‘Cael, that boat!’ screamed Mara. And without an instant’s delay, Cael turned, ran up the sandy beach and began dragging a light, upturned coracle from the place where it had been left, jammed between two rocks. She had already freed the boat by the time that Mara reached the small sandy beach. Ríanne had passed her, running fast, her sobs ceased. In a moment she was beside Cael and then the two girls were hauling the boat down the sand, each holding the rope attached to its stern. Mara turned her eyes back to her own two scholars who were dragging Gobnait through the sea. Soon they would leave the shelter of the almost enclosed rock pool and then it would be a much harder task. Niall hesitantly stepped into a rock pool and then stood still as the water ebbed around his knees.
But now Cael had launched the boat. The girls must have planned something because neither girl was in the boat, but both were wading through the water, pushing it along, its prow turned towards the entrance to the rock pool. Of course, no one would leave oars in a boat, so this was the only thing that they could do. But would the boat be of any use? Gobnait was a heavy woman, and might bleed to death if they tried to lift her into the boat.
But she had underestimated Cael’s intelligence, had forgotten how much time the twins and Cormac and Art had spent by the sea with Art’s father, Setanta. Cumhal, her farm manager, taught all of her scholars to swim, but Setanta had taught them a lifetime of lore of how to keep safe, of how to use balance and buoyance, how to rescue a man without jeopardizing everyone else, and above all, how to keep a cool head and how to survive on this dangerous and rocky Atlantic west coast. Wishing desperately that she had learned to swim, but recognizing that a woman of her age wading through the Atlantic waves could only be a hindrance, Mara watched and prayed.
The girls were now near enough to see the woman and her injuries and Cael had shouted something to Ríanne. The girl had heaved something overboard and Mara breathed a sigh of relief. Of course, most boats held a tarpaulin, a piece of rough canvas smeared with tar, used sometimes to shelter the crew from a downpour, other times to carry a load of fish from boat to pier. They had taken the decision that Gobnait’s injuries were too severe to allow them to manhandle her into the boat. But now the tarpaulin floated on the water and this could be slipped below her. Cael relinquished the boat to Ríanne and walked towards Cian and Art who were just emerging from the rock pool, dragging the tarpaulin behind her.
‘Niall,’ yelled Mara, putting all the power that she possessed into her voice so that it would carry across wind and waves and reach the boy who still sat, hunched up, on the rocks, seeming imperious to the heroic efforts of Art and Cian. ‘Niall!’ This time she roared his name. The tide was coming in fast. Already Cael was up to her waist in it. They needed another person to hold the fourth corner of the tarpaulin and to get the injured woman back onto the beach as soon as possible. Niall was not hurt; she was fairly sure of that. He was frightened, perhaps, and, yes, he had had a shock, but she did not have time to waste on that while two boys of his own age were hazarding their lives to rescue a woman who had, perhaps, rescued him from the ferocious conger eel. He did not move, though, and she gave up. As soon as Ríanne had guided the boat to the edge of the surf, she seized its prow and began to haul it up the sands, beyond the reach of the sea. To her approbation, Ríanne instantly returned once the boat was safe and went resolutely into the sea, sending clouds of spray rising up as she moved with long strides into the waves.
And now there were four of them. Five would be better. Mara tried one more shout in Niall’s direction, but then gave up. They were managing cleverly. Art still kept a grip on Gobnait’s hair, but Cian had let go and had managed to get two corners of the tarpaulin into his hands. The two girls each held a corner. The sea crashed against them and once a wave went over their heads, but they still held on, standing as still as blocks of stone as Cian edged backwards, head turned over his shoulder, judging his footsteps and keeping a steady pace, ignoring the surge of the sea. When he reached Gobnait’s body, he shouted something which Mara could not hear and then bent down low, crawling or swimming, perhaps, his head submerged and the two corners of the tarpaulin in his hand. He was only invisible for a couple of seconds and then he rose up again, dripping, his hair plastered to his skull. Now the tarpaulin was under Gobnait, but there was one more task. Cian moved up close to Art. Mara narrowed her eyes, but she could not quite see what was happening until Cian moved back again. Now she breathed a cautious sigh of relief. Art still had one protective hand clutching Gobnait but the other hand clutched one corner of the tarpaulin. Now the four corners were held and a square of the foam-capped sea was covered with the tarred piece of canvas. Cian shouted something and Art nodded. He let go of Gobnait’s hair. For a moment the heavy body floated free and then began to sink. The four youngsters spread out, each holding the corner of the tarpaulin. Mara held her breath, and she could feel with an ache of sympathy, how they must be feeling, afraid to breathe, afraid that after all their trouble, Gobnait might float off or the tarpaulin might sink with the weight of her inert body.
But it didn’t happen. Cian shouted again and this time Cael and Ríanne cautiously moved to one side. Now their backs were to the sun, setting in the south-west and Art and Cian slowly moved until they were facing them again. Gobnait lay inert in the centre of the tarpaulin and the four took cautious, sideway steps through the churning sea and towards the beach.
And then Mara took a hard decision. There was nothing that she could do here in Bones’ Bay, nothing except watch and pray. She could not swim, something that she regretted bitterly. She could not swim, she was fifty years old and she would be of little use in any rescue attempt.
Not allowing herself another moment to think or even to cast one more glance at the intrepid four and their burden, she began to run up the beach, trying to make as good progress as she could despite the wet sand hampering her footsteps and clogging the hem of her gown and cloak.
It seemed an endless time until she reached the limestone slabs, carved by the waves into slabs that almost looked like a set of steps. They were wet and slippery and full of small rock pools so she slowed down. A broken ankle would be a disaster, two extra minutes inconsequential. She could see the row of cottages above her, lining the small roadway that led to the harbour. She breathed a silent prayer that there would be assistance to find there. Surely, by sunset, some would have returned from fields or seashore. Resolutely she did not turn her head back towards the sea. There was nothing else she could do and she could not risk delay.
As soon as she reached the roadway she began to call, ‘Cabhrú, Cabhrú, Cabhrú,’ she screamed, using the native word and hearing the rocks send an echo back of the oo sound at the end of the word. First one door opened and then another. There was no delay. These people who lived by the sea were used to emergencies. A couple of men appeared, carrying ropes, one woman held a blanket bunched up under one arm.
‘We need something to bind a wound, linen, anything. Gobnait was mauled by a conger eel!’ The wind coming up from the sea was strong but Mara used every ounce of her long-learned skills in the outdoor law court and projected her voice against its strength. Two of the women turned and re-entered their homes. Figures rushed past her, leaping down the rocks with an almost inborn skill and by the time she had turned back to the beach again, the first of these was already splashing through the surf. By the time that Mara was on the sands, the tarpaulin was being held by eight figures. By now the water was only knee high, but still the tarpaulin’s weight floated on it. They would leave it to the last possible moment before lifting, thought Mara as, with the other villagers, she watched and waited. By now the new rescuers would have seen the blood soaked garments and perhaps the gaping hole on the woman’s leg. For as long as possible they slid her body along on the water, but then they stopped. There were a few words spoken, lost in the wind, but their purport was obvious when, first the two girls, and then the two boys, had their corner places taken by the men from the vill
age. There would be no rushing this last step. Gobnait’s life would depend on it. Already other men had arrived and stood waiting. For a moment Mara’s eyes went to Niall’s figure, still hunched on the rocks, but then they went back to the rescuers and their burden.
A wave came crashing onto the beach. A big one. One in every seven, Setanta used to tell the scholars. The figures in the sea again braced visibly against its power as it retreated, and then a familiar voice roared, ‘And after the next wave. Wait till I give the word. On the count of three!’
It was Pat, Gobnait’s husband, Mara realized with a shock of commiseration. She wondered for a moment where Fergus was and then remembered the boy, Conn Bacach. He must have taken up his duties immediately. Mara prayed that he would have the sense to keep Fergus out of the way if he heard about what was going on down by the waterfront.
The next wave was a small one. It rolled in and then slipped out again without much disturbance of the water. The figures in the water stood very still as it slid past and Pat’s voice rose up, ‘A haon, a do, a tre.’ His voice was loud and steady and even the noise from the ocean seemed to fade to a background accompaniment.
‘And now!’ he roared and the tarpaulin rose up in the water, its weight taken mainly at the four corners. Mara waited, as the others waited. Nothing must be allowed to distract the rescuers now.
Another wave hit them before they emerged from the surf, a bigger one this time, but it did not shake them. And then the first three set foot on the sand. And step by painful step they began to move up the beach. Other hands came forward to grip the tarred edge of the makeshift stretcher. Ríanne dropped out first, shivering, her shoulders bent. Mara went down and put her cloak around the girl and then Cael came up and the two girls huddled together. Cael was white and Ríanne shook with sobs. Cian and Art still bore their share of the weight and Mara did not call them. Gobnait owed her life to Art and she could not take him away at this stage.
Step by painful step they staggered up the beach. Mara wondered for a moment why they did not lay the woman down, but the next wave washed up by her boots and she realized that the tide was coming in rapidly. One glance at the damp sand around her showed that this beach would be submerged at high tide. The rescuers knew that and they made for the rocks. For a moment it looked as though they would climb the limestone slabs, get the injured woman indoors, but a harsh cry from Pat stopped them.
And as Mara drew near to the body, she saw the blood pump from a bared leg.
‘Get the priest,’ shouted a woman.
‘Get cloth, bandages, anything!’ said Mara exerting herself to use her most effective tones of command and instantly some woman came forward.
‘Get carrageen moss.’ The voice was high and quavering and Fergus appeared, moving down the limestone slabs with a surprising agility.
‘That’s a great idea, Brehon.’ Conn Bacach limped down after him, his voice calm and matter-of-fact.
Mara tried desperately to remember what Nuala had said about bleeding. ‘Pressure’, that was the word that she had used. She snatched a swathe of old linen from a woman’s hand and pressed it onto the gaping wound. In a second it was warm and sticky to her hand. It was tempting to remove it and to get a clean piece, but she remembered Nuala’s words. ‘Pressure,’ she said to herself and pressed down hard.
‘More!’ she said imperatively and another cloth was handed to her.
‘Let me do it.’ Pat took the cloth from her, muttering, ‘I knew no good would come of that business.’ Before Mara slid her hand out, she felt the weight of his: hard, heavy and calloused, above her own, pressing down almost too weightily, though the cloth beneath his hand did not stain instantly – a good sign, she thought. After a few moments she slid her hand from beneath his, straightened up and glanced around. One of the women was bringing the two soaking wet girls up towards the roadway and another was trying to urge Cian and Art to follow them. The physician had arrived to cries of welcome and to garbled explanations about what had happened. And Fergus was at her side, bearing a large clump of carrageen moss, torn from one of the rocks.
‘Excellent,’ she said, rapidly taking a cloth from a woman and wrapping the seaweed in it. It might help, she didn’t know, but she handed it over to the surprised physician.
‘Come along, boys, go instantly and get out of those wet clothes!’ And then, with a flash of inspiration, she said in the old man’s ear, ‘Would you go with them, Fergus, and make sure that they do what they are told. They’re both soaking wet, but they don’t want say that they are cold. You know what those young scholars are like!’
It worked instantly. He nodded knowingly, smiled at her and then said in his cracked, old voice, ‘Come with me, boys.’ And with Conn Bacach limping behind, the four of them climbed the limestone pavements and went down the road. Mara waited until she heard a door slam and then she walked across the lowest of the pavements until she reached the edge of the small deep pool where the bloody remains of the conger eel floated on the surface and beckoned to the boy still sitting hunched on the rocks.
‘Come, Niall,’ she said imperatively. ‘I need to speak with you.’
Fifteen
Berrad Airechta
(Shearings of the Court – Court Procedures)
Heptad 49
There are some people who are excluded from giving evidence in all circumstances:
1. A castaway.
2. A landless man.
3. An alien.
4. An insane or senile person.
5. A prostitute.
6. A robber.
7. A man who ingratiates himself with everybody.
There was no movement from the boy Niall. He sat immoveable, the tension in his slight figure was visible even from a distance. He did not turn his head when Mara called, just sat gazing out to sea, sat as though waiting for something or for someone. She called again, but still he did not respond. Her voice would have carried to him. Several people on the beach turned their heads and then looked curiously across at the solitary figure, sitting hunched up on the rocks at the far side of the conger eel’s pool. For a second Mara wondered whether to go to him, but a moment’s thought convinced her that it would be a mistake. He was a young, agile boy, wearing knee-length léine and mantle and she was, she had to face it, a woman approaching old age and hampered by ankle-length clothing. He could easily duck around the rocks, and then manage to flee to where his pony was tied up in the little blackthorn-fringed laneway.
And so she ignored him for the moment while she pondered what to do.
The beach was a hive of activity, only the figure of Gobnait, still lying on the tarpaulin was ominously still. The physician had arrived. His name was passed from one to the other of the workers and a deputation escorted him to the body. Soon a string of commands triggered another wave of movement as people hastened back up towards their cottages to fetch required articles. Mara wondered whether she should go down, but she wanted to keep a close eye on Niall. By now she was fairly satisfied that he would not be able to scale the cliff behind him and that his only way from the beach would be to pass close to where she was sitting. She beckoned to a small boy and he came to her instantly.
‘Would you do an errand for me? Would you go up to the alehouse and tell the king’s soldiers to come down here to the beach. Say that the Brehon wants them. Would you be able to do that?’ she asked, wishing that she had something with which to reward him.
He grinned at her, showing a pair of large new teeth in the front of his upper jaw.
‘I’ll say the king’s wife and then they’ll know who I mean,’ he said.
‘You’re right,’ said Mara humbly. He had a point. There were too many Brehons hanging around in this case. To most of the people of Doolin, Fergus was still the Brehon and then there was Gaibrial O’Doran, the so-called new Brehon and even Boetius used the name of Brehon when he wanted to impress the village people.
By the time the boy had reached the grassy cliff, more peo
ple were coming down. A woman carrying an armful of blankets, another with still more strips of linen fluttering in the sea wind, a pair of men carrying a door taken off its hinges. In this treeless coastal area there was always a shortage of wood and she had seen a door used as a stretcher before now. Mara took heart from these signs. Gobnait must still be alive, she thought. A body could be easily carried back on the tarpaulin, but the door pointed to an anxiety not to jolt the leg and start the blood pumping out again. She waited patiently. It would, she thought, be impossible to question Gobnait for several days, but in the meantime she could find out what she needed to know from Niall. Everything was beginning to fall into place. The events of that night that followed on from that day on the eleventh of October when Brehon O’ Doran had judged the cases of arson, theft of copyright, rape, assault and neglect and issued his harsh judgements. Those five foolish young men, smarting under unjust sentences, had created an opportunity for the murderer to act beneath the cloak of their deed. It had been, she thought, not a planned crime, but an impulsive one.
The small boy must have run full speed because very soon the king’s men were marching down the road. They took in the situation on the beach in a glance. By now Gobnait’s inert form had been carefully transferred onto the door. The leader of the men issued a crisp command and they took their places in between the four men who already held the corners. Now the makeshift litter could be moved with the utmost care and with the minimum of jolting. Mara waited, watching its progress, but not moving from her position on the rock. She cast another glance over at Niall, but he hadn’t moved either. She saw his head turn once, but then he looked out to sea again. What was going on in his head? Surely he didn’t think that he could make his escape? From time to time, she looked thoughtfully towards the rock where Gobnait had dropped the two canvas pouches, but Niall made no effort to go near to them and she was content to wait until the return of Turlough’s men. This affair should now be conducted with dignity and according to the law.
An Unjust Judge Page 21
