The Great Hunger
by
Mark McGuire
CHAPTER 1: ANOTHER DAY OF LIVING
Raaahh, bared teeth and low, long snarls like distant thunder were commonplace during the famine in Ireland. Growling had become the daily language of animals and humans alike. Flying spit warned competitors to keep their distance or else. They were squabbling over a precious resource—food. The roadside deaths provided a feast for hunger-crazed animals tearing at each other’s flesh and the corpse. A sight and sound that most marchers could never unsee or unhear. Marchers saw the victim’s body, or what was left of it. Hearing the cracking sound of bones being torn apart like dried twigs snapping underfoot. The rotten-egg smell of death was suffocating.
I spied Jane Corcoran and her father James trudging behind me as my cart paused outside McCarty’s. James constantly drowsed off as he stumbled forward. Jane would jerk him awake. In a voice fragile as a spider’s web trembling in a breeze,
“Come on, Father. Just a little further.” The Good Lord had heard her prayers. She knew it in her bones. Her stomach twisted with hunger, each step a plea, each breath a cry. Closer to the promise of much needed nourishment. How much longer could a family go without a sustaining meal? In that fleeting, frightening moment, she felt as the world had shifted and she was no longer a teenage child, but a young woman standing at the crossroads of something bigger than herself.
Jane was unsure her father had the resilience and ability to overcome whatever challenges the family would face. She needed to reinforce that her father’s contributions to his family were crucial, whether it’s providing, nurturing or simply being present.
“Lady Nugent will help us. Just a little further. Food—for all of us. You can do this. We need you. We love you.”
Jane’s father had heard her spout her beliefs so many times. “God willing. God will save us. Jesus loves us, and will protect us.” Rubbing his eyes from fatigue and frustration, he mumbled, “I be alright, Jane, let’s go. Hope there’s enough for everyone.”
A troop of skeletal survivors sought to avoid the warning snarls and growls of starving dogs. Unable to avoid the high-pitched yelps of pups begging for scraps surrounded the troop. The alpha dogs’ fierce growls warned subordinates and offspring alike of danger. Only the strongest animals would eat that night, often carrying off a human arm or leg as their prize.
Like vultures circling over their prey, the weaker dogs focused on the marchers, weak with hunger and exhaustion. Waiting. The marchers gave halfhearted growls to disperse the dogs. They failed. The pack of dogs lay down, salivating, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
The ground was slippery with fallen leaves. One neighbor, weakened with hunger, stumbled and fell. Jane’s father’s sudden, forceful grip prevented her from helping.
“Stay close, Jane. He’s gone.” Jane’s voice cracked. “But the dogs—he’s Mister Moakley. Our neighbor!”
Gripping Jane’s hand even tighter, James insisted. “These times, family are our only friend. Must get food for them. Must go before we become the next meal.”
Her tears and shivers wouldn’t stop. She could only whimper and tremble. Mister Moakley was beyond help. Shaking her head, she agreed. Father and I can’t afford to fall. Our family’s counting on us.
The sounds of a fierce fight—high-pitched yelps and snarls—suddenly erupted right behind Jane. She turned and saw it… The dog’s hair stood up, filthy, and aroused. And those eyes, burning with a mixture of hunger and fierce aggression, focused on Jane. Its growl rumbled like the roar of a hungry lion. Jane froze.
The dog inched closer. One step forward, leaning on forelegs, ready to attack. One step back, leaning on its back legs. Ready to retreat. Recognizing the dog’s indecision, James snarled and threw a rock at the dog. Father and daughter wobbled ahead. The dog slowly retreated, looking for easier prey.
Jane tried to avoid the sight of dogs mangling Mister Moakley’s body. She couldn’t avoid the sound... clanging like coffin bells, calling out to the thousands of lost famine souls. A young teenage girl couldn’t escape the tragic sights and sounds of famine in Ireland. Something you could never forget.
Jane did not have time to focus on what many young teenage girls would think about. Young boys, dresses, changes in their bodies and desires. No, Jane had to focus on food, and the disrespect shown to her family for being poor. She’d seen too many deaths, including her dear friends. Heard too many curses hurled at friends and neighbors. “Filthy Papists,” “I have a treat for you, young lady. Come.” She felt as isolated as a ship lost at sea, drifting without a clear direction.
On that fateful march to McCarty’s, my thoughts drifted back. Back to a young girl’s strength in times of misery.
Jane was the eldest of seven children. She had the added burden of supporting her parent’s desperate search for food and survival. Accompanying her father on a journey of trial and error. Some days were triumphant; most days defeated. She still offered her younger siblings words of hope and support. To feed her siblings, she would often go without.
She had uncommon eyes, a blend of maturity and vulnerability. Deep blue and penetrating. Her daily routine now consisted of scouring the neighborhood for scraps of food or helpers or danger. Avoiding certain people was something she understood. Jane could read people’s faces like a blind woman reading Braille. Most of us can’t help but live as if we had two lives. The one everyone sees and the one everyone hides. The strength, confidence, and virtue we all hope to display. The weaknesses, fears, and sins that plague our thoughts. Jane was so adept at ferreting out hidden defects... but not in herself.
She honed her observation skills the day Mister Middleman came screeching down the road, his voice cracking as he harassed her parents about overdue rent. Some children are forced to learn how to read faces, voices, how to sense every shift in the air. For them, survival depends on it, like navigating a battlefield. And Jane, even at her young age, knew how to stay alert, how to listen to every whispered tone, every change in posture. It wasn’t just instinct. It was her lifeline. Call it intuition, or a gut feeling, or just the sharp, unspoken need to survive in a world that was anything but safe.
“It’s how I stay safe—looking past the eyelids. Who’s really in there… beneath it all?
The closer Jane and her father got to McCarty’s, the more anxious Jane became. Food. Was this long-awaited promise real, or just another cruel illusion? Doubt crossed Jane’s mind as she glanced at her father, his weary steps faltering. Maybe the burden of survival had grown too heavy for him to bear alone.
With tears streaming down her face, Jane looked up at her father. She was witnessing the security that fathers provide their young teen daughters evaporating right before her eyes. Pleasant memories of their past relationship had faded. Replaced by an unyielding distance, neither knew how to bridge.
When he looked at her, there was no warmth in his gaze, just sadness. James had shrunk from a ramrod-straight provider to a hunched-over supplicant begging for food. His constant sighs and downcast eyes confirmed her fears. Couldn’t rely on help from parents. Her mother had entered the Otherworld. Jane prayed that her devotion to God would end the suffering. Now, she had a gnawing feeling that God would not interfere, no matter how often she prayed. Her thoughts were a tangled mess.
What is God’s plan? Why won’t He help? All I want is food for my family. I’m not ready to be their mother. Just want to grow up. But famine is winning. Christian charity? Just a dream. Everyone tells me what to do. No one lifts a hand.
Memories, religious teachings, and societal norms held Jane captive. Never easy for a young woman to be herself. Read the Bible. God and Irish society had a role for women. Jane had it drilled into her head by her mother, Betsey.
Remember what happened to that harlot, Coyne? That was God’s will. Be a good girl. A lady. Find a decent man. Do your duty—woman, wife. Don’t shame this family.
So confusing for Jane.
Be a good girl? What does that mean?
Listen to Mom. Obey the church. Cover up. Keep your legs closed. Katy Coyne’s only a few years older than me. Is she—and her baby—outcasts for one mistake? If God is merciful, why isn’t society? Why should women be ashamed of their bodies? Why should I be ashamed? Mom acts like I should be.
Gone were the days of sitting near a warm hearthside fire, enjoying a hearty meal. Now the hearth was cold, and the air was heavy with hunger. A thick grey fog descended over the weary travelers. Shivering like a swimmer making her first cold plunge into biting, icy waters, Jane knew she had to keep moving. Needed to reach McCarty’s and potential food. Another day of living... for some.