Song of the Silent Harp (Book One in The Emerald Ballad series) by BJ Hoff
Life threw me a bit of a curve this weekend (a pleasant one) and I didn’t get to finish this book, however, I am in the midst of reading it and quite enjoying it. This is an historical novel that lives up to its billing. History itself is a prominent character in the book. If you like sweeping saga and epic journeys, you will enjoy this book, and (this is a guess) likely the remainder of the series as well.
It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old…or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
and the book:
(Book One in The Emerald Ballad series)
Harvest House Publishers (July 1, 2010)
***Special thanks to Karri James, Marketing Assistant, Harvest House Publishers for sending me a review copy.***
BJ Hoffâ€™s bestselling historical novels continue to cross the boundaries of religion, language, and culture to capture a worldwide reading audience. Her books include Song of Erin and American Anthem and such popular series as The Riverhaven Years, The Mountain Song Legacy, and The Emerald Ballad. Hoffâ€™s stories, although set in the past, are always relevant to the present. Whether her characters move about in small country towns or metropolitan areas, reside in Amish settlements or in coal company houses, she creates communities where people can form relationships, raise families, pursue their faith, and experience the mountains and valleys of life. BJ and her husband make their home in Ohio.
Visit the author’s website.
List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 432 pages
Publisher: Harvest House Publishers (July 1, 2010)
AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Write his merits on your mind;
Morals pure and manners kind;
In his head, as on a hill,
Virtue placed her citadel.
William Drennan (1754â€“1820)
Killala, County Mayo (Western Ireland)
Ellie Kavanagh died at the lonesome hour of two oâ€™clock in the morningâ€”a time, according to the Old Ones, when many souls left their bodies with the turning of the tide. A small, gaunt specter with sunken eyes and a vacant stare, she died a silent death. The Hunger had claimed even her voice at the end. She was six years old, and the third child in the village of Killala to die that Friday.
Daniel kept the death watch with his mother throughout the evening. Tahg, his older brother, was too ill to sit upright, and with their da goneâ€”killed in a faction fight late last Octoberâ€”it was for Daniel to watch over his little sisterâ€™s corpse and see to his mother.
The small body in the corner of the cold, dimly lit kitchen seemed less than human to Daniel; certainly it bore little resemblance to wee Ellie. Candles flickering about its head mottled the ghastly pallor of the skull-like face, and the small, parchment-thin hands clasping the Testament on top of the white sheet made Daniel think uneasily of claws. Even the colored ribbons adorning the sheet mocked his sisterâ€™s gray and lifeless body.
The room was thick with shadows and filled with weeping women. Ordinarily it would have been heavy with smoke as well, but the men in the village could no longer afford tobacco. The only food smells were faint: a bit of sour cheese, some onion, stale bread, a precious small basket of shellfish. There was none of the illegal poteenâ€”even if potatoes had been available from which to distill the stuff, Grandfar Dan allowed no spirits inside the cottage; he and Danielâ€™s da had both taken the pledge some years before.
All the villagers who came and went said Ellie was laid out nicely. Daniel knew their words were meant to be a comfort, but he found them an offense. Catherine Fitzgerald had done her best in tidying the bodyâ€”Catherine had no equal in the village when it came to attending at births or deathsâ€”but still Daniel could see nothing at all nice about Ellieâ€™s appearance.
He hated having to sit and stare at her throughout the evening, struggling to keep the sight of her small, wasted corpse from permanently imbedding itself in his mind. He was determined to remember his black-haired little sister as she had been before the Hunger, traipsing along behind him and chattering at his back to the point of exasperation.
Old Mary Larkin had come to keen, and her terrible shrieking wail now pierced the cottage. Squatting on the floor beside the low fire, Mary was by far the loudest of the women clustered around her. Her tattered skirt was drawn up almost over her head, revealing a torn and grimy red petticoat that swayed as her body twisted and writhed in the ancient death mime.
The womanâ€™s screeching made Danielâ€™s skin crawl. He felt a sudden fierce desire to gag her and send her home. He didnâ€™t think his feelings were disrespectful of his sisterâ€”Ellie had liked things quiet; besides, she had been half-afraid of Old Maryâ€™s odd ways.
Ordinarily when Mary Larkin keened the dead, the entire cottage would end up in a frenzy. Everyone knew she was the greatest keener from Killala to Castlebar. At this moment, however, as Daniel watched the hysterical, withered crone clutch the linen sheet and howl with a force that would turn the thunder away, he realized how weak were the combined cries of the mourners. The gathering was pitifully small for a wakeâ€”six months ago it would have been twice the size, but death had become too commonplace to attract much attention. And it was evident from the subdued behavior in the room that the Hunger had sapped the strength of even the stoutest of them.
Danielâ€™s head snapped up with surprise when he saw Grandfar Dan haul himself off the stool and go trudging over to the howling women grouped around Ellieâ€™s body. He stood there a few moments until at last Mary Larkin glanced up and saw him glaring at her. Behind the stringy wisps of white hair falling over her face, her black eyes looked wild and fierce with challenge. Daniel held his breath, half-expecting her to lash out physically at his grandfather when he put a hand to her shoulder and began speaking to her in the Irish. But after a moment she struggled up from the floor and, with a display of dignity that Daniel would have found laughable under different circumstances, smoothed her skirts and made a gesture to her followers. The lot of them got up and huddled quietly around the dying fire, leaving the cottage quiet again, except for the soft refrain of muffled weeping.
Danielâ€™s mother had sat silent and unmoving throughout the entire scene; now she stirred. â€œOld Dan should not have done that,â€ Nora said softly. â€œHe should not have stopped them from the keening.â€
Daniel turned to look at her, biting his lip at her appearance. His mother was held in high esteem for her good looks. â€œNora Kavanaghâ€™s a grand-looking woman,â€ heâ€™d heard people in the village say, and she was that. Daniel thought his small, raven-haired mother was, in fact, the prettiest woman in Killala. But in the days after his da was killed and the fever had come on Ellie, his mother had seemed to fade, not only in her appearance but in her spirit as well. She seemed to have retreated to a place somewhere deep inside herself, a distant place where Daniel could not follow. Her hair had lost its luster and her large gray eyes their quiet smile; she spoke only when necessary, and then with apparent effort. Hollow-eyed and deathly quiet, she continued to maintain her waxen, lifeless composure even in the face of her grief, but Daniel sometimes caught a glimpse of something shattering within her.
At times he found himself almost wishing his mother would give way to a fit of weeping or womanly hysteria. Then at least he could put an arm about her narrow shoulders and try to console her. This silent stranger beside him seemed beyond comfort; in truth, he suspected she was often entirely unaware of his presence.
In the face of his motherâ€™s wooden stillness, Daniel himself turned inward, to the worrisome question that these days seldom gave him any peace.
What was to become of them?
The potato crop had failed for two years straight, and they were now more than half the yearâ€™s rent in arrears. Grandfar was beginning to fail. And Tahgâ€”his heart squeezed with fear at the thought of his older brotherâ€”Tahg was no longer able to leave his bed. His mother continued to insist that Tahg would recover, that the lung ailment which had plagued him since childhood was responsible for his present weakness. Perhaps she was right, but Daniel was unable to convince himself. Tahg had a different kind of misery on him nowâ€”something dark and ugly and evil.
A tight, hard lump rose to his throat. It was going to be the same as with Ellie. First sheâ€™d grown weak from the hunger; later the fever had come on her until she grew increasingly ill. And then she died.
As for his mother, Daniel thought she still seemed healthy enough, but too much hard work and too little food were fast wearing her down. She was always tired lately, tired and distracted and somber. Even so, she continued to mend and sew for two of the local magistrates. Her earnings were less than enough to keep them, now that they lacked his daâ€™s wages from Reilly the weaver, yet she had tried in vain to find more work.
The entire village was in drastic straits. The Hunger was on them all; fever was spreading with a vengeance. Almost every household was without work, and the extreme winter showed no sign of abating. Most were hungry; many were starving; all lived in fear of eviction.
Still, poor as they were as tenant farmers, Daniel knew they were better off than many of their friends and neighbors. Thomas Fitzgerald, for example, had lost his tenancy a few years back when he got behind in his rent. Unable thereafter to get hold of a patch of land to lease, he barely managed to eke out an existence for his family by means of conacre, wherein he rented a small piece of land season by season, with no legal rights to it whatever. The land they occupied was a mere scrap. Their cabin, far too small for such a large family, was scarcely more than a buffer against the winter winds, which this year had been fierce indeed.
Daniel worried as much about the Fitzgeralds as he did about his own family. His best friend, Katie, was cramped into that crude, drafty hut with several others. She was slight, Katie was, so thin and frail that Danielâ€™s blood chilled at the thought of what the fever might do to her. His sister had been far sturdier than Katie, and it had destroyed Ellie in such a short time.
Katie was more than his friendâ€”she was his sweetheart as well. She was only eleven, and he thirteen, but they would one day marryâ€”of that he was certain. Together they had already charted their future.
When he was old enough, Daniel would make his way to Dublin for his physicianâ€™s training, then come back to set up his own practice in Castlebar. Eventually heâ€™d be able to build a fine house for himself and Katieâ€”and for his entire family.
There was the difference of their religions to be considered, of course. Katie was a Roman and he a Protestant. But they would face that hurdle later, when they were older. In the meantime, Katie was his lass, and that was that. At times he grew almost desperate for the years to pass so they could get on with their plans.
A stirring in the room yanked Daniel out of his thoughts. He glanced up and caught a sharp breath. Without thinking, he popped off his stool, about to cry out a welcome until he remembered his surroundings.
The man ducking his head to pass through the cottage door was a great tower of a fellow, with shoulders so broad he had to ease himself sideways through the opening. Yet he was as lean and as wiry as a whip. He had a mane of curly copper hair and a lustrous, thick beard the color of a foxâ€™s pelt. He carried himself with the grace of a cat-a-mountain, yet he seemed to fill the room with the restrained power of a lion.
As Daniel stood watching impatiently, the big man straightened, allowing his restless green eyes to sweep the room. His gaze gentled for an instant when it came to rest on Ellieâ€™s corpse, softening even more at the sight of Danielâ€™s mother, to whom he offered a short, awkward nod of greeting. Only when he locked eyes with Daniel did his sun-weathered face at last break into a wide, pleased smile.
He started toward them, and it seemed to Daniel that even clad humbly as he was in dark frieze and worn boots, Morgan Fitzgerald might just as well have been decked with the steel and colors of a warrior chief, so imposing and awe-inspiring was his presence. He stopped directly in front of them, and both he and Daniel stood unmoving for a moment, studying each otherâ€™s faces. Then, putting hands the size of dinner plates to Danielâ€™s shoulders, Morgan pulled him into a hard, manly embrace. Daniel breathed a quiet sigh of satisfaction as he buried his cheek against Morganâ€™s granite chest, knowing the bond between him and the bronze giant to be renewed.
After another moment, Morgan tousled Danielâ€™s hair affectionately, released him, and turned to Nora. The deep, rumbling voice that could shake the walls of a cabin was infinitely soft when he spoke. â€œI heard about Owen and the lass, Nora. â€™Tis a powerful loss.â€
As Daniel watched, his mother lifted her shadowed eyes to Morgan. She seemed to grow paler still, and her small hands began to wring her handkerchief into a twisted rope. Her voice sounded odd when she acknowledged his greeting, as if she might choke on her words. â€œâ€Šâ€™Tis good of you to come, Morgan.â€
â€œNora, how are you keeping?â€ he asked, leaning toward her still more as he scrutinized her face.
Her only reply was a small, stiff nod of her head before she looked away.
Daniel wondered at the wounded look in Morganâ€™s eyes, even more at his motherâ€™s strained expression. The room was still, and he noticed that the lank-haired Judy Hennessey was perched forward on her chair as far as she could get in an obvious attempt to hear their conversation. He shot a fierce glare in her direction, but she ignored him, craning her neck even farther.
Just then Grandfar Dan moved from his place by the fire and began to lumber toward them, his craggy, gray-bearded face set in a sullen scowl. Daniel braced himself. For as long as he could remember, there had been bad blood between his grandfather and Morgan Fitzgerald. Grandfar had carried some sort of a grudge against Morgan for years, most often referring to him as â€œthat worthless rebel poet.â€
â€œSure, and that long-legged rover thinks himself a treasure,â€ Grandfar would say. â€œWell, a scoundrel is what he is! A fresh-mouthed scoundrel with a sweet-as-honey tongue and a string of wanton ways as long as the road from here to Sligo, thatâ€™s your Fitzgerald! What heâ€™s learned from all his books and his roaming is that itâ€™s far easier to sing for your supper than to work for it.â€
Now, watching the two of them square off, Daniel held his breath in anticipation of a fracas. A warning glint flared in Morganâ€™s eye, and the old manâ€™s face was red. They stared at each other for a tense moment. Then, to Danielâ€™s great surprise, Morgan greeted Grandfar with a bow of respect and, instead of goading him as he might have done in the past, he said quietly, â€œâ€Šâ€™Tis a bitter thing, Dan. Iâ€™m sorry for your troubles.â€
Even shrunken as he was by old age and hard labor, Grandfar was a taller man than most. Still, he had to look up at Morgan. His mouth thinned as they eyed each other, but the expected sour retort did not come. Instead, the old man inclined his head in a curt motion of acknowledgment, then walked away without a word, his vest flapping loosely against his wasted frame.
Morgan stared after him, his heavy brows drawn together in a frown. â€œâ€Šâ€™Tis the first time I have known Dan Kavanagh to show his years,â€ he murmured, as if to himself. â€œIt took the Hunger to age him, it would seem.â€
He turned back to Danielâ€™s mother. â€œSo, then, where is Tahg? I was hoping to see him.â€
Nora glanced across the kitchen. Tahg lay abed in a small, dark alcove at the back of the room, where a tattered blanket had been hung for his privacy. â€œHeâ€™s sleeping. Tahg is poorly again.â€
Morgan looked from her to Daniel. â€œHow bad? Not the fever?â€
â€œNo, it is not the fever!â€ she snapped, her eyes as hard as her voice. â€œâ€Šâ€™Tis his lungs.â€
Daniel stared down at the floor, unable to meet Morganâ€™s eyes for fear his denial would be apparent. â€œNoraâ€”â€
Daniel raised his head to see Morgan searching his motherâ€™s face, a soft expression of compassion in his eyes. â€œNora, is there anything I can do?â€
Daniel could not account for his motherâ€™s sudden frown. Couldnâ€™t she tell that Morgan only wanted to help? â€œThank you, but thereâ€™s no need.â€
Morgan looked doubtful. â€œAre you sure, Nora? There must be somethingâ€”â€
She interrupted him, her tone making it clear that he wasnâ€™t to press. â€œItâ€™s kind of you to offer, Morgan, but as I said, there is no need.â€
Morgan continued to look at her for another moment. Finally he gave a reluctant nod. â€œI should be on my way, then. The burialâ€”will it be tomorrow?â€
Her mouth went slack. â€œThe burialâ€¦aye, the burial will be tomorrow.â€
Hearing her voice falter, Daniel started to take her hand, but stopped at the sight of the emptiness in her eyes. She was staring past Morgan to Ellieâ€™s corpse, seemingly unaware of anyone else in the room.
Morgan shot Daniel a meaningful glance. â€œIâ€™ll just be on my way, then. Will you walk outside with me, lad?â€ Without waiting for Danielâ€™s reply, he lifted a hand as if to place it on Noraâ€™s shoulder but drew it away before he touched her. Then, turning sharply, he started for the door.
Eager to leave the gloom of the cottage, and even more eager to be with Morgan after months of separation, Daniel nevertheless waited for his motherâ€™s approval. When he realized she hadnâ€™t even heard Morganâ€™s question, he went to lift his coat from the wall peg by the door. With a nagging sense of guilt for the relief he felt upon leaving, he hurried to follow Morgan outside.
Oh boy, the Hunger – not an easy subject! But Killala’s a beautiful place.
This does sound very interesting. Another genocide that is little talked about.
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