Chapter 22
I don't know what woke me up. Maybe it was Sally moving around in her bedroom. It was dark and too quiet in the house, not even the usual snoring noises. I heard rumbling in the distance, probably thunder from lightning I saw going on for the past few nights, far off but no rain ever fell.
I reached over to Packey, but he wasn't there. I got up and lit a match to check the clock and it was two in the morning. How could that be-two a.m., and Packey wasn't home yet? Perhaps he was home but didn't come to bed yet. I listened carefully, but I didn't hear any sounds at all, so I went to look for him.
Lighting the lamp, I looked around the room. None of the clothes Packey had been wearing were there. I pulled my robe as far as it would go around my bulging belly and stepped into my slippers, then made my way downstairs, carrying the lamp. He wasn't downstairs either.
I went out on the porch, and no one was there, but light came from the barn. Relieved, I lumbered out there to greet Packey, despite the late hour. I half expected he would meet me on the way, but he didn't.
As I entered the barn, I heard distressed animal sounds, which I realized were coming from the cow. A voice called out, "Who's there?"
It was Mick. "It's me-Meg," I said. "Why would you ever be out here this late? Is the cow in trouble?" I shuffled across the dirt floor toward the stall.
"Yes, Meg-she's in big trouble," Mick said, his tone upset, "an' I don't know as I can save her or the calf. The calf is comin' wrong way, an' I don't seem to be able to turn it or help her move it down at all. Bossie's been bawlin' these last few hours an' she's gettin' weak. I don't know how we can stand to lose one more thing on this farm."
Mick sounded like he was near to tears. I made my way to the door of the stall and looked in to see what was going on.
Sure and I spent much of my life on the farm, but I was like Mam in that I wanted little to do with takin' care of the barn animals. I would feed them or water them if there was no one else to do it, or set them out in the pasture, or put them in the barn. But milking or hitching or doctoring or breeding-those were all things I knew nothing about and didn't want to know about. There was plenty to do in the fields and in the house to be of help, but I drew the line when it came to the animals.
Yet when I looked into the stall it didn't take much to see the cow was in a bad way. She was lying on the ground and thrashing her legs and her head, and rolling her eyes, and bawling in the most pitiful way, and it was clear she was in agony. There was blood and somethin' more on the barn floor near her tail, and I looked away quickly as the sight of it made me queasy. Mick was sitting on the milking stool and looked almost as miserable as the poor cow, disheveled, sweating, and eyeing the wretched animal anxiously. He wiped sweat from his face with his sleeve and looked up at me.
"Why are you out here, Meg? Why aren't you in bed an' sleepin'?"
"I came down to find Packey," I told Mick. "He isn't in the house, an' I saw the light in the barn, an' so I came down. Did you send him for help?"
Mick threw me a surprised look. "I haven't seen him since supper. I've been in the barn that whole time. Wasn't he goin' to the church meetin'?"
"Yes, an' I saw him leave for the church, but that was long ago, before dark. I went to bed early, an' now there's no sign of him." I tried to stay composed, but my heart was racing with worry and I felt blood draining from my face. Where was Packey?
Mick stated the obvious. "He should have been back long ago. Somethin' must have happened."
"God, Mick!" I cried, unable to hold back a sob. "What could happen? I hope there was no trouble at the church. Maybe he fell walkin' home, an' broke his ankle or some such thing? He could be waitin' for us to help him! Or maybe that wolf the farmers were talkin' about...."
Bossie let out a long loud bellow and heaved her body as if to get up, and then fell back to the ground and thrashed her head continuously. I couldn't help but have a moment of fear that I would have such difficulty when it came my own turn to give birth, but I forced it out of my mind for the more urgent fear for Packey.
Mick went to Bossie, placed a hand on her neck and then on her hindquarters to calm her, and when he stood up at first he had his back to me. When he turned around I could see the whites of his eyes and a muscle in his jaw was jumping.
"The last thing I need right now is you cryin', Meg. I have more to worry about than you an' Packey." He dropped his face into his hands and swayed to and fro, making a growling sound. When he looked up again he was more composed, but his face still looked irritated. "I don't know anyone who can take better care of himself than Packey, but he'd be home now unless somethin' happened. Someone has to go find him," he said. " 'Tis best if we don't wait for mornin', as he may need help. No-someone has to go now." He glanced around, seeming undecided despite the determined words.
I stood there taking deep breaths as I waited for him to go on, hoping his next words would be that he would go right out to find Packey.
"I can't go, Meg," he said, shaking his head. "The cow an' the calf will die if I don't stay for the birthin', an' we can't lose them. We've only been able to afford the one cow. With everything else, it would be the last straw an' the end of the farm, an' no way to provide for us all. There's no one else-I have to stay here. Why does this have to happen now of all times?" He stamped his foot on the ground and banged his fist on his thigh and his gaze roamed the barn as if he could find some answer there.
I heard myself say, "I'll go." I found it hard to believe Mick thought the cow more important than Packey, but my anger at him made me face the fact that if anything was to be done I would need to do it myself. It would be simple, I was sure. I pictured how it would go in my head-I'd drive the wagon down the road toward the church and somewhere along the way Packey would be there holding his poor ankle or some such thing. I'd get him in the wagon and bring him home. It would be fine and not hard to do at all.
It would not be hard to do, that is, if the someone doing it was not about to have a babe and could drive a wagon. That someone was not me, but I would manage. " 'Tis not far, an' I will go slow an' careful, watchin' with the lantern, an' Packey will drive us home after I find him. It will only take a short time."
Mick had a guilty look, but was not of a mind to back down. "Maybe Sally can go. Or maybe you can wake Donohue an' he will go out to look." The Donohues were our closest neighbors.
I wished that was an answer, but I knew it wasn't. " 'Tis likely not a big thing, Mick-Packey could be close by, maybe just out of sight down the road. Donohue's place is as far as the church an' in the opposite direction. It makes no sense to wake him an' cause a great alarm unless we know 'tis not a simple matter of sendin' the wagon for Packey. Sally is too sick. No, I must go, Mick. I can do it." I took a deep breath and straightened my back for confidence. Truth be told, Mick's attitude, besides making me angry, also made me stubborn and determined.
Mick was still shaking his head. "All right," he said. "I'll start hitchin' the mare. But first go an' wake up Sally, an' ask if she's able to go, or if she'll ride along at least."
I went to ask Sally.
When I knocked on Sally's door, she didn't answer for a long moment. Finally she called out to me weakly. "Don't come in Meg. Please-stay outside the door."
Through the door I told her about Packey and Bossie's troubles, and that Mick wanted to know if she was able to drive the wagon or sit with me. I could hear her weeping through the door, and I figured she was not only ill but distraught. She managed to tell me that if she tried to get up she got dizzy and threw up. She said she was so sick and weak now she couldn't even move from the mess she was making in her bed. I knew she wanted to help, but it was clear she was not able to.
I told Sally I'd ask Mick to find a few minutes to clean her up, and I'd be fine on my own. I went to my room and dressed.
I watched Mick finish hitching the mare to the wagon and securing the fastenings. He helped me into the wagon seat, put the reins in my hands, and hung a lantern within reach. He told me he had put his shotgun in the wagon just in case, but certainly I would not need that. As if I knew how to use a shotgun, but how hard could it be?
"Keep her at a slow walk, now," he instructed. I surely wouldn't do anything else, but nonetheless I found his words reassuring. "There's no need to hurry, as you aren't going far. The mare will know what to do, an' she'll just move slow an' easy followin' the road with no real help from you. Lift the lantern high now an' then where you want to check the road for Packey."
I promised him I would do that, and made him promise to run upstairs and clean Sally up. I flapped the reins and the horse and wagon moved slowly down our lane to the road.
I drove the wagon down the dry dirt road, kicking up a cloud of dust. Now and then a wheel bounced through a hole or over a mound. I listened carefully, as surely if Packey needed help he would call out to any wagon passing by, but he did not call. I heard only rustling of the cornstalks as the night breeze passed through them, an occasional night bird, the clopping of the horse and creaking of the wagon.
I made my way through Sag, skirted the edge of town, and took the turn toward the church. I was more than half way to Saint James, but knew I wouldn't get much further without emptying my bladder. It was a maddening inconvenience of pregnancy; I had no control over the matter, and cursed myself for not remembering in my anxiety to take care of that before I left the farm. Dreading the struggle to get out and then back in the wagon, I was nevertheless forced to look immediately for a place to stop, somewhere I could keep the horse from walking off.
This part of the road ran along the railroad and electric line tracks. A thin moon passed in and out of clouds, providing only scarce and intermittent light. I had been on this road only in daylight, and tonight things near the road that I would surely recognize in better light were dark and mysterious, the trees spooky. Frightened in the gloomy surroundings, anxious about Packey, and now the added urgency of a bladder feeling about to burst, I nonetheless knew there was no avoiding the need to stop. I made out in the dim light a small bridge ahead and remembered that on the far side was a pile of railroad ties. This would be a protected place to stop, where no one at Sag would see my lantern, and I could tie the horse to one of the electric line poles that ran along the tracks.
I stopped the mare and climbed down successfully, holding carefully to the wagon seat and box while maneuvering myself to the ground, and tied the mare. I reached for the lantern to be sure I didn't trip in a hole or some other hazard as what probably happened to Packey, and I made my way to the great pile of wood tossed any old way near the road, and looked around to be sure there was no danger. Confident I was not being watched, I set down the lantern, pulled up my skirts, pulled down my drawers, squatted, and with blessed relief let my bladder empty.
As I stood up and readjusted my clothing, I heard a rustling sound and another noise like a low whimper. I reached for the lantern and held it high. The lantern revealed a pair of eyes at the far end of the wood pile, and as I watched a wolf moved slowly into the light and stopped to glare at me. I never thought to bring the shotgun down with me, as a shotgun was not something I thought of at any time. I wished I had done so, but then I sensed, for some reason I could not explain, that this wolf was no threat to me.
She-it was a she, as I could see her swollen and drooping teats- did not approach, but only watched me. She was a poor animal, thin and hungry-looking with a matted coat, and her eyes looked sorrowful and beseeching. Knowing that wolves are pack animals, I pulled my eyes away from her to see if there were other wolves about. What I saw was near a half dozen wolf pups, which I thought to be about a month old, all lying crushed and bloody on the ground.
It was dim-witted, I'm sure-perhaps intuition told me this wolf wouldn't attack me. She was grieving for her slaughtered pups, and her watchful gaze seemed to say she knew I was about to become a mother too. She whined, and a look of sympathy passed between us-two frightened mothers, the wolf from starvation and tragedy, and me worried to distraction about my Packey and my pregnant condition. I had no fear of her when I turned and lit my way back to the road, stopping to drag a block of wood to help me get up into the wagon. Once seated, I lifted the lantern high again, and she was no longer where I had left her, but gone.
I hoped the mare would not be skittish at the wolf and that turned out to be the case, as she gave no sign of having sensed the creature nearby. I was struck by immense sadness as the mare plodded, continuing toward the church. I guessed at what happened. A she-wolf had made a den for her pups in an isolated area, where shelter-a wood pile-was already in place and water convenient nearby. Her mate would have brought food to her and the pups, but I was willing to wager hunters killed him, either in fear for their livestock or for the bounty. She was forced to find food, and while away from her den, hunters located it and destroyed the pups. Perhaps it was the same men I heard talking at the picnic, and this was the very den they were looking for. They probably left the dead pups there to be sure the female would return and they could collect another bounty.
The sorry experience increased my anxiety for Packey, and I began to fear it was something worse than a turned ankle that kept him from returning home.
There was no sign of Packey along the road. Either he never left the church or never arrived there. It was a great mystery.
When I got to the parish hall, I turned the wagon into the churchyard and tied the mare there. A slender moon came out from behind the clouds. It afforded a poor view of the surroundings, but I could make out the path I knew led away from the yard uphill to the rectory, then veered through the cemetery and up to the church. I heard breezes moving through the forest surrounding the property and the rumble of distant thunder again. I couldn't see anyone about.
I went to the parish hall first, where meetings were held. The building was dark and the door locked. I called out, asking if anyone was there, and walked in my slow way around the building, holding the lantern in front to avoid tripping, and I didn't find anyone.
It hadn't been easy to navigate the hill up to the church this morning, and it was no easier now. I saw no one, and I despaired of finding Packey, but I had nowhere left to look. I had come this far, so I would make a fair search of the church property and even the cemetery in the event he wasn't at the church.
I stopped at the rectory first and tried the door. It was locked. Surely the door wouldn't be locked if Packey was still inside. I walked around the rectory, holding up the light to look on all sides and even behind the shrubbery, although it made no sense for him to be in the shrubbery, and of course he was not there. If I found nothing in the church or cemetery, I would go back to the rectory and wake Father Fitzpatrick to see if Packey had come to the meeting.
I didn't want to disturb Father for no good reason, but part of me said it would serve him right to disturb his sleep, as it was due to him we were being put to such bother and worry. But I'm not a spiteful person, so first I'd look about, and be quiet about it.
The cemetery gate was locked, but it was a flimsy affair between the stone columns, and with a bit of finagling I got through it and into the cemetery yard. As I walked up the path, I held the lantern high and looked on both sides.
As I approached the church, I called out softly. "Packey, 'tis Meg. Are you here?" I wasn't surprised when there was no answer.
I reached the church doors and tried them. They were locked too, so there wouldn't be anyone inside. I circled around to the back of the church.
"Packey," I whispered a bit louder now. "Are you here, Packey? It's Meg!"
There was no reply.
I moved carefully behind the church. The building now blocked the rectory as well as any moonlight, and the only light here was from my lantern. I could see something on the ground about fifty feet ahead, and with my heart in my throat I made my way toward it. I lifted my lantern as I crept closer, and when the light fell on the ground it revealed Packey lying there, and my breath and my heart stood still in stunned horror!
I caught my breath, gasped, and cried out in desperation. "Packey! What has happened, Packey?"
I bent down to the ground and now I could see blood on the ground around his dear head. I dropped down to turn him, and when I did so there was such a large crushed place above his left ear! I implored him, "Packey! It's Meg! Wake up Packey!"
In a panic I shook him, and I called to him, but he didn't or couldn't answer. I put my hand to his mouth but couldn't feel a breath. I put my ear to his chest, but instead of a breath I heard what sounded like a hoof striking a stone and a soft nicker. I started to get up, to turn and see what made the sounds, but before I could do so there was another noise close behind me. I felt tremendous pain on the right side of my head, a bright flash and a roar like thunder.
Is it the lightnin'? I wondered, and then I felt nothing at all.
---
I have no idea how long it was before I woke, if waking is what I did. There was such tremendous pain-pain in my head and pain in my back and my belly. My whole body was gripped in a tremendous cramp, and at first there was only the agony.
Then the pain faded for a brief moment, and I struggled for consciousness, trying to remember where I was. It was night and I was on the ground in an open place. I made an effort to turn my head to look around, but movement made the pain unbearable. I had a glimpse of tombstones, so I must be in a cemetery. Then I remembered that my dear Packey was dead. That was all I recalled before the cramp returned. Consumed by pain, sorrow, and panic, I blessedly lost consciousness.
When I woke again, the torment was unbearable and now it felt as if the area between my legs was ripping apart. I could feel wetness, and something bulky there between my legs, and a feeling like a knife cutting me apart. I groaned uncontrollably. I realized I was dying, and then I knew this pain was my Darlin', my wee lass, trying to get out to save herself.
I tried to get up, to help my body in its spasms to assist my Darlin's escape, but I found I couldn't move the left side of my body at all, only the right, and I was so weak! I thought Father Fitzpatrick would appear at any moment to save us, but he did not come. The pain in my head! Oh God...I canna stand that pain! I stopped my efforts, and with my head now turned to the right I saw eyes glowing in the moonlight.
"Father Fitzpatrick! Help me!" I whispered weakly. "Oh, please, help my Darlin'!"
The eyes belonged not to Father but to the she-wolf, the same one I saw earlier. She moved slowly toward me, watching intently. When I saw she did nothing else, I tried with my right arm to reach between my legs, and with a tremendous effort I managed to do that. My hand found something warm and slick there, and a pulsing cord-like thing. I pulled on the cord, which I knew was attached to my Darlin', to help her, and I pulled her tiny body to my belly. My Darlin' wasn't moving, but she was warm, and so I had hope for her.
Throughout my struggles I tried to scream, to call for help, but my voice did not seem to work as it should, and no help came.
I was able to pull my Darlin' onto my belly, but no further. With the weak use of only one arm, there wasn't much I could do. She didn't seem to be breathing, and I didn't know why, as the cord was still pulsing below her. I found her mouth and put my finger inside to see if anything was blocking her throat, but I couldn't find anything. I slapped at her, and I pushed on her wee chest, but I could not make her cry or breathe, and after a time I could feel my Darlin' was growing cold, and so was I.
As my strength faded, so did my panic. What was left of me was emptiness and despair. But then came a moment of clarity, and of resolve.
I cannot, and will not, believe that my Darlin' is dead. Somehow she will survive this night, and she will be found in the morning, even if I'm no longer here to know it. My Darlin' will be expecting me, her Máime, to care for and protect her all her life, and I vow that I will do that. Even if I should not survive, I'll never rest, but I will stay with her, and no harm will ever come to her. I will be fierce in protecting my Darlin'. This I vow!
Exhausted and in terrible agony, sleep was overcoming me.
The she-wolf sat patiently watching this whole time, unmoving. With a final effort, I looked into the animal eyes. "She is cold," I whispered to her. "My Darlin' is cold."
The wolf padded over. She nuzzled and then laid her head next to my poor Darlin', and she rested her long body next to me, nestling alongside us, giving us her warmth, and I thought my Darlin' was not so cold. I turned my face into the wolf's soft fur for whatever comfort I could find there and allowed myself to sleep.