‘What did they do with her?’ asked Cowlick.
‘Do with her?’ said Jamesie. ‘What do you think they did with her? They took her back to the castle. She was a beautiful little horse, and Seoirse tamed her. However, the old man warned him that if he took her out before he had her a year and a day he would have no luck. But, of course, Seoirse couldn’t wait. He had a great longing to take her out hunting and show her off to the rest of the country. So one day he saddled up and took her out for a canter.’
Jamesie paused. ‘Everything went well until he turned her to come home. They were on the top of a hill at the time and she caught a glimpse of the lake in the distance. The enchantment hadn’t fully left her, as she hadn’t been out of the water a year and a day, and a great urge came upon her to get back into it. She bolted for the water and even though she was small, he couldn’t control her.’
‘So she returned to the lake and took him with her,’ suggested Rachel.
Jamesie shook his head. ‘She returned to the lake all right, but before she reached it she threw him and he was killed.’
‘You’re not trying to tell us Biddy’s horses are en-chanted?’ asked Róisín.
‘I’m not saying that,’ Jamesie replied, ‘but there are stories about them, you know.’
‘I think everything around here must be enchanted,’ said Cowlick.
Jamesie said no more, and the others smiled at each other again and let the matter drop.
‘Did you ever speak to Biddy before?’ asked Tapser, looking down at the house and wondering about her.
‘Of course I did … Well, I suppose you could say I did. Or I nearly did anyway.’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Cowlick.
‘John Joe Murphy’s cow had ringworm. It had it really bad, and he asked me to help him take her up to Biddy’s for a cure.’
‘And did she cure it?’ asked Rachel.
‘Of course she did.’
‘How?’ asked Róisín.
‘I’m not sure. She mumbled a few things around it and gave John Joe ointment for it, and that was all.’
Tapser was still looking down at her house and her animals and couldn’t resist remarking, ‘They don’t look like enchanted water-horses to me.’
Jamesie ignored him and said, ‘If you leave Prince here it might be best.’
‘Okay, I’ll tie him to the caravan.’ Tapser ruffled the collie’s head and added, ‘You won’t mind, will you, boy?’
Just why they all crept over to Biddy’s place instead of walking straight up to it, none of them quite knew. Maybe it was because they wanted to see what sort of situation they were getting themselves into before knocking on the door.
A wisp of blue turf smoke drifted up from the chimney, so they knew Biddy was at home. Her hens were busy scratching in the clay. The netting-wire gate of the hen-run was open and out strutted a large black rooster. On seeing them it lowered its head and arched its wings.
‘Shoo,’ said Jamesie. He waved his hands, and the rooster took to the air with a loud squawk, flapped over the fence and dropped down behind the hen shed.
‘What a strange hen,’ whispered Rachel.
‘That isn’t a hen,’ Cowlick told her. ‘It’s a cock.’
The others giggled and followed Jamesie into the hen pen to see where the rooster had gone. At the corner of the shed they stopped abruptly, for instead of the rooster they came upon a crow. It was sitting on the wire fence, and when it saw them it cawed harshly at them with its big beak. Startled, they turned to run, only to find their way barred by Biddy of the Lake!
Enchanted or not, Biddy’s horses and donkeys galloped up to the cottage to see what all the commotion was about. The geese gathered around too and hissed and honked, and the hens scattered in confusion.
‘Foxglove,’ Jamesie managed to blurt. ‘We came to ask about the foxglove.’
Biddy was a portly woman, round-faced and with long flaxen hair quite unsuited to her age or her small round figure. Her dress was short and black and bulged here and there. Whatever they expected her to say, she didn’t. Instead she just giggled a toothless type of giggle and walked back into the cottage.
Following her in, they found her sitting at the open fire, and Rachel said, ‘It’s very important, really it is, Miss Biddy.’
‘Don’t call me Biddy,’ she replied irritably. ‘My name’s Winifred.’ She poked the fire, sending a shower of sparks swirling up the chimney, then folded her arms and looked at them.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Rachel, anxious to make amends. ‘I didn’t mean any offence.’
‘Hmmm … I suppose not.’ She looked at Jamesie. ‘I suppose that’s your doing?’
‘Who, me? I don’t know what you mean.’
‘You were here before, with John Joe Murphy’s cow.’
‘That’s right,’ said Jamesie. ‘You gave him a cure for the ringworm. It worked too.’
‘And why wouldn’t it work? Sure it’s more than ringworm I’ve cured in my day.’ She pointed to a dresser standing at the wall opposite the fire. They could see in the half light that its shelves were crammed full of bottles of all shapes, sizes and colours. ‘There are more cures there than ye’ll ever get from any doctor or read in any book.’
She certainly had enough of them, they could see that, and on looking around they could also see there was an assortment of bowls on the table and an untidy collection of withered plants and flowers, and various greens which they couldn’t identify but which they assumed to be herbs.
‘Why is it so important to ye?’ she asked them. ‘The foxglove.’
‘Because we think it’ll help us find our Uncle Pakie,’ Rachel replied.
Jamesie told her how Pakie had disappeared, and about the poem, and how they had figured out some of it.
‘Fairies and witches, foxes in ditches?’ Biddy giggled. ‘Well, I don’t know much about poems, but I do know something about flowers. And ye could be right about the foxglove. It is poisonous. That’s why it’s sometimes called dead man’s bells.’
‘Deadly the fingers that point to life’s riches,’ said Tapser.
‘But it can also give life,’ she went on. ‘It has a substance called digitalis that can be used to treat heart trouble.’
‘Health,’ said Róisín. ‘That’s one of life’s riches.’
‘And if Tapser’s right and it has another meaning,’ said Cowlick. ‘It could also mean the poachers. You know, that they’re after life’s riches, the salmon, and that they’re deadly, meaning they’ll stop at nothing to get them.’
‘That settles it then,’ said Rachel. ‘Pakie must mean the foxglove.’
‘And maybe more,’ said Biddy. She got up and went over to the dresser where she had her cures. ‘He could also mean deadly nightshade. That’s poisonous too. And that line about tall spires of gold …’
‘Beneath tall spires of gold the Story is told,’ Jamesie reminded her.
‘That could be the great mullein. It’s a very tall plant with lovely yellow flowers all the way up the stem.’
Suddenly they were thinking that maybe Biddy wasn’t so touched after all, and they crowded around Jamesie to have another read of the poem …
‘Faith an’ your Uncle Pakie’s a very smart man,’ Biddy continued, running her finger across the bottles on the dresser. ‘Because I think he means something else as well.’
They looked up and waited to hear more.
‘Ye see,’ she said, coming back with a small blue bottle in her hand, ‘he’s talking about the lus mór.’
‘The lus mór?’ said Tapser. ‘What’s that?’
‘It means the great herb. The great mullein is the lus mór. Deadly nightshade is the lus mór na coille, the great herb of the wood. And the foxglove is the lus mór baineann, or lus na mban sídhe – the herb of the fairy women.’
They looked at each other, mesmerised by the extent of Biddy’s knowledge of plants and their Irish names.
‘That’s the real clue,�
�� she went on. ‘They’re all known in Irish as the lus mór.’ Then, when she saw that they didn’t understand, she explained, ‘Well, for one thing these were all very special herbs in days gone by. Ye see, the old stories say that when people believed a child had been stolen by the fairies and a changeling child left in its place, it was the juice of the lus mór that was used to bring it back.’
‘Which one?’ asked Jamesie. ‘The foxglove?’
‘It doesn’t matter which one,’ said Biddy sternly. ‘All ye need to remember is that they’re all deadly poisonous, except the great mullein.’
‘So we’re right,’ said Róisín. ‘Pakie is trying to say where he’s being held. And he’s hoping that whoever finds the poem will try and bring him back.’
‘Maybe he means some place where all these plants grow together,’ suggested Rachel.
‘We thought maybe an island,’ said Tapser, ‘with a church.’
‘Where nymphs dance in the moonlight and secrets unfold,’ said Cowlick, quoting from the poem.
‘The poachers’ hiding place,’ added Jamesie.
Biddy didn’t answer them right away. Instead she gave Rachel the blue bottle and whispered to her, ‘When ye find yer Uncle Pakie give him this. He’ll need a good tonic, and that’ll bring him back to his old self in no time.’
‘But where will we look for him?’ asked Rachel.
Biddy giggled. ‘There’s only one place where ye’ll find all three growing together – and the ruins of a church.’
‘Where?’ they asked.
‘On Lusmore Island of course. The Island of the Great Herb.’
* * *
Back at their campsite near Pakie’s place, Rachel looked at the blue bottle Biddy had given her. ‘I still haven’t forgiven you for not telling me Biddy wasn’t her real name,’ she told Jamesie crossly.
‘Aye, why do you call her Biddy?’ asked Cowlick.
Jamesie smiled. ‘Everybody calls her that – after Biddy Early, the Wise Woman of Clare. Uncle Pakie told me about her. She lived a long time ago, and some people thought she was a witch, for she had strange powers. She could forecast things and cure people.’ He looked at Rachel. ‘And she had this famous bottle. Blue, I think it was. It was supposed to be a magic bottle, and if she cured people she took no money for it, only meat and poteen.’
‘Well, Biddy of the Lake is no witch,’ asserted Rachel. ‘As a matter of fact I think she’s very nice. Anyway, this is only an oul’ magnesia bottle she gave me, a tonic for Pakie.’
‘I think she’s nice too,’ said Róisín, ‘and she’s very knowledgeable about flowers and things.’
‘And she’s given us our best clue yet,’ said Tapser.
‘But how do we get to this island?’ asked Cowlick. ‘Can we row to it as well?’
Jamesie shook his head. ‘It’s too far. We’ll have to use the outboard engine this time, at least part of the way.’
‘Will that not get you into trouble?’ asked Róisín. ‘I mean, taking it without asking.’
‘It’ll be all right,’ muttered Jamesie, and he went off towards the boathouse.
Jamesie seemed to know what he could and could not do, so the others didn’t argue. Instead they followed him down to the boathouse. Somehow he managed to open the door to where the outboard engines were kept and they helped him carry one out and clamp it to the stern of the boat.
‘I thought all the islands around here had Irish names,’ said Tapser. ‘You know, Illaun-this and Incha-that.’
Jamesie laid the oars along the middle of the boat between them. ‘Some of them, not all,’ he replied. ‘There’s Butterfly Island. Rabbit Island.’
Tapser was about to say that Rabbit Island didn’t sound very poetic, when the outboard engine roared into life and conversation became impossible. Words, however, soon became unnecessary and even inadequate to describe any of the islands. For as they were propelled across the water, now smooth and silvery as a mirror, the sun was beginning to dip behind the mountains of Connemara and was giving Uncle Pakie’s lake an unspoken poetry of its own.
When they had travelled for some time, Jamesie throttled back on the engine, then silenced it completely. An eerie stillness filled the twilight. Quietly he put the oars into place and started to row. By now Tapser and Cowlick had got the hang of rowing, and took turns to help him pull them closer to their objective.
Lusmore Island seemed no different than any of the others they had seen. It was overgrown with bushes and capped with a canopy of Scots pines, a familiar feature of many of the islands. However, even in the fading light they could see that a profusion of purple foxgloves grew on its stony shore.
If the truth be known, more than one of them clasped the horseshoe nails that Jamesie had given them when going to Illaun na Shee. This time it wasn’t for fear of anything he had told them, but out of nervousness. Somehow they knew this was for real. This was where they might find Pakie and the people who held him.
Creeping up a long winding path, they came to a low stone wall with a stile. Beyond the wall, in a secluded clearing beneath the trees, they could see the ruins of an ancient church. It was a very small church by modern-day standards and it had no roof. Nevertheless they could see that it was occupied, for tongues of flame flickered on the inside of the walls.
‘The poachers!’ whispered Jamesie.
‘What are we going to do?’ asked Rachel.
Below them, in a sheltered cove, they could make out the dark shape of a motor cruiser tied up at a small pier.
‘I think we should put their boat out of action!’ suggested Tapser.
Cowlick nodded. ‘Good idea.’
‘We’ll do it,’ said Róisín. ‘Come on, Rachel, I’ve an idea.’
Before Cowlick or the others could object, the girls hurried back down the path, and a short time later their shadowy figures could be seen slipping on board the cruiser.
‘The poachers must be using the church as a hideout,’ whispered Cowlick.
‘I wonder if they’ve got Uncle Pakie in there?’ asked Jamesie.
‘I daren’t go any closer with Prince,’ said Tapser. ‘Maybe you two could get a look inside. I’ll keep guard in case anyone comes.’
Cowlick ran his fingers through his cow’s-lick curl and took a deep breath. ‘Okay.’
‘Right,’ said Jamesie. ‘Keep close to me and be careful they don’t hear us.’
The two of them tiptoed across to the nearest window, and Tapser saw Cowlick helping Jamesie up so that he could look in.
Next minute a dog’s barking broke the silence. Cowlick and Jamesie fell back, picked themselves up and ran over to rejoin Tapser behind the wall. At the same time Prince broke free to run forward and engage a small terrier that had bounded out of the church. There were shouts of surprise inside and several men charged out to see what was happening.
‘The man with the rings,’ whispered Cowlick.
‘And Uncle Pakie’s in there,’ gasped Jamesie. ‘I saw him.’
‘Well, we can’t help him now,’ said Tapser. ‘Let’s get out of here before they catch us too.’
Prince and the terrier were snapping and snarling at each other as they rolled over and over in the grass. The men rushed over to separate them and looked around to see who the collie belonged to.
‘There they are,’ cried one of the men. ‘After them.’
By now Tapser, Cowlick and Jamesie were racing back down the darkened path.
‘Quick,’ panted Jamesie, ‘into the bushes. It’s our only chance.’
A few moments later they heard the men running down past them towards the shore.
‘I hope Róisín and Rachel are all right,’ said Cowlick.
‘Don’t worry,’ Tapser told him, ‘they’ll have heard the noise and had plenty of time to hide.’
They crawled further into the undergrowth and a short time later heard the men coming back up the path.
‘It’s probably those youngsters again,’ they heard one man
saying.
‘Well, we’ll never find them in the dark,’ said another. ‘And you wouldn’t know who they are. We’ll have to move out.’
When the men had gone out of earshot, Cowlick whispered, ‘They won’t be moving very far, not if the girls can help it.’
‘And that gives us a chance to tell Martin we’ve found Uncle Pakie,’ said Jamesie.
‘Right,’ said Tapser. ‘Back to the boat.’
When they reached the shore, however, there was no sign of their boat – or of the girls. Frantically they peered into the gathering darkness and called their names as loudly as they dared. There was no reply. A short time later, the engine of the motor cruiser started up and roared away into the night.
7. NYMPHS DANCE IN THE MOONLIGHT
When the sound of the poachers’ boat had died away in the distance, Cowlick shouted, ‘Róisín, Rachel, where are you?’
On hearing the commotion up at the church, the girls had taken cover in the undergrowth. Then they had listened to all the shouting and running about, fearful that the others had been caught.
‘Here we are,’ answered Rachel, as they made their way over.
‘What happened?’ asked Cowlick. ‘I thought you were supposed to put their boat out of action?’
‘We tried to,’ said Róisín, ‘but it doesn’t seem to have worked.’
‘You can say that again,’ panted Tapser. ‘They’ve gone and so is our boat.’
‘Oh no,’ cried Rachel, ‘that means we’re stranded.’
‘We can worry about that later,’ said Jamesie. ‘Let’s see if we can find Uncle Pakie.’
‘Jamesie says he saw him with the poachers in the church,’ Cowlick told them. ‘Come on.’
As they headed back up the path, Prince joined them. The fire was still burning on the floor of the little church, but everyone had gone, including Pakie.
Jamesie sat down on a large stone beside the fire. ‘They must have taken him with them,’ he said.
The others sat down too and gazed into the burning embers.
‘At least we know he’s still alive,’ said Cowlick.
‘But where do we look for him now?’ wondered Róisín. ‘This was the last clue in the poem.’
The Legend of the Corrib King Page 6
