The Dust of 100 Dogs - A. S. King [10]
Arriving at her small pile of rags and straw inside the grotto, Emer rearranged her layers of clothing and propped her bony body between two rocks to sleep. In her right hand, she grasped a small wide blade in case of unwanted visitors. In her left hand, she held a tiny carved crucifix in case of unwanted memories. She cried herself to sleep—as she had every night—imagining the long, stretching view of the patchwork valley that had once been her home.
“Emer!” her mother called. “Get down from there and find your brother! It’s time to eat.”
She often sat atop the tower of a small abandoned castle, looking in all directions. She pretended she was the soldier on watch, anticipating the attack of a rival clan or the dreaded English. Whenever she and her brother played war, he could barely contain himself when she chose the role of king.
“Emer, you can’t be a king,” he would taunt. “You’re a girl. Girls don’t become kings—or anything important.”
“Shut up. We’re only pretending, anyway.”
“But if you’re king, then what am I?”
“You can be king too,” she would say. “We can both be kings.”
“Can’t you be a queen? Queens have just as much power. Why don’t you be the queen?”
“Queens don’t fight. Kings fight. I want to fight. Come on, Padraig, let’s just play.”
“Okay, but I get to be King of Munster and you can be king of anywhere else.”
Padraig always won their make-believe battles. He was older, bigger, and stronger. He didn’t know to let Emer win sometimes, but she didn’t mind because she never wanted to pretend-win anything.
“Emer!” her mother cried again. “It’s time to eat!” When she lost patience, her Gaelic was as harsh as a winter gale.
Emer raced down the spiraling stone steps, careful not to spoil her dirt drawings from previous days, and found her way to the wash bucket outside their small cottage next door. She wiped her wet hands on her wool skirt and appeared at the small oak table next to the fireplace.
“What were you doing up there all day?” her mother asked, half smiling and half frustrated.
“Oh, you know, the usual stuff.”
“Did you see anything today?” Padraig asked, smirking.
“I saw the last two swallows fly south,” she remarked. “And I saw Mr. Mullaly and Mrs. Mullaly in the field.”
Her mother looked up from her cast-iron griddle. “The Mullalys?”
“Yep.”
“What were they doing in the field?”
“Building something, I think. And hugging and kissing.”
Padraig burst into laughter.
“Emer, you’re not to spy on people from up there,” her mother scolded. “That’s none of your business. Besides, the Mullalys are our friends and neighbors. Why can’t you do something more productive with your time?”
“What else is there to do? I can’t go with Padraig and Daddy to the field. I can’t come with you because I get in the way. I like it up there. What if someone comes to take the valley? I’ll see them first. I’ll sound the alarm! I could save the whole lot of us!”
Her family looked at her, amazed at her fantasies. Often her mother would complain to her father about what was said within the child’s earshot. At five years old, she understood things only adults should know, like the risks of living in free Ireland and how civil wars abroad might make them a target. She’d learned this and other things from a conversation between her father and her stern Uncle Martin a month earlier, and since then spent most of her time in the lookout, just in case.
“Tomorrow you’ll come with me,” her mother decided. “We’ll go see Mary and then we’ll sort out some new shoes for you and your brother. Winter will come quickly this year.”
“Won’t I be in the way? You always say I’m in the way!” The last time Emer