“Whatever you say yourself, I’ll do,” said his wife.
Marg never had any wish for going outside of her own work or interfering with what belongs to men. But she would not disagree with any word Mickey said. To give him his due, neither did he interfere with her. He was only too contented and happy to have her there, kind and good and peaceable; instead of Julia that had been such a heart-scald to him for so long, that he didn’t know himself to be the same, since he got shut of her, and had Marg to look to for everything.
She saw him settled comfortably by the fire, with his pipe for company, before she set off, with her can swinging by her side; and, moreover, a brave big lump of butter fresh off the churn, swimming in the milk. She was bringing that a present to Kitty, for Marg was very nice and free-handed in her ways. But there was no use in speaking of the butter to Mickey. That might only bring on an argument. And a woman has a good right to her churn and all that comes out of it. If she chooses to give any of it away, why not? And if Mickey knew nothing about it, he couldn’t object to it. Supposing he had any claim to the butter, wouldn’t he be all the better of its being given in charity and kindness, and he getting so far on in life? And they would never miss it, no, nor twice as much.
Marg was counted a very lucky hand over a dairy, and always had good yield from the milk. Near though she was to the Furry Hills, that were well known to be full up of fairies, she never got any annoyance from them, such as the Good People to “milk the tether” on her, or to take away the value of the milk from her. But of course, that mightn’t be luck, so much as that Marg knew what she was about. She was very particular not to give away anything to a stranger that might come borrowing from her on May Day; a mistake that has cost many a woman the loss of a fine cow. And she never forgot to throw a grain of salt into the churn, before she began to stir the dash. And as soon as ever she had the butter taken off the churn, she took care to stick the first bit against the wall, for the fairies. People can’t be too careful in such things, especially if they live anyway near such a place as the Furry Hills.
It was from those hills that Heffernan’s place had got its name of the Furry Farm. The hills rose up, across his land, steep and sharp, like the fin of a fish. High they were, and grown over with furze and ferns and brambles and old thorn bushes, that of course no one would ask to disturb. But anyway, you could never run a plough up such hills as they were, so there was no occasion to interfere with anything that grew on them.
In one part of the Furry Hills there was a gap, like a cleft, and the old people said it had been made there by a fairy sword. A narrow road, no more than a boreen, ran through that cleft; and hardly any one used it, though it was handy enough for many purposes. But there was great talk of fairies being thereabouts, and that fairy music could be heard there, and so on. It might be, too, that the old boreen was deserted because there was another road made, better and even handier for cattle that would be going to fairs at Ardenoo or Balloch. But even before that new road was there, the people would never go through the cleft by themselves or late at night; and it was used as seldom as possible. Except for this: not very far distant there lay a holy well, that people would go to at certain times. But Marg could get across the hills to Grennan’s without passing near the cleft at all.
She was supple and strong still, because she gave herself no time to get stiff in the limbs, only always kept going about something or other. So now it was no trouble to her to cross the hills, and strike off through the fields to Grennan’s.
The instant minute after she saw Kitty and they had passed the time of day with one another, “Any news yet?” asked Marg.
“The sorra news!” said Kitty; “me heart’s broke, so it is, fretting, and Dan the same. And he tells me, he heard below there at Melia’s, that there’s more cattle gone, the same way, as if the earth had opened and swallowed them. No account of them to be got, high, low, or holy! And not a night, since Dan missed that bullock out of the Big Field here, but there’s a rosary said in this house at bedtime, for it to be got back. The Lord forgive them that gets on with such work!”
“Did you ask St. Anthony?” said Marg; “he’s great, for things that are lost. I remember to hear tell of an old woman that lost her rosary once, and she having a great regard for it. So she used to ask St. Anthony; and it was a twelvemonth after, she went to turn up the mattress of her bed; and there was the rosary!”