The Crow of Connemara (18 page)

Her lips pursed together in a moue of disgust, and—mug and plate clattering—she strode off into the kitchen. He heard the china rattle hard in the sink and the water begin to run. Colin decided that further argument would be both useless and counterproductive on his part.

He stared at his breakfast, but his appetite was gone.

16

C
OLIN'S CELL PHONE RANG a few afternoons later as he was leaving a practice session with Lucas and his group at Regan's. “Mr. Doyle, this is Joseph Mullins from Mullins' Used Books
—
yeh asked me t'other day to keep me eye out for that O'Neill book? Well, I've found a copy—an early edition, though not the first printing, from 1903.”

Colin caught his breath at the news. “That's fantastic, Mr. Mullins,” Colin answered. “I'd really like to see it.” He didn't dare ask “How much?” because he was afraid that the answer would deflate the excitement of seeing the book. His checking account was already looking terribly thin in just the month he'd been here. He shouldered the guitar in its gig bag and waved to Lucas as he headed out of the bar. The wind was blustery, and he could hear it in his cell phone's speaker. Even though the morning's weather report had called for a partly cloudy day, it seemed that rain was threatening from off the coast. “I'm just leaving Regan's, as it turns out. Is the book at your store? I could drop down there in a few minutes to take a look.”

“'Tis,” Mr. Mullins replied. “I'll see yeh in a moment, then.”

Mr. Mullins was waiting as Colin stepped into the dark shop, the bell atop the door jingling as he entered. He appeared from the back of the store with a battered book clad in scratched and faded brown leather. He patted the worn cover as he set it on the counter. “Here yeh are, then, Mr. Doyle,” he said. “There are cheaper reproductions of the book out there, I know, but I thought yeh'd appreciate the genuine article.”

Colin picked up the book, feeling the embossed cover with its Celtic cross patterns around the lettering and the central image of a harp entwined in a tree. The book had seen better days, certainly—the cover's edges were blunted and frayed, and someone had scrawled the name “Samuel” in pencil across the edges of the yellowed pages. When he opened the book, the smell of musty old paper filled his nostrils; a concentrated burst of the odor that filled the entire shop with its stuffed shelves of old volumes. The paper itself was brittle and fragile, with flyspecks and water stains, but the music was readable. Colin adjusted his glasses and hummed one of the melodies to himself as he traced the staff with a forefinger. “The University of Notre Dame has all the O'Neill books and sheet music in their Rare Books and Special Collections section,” he told Mr. Mullins. “I got to examine this one once when I was there; their copy's in much better shape, but this one”—he tapped the book—“this one's been read and used and loved, I can tell.”

Mr. Mullins shoved his own glasses up the slope of his long nose. “Don't know about that,” he said. “'Twas in an estate collection that a colleague of mine in Knocknacarra bought. I had him send it over. So, 'tis what yeh wanted?” The proprietor paused; Colin knew what he was waiting for.

He took a breath. “I'd love to have it,” he said. “But . . .” He shrugged, feeling the weight of his guitar strapped to his shoulders. He saw Mr. Mullins' gaze go to the covered instrument. “My funds are rather limited. How much are you asking for it, Mr. Mullins?”

The man's mustard-brown teeth bit at his lower lip for a moment. He had a bad case of receding gum lines. “Well, 'tis a rare one, yeh have to admit, and nah easy to find. But 'twas part of the estate bundle, so my friend didn't pay full market rate. Still, he knows what it should go for, and I have to pay his costs and a bit of profit on top . . .” He sighed. “I couldn't let it go for less than €250,” he said, “and that's with me making very little, and that's God's very truth. Again, yeh know there are reproductions out there yeh could get for much less—why, Mel Bay has a paperback edition that I could sell yeh for €30. I could have one of those here in a few days . . .”

“I have that one already,” Colin answered. “Can't really be a traditional musician without it. I guess I was just hoping . . .”

“Hoping what?” a new, familiar voice intruded. Colin glanced over his shoulder, then turned completely, grinning.

“Maeve!” he said. “I didn't hear you come in.”

She smiled back at him. Her long cloak hung open, caught only at the collar. She was wearing a long, plaid skirt and a red blouse with a small raven embroidered on it; a silver chain glistened on the red, with a stone caught in silver wire, much like the one in his pocket. “The two of yeh were talking so intently yeh must not have heard the bell.” She stepped up to the counter next to Colin and glanced down at the book. “Yeh buying this?” she asked Colin. “'Tis a grand book, I'm told.”

“You know it? I was hoping to, but I'm afraid it's a little rich for my blood,” he said. He glanced at Mr. Mullins, who was not looking at him but scowling at Maeve. “Thanks for letting me see this,” he told the man. “I appreciate the effort to find it and you've given me a fair price, I know, but I just can't afford it.”

“How much?” Maeve asked Mr. Mullins. She was still smiling, as if she hadn't noticed the proprietor's reaction to her. Colin started to answer, but Mr. Mullins jumped in before he could speak.

“If the lady's interested in the book, the price is €300.” He looked at Colin then, and his voice had gone distant. Behind his glasses, his magnified eyes were pale blue, the white laced with pale red lines. “Which would be the same price I'd be charging yeh, Mr. Doyle. I misspoke a moment ago. I forgot for a moment just how much m'friend was charging me.”

“I'll take it,” Maeve said. “Yeh'll accept a cheque?”

Mr. Mullins' eyes had widened behind the spectacles. His fingers tapped the leather cover of the book on the counter. “A cheque? I don't know that I . . .”

“How much do yeh have on yeh in cash?” Maeve asked Colin before the man could finish, wheeling around to face him.

Startled, Colin patted the wallet in his back pocket as if he could tell from the touch. “Umm, maybe €75, or a little less.”

“That'll do. Get it out.”

“Maeve—” he started to protest.

“Get it out,” she repeated, “before Mr. Mullins here tells us that he's forgotten that he had to pay shipping and the price is actually €350.”

The proprietor flushed red with that and started to open his mouth. Maeve raised a hand. “Don't yeh dare say anything,” she said. “Yer selling us that book.” She reached into an inside pocket of her cloak, producing a small wallet from which she extracted a sheaf of bills. She took the money that Colin had pulled from his wallet, and counted out the currency. “€275,” she said as she laid a final note on the pile, holding it down with a forefinger. She stared at Mr. Mullins. “And yeh'll take that, since 'tis more than the €250 yeh were asking from Colin just a minute ago. Yeh won't mind, either. 'Tis a lovely bookstore yeh have here, but books be fragile things. Why, water or fire . . .” She shook her head. “I'd hate for yer precious stock to be damaged, Mr. Mullins, an' there be so many ways that can happen.”

Maeve lifted her finger. Colin glanced from her, smiling darkly, to Mr. Mullins, who stared back at Maeve, owl-eyed behind his glasses. Colin thought for a moment that the man might speak, but he only grabbed the money and scuttled away, disappearing into the back room of the store. “There,” Maeve said. “'Tis yer book now. Take it, and we'll go.”

“You threatened him, Maeve.”

Maeve shook her head. “I di'nah,” she answered. “I only told him what a lovely establishment he has, 'tis all. If he heard a threat in that compliment, then 'tis on his own head.”

Colin glanced back toward where Mr. Mullins had disappeared. He thought he could hear paper rustling. “Umm, thanks,” he said. “I'll consider what you paid as a loan to me. I won't be able to do it all at once or even that soon, but I'll pay you back.”

“Aye, yeh will,” she answered.

Outside the shop, the sky was still dark and threatening, clouds as gray as slate stretching from horizon to horizon, and Colin tucked the book carefully into the pouch of his gig bag, looking at the sky. The gig bag was now heavy on his back. “I'd better get this to Mrs. Egan's before it rains,” he said to Maeve. “Like you told Mr. Mullins, books are fragile things—and so are guitars.”

Maeve laughed at that. They were walking along the main street of Ballemór, with Maeve's arm linked in his. Colin thought he could feel the townsfolk occasionally staring at the two of them. Whispers trailed after them like wisps of fog. “It won't rain for a few hours yet,” she told him. “Would yeh be interested in a short stroll out along the Head? I feel like walking.”

“Ah, so now you can predict the weather?”

“I can,” she told him. There seemed to be no irony in her voice at all.

“If it rains and ruins the book, I'm not going to pay you back that money I owe you.”

He could feel her shrug on his arm. “'Tis just paper,” she said. “It's not paper that I want from yeh, Colin Doyle.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“Does it now?” She pulled him closer, leaning into him as they walked. He could feel the warmth of her body along his side. “So are yeh as frightened of me as poor Mr. Mullins?”

“I don't think frightened is quite the right word.”

“An' what would that right word be?” she asked.

It was his turn to shrug. “I guess I'm more curious. Or maybe ‘intrigued' would be a better word.” One of the villagers—an older man that Colin remembered seeing in Regan'
s
several nights—had stopped on the sidewalk across the street from them in front of the grocer, his head turning as he watched them. Colin nodded toward him, and the man seemed to snort and walked into the grocer's. “The way the people here seem to regard you Oileánach; the way you hold yourselves apart . . . I don't understand it, and nobody seems to be able to explain it very well for me.”

Maeve's fingers stroked the stone on her necklace, and Colin found himself wanting to mention his grandfather's journal, and how he had come across a strange young woman once who had captured his heart, but some caution held him back, and how there was a stone very like hers in his pocket now. But that tale hadn't ended well. Instead, he put his hand in the pocket with grandfather Rory's crystal, cupping it in his palm.

“'Tis very simple,” Maeve told him. “People are always afraid of what they don't understand, and we Oileánach are different. If anything bad happens, we're the ones who are blamed for it, whether we're actually responsible or not. 'Tis a common thing. From what I've heard of the States, you should'nah have any trouble understanding that.”

They were walking along the Beach Road, with the steep, green slopes of the Head looming to their right and the sea inlet to the left. There were seals on the rocks ahead of them again; they slid quietly into the water as they approached. “Your boat's moored here?” Colin asked.