The Good People Read Online Free PDF

and could not be understood. She was the gatekeeper at the edge of the world. The final human hymn before all fell to wind and shadow and the strange creaking of stars. She was a pagan chorus. An older song.
    People are always a little afraid of what they do not recognise, Nance thought.
    Warmed and comforted by the goat’s milk, Nance wiped her mouth on her sleeve and leant against her doorframe, gazing out to the valley. Above, the sky had unfurled to the grey of dirty fleece, but Nance knew the day would be clear. She would be free to sleep and rest, and perhaps walk the lanes and ditches in the quiet of the afternoon to gather the last of the flowering yarrow and ragwort, the last blackberries and sloes, before winter brittled the world. Whatever remaining rain lingered in the clouds would pass beyond the mountains before breaking.
    In all things Nance bent her hours to the sky. She knew its infinite faces.

    The wake went on for two days, during which the people of the valley walked the mud-slick path to Nóra’s mountainside cabin, some with whiskey bottles held tightly in their hands, rosaries tucked into pockets, others hauling their own stools and rough súgan chairs. Rain returned to the valley on the second day. Water dripped off the men’s peaked caps and felt hats. They came with cold embers in their pockets and hazel sticks, and sat on wads of bracken amidst the strewn rushes. The air of the corpse house was grey, and people coughed amongst the burning lights of fire and pipe. They knelt and prayed for Martin, touching his sheeted body. The women and children, unused to the draw of a pipe, coughed and blew smoke over the corpse, masking the rough, rising smell of death.
    Nóra thought they would never leave. She was sick of their company, the crush of the rushes beneath their feet, the way they sat and spoke of Martin as though they had known him best above all others.
    I am his wife, she wanted to spit at them. You did not know him as I knew him.
    She could not bear the way the women moved about the walls like shadows, gathering in tight clusters of gossip then disbanding to come and talk of time and faith and God. She hated the way the men spoke endlessly of the whoring October rain, and raised their rough-shod drink in Martin’s direction to slur, ‘May the Lord have mercy on your soul, Leahy, and on the souls of all the faithful departed,’ before returning to their chuckling conversation.
    It was only when the rain broke that Nóra was able to leave the cabin to relieve herself behind the house, and to take in great lungfuls of fresh air. She rubbed her hands in the wet grass beside the dung pile and wiped her face, pausing to watch the children play with stones in the yard. Shin-streaked with dirt and bright-eyed with the excitement of an occasion, they piled stones into cairns and took turns to knock them over. Even the shy girls squatted on the ground in pairs to play Poor Snipeen, one holding palms together in prayer while the other stroked their fingers gently. ‘Poor Puss,’ they murmured, before striking out at the hands in violence. Their slaps and cries of delighted pain echoed through the valley.
    Nóra watched them play, a hard lump in her throat. This is what Micheál would be doing if he were not ill, she thought, and she was overcome with a wave of grief so sudden she gasped.
    It would be different if he were well, she thought. He would be a comfort to me.
    There was a tug on her skirt and Nóra looked down to see a boy of no more than four smiling up at her, an egg in his hand.
    ‘I found this,’ he said, and placed it in her palm before scarpering off, bare feet kicking up mud. Nóra stared after him. Here is what a child ought to be, she thought, and pictured Martin holding Micheál before the fire, rubbing his legs to restore the life to them, the boy’s eyes closing at the touch of his grandfather’s hand.
    Nóra blinked quickly to stop the tears from coming and looked out to