Sarah’s horse dropped from a canter into a trot, forcing her to sit up straight in the saddle. She put a hand on his neck.
“Whoa, Dan. What is it, boy?”
With the wind no longer whistling in her ears, Sarah could hear the steady clip-clop of Dan’s hooves in the still night. She heard the fear in her own voice when she spoke to him. Her voice sounded foreign and unnatural out here in the quiet countryside as if she was an intruder on the natural world’s order.
Dan quivered and slowed to a walk, pulling his head around like he wanted to return the way they’d come.
“Oh no, you don’t,” Sarah said, twisting one side of the reins hard into her waist to prevent him from turning. “What’s the matter with you?” She pulled him into a halt and closed her legs around him, refusing to let him move forward.
And listened.
The woods flanked her on both sides. A half a mile furhter, the east side would give way to a ruined pasture until she came upon the rectory. But here the road was closed on both sides by woods. She patted the horse’s neck again.
What was spooking him?
She looked into the woods—impermeable, black, inhospitable. No noise came from within. Only the sound of Dan’s nervous snorting and the jangle of his bridle as he tossed his head disturbed the quiet. She squeezed his sides with her calves.
“Walk on,” she said firmly. They moved on the road through the tunnel of trees, Dan’s neck twitching as if bugs were being dropped on him. If she forced him into a canter, he’d try to turn around. Sarah’s riding skills were adequate but she doubted she could stop him or turn him if he really got going.
Forcing down her impatience and hoping she wasn’t transmitting her anxiety to him, she shortened up the reins and moved him forward, step by step. And step by step, his agitation ratcheted up.
Surely, he’ll calm down once we’re away from the woods?
Suddenly, he shied violently, jerking the reins out of her hands and swiveling sharply. Sarah felt herself falling and grappled desperately for the saddle, a stirrup, anything as she was heaved out of the saddle. She hit the ground with a bone-crunching thud as her horse leapt over her and thundered down the road back toward the compound.
Her wind was stuck in her chest with the world swirling around her. She tried to take a breath but the searing pain reverberated throughout her whole body. She could hear the sound of Dan’s hooves pounding away in the distance until the complete quiet of the night returned again. She sat up shakily, touching her knee to find it was already hot and swelling inside her pants leg.
The wind curled around her as she sat in the road and flipped her collar up against her face.
What had spooked him?
She climbed to her knees and then her feet. Her hip was throbbing in pain but she could breathe again. She’d lost everything when Dan ran off. Her food, the gun. All she had were bruises and a pocketful of useless bullets.
She looked down the road. The rectory couldn’t be far now. Less than a mile. She glanced into the dark recesses of the bordering woods and looked quickly away. Focus on the rectory. Just get there. She moved down the road, limping badly because of her swollen knee. She touched her abdomen. Whoever was in there was safe at least. Another hundred yards and she’d be free of the woods. She’d be out in the open. Sarah concentrated on those last hundred yards and tried to block out all other thoughts—John, Gavin, Mike and even poor Dan, racing at neck-breaking speed into the dark with demons on his tail.
An involuntary gasp of relief escaped her as she stepped away from the woods and into the open and saw for the first time what had terrified her horse.
There, straight ahead of her, the whole horizon burned a bright and glowing scarlet.
A vermillion fiery blaze was engulfing the rectory and the village church.
CHAPTER TWELVE
She found him standing at the edge of the ancient churchyard, his hands hanging loosely by his side, his stunned face staring at the blaze as it destroyed his home and church. Although his dog Daisy loped over to Sarah as she approached, Father Ryan remained fixated on the horror before him.
“Father?”
The priest whirled around so fast that he staggered backward and nearly fell down.
“Sarah,” he said. “How is it that you’re here?”
“Jamie, what’s happened? Who did this?”
He looked at her as if he would speak and then just threw his hands up. The conflagration crackled loudly and they both turned to see the roof of the little one room rectory buckle in and break, throwing sparks and cinders in all directions. Sarah took an involuntary step back even though they were well away. The heat from the inferno took the sting out of the winter wind. Sarah had the mad sensation flit through her mind that if this had been a bonfire celebrating a good harvest, it might all be very pleasant.
The two stood numbly and watched the fire consume his home and church.
It wasn’t possible to get help and even if they could, to what end? There was no fire engine nearby. Even New Dublin had only a modest supply of water on hand—enough to douse a cottage porch when a kettle tipped over, but not for anything like this.
“I am so sorry,” Sarah said. “But I need to ask you if you’ve seen John tonight.”
“Everything is falling apart,” Father Ryan whispered, staring into the fire and shaking his head.
“Jamie,” Sarah said firmly. “Have you seen John?”
The priest turned to her. His face was streaked with smoke, his eyes red-rimmed.
“Your lad, John?” He shook his head. “No. Is he gone then?”
Sarah felt the disappointment slice into her like razor blades. She hadn’t realized how much she’d counted on John having come here. She turned away, her knee forcing her to walk carefully.
“I have to go,” she said.
“Go? Where?” He stood facing her now with his back to the fire. He looked like something superimposed over a CGI-generated movie clip and Sarah fought the irrational urge to laugh.
“Did you come on foot? Are you alone?” He turned to look behind her.
“You should go to the compound,” she said. “Go to New Dublin.” It occurred to her that if he did, he would probably tell Mike where she was.
“Come with me, Sarah,” Ryan said, his hand on his dog’s head. “Let’s go back together. You’re hurt. You can lean on me.”
“I can’t,” Sarah said, turning and hobbling away. “I’m sorry.”
She heard him call after her but he didn’t try to stop her. That was good. She only had enough energy for the job directly in front of her.
Find my boy.
*****
Fiona jostled the baby on her hip while she attempted to assemble a sandwich for Declan. The man had been running everywhere in the compound all morning long without stopping to eat. Fiona knew if he’d still be living with his relatives in the gypsy settlement, the women would force him to take nourishment. Most gypsy families were matriarchs and Declan’s was no exception.
Declan’s family had always been friendly with Fiona and at the same time had always made her feel like she didn’t belong.
“Is that for me?” Declan said as he strode into the room.
“It will be in a minute.”
“I don’t have time to wait.” He wrenched open the refrigerator and stood staring into its interior. Fiona wanted to tell him to hurry up or close the door. The coolness from the open door seeped into the room, reminding her of the extravagance of it.
“It’s almost ready,” she said tersely, shifting Ciara to her other hip.
“I’m surprised you have the bairn today,” Declan said. “Couldn’t find anyone to take her off your hands then?”
Fiona looked at him and her mouth dropped open. “What did you say?”
He shut the refrigerator and moved into the living room toward the front door. “Nothing,” he said.
She ran after him, the unwrapped sandwich in her hand.
&n
bsp; “Are you seriously giving me shite about having people watch Ciara?”
“Blimey, you even remember her name. Good on ye, Fi. Mother of the year.”
It took every ounce of her self restraint not to heave the sandwich at his head.
“I am doing necessary work in the compound that contributes to the—”
He cut her off with an impatient hand motion.
“Oh, aye, being the camp heroine a year ago is a far cry from folding nappies, I can see that.”
“How can you see with your fecking head so far up your arse?” Fiona screamed. Ciara puckered up and began to cry.
“Ye can lie to everybody else, Fi,” Declan said heatedly, his eyes on the little’s girl face, “but I see ye for how ye really are. Ye detest being a mother and use every opportunity to be shed of her. I hate saying it but I hate seeing it worse.”
“Are you so fecking blind you don’t realize I’m doing that for you?” she bellowed at him.
“For me, ye daft bitch? How is that?”
“Yes, for you! I hand her off because I can see how being with her makes ye a bloody basket case. And I’m not the only one who sees it!”
Declan brought his face close to Fiona’s, his eyes flashing dark and unreadable and for a moment Fiona thought she didn’t know him, not at all not a bit and maybe she never had.
The door burst open and one of Declan’s cousins stood there, out of breath and frantic.
“Dec, man,” he said. “You’re needed. Come quick.”
Fiona patted Ciara’s back and broke eye contact with Declan to look over at his cousin. But Declan didn’t move.
“What is it, Roddy?” he asked, his face flushed and intractable.
“One of the village women,” Roddy said. “Says her lass has been taken.”
*****
The morning was a blur of activity and noise. At one point, Mike thought he might run to the cottage for a moment to see Sarah—or perhaps she might seek him out—but the morning turned into a series of crises with no time to think about anything.
And for that Mike was grateful.
The new people from the village milled about, wringing their hands in agitation. The fear poured off them like a palpable thing. It squeezed into the bricks and boards of the compound, coating all the inhabitants and infecting the very air they breathed. Not willing to take the time to splash water on his face or change clothes, Mike went at once to the mill site.
It was ruined. The dam was breached and the stream once more flowed freely. Mike stood looking at the mess and then turned to the tall gypsy named Benjy whom Declan had sent in his stead.
“Why didn’t we see this happen on video?” Mike said.
“Dunno,” Benjy said. “Declan said the lad Tommy was having trouble with his gear.”
The wooden framework of the mill house had been pulled down and the rocks and stones of the dam scattered into the water.
This kind of destruction would have made noise. Had no one truly heard anything?
“I want a guard posted back here,” Mike said.
“What’s the point?” Benjy said.
“The point is it’s what I want,” Mike said tersely. “See it’s done.” He threw down the rock he’d held in his hand and watched it splash into the swiftly moving stream.
Cormac and his crew needed to be stopped. If Mike hadn’t been so focused on going after Gavin, he’d have put together a group to track down the so-called druids for their involvement in Mickey’s death. The bastards had threatened the compound, killed one of its members, and had now sabotaged the mill. It was past time to deal with them.
With or without Declan’s help.
As Mike stomped back to the compound, he saw a figure coming toward him at a jog. He recognized his sister and the hairs on the back of his neck rose to see her running. She carried Ciara.
“Mike! Come quick!” she shouted to him. The baby began to cry at the sound of Fiona’s panicked voice.
Mike was shocked to see Fi’s appearance. Her face was wan and thin and dark circles under her eyes pointed to sleepless nights.
What the bloody hell now?
“A woman’s just come from the village,” Fiona said, gasping. “She says her lass has been taken.”
“Taken, how?” Mike said. He rubbed his face with a hand as if to erase the exhaustion and anxiety clenched in his features.
“Snatched,” Fiona said. Her voice was wobbly with threatened tears and hysteria. “The child is but seven years old. Hurry, Mike! Dec’s putting together a search group. We need you.”
What was happening? Was the whole world going mad? What the hell was happening?
*****
Sarah walked until the morning and edged into early afternoon. She skirted Ballinagh and stopped—nearly ten miles from the compound now and at least five from the rectory—to try to form a plan.
It was true nobody knew why Gavin left—or with whom if what Regan said was true. We don’t know if he left willingly or was taken. We don’t know if he’s hiding from us or dead and hidden for good in the ground.
Sarah wiped the perspiration from her top lip. It was still cold and she couldn’t explain why she was perspiring. She leaned against a tree on the side of a road that no longer saw traffic of any kind, not horses or automobiles. It was a road that lead to nowhere in the new world. It wasn’t as direct as horseback across pastures and so it was an expenditure of time and energy that nobody had the leisure for.
John would be trying to think like Gavin. He’d use their private places in the woods—none of which Sarah knew about—as places to look. That meant John would stay in the area until he had some clue as to which direction Gavin went. This sounded sensible to Sarah and she regretted that she and Mike hadn’t taken the time to think it out.
She couldn’t blame Mike. God knows she knew how he felt. A terror this big can only begin to be assuaged by action.
Even if it’s hopeless, useless or ultimately pernicious.
She forced herself to stand up and tested her bad knee for strength. It wasn’t getting any better but it didn’t feel any worse at least. She looked down the deserted road and then turned and looked into the long thicket of trees that would evolve into a full-blown forest. Sarah had reason to fear the woods. Not for the the fairies and goblins the villagers thought lived there. She had spent three months lost in the Welsh wilderness two years ago and had seen things and endured things that still haunted her dreams.
But John wouldn’t be looking for Gavin on the road. That much was true. And that’s where Mike had been wrong.
Both lads would go to the woods, whether hiding or running—or searching.
She took a long steadying breath and walked to the verge of the woods. It was instantly colder in the shadow of the naked branches. She forced herself to walk inside.
There were hundreds of miles of woods in this part of Ireland.
And Sarah would search every inch of every one of them until she found him.
Or died trying.
*****
It was just after midday by the time Mike and Declan stood in front of a line of five men.
“Those with horses,” Declan said, “keep to the main roads. Everyone else on foot will comb the woods between here and Ballinagh. Any questions?”
The men shook their heads and dispersed. Mike could hear the sobs of the mother. She was a girl not much older than young Regan. Her face was streaked with tears. She was wearing an oversized jumper in an outlandish purple color. She gnawed a knuckle and her eyes were wide with terror.
Fiona had an arm around her. Siobhan, holding Ciara, stood next to Margaret who was trying to talk to the girl.
“Oy!” Mike said as he walked up to the group. “We’ll find her, lass. I promise.” Instead of seeming comforted, the girl began sobbing. Margaret patted her back and spoke soothingly to her.
“Fi?” Mike said, gesturing to his sister. “Have you seen Sarah?”
“No, but it’s been mad
crazy all day. You look like shite. Have you eaten?”
“I’ll grab something at home. Did I see Father Ryan’s here?”
“Aye, he came in an hour ago. The bastards burned the rectory.”
“Bugger me. Did he see them?”
“He said the druids did it. He’s staying with the Murdochs.”
“I’ll go talk to him later. Meanwhile, find Sarah for me, will you?”
“I haven’t seen John now you mention it.”
The moment the words were out of her mouth, Mike felt his world begin to slow down. He grabbed her arm and pulled her to him.
“When?” he asked, the word coming out in a harsh exhalation. “When did you last see John?”
Fiona’s eyes widened. “Jaysus, Mike, you don’t think he’s gone after Gavin?”
He released her and turned on his heel, shouting over his shoulder: “See if anyone’s seen him today. If the wee eejit’s gone after Gavin…”
“…then that’s where Sarah’s gone,” Fiona finished grimly.
Mike pushed past the men saddling up for the search for the little girl, plunged into the interior of the dark stable and ran down the line of stalls until he came to the last one.
The stall was empty, the half stable door hanging open.
Sarah’s horse was gone.
*****
In many ways, the woods looked like something out of an Irish fairytale. Although no longer green and lush this late into November, there was a magical, storybook feel to the land. Sarah hadn’t gone into the woods in recent years. In warm weather, the children picked berries and teenagers stole kisses beneath the dark arbors. But now the woods were uninviting with skeletal branches grasping skyward and the only living thing she saw was a squirrel running across dry leaves to break the morbid silence.
Maybe she was insane. No doubt any logically observant bystander would think so to wander lost and hurt in a winter woods. But it helped. Every step and every turn around every bush or hedge promised the image of her boy kneeling by a creek filling his canteen or sleeping on a bed of winter heather.
Irish End Games, Books 4-5-6 Page 12
