Da’s sisters had told them all about the Mission school, with the new buildings and the children dressed in nice clothes.
“It’s the finest thing ever seen in Achill,” she said.
“And she’ll even learn a bit of English.”
“Why should she learn English?” Manus burst out. “What’s wrong with our Irish tongue?”
“It’s a good thing to learn another language,” Mam said.
“Not the language of our oppressors, it isn’t,” said Manus.
“They speak English in America,” countered Da. “There’s a great world beyond Ireland!
“And your Liberator’s another one that doesn’t speak our language.”
The two of them continued to trade barbs, but Brideen was relieved that it didn’t rise to shouting. Lately Manus had been more contentious than ever, saying things she didn’t understand, things that made Da mad. A few days ago he had even been short with Brideen herself, when she’d noticed something poking out of one of his jacket pockets. It was a short strip of cloth, bright green in colour. With her brother’s back to her, she playfully reached over and tugged on it. She was startled to feel the sharp slap of Manus’ hand on hers.
“Leave that alone!” He hissed, stuffing the green ribbon back in his pocket.
“I’m sorry, Manus. I just wanted to see what it was.”
“It’s none of your business.”
Manus walked away, glowering. Sometimes he got annoyed with his little sister, but it was rare for him to be truly angry.
Now Mam spoke to end the men’s bickering.
“She’ll learn English or something else useful, but she’s going to Achill. It’ll be one less mouth to feed.”
Brideen knew what Mam said had something to do with the praties. She often spoke about the bad crop that happened a couple of years ago. But this was different. There was something wrong with them, something happening now.
Brideen thought back to the day a few weeks earlier, when her sister Máirín came running into the house. She’d just gone out to fetch some more potatoes from the pit for dinner.
“They’ve all turned black.”
“What’s turned black?”
“The praties. When I pick them up they’re all soft and mushy and black inside.”
“Ah, shut your gab,” Da said.
“It’s true! Come see for yourself.”
“Stop being foolish, child.” Mam said. “Just bring in the praties like you’re supposed to.”
“No! I don’t want to touch them!”
The older children, used to Máirín’s histrionics, laughed. Mam threw the girl a look of exasperation as she went out the doorway. Moments later they heard a scream, followed by a curse. Mam almost never cursed, and Brideen feared that she’d fallen and hurt herself. But she was on her feet, standing over the bushel.
“They were fine when I brought them in earlier.”
“It’s the wet rot!”
“That was down in Tipperary,” Da scoffed. “The praties here in Mayo are fine.”
They looked in the pit and were relieved to find that what was left of last year’s crop looked normal. Máirín admitted that instead of taking them from the pit, she’d grabbed some from a bushel of spuds dug up earlier that day.
“Don’t put them in with the good ones. They might be cursed.”
At this point in the summer, the stores from last season had nearly run out and they’d begun to eat the new crop, which normally they’d store in the pit for later. But the good ones were all from last year’s crop. As each new round of potatoes came in they looked fine, to the Sweeneys’ relief. But after just a few hours, their texture began to change, turning into a black slop. The same thing kept happening, and they began to hear similar reports from all over Mayo. Not every farm was affected. Some had perfectly good potatoes. It seemed to be striking certain areas, certain adjacent plots.
On the affected plots, they agonized over what to do about the wet rot. Some said the potato crop should be turned back into the soil. Others argued that would only infect the soil for the next crop. There were the usual explanations –God’s punishment for sin, the work of evil sidhe – and no end of stranger theories: The rot was caused by guano from seabirds, by vapors from volcanoes emanating from the center of the earth, and so on.
The deeper, mostly-whispered fear was this: Would there be enough to get through the coming winter? What would they do for seed potatoes next season?
***
There were days when the Colony served as the distribution site for Indian meal to the poor. People from all over Achill came, filling the square to overflowing. It was on one of those days that the reality of life outside the Colony, which living here had mostly shielded her from, came home to her. So many people looking gaunt and stooped, with hunger in their eyes. Even the children looked listless and unsmiling. She felt bad that she had plenty to eat and wished she could do something to help them. Then it hit her: She could give them music. She went to the dormitory and got her whistle.
She decided to try a lovely tune by the great Turlough O’Carolan, the waltz Si bheag, sí mhór. She played slowly, hoping to avoid mistakes, but stumbled on wrong notes several times. Still, she was amazed to see that people had stopped to listen. When she finished the tune, people smiled and nodded and a couple of them came up and asked for another tune. She figured she should do one she knew really well, so launched into Fáinne Geal an Lae, the first tune she’d learned from Gabriel. It got an even more enthusiastic response because it was so familiar to everyone. Savoring the applause, Brideen noticed someone walking out of the crowd – a well-dressed lady, clearly not from Achill. She walked up to where Brideen stood and said something in English to her. Brideen couldn’t understand, but could tell from the warmth in her eyes that the woman had enjoyed her playing. One word she stumbled over, then repeated it, and Brideen realized that the woman was trying to speak a bit of Irish to her. She was complimenting her playing.
“Alainn, alainn.” she said. Meaning, “beautiful.”
It made Brideen feel happy – the woman’s praise, the attentiveness of the crowd. But seeing the terrible hunger here brought back her worries about everyone back home. Things were hard everywhere. But surely the Sweeney family wasn’t as badly off as these poor people on Achill.
