Chasing River
Page 40

Even Ivy, who I was skeptical about bringing here, is turned completely in her chair to watch Fergus, making slow work of her supper.
Fergus monopolizes the stage for close to an hour—he’s a verbose bastard—and wraps up just as Rose is collecting our empty plates and dropping another round of drinks off.
“This will be my last for tonight,” Amber informs Rose sweetly. Ivy shoots her a skeptical look but Amber ignores it, smiling at me. “How much of his story is true? I mean, I know the whole will-o’-the-wisp thing isn’t, but isn’t there some truth to all of these stories?”
I shrug. “They could have been following fireflies or glowworms, or little pranksters with lanterns. Who knows? These stories are passed on from generation to generation by word-of-mouth, so you can expect embellishments with each turn.”
“Well . . . embellished or not, that was so great. I never would have found this place on my own.” Her gaze darts to my mouth, and she bites her own lip with hesitation. “Thank you.” She leans in and kisses me. It’s more proper than last night in the office, but something tells me that simple move took a lot of guts for Amber.
Fergus’s booming voice is back. “I’m sure you’re all sick of me by now. Nosey Flynn’s own Shannon O’Callahan will be up next, but I’d like to beg that strappin’ young lad over there to share a story or two from his fine lineage.”
Fergus’s meaty paw gestures toward me and Amber’s pretty mouth drops with her jaw. I can’t help but laugh, giving her hand a kiss before I release it to take the makeshift little corner stage.
EIGHTEEN
Amber
River is getting up there?
Butterflies churn in my stomach for him, because I don’t know how anyone could ever stand in front of fifty-odd people and do improv of any kind. I’m sure these storytellers know their stories well before they get up there, practicing them out loud until they can say them in their sleep. But does River? No notes . . . no cues . . . and everyone is watching him.
River saunters over to the corner, an easy smile giving away nothing. No nerves with this guy. With a deft flick of his wrist, he steals the tweed newsboy cap off Fergus’s head and settles it onto his own head, wisps of his golden-brown hair curling at the brim.
He perches himself on the stool and leans into the microphone. “All I wanted to do was enjoy a pint and a meal with me friends.” A round of laughter erupts. I’ve noticed that sometimes when River speaks to others from Ireland, his accent thickens a little and his choice of words changes. I wonder if it’s intentional.
“Well, that’s okay. I brought a lovely American bird here tonight to experience the lost art of storytelling. Amber?” He holds out a hand, gesturing at me. “Come on, stand up. Give us a bow.”
I feel my cheeks burst as all eyes suddenly shift to me. Contrary to what many think, I don’t like being the center of attention, good or otherwise.
I shoot a glare at River, but he only nods toward me, waiting.
Oh, what the hell . . . With a deep breath, I slip off my chair and, tucking one ankle behind the other, I splay my skirt with my fingers and bend at the knee. A playful round of applause ensues.
“Right, of course. A curtsy. My American princess wouldn’t bow.” He winks at me and then, to my relief, takes the attention off of me. “My brothers and I had the pleasure of listening to two great men, Seamus and Fionn Delaney, regale us with fantastical lore throughout our childhood. We have an entire arsenal of stories passed down that I could choose from. Funnily enough, though, the tale I want to tell you tonight is not one of theirs. It comes from Marion Delaney. At least two or three times a week, I’d refuse bedtime until she’d tell it to me. Now, I’ll apologize in advance because I’m not nearly as long-winded as that fat bastard over there,” he sticks his thumb out at Fergus, who only laughs, “and it’s not nearly as eloquent. But I was only seven when I learnt it, so you’ll have to pardon me.”
Another round of chuckles.
“I’m sure you’ve all heard of the Great Hunger, between the years of 1845 and 1852? A million men, women, and children lost their lives due to starvation and disease; another million left Ireland in hopes of a new life elsewhere. Terrible time for our country.”
I can’t help but frown, wondering what this children’s bedtime story could be about.
“Well, the story goes something like this . . .”
I can feel the swing in the atmosphere instantly, that moment when River’s entire presence shifts from casual banter to purpose, his gaze capturing the eyes of the audience.
“There was once a God-fearing man by the name of Seamus McNally,” he begins, his voice suddenly deeper, calmer, more confident. “His wife gave birth to nine children in total: five girls and four boys. Not unusual back then to have such a large family, especially for farmers. Only, the boys never lived beyond the first year of life. Seamus and his wife kept trying, because they needed the boys to help run the farm. And when his wife died during childbirth with their fourth boy, who also passed on, Seamus was left to care for five little girls on his own. You can imagine what a terrifying prospect that is for any fella.”
Despite the solemn introduction to this story, River’s little quip has people snickering.
“Now, Seamus was actually a descendant of Brian Boru, High King of Ireland, and had the English not stripped his ancestors of their property in the centuries that followed, imposing ridiculous laws to persecute Catholics, Seamus might have been an estate owner, able to support his family in comfort. But it was not to be. For a few years he prospered as a tenant farmer, renting a four-hectare patch of land on the very property his ancestors once owned near Waterford.
“And then one day, almost overnight, a terrible potato blight swept through the country, turning the plant leaves black and potatoes rotten. All of Seamus’s crops were destroyed, and when it came time to pay rent, he couldn’t. The English landlord evicted him and his family and burned down his house, just like that.” River snaps his fingers.
“Luckily, Seamus was a likeable, hardworking fella, and he secured a job as a laborer on another tenant farm quickly, helping harvest oats. In exchange for his services, he was given enough space to build a one-room mud hut for his family, their pig, and three chickens to share, and a tiny patch where he could grow potatoes for his family the following year, assuming the blight would be over.
“The family barely survived the winter but they all did, selling off their livestock and the few meager possessions they had. Seamus relied on Marion McNally, his eldest girl, to take care of her sisters while he worked the land from daybreak until nightfall, arriving home hunched over and aching. She was fourteen, and while they had no shillings to their name, she learned to become quite resourceful, taking the girls out to collect wood to burn for warmth, and nettle and seaweed and berries, both to eat and to barter with, for more clothes and necessities. They’d even collect sheep manure from neighboring farms, as it was considered rich in nutrients and good for growing crops. All she kept telling herself was that they needed to survive until the fall harvest, and then all would be grand again.
“But the following fall harvest saw virtually every last potato in all of Ireland again ravaged by this blight. Marion knew that her family could not survive another winter. Now, there was plenty of anger boiling in the Irish at this point, especially where the McNallys lived. Anyone who had been to the shorelines by Waterford could tell you that ships full of oats and grain were leaving the docks and heading for England. Entire families of Irish were starving—to death, in many cases—and yet the English landlords were forcing tenant farms to sell their crops in order to pay their rents. The land Seamus labored on was one such farm.