Points of Departure (37 page)

He was a strange lad—with a peculiar, dreamy air about him that made some think he was dim-witted. But he wasn’t stupid—he just
paid attention to other lessons.

Reading and writing seemed unimportant when he could look out the window and see the flowers growing in the fields, hear the birds singing. He understood the mathematics of bird nests, the poetry of cloud formations, the penmanship of snail tracks left on the cold stones of the churchyard wall.

He had a way about him. Animals liked him: the wildest horse would
consent to be shod when Charlie held its head. Cows bore their calves more easily if he were standing by. Over the years, the widow Bryne’s farm prospered: her fields were fertile and her hens laid more eggs than any in the village. Her cows gave the richest milk and bore their calves with never a bit of trouble.

Charlie lived with his mother, helping to tend her prospering farm. When he was
just sixteen, he was taller than the tallest man in the county. At twenty, he measured eight feet tall, and he was still growing. And always he wondered when he would be called upon to save Ireland.

One sunny day, he was drowsing in the Giant’s Boneyard, his back against the boulder known as the Giant’s Skull.

Leaning against the sun-warmed surface, he listened to the wind in the grass and the
high thin peeping of the little birds that searched for seeds in the meadow. A lark flew from the grass and came to perch on the boulder. When Charlie held out his hand, the bird flew to him. With one finger, he gently rubbed the bird’s head. When Charlie stopped his petting, the lark tilted back its head, sang a liquid trill, then pushed off his finger and took flight.

Charlie watched the bird
fly, then plucked a blade of grass from a clump beside him and chewed on the sweet stem. The earth beneath him was warm; the sun shone on his face. He belonged in this meadow the way the boulders belonged. It seemed to him sometimes that he should stay here always, letting the grass grow over him, its roots tickling the surface of his skin as it tickled the granite boulders.

The wind carried
the sound of voices. Some neighboring farmers had stopped their work in a nearby field to have a bit of lunch. Their deep voices blended with the distant songbirds and the humming of bees in the wildflowers. Charlie let the sounds wash over him.

“Patrick’s gone to England,” said one man. Charlie recognized the voice of Mick, an elderly farmer. Patrick was his oldest son. “He said he’ll come home
rich or not at all.”

“Not at all, more than likely,” muttered his companion.

John, Charlie guessed from the voice, another neighbor.

“Have you ever known a young lad to come home? My wife has borne me five strong sons. The Lord took two of them, and they are happy with the angels in heaven. But the other three are in England. I think the ones that are with the angels are more likely to come
home than the ones that are in London.”

“Aye, that’s God’s truth,” Mick agreed sadly. “I’ve never known a one to come home to till his father’s farm.”

A pause, punctuated by the gurgling of beer pouring from the jug.

“Every night, as I go to sleep, I wonder who will till this land when I’m gone,” John said softly. “’Tis not such a large plot—barely enough to feed us—but it was my father’s farm
and his father’s before him.” John stopped talking long enough to take a draught of beer, then continued.

“’Tis a sad thing when a man with five sons has no one to help him with the plowing.”

“It ain’t right,” Mick said. “It ain’t right that the best of our children run away to England, never to return.”

John laughed, a dry humorless sound. “Aye, we need to protect ourselves. The blasted English
have given up fighting with swords. Instead they lure the children away with sweet promises and gold. Treacherous bastards.”

“Aye,” Mick agreed sadly. “That they are.”

The men were silent for a moment, and then John spoke again. “I see you looking over there at those boulders. Old stories won’t help you now.”

Mick’s voice was soft. “I think sometimes about the old king, rising up from his bones.
If he were to come before us, I’d tell him to bring the children home. Go to London and bring our sons and daughters back to us.”

John snorted. “If you’re looking for magic to save you, you’re more foolish than I thought. There’s no magic there—just boulders and tall green grass. The magic faded long ago.”

Charlie frowned. John was an unhappy man—bitter, tired, as dried up as the land he cultivated.
Charlie understood why all his sons left and why all his daughters married young.

“Ah, well,” Mick said. “All the wishing in the world won’t till the field. I think we’d best get back to work.”

The voices faded, leaving only the humming of the bees and the wind in the grasses. Charlie tilted his head to the sun and thought.

Thinking made Charlie uneasy. But he could not help considering Mick’s
words. For some time, he had felt that something was wrong, an uneasy and uncomfortable sensation in his belly. He had watched his neighbors’ sons and daughters leave their fathers’ farms and go to England, saying they would return. The land called out to them, wishing them back again, but they did not come back.

And he dreamed of a day when the children were all gone; old men and women tilled
the farms, weeping for their sons and daughters who had run away, never to return.

Maybe he fell asleep in the sun. Without being aware of it, he may have quietly slipped over the thin line between sleep and wakefulness, lying there in the grass. The sun was low in the sky and the boulders cast long shadows across the meadow.

He heard footsteps and looked up. A tall man wearing a crown regarded
him sadly. Charlie scrambled to his feet.

He recognized his father, though the man did not entirely match his mother’s description. The king’s eyes were not fierce, but mournful and sad. He wasn’t really handsome: his face was broad and pleasant, rather like Charlie’s own.

His gray beard was touched with green, as if strands of moss grew among the hairs. He wore armor made of tarnished metal
plate, joined by strips of leather. Small, soft-petaled flowers sprouted among the lacings. His crown gave off a weak blue light, like the strange fluorescence that glows from rotting wood.

The king sat down heavily on a nearby boulder. “Your turn has come, my son,” he said. His tone was melancholy; his voice, a soft rumble. “You must go to England and bring the sons and daughters of Ireland
home.”

Charlie nodded eagerly. “I know,” he said. “I’ll bring them home.”

The king stared at the ground. “There is still magic here, though some do not have eyes to see it.” He studied Charlie. “You must come back to this place, when your task is done. You belong here. You are part of the magic and power. This is the place you must die and be buried.”

Charlie frowned. He saw no need to talk
about what would happen when he died. He was young and strong and eager to do what his father wanted. “Yes, yes,” he said. “I understand.”

The king reached for the scabbard that hung at his side and pulled out a sword. It was as tarnished as the armor, but jewels gleamed on its hilt. “Here is my sword. Perhaps it will help you.” He looked at the weapon doubtfully. “It was my father’s before me,
and it still has some magic in it.”

Charlie took hold of the hilt and bowed to his father clumsily.

It was dark when Charlie woke. The grass was damp with dew, and where the sword had been was a plain straight staff of hawthorn wood. When Charlie picked it up, the white blossoms and green shoots sprouted from the dry wood, as if spring had come in the space of a minute. Charlie frowned and brushed
the blossoms away but they sprouted again. At last, he gave up and left them be, carrying a staff adorned with small white flowers that smelled of spring.

Every August, not far from Dublin, farmers gathered at the Donnybrook Fair to race horses, sell cattle, drink whiskey, and get into fights. That year, on the last day of the fair, the sky was gray and a misty rain was falling. The hard-packed
soil of the fairground was slick and muddy.

Joe Vance hunched his shoulders against the dampness and pushed through the crowd, down the aisle of hastily constructed booths and sagging tents. The country people seemed oblivious to the rain: they were playing pitch-and-toss, gawking at the Punch and Judy show, listening to the hideous wail of the organ-grinder’s instrument and laughing at the antics
of his flea-bitten monkey.

Vance had spent the morning trying to entice passing farmers into a simple sporting game. He had three shells and a dried pea: to win, a farmer had only to guess which shell hid the pea. But the crowd had been reluctant to play. For five hours, Vance had been sitting in the drizzle and calling to the crowd without a penny to show for it.

Vance suspected that some other
thimble rigger must have passed through recently, and the locals were wise to the trick. All in all, Vance was sick of the country and eager to return to London, where a sharp had a chance to earn a guinea or two.

Vance was almost to the end of the aisle when he saw a clump of people gathered around a young man. The young man seemed to be standing on a box; he towered over the tallest man in
the crowd. On his shoulder, a meadowlark perched, looking just as calm as you please. As Vance watched, the small bird tipped back his head and sang a high sweet trill, followed by a glorious burst of song. The liquid notes cut through the babble of the crowd and the wailing of the organ.

“Is the bloody bird tame?” Vance asked a man in the crowd, but the man just shrugged. Vance pushed his way
closer: He had seen caged finches fetch a pretty penny among the London gentry, and they did nothing but chirp and flutter. A man might turn a profit if he had a supply of tame larks.

Just as Vance reached the front of the crowd, the bird finished its song and took flight. The young man on whose shoulder it had perched smiled after it and took a step, as if to follow. With a shock, Vance realized
that the man was not standing on a box at all. With his bare feet planted firmly on the muddy earth, he stood at least two feet taller than any other man in the crowd. He was a country lad, dressed in rough homespun cloth that was marked with the dust of the road. In one hand, he held a wooden staff that was decorated with white flowers.

Vance forgot the lark and the hope of profits that had
flown with the bird. “God save me, man—how bloody tall are you?” Vance asked, staring up.

The young man glanced down at Vance and shrugged.

“Tallest in Derry County.”

“Tallest I’ve ever laid eyes on,” Vance said. “How old are you?”

“Twenty years this summer.”

“Bloody remarkable,” Vance muttered. He squinted, measuring the man with his eyes. Londoners were always willing to pay to see a curiosity.
“Must be eight feet tall, if you’re an inch. What’s your name, lad?”

“Charlie Bryne.”

“My name’s Joe Vance, Charlie, and I’m pleased to meet you. You’re a likely lad, Charlie, a very likely lad. I must confess, I’ve never met a one like you before. A marvel in your own right.”

Charlie’s eyes were a brilliant innocent blue, as pale and clear as the summer sky. “Where are you from?” he asked.

“From London, the finest city in all the world.”

Charlie studied Vance. “Tell me—are there many Irishmen in London?”

“Irishmen? Why, I’d wager half a crown that there are more Irishmen in St. Giles Rookery than in all of County Derry,” Vance said enthusiastically. “You’d never be homesick in London.”

Charlie’s face was guileless, the sweet face of a fool. “I want to go to London,” he said.

Vance smiled at the way that fate was playing into his hands. His luck, it seemed, had finally turned. “I knew it when I laid eyes on you, Charlie. I knew you for a man with a spirit of adventure, an itching to see the world. And you’re in luck, Charlie, tremendous luck.” Vance moved closer, reaching up to place a hand on Charlie’s shoulder.

“I’ll take you there, lad. You see, I’m a manager. I
find people with special talents, and I help ’em along. Groom ’em, so to speak. Back in London, I managed Bruisin’ Peg. You may have heard of her?”

Charlie shook his head.

“Best lady prize fighter in all London. When Peg was in the ring, you could hear the screaming for miles around.

“Pity she had to retire.” Vance felt it unnecessary to mention that her decision to retire had been precipitated
by a broken leg and a clout on the ear that had left her half deaf. He had abandoned her in a low London boardinghouse, with enough money to pay a week’s rent. It had seemed like an opportune time to leave town with the rest of the profits. “I’ll take you to London, lad,” Vance continued. “It’ll be a wonderful opportunity for you, a wonderful opportunity.”

And so it happened that Charlie came
to be on board a bluff-bowed brig that sailed from Dublin to England. Late at night, on the first night of the crossing, Tom Dorland was on deck, having been awakened by the lice that infested his bedding and clothes. He strolled in the open air, grateful that the cold and the motion had quieted the insects, but knowing that they would rouse again if he returned to his narrow bunk.

A half moon,
high in the sky, illuminated the deck, casting a silver light on the boxes and barrels and bundles that were lashed to the railings. The wind had died and the ship was barely moving through the water. Tom leaned on the railing, staring out to sea.

“’Tis a pleasant evening,” a deep voice said from the shadows beside a large box.

Tom glanced toward the voice, frowning into the shadows.

“Seems
a chilly night to be sleeping out in the air,” he said.

“Too many people in the cabin,” the man said.

Tom nodded. The passenger’s cabin was a dank shelter on the foredeck. When the ship was fully booked, as it was for this passage, the small space became impossibly crowded.

“How long will it take to reach London?” the man asked.

Tom looked up at the stars. “If we don’t get a wind, we could
be on the sea for days.”

“Ah,” the man in the shadows said. “Is that so?” Tom heard the creaking of the deck and saw a large shadow detach itself from the others. A very large shadow—the man was taller than Tom by more than two feet. Tom stared up at the giant—another crewman had told him of the tall man who had come aboard as a passenger, but Tom had assumed that the other sailor’s talk was
exaggerated.