When the tunnel widened enough, he spread his wings and flew them back out, announcing his arrival to the outside world with another burst of flame.
Beanna was watching for them in the mouth of their cave. “So the worm can now breathe fire?”
Péist belched and sent a tiny ball of flame in her direction. “Take heed, little bird, or you may end up roasted.”
At last, they were ready. They planned to leave so that they would return to Éire under cover of night, with the moon and stars to guide them. They had food enough gathered, all stored in Caymin’s basket, which Garvan slung over his shoulders. He had his sword strapped to his belt, while Caymin wore her cloak, fastened by the dragon brooch, with her bow slung over her back, her quiver and knife fastened to her belt. Péist preened as he wore his saddle, occasionally sending out little bursts of fire, simply because he could. Caymin hid a smile. He looked magnificent and he knew it.
Caymin climbed up, strapping herself to the saddle. Beanna snuggled herself into her sling, tucked against Caymin’s body.
Garvan took a deep breath and climbed up behind her, wedging himself between two of Péist’s spikes where they came up through the holes in the saddle. “This could change my life forever,” he muttered, grasping the spike protruding between his legs.
Péist spread his wings. “Are you ready?”
Garvan could only laugh in answer as the dragon leapt into the air. It took him a bit longer to gain altitude under the extra weight.
He circled the island once. Reluctantly, Caymin looked down at the mountaintop and the caves, where she’d left all the scrolls and books they’d found.
“We will return one day,” Péist said. “But for now, we must find Gai’s clan and convince them to help us.”
“You are right.”
Péist banked away from the island with the setting sun at their backs.
Caymin took one last backward glance and then turned to face the open ocean before them. “Take us to our destiny.”
THE END
COMING SOON
The Portal
The Chronicles of Caymin
BOOK TWO OF THE DRAGONMAGE SAGA
Keep reading for an excerpt from
Miserere
EXCERPT FROM
Miserere
Prologue
10th May 1855
“Caitríona! Where are you?”
Orla Ní Faolain cast about, looking for her younger sister. The sudden wind whipped her long, dark hair sideways and brought rare color to her normally pale cheeks as she held tightly to the halter of the stout Connemara pony pulling her cart.
“Shhh, Connor,” she said soothingly as he tossed his head, his eyes wide.
“Where are you?” she moaned again, glancing worriedly at the black clouds roiling in from the sea.
Without warning, Caitríona ran out from behind a small hillock near the dirt lane. There were brambles tangled in her wild red hair, and she had dirt smeared across her freckled cheek. In her hands, she cradled a small mound of red fur.
“Look, Orla!” she exclaimed excitedly as she scrambled over the stacked rock wall rambling along the lane.
Orla, with a reserve born of experience, cautiously looked to see what her sister held. A tiny fox kit blinked up at her.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” Caitríona murmured, entranced.
Orla sighed in exasperation. “Aye, she’s beautiful, but Mam will have our hides if we don’t get the cart home before the storm.”
She wasn’t sure Caitríona was listening as she bent over the fox kit, stroking its soft head and murmuring to it.
“Put it back where you found it,” Orla said gently, casting another glance at the ominous clouds. Her sister was always finding stray and injured animals. Or they found her. Even the wild ones came to her trustingly, seeming to know that she would do them no harm.
Reluctantly, Caitríona carried her small burden back to the gorse behind the hillock. She ran back to the cart and took the pony’s halter on the other side as together they urged him into a trot.
They arrived home as the first fat raindrops began to fall. Connor trotted right into the three-sided run-in that served as a barn, its rock walls chinked with clumps of sod so that the stones looked hairy. Because the storms here on this peninsula were so fierce, the thatched roof was reinforced with strong cords anchored by more rocks, swinging wildly now in the wind.
The girls unhitched the pony, and Caitríona put him in his stall next to the milk cow. Hastily, she put a few handfuls of sweet hay in his feed bin and gave him a pat before putting up the boards that closed his stall.
“You’d better be hoping Da doesn’t see that hay,” Orla warned. “You know he says it’s only for the cow.”
Caitríona looked around to make sure her father wasn’t near. “You won’t tell, will you?” she pleaded. “Connor works harder than that old cow.”
“That old cow gives us milk and butter,” Orla reminded her sister. “Come. Let’s get this lot in the house.”
Gathering up the paper-wrapped parcels of fish and salt, along with the tins of tea and flour, the girls ran through the rain to the house. The small cottage was also made of stone whose whitewash had long ago faded, beaten away by the relentless pounding of the storms blown in by the westerly winds. Rounding the corner, they skidded to a halt. A carriage was there, pulled by two fine bay hackney ponies covered with blankets against the weather. The coachman sat like a statue on the high seat, his heavily embroidered uniform getting wetter by the minute. The footman, dressed in a similar livery, stood miserably at the heads of the horses.
Ducking under the rocks anchoring the cottage’s thatched roof, the girls peered through the low door to see a strange gentleman sitting in their father’s chair by the fire. Niall O’Faolain jumped up from the bench at the table when he saw them.
“Come in, girls, come in,” he said anxiously, gesturing them inside when they still hesitated. “Lord Playfair has been waitin’ to see you.”
The girls kicked off their muddy shoes as they entered and stood silently, still clutching their parcels. Lord Playfair’s cold, indifferent gaze swept over them, passing quickly over Caitríona, but pausing on Orla for several seconds before he turned to Niall. Caitríona glanced quickly at her mother who sat with the baby and five other children on the bench along the far wall. The sight of her mother’s ashen face frightened her.
“They both know how to read and write?” Lord Playfair asked.
“Yes, your Lordship,” Niall answered, his head bowed, staring at Lord Playfair’s shiny black boots. “English and Latin, and a little Irish.”
Lord Playfair’s eyebrows rose slightly in a haughty acknowledgement of his surprise.
“Very well, then. We have an agreement,” he said as he stood. “Five extra acres. Have them ready in two weeks. I’ll send a wagon. They sail from Cobh.” He pulled his oilskin cloak around his shoulders and, ducking through the cottage door, climbed into the waiting carriage and departed.
Niall collapsed into the vacated chair and stared into the low flames slowly consuming the blocks of peat. Orla dropped her packages on the wooden table and knelt beside her father as he rubbed the red stubble on his chin.
“Da?” She laid a white hand on his arm. “Da, what did he mean?”
Refusing to meet her gaze, Niall said, “Lord Playfair is sending his son to oversee his plantation in America. They need servants. You and your sister are to go.”
Orla’s hand flew to her mouth in disbelief, but Caitríona cried defiantly, “I won’t! He can’t force us!”
Niall shoved himself abruptly to his feet. “You’ll do as you’re told for a change!” he roared. He swept his arm toward the door. “All I’ve got is ten acres to feed this family. Look at them,” he gestured with his other hand toward the children watching wide-eyed. “Skin and bones. Orla’s fifteen. She should be married, and you, not two years behind, should be following. But since the famine… all the young me
n have gone.” His voice faltered. “There’s not enough land to feed us all.” His jaw worked from side to side. “It’s time you were gone,” he said.
His wife, Eilish, looked out the window at the three small crosses silhouetted on the hill behind the cottage, and said, “You would do well to remember, Niall O’Faolain, that we’d have lost more than three children to the famine if it weren’t for the girls helping me make lace to sell in town.”
She handed the baby to the boy next to her and stood, clearly pregnant again. Her smooth white skin and long black hair marked her as Orla’s mother. She was still beautiful, despite the ravages of years of hunger and the hardships of bearing and burying too many children, the same beauty that now made men stop and look longingly at Orla.
“You’re telling me I’m not man enough to work this land and feed my family?” he growled, his cheeks turning a blotchy red that matched his hair.
“I’m saying it’s taken more than farming to feed this family these past seven years, and you’ve no cause to make the girls believe they’ve been a burden,” she insisted, refusing to back down despite his menacing tone.
His eyes flickered briefly in the direction of his two eldest daughters. “With five extra acres, I could get back on my feet.”
“So you sold us like a pair of cattle!” accused Caitríona.
So fast she didn’t have time to duck, Niall lashed out, backhanding her and knocking her to the floor. She stayed down, her unruly red curls falling over her face as Niall stomped out into the rain.
Eilish rushed over and brushed Caitríona’s hair back to reveal a bloody lip. Angry tears spilled from her daughter’s eyes.
“Will you never learn to hold your tongue?” she asked, shaking her head. “Come.” She led Caitríona to the table. There, she dabbed at the blood with the corner of her apron. “Only, if you go, Lord Playfair will let your father keep five extra acres of crops, but if you don’t, he’ll take five away. We can’t live on five acres and he knows it,” Eilish explained gently.
“But he farms over fifty acres for that English bastard now!” Caitríona sputtered through her swollen lips. “We’re not his property,” she insisted bitterly.
“To himself, that’s all we are.” Eilish sighed in resignation. “I blame myself. If I hadn’t taught you to read and write and make lace…” She looked over at Orla, still kneeling by her father’s chair. “If I could, I’d send you to the nuns who raised me. You’d be safe there.”
Orla turned to her mother. “Mam? For how long must we go? Will we ever come home again to Ireland?”
Eilish looked at her sadly. “I don’t know, child.”
Chapter 1
Green.
Later, when Conn tried to recall her first memories of the farm, green was what she remembered. So many different greens. The dark blue-green of West Virginia mountain ridges covered in pines; the soft, dappled green of sunlight filtering through the leaves of the trees that lined the rural highways and roads they traveled; the rich, cool green of the grass around the farmhouse, grass that tickled her bare feet – the first time she could remember being allowed to go barefoot outside. But it was all mixed up with the greens in the dreams – the soft green fields dotted with stone cairns and crisscrossed with low rock walls; the deepening purple-green of the undersides of the grasses and heathers when a storm blew in from the sea. Except Conn had never been to the sea.
The station wagon’s tires crunched on the gravel of the dirt drive that wound uphill to the house. It took a couple of minutes for the dust cloud raised by the car to drift away and give them their first glimpse of the house.
“Oh no,” groaned Elizabeth.
The house looked haunted. The grass was knee-high. Several windows were broken, and the white paint was peeling, exposing the weathered grey clapboards underneath. Extending from one side of the house was a portion made of log with a small stone chimney. At the other end of the house, a larger stone chimney was almost completely covered by ivy so thick it looked solid in the deep shade of the enormous trees growing around the house – elms and maples and oaks and hemlocks with sad, droopy branches.
Ten-year-old Conn looked worriedly at her mother and said, “It’s not so bad. We can fix it up, Mom. And look at the beautiful trees. We didn’t have trees like this in New Mexico.”
The brown desert landscape around Sandia Base in Albuquerque seemed a world away. So did the day the Marines came to the door…
“Are we here?” Conn’s seven-year-old brother, Will, stirred in the back seat, unsticking his face from the vinyl where he’d been sleeping, scrunched between a stack of boxes and the side of the car.
They all climbed stiffly from their 1958 Chevy Nomad, “the same age as me,” Conn reminded Will frequently. “Daddy bought it the day I was born.”
“Well, let’s take a closer look,” Elizabeth sighed, tossing her thick auburn hair over her shoulder and letting her car door close.
They climbed the wooden steps to the deep front porch where a lonely-looking porch swing hung at one end. Elizabeth dug the house key from her purse and tried to work it into the lock. It finally slid in, but wouldn’t turn. She sighed in frustration as she tried to wiggle the key in the lock. Giving up, she said, “Let’s go around back.”
Conn led the way around to the screened porch on the back of the house. The screen door hung by one hinge, and inside the porch, the kitchen door was ajar.
“Hello?” Elizabeth called out, pushing the door open cautiously. All three humans jumped when two squirrels came racing through their legs.
Peering into the kitchen, it looked as if it had been ransacked. Cupboard doors stood open and drawers lay upside down on the floor. A huge wood-burning cookstove occupied one wall of the kitchen, while on an adjacent wall stood a cast-iron sink with an old-fashioned hand pump standing over it. A small electric icebox stood unplugged with its doors open. Cans of food were scattered everywhere. A bag of flour on the slate countertop had been chewed open and spilled onto the gray linoleum floor, the perpetrators leaving white telltale footprints all over the kitchen. “This is raccoon,” Conn pointed. She had recently studied animal tracks in Girl Scouts. “And this one is rabbit, I think.”
“Raccoon?” Will asked, moving closer to his mother and looking around uncertainly.
Conn peered into the log room and saw a squat stone fireplace with a swiveling iron hook.
“Let’s check out the rest of the house,” Elizabeth said, pushing open the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the dining room.
All the furniture in the dining room and sitting room beyond had been covered by white sheets. A broad oak staircase brought them to the second floor where there were three bedrooms with similar sheets covering the beds and dressers.
“I guess nobody’s been here since Nana died,” Elizabeth sighed.
Will couldn’t remember Nana at all, but Conn could, even though it had been five years. They had stopped to visit her on their way from Norfolk to New Mexico. Conn could recall sitting next to Nana on the front porch swing, holding her hand. Nana’s skin was soft and dry and wrinkly, but what Conn remembered most was that Nana chewed her nails, something Conn did also. Since then, whenever Elizabeth scolded Conn for biting her nails so short, Conn stubbornly declared it couldn’t be so bad if Nana did it.
“This used to be my room,” Elizabeth smiled as she pushed open the door of the room at the end of the hall.
Conn looked around. Outside one window was a large branch from one of the elm trees, so close she could have reached out and plucked some of its leaves. “Can this be my room now?” she asked.
“Sure,” Elizabeth answered, tousling her daughter’s short red hair. “Let’s take all the sheets off and clean everything before we unload the car.”
“Hey!” said Will a few minutes later from behind the large pile of sheets in his arms. “Where’s the bathroom?”
Elizabeth laughed. “I’ll show you.” She led the way back downstairs
, gathering more sheets as she went through the sitting room. Outside, they all dropped their sheets on the grass. “There it is,” she said, pointing to an outhouse a short distance from the house.
“For real?” Conn asked, her eyes wide.
“For real,” Elizabeth replied. “And that’s the first thing we’re going to change. Come on. Let’s get cracking.”
Several hours later, the bedrooms were cleaned and beds made up with fresh sheets. The station wagon had been unloaded, the bikes untied from the roof and stored on the back porch. Elizabeth had found screens in the attic so they could open as many windows as possible to let fresh air into the musty rooms.
“Anybody want another sandwich?” Elizabeth asked, peering into the cooler serving as their makeshift ice box as the electric one wasn’t yet cold, though so far, it seemed to be working.
“No,” Will answered with a big yawn.
“Bed time, then. It’s been a long day.”
They made one last trip to the outhouse by the light of a flashlight. Elizabeth supervised the brushing of their teeth in the kitchen, pumping water for them at the sink, murmuring a prayer of thanks as it drew water after only a few dry pumps. Upstairs, she listened to each of the children as they knelt beside their beds and said their prayers, then kissed them both goodnight.
Will was asleep almost immediately, but Conn waited awhile then quietly stole out of bed and crept down the hall to her mother’s door. She sank to the floor, her back resting against the wainscoting, and hugged her knees to her chest as she listened to the soft sounds of her mother crying.
As she sat there in the dark, Conn tried to remember how things used to be when Daddy was home with them. He was a Marine helicopter pilot at Sandia and mostly flew high-ranking officers to other bases. She remembered hearing his car pull up, and running to leap into his arms, his bristly Marine haircut tickling her cheek. Then, last summer, just before Conn was to start the fifth grade and Will the second, they got the news that their father was being deployed to Vietnam. Most of their school friends already had a parent serving in Vietnam – mostly fathers, but a few mothers who were nurses. Sandia Base was shared by the Navy, the Marines and the Army, and was so big that it had its own schools for the children of the military personnel stationed there.
Rising From the Ashes: The Chronicles of Caymin Page 28
