The Law of Dreams by Peter Behrens

with Shamie, thinking we could not put it
     over, but now, with you and me captains, we can. I know we can. A gentleman I used to
     know in Limerick, a land agent, told me this here is the richest farm of the estate.
     They keep a year of food in a storehouse.”
    They were coming past the badger wood, crossing the bridge. He
     didn’t want to go any farther, but couldn’t seem to stop himself, or change
     anything. Something strong had carried him this far and he couldn’t escape it
     now.
    â€œWhat is it, Fergus? Is something wrong? You look very
     ill.”
    â€œI know these people.”
    She stopped, gripped his arm. “Do you know where they keep the
     food?”
    â€œA little stone house in the yard — he keeps tools there and
     stores in a cellar underneath.”
    People on the mountain claimed the little stone hovel had been a holy
     church in the days when there had been saints in the country.
    â€œAre there dogs?”
    â€œThere was but she hated them so he got rid of them.”
    â€œWho hated them?”
    â€œPhoebe. Carmichael’s daughter.”
    â€œBless her. I hate dogs too. Here.” She took off the soldier
     cap and placed it on Fergus’s head. “Now you look like a ribbonman. What
     stores does he keep?”
    â€œCorn. Apples.”
    â€œWhat else? Meat?”
    â€œMeat if they have slaughtered.
    Butter.”
    â€œButter!”
    â€œHe keeps it locked.”
    â€œThere’s ways to kill locks.”
    They came around the bend in the road, and there were the familiar iron
     gate and the gaunt farmhouse, blinking at him across the yard.
    Luke pointed to a thick little stone building with slits instead of
     windows, standing between the house and stable. “Is that the stores?”
    â€œIt is.”
    Luke scanned the yard. “It’s perfect. If we come at night,
     who’ll stop us, if we are quiet enough? We can boost a little fellow inside,
     through them skinny windows. Only we must wait the night without any moon, move quiet.
     We’re plenty of hands to carry off rations. A noggin of butter, that would be
     famous.”
    The kitchen door opened. Carmichael stepped out.
    â€œGod, don’t let the fellow know you,” Luke said under
     her breath.
    â€œNothing for you here!” the farmer shouted.
    â€œOnly looking for soup, mister!” cried Luke.
    â€œWe give charity at Scariff, not on the farm! The soup kitchen is at
     the church. Keep on the road to Scariff and you’ll be fed.”
    â€œThank you, sir!” Luke bowed.
    â€œOff with you now,” Carmichael called.
    â€œ WAS that him? The fellow that ejected
     you?”
    He nodded.
    As they crossed stripped fields, heading back to the bog, Luke began
     telling her story.
    â€œMy mother sold me to a farmer when I was small.
     I was a dairy girl, only last summer the farmer decided he would emigrate. I supposed
     they would take me with them, but he gave me four shillings instead and turned me on the
     road.”
    â€œWhat was your name when you were a girl?”
    â€œWhat does it matter?” She stopped walking and glared at
     him.
    â€œI didn’t mean to sting you — I only wished to know your
     name.”
    â€œLuke! Luke is my name!”
    â€œAll right. I didn’t mean to cut you, Luke. I’m
     sorry.”
    â€œAll right then.” She smiled at him and they resumed
     walking.
    â€œWhat happened after they left you on the roads?”
    â€œOh, I aimed for Limerick. Where they had gone. I was thinking to
     get a passage to America. No notion what it cost — six shillings was as much money
     as I’d ever seen. As I was going along, I met a mob of little herds down off the
     Galtee Mountains. All their black cattle were being sold up, shipped to England, and the
     boys were thrown out on the roads like myself, only younger. They had no place to go,
     and the potatoes everywhere was coming