The Good People by Hannah Kent

fios sigheog . Folk started to go to her if they thought Them were abroad and at Their tricks. They thought perhaps she used to go with Them, which is how she got her way of understanding.’
    ‘I never met a one who was taken by the Good People. I never met a one who was swept.’ Brigid shuddered.
    ‘I’ll tell you something now, Brigid. This valley is full of old families. For all the folk on the roads, there’s not often room for strangers that don’t marry into the blood. Nance planted herself into this soil with herbs and death-cries and sure hands when a woman’s time came. There was plenty that feared her after the whitethorn, and there’s plenty that fear her to this day, but there’s more that need Nance. And as long as they need her, she’ll be in that bothán by the woods. My man, when he was alive, woke one morning with his eye all swolled up and no seeing out of it. He took to Nance, and she said ’twas the fairies struck him in the eye. Said he must have seen them on the road, and ’twas not his right, so they brought the sight out of the eye that saw them. Said they spat in it when he was asleep. But she had the charm. She put the herb in his eye – glanrosc , I think it was – and cured the fairy spite out of it. Now, I don’t know whether Nance was ever swept or not but there’s no doubting that she has a gift. Whether that gift is God-given or a token from the Good People, well, that’s not for us to know.’
    ‘Will Nance be there when my time comes?’
    ‘Sure, ’tis Nance for you.’
    Nóra offered Micheál to Brigid, her voice cold. ‘Hold him while I fix the tea.’
    Brigid settled the boy awkwardly against the curve of her stomach. As if sensing Brigid’s strangeness, Micheál stiffened, his arms shooting out from his sides. His mouth crumpled in discontent.
    ‘He likes feathers,’ Nóra said, easing potatoes into the steaming pot. ‘Here.’ She picked up a small downy feather that had escaped from the chicken roost and was blowing about the room in a draught. ‘Martin always gave him a tickle.’
    Brigid took the feather and stroked the boy’s dimpled chin. He giggled, his chest in convulsions. Brigid started laughing with him. ‘Will you look at that!’
    ‘’Tis a good sign,’ said Peg, gesturing to the pair.
    Nóra’s smile emptied. ‘A good sign of what?’
    Peg picked up the iron tongs and idly poked the fire.
    ‘Are you a deaf woman now? A good sign of what, Peg O’Shea?’
    Peg sighed. ‘A good sign that your Micheál might yet be well.’
    Nóra pressed her lips together and continued tipping the last of the potatoes into the hot water. She flinched as it splashed her hand.
    ‘We only mean well for the child,’ Peg murmured.
    ‘Do ye now?’
    ‘Have you taken him to Nance, Nóra?’ Brigid’s voice was hesitant. ‘I was thinking just now, it might be that he’s fairy-struck.’
    Silence filled the cabin.
    Nóra suddenly dropped down on the floor. She brought her apron to her face and took a shuddering breath. She could smell the familiar scent of cow manure and wet grass.
    ‘There now,’ Peg whispered. ‘’Tis a hard day for you, Nóra Leahy. We had no right to talk of such things. God bless the child and see he grows up to be a great man. Like Martin.’
    At the sound of her husband’s name, Nóra groaned. Peg placed a hand on her shoulder and she shrugged it off.
    ‘Forgive us. We only mean well. Tig grian a n-diadh na fearthana . Sunshine follows rain. Better times will be upon us soon, just wait and see.’
    ‘Faith, God’s help is nearer than the door,’ Brigid piped.
    The rafters creaked in the force of the wind. Micheál continued to laugh.

CHAPTER
    THREE
    Ragwort
    S amhain Eve came upon the valley , announced by a wind that smelled of rotting oak leaves and the vinegar tang of windfall apples. Nóra heard the happy shrieks of children as they traced the field walls and their dressing of brambles, plucking the last bloody berries