Time Enough

Chapter One

Goll sheese ny liargagh:

A bad omen

Port Erin, Isle of Man

May, 1904

Nan said, “Come.” So Euphemia went, though she had so much to do after supper, before the evening singsong ’round the hearth. And Baby Hugh might fuss in her absence, wanting to nurse. Besides, she was bone weary, as usual at the end of the day, having cooked three meals for nine people and tended to the baby since dawn. The boys needed supervising to do the dishes properly, the floor wanted sweeping….she sighed, inhaling the comforting scent of the chicken they’d had for supper. That needed stripping for tomorrow’s sandwiches, too. No matter. Nobody could deny Nan. She ran the household with a gentle but firm hand; although Euphemia was her daughter-in-law, with six children to raise in the tiny cottage, Nan was definitely in charge. Love and respect bound the two women together, and routine kept the days running along smoothly. Euphemia’s curiosity was piqued by Nan’s invitation, too. Her eldest son, Henry, always accompanied his grandmother to Faery Hill of an evening, for the ritual offering to the Little Ones. Henry’s eyes posed a question. Euphemia returned his gaze with a shrug of her shoulders as she closed the red cottage door. Blackie, the sheepdog, tagged along.

Gripping Nan’s elbow, she carried the wicker basket on her left arm, clutching her skirt as they trod up Cronk Howe Mooar. A cool breeze fragrant with gorse and blackthorn flowers swept them along. She heard little blue tits chirping in the thorns. Robins, too, chatted softly amongst themselves, preparing for nightfall. Euphemia allowed all the sights and smells to distract her, knowing that Nan was listening for the faeries on the wind. Do they have words for me tonight? Is that why I’m here? But Manx faeries don’t speak English, so I won’t understand. A giggle bubbled up, but she suppressed it. She would never mock Nan’s beliefs.

As the path ascended, the wind teased their hair and swished their skirts. Sheep browsed on the purple and yellow hills. Clouds roamed the sky, basking in the last rays of summer sun. Waves crashed at the foot of the cliffs edging the landscape. In the distance, cattle were lowing, waiting to be driven in for the night. Just like in the song about Little Lord Jesus, came the sudden thought, and Euphemia wondered if her baby had awakened. The image of Hugh tossing in his cradle tugged milk from her breasts.

“Hang on a mo’, please Nan.” She handed over the basket and untucked her blouse, wet on the front with milk and round the waist, with sweat. Never mind, she thought, the wind will dry it. Ah, it feels good to stop, catch my breath. Nan’s not out of puff, though. She’s used to it, I reckon. It is so beautiful up here, looking out to sea. It’s like all mankind sprung from the tiny Isle of Man. Like the Garden of Eden. For me, life began here for certain. Nan gave her a nudge, interrupting her thoughts. There she goes again, urging me on, as though we’ve an appointment to keep. What’s the hurry?

Skylarks reeled overhead and, above them, seagulls threw lonely cries across the water. A few more steps and they reached the summit of Faery Hill. Our courting place. We haven’t climbed this hill in years. Why not? We should come up, have a picnic with the little ones. Our little ones, not the “Little Ones,” though they’d be welcome too. I wish I could see a faery, just once. Or hear them, like Nan does.

The drowning sun spilled curdled milk across the Irish Sea. She hadn’t been on the water since William had rowed their boat along the coast to Kitterland, the islet near the Calf of Man. She smiled at the memory of making love on those wild shores on her honeymoon. They’d been free to go naked as Adam and Eve: not a soul lived there. For a lark, they’d flash their bare backsides to tease the fisherman in the boats off-shore. The memory made her glow. Our one and only holiday. We ought to go back, take a picnic, just the two of us. William never even goes out to fish, anymore. Always too tired now.

Crests of waves sparkled, pierced by gannets expertly diving into the depths. Blackie raced ahead to a green mound and sat, patiently waiting, obviously following Nan’s routine. So pleasant. Peaceful. Little wonder Nan comes here morning and evening, and she had five boys, and all. I ought to have come along before now. She recalled performing the ritual with William long ago when Nan was ill, and felt once more her wonderment at the notion of faeries living under the hill. Still, it doesn’t take a belief in faeries to feel the magic here.

“'Lovely, isn’t it?” Nan echoed her thoughts. She always seems to know what I’m thinking, bless her. Affection washed over Euphemia as she nodded in response. Nan dropped to her knees on the grass; Euphemia followed suit.

Nan reached into the basket she’d packed, and, from under a tea cloth, extracted two cups no bigger than thimbles. Setting them in a depression on the mound, she drew out the handkerchief tucked in her sleeve, and then smoothed the square of white linen on the grass with her wrinkled, knobbly fingers. After carefully rearranging the cups, she filled them from a battered flask in her pocket, before sprinkling crumbs from a small loaf, reserving a good-sized piece for Blackie, who wagged her tail but didn’t beg. Whispering in Manx, Nan bowed her head, and placed both hands on the ground. After a few moments of silence, Nan tapped Euphemia’s arm. Her eyes had been closed as well, observing Nan’s rituals.

“Help me, up, would you, lass? It’s not the getting down, but the getting back up that’s hard,” she said, grunting with the effort. “My dress made that noise, not me,” she said, and winked.

“Of course, of course, Nan. Why don’t we just sit awhile? May we?”

“Aye, Themselves won’t mind if we tarry a while,” she said, relaxing. “They know we’re here, but will stay put ’til we leave. The rascals will listen in on our conversation and gossip about it later.”

“Thank you for bringing me tonight. I’d almost forgotten how fine it is, the place, and the ritual, both. I used to do it with William when I first came, remember?”

Nan nodded. “Those were troubled times. All things must pass. It comes ’round right, in the end. Remember that, my chree.”

“Can you hear the faeries, Nan?”

“I do, be’times. Always have.”

“But you go to church. How do you reconcile both beliefs? The Sisters in the orphanage said—”

“No harm in holding to the old ways, lass. God is everywhere. With Themselves, too, ye ken. Everyone needs a belief in a higher power, otherwise we sink into a bog of despair. So many troubles…What do you believe in, ban my chree?”

“Hmm, good question, Nan. I once followed the Catholic faith at St. Hilda’s. But then, when I left and some things went wrong, I lost my beliefs, I reckon. I go to church now for the sake of the children, and you. As to the faeries, well, they don’t speak to a Yorkshire lass like me, any road. Hmmm…hmm.” She started to hum. That’s it. “Music. I know! I believe in music. It lifts me up; gives me hope. Yes, music. I never realized that before.” Her head buzzed with the revelation. She thought she could hear a tune, soughing on the wind.

“That’s God, too; Themselves agree. Can’t you hear their flutes? Listen.” She cocked her head like a robin, then clicked her tongue. “Ah, the English. I’m sorry to say that they don’t understand Manx traditions, any more than they ken our language. I should have taught you more about the meaning behind our ways. It’ll be up to you now, as the mother, to pass them on to your children.” Her voice seemed to come from far away and a sad, forlorn look clouded her blue eyes. Euphemia shuddered with the apprehension that someone had walked on her grave.

“Whatever do you mean, Nan?” Her tone harkened back to fifteen years ago. Is she sinking into depression again, after all this time? Oh no. “You’re here, Nan. We’re all here. Our Henry’s learning from you; the others will too. There’s no rush. Don’t you always say there’s time enough: traa dy liooar, is it? I’ve learned that much, you all say it so often.” She attempted a laugh. Please, please let me bring her out of it, like I did before.

Nan patted her hand. “Well done, my chree. You’ve an ear for Manx.” Then she shook her head. “I’m sorry to say, there is no more time.” Her muffled voice dropped the words into her lap. She pounded her fist against her thigh, then raised her head to meet Euphemia’s gaze. Suddenly it seemed the birds fell silent and the wind dropped to earth. Whatever can she mean? She seems angry, and sad, both.

Nan inhaled, as if preparing to push a boat into the water. “The Little Ones had something important to say, t’other night. Terrible news, I’m afraid, my chree. Themselves said someone in the house will pass over. Soon. “Goll sheese ny liargagh: he’s going down the slope, fast.” Didn’t need them to tell me that. I know it. As do you.”

“Know what?” A roar like crashing waves on the sea blocked her ears against Nan's shaky voice.

“Please, we must be honest and face facts, dear one. I’ve suspected since New Year’s morn. Saw it plain as day, in he ashes from the chiollagh, which I spread on the floor, to foretell the year ahead, ye ken, according to the old ways. The faery footprints led out the door, not in. Luck has left our house.” Nan paused and looked past the cliffs, breathing harder than she had after mounting the hill.

The ominous tone tempted Euphemia to laugh. Nan seemed to sense her doubt. “I didn’t want to believe it, either; I’ve watched for the signs and now I’m sure. William’s been poisoned, by the lead mine. We call it “the milk reek,” my chree. The sweats, the shakes, and especially the ill temper, so unlike my boy. He’s getting worse every day. Goll sheese ny liargagh.”

Euphemia’s lips parted, but the protest caught in her throat, as if clogged with ashes from the hearth. She collapsed backward, nearly overturning the little cups. Nan lifted her head and held the cool flask to her lips.

“Drink a bit, lass.”

Euphemia jerked upright, grabbed the flask, and gulped. She coughed and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“It can’t be,” she said, sputtering. As she tipped the flask back again, whispers whirled around her. “Yes, yes, it is. Yes it is. Yes it is.” The hair rose on her arms. Her head swam. Tears stung behind her eyes but wouldn’t fall.

“Aye, doesn’t bear thinking about, my chree, I know. I tried to pretend, too. I’ve seen you do the same, seen the worry at you, when William coughs, or shouts at the boys. It’s not him. It’s the sickness, my chree. Oh God, the loss of another son to those damned mines.” She hit her thighs, as if hurting herself could ease her pain. Euphemia recognized that impulse. “So many families torn apart. So many wid—” A sob completed the awful word.

True. Eva, Mary, Amy, others whose names she didn’t know, gone away, forced to find work in English factories after their husbands’ passing, their children left with kinfolk, or orphaned. If anything happens to William, could I leave my five youngsters, least of all my newborn babe? To be raised by their grandparents, who mightn’t live long enough to see them grown? Now tears and milk spilled freely. My milk will be spoiled tonight, curdled. Hugh will get the colic and not sleep….

“Shh. There, there, I’ve a solution.” Nan’s voice brightened as she expelled one word: “Thomas.” Euphemia thought she detected a note of excitement, where usually Nan sounded disappointed, even angry, when mentioning her youngest surviving son.

“Thomas? What? You think he might come back? From America? No.” She reached for Nan’s hand, which trembled in hers. “Please, there’s got to be another way, Nan. What about the farm? Henry loves helping Grandad with the sheep. He’s nearly thirteen. He could quit school anytime, and I could help—”

“We’ve not enough land to support the family, lass.” She hunched her shoulders and sighed, picking at the grass. “That’s why our boys went down the mine in the first place. Only our Arthur avoided that fate. His bones lie here, looked after by the Little Ones. My sweet lamb. Took by the diphtheria. The mines got the rest of them, too, one way or t’other. First the twins, buried alive. Inseparable in death as in life, lying under Snaefell.” She stopped for a moment. “The only good from that came when Thomas brought you to help me through the grief. It laid me low, as if I had to climb Snaefell meself, to get out from under it. I loved you like a daughter from the start,” Nan said. Blood rushed to Euphemia’s cheeks. Nan had never expressed love for her, in words.

“Ah, but then the mines won again, didn’t they? For Thomas left to escape working underground. At least that’s what he said. I’ve always thought there was more to it than that.” Her inflection suggested something. Euphemia lowered her gaze, cursing the blush that rose to her cheeks. After a pause, Nan continued.

“And now, why, the mine’s killing my William. Well, not if Themselves and I can help it.” Her voice retrieved its headstrong tone. “Thomas brought me a daughter, and you’ve given us grandchildren. He’ll do his duty again, you’ll see. I’m awaiting his answer.”

“No, no, please, Nan—” The last thing she wanted was Thomas to return. Well, there could be one worse thing. She fell back on the ground, damp seeping into her clothes. She yanked at the grass with clenched fists.

“Come, lass, the dew’s falling. You’ll catch your death. We’d best get back or they’ll think we’ve been fetched away. Not a word to William, mind. I’m prepared for a battle with him. Quick, there’s the first star. Help me up,” she said, patting Euphemia’s knees.

“We mustn’t be caught here after sunset or the Red Caps will take us, sure. The way down is much easier. I can almost run, like a young girl. Ah, was, was,” Nan expressed her customary wistfulness for times past. “Here’s the basket, my chree. Let’s see who gets home first.” She threw the challenge backwards as she trotted down the hill with Blackie trundling along behind.

Euphemia stumbled and tripped down the rugged path, the empty basket banging against her side. Now alone, did she hear voices in the bushes? Her heart pounded. What did Nan say would happen, should a Red Cap appear? I’d be carried off to another world? She quickened her pace, following the smell of peat smoke rising from the whitewashed cottage up ahead. In the twilight, the footpath almost disappeared. She knew the way, but when was the last time she’d run anywhere? Arriving at the red door, she leaned on the frame, to ease the stitch in her side; she waited for her heart to slow before pushing down on the metal thumb latch. Warmth and light from the peat fire spilled across the threshold. Blackie greeted her with a wag of her tail and a sloppy kiss.

Lifting the teapot in salute, Nan chuckled. “Here she is, young’uns. I told youse she’d not let the Red Caps get her. Hand me your mother’s cup, Henry. She’s white as a sheet.”