Bridie's Fire by Kirsty Murray Read Free Book Online Page A

Hundreds of men and women were labouring to build a road over the mountain. Their shoulder bones stuck sharply through the thin fabric of their clothing and their eyes were glazed as they dug or hauled stones up the steep hillside.
    It took all of the long afternoon to climb to where the path cut through the mountains. Bridie turned and gazed back at the land laid out behind them, at the arms of the peninsula wrapped around the harbour. Brandon said nothing as they all sat resting at the summit, but she could hear him humming quietly to himself, a strange, lonely tune.
    Low clouds lay like fairy mist over the landscape and Bridie felt a stab of grief that somewhere so beautiful should be so cruel. She prayed for all the people she was leaving behind, her father at Dunquin, Paddy in the cemetery behind the town, and the strange changeling sister in the waters of the harbour. Most of all, she prayed for her mother, closing her hands and forcing hope against hope from her heart into the blue sky.
    It seemed the whole of Ireland was on the move. Bridie didn’t look at the crumpled bodies by the wayside. She looked ahead, at the long road that wound its way around the peninsula and led to Tralee.
    The adults didn’t talk with Brandon and Bridie often. Even Mrs MacMahon said little to them, as if any word spoken would take away from the energy she needed to take the next step. They slept by the roadside, huddled together for warmth, and rose early in the morning to continue the journey.
    At Tralee, the streets teemed with people. There were soldiers in uniform, fat merchants, fine ladies in bonnets and full skirts; so many people who looked prosperous. Bridie found it hard to understand how some could be so well-fed when Dingle was full of wraiths. Brandon clung to Bridie’s arm, pressing himself against her. She tried not to show how overwhelmed she felt as people jostled them in the crowds and she struggled to keep up with the MacMahons.
    When they reached the workhouse gates, they discovered a swelling crowd waiting outside. People jostled for a place and argued in whining tones. The air reverberated with the babble of English and Irish, the low wail of some child, the cry of its mother, as scores of people waited to be taken into the workhouse.
    Bridie kept a firm grip on Brandon’s wrist and stood behind the MacMahons as they approached the porter of the workhouse. The man looked exasperated at Mr MacMahon’s questions and answered them in English. Even though she couldn’t understand what he said, Bridie knew by his expression that it didn’t augur well for them. She tugged at Mrs MacMahon’s dress.
    â€˜What’s he saying?’
    â€˜He’s saying there’s no place for us here,’ she said wearily, not meeting Bridie’s gaze.
    Bridie felt her scar burn hot as she flushed with anger. She pushed her way forward and stood defiantly before the porter.
    â€˜We’ve come from Dingle,’ shouted Bridie, as if raising her voice would make it possible for him to understand her better. ‘We’ve walked all this way because they said in Dingle that you’d take us in. My brother and me, we left our mam because she said you’d give us shelter.’
    The porter turned away as if she were invisible.
    â€˜There’ll only be room if more of them die,’ whispered a thin, dark man sitting hunched by the steps. ‘In the morning, when they take away the dead, then they let some of us who’s waiting in.’ The man looked close to death himself. ‘I’m praying they’ll find space for me inside before the day is out. ’Tis a terrible fate to die in the gutter.’
    Bridie and Brandon sat down with the MacMahons and waited. As the day wore on more people arrived and milled outside the workhouse gate. A tradesman fought his way through the raggedy, starving crowd and the porter let him in, shouting at people to stand back. Bridie looked