The Crow of Connemara (24 page)

She cocked her head slightly toward him. “Now?”

“Yeah, well . . .” His voice trailed off. He'd tried to speak with her this morning, after they'd awakened, but Keara had come to the door with breakfast, staying in the house while they'd dressed. After that, they'd walked into town, and it seemed they hadn't been alone long enough for him to broach anything personal. “I just wonder . . . After last night . . . When I'm back in Ballemór . . .”

She laughed, though the amusement didn't quite touch her eyes. “G'wan and pick a sentence,” she said. “Any sentence.”

“I just don't know where we stand right now,” he said finally, still holding her, her arms still binding him to the rail. “I didn't come out here with the idea . . .”

“That we'd end up in bed?” she finished. “Oh, yeh knew when I asked yeh to the island, did yeh not? 'Tis a wee bit late now for regrets, I'm thinking.” She lifted her hands from the rail and took a step back from him. He dropped his hands from around her and reached behind to hold the railing as the
Grainne Ni Mhaille
rolled again; Maeve simply shifted her weight easily, not seeming to notice.

“No,” Colin said hurriedly. “I don't have any regrets. None at all. I'm just—” He stopped again.

“Are yeh worried about what yer friends back there—” she nodded toward the shoreline ahead of them, “—are going to think, yeh involved with one of the Oileánach women?”

He shook his head. His woolen cap sprayed droplets with the motion. “They can think whatever they want.”

“Then
what
, Colin?” He thought he saw pain in her gaze, which she tried to hide by looking away, blinking into the salt spray. “What is it yer wanting to know? Are yeh thinking this was a mistake, that it's better not to see each other again?”

“God, no.” He released the rail to make a gesture of denial, and the deck tilted underneath him. He had to catch himself again. “No, Maeve. You've the wrong idea about what I'm trying to say.”

Her chin lifted. “Then tell me what the right one is, because I'm flummoxed right now.”

“I'm saying that even though we've made love, I feel like I really don't know you as well as I should.”

“So yeh
do
have regrets.”

“No,” he insisted. “It's just that, well, I've never been the guy who goes easily from bed to bed, no matter how things might appear to you right now. I'm wondering where we go from here, wondering what happens now, wondering what it
means.
Do you understand?”

Her face gentled, and he saw the hint of a smile touch her lips. “Aye,” she said. “I think I do.” She stepped toward him again, hugging him with her head against his chest before looking up at him with such open vulnerability in her face that it pained him. “I know what Niall told yeh,” she said. “He claims it was me that made a choice, but he's wrong. 'Tis always been
yer
choice to make, Colin. Always yers. Always will be. It
must
be that way. Once yer back there, in
that
world . . .” She put a strange emphasis on the phrase. “Well, yeh think about me and my people. If 'tis me yeh still want, then we'll make that work. And if not . . .” He felt more than saw her shrug under the cloak. “Then I'll deal with that as well. I put no claim on yeh for last night. None at all. If 'twas just the one night, then it was a very nice one, and I'll remember the time and yeh fondly. If it happens to be more, then . . .” Her voice quieted so that he could barely hear it over the wind and the sea. “Yeh need to know
all
of what that means, and I'll tell yeh then. But I'd like that. Very much.”

“I already—” he began.

She wouldn't let him finish the sentence, putting a finger on his lips. “No,” she said. “'Tis enough said for now. I'll see yeh again in two days, an' we'll talk more then. Right now, let's just be here, together, for the wee bit of time we have.”

20

I
NISHCORR SEEMED LIKE a fading dream.

Mrs. Egan gave Colin a sour, sidewise glance from the kitchen when he walked into her house that morning, wet from the passage over from Inishcorr and lugging his guitar and backpack. He'd told her only that he'd be staying with a friend for a few days. From her look, it was apparent that she knew—or at least suspected—where he'd actually been.

“'Morning, Mrs. Egan,” he called to her through the intervening dining room. He heard a sniff as an answer. The dirtied dishes and crumbs on the table told him that the other guests at the bed and breakfast had already eaten and gone about their day. “I'll be taking my things up to my room. Is there still breakfast, or should I get something in town? I don't want to put you out.”

Another sniff. “Them Oileánach didn't feed yeh, eh? 'Tis too like 'em.” There was a clatter of dishes. “Put your things away, then. I'll cook yeh up some eggs and a bit of toast and jam.”

Ten minutes later, Mrs. Egan plunked down in front of him a large plate of eggs, toast, and bacon, as well as a pot of tea. She sat across the table, watching as he ate. “I told yeh before,” she said after a long silence. “There's no good to come from the Oileánach. But yeh would'nah listen to me.”

“I can tell you that the Oileánach are just people, Mrs. Egan,” Colin responded. “No worse and no better than anyone else. They're not bothering anyone here, out on their island as they are.”

“That shows how little yeh know,” Mrs Egan insisted. “Patrick Davies was saying that his cows haven't given milk in a week, not since one a' them was haggling with him over his prices. Mrs. Naughton said that after an Oileánach walked past her house one evening, there were lights twinkling all around the fairy mound in her field for the whole night, and she could hear the wee folk making music and singing. The next morning, all the flowers had been pulled from her window boxes. Her cats were cowering in the shed and wouldn't come out, and when they did, they looked all bedraggled like they'd been ridden all night long. Then there's poor Mrs. Brennan—”

Her face was so serious that Colin forced down the laugh that threatened. “I know,” he said instead. “Mrs. Brennan twisted her ankle. Mrs. Egan, begging your pardon, but I happened to be there when Mrs. Brennan ran into Maeve, and Maeve never cursed her, only made a meaningless gesture to make her
think
she'd been hexed.
The fact she twisted her ankle was entirely an accident, nothing more than that.” He stopped, remembering that Maeve had also told him that Mrs. Brennan
would
twist her ankle. That didn't seem something to mention.

“So 'tis ‘Maeve'? Yeh know her so well now?”

“I know her better than I did before, yes. And I have to say I like her.”

“That may be,” Mrs. Egan answered with another sniff. “An' yeh might be hexed just like Mrs. Brennan. I know what I hear, and there are plenty folks hereabout who have tales about strange things since the Oileánach have shown up. Things out of old tales, things that shouldn't be walking.” She pressed her lips together as she shook her head. “Yeh like the old songs,” she added. “Do yeh never think of what they say about those who sleep with the fey?”

To that, he had no answer.

“I'm not sure I can use yeh tonight, Colin,” Lucas said. “Sorry for the late notice.”

Lucas had stopped Colin the following morning as he walked down from Mrs. Egan's to where her drive met the Sky Road, which wound from Ceomhar Head to the main square of Ballemór. Given the distance of the Egan house from its neighbors and the main section of Ballemór, Colin suspected that this was no casual meeting, that Lucas had been coming up to Mrs. Egan's with the intention of talking to him. “Is there a problem?” Colin asked him. “I thought things were working out pretty well with me in the group.”

“Nah problem,” Lucas answered, but his gaze was fixed somewhere past Colin's left shoulder. “Yeh sounded grand. In fact, I have to admit that it's true magic when yeh sing. The audience notices, and I hate to give that up.” He rubbed his head, as if trying to scratch away the last comment. “It's just that . . . well, Regan's is wantin' a smaller group with the size of the stage and all, and I've been playing with the others longer, so . . .” He shrugged. “Yeh see how 'tis.”

“Yeah. I'm pretty sure I do,” Colin told him.

Lucas didn't seem to notice the sarcasm Colin couldn't hold back, or he chose to ignore it. He extended his hand. “Well, good, then. Yeh'll have a fine career with that gift yeh have. I'll give yeh a call when something else comes up. Promise.”

“You do that,” Colin told him. He gave Lucas' hand a brief shake. Afterward, Lucas rubbed his palm on his jeans, tugged at the sleeves of his sweater and pulled his cap farther down on his head. He gave Coin a lukewarm, uncertain smile and walked away, heading back down the hill toward the town. Colin decided he no longer wanted to go that way. He turned back and instead headed up the slope, his hands jammed into his pockets, a slow anger burning in his stomach, and a dozen unspoken rejoinders to Lucas ringing in his head.

After Mrs. Egan's comments and getting sacked by Lucas, he was beginning to wonder whether his trip to Inishcorr hadn't been a terrific mistake. Maybe it was simply time to move on; after all, he'd been in Ballemór for a few weeks now, and there were still a hundred places in Ireland he'd like to see. He could go on up the coast to Mayo, Sligo, and Donegal, or down the other way to Clare, Limerick, and Kerry, or, he thought as he put his hand in his pocket and felt the stone with its silver cage and chain there, he could retrace the steps his grandfather Rory had taken and see the places he'd mentioned in his journal. There were pubs everywhere where he could hear music and play along with the local folk—it seemed that you couldn't throw a pebble in Ireland without hitting a pub. There were a thousand people out there whose memories he could dredge for old tunes and lyrics. He could start writing that paper he'd been thinking about for a few years now, exploring the linkage between Celtic music and Appalachian folk songs.

He didn't
have
to stay here. If his welcome had been worn out, it would take him less than half an hour to pack his things at Mrs. Egan's and move on. He could run away from Ballemór and the Oileánach and Maeve . . . as his father might have said that he'd run away from his obligations and his future at home.

A raven cawed at him from the branch of a nearby tree, a hulking black presence on a branch of a weather-bent and stunted oak. The bird's harsh cry shook him from his reverie, and he realized he was walking in the heather-laden grass high above the Sky Road near the standing stone on the cliffs of Ceomhar Head, with the lower slopes stretched out below him, hazy and bleeding into the cold gray-blue of the ocean. Strong gusts were coming in off the sea, pushing ragged clouds with them that tossed down a cold drizzle. His jeans were damp nearly to the knees, his sneakers and socks sodden. The wind plucked at his cap and sweater, making him squint. The raven cawed again, as if trying to get his attention, and he turned to glare back at the bird. “You just shut the hell up,” he said.

The bird shivered and flapped its wings, its long, thick beak clacking. Then it dropped heavily from the branch, its wings pumping once to gather air before turning in the wind. As it passed over Colin, it dropped a splatter of thick white excrement on his shoulder. Colin cursed again as the bird cawed and glided down the slope toward a stand of trees. He saw it settle there.
“Fuck you!”
he shouted into the wind. He grabbed a clump of the heather and rubbed at his sweater; it only spread out the stain. He thought he heard a muffled laugh behind him, but when he turned, there was no one there.

I'll see you again in two days,
Maeve had said. It didn't matter—she'd also told him that she felt no claim on him. Fine. He was free to leave. He
should
leave. He'd become caught up in a stupid local feud, and he didn't need the drama or the indigestion. Maybe the bird was trying to tell him something.

The oak groaned, as if in pain, and Colin glanced back at it. The lower branches were swaying in the rising wind, creaking. “It hurts, doesn't it?” he said to the tree. “I can understand that. But I haven't put down roots here. I'm free to leave. I am. I don't have to stay. I shouldn't stay.”

The words did nothing to convince him. The oak groaned again. Colin could see sheets of rain approaching, marching toward the land like gray curtains; already the islands closest to the shore and the end of the peninsula were lost in them. He shivered and tugged his cap tighter against his head. He started back down, wondering if he could reach Mrs. Egan's before the storm found him.

As it turned out, he couldn't.

He was well-drenched by the time he reached Mrs. Egan's porch, though at least the rain had scrubbed away the worst of the raven droppings. He could barely see through his glasses, which were running with water. His sweater seemed to weigh nearly as much as himself, hanging in sad folds and weeping from the bottom hem. His socks squelched noisily with every step. The rain was still pelting down hard, driven by gales so vicious that rain sometimes appeared to be falling horizontally. The planks of the porch were wet all the way to the side of the house. “Och!” Mrs. Egan said, opening the door as he ran up the steps, trying to shake off the worst of it. “Jus' a moment, dear . . .” Colin saw someone behind her—not one of the other residents that he recognized: a thin scarecrow of a man, with a flash of white at his collar.

Mrs. Egan came bustling out with two large towels, which he took gratefully, taking off his cap and glasses and rubbing his head and face. “The weather caught yeh, did it? I should'a warned yeh; I felt it coming in me joints. Well, come in, come in. I already have the kettle on for tea . . .”