Gunny Malone

Chapter 2 – A Tin Whistle, Holy Days, and Seals

Chapter 3 – The Booley

Chapter 4 – The Smithy & the Priest

Chapter 5 – Working Life

Chapter 6 – James, Matt & Thomas

Chapter 7 – Love

Chapter 8 – Shrovetide

Chapter 9 – The Wedding and the Accident

Chapter 10 – Bedridden

Chapter 11 – Life in the Hills

Chapter 12 – The Graveyard

Chapter 13 – Catherine

Chapter 14 – The Blaskets

Chapter 15 – Patrick, a Poet, and a Pig

Chapter 16 – A Calling

Chapter 17 – Lord Ventry Builds a School

Chapter 18 – Maggie & Larry

Chapter 19 – Life in the Village

Chapter 20 – The Famine

Chapter 21 – Tom Milliken Pays a Visit

Chapter 22 – The Loss of a Murphy

Chapter 23 – The Fire

Chapter 24 – On Board

Chapter 25 – Home

Epilogue

About the Author

Walking Research

Books used to research this novel

Irish words you may not know

~ Prologue ~

The old woman sat in an ancient rocker close to the turf fire, willing the heat of the fire to warm her aching bones. A small front window was propped open to allow the cool ocean breeze into the room. A lone seagull brayed over the low, stone house as surf pounded against the heavy black shore rocks. The air smelled of the sea, and peat, and tea. The chair creaked as the woman rocked on a worn, circular hearth of flat, black stones. Her face was deeply wrinkled, her large, dark eyes covered with a light film of blue. White curls escaped from a loose bun secured with a few pins at the back of her neck. Veins stood out on the backs of her hands, but her long fingers were still straight as they fingered the frayed pocket of her apron. She wiped her eyes with the back of one hand then laid both hands on her chest to help warm herself.

Miss Malone, if you’re cold I could close the window.

She pushed up straighter in the rocker. She was surprisingly tall with wide shoulders. No. I like the air to be cool in front of a fire. She stretched and wiggled her stockinged toes, then turned her gaze to her gentleman caller. She studied his pale face, his kind brown eyes, the round glasses perched on his nose - so familiar except for the short, salt and pepper hair. Where was I?

If you’re tired, we could start again tomorrow.

She chuckled. No. You asked me to tell my story. I just don’t know where to begin.

He drummed his pencil against a thick pad of paper as he waited. She eyed him with pursed lips. He stopped drumming, cleared his throat, and smiled. When I was growing up, my father said no one could tell a story like you. He told me all about you.

She laughed and the volume startled him. Your father told you all about me? I hardly know all about me myself. And when it comes to storytellers, the one you should hear is my father. He’s the story teller.

I’d love to talk to him. Does he live here on the Blaskets?

The old woman glanced at him, confused. No, she shook her head. He never lived here. She hesitated. He’s gone now.

Did he die during the famine? he asked gently, pencil poised and ready.

The old woman stared at him. No. She turned back to the fire and was silent.

The writer started to drum his pencil, but caught himself mid-beat. He listened to the pounding surf outside. He had barely made it across the choppy channel on the boat ride from Dunquin. The sailors had warned him he most likely would not get back to the mainland for at least a week. He looked at the old woman. Her eyes were closed. He could see it was going to be a very long, unproductive week stranded on a desolate island on the stormy west coast of Ireland.

He was startled when the old woman started to speak, her voice low and husky. When I was a girl, there was nothing to do at night but sit around the fire listening to the old folks tell the stories. Everyone’s too busy these days to listen to the old stories.

The writer scooted his chair in a little closer. That’s why I’m here. You may be part of the last generation to live on this island. I’m hoping to keep your stories alive by writing them down.

You’re writing about the Blaskets but I didn’t grow up here. I’m from the mainland. From Dunquin.

Then let’s start there. He poised his pencil. Tell me about Dunquin.

She shook her head. There’s not much to tell. It was a long time ago.

The writer blinked and eyed his blank sheet of paper. Hadn’t his father also mentioned that Miss Malone could be quite stubborn?

The old woman rocked back in her chair and puffed out her cheeks. It’s funny what you remember – a piece of a conversation, a place you visited, part of a certain day. You remember the surprises, and sometimes the most mundane things. And of course you remember the people – so many people.

I’m interested in anything you want to tell me. Others can fill in the details you leave out. I have plans to speak with several people here on the Great Blasket Island, and next week I’ll spend time with the old folks in Dunquin, Ventry, and Dingle.

Old folks. Gunny interrupted. We weren’t always old, you know.

The writer chuckled. Point taken.

The old woman sighed. Would you like a cup of tea?

I’d love one.

Good. There’s a bucket of water there by the door. The tea cups are on the cupboard behind you. The tea is in the top drawer. I like my tea weak, and hot, and sweet.

Weak and hot and sweet, he said, placing the pad of paper and pencil on the floor and pushing up from his chair. I think I can take care of that. He grabbed a blackened tea kettle from an elaborate iron crane by the fire and walked to the cupboard that divided the house into two rooms. Behind the cupboard he spied two small beds and a large sea chest. He yanked open the heavy top drawer of the cupboard with a squeak. Inside he found a wooden box and several old, bent spoons. He flipped open the lid of the box and carefully placed three, large spoonfuls of dry dark leaves in the kettle as his father had taught him. Then he filled the kettle with water from the bucket, set it on the top arm of the crane and swung it over the fire. He returned to the cupboard and picked out two chipped, stained cups. Where do you keep your sugar?

The old woman thought for a minute. I don’t remember, she said softly. She sighed and rocked. Some days she couldn’t remember what she’d eaten for her morning meal, but she could remember the past. The past was always with her. She’d have no problem telling this man her story.

Never mind, he said behind her. I’m sure I can find it, He spied a small glass dish at the far end of the cupboard. He pried open the crusty lid with a spoon and put a heaping spoonful of sugar in each cup. When the steam whistled from the kettle, he moved the crane away from the fire and poured out two cups of tea. He handed one to the old woman, then took the second cup and sat down in his chair. The old woman stared into the steam rising from her cup. He cradled his hot cup and listened again to the pounding surf. He closed his eyes, the pad of paper and pencil neglected at his feet.

I suppose it’s best to start at the beginning, she said.

The writer set his cup down on the hearth and picked up his pad and pencil. The old woman paused. When she did not continue, he reached again for his tea.

She started to rock. The heavy old chair squeaked in response. Did I mention that I grew up in the village of Dunquin? My father was Robert Malone, the horse man. My mother was Eileen Malone from Ventry. My mother never did like living in Dunquin.

The writer gripped his pencil, tea forgotten. Tell me about your mother? Did she look like you?

The woman grinned. We couldn’t have been more different. She was tall like me, but with the straightest black hair you’ve ever seen. And a stern, stern face. I can count the times I heard her laugh. She would tell you we were nothing alike. She often said I was more like a fairy than a girl. One of my earliest memories was of her standing by our front window. It looked a lot like that window there…

~ Chapter 1 – The Early Years, Dunquin, Ireland ~

Eileen Malone leaned against the wall by the front window and watched the rain fall in the muddy grey yard beyond. She sipped weak tea from a small tin cup. She was tall and had always been considered handsome despite her small brown eyes and heavy brows. She rested her cup on the window sill and ran a hand over her straight black hair to make sure the bun at the base of her neck was secure. It had rained every day for the past two weeks and the air inside the house was heavy and cold, the dirt floor and rough stone walls damp despite the best efforts of a smoldering turf fire. She winced at the sound of her bickering children behind her.

I want to sit next to Da. You always get to sit next to Da, Gunny whined. The girl was tall for two-and-a-half, her voice loud and strong. She leaned against her father’s strong, lean body as he sat on his stool carefully packing tobacco into his pipe. Gunny’s head of soft dark curls tickled his nose and he gently brushed her hair away from his face.

I’m older and I’m the boy, so I can sit anywhere I want, Michael retorted, holding onto the stool with both hands and kicking at his sister. Though only five, Michael had the look of a small man, with a large head and heavy arms and legs.

Gunny squealed and dug her long fingers into her brother’s arm pits. I’m not moving, he grunted, no matter what you do. Gunny dug her fingers in harder and Michael tried not to laugh. Go away, you stupid girl, he said, pulling down tighter on the stool. Gunny yanked her hands away and jumped onto his back.

Eileen heard a leg of the stool snap and watched both children pitch onto the hard dirt floor.

Can’t a woman have peace in her own house? she muttered, glaring at her husband who sat, slowly sucking smoke from his pipe, untroubled by the chaos around him. She pushed past him and pulled Michael up by the arms. He kicked at her, then pulled away and sprinted toward the back room, just missing hitting his head on the heavy wooden table in the center of the room. He collapsed onto the thin goose-down mattress in the back room and sobbed. You always take her side. I had the stool first.

What’s got into you, woman? Robert said, pulling Gunny up from the floor and into his arms. She buried her face in her father’s worn shirt and breathed in his warm, smoky scent.

What’s got into me? Eileen stammered. She paced past him like a caged animal. I hate this house. The window lets in no light. The roof leaks. The walls are filthy from having the animals in here all winter. Half the yard is filled by a filthy dung hill. We’ve had nothing but rain for weeks, and we have nothing to eat but potatoes. Only an idiot would be happy living here.

Robert cradled Gunny in one arm and wiped at her mud-streaked face with the tail of his shirt. Our house is no different than the house you grew up in. And do you suppose it rains less in Ventry than it does here in Dunquin, my Lady?

Eileen turned to the windowsill, her head high, and her shoulders stiff. She gripped the tin cup but the tea had grown cold, and a cold cup was no comfort. She swirled the black leaves at the bottom of the mug. Ventry was beautiful, she muttered, resting one hand against her high forehead.

Robert chortled behind her. Ventry was beautiful. Until Lord Ventry evicted your parents so he could expand his gardens around Ballygoleen. Have you forgotten that bit of ugliness?

Yes, but if he hadn’t…

But he did. And when you had nothing left and nowhere to go, you married me.

There were others.

Oh, yes. Whatever happened to your good friend Moss?

Eileen turned and glared at her husband with his strong chin and thick black hair, so different from Moss’ large round head and thinning hair. You promised you wouldn’t mention him, she hissed. She slammed down the tea cup and grabbed a turf from a pile near the hearth. She placed the heavy brown brick roughly on the fire and knelt to poke the embers with a long iron rod. The turf slowly caught fire and she held her hands over the warming flame. Moss only had the money for one passage to America, she said in a quiet voice. He promised when he got there and was settled in that he’d send money for my passage.

Robert leaned forward over the little girl and touched Eileen’s back as she knelt in front of the fire. Her back stiffened at his touch. Something must have happened or he would’ve written.

Eileen glanced over her shoulder. Was Robert mocking her? With the back of one sooty hand, she wiped away her tears leaving a wet smear of ash across her right cheek, then turned and looked hard into her husband’s deep blue eyes. Don’t act like you care. You never liked him.

Michael crept in from the back room and slid past his father. He propped up the broken leg on the stool and sat down, grinning. The broken leg gave out, spilling him onto the hearth. Gunny howled with laughter and slid down from her father’s lap to wrestle with her brother.

Eileen stared vacantly at her son. And what about Michael looking so much like his father?

Now that’s something you promised you would never mention, Robert said in a quiet voice.

I can’t help it, Eileen whined. I look at his little round face and I see Moss Barney. I look into his brown eyes and I see Moss’ eyes. Then I hear Moss laughing at me, she spat toward the fire.

Robert chucked. Moss had a horrible laugh.

His laugh was not horrible, Eileen said in a quiet, strained voice.

Robert stood and pulled a fresh plug of tobacco from his nook to the right of the fireplace. All right, it wasn’t horrible, he smiled. But it was odd. His whole manner was odd. And it wasn’t just me who thought that. Everyone said so. He cut off a piece of tobacco with his pocket knife and stuffed it into his pipe, then took up the fire tongs and plucked a coal from the fire. He took a long drag from the pipe, making small popping sounds with his mouth as the tobacco lit, then sat back down on his stool and stared into the fire.

I didn’t think Moss was odd, Eileen muttered defensively.

Clearly, you didn’t, Robert scoffed and shook his head. When Moss worked with us in the stables he didn’t know one end of a horse from the other and never got a lick of work done with all his talking. He’d go on and one about how someday he was going to America, about how he was going to be somebody.

Moss wasn’t good with his hands like you are. He was more of a thinker. Moss liked to read.

Something I never learned, Robert grunted, pulling at his pipe.

You don’t have to read. You have other skills. Moss worked hard to better himself.

Robert snorted. I suppose you pictured yourself living with him in a Great House, hiring servants like me to tend to your horses.

Eileen stared into the fire. With a fine garden out back and a coach to travel in, she said wistfully.

Gunny screamed as she fell face down on the rocky corner of the hearth. Eileen pushed Michael away and scooped up the girl to assess the damage in the dim light. Gunny stared at her mother, too shocked to cry. Eileen fingered a growing lump on the girl’s forehead. Don’t even think of crying, she said sternly as Gunny sniffed trying to catch her breath. You have to be careful playing with boys.

Gunny pushed away from her mother’s cool hand and slid down to the floor. Michael ran laughing to the back room with Gunny tight at his heels.

Eileen awoke with a start. Her head was heavy and her nipples ached; she knew she was with child again. She pulled the thin wool blanket to her chin and stifled a sob. Robert woke, bleary eyed, and reached for her. She pushed his hand away and whispered the news. He rolled onto his back and grinned. About time. No house is happier than one crowded with children, he crowed.

She shushed him. This house is already too crowded. Gunny is finally eating with the rest of us and sleeping all night. A new baby means starting all over with the crying and sleepless nights, and wet pants, and wet breasts...

Children are God’s blessing, Robert said, reaching over and gently squeezing her shoulder. You should praise the Lord that we have children who will care for us when we’re old.

Look at them, Eileen whispered, pointing at Gunny and Michael twisted together in the other bed, their crusty eyes closed and small mouths open. Michael hardly remembers to come in at noon to eat a meal. Gunny never listens and she’s so loud and dirty. You think those two will take care of us?

Stop with your nonsense. Perhaps this next child will be caring and kind.

Eileen curled on her side, covered her face with her hands, and wept.

Within a month, God heard Eileen’s fervent prayers and after several days of cramping, she felt her body give up the child in her womb. She was exhausted and drained from the pain and loss of blood and stayed in bed for a week. Robert did the best he could to get the cow milked, the eggs collected, and the potatoes boiled for each meal, but there was little he could do to keep the children quiet and away from their mother’s bedside. As Eileen prayed for peace, Robert prayed for the day she would once again be a help to him.

Six months later, Eileen went through the same cycle of dread, then relief. The second loss left her feeling even weaker than the first. In the mornings, she felt tired and achy and found she often needed to rest before she prepared the evening meal. Her occasional headaches became more frequent and gained in intensity. When her head ached, she stuffed the front window with a blanket and insisted the front door be kept closed. The only light in the house came from the weak glow of turf embers while she lay in bed with a wet flour sack draped over her eyes. When she was having a spell, Robert kept the children outside as much as he could but they had to eat. Over meals, it tore at his heart to see his wife stumble about with her ashen face and deep-circled eyes wincing at the sounds of life around her.

At night, when the fire was smoored and everyone was tucked into bed, Robert tried to comfort his wife, to wrap his body around her to warm her, but she shied from his touch, insisting that they not lie together again until she was feeling better. But their time apart turned from weeks into months, and then into years.

We live together as if you were my sister, Robert whispered one warm summer evening as they lay barely touching on their small, straw-stuffed mattress.

I’m sorry. We could touch but that that might lead to more. Do you want me to die and leave these children with no one to look after them?

They’re five and eight and pretty much take care of themselves now, Robert grunted.

Eileen turned her back to Robert, pulled the blanket up around her face, and went to sleep.

Your mother’s having a spell, Robert informed the children one spring morning over a meal of boiled potatoes, and the Old Lord’s prize mare is ready to foal - so we’re going to Ventry, he said, raising his eyebrows to make the work sound interesting and important.

Gunny’s dark brown eyes opened wide. How will we get there?

We’ll walk. It’s only about two hours. If we’re lucky, the Lord will lend us a horse if we need to be there again tomorrow.

The little girl gasped. We’ll ride a horse? Mam said horses are dangerous.

They are dangerous, Robert said with a chuckle. But I’ll be with you, he said, patting Gunny’s head of thick, black curls.

Michael pouted. Matt and Mac McCrohan asked me to go fishing. I want to go fishing, Da.

Robert shrugged. Fine. Go fishing. You can come with us tomorrow if we go back. Just be sure to stay out of the house and out of your mother’s way today, he said, listening to his wife’s snores from the back room. He pulled six hot potatoes from the embers with a long poker and dusted them lightly with one hand. He tossed two potatoes to each child which they slipped into their pockets. He pocketed his own potatoes for the day and they left the house without a word of good-bye.

Eileen sighed deeply when Robert told her that his work in Ventry was done and that he and the children would be home again during the day. It’s been such a nice, quiet week, she said softly.

You can at least pretend you’re glad we’re back, Robert said.

Eileen washed the spoons and bowls from their morning meal with sand and well water and stacked the tin ware on the cupboard. It was peaceful without you here, that’s all I’m saying. I’d hear you slip out in the morning and then sleep till it got too warm. I made eggs for my morning meal and had the fire to myself. No one asked me to get them anything. There were no slamming doors, no arguments, and no noses to wipe. Isn’t there more you could do in Ventry? Or take the children down to the strand? Or something?

What’s troubling you this fine morning, sweet Eileen? Is it your head?

Eileen pouted and blew out a small puff of air. We have no eggs.

Robert laughed. We have three laying hens. Maybe you need to look harder for the eggs.

Eileen glared at her husband. I know where the hens lay, Robert. And I’m telling you we have no eggs.

So our chickens aren’t laying? Robert asked.

Oh, they’re laying all right, Eileen snapped.

I don’t understand.

Eileen leaned in and gripped Robert’s arm. The chickens are laying over at Fiona Burke’s house. They are up in that rotten thatch roof of hers.

Robert laid a large, warm hand over his wife’s tight grip. And how do you know that?

Eileen pulled her hand away. Would you like to run this house? You seem to know more about eggs than I do.

I never said…, Robert started, but stopped at Eileen’s glare.

There’s only one thing to do. I’m going over there and get my eggs off her roof. Eileen pulled on her apron and slammed the door on her way out.

Eileen and Fiona Burke had done nothing but quarrel since the day the Malones moved into the last house on the road out of Dunquin. Robert had grown up in a rambling stone house down near O’Leary’s pub, but when they were wed Eileen insisted they move into their own house, away from his parents and the pub, and this was the only house they could afford. The Burkes lived just slightly down the hill on the opposite side of the road.

Fiona Burke had grown up in her little house at the base of Mount Eagle and lived there now with her aging mother and five boys. Fiona’s husband, Gabe, had drowned the previous fall while fishing in a storm only a few weeks before Fiona gave birth to her fifth boy. The rest of the boat’s crew had managed to get to shore on the Blasket Islands, but Gabe’s body was never found. Eileen was convinced he had run off to get away from Fiona and the pack of wolves she was raising. Fiona’s oldest, the twins, were around the same age as Michael, and her third boy was about Gunny’s age, but Eileen insisted that her children not play with the Burkes.

They’re not our type of people, she explained to her children.

Eileen sneaked up over the hill side of Fiona’s house and crawled out onto her rotting thatch on the roof searching for eggs. Fiona was inside cooking porridge for her boys who never seemed to have enough to eat. As she stirred the pot, lost in thought about a piece of weaving she was working on, bits of ceiling started to fall into the pot of boiling cereal. Fiona slammed the spoon into the pot and raced outside, sure that one of her boys was up to no good. To her shock, she saw instead the bottoms of two worn boots and Eileen Malone sprawled across her sagging roof.

Woman! What are you doing on my roof? she screamed.

I am getting my eggs back is what I am doing, Eileen yelled as she dug her hands into thick layers of rotting thatch.

Are you crazy? You’re knocking thatch into my porridge. The whole roof may cave in with your weight on it.

Your thatch is rotten. It’s no wonder my chickens are roosting here. She held up a handful of moldy thatch and threw it at Fiona’s feet. Fiona kicked at the blackened straw. A few white worms wiggled free of the dark mass and she squished one with the toe of her boot.

Ah ha! Eileen gloated from the roof, holding up a small brown, speckled egg. I knew my best hen was laying here.

You’ve lost your mind. What makes you think that’s your egg? Fiona demanded.

Eileen propped herself on an elbow and held out the egg as evidence. This has the look of my best hen’s eggs. Do any of your hens lay eggs like this?

Fiona could not recall having seen any speckled eggs before, but who knew? Her boys did most of the egg gathering.

Eileen slowly pushed her way back off the roof and onto the adjoining hill. More thatch crumbled and fell into Fiona’s kitchen. When Eileen got her footing, she stood and brushed rotten straw from her soiled apron. I’ve seen my hen over here with your chickens. Oh, this is my egg all right. She marched home, chuckling, as Fiona’s curses dimmed behind her.

Gunny was surprised when her mother bustled into the house and prepared a thick oat cake for their morning meal. Our best hen was laying elsewhere, Eileen explained. Sometimes you have to look hard to find a treasure in this village.

It was late April. The sun was warm, and a cool breeze blew salt air in off the ocean. Across the rolling hills, tucked between the ocean and the shadow of Mount Eagle, the farmers of Dunquin were hard at work in their fields. It had been a dry winter with little rain or snow, and the soil was cracked and harder to work than usual as the farmers hauled cart after cart of sand, and seaweed, and a year’s worth of dung from their yards to work into the depleted soil.

Like the rest of the men in Dunquin, Robert Malone had three fields to plant – each one around a half-acre. His fields were mixed in with those of his neighbors. Each man had one field of good land for growing oats, and two fields of less desirable land for planting potatoes. The acre of potato fields would supply the family with enough potatoes to live on for almost ten months, but the seed had to be planted by May Day or neighbors would talk. The oats that were planted in the last field would be thrashed in the fall, and the ground kernels saved to help them through the lean days of summer. Robert had been out every day for weeks getting his fields ready and today was finally the day to plant.

Take the children with you so I can clean the house, Eileen said in a soft voice from her stool in front of the fire as Robert headed out the door, cap in hand.

We’re putting in the seed today, Eileen, Robert said sternly. This is no work for children.

I’m in no mood for their foolish games. Take them with you.

Robert sighed and pulled his cap down tight onto his head. How’s a man supposed to get his work done?

Eileen stood, hands on hips, and stared at her husband.

Robert looked down at the hard-packed dirt floor. Michael, Gunny, he yelled up into the loft. Come down. You’re going with me.

Eileen tapped her foot as the children scrambled down the ladder. She gave them as a half-smile as she pushed the trio out into the yard and bolted the door behind them. She added a brick of turf to the fire and put on the kettle for tea.

Gunny hummed an uneven tune as she skipped along beside her father’s small hand wagon carrying three sacks of oat seed. At the age of five, she was taller than most six year olds and easily kept pace with her father and brother. When we get to the fields, I’m going to help plant, she announced as she hopped along backwards, letting the stiff wind push her curls up around her face.

Robert eyed his spirited daughter. We’ll see.

When they reached the oat field, Michael spied the McCrohan boys making a stone fort along the edge of the field and raced off to build with them. The McCrohans lived along the main road to Ventry, just down the hill and across a fallow field from the Malones. Their house was larger than most, with a wide yard to accommodate the forge which was built along the creek. John McCrohan was the village smithy. He was tall, with a thick neck and strong arms, and was one of the best story tellers in the village. When Gunny sat at his feet at the nearly nightly gatherings at the McCrohan house, she reveled in his rich, deep voice, and in his smell of smoke and sweat.

John McCrohan and Robert Malone had been friends since they were boys, and now Michael was fast friends with the McCrohan boys. Matt was eight, the same age as Michael, and was the oldest in the family. Mac was five, the same age as Gunny. Neither boy wanted anything to do with little Gunny Malone.

Gunny looked away from their fort making and smiled up at her father. What do we do first?

Robert sighed. I don’t have time for you to be playing with the seeds, Gunny, he explained. Why don’t you sit and watch.

Gunny’s eyes filled with tears and she felt her throat tighten. I don’t want to sit and watch, she said in a quiet voice. I want to work.

Robert hesitated. He hated it when the girl cried. All right. You can help - if you promise to listen and keep out of trouble.

Gunny squealed and hopped up into his arms. He tried to toss her into the air as he done when she was younger, but she was too long and heavy for that now. He set her down awkwardly on the rough dirt road and patted her head, then reached behind her and took a rumpled, empty sack from the wagon. He slashed it open with his pocket knife, folded it in half, and wrapped it twice around her small waist. He tied the cloth in the back leaving a large open pocket in the front, then took a dip of oat seeds in a tin cup and filled the pocket. She tucked her hands under the full pocket and grinned.

Robert knelt in front of her, resting his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eye. Listen to me and think about what you’re doing. We don’t have one seed to waste.

Gunny licked her lips and nodded her head, black curls bouncing. Robert reached into the seed pocket and held out an open fistful of seeds. Your job is to place the seeds in the little rows I’m going to make. I want one little seed to drop at a time into the center of the row. I’ll follow behind you and cover the seeds with dirt. Do you think you can you do that?

You know I can, Da, Gunny said with an impish grin.

Robert straightened. Good. Now wait here while I make the first furrow.

Gunny watched as her father took his furrowing tool and walked across the field turning a long, strait row in the freshly fertilized dirt. She ran both hands through the seeds in her pocket while she waited. The seeds felt cool and tickled as they flowed around her fingers.

He returned to her side. Now it’s your turn. Work as slowly as you need to. Don’t leave any gaps or you’ll bring bad luck to the field.

Gunny cocked her head to one side and eyed her father. Mam says there is no such thing as bad luck, that we each make our own luck.

Robert chuckled. So today make your own luck by getting these seeds planted in straight rows.

Gunny slowly dropped seeds from her small right fist into the narrow row. At first the seeds stuck to her fingers, and two or three would drop at once. When that happened, she carefully picked up the extra seeds and placed them in the next open space in the furrow. She was finally able to get one seed to drop at a time through her fingers and her pace quickened. Robert worked slowly behind her covering the seeds with a hoe. A few times he wanted to tell her to hurry up, or to say that having one or two seeds out of place was all right, but he admired her determination to stick to his rule. At the end of the first row, they had planted a long, straight row of oats with not one seed out of place. Robert admitted to himself that her seed row was much tighter than any he had ever planted. And his back didn’t ache from stooping over to place the seeds.

Michael ran out to the field to see what his father and Gunny were doing. What do you mean Gunny gets to help? Michael complained. Why don’t I get to help?

Because you didn’t ask, Robert said firmly as he started with his furrow tool down a second row. Gunny followed behind, planting a neat, tidy line of oat seeds, humming to herself, and smiling all the while. Robert glanced back at her and grinned. She was his girl.

The next day, Robert announced that they were ready to take on the potato beds. Gunny was tired from planting the oat seeds but looked forward to another day in the fields with her Da. Michael decided that fishing was more interesting than planting, and disappeared along the trail to find the McCrohans as Gunny and her father hiked to the higher fields.

The potato fields looked nothing like the oat field. Robert had dug long trenches to loosen the soil, then added manure to create hills for the potato seeds. As the plants grew, he would add more soil to the hills to give the roots room to make more potatoes. Robert took Gunny’s seed apron from the wagon and filled it with cut seed potatoes. The pocket apron was much heavier than the previous day, filled with the lumpy eyes of potatoes, each of which would produce a new plant. He grabbed a sack of cut seed potatoes for himself, and headed across the first field. Gunny loved the smell of the freshly turned soil and dragged her toes through the dirt as they walked. When they got to the far end of the field, Robert handed her a small shovel.

Dig a small hole in the hill about a hand’s width down. Put in one seed and cover the hole. Then move to the next hill.

Your hand or my hand? Gunny asked.

Robert laughed. My hand.

Gunny did as she was told. At the end of the first row, her legs and back ached from stooping and shoveling. She stood to stretch and watched as her father moved quickly onto his third row, lugging the large sack of seed potatoes. She took a deep breath and started into her second row.

Gunny insisted she spend each day now with her Da, either weeding in the fields or making the long walk to the stables in Ventry. Staying home with her mother meant cooking and mending and housework - all of which was boring. The air inside the house was smoky and stagnant, and her mother snapped at her and insisted that she work quietly. Her father gave Gunny a job and let her do her best work. He didn’t care if she hummed or sang. She could breathe when she worked outside with her father.

Lord Ventry sent Sean Fitzpatrick to find the horseman, Robert Malone. Sean galloped into the small Malone yard on a large, spotted grey steed. He was fifteen and small for his age, and the horse looked huge underneath him. He slid down from the horse and tied the reins to a post by the door. He knocked three times in rapid succession. Robert opened the door and was surprised to see the boy in his yard. Sean’s mother worked as a maid in the big house and Sean had pretty much raised himself with the Lord’s horses. Robert couldn’t recall ever having seen Sean outside of the Lord’s stables. His small face was as red as his hair and was covered with beads of sweat from a thundering ride through the hills around Mount Eagle.

Sean took a deep breath and his words caught in his throat. The Lord’s prize mare refuses to eat and we can’t find nothing wrong with her. You’re to take this steed and go to the stables at once. She’s the Lord’s favorite. Someone will pay if she dies.

Robert pulled on his jacket and hat. By the time he was at the door, Gunny also had on her shawl and hat. Sean glanced at the girl. He had seen her before at the stables and didn’t like her. She walked right up to the horses and talked with them as if she was raised in a stables.

The Lord didn’t say anything about bringing a girl with you.

Robert swung up into the saddle, then reached down and roughly pulled Gunny up into his lap. She hardly weighs a thing, Robert insisted. She won’t slow me down.

Gunny’s breath caught in her throat. She had never been on a horse this size and her legs barely straddled the horse’s wide back. She gripped the horse’s black mane and fell back against her father as he spurred the large beast down the hill through the fallow field, then south toward Ventry.

Lord Ventry’s large black mare was lying down in her stall. Robert knelt, muttering, and ran his hands over every inch of the horse’s large frame. She gave him a weak whinny and he clicked in response. No bones appeared to be broken. He felt around her head and across her belly applying soft pressure along her stomach and at each of her joints. She didn’t have a temperature and nothing appeared to be swollen or painful. She whinnied again and Robert nickered in return. Was this perhaps a kinked intestine? If that’s the case, she’s done for, he thought. He stood and rubbed the back of his sweaty neck with his right hand, bumping his cap onto his forehead. He stared down at the horse, head tilted slightly to one side.

Gunny squeezed past him and squatted near the mare’s head.

Be careful, Gunny. If she’s in pain, she may bite you.

Gunny looked the large mare in the eye and placed a small hand on each side of the horse’s long black head. The horse stared back, her large brown eyes dewy and soft. Gunny pet the horse’s velvet black nose as she muttered little clicks and snorts. Then she ran her hands up along the horses head toward her ears. When she got near the horse’s right ear, the mare shook her head and pulled away.

Da, did you look here? Gunny asked, cupping her hand around the warm, black ear.

The horse is not eating and won’t stand, Gunny. It’s likely something’s wrong with her insides, not her ears.

When I have an earache I feel dizzy and my whole head hurts. And I don’t feel like eating, Gunny said.

Gunny held the horse’s head steady while Robert held a candle up to the horse’s right ear. Inside, he could see a dark mass deep down in the ear shaft. The surrounding skin was red and swollen. How could he have missed this? Could the problem be as simple as ear mites?

You may be right, child. Her ear looks bad. He pulled a bottle of mineral oil from a high shelf and heated some in a tin cup over a candle. When the oil was warm, he poured it into the horse’s ear, and then took a long swab of fabric wrapped around a small stick and carefully cleaned out the thick, black mess. The horse waited patiently while he worked, then sat up, shook her large head, and struggled to her feet.

Robert laughed. It looks like she’s already feeling better. What made you think to look in her ear?

Gunny squinted at her father. I asked her.

The horse whinnied and tossed her head.

Robert looked at Gunny. You are a healer, he said.

The little girl grinned.

Sean Fitzpatrick ran into the stables, sweaty and pale from his run back from Dunquin. What do you think? he started, then stared, amazed to see the horse on her feet and pawing at the feed bags. Well, I’ll be. You are the horse man. He wrapped his arms around the horse’s thick neck, then ran to the back of the large stables. He returned with a plump sheep dog pup and held it out to Robert. Old Blue had a litter a few months back. The other pups have been claimed, but no one wanted the runt of the litter. Do you want to buy him?

The pup had long, silky black hair and one white paw. His right ear fell slightly forward over light blue eyes. Gunny reached out and stroked the soft fur on the puppy’s head. He grabbed her fingers in his mouth and gave her a playful chew. Gunny laughed and pulled the pup from Sean’s arms into her own. Da, can we have him?

Give it back, Gunny, Robert said sternly. A dog eats more than we can spare these days. Robert’s old sheep dog had died the year before and truth be told, he wasn’t sure how he would get his sheep in for sheering without a dog. He looked at Gunny’s intent face as she muttered into the pup’s soft ear.

How much? he asked the boy.

Half a pound.

I haven’t got a half pound. Put the dog down, Gunny. We have to get home.

Gunny held the pup’s soft head against her cheek and closed her eyes. Da, we need a dog. You know we do, she said in a voice too mature for a five-year old.

He’s small, Sean said. I’ll give him to you for five shillings.

I only have four.

Then I’ll give him to you for four.

Gunny whooped and held the pup up over her head while her father dug in his pockets for the coins. Gunny put the pup down and he raced to the back of the stables with Gunny in hot pursuit.

Gunny, remember he’s a working dog, Robert bawled after her.

What’ll we name him? Gunny yelled back.

Shep, of course, Robert said without pause.

Gunny walked up to her father and clung onto his arm. Shep was the name of our last dog.

I call all of my dogs Shep.

Shep! Gunny yelled, then clicked her tongue to call the dog. Shep wiggled up to Gunny and licked her hand. She ran both hands over his smooth, black head and he rolled onto his back so she could scratch his belly.

Shep, she repeated. The dog twisted upright and looked at her. She grinned. See how smart he is? He already knows his name.

John McCrohan and Robert Malone sat on short three-legged stools on the uneven dirt floor in front of a low peat fire, smoking their pipes and sipping at small jars of whiskey. The McCrohan house was crowded with six McCrohan children plus several other children from the village including Michael and Gunny Malone. Kate McCrohan kept one eye on the fire and the other on the children as she sat on a third stool briskly patching worn clothes. She kept her stool close by John’s and occasionally reached out to gently touch his arm or leg. When the fire waned, she knelt to stir the embers and added a new brick of turf. The only other light in the room came from a dim oil lamp that hung along the front wall.

Robert enjoyed a few quiet moments with John each evening before there was a knock at the door and the house filled with the voices and heat of friendly neighbors. John was one of the few men in the village who could read, and his selection of a newspaper story each evening brought friends from the village in for a nightly discussion. Eileen Malone rarely attended with Robert. The local women would occasionally ask Robert about Eileen, but she wasn’t from the village and wasn’t generally missed. Each guest arrived at the McCrohans’ with a stool to sit on. The men brought pipes and tobacco; the women brought a basket of mending and bit of food to share. John started most evenings with a reading from the paper. New stories led to old stories - of Brian Boru, the High King of Tara; of Grania O’Malley, the Irish pirate queen; of St. Brendan, the Navigator; of St. Bridgit, the saint of healing and inspiration; and of the brave Fianna warriors. Everyone contributed to the conversation, but Robert Malone and John McCrohan were recognized as being the two best story tellers.

Some of Gunny’s earliest memories were of sitting at her father’s feet listening to the old stories. Gunny loved how her father used his whole body when he told a story, leaning forward to create suspense, and clapping his hands to describe a thunderstorm, to cap a phrase, or to break a spell. Robert’s face animated the characters he described – his eyebrows raised in surprise, or fell in misery. John favored the mysteries and spoke with a lowered voice and his hand at his mouth to punctuate the secrecy of a moment. He ruffled his hair when he told tales of change brought about by the north wind, and smoothed his hair when he told tales of true lovers reunited.

Gunny loved falling asleep in front of the fire listening to the stories, and especially liked when her father picked her up to carry her home, placing her in bed next to Michael, and gently tucking a blanket in tight around both of them.

~ Chapter 2 –A Tin Whistle, Holy Days, and Seals ~

Gunny sat in the loft by the chimney surrounded by chickens, chicken poop, and chicken feathers, and listened to the drum of rain on the thatch roof. It was mid-April but the weather felt like it had been borrowed from March. Michael was off as usual with the McCrohan boys and her father said it was too wet to work in the fields. She rolled onto her back and thrust her hips into the air, dangling her dirty bare feet over her head. She held her breath until she saw stars, then flopped back down onto the rough, wooden floor. A chicken nesting nearby squawked and pecked at her hand. She ignored the bird, and turned onto her stomach to crawl to the edge of the loft on her elbows. She raised her head just high enough to spy on her mother stitching by the dim light of the fire.

Stop staring at me, Eileen muttered without looking up. You’re nine years old today. Go find something to do.

There’s nothing to do. If you’d had more children I’d have someone to play with.

If you can’t find something to do, I’ll find something for you.

Gunny scooted to the back of the loft and leaned against a pile of old wooden boxes. Weak, grey light dotted the floor from the small rain-speckled loft window. She rocked back and felt the boxes shift behind her, then jumped, hitting her head on the damp roof, as the top box tipped off the stack and spilled its contents with a crash. Chickens squawked and flew out of the loft in every direction.

What was that? Eileen yelled, shooing the crazed, exiting birds away from her stitching.

Nothing, Gunny said loudly as she crouched and flipped the wooden box upright, then felt about in the dim light for the contents. She thrust an old rusted iron pan and two wooden plates back into the box. She spied a glint of metal on the floor, and reached over to grasp a long, thin tube. She sat cross legged and ran her hand over the cool, dimpled surface, then crawled to the edge of the loft, pushed one remaining chicken aside, and held the treasure out toward her mother.

What’s this?

Eileen squinted up at Gunny then returned to her sewing. That’s my Mam’s old whistle. Put it back where you found it and clean up the mess you made.

I already cleaned it up. Can I keep the whistle?

Eileen hesitated. It belonged to my Mam.

Why did grandmam have a whistle? Did she play it?

Maybe when she was little. I don’t remember. Eileen set her mending in her lap and pushed a loose strand of hair away from her eyes. Put that away and come down. Your da’ll be home soon from the pub and will want to eat. We need fresh water from the well.

Gunny remained in the loft, rolling the cool, tin whistle between her dirty palms. But your Mam has passed and this old whistle is just wasting away up here. Do you know how to play it?

No, Eileen snorted. I’d never play a whistle.

Gunny put the whistle to her mouth and blew. A high-pitched shriek filled the room. She pulled the whistle from her mouth and smiled. That was loud!

That was dreadful! Eileen said. You’ll bring on a headache sure enough. Take that whistle outside if you must blow on it. And don’t forget to get the water.

Gunny scrambled onto the ladder and jumped down the last few rungs. She grabbed the wooden water bucket by the door and hurried outside with Shep tight at her heels. The rain had settled into a heavy mist. She set the bucket down in the yard and sat on the rough bench that ran along the front wall of the house. She looked at the small instrument. She remembered seeing Gabe Burke play a tin whistle once at a gathering at the McCrohans’. She covered up all of the holes as best she could and blew. The sound was muddled and low. She uncovered one hole and the pitch went up slightly. She uncovered another hole and another until she reached the same high pitch she had made inside.

I can still hear you! Eileen shouted through the door. Take that whistle with you to the well.

Gunny leapt off the bench, clicked for Shep to follow, and raced up the muddy path toward Mount Eagle, whistle in hand, the water bucket sitting forgotten by the bench.

Gunny played the whistle everywhere she went that summer, in the fields, along mountain paths, and at the shore. She started off teaching herself the old tunes she’d heard at the gatherings, then made up new tunes that were sometimes jarring, sometimes sweet. Her mother didn’t cringe now when she played inside and she had even been asked to play a few times at the McCrohans’.

Through the long, cold winter she played in front of a low peat fire until her cheeks hurt, and her long, thin fingers ached. Eileen pretended indifference to the music, but her father sat near her as she played and often teared up at her high and low trills, shaking his large head as the tunes pulsed through him to the beat of the wind.

Gunny woke from a tangled dream on her mattress in front of the fire. She had moved out of the back room two months before, just after Christmas. Michael was large and sweaty and took up too much space in their shared bed. She tossed her thin blanket aside, unsettling two chickens who were roosting at her feet. A dull light filtered through the front window. When the chickens re-settled in the loft, the front room was quiet and still. She took a deep breath of smoky air and smiled.

St. Brigit’s Day! she whispered to the walls. Today was the first day of spring. The winds would be warmer now, and the seas calmer. Starting today, she would spend every minute outside with her father preparing the fields for planting. She pushed up from her mattress and looked out the front window. A light rain was falling in the yard. Oh, well. Rain on St. Brigit’s Day was lucky. She stood and stretched, then felt a cold, wet nose on her leg. She gave Shep a quick pat on the head and squatted in front of the fire to stir in a few bog sprigs. When the sprigs caught, she added a brick of turf and warmed her hands. She would need straw to make St. Bridgit crosses. She’d take Shep with her up into the high fields. She heard a rustle of movement in the back room.

Don’t get any ideas about being outside all day, Eileen whispered coming up behind her. I want this house neat and tidy for St. Bridgit.

Do you love St. Bridgit? Or do you just like that I have to help you clean the house today?

Eileen ignored her daughter and glanced out the window. She shook her head. Rain. How miserable is that? she said, rubbing her hands in front of the fire to warm them.

Gunny tied on her apron and grabbed her shawl and the bucket by the door. I’ll get the water. She pulled her shawl up over her head and paused. Are you going to make a fruit cake?

I doubt we have enough flour or butter.

Gunny clucked her tongue and pointed. Shep obeyed, racing past her out the door. St. Brigit gave fruit cakes to the poor. We should make a fruit cake to remember her.

We are the poor. And who remembers us?

It was a week before Easter and Eileen was once again turning the house upside down, cleaning for a high holy day. Gunny dragged the kitchen table and stools outside and rubbed them down with sand and water. While they dried, she took the frying pan, potato pot, cooking tongs and flippers to the yard and scrubbed them with sand. The black metal pots still felt greasy even after she scrubbed each one several times. She eyed the pots. They were black and thick with fire hardened ash. She frowned and looked around the yard. She wasn’t sure how else to clean them. How was it that Michael was always absent when there was hard work to be done?

Robert slipped out of the house to join Gunny. Eileen had given him strict instructions about cleaning the yard. He leaned on the low stone fence, one hand on his hip and the other rubbing the back of his neck as he eyed the crowded space. They’d be moving the dung hill soon enough to fertilize the fields. He looked at the broken stool tucked under the front bench. Two legs were still perfectly good and they might need those to mend another stool. The bent wheel from the wagon leaned against the front wall draped in his old fishing net which needed mending. Those should stay right where they were. He glanced at the cracked butter churn. He could probably fix it. He glanced at Gunny and shrugged. What was there to clean?

Gunny took a deep breath and looked up from her work. Da, if you go to Dingle this week, could you get me a new ribbon to wear on Easter Sunday?

Robert dug his hands into his pockets and looked out across the fields. You know we have no money for ribbons.

Gunny set the blackened potato pot aside and sat on the front bench. All of the other girls’ll have a new ribbon or new shoes or a new hat for Easter. I never have anything that’s new.

Robert sat down next to his daughter and took her red, chapped hand in his. At ten, she was nearly as tall as her mother. There’s no girl in this village with a face as fine as yours. You don’t need a ribbon to outshine them all. Gunny blinked back tears and said nothing. Robert glanced at her beautiful face. You still want a ribbon, don’t you? Gunny gave a slight nod. Robert lowered his eyes and squeezed her hand. I’ll see what I can do, he said rising from the bench.

Gunny stood and gave her father a quick hug, then wiped her face with the back of her hand. Thank you.

The front door opened in a cloud of dust. Are you two going to talk all day or are you going to work? Eileen leaned the broom against the front wall. "Nothing comes back inside until we whitewash