The Last Light in Connemara

Chapter 1 – The Girl Who Feared The Dark

Bríd checked the oil lamp burning. Just a flicker, barely more than a whisper of a flame, but it pushed the dark to the edges of the room like a stubborn thought.

She told herself it was for Mam. In case she needed to get up during the night. But Mam hadn’t stirred in days. And truthfully, it wasn’t just for Mam anymore.

Her little brother and sister lay curled together on the mat by the hearth, wrapped in the old red shawl Mam used to wear to Mass. Michael, barely four, sucked his thumb in his sleep. Nóra, six, held her rag doll so tightly the straw had begun to push out through the seams. The doll’s face, once marked with ink, had faded to a quiet smudge.

Bríd bent low and checked the lamp again, as she always did. The wick trembled but held its shape, casting a gold halo around the glass chimney. The brass base was still warm under her fingers. A smear of soot dulled the glow. The oil was low, two nights, maybe less.

She wished she could pour something else into it. Something that would last longer than oil. But wishing was for other people’s stories.

Outside, the wind found every gap in the roof, sighing through the straw in long, heaving breaths. The timber bones of the cottage groaned under the weight of another bitter west wind.

Turf smoke clung to the air, mingled with the sour tang of boiled cabbage and wool that had never quite dried. There hadn’t been meat in months. Not since the pig was sold to pay rent. Not since the blight blackened the last of the potatoes in the field.

Dad had gone to Dublin after the last harvest failed. Said he’d find work, any work, even sweeping streets or hauling coal. Said he’d send money back. That was six weeks ago. He hadn’t written, and they were going into the second winter of potato blight. But Bríd still lit the lamp each night. Just in case.

She tucked herself into the corner near the hearth, the fire now just embers beneath a skin of grey ash. The light it gave was low, more memory than flame. Still, she leaned toward it, letting the last heat lick at her palms.

It was Samhain. She hadn’t said it aloud. But she felt it in her skin.

The veil between worlds always thinned this time of year. The hollowness in the air felt sharp, like breath held too long. Some neighbours still left a candle in the window or a crust of bread on the step, offerings for wandering souls. But Bríd hadn’t. Not this year.

She was already waiting for someone who hadn’t come home.

Near the hearth, shrivelled turnip skins lay beside the ash bucket. She’d tried to carve one the day before, just for the twins. A smile with crooked eyes, like her Dad used to do. But when she set it on the table, the hollow grin had felt wrong. Like hope pretending to be something else.

The wick in the lamp sputtered. For a moment, shadows leapt, the dresser stretching tall like a monster, the coat peg curling like a sorrowed man.

Bríd reached out and steadied the lamp with trembling fingers. Don’t go out. Please don’t go out.

She tipped it slightly. Still enough. Just enough.

She was twelve now. Too old to be afraid of the dark. But fear didn’t care how old you were.

She thought of the stories her Dad used to tell. Of women who could walk through flames, of men who turned to ash chasing stars. She used to believe those stories. Now she just wanted to keep the fire lit.

Behind the hearth curtain was Mam’s corner,  a small straw bed, a pile of quilts, a wooden chair with one short leg. Bríd rose, careful not to wake the twins, and stepped across the floor. The boards beneath her feet creaked like they were trying to speak.

She brushed the curtain aside. The air inside was thicker. Closer. A mix of old broth, sweat, and the soft scent of lavender from a pouch Mam had pinned above her head long ago,  the kind she used to tuck into her apron, back when her hands stirred pots and tied hair.

Mam lay on her side, facing the stone wall. Her breathing was shallow, her chest rising just enough to prove she was still here. A bowl of broth sat beside the bed, its surface stiff with a skin of cooled fat. Bríd had carried it across the parish two days ago. Mrs. Sheehan had saved it for them, scraping it from the bottom of her own pot.

“Mam,” Bríd whispered.

No answer.

“I’m here, Mam. It’s me. ”

Still nothing.

She stepped closer and tucked the quilt, sewn from scraps of her Dad’s shirts ,  tighter over Mam’s thin shoulders. She pressed a kiss to the back of her head, just above the braid.

Bríd stood a moment longer, watching the faint movement of her mother’s back. Then she let the curtain fall behind her.

Back near the hearth, she lit a second wick,  the smallest one and set it in the window. A sliver of flame against the black. In case Dad came home tonight. In case he saw the light and knew they were still waiting.

She glanced at the twins again. Still sleeping. They hadn’t eaten since morning, just a mug of nettle tea, bitter and thin. Bríd had called it “witch’s brew” to make them smile. Nóra had smiled. Just a little.

Bríd sat again by the hearth, arms wrapped tight around her ribs. The dark pressed against the walls. But the light held its line.

Fear always came thickest at night, not just of what waited in the shadows, but of what the next day might take away. Or bring.

She closed her eyes and listened for something, anything, to interrupt the silence.

A voice.

A knock

A promise.

But the wind howled on, and the house kept its secrets.