“I’m talking to you today,” he said, “because I’m thinking we need to come together as the community we are. Now me and my family are creating a group down by Dardagh that’s near the water—so’s we can fish and provide for our families—and also farm. Now I know…” He raised his arm again and surveyed the crowd that was approaching the wagon. “Farming’s not been good to most of us in the last few years but I’m thinking that’s going to change what with the crisis and all. I’m inviting any and all who want to come and live with us—in the community we’re trying to build—in Dardagh. It’ll be hard work, no mistake, but nobody knows how long all this’ll last…” He swung his arm to indicate the shuttered village street.
“With no laws nor government help,” he said, “there’s plenty among us could use help and plenty able enough to help. I believe there’s strength in numbers and that together we can rebuild, come what may, no matter what mischief the Yanks or the Poms have gotten us all into. And we’ll live better together than apart. That’s all I had to say and if you’re interested, I hope you’ll come talk to me.”
A man called up to him: “Do you have housing for us, then, Mick?”
“It’s Mike, and no, we have sheds and barns and strong backs to help those that can build houses.”
“And food?” an elderly woman yelled out. “Do you have food in this Dardagh of yours?”
“We have enough,” Mike said to her. “And with more people working to farm and fish and help with the livestock, we’ll have enough for everyone. If everyone pulls their weight, we can build a community that will take care of everyone.”
“Or we could just leave.”
Mike and the crowd turned nearly as one to the high-pitched woman’s voice that came from the perimeter of the crowd. People parted as Siobhan made her way forward toward Mike’s wagon.
“Everybody here knows Siobhan Scahill from Scahill’s Dairy,” Mike said.
“We could just leave, Mike Donovan,” Siobhan repeated. “And go to the towns that have food and work and laws still working.”
“Where would that be, now?” Mike’s hands rested on his hips as he addressed her. “Dublin? Limerick? London?”
Siobhan turned to the crowd.
“Why would you stay here?” she asked. “When there’s nothing here but hunger and dried up farms?” She glanced up at Donovan. “Most of these farms haven’t been worked in two decades,” she said. “You know that. Are you really going to multiply your fishes to feed the masses? I think Father McGinty will take issue with that.”
The crowd laughed and Mike saw a few of the men on the edge wander away, presumably in search of their jars.
“I don’t believe running away is the answer,” he said.
“It is if there’s nothing here,” Siobhan said. “It is if the country is crawling with pikers and murderers and there’s nothing to eat and no help coming.”
“Which is why we need to band together and help ourselves,” Mike said.
Siobhan addressed the crowd.
“I’m leaving Balinagh by the end of the week,” she said. “Anybody wantin’ me Dairy, you’re welcome to it.” She turned to look at Mike but spoke loudly to the people gathered. “I’ll not be coming back,” she said. “Whatever comes now.”
By the time Sarah rode into the western entrance to Balinagh, her back felt limber, her seat relaxed and her rhythm totally in sync with Dan.
Two years before she had given up trail riding for good—or so she believed. She had restricted herself to riding in the paddock or the enclosed jumping arena, carefully avoiding the jumps and anyone jumping them. The thought of going out into the pasture or on any of the trails—even with a group of other riders—had terrified her. When a friend at the barn where she rode gently pointed out to her that there seemed to be little point in her perfecting her riding technique if she refused to actually ride anywhere other than the paddock, Sarah did not have an answer. She knew what she was missing. She had trail ridden for years, and happily. She remembered the startled foxes and quail and the pleasures of the morning viewable only from horseback–the sunrise, the flowers, the birds, the smell of life, organic and exquisite. She knew what magic riding out in the world held. It was the reason she had begun riding in the first place.
She wasn’t sure exactly when her confidence had eroded and then left her altogether. All things considered, her fall had been a gentle one. There was no blood, no splintered bones, just a clean snap and a matter-of-fact drive to the emergency room. She had even fed her horse and released him back into the pasture before allowing a friend to drive her to the hospital. A broken shoulder, although inconvenient to her life outside riding, had not put her in a wheel chair or attached her to a colostomy bag. It had healed quickly and she had eagerly returned to ride. But, bit by bit, everything changed.
Before long she was running tapes in her head that she found difficult to stop. The mental tapes varied from day to day—images of her horse throwing her and her body rolling down barbwire-lined ravines, images of the horse panicking and racing through the woods and the brambles while tree branches lacerated her. The tapes ran in her head when she rode alone. So, she stopped riding alone. Then the tapes ran when she rode in the pasture or on the beautiful trails that wound up and around the Chattahoochee River near the barn where she boarded her horse. So she stopped going out on the trails.
Pretty soon, the tapes would start as soon as she swung up into the saddle. It was about that time that she met David and decided the courtship didn’t allow time to include horses too. She sold her horse and put her tack up for sale on eBay.
Sarah realized with surprise as she approached the village that her focus was so keenly on what she would find there that the fact that she was riding alone in an unfamiliar rural surrounding had not even come to mind. Realizing it now, she stopped Dan and stood up in her stirrups. She took in a big breath and let it out slowly as she watched the sky. She closed her eyes and felt in control of him, utterly and completely. She patted his neck. She had always been afraid of big horses. Her own horse back home, no bigger than a large polo pony, had been as docile and sweet as a golden retriever. Yet Sarah had virtually given the mare away and had breathed a sigh of relief as if she had unloaded a demon on wheels.
Sarah tightened her calves against Dan’s sides and he moved amiably forward. She could see in the distance that there was a market set up today.
The laughter and the music reached her before she could see much of the market. Sarah smiled. The Irish and their music, she thought. Do not let an international disaster stand in the way of what’s important. When she reached the end of the main street she could see about twenty tents and tables set up, all of them crowded with people. A fiddler, the source of the music, was established in the center in a makeshift stage. A large group crowded around, laughing and clapping and generally looking like they’d never seen a street performer before. A few people looked at her as she walked Dan into the market. She could see a line of saddled horses off to the side, tied to a rope strung across the street. There were also four pony traps still attached to the ponies.
Pretty hard to steal a pony trap with the pony attached, she thought, as she slid to the ground from her saddle. A lot less tricky with a fully saddled horse. She walked Dan to the line of horses. A couple of people turned, smiled at her and seemed to be watching her. She slipped the bit out of Dan’s mouth and pulled the bridle off his face until it hung on his neck. Then she wrapped the reins in a loose knot on the tie-up line. She loosened his girth to the very last notch. Someone tries to steal him, she thought with satisfaction, they’ll be trying to do it with a 15-pound saddle flopping around Dan’s stomach. She pulled the wine bottles from the saddlebags and turned to join the crowd.