The barn and the bog body

Breda walked to work each day as if she were walking to the gallows.

Only a few nights had passed since a group of vagabond thieves—known among the Irish as Tinkers—had stormed Lord Andrews’ manor house, masked in old cut-out flour sacks that made them look demonic. But evil spirits they weren’t. They were common thieves who knew it was an auspicious evening to loot the teach mór—“the big house.” The owner, a rich English landlord, was entertaining rich guests that night. They knew because Breda had felt sympathy for the poor Tinker woman at the market. Breda had given the woman butter and a loaf of bread to feed her gaunt, dirty children, while letting it slip that Lord Andrews was hosting a Midsummer party.

It was only a matter of time before Lord Andrews found out that Breda, his docile and quiet maid, was to blame.

But it was Saturday already. If Breda could survive just a few more hours at the teach mór, she would be free to leave. All of Lord Andrews’ servants returned home on Saturday night to attend Church with their families the next morning.

But as she crept toward freedom after Lord Andrews retreated to his library, she heard a heavy door slam. “Miss McGlynn, may I speak with you?”

“Yes, my Lord,” she said without turning around. “What is it?”

“Look at me when I address you,” Lord Andrews said sternly.

Breda faced him, trying not to choke. He was going to fire her.

But instead of telling her he knew her secret and dismissing her at once, he spat out an unusual request.

“Bring my gin to the guest room.”

When Breeda opened the door to the guest chambers, Lord Andrews was reclining on the…she forgot the word, probably French or otherwise foreign, for this piece of furniture. There was no word for it in her Gaelic native tongue, and no poor Irish tenant of Lord Andrews could afford to own one, anyway. Lord Andrews’ fingers toyed with the buttons on his trousers.

He reached out and stroked her hair.

“The summer sun really blanches your hair aye?” he said. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed every June since you’ve worked for me. I may be a hard-hearted old man, but I have a great weakness for light hair.”

Breda flinched, instinctively pulling away. “I’ve been told I have red hair, my Lord,” she said, unable to mask the unmistakable dash of sarcasm in her soft, girlish voice. She forced a polite smile. “’Twas Lady Andrews who had fair hair.”

She hoped the thought of his dead wife would make him come to his senses. Instead, he scoffed.

“She wore wigs.”

He started fondling her hair again. “Have you ever lain with a man?”

Breda pushed his hand away. “What?” she stammered, feeling a searing heat upon her face. “I am unmarried, sir.”

“Is that what I asked?”

Andrews grabbed her hair and twisted it into a handful, pushing her face-down into the nameless piece of furniture. Breda screamed.

“Shhh. ’Tis best you do not resist me.” He started undoing her undoing his clothes. She could smell his stale breath in her nostrils and feel its heat on the back of her neck.

“Don't whine," Andrews said. "You'll make me go soft." He clasped his hand over her mouth.

But even in silence, he wasn’t succeeding. He swore under his breath in frustration, trying to force himself into a young body that rejected him.

Out of the corner of her eye, Breda looked at the fireplace in the bedroom, unused during the summer. The heavy iron poker stick, which the occupants used to stoke the embers at night, was resting against it.

“Do you mind if I light the fire, my Lord?” Breda asked, struggling to keep her voice firm and even. “’Twill make it more pleasant for the both of us.”

“If you must.”

Without a second thought, Breda grabbed the poker stick. She whirled around and lifted it over her head, using all her strength to bring the iron rod crashing down on his. Lord Andrews screamed.

“God damn you, Bridget!”

She hit him again. And then she hit him again, harder, ignoring his grotesque groans. She watched her arm raise the rod, as if it were a mindless machine and not part of her own body. Was this murder, anyway? She didn’t intend to kill him—she was only intent to bludgeon him until he stopped lunging at her. Besides, a nun had once told her that a virtuous girl should fight to the death against a man trying to steal her most valuable asset: virginity, her maidenhood. A peasant girl in Ireland was nothing without it. If anyone discovered it had been lost or stolen, no man would marry her.

Realizing the task was complete, Breda dropped the rod and backed away, grabbing her apron off the ground.

Breda ran down the staircase to the first floor, toward the beautiful glass windows that the Tinkers had smashed. A craftsman had just replaced them a few days ago. Breda flung open the doors to the garden, stepping outside. Then, feeling the crushing weight of disgust for herself, she smashed the shiny new windows from the outside.

Another robbery, she told herself. And no one would suspect her of staging the scene. Lord Andrews had been attacked many times. During the famine, a mob of half-naked starvelings had scaled the manor walls, plundering the house and attacking anyone who stood in their way. Rumor had it that was how Lady Andrews lost part of her scalp. Pieces of it were torn in chunks from her skull. From then on, Lord Andrews was wise to surround himself with armed English minions. Still, more than one angry tenant and Tinker wastrel had trespassed here, committing petty vandalism and stealing what they could carry. But Breda was his loyal maid, the one he hired because he thought she was so pretty. The prettiest girl in the parish, and maybe all of Ireland, he had effusively claimed.

Bridget McGlynn might be capable of foolishly informing a Tinker woman of where to find deep pockets and unsuspecting aristocrats—but no one thought she was capable of this.

Trembling, she ran to the old, unused barn on the outskirts of the manor, near the stone wall that kept the riffraff out. The barn Lord Andrews told his stable boys to ignore, because it was full of mice and cobwebs and nothing else. She heard Lord Andrews’ hounds barking as she forced open the door.

She had no lantern, but a wan late evening light was streaming through the lone window. As her eyes adjusted, she saw that every inch of the barn was piled high with mismatched, discarded wares--stacks of clothes, rows of boots, lace curtains and baptismal gowns. From rusty nails hung kettles, knives, shovels, teapots—even a fishing boat, propped in a corner. Breda shuddered with revulsion, battling a feeling of utter sickness more appropriate to stumbling upon a decaying corpse.

This was where Lord Andrews stored the things he took from his tenants when they were late with the rent. English law allowed it, and Andrews swore he did it out of compassion—taking a man’s tools and fishing boat was kinder than evicting him and turning him out on the road. Although it often rendered the Irish tenant unable to work, making him homeless and destitute all the same.

“This was mine,” Breda said. She reached out to touch the little girl’s nightgown with the lace cuffs and blue ribbons. Her mother had made it for her.

“Glad to see ’twas put to good use,” Breda mumbled sarcastically.

She would not sleep tonight. As darkness fell over the West of Ireland, she could see the bog, which was downhill from the manor. The bog where she had found the woman’s mummified body, with the long red hair still clinging to her scalp. Her face was bronzed from all the years in the bog water, but it was perfectly preserved—eyes closed, lips parted. Breda felt vomit rising into the back of her throat, burning her nostrils.

She should have known her luck would go bad the day she found the body in the bog. She had disturbed the woman’s undignified grave, and the bog woman had cursed her. Now she had killed her landlord. There was no doubt she would hang for it if she were found out.

If.

Breda wasn’t certain she was asleep when a flash of lightning lit up the barn, igniting a blazing gold light. Suddenly, a woman in the most beautiful emerald robes stood before her. A woman with porcelain skin and red hair, like Breda’s. She smiled gently, raising her arm to reveal she was holding a shield. It was more colorful than the most precious stained-glass window in all of Connacht, with so many intricate symbols that only God himself could have carved them.

When Breda awoke, she knew what to do, as long as it was still dark. It was Sunday, and no one would be on the roads. She gathered everything she could carry—clothes, linens, even a new pair of boots. Then, taking care not to wake Lord Andrews’ hounds, she opened the gate and drove his horse-drawn wagon onto the road. This horse knew and trusted her.

She was going to Galway. She had her own money. She could walk into an steamship office and buy herself a ticket to New York--a steerage ticket that would cover passage in the filthy bowels of the ship, but still a ticket paid in full. She fretted for a moment about encountering highwaymen on the road. Then she remembered that the highwaymen, who committed their dastardly "highway robberies" at knifepoint, were Irishmen. Even Irish scoundrels had Irish loyalties. They rarely made off with money; harassing the English with a hailstorm of rocks and overturning their carriages was satisfaction enough. And they didn't attack fellow Irishmen--or, God forbid, Irish girls.

As she passed the bog, she thought of the bog woman, whose body was still there. The small wooden cross Breda's grandfather had fashioned to mark the spot was rotting away. Nonetheless, she could see it. And now she could see the bog woman not as a tanned, hollow corpse, but as a beautiful woman with long, red hair.

“Go raibh maith agat," Breda whispered as she drove past the bog. Thank you.