It's been a while, but welcome to my newest story. It'll be several chapters long, at least, but the only way I'll keep producing them is if I get some feedback—preferably of a positive nature. So remember to review this if you liked it. The more you review, the sooner I'll produce continuations! Thanks so much, guys.
CHAPTER ONE.
Killarney, Ireland – 1883
Nothing drew the people of Killarney together quite like a funeral.
It was a great to-do in a fragment of the village. Along ancient, winding roads, a procession was made. Mourners in their blackest finest patrolled these walkways. Flowers were the grandest litter there ever was; lily petals were subtly crunched under mourners' worn boots. It'd reminded an onlooker of a tragic snowstorm, even in the midst of the thick, stale June air. At the head of the morbid parade was a pine box. Nothing special. In fact, it was easy to say that the poor soul whose body occupied the meager coffin had died a pauper indeed. And it was true: John Malone was as poor as they came.
What a strange sight it was, then, to see such a gathering to mourn the loss of one who'd died with nary a possession. John Malone's riches, instead, lay in the company he kept, the company he'd left behind to mourn his departure from this world.
"John Malone was a good man," an old farmer said in a low, reverent voice. "Won't be another the likes of him. Mark my words."
The words reached the ears of a small young woman a few paces ahead. Her eyes, green like the hills, had lost their glitter. Dark waves, unruly in the heat, pinned away from her pale countenance, shrouded by a scarf over her head, neck, and shoulders. She absorbed the words from the farmer gracefully, her hand thoughtfully splaying over her stomach. It rounded with time and looked veritably as though it'd drag the poor, fragile woman down. What a strange, paradoxical thing indeed: an expectant mother in a funeral march.
The farmer spoke again, his red brow furrowed under wisps of white hair. "I say, the world will never have another soul as good as he."
"Yes," the sullen mother-to-be whispered. "My poor, poor husband will be missed dreadfully."
"And what do you want to call the little one, hmm?" A work-bronzed hand splayed over the rounded belly, smoothing the cotton tunic that draped over it. The hand belonged to a man with a smile that was slow to arrive but lingered when it did.
"Well, I'll name it after you, John, if we're blessed with a son."
"And if we aren't, my love?" The smile stretched to the corners of his mouth. "If we've a little girl?"
She paused, eyes crinkling in thought. "Something beautiful."
"Aye." A puff of a chuckle escaped his lips, situating his wife onto his knee. "Any little angel that you've got in there is worthy of such a name."
The woman's emerald eyes flashed playfully, her fair countenance matted with shine from the everyday fatigue of carrying a child that was just about due.
"Belle."
"Mmm?"
"We'll call her Belle." John smoothed his chin thoughtfully, settling his hand atop his wife's knee as it rested. "It means beauty."
She couldn't help but look amused. "Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Malone, that you wish to name our daughter something French?"
He drew a long, pensive sigh. "I know it isn't rightly Irish, my Nora…"
"…But it's quite lovely." She finished the statement for him, cupping a dainty hand about his slightly-grizzled chin.
"Then Belle Elizabeth. We'll name her Belle Elizabeth—the Elizabeth after your dear late mother—and if it's a boy, we'll call him John, after his dear father." His shoulders squared with satisfaction, his chest heaving proudly. "But we'll have a daughter."
This amused Nora, who rolled to the other side of John's lap. "Oh, aye? We will? What makes you so certain we'll have a little girl, Mr. Malone?"
The secret lay dormant in his eyes as he encompassed the little mother with arms ensnaring her waist. "We will, that's all. You mark my words, my Nora. We'll be parents to a little girl, me and you. A little girl who's as small and shy as her mother, but with her father's curiosity."
A pause. Then, "John? Will it—will it still be all right? To raise the little one?" The Malones' farm had been dwindling these summer months. The barley crops had suffered under the heat, and it was likely the yield would be substantially less than in harvest seasons past. It worried Nora, who wanted to raise the child in a house as prosperous as she could manage. Now, the future was uncertain.
"Nora—look at me?" Fingers drew the delicate chin to meet John's dark, yet gently spirited eyes. "Our little one will be safe. She'll be well cared for. If I don't see to that, you certainly will, by God."
No one had expected the horrid accident that had befallen poor John Malone only a few days earlier. It was as quick as a lightning bolt and twice as fast: a runaway coach. One of the Britons on holiday had lost control of his elaborate carriage, and the wheel and horses had overtaken poor John Malone after a bleak, dark night home from the pub. The silver lining was that dear Mr. Malone didn't suffer in his departure from this world; the cloud was that he'd left behind not only a village and a farm, but also a young wife and unborn child.
The mourners clustered in the hills just to the edge of Killarney. A perfect hole was dug in the emerald hills to accommodate John's casket. A priest presided over the rite, his garb whipping in the wind that provided some sort of relief to the summer swelter.
"God rest your soul, John Michael Malone."
The casket was lowered into its place, and no sooner had the dirt been sprinkled atop it than a sharp cry erupted from the mourners. Nora doubled over as the cry emitted again. This time, it was plain that she owned that sharp, pained cry. It wasn't a widow's wail. It was a mother's.
"Dear God. It's coming. The baby's coming."
Just as soon, the funeral reached its end, all last rites performed over the poor pauper's grave. The older women of the town—those who'd grown broad with child rearing and experience—surrounded young Nora, all in a fuss to get her to a suitable, sterile bed. She was engulfed by the women and quickly taken back toward town. The old farmer thumbed the brim of his cap, whistled lowly, and declared, "Aye, that's as it would seem: Death to make room for life."
Nora was dazed at the turn of events, more so at the reaction of the women about her than of the arrival of her very own child, when she was finally settled into her own bed. She even allowed the saddest and weariest of smiles to cross her features. Bless those poor biddies, but they look like a flock of fussy blackbirds!
The blackbirds didn't get any less fussy as the hours went on. Nora hadn't the faintest idea that such an event as the arrival of a baby was enough to be the center of attention. She'd likely have been just content settling into bed and letting one midwife take over. Not, certainly enough, twenty midwives! They flocked and squawked to each other mostly, occasionally propping a pillow beneath Nora's head of curls and giving her a militaristic command to "push, Nora Malone, for Jesus' sake!" It was so much of a whirlwind that Nora didn't even remember that her dear John wasn't waiting outside. Oh John. You'd have had none of this if you were still with us.
And so it went on into the night. Nora grew fatigued, and so did many of the self-appointed midwives, that they took turns. Some would curl up in gnarled positions on a chair to catch a nap before resuming the task at hand—the "God-given duty," as they insisted it was—and poor Nora was flush with fatigue and pain and frustration that she couldn't be left alone. Little one, come soon and quickly, for Heaven's sake!
The night didn't seem to end until a last swelling of orders from the blackbirds gave way into a crescendo, at the top of which was a shrill cry unmatched by any of the ladies present, including Nora herself. The baby. Nora struggled to try and see, but the little one was shrouded in fussy ladies and bathed in warm water and, quite honestly, still crying at the top of its very lungs.
"The baby," Nora pleaded in a feeble voice that didn't carry far. Her arms were outstretched. "Let me see—"
"—And what a healthy little sprite it is at that!" boomed one of the more domineering blackbirds, hoisting a pink little bundle into the air gleefully, only to give it a landing place in the mother's arms. "A wee little thing, but bright and cheery. Looks just like her mother, she does."
Everything changed in that one instant. All the pain and fuss of waiting and waiting had been erased altogether when Nora finally held the child in her arms. Looks just like her mother. A girl. A little girl. John was right. The room faded away, save for mother and daughter. The blackbirds had collected themselves and the mess and began to clear out. Their job had been done, but dear Nora's had only begun.
"Oh, Belle. My little Belle Elizabeth Malone."
To be continued, very soon.