Infinite Devotion (31 page)

“Vermin on their
own land
!” my Da huffs.

Art looks up squinting, scratching his leg right above the faint birthmark above his knee. “But didn’t an O’Hanlon fight for the queen?”

“Oh, you do remember every word now, don’t you, Artie?” She gives a sneer at the thought, though. “Unfortunately, that he did, poor misguided Oghie O’Hanlon, fought and even was
knighted
by her cursed and wicked Majesty for fighting the Earl of Tyrone. Queen Elizabeth promised him that his lands would pass to his sons. Promises, empty promises; what are they good for?”

“The O’Hanlon’s got Tandragee back briefly under O’Neill though,” Da says looking up. “We almost held it, we did.”

Ma turns to me. “You were but a wee little baby.”

“Twas a bless’d day, with the sun shining through the clouds, that I stepped foot within those castle walls, where I belonged,” Da says, nodding as his face falls.

“I can’t believe only forty years ago an O’Hanlon lived in that castle.” I look at Da who sits staring at the fire now. I thought he didn’t hear me, so I repeat it, but he stays quiet, sitting with his head in his hand. Whenever he’s deep in thought he would put his index finger right beside the large mole by his eye and the other three fingers across his mouth. I try to imagine what he’s seeing‌—‌climbing castle stairs, looking out upon the valley from the turrets, and running through fields upon fields of soft wheat and barley.

“Well, your Da’s sure had his share of ups and downs. Let us give him his peace now.”

But he comes to, and he looks in my eyes. “I left right about your age to go abroad for an education. Came back to nothing, absolutely nothing.” He hits his fist on his other calloused and dry hand. “Left a lord and come back a beggar.”

“We’re hardly beggars, Hugh. We’re better off than most of the peasants around here, God bless them. We’ve everything we need, and better not take that for granted.”

“Mary, I’ve a finer military education than most of the redcoats running around with muskets and I’m not allowed to command them, or fight with them! Hell! I can only get their horses for them and lift their fat Protestant arses up into their saddles.”

Ma turns away when he gets to the word fat, and she pretends not to hear his cursing. Da picks up his pipe and walks out the door, slamming the metal latch hard, shaking the white plaster walls of the cottage.

Art whispers to me in the deafening silence left by the discord, “You’re still lucky to have such greatness behind you.”

The next day, Da comes in all rosy-cheeked from running and says with a huge grin on his face, “Redmond, boy! You’re off to the finest school in England!”

Ma drops the wooden bowl she’s cleaning. “Have you gone mad, Hugh!”

“Simmer down, targe, the boy’s the same age as I was.”

“It’s not his age, old man, it’s the money! Education abroad costs a fortune!”

“I just went into town and sold a few things‌—‌gave away that fat sow you hated so much.”

“The sow! She was due in a few weeks!”

“I know, she fetched a nice price for it too, Mary.” He tries to calm down a bit. “I got enough to pay for his travel and admittance; if we’re thrifty, we can get by just fine.”

Ma takes a deep breath and braces herself on the table. “Hugh,” she begins, “why would you send off Redmond when you yourself said last night that your education was worthless?”

He turns with a look of pride I haven’t seen on him for years. “Why, then, I realized last night that Ireland needs an army. An army to rid our land of invaders, and that army will have to be led by someone.” He holds my shoulder. “I’d sell a hundred sows and everything my family passed down to see the day where I could walk back into Tandragee Castle again.”

Ma, seeing that look in Da’s eyes, knows there’s nothing she can do to change his mind, so she goes outside to fetch the leather bag she has in the shed and gives it to me. “Redmond, dear, gather up your things.”

I kiss Ma good-bye. She cries and runs back into the house as soon as my lips touch her rosy cheek. Art gets on the front bench of the carriage with Da and me, and we make our way down the bumpy, dirt path to the ferry. The wheels screech like a neglected banshee.

“Cart wheel’s cursing for grease,” Da huffs.

As we stand by the boat Da looks at me and says, “Learn everything you can know, boy. Take everything in. Not only what you learn in books, but watch the English and learn the way they talk, walk, and take a piss. Ireland will need it when you come back.” I nod, and he bumps his head against mine, holding the back of my thin neck.

“Take care of my folks like they’re your own, Art.”

Art nods. His amber eyes fill with tears and Da slaps him on the back. “He’s our own now, he’s an official O’Hanlon!”

The whistle blows, and the boat starts away. I watch as the land of my ancestors drifts farther and farther away.

Chapter 2

“Art? It can’t be you?” I laugh when I see him standing by our old carriage at the ferry. He’s grown so much in the eight years I’ve been away. He’s filled out to a strong fellow with broad, powerful shoulders.

“Redmond, my little man!” He has some inches over me while we embrace in greeting and slap each other’s backs.

“Let’s go get a bite at the tavern. I’m starving.” I throw my bag in the back of the cart.

“Oh, no, your Ma would have my hide if I didn’t bring you home at once.”

The farm looks exactly like I left it, but my smile falls a little when my Da limps out, his back bent as he walks, his face worn and tired. He smiles at the sight of me, and I try to hurry to him as fast as I can so he doesn’t have to suffer another step.

“Redmond, my boy! Home now and ready to take on the Planters!” We all laugh.

Ma comes running from the barn, throws down her basket of seed, and rushes right into my arms. Her smell reminds me of childhood. She pulls back to look at me. “Oh, you left a boy and came back a man!” She squints to search in my eyes. “There’s my wee boy.”

She hugs me tight again and takes me inside. I wish I’d been able to afford coming back sooner. It felt so long. Ma pushes me to sit in Da’s chair, and she hurries to get me something to eat.

Sitting, I say, “It’s so good to be home.”

Ma smiles wide and puts a plate and fork in my hand.

After taking a bite, Art asks, “So, tell us?”

“Tell you what, then?” I say, smiling, knowing it’ll drive them crazy.

“About England, you fool.” Art sits on the floor in his usual place, but now he looks too big to be sitting cross-legged.

“My studies kept me busy day and night. Most of the boys there were rich Protestants, but they kept their distance. There was one other Irish Catholic who was my only friend.”

Art straightens up and says to Ma, “He even sounds different now.”

Then, in my best English, I say, “What do you mean, I sound different?”

They laugh as they hear me speak, so I keep going.

“Is there something wrong with the way I sound?” I say with a Scottish accent.

“Do another one!” Ma squeals, enjoying the show.

“Or would you prefer French?”

Art’s taken aback a bit. “Sure, but now you lost your Northern accent.”

“Well, I’ll have some time to work on that again,” I say as Da sits down slowly in Ma’s delicate chair.

“I hope my money went to much more than some fancy words,” Da says.

“I learned everything I could learn, just like you said‌—‌even graduated with honors. I excelled in fencing, riding, languages, military tactics, and strategy.”

He gives a proud look, and a sparkle glints in his eye. “Art, you should have him show you what he knows, ’twill serve you well too.”

Art nods as his body stiffens.

“Speaking of work, Redmond, you’ll be happy to know I’ve secured you a great position working for Sir George Acheson of Markethill,” Da says.

“What position would that be?” I stuff some bread in my mouth.

“Footboy.”

“Footboy?” I say with my mouth full.

“I had to pull some favors to get it there, sonny, so don’t be looking a gift horse in the mouth.”

“I’d give anything to be Acheson’s footboy. It pays better than any of the farm jobs around here,” says Art.

“No, footboy sounds like a fine job, Da, thank you for all you’ve done for me.” I take the last piece of bread to sop up the gravy.

That night, I climb up the ladder to the loft that seemed so much higher when I was eight. Art’s already under the covers on our small mattress. I laugh at the sight of him. “This is going to be much different now that you’re taking up more than half the bed.”

“Quit your chittering.” He turns over with an exaggerated pucker. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

I laugh, crawl under, and turn just as he breaks wind. He waves the blanket and snickers. “Good to have you back, Redmond, or should I say it in French?”

We laugh, and I drift off to sleep quickly.

I’m high above the dark water, the white slaps of waves breaking the darkness. I plunge into the frigid waters, and everything around me feels tight and suffocating. No matter how I move my arms, no matter how I move my legs, I can’t get back up to the surface. I open my eyes in the stinging, briny water and can see the surface. My lungs start burning as I run out of air. I look to see a young boy sinking down to the depths. I see his small face with his large brown eyes, yet no movement would propel me farther. I suck in the black water and choke.

“Andres!” I sit up, clutching my chest and gasping for air.

Art startles. “What’s wrong, Redmond?”

Ma cries up from downstairs, “Redmond?”

I can breathe again by the time she reaches the side of my bed, and she takes her thin hand and wipes away my sweat. “Another one of those drowning dreams?”

I nod.

Art asks, “You still have those?”

“Haven’t had one since I left here.” I breathe normally now.

Ma holds my head to her shoulder and says, “Remember what I’ve always told you. You will live long enough for greatness. The soothsayers are never wrong or to be taken lightly. At your birth, the wise lady pulled you from my womb and saw that birthmark on you left hand. She held it up to me and said, ‘’Tis the mark for great things, both triumphant and tragic, but this boy will be remembered.’”

Ma takes my hand out, and even in the light of the moon, we can both see the brown dot under the bottom of the fifth finger. She touches it. “You can’t do great things if you drown, now, can you?”

“I’m fine now; everyone go back to sleep.”

“Here, here,” Art says as he rolls over, and Ma heads back down the ladder.

I can’t get back to sleep, though. I’m deciding which troubles me more, the tragedy that will befall me or that I’m expected to be great.

Chapter 3

The sting of his crop whips across my face. “I have told you, boy, not to look me in the eye when you address me!”

I fight the urge to hold my hand to my cheek to stop the bite. I clench my jaw and wring my fists behind my back.

“You ignorant Irish yeomen will never learn unless there’s pain in it.” He straightens himself on his saddle and kicks his stirrup. “When I get back, make sure to have all my messages. I want you waiting here at the stable for me to return.”

As soon as he disappears down his hunting trail, I kick over the step he used to mount his horse.

“I’m no yeoman!” I scream.

After walking out of the stables, I spy Sir Acheson’s prize horse, the beautiful white mare prancing around in the field. She dances for me, and I think about how fast I could go if I had a horse like that.

A voice rises from the corner of the stables. “Why don’t you ride her, then? He’ll be gone for a bit.”

I turn quickly to see a young man not much older than me sitting on a hay bale beside the stall.

“Do you work for Sir Acheson?” I ask, seeing he’s not in the stiff uniform he forces all his help to wear.

“Thank the good Lord, no.” He points to my cheek. “Seeing how he treats them and all.” A tall dark-haired youth with blazing eyes of indigo steps forward. His skin is dark as if he works outside, but he’s not the stocky farm-help type, more lean and sinewy like a rider.