“Why has it been so long?” She holds me at arm’s length, her thick brows raised. Lustrous waves of silver hair caress her shoulders, and fine lines wander from the corners of her eyes and mouth. It’s obvious she’s laughed a lot in her lifetime. How is she able to look beyond the gloom of this existence and find such joy? I wish I knew.
I smile awkwardly under Granny’s scrutiny.
“You are too skinny,” she declares, and I resist the urge to peer down at my soft middle and broad hips. “You need more meat on your bones. Let me get you some soup. Sit, sit.”
My stomach lurches as she shuffles off, her movements surprisingly quick for her size and age. “No, no. Granny…”
But she’s stopped listening to me.
“Ma, she needs to go to Ballybaeg to deliver dye plants before dark. We can’t have the workshops blaming her for slow fabric production, now can we?”
Thank you, Orla!
Granny’s shoulders slump. She turns away from the fireplace and the large pot warming over it, and shuffles over to the dining table instead. A golden sourdough loaf sits there, steam still wafting off the crust. The knife slices through the bread, eliciting the phantom sound of a satisfying crunch in my memory. My mother baked bread frequently when she was alive.
Granny returns to me with a generous chunk of sourdough wrapped in cheesecloth.
It takes all my self-restraint not to unwrap it and devour the whole thing. “Thank you.”
“Come back for supper.” Granny smiles and, before I can reject the offer, ushers me toward the door. I wince. Granny’s hands are deceptively strong from years of laboring in the fields.
I bid her and Orla farewell and shove the bread through the slit in my overskirt into the pocket underneath. Taking up the handle of the wagon again, I make my way back toward my house.
As I open the door, Finn nearly knocks me over. I pat his shaggy head and he returns to where Osheen sits on the floor in front of Taig. My shoulders relax and I step inside. “You’re here,” I sign. It’s a relief to not have to focus on reading lips as I have been doing all day. The exhaustion rushes in all at once, but I try not to focus on it.
My job isn’t complete yet.
Osheen smiles. “Did you doubt me?” He rips off a piece of the bread that he’d been feeding Taig before my arrival.
I know I shouldn’t, but doubt is rooted in my very being. After pulling the wagon carefully over the threshold, I crouch to remove my shoes then drop a kiss atop Taig’s chestnut curls. He glances briefly at me before turning back to Osheen for more bread.
My hands are stained green and blue, even though I’ve washed them more times than I can remember before leaving the greenhouse. One by one, I take the bundles over to my table. When they’re laid out neatly, I cut strips of parchment and ready my quill and twine, my scissors on standby.
As quickly as I can, I take note of the expected dye colors and their corresponding plants. I hate that I have to leave my home again, and especially that I have to rely on someone else to look after Taig in my absence. It’s foolish and risky.
Osheen taps on my shoulder, and I turn to him, blowing hair out of my face with a big sigh.
“Do you want me to make the delivery?” His face says he knows my answer already.
It’s kind, but I need the deeds to count toward my record, especially since I’m even more behind on my work now. Taig spins slowly on his bottom and I almost smile. “It’smytask,” I say, speaking only. Itear my gaze away from my little brother and back to Osheen’s worried face, signing again. “I have to go.”
He helps me load the bundles back into the wagon, and just as I’m putting my shoes on, he brings me a waterskin. “For the road,” he motions.
I smile at him. He’s the absolute sweetest. “Thank you.”
“Anything for you, Durvla. Hurry back, yes?”
No, I was planning to take my time, I want to say with bitter sarcasm.
I smile tightly before stepping out of the house again to set off on my unexpected journey.
Travelers, soldiers seeking shelter, and even Forayers have casually called my village, Ballybaeg, and Ballygortthe Big Three.Together, we provide food and clothing to Mainland, while our people struggle to survive on the bare minimum. If I were to leave Cluain Baile, Ballybaeg is where I would go, but each time the itch to escape my village surfaces, I push it away. It isn’t a possibility and it’s foolish to think otherwise.
The sun is sinking as I head back home with undyed hanks of imperfect wool that a worker from the mill so graciously gave me. I can already picture the sweater I want to make for Taig.
My breath puffs out in tiny clouds as I hurry across the sodden land. I take a slightly different pathway, cutting across someone’s property, when I spot a basket sitting on the side of the road. A bundle of fabric peeks out from inside the woven wicker. Releasing my grip on the wagon handle, I approach the basket with caution.
A tiny foot and the pale profile of a little face pokes out from the fabric.
