Storm Maker

by Erin O'Quinn

  He silently took the pouch, and I signaled for the attendant Keepers to stop the horses. Our entire party stopped then, while Liam approached his sworn enemy.

  He walked to the wheeled cart and stood looking down on our trussed-up prisoner. The disheveled Sweeney slowly raised his head and glared at Liam, then spat at him. Liam did not even look at the spittle running down the leg of his breeches. He knelt and began to untie the ropes holding him to the invalid’s chair.

  Sweeney’s arms and hands were indeed bleeding where the harsh tarred ropes had bit into his flesh. I quietly drew the dried headband from my belt and squeezed water onto it from my wineskin and passed it to Ryan. He stepped up to Liam and handed him the soaked cloth.

  Liam began to wash Sweeney’s wounds, slowly and carefully. Then he drew forth the pouch and poured healing powder where the wounds were deepest. All the time he was ministering to Sweeney, the brute jeered and taunted him. “You lumpkin—you addle-pated fool. I want not your gentle care. I would rather you keep grinding me under the wheels of my mobile throne. If I had a knife, you would be repaid in stab wounds. Leave me alone.”

  Sweeney did not know that Liam understood not a word of his tirade—though I knew he was smarting from the ferocity of Sweeney’s rantings. When he had applied enough powder, he tied Sweeney back into his chair, avoiding the places where the wounds were still fresh. I saw that the brute was well fastened to his own chair, but he was no longer in pain. Indeed, the rope cuts and burns had begun to disappear completely.

  Liam signaled for the horses to move again, and he walked back to me. He handed me first the pouch, then the soiled cloth, and I saw that his face bore a radiant smile. I stood on tiptoe and brought my lips to his. I kissed him as though for the first time, sweetly, searchingly, trying to understand this half-wild young man.

  He murmured into my mouth, “A Cháit, we…home soon.”

  * * * *

  Late that afternoon, we reached the place I had dubbed Seven Lakes, Seacht Lachanna, haven for our waiting horses.

  The Glaed Keepers who had found themselves an inglorious rear guard emerged from the trees at the first sound of our approach. Glaed greeted them in their common language and reported back to me. “They are holding the two men who had seized Liam. They ask what shall be their treatment?”

  After Liam had been retaken from the two riders, I knew that a few of the Saxon mercenaries had borne them away, and I had not inquired of their whereabouts. Now I felt a bit guilty about my attitude, seeing how Liam was bent on mercy.

  “Have they eaten enough food?” I asked. “And have they bathed recently?”

  “Aye, lass,” said Glaed. “They are well cared for, in spite of the pain they inflicted on our friend.”

  I knew they had merely followed Sweeney’s cruel directions, and yet I did not feel the same sense of clemency as Liam did. “Very good, Glaed. I think they need to join their fellows and be treated the same way until we return to Derry.”

  “And then, Milady?”

  “Then—I know not, Glaed. Liam’s cousin Ryan has promised to speak with them. I will stay my decision until I learn a bit more about them.”

  Supper was over, and I was lying on the banks of one of the small lakes, my head on Liam’s lap. Torin, Michael, and Ryan sat with us.

  “Ryan, have you had a chance to talk with the four prisoners?”

  “Aye, cailín, just a while ago as they walked merrily along, all in arm ornaments of rope and cable.”

  “And you have learned that—?” I prompted him

  “That they are clansmen all, and their name be O’Duhann. Their own families are part of the great Gallagher clans, in contention with those from Cenél Conall in the mountains and meadows to the west and south.”

  “Then why did they join with Sweeney?”

  “Better to ask the sun why it sets in the west, lass. In Éire, loyalties change as fortunes in cattle change. They are not of the same stock as Sweeney, and so being in alliance with him breaks no family blood ties.”

  “What did you think of them? I mean—their character? Their wit? Their abilities?”

  “I would drive me cattle next to them, an’ sure I would hide me coin pouch. But that is true of most of the drovers I meet.”

  I thought to myself that if their common ancestors were named Gallagher, I might find a connection between them and Brother Galen. I resolved to ask him when we returned to Derry.

  Liam spoke a few words, and his kin rose to their feet and soon became part of the lengthening shadows. My head still in his lap, I looked up at him and smiled a little, guessing what he had told them. I reached my hand up to his mouth and touched his lips. He seized my fingers with his teeth and began to lick and suck on them, and I kept my hand there, loving the pleasure it sent to all parts of my body.

  “Sing to me, a mo chroí,” I said. “Sing ‘The Blackbirds of Dun-Leary.’”

  And so he sang to me, all the while stroking my hair, my cheeks, my throat. And that is how I fell asleep that night in the little refuge I had named Seven Lakes, my head cushioned by my own foxtail that Liam still wore on his belt.

  Chapter 29:

  The Return

  We were a singing, rousing band of rescuers who rode into Derry one fine day in early October. Without the same searing urgency as we had felt on our journey north to the bay, our trip home had been one of road tales, campfire singing, and—for me—a chance to get better acquainted with my future family.

  Liam was learning more and more of my own language as he walked, or rode, according to his whim. He was learning from Torin, from Glaed, and from his cousins. My own faltering Gaelic never got too much better. I will learn, I resolved firmly. But it would be slowly, in a more intimate setting than a merry caravan.

  We had forded the dangerous Foyle at the Áth Doire, the only place we settlers had ever found where the river’s banks were low enough that horses could easily climb out of the swift waters. After we were all safely on the opposite shore and riding to the out-buildings of Derry, I spoke with Gristle and Glaed.

  “The Áth Daire is a gaping hole in our shield, gentlemen. That is no doubt where Sweeney’s men crossed into our bally. Any intruders from the west would choose that spot as an entry.”

  Gristle’s mouth was turned down in a frown of concentration. “You are correct. We should have been more vigilant. And we will be. After today, there will be a score of soldiers garrisoned here.”

  “Aye, Milady. I will see to it,” said Glaed.

  A sudden realization made me flush with shame. “I apologize, Gristle. I am no longer commander here. It was a statement born of habit.”

  “But I am still your armsman. You have every right to demand complete protection from me. Lady Caylith, I will not fail you again.”

  I sought his eyes and held them. “You have not once—not ever—failed me, O armsman. And I think you never will. Excuse me while I find my future husband and seek our teach.”

  Liam and I rode side by side to the lovely spot I had chosen to settle, where soon Michael would build us a large brugh. Our little saffron-tinted house glowed in the afternoon sun as we rode onto the grounds. We tethered NimbleFoot and Angus, and I saw right away that the hay haggard was full, and that the horses’ trough was filled with clean river water. I wondered which of our friends had so kindly taken care of Macha and Clíona, my darling mares, while we were away.

  “Liam,” I said after we had unsaddled and curried our weary horses, “let us see if Father Patrick has arrived.”

  “Pádraig…here?”

  I put the blanket, then the saddle on Macha’s back and cinched it tight. “Let us find out.”

  He saddled Clíona and we rode to the church, not once even entering our little teach. Our house could wait but our wedding plans could not.

  As soon as we reached the church, we tethered our horses under the familiar oak tree. I saw that twenty feet or so from the oak and close to the teach of Brother Jericho there stood a
handsome round-house, brilliant white, freshly thatched. A large shuttered window stood on each side of the heavy wooden door.

  “Look, Liam,” I said. “Pádraig’s house is finished.” I thought it more likely that Father Patrick would be in the church, for he always seemed to seek out people—or the other way around. We walked hand in hand to the church. I looked up at Liam, unable to hold back a wide smile, and he smiled back. We picked up our pace and reached the church door almost breathless.

  Entering first, I saw Father Patrick right away. He and Brother Galen were kneeling before the altar, their backs to us, and both men wore their prayer shawls. I motioned for Liam to join me, and we sat on one of the nearby benches waiting for him to complete his conversation with the Lord. While we sat waiting, I took Liam’s hand once more, and he covered my own hand with his. I was trembling a little, perhaps from the cold.

  At last Father Patrick stood and turned around. As soon as he saw me, his radiant blue eyes took on that powerful glow that had first drawn me to him. He smiled with his whole face and strode to where we sat. Liam and I stood, and then I knelt before Patrick and bowed my head.

  “Father Patrick. I am joyed to see you. Thank you for coming here.”

  He extended his hand to me, and I grasped it. “Rise, Caylith. I would perform your wedding if it were being held in far Cathay. An’ who be this handsome lad?” He had already slipped into his lilting cadence, a sure sign that he felt happy and at ease.

  “Father, this is Liam O’Neill. We would be husband and wife.”

  “Would ye now?” he asked. “Liam, Brother Galen tells me you are an apt student.” Then he spoke in Gaelic, and Liam answered him readily. Brother Galen joined their conversation while I stood watching Liam’s happy face and Father Patrick’s eyes.

  Father Patrick broke away while Liam and the monk continued to talk. I clearly remembered Galen’s shock and bitterness when he found that the clansman had disappeared. Now he stood thumping Liam’s back and talking to him with great animation.

  “Caylith,” said the priest. “Are ye sure of this marriage now? Ye love the clansman Liam?”

  “Yes, Father. I am very sure. I love him very much.”

  “Then what will ye say to the young man who waits for you in my teach? For some reason, he believes that you love him.”

  I was dumbfounded. “I-I do not understand.”

  “Truly not?” asked Father Patrick, and his eyes just then looked just like Jay Feather’s—ageless and very wise. “He tells me has come from our old land, a place called Deva Victrix.”

  “Kevan,” I said.

  “The very one. I think you are not quite ready for the serious bonds of marriage, young Caylith.” His tone had lost the carefree lilt, and his eyes bored into mine. “Not as long as the love-struck Kevan waits with aching heart. I think you need go talk to him before we set a wedding date.”

  “And what will you say to Liam while I am gone?”

  “I will say nothing, Caylith. You will speak to both your swains, and I will await your next visit.”

  I turned away, great gulping sobs filling my chest and throat. Liam heard me and ran to comfort me, his eyes wild with fear. “A Cháit,” he cried, his voice strangled.

  I somehow spilled it all out, and Galen tried his best to tell Liam what I was saying. “Liam, my-my former lover has come to Derry. No way—oh, he has no way to know that I have fallen in love with you, or that we are to be married. He is here. He stands in Pádraig’s house. Pádraig will not—he cannot—oh, Liam, he thinks I do not know who to marry.”

  Liam stood in utter shock. He looked at me with his eyes full of sudden tears, shaking his head. “Do you know, Caitlín?”

  “You-you know the answer. You know I love only you.”

  Liam was silent for a very long time, the altar candles casting uncertain fingers of shadow across his face. Finally Brother Galen said, “Caylith, I will try to give you his very words. Just give us a few minutes.”

  Liam and the monk talked in low tones for a minute or two. Then Liam turned and left, and Galen spoke. “This is what Liam would tell you.

  “You must tell your former lover how you feel. Tell him the truth. And then come to me and tell me the same truth. I once thought I would meet him on the field of combat. But now I know that your husband will be decided not by a shillelagh but by you. Only you.”

  I left the church, almost feeling my way, for my eyes were blinded by searing tears. Not knowing how I reached Patrick’s house, I leaned against the door, my legs almost unable to hold me. I was knocking and crying at the same time. In my whole life I had never felt so humiliated or so full of self-reproach.

  When the door opened I beheld the dazzling hair and impossibly handsome face of the fortress Commander Kevan. He took one quick look at me and said, “Come in quickly, Caylith, and I will close the door.”

  His voice was so tender and loving that I could not look at him. I stumbled to a bench, head down, and I continued to cry.

  At last I caught my breath, holding back the choking sobs. But still I could not look at him.

  Kevan knelt by the bench where I sat. “Be not sorrowful, darling girl. You cry as though you had lost a loved one. But think about it. I will love you always. And I think your new husband will love you always. So you have not lost anything at all.”

  At last I looked at Kevan. He knelt very stiffly, almost as if he were at attention. His eyes were riveted on mine, for he had always read them as easily as a scholar could read a scroll. His blue, Roman-style tunic mirrored his deeper blue eyes, and at that moment they were calm and sad. How could I have let these months fly past without sending word to Kevan? How could I have been so immature and cruel? I knew the answer. The exuberant, high-spirited clansman had chased out thoughts of any other man I had ever met.

  I simply had not thought about Kevan, or anyone else, and I was deeply shamed.

  “Kevan, I want you to know something important. When you and I were last together, I had not seen Liam for several months. I thought he was gone forever. Otherwise I would have told you about him. He is the first man I ever met in Éire, the second day I set foot on this island. We shared kisses, no more. And then he left me, a long time ago.”

  I bowed my head again, unable to control my emotions, and Kevan tentatively stroked my shoulder. “Please, please, little Cay. You did nothing wrong. You told me again and again that you were not ready to pledge a troth. I pressed you, I tried to seduce you, I did everything I could to win you.”

  “But–but you must wonder, Kevan—oh, Kevan, why do you think I am now ready, when I was not ready three months ago?”

  “I do not know, Caylith. You must tell me.”

  “It—just—happened. One day I woke up knowing that it was time to stop looking. I knew, somehow I knew, I had found what I had been looking for.”

  “Then that is the truth I shall leave you with. That is all I need to know. I love you, and I trust you, and now I can finally release myself from you.”

  I looked at him, not understanding.

  “As long as I thought I could win you, Caylith, I was prepared to wait forever. Literally forever. But now you release me from a thrall that would have been my prison the rest of my life. The prison of waiting is the most cruel of all cages.”

  “I want you to know, Kevan. I love you no less.” I tried to say more, but my voice would not let me speak.

  “I know, darling girl. Let us say farewell.”

  I stood, and Kevan put his arms around me very gently, hardly breathing. I stood next to him a moment, then I stepped back. “I am not willing to…test feelings…any further, Kevan.” I loved Kevan in an almost abstract way, but I knew he loved me much more tangibly. Even now, he would take me back. But I could love only Liam.

  “I hope with all my heart that you and I, and Shawn, too, will meet again. Perhaps even here, in my bally, where you can be close to your parents.”

  “I am still loath to abandon my post. But I
know I have a home if ever I leave. I am sure my brother Shawn feels the same. Farewell, Caylith.”

  “Kevan, dear Kevan, farewell.”

  I thought then that any more words would serve only to hurt—either Kevan or myself. When I left, I almost ran to the door and to the oak tree where Macha stood, tossing her luxuriant, red mane, ready to fly with the wind.

  I rode low on Macha’s back, straining forward, the wind biting and stinging my nose, my mouth, my eyes. We had ridden in this same fashion a few weeks back, in my frantic rush to find Liam. I knew without looking that Liam had not gone to our cold teach. I knew he would seek his kin, probably his brother, and I set Macha’s red mane for Ryan’s little house.

  Sure enough when I reined Macha in I saw Clíona tethered, unsaddled, outside the new teach. I jumped to the ground and ran to the door, knocking and calling. At once Ryan appeared in the doorway, but he did not stand aside.

  “Dia duit, a cailín. I am sorry lass, but could ye come back tomorrow? Liam is—does not feel so well right now. It were best to see him tomorrow.”

  “Ryan, I will stand here all night if I need to, until I can speak with Liam. Please.”

  He looked at my tear-streaked eyes and my face, all puffy and red from tears and wind burn. “Wait a moment then.” He shut the door again, a move that disarmed me completely. Only a few hours ago Ryan and his cousins and I had laughed, and talked, and embraced like family. And now Ryan was shutting me out, protecting Liam. It was as Brigid had told me once, the overpowering call of the blood.

  The cold wind had picked up, and I stood huddled against the door, thankful for Michael’s brat which I had still not returned to him. I had no idea what I would say to Liam except that I dearly loved him. I could not offer him excuses for my immature actions. I could only hope he would somehow understand.

  I was shaking from the cold when the door finally opened, and Liam stood before me. “Caitlín. Come…inside.”

  I entered the teach and looked around. Torin sat near the fire pit, and Ryan stood stirring the fire a bit, bidding the flames rise higher. Liam stood, still at the door, not moving. He looked at me with eyes as sad as I had ever seen them. “You…cold, Caitlín. Come.”