She merely nodded, wanting him to keep on with the flow of his narrative, even as the chill of it crept into the house with them, settling in along her backbone and creeping out along her nerve endings. Conor snuggled more tightly to her, and she ran a hand over his curls in reassurance.
“It wasn’t a language I knew, but I understood it though I know that makes no sort of earthly sense. Yet, I could glean the gist of what they were sayin’, even if the words themselves meant nothin’ to me. There was a feelin’ of waitin’ upon the air, an’ as if there were a great crowd o’ folk that had gathered for a specific reason; ye know how that energy is, when everyone is waitin’ an’ yearnin’ upon the same thing. It shifts the very air, that sort of energy.
“I came round about a clump of trees an’ there they were, in the middle of the bog, a crowd of little people, each not more than a foot in height. The clump of trees had hidden them from the path, but once I stepped off I could see them clear. I was certain I was hallucinatin’ an’ yet nothin’ in my life had ever seemed more real than that scene before my eyes. I knew it wasn’t a good thing to be caught watchin’ them, an’ so I kept behind the trees. It was as if I was lookin’ through a glass that sharpened the edges of everythin’, an’ into a world beyond my own. A world of silver an’ gold, an’ trees that bore both flower an’ fruit at the same time.
“I didn’t dare move, I didn’t dare to breathe for fear they would see the fog of it upon the air. ’Twas then I heard the sound of horses’ hooves, soft thuds along the ground, echoin’ through the earth so that I felt the thrum of it to the marrow of my bones. There was an old oak that had fallen partway into the bog; the bit that was out was a huge gnarled branch, one of the sort that is near to a tree itself in size. It arched into the water like a bridge that led to the depths of the bog. Local legend had it there was no bottom to that bog an’ some of the old women did say it opened into hell itself, for more than one creature had disappeared into it, never to be seen again. ’Twas over this oak came a carriage pulled by six tiny horses, black as coal, all I could see was the light of their eyes, glowin’ red in the night air. The carriage they pulled was like onyx reflectin’ moonlight, though of course there was no moon that night. ’Twas lit up like a star sat within it on fine cushions. I kept tellin’ myself I was seein’ things, that there’d been somethin’ in my pint of bitter that made such madness appear before my eyes.
“One of the wee men rushed to open the carriage door, an’ a woman stepped down, light as air, an’ I could see clear it was her they had all been waitin’ for. ’Twas as if a sliver of moonlight had been carved off the full, an’ transformed into this small woman, this creature, and alit there in the bog. ’Twas clear to me she was someone of great importance to them, an’ she carried herself as an empress would, for sure an’ wasn’t that what she was?”
There was a look of longing on the old man’s face that made Pamela wonder if this story was not all together the fairy tale it seemed to be.
“She walked as if she were moonlight too, just driftin’ across the dark wet ground, her skirts held high in one hand. It was then that the music began. ’Twas the sort of music that defies words, only that it drew the soul from a man’s body an’ returned it as somethin’ less an’ somethin’ more at the same time. I’ve been in many a pub an’ heard many a pipe an’ fiddle since that night, but none that satisfied me nor sounded half as lovely as the music did that night by the bog.
“She danced when the music began, an’ what a sight she was. When I turned my head just so, I saw she wore a simple dress, brown an’ homespun, lookin’ like ’twas woven of beaten rushes an’ sere grass. But then if I turned my head to the other side, she wore a gown all of silver to match her eyes an’ skin. Her face was always the same—fierce it was, with somethin’ unholy in the set of it, an’ yet I’d not seen a lovelier woman in all my years, until I set eyes upon yerself this very night. Ye put me in mind of her, ye look delicate an’ yet there’s somethin’ wild about yer beauty that might frighten a lesser man than a Riordan.”
She started slightly and Conor stirred. “Mama?”
“It’s all right, Conor, Mr. Connelly just surprised me a bit.”
The old man continued on, after a glance at Conor’s sleepy countenance.
“She danced like she were no more than a bit of thistledown on the wind, an’ yet the dance was both deliberate and wild. At one point her little shoe fell off an’ I saw her foot—an’ it worn’t like no human foot you ever see’d, but webbed an’ delicate as a frog’s foot, outlined in frost, or so it appeared, for it glittered so.
“It seemed only a moment before I felt the shift that comes in the late hours, when suddenly ye know that night is loosin’ its hold upon the spinnin’ world an’ the stars fade to smoke an’ the sun trembles behind the hills, waitin’ upon its turn. ’Twas then they left, disappearin’ into the last of the night, as if they had never been more than a scent on the air, a vision of somethin’ that was once, but could be no more.
“I stood there for a long time, ’twas as if I were hypnotized. I could smell the water an’ wood on the wind in a way that I never had, an’ just a tracery of the fairy smoke, richer than peat an’ earthier, too. I felt like I had no flesh an’ the air moved direct through my bones an’ blood, an’ stirred my soul to somethin’ dark an’ strange. I was terrified at the same time, for I had looked into the wee woman’s eyes, an’ I knew it was wrong even as I did it. I knew I ought to move, for I was sore tired for my bed by then, but still I stayed because there in that moment ’twas as though I knew all the ages of the world, all that had come an’ gone, an’ all that was still to come, an’ was sad for it, too, with the sadness of the ages. I’d been given a vision of a world that might be, but I knew in my soul that it wouldn’t ever come to pass, an’ yet the hell of it was that now I would always know the difference.
“I think it’s true what the old ones used to say, that if ye chanced to look upon the Gentry an’ had them look upon ye in return, ye’d lose yer soul to them. An’ though they terrified a man, he’d yearn the span of his life for just one more look at them.” He took a sip of his whiskey, setting it aside with the careful movement of a man long used to rheumatism. “Noah is like that in a way. He’ll take a piece of yer soul an’ not return it to ye. Only it will be because of his own hunger, not because he’s enchanted it away from ye, girl.”
Coming at the end of the story as it did, the statement took her off guard. She didn’t say anything, for she knew the man was not looking for a response, he was merely giving her a warning. His words bothered her. Because, of course, they were true in many ways. She owed Noah and that was never a position she was going to be comfortable with.
Conor was asleep now, his head heavy against her chest, his breathing slow and deep. She needed to put him in his bed; she needed to go to bed herself. Yet it was pleasant here by the fire and her limbs felt heavy with the heat and weariness.
“Yer man is Brendan Riordan’s grandson?”
“Yes, he is. Did you know Brendan?”
“Aye, but mostly as legend not as a real man. My da’ was holed up in a house with him one night, where they were keepin’ safe from the British soldiers that were scourin’ the land huntin’ for them. He said he was dismayed at first to find himself in the company of Brendan Riordan, bein’ that he was the most wanted man in the land at the time an’ he knew there was little the soldiers wouldn’t do to claim such a prize.
“He told me ’twas as if Brendan was a figure of legend already, an’ that the real man was trapped inside that legend, unable to live the life he truly desired because of it. He was a big man, with the presence of some mythical figure, like Finn MacCool or Cuchulain, an’ my da’ said ’twas impossible not to be awed by him. He said though, after a night spent in his company, he had never met a man more human. He meant it as a compliment, to be certain, but his face was always sad as he said it.
“People used to say of the Riordans t
hat they were the sort of men others thought were either blessed or cursed, an’ some would say they were touched by fairies in their cribs, an’ that the touch of that fairy curse would cause them to long for freedom all their lives, an’ to always have rebellion like a hard tide in their blood. Well, I suppose you would know the truth of that yerself, bein’ married to one.”
Oh yes, she knew the truth of it, and she knew the price of it. It was curse, not blessing, to want freedom so. Jamie had warned her long ago, but she had walked willingly into the fire with Casey, only now she was alone and the fire tasted like ashes in her mouth.
“I would ask you one thing,” she said softly, “was it worth it? Everything you’ve lost, all the years in prison, all the friends killed along the way and the loss of your wives and your children—was it worth it?”
There was a long silence and she looked up finally to find the old man’s gaze upon her, sharp but not without sympathy.
“That’s not an easy question to answer—was it worth it? Is my country undivided, is it free from tyranny—no, so in that sense did anythin’ I do, did anythin’ I lost have meanin’? I cannot say. But if I were to go back in time, knowing what I know now, knowing how terrible the cost would be, I can’t say I would do anythin’ differently. There was never a way to just stand on the sidelines an’ hope that time fixed history’s errors for us. The fight matters, even if lost.”
She nodded, though she felt as if something cold and sharp was lodged in her throat.
“Noah told me what happened with yer man,” he said quietly. “Ye must miss him terrible, no?”
“Like the rain misses the earth,” she said. She stood, and crossed the room. She put her son down on the end of the couch and then made the old man a bed upon it; the heat of the fire would still reach him there. She picked Conor back up and his arms came around her neck and he mumbled from the well of dreams. “An’ six black horses…”
“Good night, then,” she said to the old man, who still sat by the fire, one last swallow of whiskey in his glass. “Thank you for the story.”
He nodded to her and she could see he was still far gone into the world he had pulled from the ether of night and air and fire. His voice, soft and filled with an understanding that made her throat tight, reached her just as she stepped on the small landing where the stairs turned abruptly right.
“Perhaps, lass, he’s only away with the fairies for a while.”
She closed her eyes, not wanting to look out their eight-sided window, where the stars, which ought to have fallen from the sky eight months ago, continued to shine.
“If that were so, he might never come back.”
“Well, if anythin’ can bring a man back from a strange world, sure an’ wouldn’t it be love?”
“And if wishes were horses, beggars might ride,” she said, and then holding her son tight to her body, she climbed the stairs to her lonely bed.
Part Three
Me, Without You
August 1976-April 1977
Chapter Thirty-two
Pressure
“THAT FUCKING MAN MAKES me fucking furious!” Captain Edwin Forrest flung his pen across the room, nearly impaling the young soldier standing before him. “Fucking bastard thinks he’s fucking untouchable, does he?”
The soldier remained quiet, uncertain of whether he was meant to respond to this statement. He chose the more discretionary route, thinking it was likely the captain was just blowing off steam.
“I asked you a question, corporal.”
“Apologies, sir, I thought it was rhetorical. I do believe he thinks he’s untouchable, but that’s mostly because he is.”
The captain glared up at him, face turning an unflattering shade of red. “Why do you say that? If you were to shoot the man, I believe he’d bleed, would he not?”
“Well, sir, we’d all like to think so, but we’ve not had the chance to test the theory.”
The captain gave him a hard look and then opened one of his desk drawers and pulled out, much to Corporal Ainsley’s surprise, a bottle of twelve year old Balvenie scotch.
“Do you drink, Ainsley?”
“Only occasionally, sir, and never on duty.”
“Sit, man, while I have a drink. My duty is ostensibly over for the day; consider yourself off the clock as well.”
The captain poured them each a generous measure of the Balvenie, in glasses that he’d pulled out from the same drawer the bottle had been in. The smell of it—heather and honey, vanilla, autumn leaves and the smoke from a fire on a cold night—brought the corporal home to Scotland. Just the one swallow had given him a warm glow in his midsection. It might be, he thought, the first time he’d been properly warm since arriving in this land. He thought longingly of his wife and wee daughter and how lovely it would be to be home with them.
The scotch relaxed him a little and he took a long breath for courage. He didn’t want to speak in error and further enrage the captain. “Forgive me, sir, but what about the smuggler who we turned?”
Captain Forrest leaned back in his chair and sniffed his whisky appreciatively, his rage seemingly under his command once again.
“We found him in a car in Omeath Forest with a suicide note pinned to his shirt, so I don’t suppose he’ll be of much value as an informant, will he?”
“Oh.”
“Yes, bloody ‘oh’.”
“Did the note say why he killed himself, sir?”
“He didn’t bloody kill himself, did he? He was put in that car, and no doubt wrote the note under great duress. That bastard Murray was smart enough not to leave a mark on him. You heed my words, corporal, his fingerprints are all over this mess.”
Corporal Ainsley knew that the mess to which the captain referred wasn’t just the suicide of the smuggler, but also the bombing that had taken place last week near the border. A backhoe had been stolen from a local farm and taken to a bridge a few miles away where a Renault van was waiting. The van was packed with a 2,200 pound bomb. The JCB was used to knock down a stone wall, between the van and the ultimate goal, the rail line, which happened to run right next to a checkpoint. The van had been fitted with specially constructed wheels designed to run along the rails. The stones from the knocked down wall along with a few pieces of wood were used to build a ramp and then the JCB lifted the van onto the railway line. A firing pack was attached to a command wire that was more than a mile long. In the meantime, members of the PIRA had set up roadblocks to divert traffic out of the area, with some dressed as Gardaí and signs indicating that the detour was due to a Department of the Environment issue. The van was run down the tracks and detonated as it reached the sangar. The soldier inside, who had only just come on duty before the bomb tore apart the sangar, was killed instantly when the impact of the bomb threw him against one of the sharp corners of the small shelter, fracturing his skull and lacerating his brain. It also destroyed the watchtower that hovered over that particular checkpoint.
“We have the strength here and the fire power, albeit with one hand tied behind our collective back, and yet that bastard outguns us every time. He lives on a farm, like some bucolic shepherd and he runs the biggest smuggling operation I have ever seen and we can’t touch him. I will give the bastard this much, it was well planned and well executed. If he was on our side, we’d be in far better shape. So here we are, Ainsley, back to square one.” The man took another drink of his scotch, and then eyed the little remaining as if the peaty depths were an augur that could forecast the future. Corporal Ainsley had a sick feeling he knew just what the man was about to suggest.
“We need to put a little more pressure on the woman then, don’t we?”
“How do you suggest we do that, sir? We’ve offered her money, hinted that we can maybe find out what happened to her husband, and she didn’t budge. She looked horrified at the very idea, truth be told and I don’t think we can blame her for that, considering what we know of Noah Murray.”
“Well, can we find out what h
appened to her husband? Or were we lying about that?”
“Well yes, sir, but we did try. We haven’t been able to trace him at all, though. It’s like he vanished in a puff of smoke, there’s no trace of him anywhere.”
The captain’s lips narrowed to a thin line. “Well he bloody didn’t go up in a puff of smoke, did he? Is this fucking mystical country seeping into everyone’s brain here? He wasn’t stolen by the fairies, now was he? He can be found, or at least his corpse can. I want to know what happened to the man. Meanwhile, I think it’s time to tap our friends in Special Branch, don’t you?”
“Special Branch, sir?” Corporal Ainsley did not like the idea of approaching Special Branch. It would make the waters they were wading in that much murkier; it also opened them up to even more possibilities of informants, double cross and death. Special Branch always played dirty. “It’s only, if you remember, sir, Special Branch already made an approach to her. She didn’t bite.”
“Because the fools offered her money—why would a woman who has James Kirkpatrick for a friend need to take up spying for extra cash. The idea was ludicrous. No, that’s not how you get to this woman.”
“How then, sir?” Corporal Ainsley wasn’t happy with the direction this conversation had taken. He felt badly for Pamela Riordan. A widowed (as far as anyone could establish) mother of two children, trying to stay afloat both emotionally and financially, and here was his commander suggesting they use her in a fashion that could well get her killed.
In the Country of Shadows (Exit Unicorns Series Book 4) Page 33
