Child of the Prophecy (13 page)

I sat there awhile, watching. I sat there long enough to become calm, to slow my breathing, to tell myself I could manage, I would manage. Perhaps, when they gathered around the fire in the evening, they would not think it amiss if I retired early to sleep. Maybe, when they went up to join the great throng at the horse fair, I might remain behind here and walk alone on the shore, or sit and watch the slow pattern, always changing, always still the same. Perhaps that might be possible. If it were not, I would have to use the Glamour. Indeed, Grandmother would think it foolish that I had not done so by now, to cover my awkwardness, to mask my fear of strangers. I thought it foolish myself, really. But there was something held me back. I remembered Darragh's frown, and Darragh's words. I don't like it when you do that. I thought of the little girl's voice. You look pretty. I had decided, almost, that she was joking. But for a moment her words had warmed me. If I used the Glamour, everyone would think I was pretty. But it was not the same.

In the event, there was no escaping the evening's festivities. My half-framed excuse was brushed aside by Peg, who bustled me out into the circle of folk seated on rugs and old boxes and bits and pieces around the fire. She sat me down between Molly and herself, put a cup of something steaming and fragrant into my hands, then settled herself down for the fun, all, it seemed, in the twinkling of an eye. There was simply no chance to object.

Around the fire were many faces, old and new. The smaller children sat drowsing on parents' knees, or slept curled in blankets close by a watchful sister or brother. The older folk were given pride of place, the most comfortable seats, the nearest proximity to the fire's warmth. Everyone was there: Dan Walker with his little dark beard and the gold ring in his ear; the group of youths I had encountered on my visit to the camp, back home; Darragh himself, talking to a couple of brightly clad girls I had not seen before. There were other folk I did not know, though clearly they were invited guests. The two girls seemed to have brothers, or cousins, and there was an older, gray-haired man sitting by Dan and sharing the hot drink from a great kettle set by the fire. I sipped cautiously. It was good, but strong, something like a cider with spices and honey.

"What about a tale or two?" somebody asked. "Who's got a good story? Brian? Diarmuid?"

"Not me," said the gray-haired man, shaking his head. "Got a toothache. Can't talk."

"Huh!" scoffed another. "Have some more to drink, that'll soon

cure it."

"Fellow at the fair, pulls teeth neat and quick," Molly suggested. "You need to visit him, he'd have it out for you before you could so much as squeal."

"That butcher?" The man paled visibly. "I'd as soon get my old woman to lay hold of it with a pair of fire tongs."

There were several suggestions as to what other remedies he might have recourse to, none of them very practical. Then Dan Walker spoke up.

"I'll tell a tale," he said. There was a chorus of approval, then silence. "It's about a man called Daithi, Daithi O'Flaherty. No relation, you understand, of the distinguished family of that name that lives in these parts." There was a roar of appreciative laughter. "A farmer, he was. Well, this Daithi got an idea he might go and see his sweetheart, just to pass the time of day, you understand. He was making his way along the road when he heard a little noise, tap tap-pity tap, from down under the bushes by the track. Daithi was a sharp

fellow. He didn't make a sound, but crouched down quiet-like, and peered under the twigs to see what it was. And bless me if he didn't spot a tiny wee fellow, all dressed in a pointed hat and a fine small apron of leather, and by him a pitcher with a little dipper laid by it. The small one was tapping away at a boot he was making, a boot the length of one part of your finger, fit only for a clurichaun such as himself. As Daithi watched, holding his breath, the wee fellow put down his cobbler's tool, and went to the pitcher, and he dipped the ladle in and got himself a drink of the liquor; and then he went back to his work, tap tappity tap.

"Best handle this careful, said Daithi to himself. So he kept his voice soft, not to startle the little man.

" 'Good day to you, fine sir,' he spoke up, as polite as can be.

" 'And you, sir,' replied the small one, still tapping away.

" 'And what might it be that you're a-fashioning there?' asked Daithi.

" ' `Tis a shoe, to be sure,' said the clurichaun, with a touch of scorn. 'And what might you be doing, wandering the track instead of doing your day's work?'

" Til be back to it soon enough,' replied Daithi, thinking, Unless I catch you first. 'Now tell me, what is it you have in your fine wee pot there?'

" 'Beer,' said the little man. 'The tastiest ever brewed. Made it meself He licked his lips.

' 'Indeed?' said Daithi. 'And what might you use, for such a brew? Malt, would it be?'

"The clurichaun rolled his eyes in disdain. 'Malt? Malt's for babies. This drink's brewed from heather. None better.'

"'Heather?' exclaimed Daithi. 'You can't brew beer from heather.'

" 'Ah,' said the wee fellow. ' 'Twas the Dubh-ghaill showed me. Secret recipe. 'Tis me own family makes it, and no other.'

" 'Can I taste it then?'

" 'Surely,' said the clurichaun. 'But it's shocked I am, that a fine farmer such as yourself would be thinking to pass the time of day drinking by the road, when it's his own geese are out of the yard and running riot all over his neighbor's garden.'

"Daithi was shocked, and nearly turned away to run back down to the cottage and see if the wee man was right. But at the last instant he remembered, and instead his hand shot out to grab the clurichaun by one leg. The jug went over, and all the beer spilt out on the ground.

" 'Now,' said Daithi as sternly as he could, 'show me where you keep your store of gold, or it'll be the worse for you.'

"Well, the clurichaun was rightly trapped, for as we all know, you need only hold onto such a one and keep him in your sight, and he has to show you his treasure. So on they went down to Daithi's own fields, and into a place with many rocks still to be shifted before it would be good for planting. The clurichaun pointed to one of these big stones toward the south end of the field.

" 'There,' said the little fellow. 'Under that, there's me crock of gold, and bad cess to you.'

"Well, Daithi tried and he tried to shift the rock, pushing and heaving, and all the while holding onto the clurichaun, and eventually he knew he'd not get it out without his spade. But there were so many stones there; a whole field of stones. He'd need to mark it somehow, before he went for the spade. Daithi felt in his pocket. There was a bit of red ribbon there that he'd got from a traveling man, and planned to give to his sweetheart for a surprise. He fished it out, and tied it around the rock where the gold lay buried.

" 'There,' he said. He frowned at the wee man. 'Now, before I let you free,' he said, knowing well the trickery of such folk, 'I want your word. You're not to move the treasure before I come back with the spade. And you're not to take the ribbon off this rock. Give me your promise.'

" 'I promise, sure and I do,' said the clurichaun with absolute sincerity."

There was a ripple of laughter from those in Dan's audience who knew the end of this story.

" 'All right then,' said Daithi.

" 'Will you let me go, so?' the wee man asked, polite as can be. So Daithi released him, and the clurichaun was off in a flash. Daithi went home for his spade, and rushed back to the field with his mind full of all the things he would do when he laid his hands on that crock of gold. And as he came around the corner and clapped eyes on the field, what did he see? Every single stone in that field was wearing a red ribbon, neat as could be. And try as he might, and

dig as he would, Daithi O'Flaherty never did find the clurichaun's treasure."

There was a ripple of satisfied applause. Even I had enjoyed the story, though it had lacked the grandeur of those my father told. Then the gray-haired man, apparently cured of his toothache, volunteered a song. It was a fine, uplifting tune about how hard it was to make a living in the bitter cold and harsh land of Ceann na Mara, and how he loved it so well, regardless, that his heart would always call him back there. There were more tales: funny, sad, touching. At the end, Darragh was persuaded to play his pipes. This time he did not choose one of the heart-stopping laments I had heard so often ringing across the hillside above the cove. He played music for dancing, and the young folk got up and made a circle, and there was a stamping of feet and a clapping of hands, and the bright whirl of skirts and fringed shawls in the warm golden light of the campfire. I sat and watched and sipped my drink. Darragh played on. He was not looking at the joyful dancers, or at the older folk seated comfortably, renewing friendships after a year's parting. He was looking at me. Get up and dunce, his eyes said, challenging. Why don't you? And deep inside me, something wanted to do just that. The music spoke to the blood; it called to feelings best left unwoken. But I had been well trained. I spoke to myself severely. You, dance? Don't be silly. You'll never dance, not without making a, fool of yourself. Besides, you are what you are. You are outside this, and always will be.

After that it was easy enough to get up, have a quiet word with Peg, and retire to the tent.

"Enjoyed yourself, did you, lass?" Peg queried. I gave a little nod that could have meant anything, and fled to my dark corner and privacy. Outside the music played on. At some point, Darragh's pipes were joined by a whistle and a drum. In my own small patch of stillness, I unfastened the wooden chest and, rummaging through the contents, I found Riona and took her out. Her features could barely be discerned in the shadows.

Did my mother dance? I asked her. Is that what this once was, a dress for dancing? My fingers touched a fold of the rose-colored silk that made up Riona's small gown. Surely only a lovely, confident girl would wear such a fabric. And yet, that same girl had become the fragile creature of Peg's words, the woman who had abandoned her little child and the young man who loved her so desperately, the woman who had simply stepped off the cliff one day and gone down, down through the wild spray into the icy grip of the ocean surge as it hammered the rocks of the Honeycomb. Her own family had done this to her; her father, her uncles, her brother who still ruled as lord of Sevenwaters. Darragh's talk of family was rubbish. They had as good as killed her, and they had all but destroyed my father. In their way they were as bad as my grandmother. Now I must confront them, and somehow I must complete the task my grandmother had laid on me. How could I think of tales, and music, and fun, when I had that ahead of me? Dan Walker and his kind were simple folk. Even the stories they told were simple. I did not belong with them, and it was foolish to believe I ever would. I must keep myself to myself and make sure I drew no undue attention. In time the journey would be ended, and I could begin the work that was required of me.

But it was not so easy. It seemed to me there was a small conspiracy afoot to bring me out of myself, and make me a part of everything whether I wanted it or not. They were up early next morning, with folk already eating their porridge as I emerged, bleary-eyed, from the tent. There was a communal water trough. I splashed my face, having learned soon enough not to be too fussy.

"Eat up quick," advised one of the girls as she hurried past me, tying her hair neatly back in a kerchief. "It's quite a walk. And trading starts early."

Mutely, I accepted a bowl of porridge and retired under the trees to sit on a fallen branch and eat. I was tired. It had been a late night. I did not want to go anyway. But they all seemed so busy; there was nobody I could ask. The ponies must look their best; Dan was inspecting them as the boys moved around putting the final touches on: the intricate plaiting of a mane here, the careful brushing of a tail there. Peg was sorting out the best of the baskets, and giving the girls instructions about trading and more instructions about not getting into trouble. Maybe there was no need to ask if I could stay behind. Maybe they would just forget me. A sudden wave of homesickness swept over me, a longing to see Father and be back in safe, familiar, quiet Kerry once more. If only I could just pack up a little bag and set off by myself, retracing the way until I came up the hill where the standing stones marked the passing of time, and found myself back in the cove again.

But I could not go. The only way was forward. I felt powerless and sad. I felt truly outside, as if there were nowhere I belonged.

"Best clean that bowl and get ready to go, lass." Peg's voice broke into my thoughts. "We'll be away soon. Busy day."

I looked up at her, framing the words. Then Darragh appeared behind her, dressed in his best, green neckerchief jaunty, boots polished to a high shine.