Kilpara (3 page)

Father always said fate had brought us Rengen,
who ran away at age eighteen from beatings suffered at the hands of
a plantation owner in North Carolina. Believing that life was
better up North, he escaped to find it. Not long after his
appearance at Stonebridge, fate stepped in again; Jasmine arrived
among a group of itinerant workers and was brought under Eileen’s
watchful eye in the kitchen. Rengen was taken with Jasmine and she
with him. She often made excuses to carry fresh water to him while
he worked. In time, he asked her to marry him.

Remembering Jasmine I asked, “How’s your
family, Rengen?”

“
Good,” he replied. “Happy the
war’s done over with.” He shook his head from side to side. “There
be no more worry about them rebel armies stealing from y’all, but
looting's still going on in these parts, and we’se got to watch out
about that. It be tough on folks, what with them trying to pick up
their lives after the war and all.”

Two farmhands came in and helped themselves to
coffee. “Check the mare in the south end,” Rengen commanded. “She
be foaling sometime soon.” The farmhands acknowledged his order and
left.

Rengen’s eyes followed the two young men. “All
that killing and maiming, theyse say it be to free colored folks,
but there ain’t no truth about that. Theyse ain’t free. Theyse just
trading one set of chains for another—”

His eyes roved around the shack and he waved a
hand at the makeshift walls. “Soon’s the poaching be done over
with, we’se going to tear these down. No more spending nights up
here.” This seemed to cheer him up for he pushed back his chair; I
did the same, and we stood at the open door watching the horses
graze.

“
Nice foals,” I said.

“
Several’s bein’ born every day and
there ain’t been no problems. Your brothers, theyse liking
that.”

“
I expected to find them
here.”

“
Theyse getting on back home last
night. They knowed you’se needing to talk.”

“
I didn’t see them.”

“
It was late when theyse
leaving—getting on after dark.”

Rengen looked thoughtful, and his voice
softened. “Too bad about your mama. She be a beautiful woman, kind
too, though I never did like them soda bread of hers, anymore than
she be liking them grits...”

I didn’t answer. Thoughts of Mother’s fated
illness seemed out of place in this peaceful glen where water
gurgled and birds sang, where boughs swayed gently and horses
roamed aimlessly. The only disturbance was a black stallion with
white spots on his forehead. He galloped back and forth on long
strong legs, uneasy in his confined space.

I nodded toward the stallion. “Who’s the
horse?”

“
That there’s Brazonhead.” Rengen
grinned. “He be the best stallion we’se got. He’s having more
energy than twenty horses. The result of your father’s experiment
to breed the best.”

“
Is he quick?”

“
The fastest,” Rengen
said.

“
Mind if I ride him?”

“
He be hard to control most
times.”

“
I’d like to try him.”

“
Youse sure?”

I nodded.

Rengen walked over to the stallion that had
stopped at the sound of his voice. He slipped a bridle over the
animal’s head and led him to where the brown mare stood at the
hitching post. Taking the saddle off the mare’s back, he strapped
it onto the stallion. I moved closer; Brazonhead jerked his head
upward, his eyes wild. Rengen continued to talk to him. I eased
into the saddle slowly and took hold of the reins.

The horse didn't balk as we rode up out of the
valley. We trotted through the pass followed by Rengen’s deep
laughter and that of the two farmhands who came to watch. As soon
as we moved into the open space beyond the narrow gap, Brazonhead
reared and broke into a gallop, bucking and jumping. He smelled
freedom, and I was all that stood between him and heedless abandon.
I wasn't the rider my brothers were, but I had worked alongside my
father, so I hung on trying to remember everything I had
learned.

The ground sped past me swift as a bullet; I
was jostled from side to side and up and down. Several times I came
close to falling off, my head hovering just inches above the
ground, inhaling upturned earth while attempting to regain my
balance. Moving away from the hills, we rode alongside fields
already ploughed for springtime planting. We came to the eastern
bank of the Wern River and Brazonhead stopped abruptly, almost
tumbling me over his head. He hesitated long enough for me to ask,
“Now what?” His response was a quick leap and we splashed into
deep, cold water.

I slid off his back, holding tightly onto his
mane as he treaded the current with forceful strength. When the
water turned shallow, I slid back into the saddle and took hold of
the reins. Climbing onto the opposite bank, an unhappy Brazonhead
reared in a last attempt to free himself. The saddle was wet and
slippery, and instinctively I leaned forward tightening the reins
for control, my knuckles turning white on their grip. My breath
mingled with his as I hung on, shivering beneath the warming sun.
Neck and neck, we galloped along familiar ground and were almost
into the hamlet of Gum Springs when he sensed civilization and
turned south down an overgrown path. Before long, we came to what
remained of the log cabin my parents had built when they first
arrived in Maryland.

Brazonhead came to an abrupt halt; I slid off
his back feeling shaken. Looking around I muttered, “So you know
the old homestead?” I entered the ruin where the warmth of Mother’s
love and the strength of Father’s pride still lingered in this
hovel that had once been small compensation for their exiled
existence.

I knew well the circumstances of their journey
into exile. How they had left Kilpara, their sixteenth century
Irish estate situated on lands belonging to O’Donovans. Lands they
had kept out of the grip of Britain’s greedy hands until earlier in
this century when punitive taxes drained Kilpara’s
wealth.

My parents explained how they married during
this period of tyranny that was continually sinking its venom into
a devoured nation. With heavy hearts, my grandparents sold their
home to a lurking Lord Purcenell who snared it for a miserly sum.
Stripped of their inheritance, my parents followed the multitude of
Ireland’s diaspora in search of a better life on American shores.
They left behind my grandparents who were reduced to living in a
small tenant cottage they managed to reclaim—castoffs on their own
land.

Mother and Father arrived in New York almost
penniless and were taken in by kind countrymen. Immediately, Father
put his knowledge of horses to work and found a job in a smithy.
Mother, who still owned beautiful gowns, started a small
dressmaking business. Very quickly her garments became sought after
by the American aristocracy and she took other young Irish
seamstresses into her employ. Her reputation grew among the wives
of generals and distinguished politicians not only for her
exemplary garments but also for the stories of her lost family
fortune.

My parents luck changed for the better when
General Frichard, an eccentric military commander who delighted in
the hunt, whether man or beast, became fascinated by their
misfortune and invited them to social functions at his home. He
boasted before his friends of his selfless generosity toward these
displaced Irish immigrants.

On one occasion, he announced before a large
gathering that he intended to make them a gift of fifty acres on
his property in northern Maryland. The land was theirs to clear and
make their own, thus setting their destiny in motion. Frichard’s
friends were well aware of his vast eight thousand acre estate.
What they wondered was why he bothered to befriend a family of
immigrants, and with good cause, since he was more shrewd than
generous. The primary motive behind his generosity was revealed
only to my parents. He wanted my father to raise champion horses
similar to the ones the O’Donovans were known for in Ireland, and
to lead him and his friends in hunts.

My parents had nothing to look forward to in
New York’s overcrowded tenements, so Father agreed to Frichard’s
plan, happy to free himself and his family from inclement
conditions. They moved to Maryland, worked day and night to clear
their land, using the timber to build a cabin that soon grew from
one room into three with a loft overhead where my brothers slept.
They continued to cling to the ideal that they would prosper in
this land and one day return to Ireland and reclaim their
birthright.

As a child, oftentimes, I sat with my mother
at the edge of the Wern River. She told me to close my eyes like
she did. She would talk about Kilpara and Corrib breezes, of the
ocean and mists that descended from low-lying clouds, and of rich
green hillsides and the music and stories that murmured feelings of
an imprisoned race. I didn’t understand what she meant, but
listened attentively, her lilting voice carrying me into a world
that was more make-believe than real.

I was born inside these crumbling walls a year
after my parents arrived in Maryland. There was no evidence of this
now as I walked through what was left of the small rooms. Yet with
each step, echoes from the past stirred inside me, of childhood
conversations held around the kitchen table next to a roaring
fireplace on cold winter nights.

I was so engrossed in my thoughts that I
forgot my wet clothes and Brazonhead who I had left tethered to a
rotted post. He snorted. I retreated outside and was untying the
reins when a rider approached. He pulled his horse to a halt. A
familiar figure slid out of the saddle and walked purposefully
toward me.

Dan, my oldest brother, hugged my shoulders
then stood back.

“
Glad you came home, Wiz,” he said,
using the nickname I had grown up with. “Been baptized in the Wern,
I see. Brazonhead’s way of testing your soul.” Brazonhead whinnied,
and Dan patted his neck. “Sorry ol’ boy, didn’t mean to hurt your
feelings. Some horse, don’t you think? Managed to stay on this
grand fella, did you?”

“
I should’ve heeded Rengen’s
warning,” I said, peeling off my jacket and shirt. I pointed
dripping clothes at Brazonhead. “He almost killed me.”

Brazonhead nudged my chuckling brother. “Naw,
not this ol’ fella,” Dan said. “But he’ll give you the ride of your
life, that's for sure.” He reached into his saddlebag and pulled
out two apples. He offered one to me. I shook my head. He gave one
to Brazonhead who chewed noisily; then, equally noisy, he began
chewing the other. Reaching back into his saddlebag he drew out a
pair of boots. “Always keep extras.” He tossed them to me. “Never
know when you might need ‘em.” He walked around the ruin. “I come
here often, even thought about building a house here once. Can’t
bear to drive away the memories though. Grand ol’ place
this—”

So far, we were treating my return like any
other routine visit, each of us unable to talk about the
inevitable. But my brother’s struggle was evident in the sadness
clouding his eyes when he stared at the ruin that reminded him of
our childhood days.

He took hold of his horse’s reins; I did the
same, the sun beating down on my damp skin as we walked toward
Stonebridge. The road was one we’d traveled many times before, only
now I was conscious of the passage of time. The red-haired boy,
once my hero growing up, had turned into a red-haired man, a deep
thinker as much at home under the stars as he was inside the heavy
walls of Stonebridge House. He could be gentle or forceful, able to
love or defend his rights, whatever the purpose demanded. He could
move over the terrain as silently as any animal and they were his
friend or his prey depending on his need. During the war, his
stealthy ways caught the attention of Union commanders who deployed
him to scout rebel positions.

“
Sorry, I missed you last night,”
Dan said his blue eyes serious. “Got tied up with foaling and
didn’t get back to the house till after dark. You’d already turned
in, so I went on home.”

“
How did you know where to find
me?”

He grinned. “You’re easy to track.” Brazonhead
neighed his protest. “Okay, okay,” Dan relented. “I looked for you
at the house and when you weren’t there, I rode up to camp. Rengen
said you’d taken off on Brazonhead. He’s predictable. I knew where
he’d go if you rode him out.”

“
I saw Mother,” I said, unable to
avoid the subject any longer. “What’re we going to do?”

Dan looked thoughtful. “Don’t quite know for
sure.”

“
Why didn’t you tell me she was so
ill?”

“
We tried, Mark and I, last time we
saw you, but you were too busy carrying on with some young filly to
hear.”

“
You should’ve made me
understand,”

“
You weren’t listening.”

“
I would’ve come
sooner—”

“
There was no point. Isn’t anything
anybody can do.”

“
She’s talking nonsense. Wants to
go back to Ireland to die.”

“
Yep, she started that after Father
passed on. Then she took a bad spell and forgot about it for a
while. She took it up again lately, seems more convinced than
ever...”