When young Tom Ryan leaves Ballyhooly with his cousin Frank and a pig named Toto, he believes he is setting out on a practical journey—over the Galtee Mountains to seek guidance and opportunity from a wealthy uncle in Tipperary. But the Ireland he crosses is fractured by hunger, superstition, violence, and despair.
Corpses drift downriver. Soup kitchens barter salvation for souls. Local bullies circle like wolves. And shadowing the travelers at every turn is the enigmatic seer known only as The Hag—a woman of knowledge who meddles in destinies, dispenses justice, and demands a price for her help.
Part historical odyssey, part folkloric fable, Tom Ryan’s Shoes: The Legend of the Banshee Castle is a sweeping tale of survival, faith, love, and the thin line between the natural and the supernatural. Echoing the wandering spirit of The Canterbury Tales and the mythic journey of The Wizard of Oz, this unforgettable novel blends Irish legend with the brutal realities of the Great Famine—reminding us that even in humanity’s darkest hours, magic and mercy may still walk the road.
For readers who love historical fiction with a touch of myth, moral complexity, and richly atmospheric storytelling.
When young Tom Ryan leaves Ballyhooly with his cousin Frank and a pig named Toto, he believes he is setting out on a practical journey—over the Galtee Mountains to seek guidance and opportunity from a wealthy uncle in Tipperary. But the Ireland he crosses is fractured by hunger, superstition, violence, and despair.
Corpses drift downriver. Soup kitchens barter salvation for souls. Local bullies circle like wolves. And shadowing the travelers at every turn is the enigmatic seer known only as The Hag—a woman of knowledge who meddles in destinies, dispenses justice, and demands a price for her help.
Part historical odyssey, part folkloric fable, Tom Ryan’s Shoes: The Legend of the Banshee Castle is a sweeping tale of survival, faith, love, and the thin line between the natural and the supernatural. Echoing the wandering spirit of The Canterbury Tales and the mythic journey of The Wizard of Oz, this unforgettable novel blends Irish legend with the brutal realities of the Great Famine—reminding us that even in humanity’s darkest hours, magic and mercy may still walk the road.
For readers who love historical fiction with a touch of myth, moral complexity, and richly atmospheric storytelling.
On an October morning in 1846, a full year into the famine, a stiff breeze blows at Tom Ryan’s back. A pig trots along by his side. He walks quickly along the road heading north at the edge of Ballyhooly. From his right shoulder hangs a canvas satchel. A young woman, about 18, follows closely behind, struggling to catch up.
“Tommy!” cries the sobbing young woman. “I pleaded with him for days. You know that! But this is my home. I can never leave it.”
Tom draws up short, takes a deep breath, then turns to face her.
“No one expects that now. Go make your father his big Ballyhooly breakfast. Go about your day and forget me. I only wanted you to wait, give it a chance. Not come with me to Tipperary. You couldn’t even promise that! So, we were never meant to be. I told you that a week ago.”
Tom turns around and continues walking at a determined pace. The young woman stays put. A middle-aged woman stands by the road in the middle-distance, watching them. Clusters of emaciated vagrants line both sides of the road.
The middle-aged woman comes forward to place a hand on her daughter’s shoulder.
“You’re a stranger to our ways, Tom Ryan!” shouts the mother. “You’ll wind up in the army serving the Queen, just like your cousin Frank. I give it a month. But not with any daughter of mine by your side, or waiting for your return!”
§
A mile north, Frank Ryan sits on a stump by the side of the road. A black horse grazes in the lush green grass nearby. From Frank’s thumb and forefinger, there dangles a wriggling worm.
He stares intently, as if pondering some deep, philosophical question. Then another movement cautches his eye. To his left, over the crest in the road toward Ballyhooly, arises a familiar face. Then the shoulders, then the legs. Cousin Tom. And a little critter trotting by his side. A pig.
Frank still holds the worm when Tom catches up.
“For once in your life, you’re on time. Learn a thing or two in the army?”
“Aye. The early bird catches the worm.”
“Ha! I see that. Breakfast?” asks Tom with a grin.
“I was just asking m’self that. How hungry would a fellow have to get? Well, I’m not there yet.”
“Good thing. It’s a Friday.”
“Aren’t you the pious one. I’d be sure to confess it. ‘Bless me father for I have sinned, I ate a worm on a Friday!’”
“And I’d say an extra prayer for your immortal soul, Francis. For the worm’s, too. But let’s not dawdle. It’s a good half day over the Galtee hills, more at the rate you walk.”
Frank tosses the worm, stands, stretches, and yawns.
They start walking. Frank’s riding boots are in good condition. Tom’s shoes are badly worn and ill-fitting, with the outline of his toes clearly visible at the tips. Frank nods toward the little pig.
“I wasn’t expecting a threesome.”
“I thought I’d sell her in town. Should get enough cash for a new pair of shoes. I’ll need them before our pilgramage is done.”
“Her? So, it’s a gilt?” asks Frank as they find their stride.
“She is. A Tamworth, 3 months old. 30 pounds now? I call her Toto. French slang for derriere, I’m told.”
“I never make it a practice to name them.”
A loud caw interrupts them. Tom looks to the sky, this way and that, anxiously.
“It’s been following me since Ballyhooly. Belongs to the old Bean Feasa.”
“Now, don’t be starting with her again. Next, you’ll be seeing leprachauns darting along the road!”
The raven caws again. A wind whips up. The trees rustle. Tom and Frank bow and turn their heads before a sudden, blinding swirl of dust. They shield their faces in the crooks of their arms. When the little cyclone subsides, there she is, not 20 paces in front of them.
Tom quietly addresses Frank.
“It’s the old Bean Feasa.”
“A foursome it is, Tom Ryan,” says she.
Frank clears his throat from the dust.
“We’ve no need for company, good woman. Go find shelter. Rest. We have a long walk ahead of us today.”
“I’ll be the judge, or God Almighty, of when is my time to rest, buckos. I know this road well. Travel it often. Stay alert and beware. You with your fat little pig, Tom Ryan, and starving people about. You with your fine boots, Frank Ryan, and the White Boys about. I’ll stay out of your ways, if that’s your preference, buckos. But don’t you be telling me to rest. I’ve work to do. Much work. Some of it concerns you, as you shall see soon enough. Good day to you, for now.”
The hag cackles as she wanders off onto a side path, hunched over her staff. Tom and Frank look at each other, then to her, then to the road ahead. They proceed on their way.
§
After half a mile, they reach a blighted orchard at the edge of the road to Glanworth. Finnbar Murphy, about 60, emaciated, sits facing the road with his back against an apple tree. Two apple cores are at his side. He holds a small sack in his lap. He shreds a single slice of stale bread into the sack bit by bit. Now and then he eats a tiny piece.
“Welcome to the Tabard Inn, pilgrims!” he shouts weakly.
“Hello, Finn Murphy!” shouts Tom. “Quite a feast you have there. Did you leave any for us?”
“Wormy apples? Many, still, and a few more remain atop. Did not have the strength to climb nor to shake the tree.”
“But you got your fruit for the day. Meat too! Have a go at it, Frankie?”
Tom and Frank shake the small apple tree. Several apples fall with a thud. Toto and the horse forage.
Frank lifts a small, blemished apple to his lips.
Tom grabs Frank’s arm.
“Stop! Better save them for the road.”
“Here, put them in your satchel then, Tom.”
“No, not with the family bible.”
“Leave it to Frank to bear the bad apples, then. No family bible in my bag. Always thought it was a Protestant thing, to keep one.”
“It’s from mum’s side.”
Frank stuffs several apples into the satchel on his left side, next to a small whiskey flask. He then turns to Finn.
“You called us pilgrims. You must’ve spoken to young Jimmy.”
“I did, after you dropped off the saddle.”
“So, you know what we’re about, Finn Murphy.”
“I know it. Going against the tide as usual, Frank. April is the month folk long to go on pilgrimages, not October. You’re taking the path we came down on, from Nenagh years ago. Me and your fathers. Now you’ll take it back the other way?” Finn looks off to the side, into the distance. “Then you’re off to America afterwards?”
Frank gives him a wink.
“Aye. If I don’t meet a lass on the road to tie me down, first.”
“Ha! I’ll believe that when I see it. And you, Tommy? Ballyhooly not big enough for your dreams?”
“I’m no dreamer, Finn. It’s a practical matter. That railway never seems to come.” Tom surveys the landscape as he speaks. “If ever it did, we’d thrive. ‘Til then, it’s time to spread my wings a bit. Uncle Edmond gave us a standing offer years ago.”
“Go up to his place over the mountains, learn a thing or two about running a big operation?”
“A big operation it is. Hundreds of acres,” says Tom. “He could use the help for sure. I’ll learn more than a thing or two for my efforts. All the art. The know-how. Come back to the land Da left me, make ready to move goods by rail, scale it up, when the rail comes.”
Finn smiles at Frank, then looks back to Tom.
“If you don’t meet a lass on the road first to tie you down closer, Tom?”
“Not lookin’ for that here in Ballyhooly anymore, that’s for sure.”
“It’s not the local girls who won’t have us,” says Frank. “It’s their fathers. Or their angry older brothers. May as well be a Protestant if you’ve served the Queen.”
“Or if your cousin has!” says Tom, glaring at Frank.
There is an awkward pause. Frank looks down at his own feet. Tom moves away and shuffles around a few small trees, looking up for apples. In the background, the horse nibbles at windfalls. Toto roots in the soft earth.
“Whose idea was this journey?” asks Finn in a low voice, out of Tom’s earshot.
“His. He thinks he’s master of his fate, now his father’s gone.”
“Thought so. You’re more a one to go where the tide takes you.”
Frank chuckles.
“I’m not that adrift, Finn. Promised his mum I’d look after him.”
“But he doesn’t know about the change? With Edmond bankrupt and gone?”
“Er ... no. I served under the new owner, General Bishop. Was about to send him a letter, then thought better of it.”
“Let the boy make his own way?”
“Afraid the general would say ‘no.’ He’ll be harder to refuse once he’s at the general’s door. And another thing: Dinna want Tom to get the idea we were setting him up.”
“Ah. For a stint in the army, you mean?”
“Aye. He’s clear that will be his decision. No one else will sway him. I’ll lead the horse to water is all, then make myself scarce. The big dreams will meet reality in time. ‘Til then, I mean to keep his two feet on the straight path, best I can. Out of the faery rings. He’s apt to wander. There, see what I mean!”
Tom has started to climb one of the trees. Off to one side, the horse continues nibbling the windfalls.
“A horse has more sense,” says Frank. He calls out. “Tommy boy! You’re a sprat no more. No need to go climbing, just come down and pick from the windfalls. “
“Not him,” says Finn. “He’s an eye for the fair apples, that one!”
“C’mon down, the two of us can give the trunk a shake again. “
Tom climbs back down and brushes his hands together. Frank walks over. Frank and Tom shake the small apple tree. Several apples fall with a thud. Frank stuffs several more apples into his deep satchel.
“All but the manky ones are off to England,” says Finn, quietly. “Barely cover our rents.”
Tom now speaks with an air of authority:
“We’ll go first to St. B’s. The wee shrine. Frank can say a few prayers for his fallen comrades. Then he’ll be back down. I’ll be over to Bansha and stay for the summer at least.”
“Aye. I’ll check back on my mum in Mitchelstown, then here again to see how you’re faring. You look thin.”
“Not as thin as I look. The heart is stout. Still have a hog to butcher. Thanks for the saddle, by the way.”
“Jimmy should get a good price ... once you find a buyer.”
“A buyer we’ll find. But one other thing. Watch out for those Roche boys. They’ve fallen in with some gang.”
“Whiteboys or Ribbon Men, likely,” says Frank.
“One of ‘em. Layin’ down the local law, decidin’ who’s Irish enough.”
“Don’t I know it,” says Frank. Always reminding us, Roches have been here since Norman times. Never liked us newcomers.”
“‘specially not you, Frank. Serving the Queen is another mark against you. Now and again, you’ve picked up their very accent, even.”
“We’ll be fine, Finn. They’re all talk. Helpful, even, if you humor them a bit. “
“But people are angry now, Frank,” says the older man. “One violent act makes the next one easier.”
“I’d hoped to be done with all that when I mustered out.”
“Keep to the straight path, buckos. You’ll find what you seek. Be it a home, a bride, or a purpose in life.”
Tom and Frank pause a minute, say goodbye, and set off with the horse and the pig.
§
North on the road to Mitchelstown, right at the crossroad to Glanworth Bridge, then north up a rise by the River Funshion, a man in his late 50s sits on a middle limb of a tall tree. Will Robbins has a clear view across the River Funshion toward the Ballyhooly Road. The very road Tom and Frank now travel.
He nails the last wooden plank of a new observation deck onto the limbs before him.
At the base of the tree, under the edge of the canopy, the old hag leans on her staff, looking up. A man about 25, Dick Wilson, stands nearby. He wears black-rimmed pince-nez spectacles attached to a black cord. He looks toward a barn downhill, as he speaks to Will in a refined London accent.
“Now that’s exactly what we were talking about the other day. A man your age needs to get up and away from the ground vapors. Strong light will strengthen your constitution. Once a day at least. Fresh air. Take a little nap, why don’t you? Keep you from getting the cool, or worse.”
Will responds in a heavy Cockney accent.
“’Tis me observatory. Naught for nappin’, mate. Gotta keep me eyes peeled. Peeled for them walkin’ dead.”
“Any of them come this way, after the grain, you just call out.”
“Right-o. I sound the call, you release the ‘ounds!”
“They’ll keep the thieving Papists at bay, surely. Now while you’re at it, I’ll be down to the barn and load the hoppers.”
§
Inside the barn, Dick loads corn into a hopper. Margaret Robbins enters the mill, smiles at Dick, and glances back toward her husband in the tree as she closes the mill door and leans back against it. She is a buxom woman in her early 20s.
She looks toward Dick as he loads the corn.
“Just what I came to see, a man who knows how to fill my hopper.”
“Come over to me then, my little wagon.”
Dick drops a sack of corn on the floor as he gawks at Margaret. Thud!
A few kernels spill out. Several mice scurry in and devour the corn. Soon the barn comes alive with the sound of Dick and Margaret in the throes of passion.
§
Back at the tree, Will hears faint noises coming from the barn. He looks in that direction and starts to climb down. He slips, falls onto the ground, and groans. In a nearby tree, the raven caws once.
The hag shuffles up next to Will. She leans on her staff.
“Old fool! What do you expect when you take a young wife you can’t trust? That barn is rocking fair near off its stones! And do you really think your treehouse or that pair of old hounds will keep this famine at bay? Langer!”
Two harmless-looking old hounds loll in the sun nearby. Will tries to get up, groaning softly.
“No, no. You just have a little rest and listen to me. I shall help you with your wife and that, that ... gombeen man ... but first, do you agree to do a small service for me?”
“Anything! Anything to make things right with me Margaret.”
“Wait here a little while. Then go into the barn and mill up a sack of that corn from America. Grind it fine, grind it clean. Before an hour passes, take it down to Glanworth Bridge. Give it to the first person you see there.”
“Just ‘and it o’er free o’ charge?”
“Eejit! ‘Tis called ‘charity,’ don’t you know it? You shall do this weekly until the famine has taken all its toll. Now, lean your head a little closer here.”
The Hag pulls out a small blue bottle from within her cloak. She uncorks it and sprinkles a few drops of liquid onto Will’s head. His gray hair and beard slowly begin to turn black.
“Subtle, now, subtle. Your Margaret will notice the change soon enough. And remember the tea I left you, last we met.”
She lows her voice nearly to a whisper.
“But tonight, at midnight, go into the barn and turn your millstone once, counter-clockwise. Counter-clockwise, I say. Then go to your Margaret. Repeat this for a fortnight. The results shall please you. And Margaret as well.”
The hag cackles.
§
Tom and Frank approach a crossroad. A sign points left, westward, toward Castletown Roche and straight ahead, northward, toward Mitchelstown. From the north, a peat wagon approaches with menacing speed.
A scarf covers the driver’s mouth and nose. Tom waves to him politely but the driver does not return the gesture. He turns west onto the road towards Castletown Roche. After he makes the turn, Tom and Frank see that the back is loaded with emaciated corpses. They both remove their caps in respect. Suddenly, from one of them, an arm lifts up. Tom gasps and starts to run after the wagon. Frank holds him back.
“Tom, that’s a dead man. The limbs sometimes do that as the stiffness of death sets in. “
Tom gulps. A dust cloud follows the wagon as Tom and Frank stand and stare after it.
They resume their pace. Along the road to Mitchelstown, they come to a side road leading over to Glanworth Bridge.
“Ah, d’you smell that lovely scent?” says Tom. “It’s coming up from the river.”
“I smell nothing. Too much whiskey and smoke, I’ve known.”
Toto trots ahead.
“Let’s go over. Follow Toto! Maybe pick a few flowers for your mum. Or with luck, it’s that lass on the road Finn mentioned. A fragrant one.”
“With her good-looking fragrant friend, I hope.”
They proceed toward Glanworth Bridge. Frank ties his horse to a post at the west end. As they approach the middle of the bridge heading east, Tom notices something down in the river to his right. They stop, rest against the side of the bridge and look down. Two corpses float by, an old man and old woman.
“Fish food,” says Frank.
“I’d hate to be the fish that eat that food.”
“I’d hate to be the landlord who eats the fish that ate that food.”
Frank turns his back to the river.
“No sympathy for them!” cries Tom. “You or I pull a single trout from this river, next thing we’re rotting in some filthy jail for poaching.”
“May as well go to the workhouse,” says Frank calmly.
In the course of this conversation, Frank and Tom watch a man approach from the east end of the bridge. Toto has run ahead to meet him. She turns around to follow a little trail of grain falling off the back of the wagon. The stranger has overheard.
“Aye, you’re still be’er off in the filthy workhouse than in a filthy jail fer poaching!”
It’s Will Robbins. One arm is in a sling. With his other arm he leads a donkey and cart.
“You’d be the local warden, then?” asks Frank.
“Ha! Nay, I run a mill up a short way. Came down t’ bring a sack o’ fresh-milled corn, give it t’ the first ‘ungry passer-by. That’s wha’we do, ya know. Chari’y.”
“Your arm?” asks Frank.
“This?”
He raises the injured arm slightly.
‘Fell ou’ o’ a tree. ‘ad to chase the rascal what’s been peepin’ on me wife! See, ‘e tricked me into climbin’ that high tree, says ‘the walking dead are coming! Get ye to an ‘igh place, lest even their vapors waft up an’ send ya t’ the fever ‘ouse!’ So, I climbs the tree and next thing, I spies himself by the mill, all up close an’ cozy wif me Margaret! Thought you two was ‘im and his mate, but now I see you ain’t. Well, such are the trials and triboolations of a old man oo takes a young wife. All day, it’s one eye mindin’ me work and t’ other mindin’ me Margaret. Canno’ trust a soul in this world no more.”
“Why marry a woman you couldn’t trust?” asks Frank, smiling.
“Well now, one look at me fair young Margaret and you’d know. But now, don’t YOU go gettin’ no ideas!”
Tom chuckles.
“Now, now, don’t you worry about that! We’re headed the other way, besides.”
“Where to? Uh, if you don’t mind me askin’. Seems all the poor souls are ‘eaded up toward Mitchelstown or down to Cork City. To the work ‘ouse, the fever ‘ouse, or the grave. Look! You can see ‘em shuffln’ along down there now!”
“We try to avoid them. Me and my cousin Francis here are heading up to St. Berrihert’s shrine. Expect the air and water are still clean, over that side. You know that area? Glen of Aherlow?”
“Don’t know ‘bout no Papist shrines and superstitions. No disrespect, but I’ve enough to mind around me own parts.”
Frank leans in to Tom’s ear and says, softly:
“His wife’s private parts, he means.”
Tom grins.
“Francis here mustered out of the army in September. We’ll sell his horse in Mitchelstown. Then leave whatever we get for it there with his mum. You need a horse, perhaps? Or a pig?”
“Sorry, lad. One ‘orse an’ one wife’s as much as I can ‘andle fer now. No pigs!”
“Well then, we’ve still a long day’s walk, so we’ll be going.”
“Good day to you then. Oh, but take a sack of meal. For your good mudder that is. Send someone up to the mill there, same time weekly, for anudder.”
“Thank you.”
“Charity, it’s what we do. Need to get up to me mill now, before Dick Wilson comes back ‘round again to pilfer the Queen’s grain, I mean, me grain!”
The large donkey cart interior is empty save for one small sack. Will gives Frank the 5-pounds sack of Indian meal, gathered by a loop of twine, from the otherwise empty donkey cart. He says goodbye and leaves after Tom and Frank thank him again. Then the two step to the north side of the bridge and look over. Frank pulls out his bottle and takes a swig.
“At least the fish are happy amid our misery, swimming about however they please.”
“You’re not a fish. How do you know the fish are happy?” asks Tom.
“You’re not I. How do you know I don’t know the fish or the faeries are happy? But you asked me the question. So you already knew I knew it! An old Chinaman stepped me through the same conundrum on a bridge in Sevastapol.” Frank takes another swig. “Back in ’42, it was.”
“Hmm. You know, Frank, I’d never seen a corpse before this morning. Other than Nana Murphy at her wake. I suppose you’ve seen many.”
Frank turns away from the river. He puts his whiskey flask back in his satchel. Then he stands erect and brushes himself off.
“Shouldn’t we go down and pull those bodies out?” asks Tom. “See they’re buried, back there at the Abbey?”
Frank cranes his neck back around and down toward the water.
“I take them for suicides. Old man and wife, evicted maybe, couldn’t bear to go on.”
“Well, they still deserve a decent burial.”
“Don’t you know, Tommy? No church will bury suicides in consecrated ground. Nature will take its course. I’ve seen as much, I have. In all its stages. We’d best get moving again.”
Frank and Tom return to the horse. Frank now carries the 5-pound sack from his right shoulder. Toto stays close by Frank, eager for spillage. They set off toward Mitchelstown again.
§
As they approach Glanworth Abbey, Tom and Frank see a woman by the road. She is about 35, prematurely graying and thin. She sits on the ground, bloody hands in her lap, looking down and away from the road. Her two young sons, twins, appear to be gutting the remains of an animal.
“That’s Maude Dyer.”
Frank looks straight ahead.
“Don’t look at her. She’s ashamed. Jimmy told me about her yesterday. Evicted last week.”
§
Around the back of the priory, by the River Funshion, through the open doorway of the Magdalena Laundry building, two long rows of girls stoop over laundry tubs along either window wall. Through the open doorway of an office at the back, the matron stands before a mirror on the window wall, primping. The wavy reflection appears to show a tall, elegant woman.
She takes a seat before a desk in the center of the room, facing the doorway. A greyhound sits at her side, gazing up at her adoringly, in the direction of the window wall. She picks up a book of French lessons and quietly mouths a few phrases in French.
A pregnant girl, about 16, looking downcast, enters through the doorway, guided from behind by an older washer woman whose two hands are on the girl’s shoulders. The washer woman pushes down on the girl’s shoulders and releases her.
In Irish, the girl says “Teastaíonn cúnamh uaim.” (I need help.)
“I know you nee ... in English! Ou en français.”
The girl stammers.
“I ... I ...”
The matron sneers.
“You need help. All you brazen hussies need help.”
She turns to her dog, mouthing kisses, then feeds it a little morsel from a fine china bowl.
“If you’d stay with your mothers and help with the baking, you wouldn’t come to us with a bun in the oven. Well, at least you did not go to the old woman ... for that kind of help. Run along.”
To the washer woman, the matron says:
“Merci pour la présentation.”
The washer woman rolls her eyes. The girl, guided by the washer woman, turns to leave. The washer woman reaches around to begin closing the office door. The greyhound looks around to a corner behind the desk, opposite the window wall, where a woman in black is seated, visible at first only from the waist down. She raises a bony hand from her lap and waves it toward the door. The greyhound whimpers, gets up, and scurries out the door behind the washer woman, who closes the door.
The old hag gets up, stands behind the matron, places her bony hands on the matron’s shoulders and pushes down. She speaks sarcastically.
“How excellent your French sounds, ma chère. And how kindly you treat these poor girls. Stand up, go to the mirror once more. Let us fix your hair again.”
The matron looks up and back at the Hag, fearfully. She stands slowly, keeping her head down. The Hag steps aside and waves her toward the mirror. The mirror clearly reflects the likeness of the stout washer woman. She raises her hands to her face.
“Fat sow! You show your dog more kindness than you do these girls. I shall help you achieve the respectable air you crave ... but first, do you agree to perform a small service for me?”
“Yes, anything!”
“Each week, without fail, provide 3 packets of clean bed linens to this address.”
The hag hands the matron a slip of paper.
“Bring their dirty laundry back with you. Return it clean and fresh with each visit. Clean and fresh. Now, cock your head to the right.”
She does so as the Hag pulls out her blue bottle.
“There, there now, a daub of the finest French lavender. How sweet the smell ... and it won’t wash off!”
She cackles.
“Now, maybe you better go find your dog.”
The matron responds in bad French, “Ma chien!”
She rushes out of the office and through the center of the laundry building. A few young women turn around from their washing and scrunch up their noses as they notice a sickly-sweet smell. The matron runs through the building door and around to the front of the abbey. There, 7 nuns circle round and round, saying their rosaries, eyes downcast, oblivious to all else. The matron cries out all the way.
“Ma chien! Ma chien!”
She sees her own dog lolling around in the grass, wagging its tail and looking happy. But nearby, the creepy twin boys still stand by the other gutted dog and face the road.
Boy 1: “For soup.”
Boy 2: “Pour potage.”
Tom and Frank look at each other, then back to the front of the Abbey. There, the Hag appears, bent over her staff and staring at the travelers. Tom and Frank keep walking.
“The old hag again,” says Tom.
“Following us?”
Frank chuckles.
“How’d she hobble ahead of us?” asks Tom.
Frank chuckles again, shaking his head.
Tom, Frank, and the pig continue toward Mitchelstown. The sounds of the horse’s footfalls echo behind them.
§
From atop a hill at Clonlough, above the road approaching Mitchelstown, Mickey Roche and Jack Roche observe Frank and Tom.
“We’ll offer them a lift after they leave town and begin to feel the ground rise.”
“They’ll never get aboard,” says Jack. “No love lost between us.”
“Oh, they will,” replies Mickey. “They’ll be tired by then. Remember, they think of themselves as such good Christians. ‘Forgive and forget.’ All that malarkey.”
“But then ... we need to figure out a way to get them apart. The two of us can manage Frank alone. One by one we get them out of the way.”
“Good idea, Jacky. But it’s the boy’s name on the deed now. Once he’s gone and the tenant leases are up, it’s only the mother and old Finn Murphy between us and the land.”
They pass a bottle between them, turn, and head toward a nearby wagon.
§
In Mitchelstown, at the intersection of Baldwin & Lower Cork streets, Tom and Frank happen upon a horrifying scene. Dick Wilson is in a makeshift pillory in the back of a peat wagon. The wagon is stopped before a crest in the road. A sign labels him Gombeen Man. One lens of his spectacles is cracked.
A few emaciated vagrants line the street on either side of the peat wagon. One stands; the others are prostrate, or sit on the sidewalks with their backs against the building walls. They observe the whole scene intently but do not move. The Hag stands, bent over her staff, to one s side of the wagon.
A middle-aged woman runs up to the wagon and cuts off a piece of Wilson’s right thumb with one sweep of a sickle. As it falls into the street, Toto trots toward it. The Raven sweeps down and beats her to it.
“Justice!” cries a vagrant, hoarsley.
A priest in a long black cassock runs out of a house with a crucifix held high. At the sight of the bloody thumb, he doubles over and retches.
“Useless fecker!” cries the Hag. “Go back inside to your drinking!”
“Useless fecker!” cries a second vagrant.
“Useless fecker!” croaks out a third vagrant, barely audibly.
Another old woman, a bystander, crosses herself. Tom and Frank look on.
“Frank! The Hag again, arrived ahead of us from the abbey.”
“Hmm. She must have wings under that cloak.”
A tall man with erect bearing approaches from around a corner behind them. He takes a position next to Tom, looking on. The vagrants, almost in unison, turn their heads toward the bailiff.
“The same wagon will be back for these vagrants,” says the bailiff to Tom. “Dead or alive, by tomorrow morning.”
Frank leans forward, past Tom in the middle, to address the bailiff on his left.
“Who might you be, sir?”
“Robinson. Bailiff for Viscount Doneraile, High Sheriff of County Cork.”
“Was it you sent the wagon?” asks Frank.
“Aye. We’re culling the bad apples, like Wilson there. Been pilfering grain and reselling it for months. Havin’ his way with the tenants’ daughters, even.”
“Must keep you busy. Irishmen have many daughters.”
“Aye ...”
The bailiff laughs.
“... but most of my work is hauling away these vagrants. The shopkeepers, the residents, no one wants to see them.”
“Enjoy your work, do you?”
He turns to Frank and glares.
“I consider myself a Christian man. I do my duty. But if you must know, I need a change of scene.”
“Where are you bound?” asks Frank.
“A Major Mahon offered me better terms. Says conditions are not so bad there. Up in Roscommon.”
“Good luck to you, sir,” says Tom. “We’ll be on our way now.”
Tom and Frank lead the horse into a lane off the main road north. They pass a tailor shop. On display in the window is a man’s long coat. A sign in the window advertises it:
BEWARE OF ASSASSINS!
Protective Garment for Sale
Shot-Proof, Ball-Proof
Inside, visible through the window, a well-dressed man eyes the garment and talks to the tailor as the two gesture toward the garment.
Tom and Frank approach a nearby stable. Frank leads the horse in as Tom waits outside. Toto follows Frank in. Out of curiosity, Tom starts to head east down the lane toward the sound of singing and dancing. Behind him, Frank comes out without the horse. Toto comes out, too, with a snout covered in horse shit. Frank puts a a small bundle of 2- pound notes into his satchel, looks about for Tom, then spots him down the street.
“Hey Tom!” he cries.
Tom Ryan turns back to join Frank outside the stable.
“We’d best avoid saloons.”
“Well, aren’t you the abstinent one, suddenly.”
“No, it’s the fever going around that scares me. It finds its way among crowds. “
The two go back the way they came.
§
At the same moment, in an apothecary shop on lower Cork Street, a tall, thin, bespectacled chemist waits on an well-dressed customer.
“Oh yes, Milady. You can rely on this. Always. For prevention or relief of fever. Everything. As bleach is to cleanliness, this is to health. Keeps the humors in balance. Take a spoonful with tea every morning.”
She pays the chemist, takes a bottle, and leaves. The chemist locks the door behind her, draws a shade, then goes behind a counter. With shaking hands, he pulls out a bottle of laudanum and gives himself a few drops. As he takes it he looks around to a corner behind the counter, where an old woman in black is seated.
“How excellent your knowledge, dear doctor,” says the hag, sarcastically. “And how thoughtfully you treat your clients’ needs.”
She reaches into her cloak for her blue bottle.
“Shall we add a few drops of my own special preparation to your daily dose?”
He takes a step back, nervously.
“Daily dose? I take but a little, for a headache.”
“Lying quacksalver! You take their money and waste it away on your own addictions. You know nothing about healing. Not the old ways or the new. I can offer nothing to the likes of you but a threat, and mark my words I shall make good on it if you do not perform the service I request. You see this plant?”
She draws out a flowering plant from a satchel at her feet.
“It blooms along the banks of the River Funshion this time of year. At dawn of every day, gather one plant about to bloom. Only one. Grind it fine, grind it clean. Make a decoction. Deliver it by noon each day to this address nearby.”
She hands him a slip of paper.
“If you fail in this, you shall be cursed like Tantalus with an unslakable thirst all the rest of your days. Understood?”
“Yes, yes, you can count on me!”
“I knew I could.”
The Hag leaves the shop and disappears into the streetscape. Overhead, the raven caws twice.
§
Tom and Frank arrive back at the intersection they left earlier. All the same vagrants are there, plus a few more. With the peat wagon and the bailiff gone, Tom and Frank suddenly find themselves the new center of attention. Heads turn; an old woman points in their direction. Two boys rush toward them, begging. Soon they are surrounded by the strongest of the emaciated vagrants. One boy grabs at Tom’s satchel. Tom, Frank, and the little crowd of beggars swirl around in confusion, until a constable rushes in to break it up. Tom and Frank stumble out of the swirl and proceed, shaken, onto the West side of Baldwin Street.
“You alright, Tommy?”
“Yes. I think so. I was scared, Frank.”
He gulps.
“I, too.”
The two walk at a quick pace, looking straight ahead with somber expressions. Toto follows behind, distracted by morsels of rubbish and horse droppings.
They reach a wee house on Baldwin Street near Kingston College.
Tom and Frank approach the door to the house, which has a sign marked “Quarantine”. Frank knocks on the door. No response. He knocks a second time.
“George? Nellie? Are ya in there?”
A young woman responds in a feeble voice.
“Frankie? Is that you? You know we cannot let you in.”
“Nellie, darling, open the window a crack and we’ll talk through it.”
Frank looks to one side then the other, up and down the street.
Nellie, about 18, goes to a window to the right of the door and opens it a few inches.
Frank stoops a little toward the window.
“Where’s Georgie now?”
“He’s on the wee bed behind me, sleeping. We have the fever, Frank.”
“And mum? Where’s mum?”
“In rag order, Frank. Typhus. She can barely get up from her bed. They’ve closed off her doorway with blocks o’ sod, save for a wee hole. We pass her water and porridge.”
“Ah, Nellie, I did not expect this.”
Frank turns around, leans his back against the wall in despair, his eyes shut.
“But Frank, it’s not so bad. We’re on the mend, I know it. The old woman comes by.”
“The old woman? What old woman?”
“Why, the old widow. The Bean Feasa. Some call her the Hag, but she has a name, you know. Mrs. King. She’s getting us food, healing herbs, fresh laundry even. So, you needn’t change your plans or even worry on our account.”
She pauses to stifle a cough.
Just go. The sooner the better. Then send for us after you’re settled. ‘Tis what we want.
Frank turns back to face the window.
“Look, I’ll be back to check on you after I see Tommy up to the Glen. Meantime, take this.” He hands Nellie the bag of Indian corn and a small wad of 2-pound notes.
T.A. Keenan’s Tom Ryan's Shoes: Legend of The Banshee Castle is a gentle slice of life, a dramatic account of life at the beginning of the Irish Potato Famine, and an engaging folktale involving witches, curses, and finding true love. Most importantly, it is a masterful example of storytelling by Keenan writing the book the way someone would verbally relate their family history.
In 1933, brother and sister, Tommy and Molly find a steamer trunk full of papers that belonged to their mother, Lizzie. Most of them consist of Lizzie's handwritten accounts of their family history, stories that she told her children out loud. Molly’s thoughts wander to a specific story that Lizzie told in 1897.
Lizzie's story focuses on her father, Tommy and Molly's grandfather, Tom Ryan in 1846 during the Potato Famine. After being rejected by his girlfriend’s parents, Tom goes to work on his family farm, mostly walking the family pig to market. Along the way, he is accompanied by his cousin, Frank. During this day, the cousins encounter various people and situations.
The most fascinating person that the Ryan Cousins meet is the Bean Feasa or the Hag, a woman of knowledge, witch, healer, and midwife who crosses their path many times. As they are going about their business, she is going about hers blessing or cursing various people and requesting that they leave specific offerings as a reward, bribe, or a peace offering.
The story of the Ryan Cousins and the Bean Feasa conveys various situations that run the gamut from commonplace, humorous, romantic, tragic, disturbing, eerie, bizarre, uncanny, and magical. Keenan weaves the ordinary and mundane with the ethereal and otherworldly rather well. He depicts the voice of Ireland in a specific point and time by interacting the natural physical world with the unseen and invisible world.
Keenan captures the Irish milieu well by making each character unique. We see the peaceful farmlands, rolling hills, the recognizable accents and colloquialisms. Above all, there are the quirky characters.
There is a crotchety taciturn neighbor who makes his opinions about everything known. A couple carry on an extramarital affair under the clueless husband's nose.
There is a snobbish nun who can't believe that she is stuck in this backwater area. She is from France for crying out loud! Trouble making twins plan bullying shenanigans for the lulz.There is a lot of humor and charm in these looks at everyday life.
However this is not a book about fluffy nostalgia with only a postcard look at rural Ireland. All of the charm and humor is used as a front for the darker edges that appear because of the trying times of English oppression, crippling famine, and religious dominance. Sometimes the humorous moments are intertwined with the tragic.
Tom and Frank see the various struggles that their friends, neighbors, and others are going through. Many characters are facing unemployment, starvation, and are considering leaving Ireland forever. While alcoholism is prevalent throughout, the historical context suggests that it is used for people to sedate their troubles away when they can't move up, out, or forward.
There is an ongoing English presence of upper class land owners who look down on the locals with disdain and ownership that they can do whatever they want to these people and face no repercussions (at least until 1916 but that's another story entirely).
The cousins see lads and lasses kept from each other by income, religion, or their own personalities perhaps in desperate attempts to either move up a social status that doesn't include hunger and poverty or to hold onto a family legacy and culture before it's forced into extinction.
A Magdalene Laundry is an important scene as we encounter young unwed isolated expectant mothers. A pharmacist sells abortifacients and other medicines on the side for those who don't want to bring children into such an uncertain world. A single mother is resorted to begging for food with her children.
By far one of the most heartbreaking moments occurs when Tom and Frank see the bodies of an elderly couple floating down the river. It is implied that they committed suicide. Besides this image, the most disturbing aspect is the indifference displayed from Tom, Frank, and everyone else.
Aside from the usual duties that come with fishing the corpses and planning for the burial, there's no grief, no mourning, no investigation. Just talk about whether the burial will be a church burial. It's a weariness that accepts that things are bad and are only going to get worse.
Thankfully the darkness is only a part of the story and is tempered by the quirky charm mentioned earlier and the fantastic aspects. There is talk about ghosts and spirits in the atmosphere. A little man appears in various pages and dispenses uncanny advice and might be a leprechaun.
A beautiful woman is compared to a leannain sidhe, a beautiful fairy that takes a human lover. There are references to a castle that might be haunted by the banshee, the wailing female spirits that predict the death.
By far the most enchanting character of the story is the Bean Feasa. She is able to see what people are really worth, recognizing their virtues and vices by sight and a few words of dialogue. She knows secrets that many hypocritical authority figures hide and calls them out on their promiscuity, crimes, corruption, and abuse of power.
She acts as the words of vengeance, perhaps the voice of a people who have had enough. She curses them then offers to remove them in exchange for food and other items. She uses her own fierce reputation as leverage.
However, the Bean Feasa is not unkind. She also rewards good behavior and foreseeable fortune such as when she tells Tom that he will find true love. As before, she does this in exchange for food and other goods. While they probably are for her (even witches have to eat after all), we learn that there are more heartwarming reasons.
They reveal that this stern, baffling, eccentric crone is probably the most moral ethical character in the entire cast and the real heart of the book.
This book uses the power of Lizzie’s storytelling to ensure that these people, their real world, their legends, their world will never be gone. Not as long as there is another generation to hear and read it.