by Tom O'Neill
His thoughts were of Connie. Of Connie when he was well. Connie had never let his bother show. Not when he had watched six of his best cows taken away for being TB carriers. Not when the tractor had needed a new engine after Dark had rolled it into the river. Not when letters of demand arrived from the bank. With Jimmy Cliff at top volume in the Queen Mary, he would still stop at the arcade after collecting Dark from school – always determined to beat him at air hockey. And he would still give advice and reassurance to neighbours as freely as if he didn’t need any himself. In Connie’s company everything had always been alright. Even now, sick with extreme and unrelenting pain, he was still clenching his teeth. Connie didn’t give quarter. Courage and humour in adversity. The only time you needed it.
Dark didn’t believe he would ever find that in himself. He could only manage to take one scary step at a time. For now, the step he needed to get his mind focused on was hurrying Kevin along with the medical records.
He crossed the hedge out of the bog at the usual place, between the two large Scots pines. He headed across through the good grass. He was so used to travelling by night now that he needed to give no thought to his route.
He walked with his head down and when he got to the other hedge there was only the densest sceach in front of him. He was certain he had walked the usual way, dark though it was. It was only two hundred yards. He looked back and could see the silhouettes of the sentinel pines he had come through. He was sure he should have been at the spot where he usually only had to lift a piece of loose sheep wire to climb through to the field behind the house. He must have been addled.
He walked further along by the hedge looking for his gap. He walked till he got to the corner of the field, but the gap wasn’t in that direction. He headed back down the other way but the bushes seemed to him to be the same impenetrable thickness all along. ‘No worries,’ he said aloud. His voice was shaky. Rather than getting confused he would just go to the gate which was at the far end of that hedge. He walked there at a slightly faster pace, telling himself there was nothing wrong.
He got to the other end without meeting the gate. Maybe he’d somehow walked to the wrong side. He looked back for the Scots pines to give him bearings again. But he couldn’t see them. He started running. He ran all around the four sides of the field and they remained the same thickness at all points now. His heart was racing. He ran around again in less time. The hedges were closing in.
All of a sudden for no useful reason, what came into his head was a trip he had taken with Connie, back in those first days in Kill, showing him the stone circles. In Dunbeacon, he had stood at the centre and listened to Connie tell him to soak in the ancient protection, a protection enjoyed by him as a McLean.
But later Connie had walked with him silently into another circle. There he whispered, ‘In 1903 they excavated bits of bones here. Cremated, shall we say. An ancient sacrifice they claim, but I wouldn’t know. A boy about your age.’ Nothing more was ever asked or said about the Drombeg stone circle. So why were the burnt bones of the sacrificed boy invading Dark’s mind now?
He stopped. He tried to search inside himself for the courage not to collapse in this madness. Courage in adversity was easy until you were in adversity. He calmed himself. He decided to try to force his way through the thick hedge no matter how it would tear him. He pulled his hood down to cover his eyes and started heading through the impossible thorn barrier, searching for a gap.
Suddenly, he was grabbed around the waist. He violently pushed a hairy face away from him and stepped back from the arms. ‘Whoa there, colt,’ came a familiar voice. ‘I was merely trying to save you diving into a terrible tangle.’
With a shaking hand Dark switched on his phone light. Before him stood Saltee. He had a peculiar old-time curly pipe in the side of his mouth. In the faint cold LED light there was a fluorescence from Saltee’s white shirt.
‘You and I need to have a little talk,’ he said.
‘How did you trap me?’ asked Dark.
Saltee laughed, taking Dark’s shock as admiration. ‘How is not a primary concern for either of us,’ he said, stepping closer. ‘You should be more interested in what. What will happen to you next?’
‘Go to hell,’ said Dark, suddenly not caring. Washed out of fear.
‘I like it, I like it,’ said Saltee, laughing. ‘That self-destructive McLean bent comes out generation after generation.’
‘What are you doing on our land?’ said Dark, finding strength in his voice.
‘This is a funny question from a chap who smashed my property so badly that everything had to be replaced. Even the dry wall,’ said Saltee. ‘Such fury if channelled right could make your life good – if you would work with me instead of fighting me. Be so good as to tell me what you were looking for in my little shop?’
Dark stepped closer, suddenly aware that he was taller than Saltee. Dark felt himself warming into the notion that he would be able for this man. He felt an urge to unleash everything: all the power and anger that had been building in his sinews over the years; to direct it all on this garlic-breathing intrusion on his life. Saltee backed away a step and held up his left hand showing the six-inch blade of a hunting knife. ‘Steady now,’ he said, ‘no need for anyone not to walk away from here tonight.’
Dark stood still.
‘Okay, let’s forget the little incident in the shop, my friend,’ said Saltee, smiling again. ‘It’s nothing. Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? If we keep level heads, we can help each other out.’
‘Not in any lifetime,’ said Dark.
‘No?’ Saltee eyed him slyly. ‘And about the big fellow ... It’s such a pity you McLeans have to do everything the hard way.’
He had Dark’s full attention now. Dark instantly knew that Kevin was not going to find anything relevant in the hospital records.
‘How about I tell you your future?’ Saltee continued, with some satisfied puffing on his Condor tobacco. ‘Yes, there are two paths. One is that you continue as you are, watching Cornelius so tragically fade from our view. But hey, life must go on. Wheels keep turning. Next week, for example, there’ll be a government team coming to do a full audit on Connie’s paperwork and farming practices. They may have been tipped off about how many EU regulations are in breach on this untidy farm. And of course poor Connie, let’s just say, may not be in much of a position to fix things. Your unfortunate mum, a city girl not equipped for all this, will have the place on the market within months. In no time, believe me, I will take possession. Of everything. Trust me on this. You should know by now that I always take what I want in the end.’
Dark was blocking his ears from the inside. He couldn’t let anything Saltee was saying get in or he might lose control.
Saltee became impatient again as Dark remained stony-faced. He continued in his concocted accent, ‘What is the second path, you ask? The easy path. Well, all you have to do is indicate the locations of the items of mutual interest.’
Dark looked at Saltee, still quiet.
‘What do you say? Are you listening to me, boy?’ said Saltee, getting more agitated. ‘Do you even care about saving big Con? Do you hear what I’m telling you? If he dies, you will be solely to blame. Take your hand out of your pocket and listen to me. What have you got in there anyway?’
Dark had not even noticed that his left hand had made its way into its comfort dock in his coat’s inner pocket. The small smooth fragment of crockery was warm from his fingers stroking it. When he withdrew his fist it was closed over a stone that he also kept in there, also waiting for an idea of what it might be and which of his boxes of collected things it would best belong in. It was a dirty red glassy stone about the size of a marble. The strange thing with it was that he couldn’t remember finding it anywhere. It was in his inner pocket with the other stuff one night when he had returned from the rath.
‘What have you got in your fist there, boy?’ said Saltee, momentarily distracted.
‘Nothing,’
said Dark, closing both fists tight.
‘Now don’t be a fool,’ said Saltee. ‘Anyway, what was I saying? Yes. Only you can make everything better. You only have to do a small favour for me and then Connie can make a mysterious recovery and go back to being his old obnoxious self. I might even back away from developing my interests with your mother. And you can go back to thinking about the things a lad of your age should be thinking about. Football, a couple of lagers, a buzz and girls. All the normal things. Instead of nosing around in dark business of the past, interfering in old grievances that are not of your making. Do you have a girl, Art? Do you want me to arrange that for you? Nothing is too good for Saltee’s friends. Just as long as you understand this: Everything is in your hands. This is the first test of your manhood. Can you make a hard, cold decision?’
A shiver ran up Dark’s spine as Saltee’s soft white hand reached out to try to get him to shake on it. ‘Leave this ground,’ shouted Dark, kicking Saltee’s other hand with his boot and knocking the knife from it.
‘Easy, easy,’ said Saltee, wringing the kicked hand with the other and looking over his shoulder towards the bog lands and rath. ‘Not so loud. So maybe you’re slow-witted and need me to spell it out. Very well. What I’m asking for is the ... artefacts. The trove of precious items that must come to me. You know where they are hidden. I require those. I shall have them in the end, whether you make it easy on yourself or hard.’
‘What kind of things?’ Dark asked.
‘Things, things!’ hissed Saltee. ‘Weapons with certain sentimental value to me. And some other things of no objective worth.’
‘Like what?’ said Dark.
‘Like,’ said Saltee, with a strange quiver, ‘like a few grubby little things that I have a fancy for.’
Now Dark knew for certain. A trove. Connie was right. The ancient sword and shield that someone had buried in Kill might have been of great value to Connie’s friend. But it was other things among his buried possessions that Saltee was really after. This trove was everything that Saltee was about. The things in it were the beginning and end of him.
‘Suppose for a minute,’ Dark started, ‘just suppose I believed that you have the ability to cure Connie. And say I was to trade that for information on where the blood emeralds might be. How do I know you would leave us alone?’
‘Aha!’ Saltee shouted, jumping with excitement. The pipe dropped from his lips. ‘Aha! So the chap does know where the red beauties lie. Perfect. I was correct. I was correct. Con, the fool, developed such a soft spot for the chap that he couldn’t keep his secret. Well, well, well! So now. Next the chappie is going to tell me and then we’ll all be good.’
‘No, because there’s no reason for me to believe things would be any different after,’ said Dark.
‘What nonsense is that? Once I have what I want, I will be gone. The fate of your miserable lives is in your own hands after that.’
‘How can you expect me to believe that? You would have to leave all this, your wife and children, the farm and businesses?’
‘What a ridiculous innocent fool you really are though!’ Saltee was impatient now, anxious greed clouding his eyes, his composed suaveness entirely evaporated. ‘What do you think? Do you really imagine that a person of urbane artistic temperament like myself desires one more instant of life in this abyss than is absolutely essential? None here will ever again have the grace of my company in their miserable midst.’
Saltee spat with such venom that Dark actually believed him. Dark tried to rein in his feelings towards the man. Loathing was no use. Here before him was a very real proposition. Everything could be back to normal. No more bad luck in Kill – he was certain now that Saltee had been the source of a fair share of it. Back to the old times that Buzzcock had talked about when harmony with the little people had brought everyone in Kill more than their share of good luck. And that would include his mother. He said, ‘I might think about it, okay? I’ll let you know tomorrow. Now I am going.’
‘Why, you are free to go any time you like. I am not holding you here,’ said Saltee. ‘But don’t think like your type usually does. Think cold and rational thoughts. You will look back on this night and thank the memory of Trevor Saltee for teaching you that softness and emotional thinking leads only to poverty and misery.’
Dark, head down, expecting to tear his way through the dense hawthorn, found the usual gap with only the loose sheep wire to climb under.
What Saltee had said was correct. He needed to put his feelings aside and let cold logic prevail. Connie could disapprove all he wanted. If there was a way to keep him alive, then that was more important than his approval. In fact, what was the point in delaying? He turned, intending to shout after Saltee, whom he assumed would be on his way back to cross the river. But there was the silhouette right behind him in the gap.
‘By the way,’ said Saltee. ‘If you haven’t made the right decision within six hours, I’ll send my friends from Nighthawk around to accelerate your thinking. I bet you won’t break their fingers with your hoof.’
The threat of Hogg made Dark furious again. He forgot all calm calculations. He bent down and picked a rough stone that had come up with the recent ploughing. ‘You can have your answer now,’ he shouted, as he threw the rock at Saltee, who ducked barely in time. Saltee started hopping from one foot to the other in rage but he did nothing as Dark walked away.
Sitting in the armchair by Connie’s empty bed he felt like even the sane and explainable staples of his life were now being swamped by the other things; the things too weird for thinking about were taking over. He wondered how a person would know if they were going mad.
In school later that morning, he was shaking. He felt alone and without bearing. As he watched from across the yard, Ciara stepped out of her father’s car at precisely eight forty-three as usual. He found himself longing for warmth. For inhaling someone else’s breath. For someone to tell him he was alright.
He reminded himself that there was no point in dissolving into useless thoughts. Instead, he tried to focus every part of his mind on not shaking, as she half-glanced across the yard and then went over to where Kevin was standing. She threw her bag on the ground. The two of them stood looking at each other and talking. He looked away.
That night, when everything was done and the dogs were settling in to sleep by the cooker and the house was silent except for the ticking of Connie’s madly wrong clock which Dark had wound earlier to ward off abnormality, he sat at the Formica-topped table with his head supported by his hands. It was after midnight and way past the time for going out. Thinking about going through the lower field again was still making him feel sick. But he couldn’t stay here awake all night, a prisoner. He got his jacket and he made his way. He knew that what had happened had nothing to do with any particular field. All the same, he took a detour around the lower field.
When he entered the rath, everyone was gathered and the fire looked as though it had been blazing a while.
‘What kept you?’ asked the Old Man, with a demanding tone in his voice.
Dark was going to make an excuse. He had short stock lies for when he wanted to avoid answering a question. Then he decided not to. ‘I was scared,’ he said. ‘That’s all. Someone scared me in the field yesterday.’
Nobody asked him who or how. They just continued to stare into the fire as if he had said nothing.
Dark for some reason felt he should continue, ‘It was the first time I really thought it was the end for me. I never felt that before.’
Again, there wasn’t much stir. Not that he wanted any. He wasn’t looking for their sympathy. He was just saying.
‘That’s not a nice feeling,’ said the Old Man, after some time. ‘Not nice the first time or any other time it comes to you. Though there are worse feelings. Feelings that can make you pray for your end rather than fearing it.’
Chapter 8a
VALLEY OF REGRETS
You are ready to see your home, theref
ore you must go immediately,’ Dreoilín said to Matha with an edge in his voice. He looked at the ground as he mumbled, ‘So go on now, go on ... And may Daghda look down on this journey.’
The blessing unnerved Matha. Dreoilín did not give these out for any ordinary outing. And the sudden urgency puzzled him further. Only the previous evening, Dreoilín had asked Matha to try to overcome the geis and stay and study with him a while. Now he was ushering him out of the camp without looking him in the eye. And he was insisting that he take a particular route. One that Matha had never heard of. ‘Remember the shortcut that you must take,’ Dreoilín repeated. The complicated directions sounded like no shortcut.
Matha agreed respectfully. He just thought the senior druid might be suffering a little from the confusion of his years. He did not yet know Dreoilín well enough to realise that nothing was ever as it seemed with the cold ancient. Everything was measured out. There was no confusion. Matha was being used on a mission. One that could kill him or make him permanently mad.
He had gone less than half a morning’s walk from Tara. He was feeling that he was a very lucky fellow. The sun was shining. His stomach was full. He had no sickness and many reliable friends. And he was going back to the place he most wanted to be, equipped, he felt it fair to say, with quite an amount of wisdom. Making a small detour to humour an old man was nothing to him. He was getting to see another part of the country, a beautiful part with gentle grassy hills and many fine trees of every sort. What harm could a few final extra recollections of the outside world do to a fellow returning forever to the life he was supposed to live?
As he ambled along with these mellow thoughts he spotted, about three hundred paces ahead, a very large stooped figure standing up from the long grass and bracken at the side of the sheep path. The figure seemed to be looking at the ground and staggering. As Matha approached the man gave no indication of seeing him. With his head down, the man was swaying and muttering, cursing and jumping. Matha still didn’t recognise him; not until he was right up to him.
