Fiction One- Pocket Full of Posies
sarahryanrobinson
Sarah Robinson
English 151
October 27, 2012
Pocket Full of Posies
My heart jutters in my chest at the sound of finger tips gently thrumming on the window pane. My eyes dart of their own accord to the clear glass, barely making out the softly lined figure hovering outside. I cannot help it, a grin splits my face and I dart out the unlocked door, scarcely remembering to snatch my coat as I rush into the night air.
“Little éin ruy.” the figure says, almost chastising, “I have missed you. Will you walk with me?”
“I will,” I say, hoping the smile that clings to my lips is obscured by the darkness.
His arms glide smoothly around my waist and I twist to look up into his smiling face, his eyes radiating with warmth and mischief. Liam silently turns and leads me into the safe seclusion of the wooded glen that lies just outside our village of Ballineen, a town unnoticed by most, blessedly protected by our diminutive size and relative insignificance in the greater goings on of the world.
We arrive at a bend in the river that courses through our forest. It is a quiet spot where the trees above bow their branches to allow the pale moonlight to spill into our little grotto, silvering our bodies with its delicate glow. Liam turns to me,
“Come away with me Eilis, tonight. I have skill enough to give you a comfortable life. There’s no need for us to be condemned to live out the rest of our lives here.” I could see the earnest hope in his eyes and could see my own reflected in their emerald depths.
“You know I cannot. Without me, who will take care of my father when he can no longer work? You know I would travel the length and breadth of Ireland by your side, but my place is here, my place is with family.”
Liam sighs, he already knew what my answer would be, smiling into my determined face. He brings his lips close to mine, hovering above, before I grow impatient and kiss him with all the ardor I possess. I was never any good at waiting games and I push him into the cool forest floor, laughing at the pure pleasure of it.
From when I was old enough to heft a pot I had worked for the Merriman family cleaning house and helping Cook to prepare their meals. In the kitchen, tidying up after the Merrimans broke their fast and washing their fine china, I see a shipment arrive all the way from London. Having been raised on platters of rough hewn wood I derive subtle pleasure from the slippery feel of porcelain in a tub of hot soapsuds or the fragrance of lavender emanating from the flowers curling about the window sill and, deep into my reverie, I hear the clatter of iron shod hooves on cobblestone. Peering out the window I glimpse a cart with a smart team of four gleaming horses, an extravagance few in the town of Ballineen could scarcely imagine. The men of the village, as though summoned, spill out into the street to unload the precious cargo. Flour, sugar, I even spy a few rare spices, cinnamon, clove, black pepper are carried out and delivered to their respective owners. These staples are followed by iron ore and fine worked tools to be taken to my father’s workshop and a bevy of riches make their way to the Merriman’s door. When everything else is unloaded Liam arrives to make claim to the stunning array of fine cloth that he has had brought all the way from the far east, by way of London and Father Reilly appears silently beside the coach.
“Ms. Quinn,” he greets me warmly, picking a leather bound book from a pile inside the cart, “It pleases me to see you well. It is Homer’s The Iliad,” gesturing to the book, “Have you heard of it?”
I shake my head, blushing and staring fixedly at the ground.
“No Father, I have not. It is not my place to know such things.”
“Eilis, I do not believe God would allow such works to be created only to have them hidden away. Please look.”
I tentatively raised my eyes to the level of his chin, then let them roam slowly across the book’s aged cover. The smell the beeswax worked into its surface evokes vivid memories of hours passed sitting amongst luxury, yet never allowed to touch, longing to touch the supple leather and yellowed leaves. The binding crackles like the brittle bones of an ancient crone and dust rises from between its pages. I look down and see infinite lines and curves swimming through my vision, making my head spin in circles. Father Reilly looks into my face, seeing my terror and confusion, and slowly closes the tomb, smiling sadly.
“If you want, Eilis, I will show you what these lines mean.” Then, mistaking my humiliated silence for anger, he gathers up the remaining books and takes his leave.
The rest of the week passes without incident, the cattle grazing in the fields and I continue to cook and to clean, waiting for the day when I will do the same for my own family. I arrive one day at Liam’s cottage with a whisket of bread and a little cheese for our lunch. Nobody answers the door so I let myself in and begin setting the table when I hear a soft moaning sound threading its way down the stairs. Concerned, I set the spread down and climb the staircase to Liam’s bedroom. Opening the door I almost lose my feet as my eyes take in the wretched sight of my beloved splayed across the floor. His fair skin is mottled scarlet with rings like vivid rose petals standing in stark relief against the pallor of his flesh. A great lump the size of a fist protrudes out from under his arm, yellow-purple and throbbing, making him hold the arm out painfully to his side. His dark hair is plastered against his skull giving it all the luster of a pagan death mask. And all about the room clings the sickly sweet smell of rotting apples, crushed underfoot.
Turning slowly, with great effort Liam looks into my eyes, brimmed with horror and excruciating pain, “Run, Eilis, please run away.” He wheezes, barely able to whisper the words.
I simply stand there, staring at the wraith my beloved Liam has become, willing this to be some terrible dream.
“I know this illness; know what it means for us, for our village.” He is overcome by a fit of coughing and I rush down to fetch him a pitcher of water.
Upon return I pour him cup after cup until nothing remains. “Burn my body, he begs, “You must burn my body and everything I have touched,”
“You musn’t say such things! This is but a passing fever. In the morning you will be weakened, but fine. You’ll be fine!” Rivulets of tears stream down my face, soaking my bodice. I will it not to be, but even I do not believe my pitiful defiance.
He dies horribly and in pain, thrashing at the bed sheets, flailing and cursing God. At last he slips into a fitful and uneven sleep before finally heaving his last shallow breath into the early morning air. I untangle him from the sweat soaked sheets, softly caressing his tear stained cheek and closing the emeralds of his eyes.
There is a small service, led by Father Reilly. Liam’s passing was sudden and terrifying and it was plain to see that life for us was permanently rent in half. After the service we are led in a somber procession through the streets to Liam’s plot and four able bodied men lower him into the ground. I lay a hand one last time across his breast, whispering a prayer of my own before leaving him forever.
A weight of iron coiled itself within my chest that day never to let go. I believe that this was when my faith slowly began to falter. I believed then that I had lost everything dear to me. I should have done what he asked and burned his clothes, but I had though him raving and wanted desperately to hold on to what little I had left. I remembered and I wept.