Legacy of hunger, p.1
Legacy of Hunger, page 1
Ireland is no promised land in 1846. It is wracked by a crippling potato blight, and people are dying. But Valentia McDowell doesn’t know that.
From her father’s prosperous farm in Ohio, young Valentia is haunted by tales of an abandoned family and a lost heirloom. She travels to her grandmother’s homeland with her brother, Conor, and two servants, to find both. Her delight in the exciting journey on one of the first steam ships to cross the Atlantic is shattered by a horrible tragedy.
What she encounters upon her arrival in Ireland is both more and less than she had hoped. Valentia finds both enemies and allies, amid horrors and delights, and a small bit of magic. She finds a richer heritage than she had ever imagined, but it comes with a price.
When she finally reaches her goal, a terrible price is demanded. She must pay or forfeit, and both decisions have strong consequences for her and her friends.
LEGACY OF HUNGER
Druid’s Brooch Series, #1
Christy Nicholas
Published by Tirgearr Publishing
Author Copyright 2015 Christy Nicholas
Cover Art: Cora Graphics (www.coragraphics.it)
Editor: Troy Lambert
Proofreader: Sharon Pickrel
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not given to you for the purpose of review, then please log into the publisher’s website and purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting our author’s hard work.
This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
DEDICATION
I lovingly dedicate this book to my husband, who has indulged me with many trips to my soul’s home, Ireland. He has supported me through my growing pangs as a writer. And sincere thanks go to my publisher and beta readers – without your help, this never would have happened!
I also dedicate it to the millions of souls who lost their life during the tragedy of the Great Hunger in Ireland.
PRONUNCIATION GUIDE
Irish, a language in the Gaelic family, has several rules of pronunciation that are different from English.
Below is a list of some of the words and names in the story that are pronounced in a way that might not be obvious to someone not fluent in Irish.
Aengus Óg – ANG-us OHG
Ard na Rátha – ard na RA-ha (Ardara)
An Gorta Mór – an GOR-ta MOOR (The Great Hunger)
An Neidín – an NAY-deen (The Little Nest - Kenmare)
Banaghan – BAN-a-han
Beal Inse – bayl IN-sheh (mouth of the island -Valentia)
Ceann Mhara – KYawn ver-eh (Head of the Sea)
Dubhthach – DOOV-tawk
Eithne – ET-nee or ETH-nee
Ethniu – ET-nyu, or ETH-nyu
Lugh - lyew
Maghera – ma-HAYR-ah
Mag Tuiread – mag TOO-reed
Monongahela – mon-an-ga-HEE-la
Niaṁ - NEEV (also spelled Niabh or Niamh)
O’Donnabhain’s – o-DUN-a-vins (O'DUN-a-vins)
Padraig – PAW-drig or PAW-rig
Seanchaí – shawn-uh-KEE
Sídhe – SHEE (Fairy Folk)
Siobhan – shee-VON
Tuatha dé Danann – TOO-uh day Dan-in
Foreword
Celtic legends are full of heroic deeds, rewards, and punishments. In order to obtain any true reward, the hero must often pass a series of progressively difficult tests. This is true of the gods and future kings, humble adventurers, and young women in love. It is a theme that runs throughout the mythologies of Ireland and beyond.
Throughout their lives, people discover childhood dreams are too ambitious for a single lifetime. Once in a long while, a dream actually does come true, and that’s when it gets dangerous.
Part I
“Not I, nor anyone else can travel that road for you.”
Walt Whitman
Chapter One
The Quest
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
April 1846
Grandmamma’s brooch haunted Valentia’s dreams.
Even as she relaxed at afternoon tea with her mother, the lace doily reminded her of the delicate intertwining design of the brooch. That, in turn, reminded her of the task she had fixed her mind upon.
She was tired of always settling for the smallest bits of the good things in life. Perhaps it was time to take larger chunks.
Valentia’s corset pinched as she leaned towards the tea tray, reaching for a large cake on the upper tier.
“Control yourself, Valentia, or you’ll end up looking like one of those Pittsburgh steel workers.” Majesta McDowell was always aware of appearances. From the servant’s area, one of the maids sniggered.
Grimacing at her mother, Valentia reached for a much smaller piece when she heard shouts, but not the normal sound of a foreman yelling at his workers.
It sounded like panic.
Several patrons stood to look out the plate glass window of the café. Though she was tall for a woman, all Valentia could see were the backs of strangers, and occasionally someone running in the street.
A sharp crack accompanied a muffled explosion. Clouds of dust billowed, and Valentia fought her rising dread.
People in the café jammed the door, trying to escape.
Valentia, her mother, and their maids, Sarah and Maggie, pushed out of the stifling building. Panicked voices screamed amid crashes, all from a street not far away, in the direction of the Monongahela House Hotel.
Where they had been staying.
Her mind raced in panic, her stomach tied in a knot. Trying to make sense of the chaos, she looked the maids and her mother. She was transfixed, staring at the looming threat.
A menacing column of black, oily smoke billowed from the riverside, a searing blanket of menace. The smell of burning wood filled the air.
A church bell tolled. She suppressed her terror and took charge.
“Mother, this way!” Valentia tugged on her mother’s arm to break the spell she was under, pulling her away from the hotel.
Majesta McDowell didn’t have long legs, nor did either of their maids. Still, they made decent time down the cobblestoned street. Faster runners jostled and shoved past the cluster of women in their panicked flight.
Fleeing from the smoke and commotion, the heel of Valentia’s fashionable boot struck a cobblestone at an odd angle as they ran. A sharp pain pierced her ankle.
Valentia nearly collided with a young man who was unloading kegs in front of a pub. She tripped over the dolly, and tumbled to the ground, scraping her knees and hands, but she managed to get up and run again. Belatedly, she made sure her flock still followed.
Where to go? Where were her father and brother supposed to be this morning? Down at the docks. The men would be able to get to safety by jumping in the water, if nothing else. The women were too far from the rivers to use that option.
Panting, they halted many blocks away. Shoving down her fear, Valentia glanced up. The plume of smoke was farther away, much less threatening, so she felt they could continue at a less frantic pace. People here hadn’t even noticed the fire yet. She had absolutely no idea of where they were.
“Mother, if we can find a river it might be the safest place to wait. How can we find father and Conor?”
Majesta was still panting, and Valentia realized she had set a brutal pace.
“I don’t believe we can… unless we go back… to the hotel. Blast! They will… have to assume we’ve made it… to safety.”
They passed a post office and brought the postman outside, pointing to the widening column of smoke. The alarm grew around them, the panic spreading. The postman rushed back into the shop and came out with a whistle. He blew it at set intervals, apparently a pre-arranged signal.
A carriage came barreling down the narrow street, and Valentia yanked Maggie up against the shop.
Her mother’s maid, Sarah, wasn’t quick enough. A blow knocked her to the cobblestones. She lay perfectly still.
With a scream, her mother moved to Sarah’s side, and pulled her out of the busy street by the shoulders. Valentia grabbed the woman’s feet, and they moved her to the wide sidewalk. The postman knelt by them and checked her breathing while Majesta quietly sobbed.
“She’s breathing, Mistress. I’ll go fetch a doctor. You just wait here, eh?”
Valentia nodded, trying to clean the worst of the dirty smudges from the maid’s face.
“Wake up, Sarah. Wake up!” Majesta shook her shoulders.
The noise of the crowd faded. Details of the carriage that hit Sarah intruded on Valentia’s memory. It was a fire carriage, painted red and gold, carrying a long, dirty hose. The vehicle must have been rushing towards the fire.
When the doctor arrived, he gave Sarah a cursory examination. He checked her pulse and her eyes, and stood.
“She’s not too bad. When she wakes up, keep her awake and warm, with plenty of tea. I must go, others need me.” He picked up his bag and strode away.
“Doctor, wait! Did you hear what happened?”
Pushing his spectacles up on his face, he nodded down the street, “Fire at the hotel. It should be under control by now.”
As he disappeared in the gloom, the yellow smoke reached farther through the byzantine streets of the city. The buildings were shrouded in a dim and sulky twilight.
I’ve got to find a place to stay. Valentia searched up and down the street and found a hotel nearby. With some difficulty, the three women carried Sarah into the run-down foyer and secured a room. They still didn’t know where Conor and her father had gone.
“Mother, you must stay with Sarah. Maggie and I will go search for the men. The doctor said not to leave her, since she might have a concussion.”
“I don’t like the idea of you wandering about on your own.” There were streaks down her cheeks from forgotten tears. Valentia was certain she’d never witnessed her mother crying before. Majesta had known Sarah all her life. Sarah’s mother, Niamh, had been Grandmamma’s maid. Status argued against being close friends with servants, but her mother had obviously broken this rule.
“We’ll be fine, mother. It’s not like I’ve not been out alone before. I’m no longer a child.”
“Still… perhaps we should wait—”
“Wait for what? Father has no idea where we are, or how to find us. I must go find him.”
Her mother didn’t answer, but just looked back down at Sarah.
Once again out on the stygian streets, Valentia and Maggie walked several blocks to where the fire had been. A man in grubby clothing brushed past her, his unwashed body reeking. She shivered at the contact.
The light had faded, the details of the city hidden in twilight. The smoke became stronger, and she could no longer see much but an ominous orange glow surrounded by black. The nefarious haze settled on every person and object, like a wash of deep golden ochre paint.
The Hotel, which had risen to three stories and boasted thirty luxurious rooms, was now a smoking shell in the gathering darkness. Parts of one wall stood, proof against the fiendish flames. Several buildings to the east of the hotel were also burnt down, but the damage stopped at the next street.
Valentia looked at the crowd of people standing in the gloom. Searching face after face, she moved through each group, getting more anxious with each moment. With relief, she finally recognized the round figure of her father, and the equally tall but slim form of her younger brother, flanked by their valets, Hugh and Brendan.
“Conor! Father!”
Her father was not given to public displays of affection. However, he gave her a fierce, quick hug, and looked around in sudden panic.
“Majesta? Where is your mother, Valentia?”
“She’s fine, father. We’ve taken rooms at a hotel down the street. Her maid was hurt, and…”
“Hmph. Well, we will retire there, then.” It was the closest he would come to complimenting her on handling the situation.
“Was… was everything lost, father?”
He nodded slowly. “There were a few things we salvaged. My box with papers and money was in the safe. Some of your mother’s jewels were salvaged. Brendan managed to find her trunk.”
Gone. All her art supplies, the paintings she had planned on selling to the hotel manager. All her clothing and provisions they had brought for her journey to Ireland. After being strong during the flight, her calm shredded, and she fought back the explosion of tears behind her eyes.
Conor put a sympathetic arm around her shoulders and squeezed.
“We’ll be fine, Val. At least we’re all well. They are all just things, after all.”
That was true, but they were her things. Art she had created, dresses she had chosen, jewelry she had bought. They were the things she had collected to be part of her world. Without those things, she didn’t know who she truly was.
Her father scowled at the humbleness of the hotel when they entered, but said nothing. His face lit up with relief when he walked into their room.
“I’m so glad you’re safe, Padraig.” Majesta was sobbing as she hugged him, her diminutive form enveloped by her father’s tall, massive figure.
They held each other for a long minute before they parted. Majesta did her best to straighten her father’s cravat. Conor’s stock was sticking out of the back of his collar. Her father’s waistcoat was torn in several places, and streaked with mud.
“Were you close to the fire? What happened?”
“Later, Valentia, later.”
After a hasty toilette, they dined quietly at the hotel restaurant. No one wished to break the silence with conversation.
Afterwards, they retired to the hotel sitting room, and Padraig began his tale.
“There wasn’t enough bloody water for the bloody engines.” His eyes looked tired and deflated, more so than she’d ever seen him. He didn’t curse often, and his use of such words now unnerved her.
“What can you mean by not enough water? They’re surrounded by three rivers.”
“It’s been a hot, dry month. The water near the shore is low, so the engines were only sucking up mud. The hoses weren’t long enough to get to the deeper part. They lost an engine to the fire before our eyes, panicking the horses. We tried to help with buckets, forming a line into the muck, but then two of the men got sucked into the riverbed, so they gave up.” He said this in a steady monotone, as if reading it from a newspaper.
They wouldn’t be going to Ireland now, of course.
* * *
Many of the buildings burnt had been tenement apartments, and the people there had lost everything. Their homes, their belongings, perhaps even their livelihoods. One brick building had been gutted by the fire, but stood strong, so the Mayor made it a temporary shelter.
Though they were just visiting, the McDowell’s decided they should join in the work to help out the displaced families. Valentia and Majesta, along with the two maids, helped organize medical care, food and shelter. The men assisted in the clearing and cleaning of debris.
Most of their patients suffered from burns, smoke inhalation, and cuts and broken bones from the fire damage. However, more injuries trickled in as the repairs on the area began, when people tried to move fallen materials. Each day was long, hot and humid, filled with the sickly sweet odor of burned flesh and the acrid smoke which still lingered everywhere. At least her mother was good at organizing things, having run several campaigns for women’s rights.
Working beside other ladies, Valentia imagined she was on the front lines of an ancient battle. To block out the screams of an infant she was trying to bandage, she envisioned she was on the field in Ireland, perhaps as one of her ancestors, helping in a war.
The daydream was another legacy from her grandmother, along with the brooch. Stories of Ireland’s mystical past, of tragic love and brave warriors. But what stuck with Valentia was the tale of the brooch, the heirloom left in Ireland with her long-lost family so many years ago. Her mind once again traced the delicate designs she had seen in the drawing…
“Stop daydreaming, Valentia. Here, take these buckets and toss them out back.”
Chagrined at her inattention, she concentrated on her chores. She pushed escaping dark curls out of her face, smearing blood on her forehead.
The tasks were so different from her daily life at home. Her father owned a large dairy farm in a small town in Ohio, with a slew of servants to run the daily grubby work. This might be the first time she’d been this dirty without the relief of a bath in sight.
She glanced at Maggie, helping a young man next to her. He grunted while the maid changed his bandage, chattering while she tied off the ends. She reminded Valentia of a small brown mother hen, fluttering from charge to charge, administering clean cloths and cool water. At least her inexhaustible energy was being put to good use.
Maggie was much more used to such things, as any servant would be. Valentia would be glad when she didn’t need to do such grubby work.
The family met each evening at their hotel, usually too weary to do much but eat and do their best to sleep. Valentia at first put hopes of her private plans from her mind.
She spent several sleepless nights thinking about the brooch, glowing with white-blue sparks. It beckoned to her, like a will o’ the wisp, glowing and pulsing in the dim light of sleep. Lost in the intertwining lines, she wandered alone and bereft, searching for… what? An exit? Her heritage? Herself? She tossed and turned in a sweaty tangle of brown curls and clammy skin, waking to an uncontrollable and urgent need to find the blasted thing.
