Delaney. Part II

“I was … I was …” she stammers.

“He’s a bloody human child not an animal!”

“Yes mum. I mean, yes sir.”

“You’re the chore maiden, come to help my wife?”

“Yes sir.”

 And the man grabs Delaney by her arm lifting her from the stool.

“Come with me you little devil!” And the girl can barely snatch her sweater before she is swept out of the barn and back to the cottage.

The commotion of their entry along with Robert’s wailing is a startling way to be wakened from a peaceful sleep.

“Do you know where I found this orphan girl and our baby?! In the barn trying to feed him with a goat’s udder. A goat’s udder for Christ sake!”

Mrs. Ryan is fumbling her way down the ladder and groping for the screaming baby. In an instant her breast is out, and Robert is gorging himself with occasional gasps of air between quaffs.

“Say it again, Michael. I don’t understand what you’re telling me.”

“The girl!” he says. “The girl was trying to feed our Robert at the teat of a goat. I have a mind to …” and the man lifts the back of his hand to swat her as Delaney raises an arm in defense.

“Michael, no! Those children get enough of that from the nuns.”

But Michael Ryan is transfixed, and his anger impulse is distracted by something he sees. Instead of hammering down a blow upon the girl he grabs her forearm.

“What is this?” and he drags her toward the open door where the sunlight is flooding in.

The paste which has covered Delaney’s tattoo has sweated off, and Mr. Ryan rubs the remainder of it away.

“Holy Mother of God.”

****

“What in God’s name were you thinking, child?!” Sister Mary Eunice is in a dither, pacing back and forth in her office, ruler clenched like a truncheon. She stops and shouts down at Delaney who has backed herself into a corner, hands covering her backside.

“Bringing a newborn baby to feed from a goat!” And a shadow crosses the woman’s face for an instant. Then it is gone, and rage returns to take its place.

“I told you, did I not? I told you about the sweater. ‘Keep it on, child,’ I said. But here you go flinging it off and waving your bare arm at the man.”

“But I didn’t. Not like that.”

The words are not considered any kind of believable defense by Sister Mary Eunice who has now pulled Delaney’s tattooed arm from behind her back and is raining down blows, right upon the markings. Sister’s face is clenched, and Delaney’s eyes shut tightly, and her resolve not to cry is overcome by the searing pain. The girl drops to her knees, but Sister Mary Eunice pulls her up to her feet by the arm and continues the beating until the forearm is blazing red.

She let’s go of the wrist and Delaney drops to the floor curling into a ball.

“My arm, my arm.” She cries. “You’ve torn it to pieces.”

The Sister knees down pulls Delaney to a standing position so they are eye level, hands grasping her shoulders.

“I only do this as a lesson to you.” There are still strains of anger in her voice, but they are moderated now. “To teach you something that you shan’t never forget. You will never, never, never, show that arm to anyone outside this house. Do you hear me?”

Delaney is sobbing and does not answer.

“Do you hear me, girl?” And this time with a jolt to her shoulders.

“Yes, yes!” Delaney shouts with a trace of defiance, and as soon as the Sister’s grip is released the girl flies out of the room, nearly knocking over the cluster of girls listening outside the door.

“You children get back to work!” Sister Mary Eunice screams at the gawkers and slams the door shut.

A barrage of thoughts pummel Delaney like a flailing ruler, throwing herself onto her bed. She’s mad and she’s hurt and embarrassed. What was she thinking? She will never be chosen as a chore maiden again. And she never wants to even walk past the Ryan place. Never wants to happen upon them in town. The thought of it pierces her. Oh, what will she do when she sees them in town?

Delaney can feel the bed shift. Someone has sat upon the edge. She looks up red-faced from her pillow to see her friend Sinead. Sinead is nine and occupies the bunk next to Delaney’s. The two are famous for whispering long after lights out and more than once have found themselves at the end of a ruler for their chit-chat.

Everyone in the place could hear the rampage of Sister Mary Eunice and figured Delaney must have suffered a terrible beating. The girl sits up and wipes her dripping nose on her sleeve.

“It’ll be ok.” Sinead says, and she holds Delaney’s hand but grazes the wrist and Delaney winces. Sinead turns her arm over and gasps, covering her mouth in shock. From the bend of the elbow all the way to the palm the inside of Delaney’s forearm is glowing red, blistered and swollen. Unconsciously Sinead lightly touches the tattoo and Delaney withdraws her arm and pulls her sleeve down.

“He saw it,” she says. “Mr. Ryan.”

“I know, I heard.” And Sinead doesn’t know what else to say. The tattooed child has always generated a mixture of pity and oddity from the girls at the convent orphanage.

****

The local brew at the tavern in Dunleer is a Goat Milk Stout. People love it for that familiar gamey taste, and it is shipped regularly to the Corporate Arms in the neighboring town of Drogheda. It is the lip-loosening effect of the Stout that sparks the conversation at the tavern that evening, with Mr. Ryan at the epicenter of a raucous re-telling of the tale.

“Dangling the little lad below the teat like it was a worm dangling above a baby bird.” And here, Michael Ryan tilts his head back and opens his mouth, tongue extended as if groping for a worm. The room erupts.

“Whad’ya do, Michael?”

“Well, what could I do. I cried out ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph’ and snatched the lad away before he could latch on!” More laughter. “I couldn’t bring up little Robert believing he were a goat, now could I? He wouldn’t have a clue what to do with poor Clara’s titty next time he went to nurse!”

“But that ain’t even the strangest thing.” He says.

“After I dragged her back to me home, bugger it all if I didn’t spy a tattoo on the child. One right here on her forearm. A girl no more than seven or eight, and here she’s got a strange tattoo!”

There’s a disbelieving head-shaking by one of the men and murmuring all around the room.

“Aye.” Confirms another man. “I believe it. Me missus, she had two of the orphan rats over a few years ago to help with the washing. She overhears them talking to one another about one of their little mates what had a tattoo on her arm.”

“What’d it look like?” Somebody asks Mr. Ryan.

“Like nothing I ever seen,” he replies. “Markings of some sort. Not no picture. And not no spelled out words, least not in English. More like symbols.”

“Was they like runes?” Someone said. “Runes of the druids?”

“Yeah. That’s it. They was like runes. Like the ways the druids make their writing.”

In a dark corner of the tavern sits a quiet man who has not taken part in the hilarity but has been listening intently. He strikes a match to light his long-stemmed pipe and in the orange glow of the bowl, one can just make out four blue, parallel lines running from just below his lip, over his chin, and down his neck.