Selkie's Song (Fado Trilogy) (2 page)

She held her hands out to Simon.

“Ya don’t have to do this, ya know,” he said.

The tension in her jaw created enough force to crumble teeth. She took a deep breath in a vain attempt to cool the anger that surged in her blood. “Just do it,” she urged.

Simon dragged the chain to circle the base of the tree. Thorns on the low branches caught his Aran jumper, snagging the wool and slowing his progress.

“Simon, would you get on with it?” She was rarely afraid and never lacking in pure nerve. Perhaps it was the exhilaration of protest prompting her heart to a frantic tempo.

He stood, brushed dirt and fallen white blossoms from his shoulders and knees. “Ach, there you go now.” Simon slipped both ends of the chain to the handcuffs and snapped them around Muireann’s wrists. He held up the handcuff key. “Where do you want this?”

“Feck it off the headland.”

“Are ya mental?”

“Probably.” She set her jaw.

“But—”

“I’ve got it under control.” The words had barely passed her vocal chords before she regretted snapping at him. Simon had been her best friend since before time began and, though he was as annoying as a hole in her wellies on a wet day, he always stood by her when she needed him. “I’m running out of time.”

She crept under the tree, awkward with her hands shackled, and settled with her head resting on a mound of grass. Thankfully, the sheep had avoided this area. It didn’t appeal to Muireann to lie down in a pile of sheep dung…not even for a good cause.

“Okay, everyone circle this tree and clasp hands now,” Simon ordered the crowd.

For a moment, Muireann felt just like a Druidic sacrifice—the virginal female—well, granted, that was a stretch—whitethorn tree, and loyal worshippers, a shield of protection for the holy ground under their feet.

Through the branches, the white blooms looked like clouds against the blue of a clear sky. Muireann closed her eyes and listened. The omnipresent rhythm of the sea, whispered voices speaking the Irish, the bark of a dog far in the distance, and the wind…always the wind. This was as silent as her world ever became.

Muireann refused to lift her head to look, but she clearly heard a car pull up, brakes squeal, a door slam.

“Muireann O’Malley, if you think you’re going to accomplish anything here today, you’re dumb as a bag of horseshoes!”

That gobshite, Ian Feeney. Well, she’d expected him and she was ready. She rolled her head to the side and saw his highly polished shoes and the cuffs of his expensive suit pants. Feeney’s bank held liens against most of Ballinacurragh, which certified him a pig and a shitehawk as well. “That’s
Ní Mháille
to you and yours.”

“A name’s a name. In the Irish or the English, you’re still just one of the many O’Malleys in this part of the counties.” He snorted in disdain as though her name alone relegated her lower than pond scum.

“Ian, you have no right to be here,” she reminded. “This is private property.”

“Sure it is, but not yours. Simon Flaherty, get this woman out of here.”

“Can’t do that, Feeney. Don’t have the key...”

A vibration as subtle as the beat of a bird’s wing stirred the air next to her ear. The earth under her back quivered and then calmed. But, instead of quieting completely, the shaking advanced, tremor evolving into a steady rumble.

The thunderous reverberation reached its peak and ceased, leaving behind only a huffing diesel engine. Muireann turned to face the treads of a bulldozer, only inches away. She felt frail compared to the power of the big, yellow machine.

Mud-coated wellies hit the ground with a thump. “Ian, if ya think I’m takin’ out that fairy tree, yer as much a mentaler as the girl chained to it.”

Muireann recognized the gruff country accents of her neighbor, Mícheál Delaney.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Delaney,” Ian sneered. “I hired you to do this job—”

“You didn’t tell me it was
this
tree. You said come take out
a
tree. I’ve a family to consider…and a farm.” Delaney headed toward the big diesel.

“What does any of that have to do with it?”

“Jaysus, Ian, I don’t need bad luck or worse knocking on my door,” Delaney shouted over the growl of his engine as he backed it carefully onto the road.

“You superstitious fool—” Ian’s voice rose in frustration at the retreating machine. Muireann could picture him—collar so tight his jowly neck overflowed the starched constraint, sweat running in shiny rivulets down the sides of his red face and dampening the comb-over on the top of his balding head.

“Now, Feeney, I might not believe the tales I’ve heard about this particular whitethorn tree, but a man in my position can’t take chances.”

“Your position? You have no position.” Ian stepped toward Muireann, making a great effort not to muddy his shoes. “I represent the Fisherman’s Bank and Loan, and you are in violation of the law.”

“Arrest me,” Muireann sneered.

“Arrest all of us,” someone called from the circle.

“Mammy, is the Gardaí gonna come put us in the jail?” little Emma squeaked in alarm.

“Take us in. Take us all in,” an old woman taunted.

“Granny?” Ian’s voice choked. “Why aren’t you home where you belong?”

Muireann smiled. “Ian,” she called. “Ya can’t have the whole village locked up.” Though the thought did occur that if anyone would lock up his own grandmother, Ian was the man.

“You come out from under there, O’Malley, and I’ll call off the bulldozer.”

“You’ll have to drive over me yourself. I think the dozer’s headed for home, Ian.”

A low moan of frustration gritted in the banker’s throat. Ian had a short fuse but an even shorter tolerance of the heat. His retreating footfalls thumped the turf and knew she had won today’s brief battle.

“Simon,” she called in triumph, “unlock the cuffs.”

There was a pause.

“Simon…are ya there?”

“Uh…yeah,” Simon mumbled.

“Unlock the cuffs.”

“I can’t.”

“Get your arse over here and get me outta this.”

“I can’t. I fecked the key over the headland like ya told me.”

“Ya dumbass. I need to take a pee.” She tried to keep her voice low but it came out in a burst of frustration. “Find the spare key.”

“Me da has it,” Simon explained.

“Get him, you eegit!”

“Can’t do that. He’s out fishin’. He’ll be back with the tide.”

Now she was at a distinct disadvantage.

“Just you wait, Muireann O’Malley,” Ian chuckled. “The man who holds title to this rock pile is not only behind in his taxes—I haven’t received payment on his loan in months, and he refuses to reply to the bank’s notifications.”

“Ha!” Muireann gloated. “I knew the man well. You won’t get your money out of Bertie O’Malley this side of the heavenly gates. I sang ‘The Parting Glass’
at his wake a fortnight ago.” She squeezed her thighs together and tried not to think of water ebbing and flowing. “Simon, I don’t care if you have to swim out to your da’s boat. Get me outta here.”

****

On the other side of the Atlantic…

“Ya don’t know yer arse from yer elbow, Jamie Mac. I’ve a bun in the oven, not two busted wings,” Flannery shouted.

“And what are ya plannin’ to do? Take five to birth the child behind the bar, jump up, an’ serve a pint with a baby on yer breast and yer fiddle tucked under yer chin?”

Tynan Sloane leaned his bike against the wall and snapped a lock through the front wheel and fork. His lips curved into an involuntary smile as he pushed through the screened back door and into the dining room of the public house he called home.

All had been peaceful when he left to pick up the mail fifteen minutes ago. Now, Jamie McFallon stood braced for a fight, face flushed, pan in one hand and a gesticulating spatula in the other. “Jaysus, Flannery, fer once in yer life be reasonable.”

“Reasonable? Do you want reasonable, or do you want someone to listen to yer stupid jokes?” Flannery taunted.

They were face to face and would have been toe to toe if not for a protruding belly the size of a soccer ball between them.

Tynan took a seat at the bar and started to open his mail.

Jamie let out a long sigh of resignation and pleaded with the man seated in the shadowed corner booth. “Cade, yer her husband. Can’t ya talk some sense into her?”

“Jamie, I’ve learned over the last few months to choose very carefully what mountains I want to die on.” He lifted his coffee cup in a mock toast. “This isn’t one of them.”

“Oh, an’ are ya callin’ me a mountain, like?” Flann spun around. “I’ll remind ya who got me into this situation.”

“Now, Flann—”

“Don’t ye be now-Flannin’ me. I told ye both, I did. I’ll keep workin’ my shifts and playin’ the sessions.” She headed for the kitchen. “All this foolishness is makin’ me hungry, and Kerry’s puttin’ on the tea.”

Cade took his mug and started to follow her when he noticed Tynan. “Hey, bro, didn’t hear you come in, what with all the excitement.”

Ty grinned. “Got your hands full, I see.”

“I should go calm her down,” Cade said with a lack of conviction.

“Ah, now, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Tynan warned. “My baby sister is making a point here. You have to remember Irish women take a spell to cool down.”
Possibly centuries.

“Is that why you’re still single?”

“I tried to warn you,” Ty reminded him, though in his heart he envied the man. “Yer a lucky bastard.” Ty smacked Cade on the shoulder. “I’d settle for a woman who could carry on an intelligent conversation.” And he didn’t add
unlike the vapid groupies who hang around the pub with the goal of scoring with the lead man in the band.

Tynan’s twin sister, Kerry, had pointed out to him the cold fact that, at the not so tender age of thirty-two, he had never been in love. Not that he hadn’t tried. He saw himself as a pretty decent catch: educated, funny, not bad looking…humble.

He would always have his sisters,
their
husbands,
their
children. That was a joy to be sure. But Tynan simply could not see himself as the old bachelor brother and uncle, sitting by the fire, amusing a gaggle of nieces and nephews with his songs and stories. He wanted his own children on his knee, calling him Da. Not to ignore the essentials: a lover, a soul mate, a wife.

It had occurred to him he might be too picky in his choices. Perhaps it should not have been so disturbing that most of them were all too eager to go to bed with him. What kind of man was he? The joy of sex without the commitment to verbiage was, reportedly, a dream date. Yet, he wanted a woman able to carry on an intelligent conversation before
and
after orgasm.

Yes, he wanted it all.

Now, he had a start, a goal and a grand plan to get him from A to Z. The first step: a clear shot at a pub of his own. He felt a bit naïve, having thought this would be easy.

O’Fallon’s was up for sale for the first time in two centuries. Tynan wanted it. He was determined. Nothing need stand in his way.

Nothing except the steep purchase price of the historic public house and the down payment which would take most of his earnings from Fadό’s first record and then some.

Across the Waters
had been a hit, a windfall. It launched Kerry’s solo album and Flann’s contract for a film soundtrack. But Tynan had spent a chunk of his revenue on two weddings. Flannery’s was a gala affair on a yacht in Boston Harbor. She married into one of the most influential families in the Northeast and Tynan was delighted to give her a beautiful fairy tale that would be the talk of Beantown for generations.

Kerry’s marriage to Aidan Kennedy was a small gathering. The weeks preceding the joining of the “voice of Celtic music” and the former IRA operative turned humanitarian had been traumatic at best and deadly at worst. They needed a quiet nuptial attended by family and close friends that did not draw unwanted attention. But Kerry had always wanted to go to Italy on her honeymoon, and Tynan made sure that happened for her.

In his youth, Ty would have given his left testicle to be in the music business and successful. Now his dream had come to fruition and it hadn’t taken the sacrifice of any body parts.

He was single, successful, and living—maybe not
la vida loca,
but any day above ground was a good day. To Tynan, making an offer on O’Fallon’s was a no-brainer when Jamie announced his intention of returning to Ireland. In a way, Tynan thought of the deal as keeping the pub in the family.

“What’s the letter? Looks official?” Cade indicated the large manila envelope in Ty’s hand.

“Don’t know.” Tynan glanced at the return address. “From a solicitor: J. P. Warren, Dublin, Ireland.” He hoped he wasn’t being sued and tried to recall if he had left a debt behind that had finally caught up with him. One more unexpected outlay of money and he would be hard-pressed to make his bid on the pub any time soon, if ever.

“Let me know if you need help from my legal department,” Cade said and stood. “I’d better go calm my little butterfly before she throws something at Jamie and puts him out of commission for a week.”

Tynan set the solicitor’s letter aside and leafed through his other mail. Coupons from the local chemist shop for mouthwash and a “buy one, get one” on depilatory wax, a popular dress shop was having a sale on ladies’ foundations. If he was interested, he could win a trip to the Bahamas if he bought a new, gas-guzzling SUV from a desperate American auto company.

When he couldn’t avoid the inevitable any longer, Ty pried the brad open on the envelope from Dublin, pulled the sticky flap free from the opening, and removed the one page.

Dear Mr. Sloane,
it began
.

We regret to inform you of the passing of your great-uncle thrice removed, Albert O’Malley.

A derelict building set on a two hectare parcel of land has been bequeathed to Máire Ni Miollain or her heirs.

Máire Ni Miollain, God rest her soul, was Mary Malone Sloane, Tynan’s mother. She’d been gone four years now. Seeing her name on this letter gave him a burning sensation behind his eyes and a tickle of impending tears in his throat.

He suspected, since he was the eldest, even if only by minutes, he was now the proud owner of an ancient mound of building stones on a postage stamp size plot of ground in North Clare, Ireland.