The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  “You must hurry,” said the woman neither young nor old.

  The oldest spoke again: “I warned her not to taste the fairies’ food, but mortals must eat, and she won’t hold out long. After one bite, she’ll be like us, a prisoner for the rest of her days.”

  “There’s naught you can do for us,” said the youngest, “but you can save the healer, Tom O’Byrne.”

  “I mean to try. Where is she?”

  “In the banquet hall.” The woman neither young nor old turned and pointed behind her. A door appeared in the wall. “Go quickly, and take great care. The King of the Fairies wields powerful magic.”

  Tom returned the golden bean to his mouth. As he stepped through the door, the noise of the party resumed. He followed the din to a glittering golden banquet hall. Torches blazed high on the walls. Candles flickered in massive chandeliers. Two narrow bench tables ran the length of the long wide room. A third bench, undoubtedly the head table, ran perpendicular to the other two, forming a three-sided rectangle.

  Cloth made of rose petals covered the tables, where men and women, handsome and human in appearance, sat swilling down meat and drink from golden plates and goblets. Tom assumed that the few vacant seats belonged to the fairies dancing near the biggest hearth he’d ever seen.

  He knew the King of the Fairies by his elaborate attire and privileged place at the head table. Yellow-haired and clean-shaven, the rogue had a muscle or two beneath his fancy dress. Tom had trounced bigger men, and he thought he’d like to tap his knuckles into Finvarra’s face. Yet magic was afoot here. Despite Sorcha’s bolstering supper, Tom realized he might never see home again if he challenged the King. Rescuing Doreen must be the priority.

  She sat unsmiling beside Finvarra. Her thick dark hair flowed past her shoulders. Her pallid face and haunted eyes melted Tom’s heart. He would save her from this place or die trying.

  If he could touch her, he’d have a chance. No one saw him tiptoe towards the head table.

  The King’s handsome face suddenly darkened. “Your healing arts have cured my foot, yet you persist in refusing my generous offer of thanks.”

  Doreen raised her chin. Her blue eyes blackened with hatred. “When you first brought me here, you said it was your knee that needed curing. Make up your mind. If you really want to thank me, let me go home.” Both pride and fear played in her pearly voice.

  Finvarra pounded the table. Silence fell over the banquet hall. “You insult us by refusing our food, woman! We’ll see how long you last on an empty belly. Lock her away!”

  A liveried guard seized Doreen’s arm and yanked her from the table. She jerked herself free of him. He flinched at her ferocious glare, and Tom smiled. Standing tall, she turned her back on the scowling King. With the flustered guard at her heels, she stalked from the hall ignoring the muttering crowd that parted to let her pass.

  Tom scurried to intercept her. Eyeing her up and down, he understood why Finvarra wanted the well-formed beauty. He wouldn’t have her if Tom had his way.

  She came right at him and might have walked through him if he hadn’t seized her hand. The screams and shouts that erupted around them told him she’d disappeared. They could see each other, but the golden bean kept them from the fairies’ sight.

  Doreen’s black look changed to one of disbelief. She stuttered before she spoke. “You! You came for me!”

  Afraid to reply lest he lose or swallow the bean, he raised a finger to his lips and nodded towards the door. Doreen nodded back.

  They bolted towards the exit. The crowd stampeded after them. Tom wondered how they knew where he and Doreen were until he realized the flames on the candles were flickering as they passed.

  Plates and goblets flew at them. One struck Doreen’s arm. She stumbled out of Tom’s grasp and fell in an undignified heap.

  “There she is!” the fairies screamed.

  Tom plucked Doreen from the floor, and a new round of hostile shouts reassured him she’d vanished again. Dragging her with him, he shot from the hall, past the spinning women and up the marble stairs, up and up and out into the night.

  If the moon and stars cast no light down here, it seemed the sun did. Or would, when it rose. The sweeping darkness had brightened, and though night would reign a while longer, the pebbled path still glowed in the budding dawn.

  Tom and Doreen ran to the silver oak tree. The crystal lark sang in its branches, and Tom knew they were safe, at least for the moment. Still holding Doreen’s hand, he plucked the golden bean from his mouth and slipped it into his pocket. They sat on the ground to catch their breath.

  What would he tell her? How would they get home? He must try to find Sorcha.

  Doreen had no worries, it seemed. With a great fond smile, she twined her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  Joy he’d never known filled his soul. He kissed her back, gently at first, then as firmly and deeply as she kissed him. He held her close to his heart so her breasts pressed against his chest. Lost in their kiss and the sweet perfume of her long dark hair, he reeled like a drunken goose. Faster and faster he whirled, until he was falling . . . falling . . .

  Stiff and sore from the graceless position in which he’d fallen asleep, Tom struggled to his knees blinking at the well and the woods around it. No one was near. The adventure had been a dream. A pleasant dream, he thought as the fairy world dissolved from his mind like tendrils of smoke. He retrieved his cap and lurched to his feet.

  “Are you all right?”

  The woman’s question came from behind him. Cap in hand, he twisted about, expecting an aged arthritic. The lady who’d spoken stood in the gloom of the woods. A young mother then, come for a cure for her ailing child.

  She stepped into a patch of sunlight and asked again: “Are you all right?”

  Tom’s mouth fell open. The heart-shaped face of the healer Doreen frowned at him from the top of the path. He gawked at her, unable to speak, powerless to offer even a nod.

  Wariness sharpened her probing gaze. Tom, in turn, inspected her. She wore her dark hair fashionably twisted up beneath a brown brimmed hat. A lacy neck-to-chin collar gave her a well-heeled look. Her hip-length coat, tailored to her slender waist, covered the top of a long black skirt loose enough to pedal her bicycle.

  Yes, he thought. The bicycle. He must have had a glimpse of her, and she found her way into his dream.

  She remained where she stood. Did his towering frame frighten her? He set his feet apart and affected a nonchalant air to appear less threatening. “God be with you, ma’am. I’m Tom O’Byrne of Ballymote.”

  His proper greeting seemed to ease her apprehension. She strolled towards him. “God and Mary be with you, Tom O’Byrne. Dolly Keenan from Tubbercurry.”

  Dolly. Not Doreen.

  Appearing more confident now, she came towards him, brushing bits of dry leaves and grass from her sleeves. The curve of her bosom enticed him. As she drew nearer, he noted the lacy silver work on the buttons of her smart tweed coat. A decent enough coat, he thought, though he’d seen finer garb on women in the cities. Still, her attire outshone the frippery his sister wore.

  Dolly Keenan stopped an arm’s length away. Butterscotch seemed to melt over Tom. “Tubbercurry isn’t far from Ballymote, but it’s a long way from here. Surely you didn’t come all that way on your bicycle?”

  He couldn’t imagine Kate riding a bicycle half that distance. She wouldn’t even go into town without a wagon.

  Kate left his thoughts altogether when Dolly Keenan raised her chin the way she had at King Finvarra’s table. “Indeed I did. It’s better than walking, though the ride up tired me out, and that’s the gospel truth. I’m after having a bit of a nap in the woods myself.”

  Maybe she’d ride home with him. It wouldn’t hurt to ask. “I’m on my way back down, ma’am. You’re welcome to ride with me in my wagon.”

  A smile that would shame the northern lights broke over her face. “Thank you, Tom. I wouldn’t mind a lift as far as the roa
d to Tubber.”

  Bursting with triumph, he stepped to her side. “Let’s get your bicycle, then.”

  When Dolly Keenan linked her arm through his, Tom set his cap on his head and rejoiced.

  They stopped in Collooney to rest the horse, and Tom bought two apples at a shop near the train station. He sat with Dolly on the wagon seat, devouring the apples and chatting about Sligo until they pitched the cores into a nearby barrel.

  A handkerchief embroidered with blue and green leaves appeared in her hand. She dabbed at lips he longed to kiss and returned the cloth to her pocket. “Give me a minute, Tom. Since we’re at the station, I want to get a timetable.”

  He feared he’d done something to offend her, that she’d decided to take the train home, but the line ran to Ballymote from here, not to Tubbercurry. Mystified, he sighed. Whatever she’d gone to get, her going had left a hole in his heart.

  Soon she returned with her prize: a square white page with rows of tiny print set beneath a troubling title. He wondered why she’d want the times of trains for Queenstown, though of course he didn’t ask. It wasn’t his business.

  He’d been to Queenstown selling tea, but few souls ventured to the deep Cork port on Ireland’s southern shore unless they meant to emigrate. The thought of Dolly Keenan leaving saddened him.

  Whether she emigrated or not, he doubted he’d ever see her again. The wagon ride was all they’d have. Familiar with disappointment as any Irishman, he helped her to the wagon seat, intent on enjoying every minute of her company.

  A porridge of weather followed them from Collooney. Showers came and went. Blue broke through the clouds in snatches. Gram used to call it a rainbow sky.

  “Be on the watch, Tomáseen,” she’d say. “Seeing a rainbow brings good luck.”

  Tom needed no rainbow today. Good luck was already his. Dolly Keenan rode beside him on the compact wagon seat. Their arms and thighs collided as the springs bounced, and she didn’t shy away. Nor did she complain about the mist that dampened her cheeks and hair. They gossiped and bantered, talking of nonsense, of favourite foods and ancient legends. She laughed a lot, and so did he.

  The mare clip-clopped over a twisting road rutted in some spots, soggy in others. Sheep dotted the knolls and bogs. Cows grazed in square green pastures divided by hawthorn hedges. Now and then an abandoned stone cottage, roofless and overgrown, provided a landmark that told Tom where he was.

  The idea that Dolly had ridden this road by herself both impressed and worried him, yet she wouldn’t have been alone. Several cyclists passed them. They called out pleasant greetings, as did many foot travellers and the drivers of drays and donkey carts. Tom and Dolly waved cheerfully back.

  Before they’d left Tobernalt, she’d shared the cheese and scones in her saddlebag, and he’d split his chunk of currant bread in half. While they’d eaten, he’d spotted the pearl ring on her right hand. He’d carried her bicycle from the woods thinking how she’d surely look down on him once she knew more about him.

  She’d peeked inside the wagon when he opened the rear doors. “What’ve you got in there, Tom?”

  “Tea.” He’d helped her to the wagon seat. The touch of her fingers thrilled him, and though he knew right well she didn’t have to, she leaned on him when she mounted the step. “I travel the counties selling tea.”

  “Is that where you’re coming from now? A sales jaunt?”

  “In Donegal and Tyrone, yes.” He’d settled beside her and tugged the reins. “Got as far as Strabane. There’s trouble up there. At the inn where I stayed, the landlady said I shouldn’t go out. Said the local lads were on the prowl for southerners.”

  The idea still amused him, but furrows had appeared on Dolly’s forehead. “My father’s spoken of such goings on in the north, but I’ve never heard of them firsthand. Still and all, you don’t look like the sort anyone would be stupid enough to take on.” Her cheeks turned crimson, as if she’d said something she shouldn’t.

  Tom had been delighted she’d said it at all and, thinking of it now, he sat taller on the seat. He guided the horse to the side of the road to let a northbound wagon pass. Once it did, he eased his hold on the reins and continued conversing with Dolly.

  She’d recently returned from England, where she’d attended nursing school. She’d lived with her brother Lanigan and his wife.

  “Lanigan’s a crackerjack carpenter, but he had to go to London to find work. My brother Maneen and sister Badie have emigrated to America. Mac is still in Tubbercurry. He’s a teacher, like my mother. Sissie was, too, but she died of consumption two years ago.”

  Tom recognized the grief in her voice. “I’m sorry. There’s a lot of that about.”

  “Too much. That’s one reason why I want to be a nurse. To help. I deliberately failed the teaching exam so I could go to nursing school.”

  Tom’s delighted laughter echoed over the bogs. “It’s grand that you could. My father took me out after sixth grade to work the farm and do odd jobs.”

  “That’s not uncommon. Most of my friends ended their schooling likewise. I’m lucky my parents let me go off at all, with twenty acres to manage. They were disappointed about the nursing. An unsuitable calling for a proper young lady, they said. Wanted me to stay home and teach, like Sissie and Mac. When Mac isn’t teaching, he helps my father about the farm. He’ll inherit the place some day.”

  “So will I, though it’s little I want it.”

  “I wondered about that, Tom. A Ballymote lad travelling all over Ireland. When you see other ways to live besides milking cows, it’s hard to go back to farming, isn’t it?”

  Tom tightened his hold on the reins. He didn’t want to talk about cows, not now. “Your brothers and sisters have odd names. Nicknames, are they?”

  “Yes. Jim is Lanigan, John is Maneen. Michael is Mac, and Annie’s called Badie. Kathleen was Sissie.”

  “Is Dolly a nickname as well?”

  “It is. They called me that because I was the youngest. My real name is Doreen.”

  Hearing the name from his dream stunned Tom, though he recovered quickly. This was Ireland after all. And a fellow got used to such odd occurrences.

  Awake or dreaming, he had no business befriending an educated young lady whose father held a good strong farm of twenty Irish acres. “The matchmakers will be hopping about like hungry hens over a girl as pretty as you.”

  Dolly blushed again. Her lips pressed into a thin straight line, and she shook her head. “Marriage would be the death of nursing for me. I’m thinking of emigrating. To Boston, like Maneen and Badie. That’s why I was at the well. Looking for guidance, for something to help me find my way.”

  The heart turned crosswise in Tom. He might convince her to stay, but how could he blame her for wanting to go? He wanted no part of a life here himself.

  Locking his gaze on her sparkling eyes, he released one hand from the reins and dared to squeeze her fingers. “Someone told me once, you must find your way by the light of your heart.”

  She squeezed back, an agreeable response indeed, and then she smiled again. “That’s lovely, Tom. You know, I feel we’ve met before. At a dance? Or in church, perhaps?”

  It seemed she’d forgotten her time with the fairies. Had it really happened at all? Tom’s other hand slipped into the pocket that in his dream had held the golden bean. He felt nothing but the hard seam in the cloth.

  A dream. It had all been a dream. “Somewhere like that, I suppose. I do get around.”

  Her heavy sigh seemed to unleash a new round of showers. She leaned back under the overhang. “There’ll never be any light in my heart if my parents have their way. Mac says they’re going to forbid me to be a nurse. They thought I’d get it out of my system in London, but just the opposite occurred. Studying at the hospital and seeing all those ill and dying folk only made me more determined to help them.”

  Suddenly jealous of every sick man in the world, Tom released her hand. She might hit him, but he couldn’t hold ba
ck. “I wouldn’t like to see you go so far away, Dolly Keenan. The light in my heart has grown brighter since I met you.”

  Nor could he keep from seizing her and sliding his lips over hers, gently at first, gauging, sensing, expecting an outraged shove. Instead, she kissed him back with a fervour that unlocked a secret door in his soul.

  Could he go with her to America?

  His cousin had gone to Boston and found work as a train conductor. An aunt named Mary, his father’s own sister, had gone to Boston too. She ran a boarding house and made good money, a lot more than Tom made selling tea. With all the skills he had, he could do anything.

  Could he leave Ireland and his family forever?

  For Dolly Keenan he could, and her eager kisses said she’d have him.

  “Good man yourself!” shouted a farmer leading a donkey laden with turf-filled panniers.

  Tom backed breathlessly away from Dolly. He licked his lips, savouring the taste of her, entranced by the same perfume he’d smelled in her hair behind the silver oak tree. Dolly in turn looked away to the west, touching her smiling lips as if she couldn’t believe he’d kissed her.

  Tom picked up the reins and tried to focus on the road. He’d sinned with a girl or two around Ireland, but he sensed no sin here. He loved Dolly, and she loved him, he knew it.

  Maybe they wouldn’t have to leave. He’d speak to his father, have him send the matchmaker to Mr Keenan, convince the man that Tom O’Byrne could support his daughter well with his tea sales and roof thatching and all his odd jobs.

  Still, she’d have to do for his father and brother, mind the chickens, gather the eggs, churn the butter and mend the clothes. Tom would work hard to bring in more gold, enough to hire a local girl to help her.

  Maybe her nursing could bring in some extra gold. Sligo had the fever hospital. She could work there, if tending potatoes and cabbage left her any time.

  No, he thought. The farm would kill them both. They had to get away.

  Yet he couldn’t speak the words that would change their lives forever, and perhaps not for the best. They rode on in silence until they reached the crossroads. No silver tree here, no crystal lark.