harness the donkey to the cart while Fergus
continued to eat his bread and ham like it was dream, like it was his old life he was
consuming. He could hear Phoebeâs other brother, Saul, laughing hoarsely at some
joke the officer made.
Phoebe, making up a little parcel of food, kept her back to Fergus.
The food had warmed him up inside, and his brain was moving. When Abner
came into the house saying the cart was ready, Fergus understood this was ejection. They
were ejecting him. The Carmichaels had won.
Phoebe stood in front of a window, with light pouring through her hair.
She was smiling as she made some remark to the officer then took a dainty sip of porter
from a cup.
You look at a girl, and see she isnât your girl, and understand she
never will be no matter how much you want her. You grasp that, finally. Awareness
pierces the chest like a spike being driven in. The world doesnât belong to you.
Perhaps you belong to the world, but thatâs another matter.
Still, when it came time to go, he didnât go easy â he felt he
owed his father, MÃcheál, that much. He grabbed an iron pan off the stovetop
and pitched it at Saulâs head and grasped a hot stove handle and threw it at Abner
and was trying to seize one of the kitchen knives when Saul and the officer knocked him
down and held him on the floor writhing while Abner wrapped up his ankles and wrists
with yellow twine.
âHold steady, boy, we donât wish to harm you now. Hold
steady.â
Such lies
, he thought.
Phoebe was nowhere in his field of vision as he was hung over
Abnerâs shoulder like a trussed boar. Perhaps she had left the room. Perhaps she
ran upstairs, threw herself on her bed, and covered her ears with pillows so she
wouldnât hear his protests as Abner was lugging him from the house. Perhaps she
lay very still the way her mother, trying to avoid another rack of coughing, had kept
perfectly still on her deathbed, like an animal hopelessly caught in the jaws of
another, larger, animal.
He was weeping, shouting
Youâre not my girl! Youâre not my
girl!
as he was carried out, and it was Irish anyway, and none of them would
understand.
Abner laid him in the cart very gently then climbed in over him. Taking up
the reins, Abner clicked his tongue and the donkey started off, iron shoes clicking
across the cobbles then out through the iron gate. And that was the end of the old life,
dream life, Phoebe life, life of the mountain.
PART II
Bog Boy
IRELAND, NOVEMBER 1846
Workhouse
AFTER A WHILE ABNER STOPPED the cart and unbound him,
and he sat with his legs dangling from the back as they continued along the road. He
could smell the lard that greased the wheel hubs.
The company of soldiers following on foot.
With every jolt from the road, his legs flew up, kicking. He considered
jumping down, scrambling over the nearest wall, fleeing across the field. Finding his
way back up the mountain. Perhaps the soldiers would shoot, but he doubted it. Perhaps
they would chase him. But probably soldiers would not like leaving the dry road to muddy
their boots. Which they must clean and rub constantly, heâd heard, or be
constantly beaten.
What did soldiers care for a tenant on the loose? It wouldnât mean
any more to them than a hare. Probably less. Not worth a scramble. Not worth a bullet.
Abner had untied him, after all, and might stand to let him go. He had strength to get
himself over the nearest wall, but probably not much farther. He knew that if he lay
down in a field heâd stop breathing. And he didnât wish to die there, with
magpies pecking at his eyes.
So he stayed on the cart.
Abner passed him his fuming pipe. Fergus held the warm clay bowl in his
paws and puffed and watched the company of soldiers veering off at the crossroads.
A dab of wild scarlet moving into the glen, disappearing.
Sunlight
continued to eat his bread and ham like it was dream, like it was his old life he was
consuming. He could hear Phoebeâs other brother, Saul, laughing hoarsely at some
joke the officer made.
Phoebe, making up a little parcel of food, kept her back to Fergus.
The food had warmed him up inside, and his brain was moving. When Abner
came into the house saying the cart was ready, Fergus understood this was ejection. They
were ejecting him. The Carmichaels had won.
Phoebe stood in front of a window, with light pouring through her hair.
She was smiling as she made some remark to the officer then took a dainty sip of porter
from a cup.
You look at a girl, and see she isnât your girl, and understand she
never will be no matter how much you want her. You grasp that, finally. Awareness
pierces the chest like a spike being driven in. The world doesnât belong to you.
Perhaps you belong to the world, but thatâs another matter.
Still, when it came time to go, he didnât go easy â he felt he
owed his father, MÃcheál, that much. He grabbed an iron pan off the stovetop
and pitched it at Saulâs head and grasped a hot stove handle and threw it at Abner
and was trying to seize one of the kitchen knives when Saul and the officer knocked him
down and held him on the floor writhing while Abner wrapped up his ankles and wrists
with yellow twine.
âHold steady, boy, we donât wish to harm you now. Hold
steady.â
Such lies
, he thought.
Phoebe was nowhere in his field of vision as he was hung over
Abnerâs shoulder like a trussed boar. Perhaps she had left the room. Perhaps she
ran upstairs, threw herself on her bed, and covered her ears with pillows so she
wouldnât hear his protests as Abner was lugging him from the house. Perhaps she
lay very still the way her mother, trying to avoid another rack of coughing, had kept
perfectly still on her deathbed, like an animal hopelessly caught in the jaws of
another, larger, animal.
He was weeping, shouting
Youâre not my girl! Youâre not my
girl!
as he was carried out, and it was Irish anyway, and none of them would
understand.
Abner laid him in the cart very gently then climbed in over him. Taking up
the reins, Abner clicked his tongue and the donkey started off, iron shoes clicking
across the cobbles then out through the iron gate. And that was the end of the old life,
dream life, Phoebe life, life of the mountain.
PART II
Bog Boy
IRELAND, NOVEMBER 1846
Workhouse
AFTER A WHILE ABNER STOPPED the cart and unbound him,
and he sat with his legs dangling from the back as they continued along the road. He
could smell the lard that greased the wheel hubs.
The company of soldiers following on foot.
With every jolt from the road, his legs flew up, kicking. He considered
jumping down, scrambling over the nearest wall, fleeing across the field. Finding his
way back up the mountain. Perhaps the soldiers would shoot, but he doubted it. Perhaps
they would chase him. But probably soldiers would not like leaving the dry road to muddy
their boots. Which they must clean and rub constantly, heâd heard, or be
constantly beaten.
What did soldiers care for a tenant on the loose? It wouldnât mean
any more to them than a hare. Probably less. Not worth a scramble. Not worth a bullet.
Abner had untied him, after all, and might stand to let him go. He had strength to get
himself over the nearest wall, but probably not much farther. He knew that if he lay
down in a field heâd stop breathing. And he didnât wish to die there, with
magpies pecking at his eyes.
So he stayed on the cart.
Abner passed him his fuming pipe. Fergus held the warm clay bowl in his
paws and puffed and watched the company of soldiers veering off at the crossroads.
A dab of wild scarlet moving into the glen, disappearing.
Sunlight
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