Inside the potato, where the white flesh should have been, there were streaks and seams of brown, soft rot.

  Mrs. Maloney gave what could have been a moan or a cry or a sob. While she did, Alvin was studying the mold as deeply as only he could. He sensed that this blight was alive, that it propagated in the wet environment of an Irish potato field, that it would not stop. But when the plant was gone, the mold would also go, because it left no spores in the soil.

  “I’m sorry, but you’ll get no edible potatoes from this field,” said Alvin.

  “Can’t you do anything? They say you can heal the sick.”

  “These potato plants are sick indeed,” said Alvin, “but it’s not a disease that I can work with. It’s a blight, a living thing that feeds off the leaves and flesh of the potato, and yet it’s also made of many living things together, so that killing a thousand of them still leaves ten thousand to keep spreading the blight.” He was reasonably sure that he was right.

  “I have potatoes in yon corner that show no signs of this,” said Mrs. Maloney, somewhere between hope and desperation.

  “We’ll examine them. Any that aren’t blighted, you must dig up now and store in a dry place.”

  Mrs. Maloney gave a bitter laugh. “You do know that we’re in Ireland, don’t you? Even our dry places are damp.”

  “As dry as you can make it,” said Alvin. “And still no surety that the blight isn’t in them, lying in wait till next year’s planting.”

  “And these? What do we do, burn the field?”

  “In America, where it’s much dryer, the fields might burn, but your field would no more than smolder, I think,” said Alvin. “And fire isn’t the solution. Every sick plant must be dug up, to the last root, and taken to a stony place and a bonfire built over it so that every vestige of every plant—root, fruit, stem, and flower—is consumed.”

  Mrs. Maloney took to weeping in earnest now. Alvin took her shoulder and guided her into the house where her five children, one for every two years of her marriage, looked at her in awe.

  “Did you say a bad word to her?” asked the oldest, a nine-year-old girl named Rosheen.

  “I try never to say bad words,” said Alvin.

  “Bad words make her cry.”

  Alvin nodded. “So do failing potato plants,” said Alvin. “Hard times are coming.”

  Rosheen looked at him in apparent puzzlement. “All times is hard, Mr. Alvin.”

  “Harder times,” said Alvin.

  “Will we have no food for the next year?” asked Rosheen.

  Alvin was both pleased and saddened that she was already so aware of the cycles of life in this country. “Only what you can buy. There’ll be no potatoes this year, not in these parts.”

  Now the three-year-old boy piped up. “I know who did it! Witches!” he cried out.

  “There are some who are going to say that, Adam,” said Alvin. “But they don’t know what they’re talking about. There’s no witch in all the world who knows how to make a curse like this blight. And you’ll see—those they call witches will be hungry long with everybody else. What witch would make a curse that starves his own family?”

  “A stupid one?” asked Rosheen.

  “Hush this nonsense about witches,” said Alvin. He did not say: Your mother would be among the first to be arrested, tried, and slain for witchery, since she has a powerful knack for keeping water from quite reaching a boil, or from boiling over—very useful in the kitchen. It was a knack that wasn’t really visible, yet most of the neighbors had the saying, “Safe as a stew over Kweeva’s fire.” Neighbors lived in each other’s kitchens, day in and day out, swapping gossip, child-tending, nursing, and cooking. Smart women could not help but notice how disaster-free the Maloney kitchen was.

  “What about last year’s potatoes?” asked Rosheen. “Are they going to be sick, too?”

  “Let’s go see,” said Alvin.

  Rosheen led him to a stone-lined room that opened into the kitchen. “It’s warm all winter in here,” she explained, “and it keeps them fairly dry.”

  Alvin bent over to reach into the potato bin. He pulled out many and examined them inside and out, before he said, “I see no blight on any of these,” said Alvin. “Doesn’t mean it can’t come later, but it’s not here now.”

  “So we’re safe to eat them?”

  Again, Alvin was impressed at how much the little girl seemed to understand. Was there some knack in this? Was she seeing these concerns in her mother’s mind? In Alvin’s? Or was she merely an attentive girl, with no knack beyond cleverness?

  “Until your mother says not,” answered Alvin. Then he left to go meet his traveling companions at the pub in Ballycarra, a good stiff walk that would warm him up on such a chilly day.

  This had been a prosperous family, complete with an indoor kitchen with a coal stove and a chimney, and a tiled roof instead of thatch. They had every reason to expect that with hard work, they’d get more and more ahead, save up money to dower their daughters and apprentice their sons. Their absentee landlord didn’t mind what they did as long as he got his bushels of potatoes every year.

  What about this year? They would not be able to pay their rent. Would he evict them, because a disease came upon the potatoes? Or would he forgive their rent so they could remain on the land, perhaps plant a different crop? In his house in London or some country estate, would he even know what was happening on his Irish holdings? His agent here in Ireland would know, but would the landlord believe what he reported, or assume that the agent was getting kickbacks, or lying to cover up his own theft of rents?

  I should go to London and see, thought Alvin.

  And then the smarter part of his brain, the part that his wife, Peggy, had educated, thought: The most powerful Maker in the world goes to the country that is most eager to catch people doing “witchcraft” so they can be imprisoned or killed? What part of that is wise?

  No part of it. But wise or not, he figured that was right likely to be the course he had to follow before this all worked out.

  “What will we do, sir?” asked Rosheen.

  “The best you can,” said Alvin.

  Rosheen glared at him fiercely. “Don’t I deserve an answer, sir?”

  “If I had an answer,” said Alvin, “I would tell it to you. I’d tell it to all your neighbors, too, and the government.”

  Mrs. Maloney spoke bitterly from the corner. “Government cares nothing about us. Potatoes all die, they’ll raise taxes, sure. And landlords will raise the rents.”

  “Talk to your neighbors,” said Alvin. “They won’t have a solution, either, because I think there is none. But somehow you have to stay alive. Everybody has some potatoes stored, I reckon.”

  Rosheen said, “Yes,” as Mrs. Maloney nodded.

  “Whatever you have, if you put it all together and then share it out in fair amounts, you can make it through winter, I think.”

  “And then in the spring, with nothing to plant?” asked Mrs. Maloney.

  “I can’t see the future. But if this blight affects all Ireland, how can the government fail to act?”

  “Parliament off in London will debate for a year and a half,” said Mrs. Maloney, “and count themselves lucky at how many of us problematic Irishmen have starved to death.”

  Alvin nodded. He was no expert on English government, but he did know that if there was a pro-Irish faction in the House of Commons, they had kept their heads down and their mouths shut for a good long time. “I can’t contradict you,” said Alvin. “It would be wicked of them to do nothing, but it would also be the lazy thing to do, and the cheap thing, and between wickedness, laziness, and parsimony, I do think you can account for the majority of lawmakers.”

  “And then what?” asked Rosheen. “Rise up in rebellion?”

  “Putting down Irish revolts will always get approved in Parliament,” said Mrs. Maloney.

  “Starving people don’t make good rebels,” said Alvin. “They can’t march far. They’re too weak to fight when battle comes.”

  “How do you know anything about it?” asked Mrs. Maloney, bitterness in her voice now.

  “I’ve walked a long way, and I’ve had my starving times,” said Alvin. “And anyone with a brain knows that if you wait till you’ve run out of bread or potatoes, it’s too late for a fight.”

  “Can anyone in America help us?” asked Rosheen.

  “Maybe the King in Camelot could send some food, though they mostly grow tobacco and cotton there, and if they tried to bring ships to any Irish port, I expect the English would send a fleet to sink them.”

  “Aren’t there three nations?” asked Rosheen.

  “The king has Catholic sympathies. That’s why he doesn’t rule from London. I think you might have your best chance there, if he gets the word in time. New England is more Puritan than England, and I think Irishmen would not be welcomed in Boston.”

  “And the middle part?” asked Rosheen. “The United States part?”

  Alvin grinned. “You’ve had some good schooling,” he said.

  “Keep your praise, sir, and answer me, I beg.”

  “You’re not a beggar, Rosheen,” said Alvin. “I daresay you’re a leader. I don’t know what the United States would do. They’re confused themselves about who they are and who they want to be. But that’s where I live, and when I go home, if this blight has not already been solved I’ll encourage the United States to send food here.”

  “And why would they do that?” asked Mrs. Maloney.

  “I don’t know if they would. But there are good people among them, Christians at heart, who would hear about your plight and try to help.”

  They stood in silence, looking at the potatoes in the dry cupboard.

  “Do you want to know what I think?” asked Rosheen.

  “No he doesn’t, girl, you’ve talked too much already,” said Mrs. Maloney.

  “I think that instead of bringing food to Ireland, we should bring the Irish to the food.”

  Alvin contemplated the girl for a good while. “That’s wiser than any thought I had in my head,” he said. “Let me see what can be done, one way or another.”

  “‘Let me see’ is how grownups tell children to mind their own business,” said Rosheen.

  “That’s enough out of you, rude creature!” cried Mrs. Maloney. She jumped up and made as if to catch Rosheen by an arm and beat her with her other hand, but Alvin caught her wrist and sent calmness into her body, feelings of peace. Feelings of love for Rosheen.

  “I don’t mind,” said Rosheen. “She’ll only beat me after you leave, anyway.”

  “Liar!” The word came out as a hiss.

  “Your mother knows what a treasure you are,” said Alvin. “And I know, too. When I say, ‘Let me see,’ I mean, I will look into all these possibilities and find out which ones look the most feasible. It’s expensive to transport an entire nation across the Atlantic, but maybe the whole nation doesn’t have to go. Just enough that those left behind can survive on whatever food they have.”

  Rosheen nodded, but Alvin could sense that she still didn’t believe his promise. “Is the blight only on potatoes?” she asked. “If we could find another crop, would it also die?”

  “Where do we find another crop!” demanded her mother. But she made no move to strike Rosheen.

  “What did you grow before potatoes?” asked Alvin.

  “It’s always been potatoes!” cried Mrs. Maloney. “You’re in Ireland, sir!”

  “Potatoes came from South America,” said Alvin. “A scholar I trust has told me that there are three stories about English voyagers who might have brought potatoes to Ireland in the 1580s—Raleigh, Drake, and Cavendish—but that scholar believes that the potato first came to this land by way of Spain, which had been growing it for years.”

  “Your scholar is a fool,” said Mrs. Maloney.

  “As are we all,” said Alvin, “compared with the knowledge of God and the angels, but we make do with such wisdom as we can gather. Does anyone in this island grow wheat, for instance?”

  “How would I know?” asked Mrs. Maloney.

  “I’ll inquire, then, from people who do know,” said Alvin. “You can be sure, Rosheen, that I’ll be back not long from now, to give you better answers to your questions.”

  “You’ll never be back,” said Mrs. Maloney.

  This was said glumly, and barely audibly. Was it a prophecy? Or a warning?

  Alvin didn’t bother to answer. “Good day to you, ladies. And give my best wishes to Mr. Maloney, when he returns.”

  Rosheen spoke, “Da is on his way to England to get work so he can save money to buy food.”

  Mrs. Maloney did not contradict her daughter. Alvin nodded at the mother and the daughter, and glanced at the other four children in various stages of lethargy around the room. Children should have enough energy to play.

  Alvin put his hat on his head and stepped out the door into the grassy yard. It was a well-tended place, with many vegetables growing in carefully weeded beds. Alvin wondered if he was seeing the work of the parents, or if Rosheen looked after these plots, which were likely to provide the only sustenance for the family before long.

  It didn’t matter to him now, he told himself. Rosheen had some kind of knack, as Mrs. Maloney did. But Alvin doubted that either would consider herself to be a witch—that had to do with curses, like this blight, or babies getting sick. If the accusation was made, however, they would surely be tried and convicted by the Church of Ireland.

  Alvin could still see the Maloney house from the brow of a hill when he heard, then saw, riders trotting their horses along the track before him and behind him. Why would they trot? he wondered. It was a brutal gait for a rider, and indeed these men were all standing in their stirrups to avoid the pounding of their nether regions.

  Alvin stopped and stepped aside to let both pairs of riders pass. Instead they drew up and stopped near him. “Are you looking for me?” asked Alvin.

  “We are if you’re the American called Alvin Miller,” said their leader.

  “Can you tell me your name, sir, since you seem to know mine?”

  “I’m Sergeant Porter of the Dublin Guard,” he said. “And you are invited to come with us.”

  “I’m sorry that I don’t have a horse, gentlemen,” said Alvin. “If I come with you, won’t I slow you down?”

  “We’ll walk our horses slowly, so you can keep up,” said Porter.

  The other men smiled a little, and one of them snickered. Alvin was pretty sure this would mean a very fast walk for him.

  “And if I decline your invitation, because I have other places to go?” asked Alvin.

  “Then you’ll be bound over for resisting arrest, and brought to Dublin in chains.”

  “So you’re arresting me,” said Alvin. “On what charge?”

  “We’re inviting you,” said Porter.

  “But if I decline, I’m resisting arrest?” asked Alvin.

  “He’s pretty clever, for an American,” said one of the other riders.

  Meanwhile, Alvin realized that instead of going to England, as he had halfway planned, a visit to Dublin, to the witch-finders of the Church of Ireland, might serve his purposes as well or better.

  “I’ll tell you what,” said Alvin. “I’ll come along with you, even though Dublin is a long walk from here, provided you tell me the charges, and who my accuser might be?”

  “The charge might have been witchcraft,” said Porter, “if we were arresting you. But at present we only have suspicions about you, based on stories told by some of the people around here.”

  “What acts of witchery do they say I’ve committed here?” asked Alvin.

  “You’ll hear those accusations in Dublin.”

  “That will be far from my accusers, won’t it,” said Alvin. “Will they come and testify?”

  “We have their written declarations,” said Porter. He took a packet of papers from inside his coat. Alvin reached for them. Porter started to pull them out of his reach.

  “Sergeant Porter,” said Alvin, “I may be an American, but I’m not so stupid as to tear up witnesses’ statements in front of four officers of the court.”

  Porter reluctantly handed down the packet.

  Alvin untied the ribbon that bound the pages and handed it up to Porter. Then Alvin unfolded the papers and read the name at the top of the first sheet.

  The name was Kweeva Maloney.

  “I just came from Mrs. Maloney’s house,” said Alvin. “She did not accuse me of anything.”

  “She’s afraid of you, as all good people are afraid of witches,” said Porter.

  “And here I thought good people would have the protection of the Lord,” said Alvin.

  “They do,” said Porter. “We are his instruments in gathering the tares from amid the wheat.”

  “This tare is curious about how you were able to get an affidavit from the Maloney house so quickly after I left it.”

  “Not clever after all,” said Porter to the others. Again, chuckles and smiles. “We’ve been gathering these affidavits for days. And when Mrs. Maloney signed her affidavit, she told me that she expected you to come by today, after the hour of the noon meal.”

  “Her prediction came true,” said Alvin. “Doesn’t that make her a witch?”

  Porter frowned. “We don’t accept accusations from the accused, except under questioning.”

  “Meaning torture?”

  “This is not Spain,” said Porter. “And we are not the Inquisition. We are officers of the Lord Protector, acting under the instructions of the Bishop of Dublin, head of the Church of Ireland under the authority of the Lord Protector.”

  “Thank you for explaining the difference,” said Alvin.

  At a signal from Porter, the three other men dismounted. Two of them approached Alvin from the sides, while the third brought a coil of rope from his saddle.

  “You won’t need to bind me,” said Alvin.

  “Not your decision,” said Porter.

  The two men took hold of Alvin’s arms. Despite not having worked a forge in months, Alvin’s arms were still massive, and neither man could wrap a hand around an upper arm. Alvin also made the fabric of his cloth coat slippery, and their hands slid away.