anger and pain for this little life squeezes my heart.
Gods, how could a parent abandon their child like this?
I hold the baby against my chest, desperately trying to warm her little body.
Her respirations grow slower, less frequent, and I hum a tune from my memories, a prayer asking the Great Rhianu to escort the little one’s soul into Lugda’s hands and begging the Underworld god to grant her a place in paradise.
It’s perhaps more superstition than anything in this age, but … I hope with all my being.
Eventually, the baby takes a shallow breath and then no more. I cradle her little body in my arms, silent tears streaming down my face, until my joints ache from sitting still for so long in the chilly elements.
Her forehead is cold when I press my lips to it. It’s nonsensical to wrap her up again, but I can’t stand the idea of leaving her little body open to the cold air. It’s only then that I release the sob I’d been holding, the built-up tension in my chest releasing.
Yet another innocent life commended to Lugda because of fear driven by the foolish laws of the land.