Chapter Text
We McGees weathered the famine nearly intact, which was more than most could say who'd lived through the dark times back home. I was only a little lad, but I remember how it was, the helpless rage of my elders as much as the hunger. We might have perished every one if Grandad hadn't the forethought to pack us all off to America, just short of being forced to it under far worse conditions. Though there were some wished to die before that long, perilous journey was over, not a life was lost. It wasn't the starvation or the voyage that took my family, but the hard years following.
Boston USA wasn't home. But, as a city, it was one of the better. In Boston, these later days, it wasn't a crime to be Irish, only a nuisance if you weren't one of those better landed, or having an inside track to the streets of gold too many of us thought to find here. I myself, being all of five, was disappointed to find the pavers of plain stone, but it was still a new world with new possibilities. I was taught it took hard work to get anywhere, but I could get anywhere if I worked hard enough. Not taking bad luck into account.
Three years after we came to America, my father was dead from consumption. A year later, we lost two brothers and an uncle to a terrible accident on the docks they were working. Mam succumbed to heartbreak not long after. And fever carried off Aunt Molly and everyone under the age of ten, my cousins and my little brother, my last brother. That was the worst, I think, that he should go and I should stay, when I willingly would have gone in his place. But it wasn't a choice I got to make. All that was left of the McGees by then was the two of us. Just me, Sean Patrick, and my old Grandad.
It sounds like a sad tale I'm telling, but no. Good luck found us eventually, when Grandad wagered near everything we had and won, a horse and a peddlers wagon. When I was fifteen, we left the city behind and made a way for ourselves traveling about doing odd jobs, buying and fixing and selling. Through years of careful planning and frugal means, I'd made it into what pleased me and kept us fed, a roving bookseller's trade. All in all, it was a fair good life we had.
As I say, Boston wasn't home, as much as one of the bigger way stops on our rounds. We had family of a kind in the city, friends, old and new. We could always find a bed for a night or a week of nights, and plenty of good Irish cooking, when the wagon needed work, or a hard winter got us down so we needed a respite. But a few weeks of the city was usually enough for the both of us, and we'd be off again.
That was where we were on a fine, early autumn day in '71, setting out from Boston with stores laid in for a circuit of the western towns. I'd made a good deal on an old collection of quality, leather bound masters and already had several buyers in mind. I was in high spirits, as was Mae, switching her tail across her dappled gray rump. I had Grandad beside me, happy to be on the move.
"Sean Patrick McGee, good journey to you!" Derry Flynn and some of his pals, heading out to their work on the docks as we clattered by. I raised my cap with a grateful thanks, and they all wished us best of luck. Fiona Fitzgerald was on the corner with her shopping basket on one arm, not by accident, I was sure. She called out a greeting as we passed, and a farewell. I gave her a tip of the cap and a kindly smile in return, but kept on.
That was one of the drawbacks of visiting the city, for me. Mothers and their daughters forever trying to settle me down. At twenty-eight, I'd more than half considered it a time or two. I'd have loved having a family of my own, with a dozen children at least, but freedom was a weighty thing to give up for it. And besides, the way my head turned, along with notable other parts, it wouldn't be fair to the lass, would it? So I kept telling myself.
By the time we'd rumbled our way out of the city to the crossroads, Grandad was leaned against my shoulder in a doze. I slowed Mae to a lazy walk and gave him a gentle nudge. "Grandad." It was our last chance to look at the sea before we turned inland, and I knew he wouldn't want to miss it. He was awake in a trice, raising his head to take in the sight.
"Ah, Seanie my lad, it's a grand thing."
It wasn't really the sea sparkling in his eye, I knew, but the green land beyond it. He'd told me once, and only once, that he wished he could go home to die. For Grandad, home was County Cork in Ireland. I'd not told him even once that I meant to take him, too wary of my plan falling through. But I was working on it. We turned off the coastal road at last and took the way to Norwood, down into the valley of the Neponset River.
Mae was in fine form, clopping along the packed dirt of the road at an eager pace, pulling the wagon with ease. There was no rush, but I let her go for a bit, watching the bunch and glide of her powerful muscles, and the sway of her rounded belly. She was our future, was Mae, she and the foal she was carrying. I'd got her from the master of Montague Farms as a yearling, in exchange for a small fortune in rare volumes. She'd grown into a pretty lass, tall and broad as a good draft mare should be, and she'd taken over for Duster when he'd got too old for the job. Breeding her when she was ready for it had been Master Montague's idea. And to his prize, full-blooded Percheron stallion no less. It was a blessing. The foal would be a fine one, maybe worth enough to get us over the sea to Ireland. That was my plan.
Grandad was in good form as well, regaling me with stories of the old country, tales I'd heard hundreds of times but could always listen to once more. He could paint a meadow with his words so I could see it clear as day, or the path through the blighted potato fields from the spring house below the cottage, where we used to live. Thankfully, that day he remembered happier times, from when he was young and courting his Meghan. I'd never known my grandmother, but Grandad talked about her often those days, like he was looking back farther and farther into his life the older he got. I was happy to see him smile, but had to close my ears now and again when he forgot himself and got to remembering personal things that it wasn't my place to hear.
Eventually, I turned the talk around to the countryside we were driving through, the woods and meadows and farms of our adopted nation. He argued it was a land with all the color washed away, that home was greener and brighter. Grandad liked a good argument, and I was glad to humor him. I liked America. It was the only land I really knew, and I thought it was beautiful. Grandad finally patted my knee with a sad shake of his head, and said more seriously than not that it was a crying shame when a man forgot where his roots were laid. I assured him I hadn't forgotten and never would. "You remind me every day, Grandad."
We rolled into Norwood in the early afternoon, and the children not in school or at their chores gathered round to greet us. They knew us well all over those parts, from Newport to Lawrence and as far west as Northampton. We'd come into a town and find a shady place to park the wagon, and I'd see to business while Mae had a feed, while Grandad told his stories for anyone who cared to listen. I'd found a few of the medical texts Doctor Raines was wanting, so I bundled them up and went to see him at his practice. He offered several of his older texts in trade, as well as a couple bottles of liniment for Grandad's rheumatism. The books were outdated, he told me fairly, but I was sure I could find some young apprentice who'd be glad to have them.
I came back to the wagon to find Grandad doing hand tricks for the amusement of the young ones, and a small flock of the local matrons waiting for me. I knew what they were after and brought out my current collection of dime novels, which they chattered over like excited hens. In return for the selection they made, to be passed around no doubt and discussed over tea, I got the previous bundle back, and a fresh baked pear pie. A sweet deal, to my mind.
On the move again, we had the pie for our lunch, with a chunk of hard white cheese and a tall mug of cider drawn from the barrel we carried lashed to the running board. We passed through two more towns in the afternoon, where I did some small trade and picked up the local news. As the sun dipped toward the western tree line, we came to the country estate of the Winchcombes, and I stood Mae under an old oak that overhung the road.
I had to be extra presentable for this stop, so I washed my face and hands and then climbed into the wagon to change into my best suit of clothes, and shine the dust off my shoes. I knew I could probably unload the whole collection on Madam Winchcombe, but I preferred to spread the wealth around, and there were others more worthy. I opened the case and, holding back the ones I'd yet to read, chose three volumes. Balzac, translations from the French. Dry reading, but handsome tomes. The whole collection was in top condition, obviously handled with care and respect. There were some I truly hated to part with.
Mae was munching the graze alongside Master Winchcombe's newly whitewashed fence. Grandad was having a nap. I refilled his cider mug and set it on the wagon seat beside him, then took myself through the gate and up the lane to the house. I put on my best smile for the maid who answered the door. "Good day to you, Emily. If the lady of the house is in, would you tell her it's Sean McGee please, and I've something she might find of interest." Emily smiled and curtsied, though she needn't have just for me. She showed me into Madam's library to wait.
It was a grand house and its library a sight to see, walls of polished wood shelves filled with books. Sadly, I was sure most of them had never been read. They were procured and proudly displayed because they made a pretty picture, and no doubt a marvelous impression on guests, but they weren't valued for what was between their covers. I could not help but look, slowly walking around the room reading the titles, but I never touched. I could have. I waited long enough. But the folks I dealt with trusted me for an honest man, even Madam Winchcombe, and it wasn't in my best interest to betray that trust in any way.
Madam came eventually and was much pleased with what I had on offer. She wanted all three volumes, had just the place for them, and paid me generously, in coin. I had no call whatsoever for complaint, but continued to hope all those books would fall into the hands of more appreciative souls when the Winchcombes went to their maker.
As always, I was glad to be away from there. I woke Grandad to show him my little handful of silver, and he slapped me on the back with a laugh and called me his clever lad, good enough reason to boast a little. The coins went into the safe box in its hiding place in the wagon. I changed back into my everyday clothes, gave Mae an apple and a scratch between the ears, and on we went.
I was looking forward to a good place to camp for the night, a creek ahead that ought to be running well, when a jangling of bells and a pounding of hooves announced a cart or a wagon coming on us from behind, fast. I drew Mae over to the side of the road to give them room to pass by. There were two of them as it turned out, wagons like ours, only painted all in fanciful colors and adorned with carven trim. My attention was caught. "There's some bright for you, Grandad."
The wagons were pulled by a pair of horses each, with bells braided into their harnessing, driven by swarthy men in strange garb. Gipsies, I thought as the first drove by. It wasn't a common sight, but neither was it unheard of for gipsies to be traveling the countryside. The one driving the second wagon, raven haired and mustached, flashed me a dazzling grin as they passed, and damned if I didn't look at the man back.
Then I had my first sight of Lija. He was perched atop the roof of the last wagon, just a slip of a lad he looked to me then, and not like the others somehow, though he was dressed in like manner. He balanced there like an acrobat, the sun catching veins of copper in his long, dark hair as it whipped in the breeze. He held one arm aloft and from his bare hand a great hawk hopped and flew and landed again, testing its wings. It was a sight that lingered in my mind's eye for a very long time, there and gone as they were. When they were almost too far away to be sure, he turned and looked at me, from wide blue eyes in a face as fair as mine, fairer. A face that could launch wars, and capture a man's heart. I know the latter for a fact. But that would be getting ahead of the story.
Grandad was grumbling about folks who'd drive a horse for no good reason but to make a show. Grandad's eyes weren't what they'd been, and I doubted he'd seen what I had.
"It was a band of gipsies, Grandad. With four horses to two wagons, I'd not think they were suffering much for the pace." I could still hear the bells if I listened hard, though they were already out of sight around the next bend.
"Gipsies," Grandad retorted. "Trouble."
I'd heard the tales same as he, but didn't like thinking ill of anyone on hearsay. "Why Grandad, how many gipsies have you known in your life?" He put on a face and wouldn't say. I could best him at this one. "Don't you suppose it's those same folks who put out lies about the gipsies, or the Portuguese or the Jews, that call a man lazy and dishonest for being Irish?"
Grandad said they were vagabonds, the gipsies.
"Aren't we too, Grandad?" I know we started out that way, on the road because we wanted to be, making a living as we could.
Grandad insisted they weren't like us and couldn't be trusted. "We're family, Sean Patrick."
Well, surely they were a family too. Grandad wasn't arguing sense, but I let it go. I thought we weren't likely to see them again at any rate. They were going someplace in a hurry.