Storm Maker

by Erin O'Quinn

  Torin spoke a while with his brother, and Liam answered, his eyes flashing dangerously.

  “Liam says he is glad ye have not yet taken the devil Sweeney, for his own shillelagh will draw first blood.”

  “Have you asked Liam whether his captors talked about their destination?”

  “Aye, Caylith. He has already told me they forced him to swallow a strange grog, and he saw and heard nothing but pain.”

  I called out to Jay. He left the group of Glaed Keepers he had been standing with and walked up to me, his unwavering gaze on my face. “Please call the birds now, my friend. I do not want to get too far from Sweeney’s holdings until we know where he may be. This time, I want to know about men, not buildings. They must look for men—two or more—carrying another man in some sort of contraption, if you can make them understand an invalid’s chair. Or perhaps even a pair of horses drawing a small wheeled carry-cart.

  “If they find such men, have them look around the area for buildings of any kind. If there is water nearby, tell them to look for boats. Oh, Jay—all this sounds far too complicated to convey. Just do your best.”

  He gazed at me with his ageless eyes and smiled. “Worry not, Caylith. We will find them. Let us rest here while I talk to my kin, and until they return to me.”

  “One more thing, Jay. I feel strongly that we were not too far away from Sweeney. It is precisely the kind of place he would make his hideaway. Tell the birds to put their sharpest eyes near the bay. If they see no men, tell them to seek one or two, or even more boats.”

  He turned from me then, and I watched him walk into a clearing in our copse of fragrant laurel and fir trees. I looked at Liam, and then at Torin. “I would sit awhile while we wait for Jay to complete his unique spy work. You may join me if you wish.”

  I found a comfortable seat on the pine-scented ground, and soon Liam was next to me. I was glad to see that his brother had stood back. He put his arm around me and drew me close against himself. He fingered the bushy tail that concealed my breasts.“Deas. Pretty.” His fingers grazed my swelling skin as he touched the fur. Then he lowered his mouth onto mine, still touching my skin under the soft-haired foxtail. “An-deas.” Very pretty. His tongue began to tell my lips all about his desire, prying them open, and I let it slip inside.

  “A mo chroí,” I said into his mouth, and he answered, “Mmm, mo mhúirnín, darling.” We talked that way for long moments before I drew back, breathless. “We wait,” I said.

  His mouth twitched, and then an ironic smile broke through. “No, Cat. We kiss.” His mouth seized mine again, trying to make up for all the time we had been apart.

  “Oh,” I said. “Oh!”I had been waiting for this moment, no matter how much I protested, and Liam knew it. We lay together in the shadow of a very old pine, inhaling the fragrance of its needles, telling each other with our hungry mouths what lay in store on our wedding night.

  Chapter 26:

  On Trawbreaga Bay

  Jay was sitting in the clearing of firs and laurels while around fifty birds, large and small, walked and fluttered and flew in circles around him. They had returned at last from their aerial inspection of the area around the bay and were telling him everything they had seen.

  Torin had joined Liam and me while we waited for Jay to finish. Torin said, “Caylith, if I had not already seen Jay with his birds, I would never believe what is happening now.” He began to talk to Liam, and I knew he was telling his brother about what we had seen and heard at Tara, how the birds had found the rescue party, and how the raven and magpie had magically transported us to the shores of the Lough Foyle.

  Liam spoke to me at last, through Torin. “I knew ye were a goddess, Caitlín. But I knew not your friend was so magical.” I felt myself flushing at his reference to the Macha episode. Torin must have told him about that as they were talking together earlier today.

  I indicated my red-fox tunic and said, “I still plan to speak to Sweeney as Macha. He needs to have the raven and me curse him soundly. Unless he is made of stone, he will quail at our dire pronouncements.”

  Liam and Torin both laughed as though they believed I was jesting. But I had set my resolve on the matter. Sweeney would pay for what he had done to Liam, and indeed to my dear Mama.

  I decided to change the subject. “Torin, how did Liam react when he saw you for the first time today?”

  “Well, he was just a-lying there, Caylith, with his eyes looking to the sky. An’ then I simply said, ‘Ye flea-infested wolfhound, I come all this way and ye ignore me.’”

  I smiled and looked at Liam, who was following his brother’s words with great interest, as though he understood everything. Torin said a few words to him in Gaelic and he nodded, his eyes flashing.

  “Well, then, he tried to jump up, all befuddled, and he fell back and cursed me. ‘May ye walk in sheep plops,’ I seem to recall. An’ that is how we greeted each other, the clans O’Neill being very tenderhearted.”

  By this time I was laughing out loud, and Liam was glaring at his brother with mock severity. “Póg mo thoin,” he said. “Ye may kiss me arse.”

  My armsmen joined us then, and Liam’s cousins followed them. We all sat or squatted silently, waiting for Jay to finish listening to the avian discourse. The Glaed Keepers sat in a circle around Jay as though they understood every screech and squawk.

  At last the birds all seemed to rise at once, seeking the branches overhead or the blue expanse of sky. Jay rose from his cross-legged position and walked to us. “Normally,” he said, “I would seek a high bench and a cup of barley ere before I told a tale. But today I will make it brief and informative.” He stood silently.

  I prompted him. “And the birds have told you that—”

  “That Sweeney is only fifty wing beats from his holdings. That he has legs made of tall sticks. That his tall legs carry him through the sea itself. And a bit more besides, but not too much.”

  Michael squatted next to his cousin Liam and translated as Jay spoke.

  “Sit down, Jay. Start from the beginning,” I said.

  He sat. “Mind you, my friends, I have had to piece all this together from the accounts of many observers. Some denied their fellows’ very eyesight, and others reviled even their friends for not seeing enough, or for seeing what was not there. Coming from a very large family, I am rather skilled at reading the truth, the weft between the many strands of a woven tale.”

  We all sat in silence, waiting for Jay to compose his words.

  “Sweeney is no more than a mile from his holdings. His feet are the paddles of two rowers. The standing men—the rowers—are guiding a small currach along the shoreline of the bay that the people here call ‘Trawbreaga.’ Two men on horseback are riding in that direction along an inland route, away from the rocky strand of the bay. Between the horses, attached to them somehow, is a small cart with big wheels, and it is empty. There are no other boats. There are no other men.”

  “Did you ask them about other buildings in the area?” Gristle asked.

  “There are no buildings. Only the holdings that we have already seen. Much farther north lie the holdings of the herders of sheep, ones that have been there for many of their generations.”

  I rocked back on my heels. “So it is simple, and yet complex. Sweeney has no large group of followers, and yet he is protected. He sits not in an invalid’s chair, and yet he easily moves. He knows his quarry has fled, and yet he waits, perhaps to capture it anew.”

  “Well put, my friend,” said Jay. “That is the flavor of the tale I have heard this day.”

  I looked at Gristle. “What think you, O armsman?”

  “I think I have been beaten soundly once today, and I am loath to be thrashed twice. My first impulse, Lady, is to pursue Sweeney immediately. But now that I have been made to look the fool, I wonder—is that what he wants me to do? Am I playing a chess game with a master player?”

  I shook my head. “He is not such a master, Gristle, if he has already lo
st his hostage—his bargaining power—and the protection of his very house. To me, he seems vulnerable. Standing in a corner with no escape. He has his back to the sea and his face to the rocks. And I am ready to loose my army on him now. No waiting overnight to think about it, but now.” The longer I spoke, the angrier I felt.

  Glaed spoke then, looking from me to Gristle. “Let us say, as Gristle suspects, that Sweeney is inviting us to chase him up the bay as he escapes in his flexible little currach. How long can three men hold out in a small vessel with limited space to store water and food? I am sorry, Gristle, but I must disagree with you. I think he may believe that we have left with our prize—that we have given up the chase in favor of riding back home. I think he is waiting until he feels it is safe to skulk back to his homestead.”

  Jay spoke up then. “Or until the great ravenous brute feels that it is suppertime.”

  “Glaed, you make sense,” said Gristle slowly. “I am the last man to cower in the rear of a battle. It is true that the more quickly we pursue Sweeney the greater advantage we will have. And it may be true that he thinks we have gone back to Derry.”

  “So then let us formulate a plan, my friends,” I said, looking into the eyes of everyone gathered around. “Liam, Torin. Michael and Ryan. What think you? Jay Feather? The sooner we plan, the more quickly we may seize a murderer.”

  It took half an hour of animated debate, but at last we were all agreed.

  We would continue on foot, moving quickly as we had this morning. It would take an hour or so to return to Sweeney’s holdings. We would inspect the entire homestead and see if he had left any inadvertent clues. We would make sure Talon and Claw kept us aware of where Sweeney’s currach was, and we would pursue him up the shore of the bay if indeed he seemed to be fleeing.

  We decided to light no fires at night, for we all agreed that Sweeney must think we had given up the pursuit. Therefore, if we lit a fire and dowsed it before nightfall, we could cook and eat near his holdings and carry extra provisions with us—if the birds told us Sweeney was far enough away. Otherwise we would silently and quickly pursue him and eat what we could find as we moved.

  I thought about the men on horseback. “Perhaps the riders are following Sweeney to a designated meeting point—a place where horses may easily travel. And when they meet, Sweeney will have his land legs, so to speak.”

  I got to my feet and looked around at my grim army. “One thing is certain, my friends,” I said. “We will pursue, and we will overtake the coward Sweeney. If we can take him unawares, all the better. Otherwise, we will openly confront him and challenge him and destroy him. He must never endanger our loved ones ever again.”

  A ragged cheer went up from my friends, and I stood, flushed, no doubt looking somewhat like Macha herself at that moment.

  “Time to leave,” came Gristle’s acid tone.

  * * * *

  We took less than quarter of an hour to gather whatever berries and nuts we could find.

  I heard Glaed next to me grumble to Jay Feather, “The cries of a hungry belly may wake the enemy.” It would take a fair number of berries, I thought, to assuage the hunger of the mighty Glaedwine, and I suppressed a laugh as we foraged.

  Then we were after our quarry, moving swiftly. When we emerged from the last bit of cover, we did not bother to move close to the ground as we had before, since our enemy’s eyes were far away by now, somewhere on the bay they called Trawbreaga.

  We approached Sweeney’s holdings with caution in case he had left men in hiding. That did not seem likely, but Gristle, still in a sour mood, did not want to find out by taking an arrow.

  I walked with Liam and Glaed to the rear of the rude little house—the side not visible from the bluff where we had been watching—and inspected the area all around. I could see no signs of a tunnel. “Milady, the man must harbor some magic in his black soul. For there is no way he could have left here under our very eyes.”

  “Impossible,” I muttered. Glaed spoke briefly to Liam, who squatted and inspected the ground all around the teach. At last he rose, shaking his head.

  Then I heard a familiar, almost-smug voice at my elbow. “The portal is crude. The tunnel is no doubt makeshift. But it worked well enough.” Jay walked straight to a spot along the clay wall and knelt. Within moments, a sizable hole appeared in the rocky ground.

  “I am sure if we followed it, we would find where his currach waited,” said Glaed, “and his scurvy men, too.”

  I knelt by the portal and began to enter, headfirst, as Jay had taught me, but Liam’s quick touch told me that he wanted to enter first. I stood and watched his body disappear through the hole. Now that my soon-to-be husband was at my side, I told myself sternly that I needed to make room for a partner. I had been getting by for years on my own impulsive sense of adventure. Now I needed to accept Liam’s judgment sometimes. I needed to allow him to follow his sense of rightness, even if I might disagree at times.

  In a few minutes, Liam walked from the front of the teach. He had simply crawled inside the house and unlatched the door. Glaed and I walked in.

  I took it all in quickly. The little structure was far smaller than the one where Liam and I lived. There was a raised bed the same height as his invalid’s chair, covered with matted rushes. I saw a low table holding several candles, a shallow basin, and a metal cup. There was no bench and no clothes chest. A rude fire pit contained a few remnants of charred, cold driftwood, and a pile of similar wood was piled near the pit. On the metal grate were a tinderbox, a metal trencher, and a small, dented cauldron. A foul-smelling, shallow container stood near the door—no doubt his answer to sanitation.

  Everything inside was very low to the floor. The fire pit, the table—even the door latch, no more than three feet from the floor, told an observer that this was the home of a man confined to an invalid’s chair. I saw that the floors were smooth wooden planks as in his former brugh, but there were no well-worn grooves that would indicate he had lived here for a long time.

  I squatted near the tunnel and asked Liam, “How big is it?”

  Glaed told him my question and then translated his answer, “Big enough for no more than one person.”

  Glaed added, “But big enough for one man with massive arms and a great chest to drag himself into in case of an emergency.”

  Just then, Jay’s head popped through the opening. He clambered out and looked around, his face withdrawn and almost sorrowful. He said quietly, “The mighty Sweeney has fallen to places very low indeed. For an entire year, he would have festered and rankled in this hole he calls a home. I can almost feel his desperate hatred.” He turned and walked hurriedly into the fresh air, and we followed him.

  As soon as we walked out, Gristle, Michael and Ryan joined us. “The barracks held no more than six or eight at any time, I think,” said Gristle.

  I counted them out loud. “The two who were riding with Liam…the one who even now is bearing a message to King Leary. The two rowers, and the two riders who bear his invalid’s chariot.”

  “There may yet be another sentry or two posted nearby,” said Torin, who had walked from the small stone heap. “I think we need to send some of your Keepers around the area to look for any sign of them.”

  Gristle nodded. “You are right. Glaed, please send out a dozen of your best trackers, and tell them to join us—there.” He pointed to a landmark some quarter-mile away, flanking the bay, a long, low rise with a few oak trees silhouetted against the sky. “That is where we will light our fire this afternoon, and cook our meal.”

  “What did the stone structure tell you?” I asked Torin.

  “That it could as well be a grave as a prison,” he said, his jaw set in a grim line. “I think that if me brother had died, they would have kicked stones onto his corpse and let him rot.”

  “Then it was meant not to imprison him, but to conceal him,” I said.

  “Yes, lass. Or, as I have said, to bury him.”

  I felt my own fingern
ails biting into my skin, and when I unclenched my fist, bright red crescents of blood stood out on my palm. “I can smell the evil. Let us leave this awful place,” I said to Liam. He nodded, understanding, and we strode quickly toward the low rise, our companions moving with swift purpose all around us.

  * * * *

  Later, Liam and I sat with his kinsmen under a spreading oak. The rise was clustered with stands of hazel trees—more bushes than trees, for they spread several feet, their wicked thorns protecting bright red fruits. If not for the oaks, I thought, the entire hill would be impassable, the hazels growing rankly where the shade-giving oaks did not impede their quick growth.

  We sat eating the tart hawthorn berries. I enjoyed the tanginess of them, almost as much as the rowan fruit, though I knew that eating too many would give me stomach cramps later. I stopped eating and instead drank cool water from Ryan’s wineskin.

  I teased him. “What? No dark beer, lad? Ye will smirch your reputation.”

  I tipped a bit of water into my palm and let it dry, then inspected the redness and swelling left by my own fingernails. Liam immediately seized my hand. Looking at the marks and realizing their source, he pointed to the pouch on my belt. I shook my head. “No. No, a mo chroí. No healing powder today. I would keep these scars.”

  Michael told his cousin what I said.

  “Caitlín, healer. Ye must heal yourself.”

  “No. The scars will remind me always of the pain of losing you, even for a few days.”

  I did not often see Liam’s eyes full of sorrow, but at that moment he looked as though he could bow his head and weep. Still holding my hand, he brought the palm up to his mouth and kissed the swollen skin.

  We sat in silence while a group of Glaed Keepers expertly built a fire somewhat down the slope, concealed by a large boulder. Gristle had told us that this would probably be our last fire for a while, unless it were lit in bright daylight.