Stupid woman, I told her I needed another towel.


“What time does your watch say, Mrs. Fitzpatrick?”

“Five-sixteen.”

“I reckon the storm’s making travel slow. I’d like some water and another towel, please. No, come to think of it, I’d like some tea, with plenty of sugar.” Give the woman something to do and maybe she’ll quit hanging over me like an umbrella. I’m sick and tired of making conversation and brave smiles. I’m scared half-witted if truth be known. The contractions aren’t any stronger, or closer together, either. I’m not getting anywhere at all. At least the mattress feels better than the table, but what’s going to happen when it gets soaked through, too? Is the storm getting worse or am I just spooked?


Rain was buffeting the windows now, propelled by a mighty wind. Colum O’Hara was nearly knocked down by a branch torn from a tree in the wood near the house. He climbed over it and moved on, bent against the wind. Then he remembered, turned around, was blown onto the limb, fought for a foothold in the quagmire mud of the drive, dragged the limb to one side, fought against the wind again towards the house.

“What time is it?” said Scarlett.

“Almost seven.”

“Towel, please.”


“Scarlett darling, is it very bad?”

“Oh, Colum!” Scarlett pushed herself to half sitting. “Is the doctor with you? The baby’s not kicking as much as before.”

“I found a midwife in Dunshaughlin. There’s no getting to Trim, the river’s over the road. Lie back, now, like a good mother. Don’t tire yourself more than you have to.”

“Where is she?”

“On the way. My horse was faster, but she’s close behind. She’s brought hundreds of babies, you’ll be in good hands.”

“I’ve had babies before, Colum. This is different. There’s something bad wrong.”

“She’ll know what to do, lamb. Try not to fret.”

The midwife bustled in just after eight. Her starched uniform was limp with wet, but her competent manner was as crisp as if she hadn’t been rushed on an emergency at all.

“A baby, is it? Ease your mind, missus, I know everything there is to know about helping the little dear things into this vale of tears.” She took off her cape and handed it to Colum. “Spread that out near the fire so it can dry,” she said in a voice accustomed to command. “Soap and warm water, missus, for me to wash my hands. This will do over here.” She walked briskly to the stone sink. At the sight of the blood-soaked towels she wilted, gestured frantically to summon Mrs. Fitzpatrick. They had a whispered conference.

The brightness that had come to Scarlett’s eyes faded. She lowered the lids over her sudden tears.

“Let’s just see what we have here,” said the midwife with false cheer. She lifted Scarlett’s skirts, felt her abdomen. “A fine strong baby. He just greeted me with a kick. We’ll see about inviting him to come out now and give his Ma a little rest.” She turned to Colum. “You’d better leave us to our women’s work, sir. I’ll call you when your son is born.”

Scarlett giggled.

Colum removed his Balmacaan overcoat. His collar gleamed in the lamplight. “Oh,” said the midwife. “Forgive me, Father.”

“For I have sinned,” Scarlett said in a shrill voice.

“Scarlett,” Colum said quietly.

The midwife pulled him towards the sink. “It may be you should stay, Father,” she said, “for the last rites.”

She spoke too loudly. Scarlett heard her. “Oh, dear God,” she cried.

“Help me,” the midwife ordered Mrs. Fitzpatrick. “I’ll show you how to hold her legs.”

Scarlett screamed when the woman’s hand thrust into her womb. “Stop! Jesus, the pain, make it stop.” When the examination was over she was moaning from the hurt. Blood covered the mattress and her thighs, was spattered on Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s dress, the midwife’s uniform, the floor for three feet on each side of the table. The midwife pushed up the sleeve on her left arm. Her right arm was red halfway to the elbow.

“I’ll have to try it with both hands,” she said.

Scarlett groaned. Mrs. Fitzpatrick stepped in front of the woman. “I have six children,” she said. “Get out of here. Colum, get this butcher out of this house before she kills Mrs. O’Hara and I kill her. So help me God, that’s what will happen.”

The room was lit suddenly by a flash of brilliance through skylight and windows, and a heavier torrent of rain slashed against the glass.

“I’m not going out in that,” the midwife howled. “It’s full dark.”

“Put her in another room, then, but get her out of here. And when she’s away, Colum, go bring the smith. He doctors animals; a woman can’t be that different.”

Colum had the cringing midwife by the upper arm. Lightning scored the sky above, and she screamed. He shook her like a rag. “Quiet yourself, woman.” He looked at Mrs. Fitzpatrick with dull hopeless eyes. “He’ll not come, Rosaleen, no one will come now it’s dark. Have you forgot what night this is?”

Mrs. Fitzpatrick wiped Scarlett’s temples and cheeks with a cool damp cloth. “If you don’t bring him, Colum, I’ll do it. I’ve a knife and a pistol in the desk at your house. It only needs showing him there’s more certain things to fear than ghosts.”

Colum nodded. “I’ll go.”


Joseph O’Neill, the blacksmith, crossed himself. His face glistened with sweat. His black hair was plastered to his head from walking through the storm, but the sweat was fresh. “I’ve doctored a horse once, same as this, but a woman I cannot do such violence to.” He looked down at Scarlett and shook his head. “It’s against nature, I cannot.”

There were lamps along the edges of all the sinks, and lightning flashing one jagged bolt after another. The huge kitchen was brighter than day, save for the shadowed corners. The storm raging outside seemed to be attacking the thick stone walls of the house.

“You’ve got to do it, man, else she’ll die.”

“She will that, and the babe too, if it’s not dead some time past. There’s no movement.”

“Don’t wait, then, Joseph. For the love of God, man, it’s her only hope.” Colum kept his voice steady, commanding.

Scarlett stirred feverishly on the bloody mattress. Rosaleen Fitzpatrick sponged her lips with water, squeezed a few drops between them. Scarlett’s eyelids quivered then opened. Her eyes were glazed with fever. She moaned piteously.

“Joseph! I order you.”

The smith shuddered. He raised his big muscled arm over Scarlett’s mounded belly. Lightning glittered on the blade of the knife in his hand.

“Who is that?” said Scarlett distinctly.

“Saint Patrick preserve me!” cried the smith.

“Who’s that lovely lady, Colum, in the beautiful white gown?”

The smith dropped the knife on the floor and backed away. His hands were stretched in front of him, palms outward, fending off his terror.

The wind swirled, caught a branch, hurled it crashing through the window above the sink. Shards of glass cut Joseph O’Neill’s arms, now crossed over his head. He fell to the floor, screaming, and through the open window the wind screamed in above him. Shrieking noise was everywhere—outside, inside, within the smith’s screaming, around and on the howling wind, in the storm, in the distance beyond the storm, a wailing in the wind.

The flames in the lamps jumped and wavered and some went out. Quietly in the midst of the storm’s intrusion the kitchen door was opened and closed again. A wide shawled figure walked across the kitchen, among the terrorized people, to the window. It was a woman with a creased round face. She reached into the sink and twisted one of the towels, wringing out the blood.

 “What are you doing?” Rosaleen Fitzpatrick snapped out of her terror, stepped toward the woman. Colum’s outstretched arm halted her. He recognized the cailleach, the wise woman who lived near the tower.

One by one the wise woman piled blood-stained towels atop one another until the hole in the window was filled. Then she turned. “Light the lamps again,” she said. Her voice was hoarse, as if she had rust in her throat.

She took off her wet black shawl, folded it neatly, placed it on a chair. Beneath it she was wearing a brown shawl. That, too, came off and was folded, put on the chair. Then a dark blue one with a hole on one shoulder. And a red one with more holes than wool. “You haven’t done as I told you,” she scolded Colum. Then she walked to the smith and kicked him sharply in the side. “You’re in the way, smith, go back to your forge.” She looked at Colum again. He lit a lamp, looked for another, lit it, until a steady flame burned in each.

“Thank you, Father,” she said politely. “Send O’Neill home, the storm is passing. Then come hold two lamps high by the table. You,” she turned to Mrs. Fitzpatrick, “do the same. I’ll ready The O’Hara.”

A cord around her waist held a dozen or more pouches made of different-colored rags. She reached into one and withdrew a vial of dark liquid. Lifting Scarlett’s head with her left hand, she poured the liquid into her mouth with her right. Scarlett’s tongue reached out, licked her lips. The cailleach chuckled and lowered the head onto the pillow.

The rusty voice began to hum a tune that was no tune. Gnarled stained fingers touched Scarlett’s throat, then her forehead, then pulled up and released her eyelids. The old woman took a folded leaf from one of her pouches and put it on Scarlett’s belly. Then she extracted a tin snuff box from another and put it beside the leaf. Colum and Mrs. Fitzpatrick stood like statues with the lamps, but their eyes followed every move.