The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance (74 page)

The anguished face of the healer Doreen appeared in the black fairy night. She fixed a beseeching gaze on him.

“Don’t worry,
mavourneen
,” he whispered. “I’l find you. I mean to see you smile.” The pebbled path before him glistened.

He heard the lark before he saw it. The glorious tril ing led him to wisps of whirling light that grew fatter and brighter, spinning at last into a silver tree. When he reached the glossy trunk, the birdsong ceased. He thought he’d frightened the lark away, but the true reason for its sudden silence quickly became clear.

The sound of horses’ hooves boomed in the distance, rumbling towards Tom with the speed of a storm-driven wave. Wary rather than frightened, he slipped behind the tree just as seven white steeds sprang from the darkness, chargers geared for battle by the looks of them. Jewels glittered on their foreheads. Flames shot from their nostrils. The knights atop them might have been human but for the armour and helmets of radiant gold they wore. Broad green mantles snapped behind them, and each held a golden spear.

They cut to a halt at the silver oak, and Tom’s lips mouthed a silent curse. Did they know he was there? Had they come to kil him? If so, he’d give them a good fight.

The golden bean, Tomás O’Byrne . . .

Sorcha’s voice rustled in his ears like windblown eddies of autumn leaves. He fumbled in his pocket and snatched the golden bean to his mouth.

Nothing happened.

The lead rider walked his steed to the tree and circled the trunk. Tom stood as stil as a wound-down clock. Would the horse smel him? Would the horseman hear his pounding heart? Sure he was about to die, he glared defiantly at the knight, but the fairy only raised his arm and gal oped off.

His fairy troop raced after him. Tom didn’t move until the clatter of thundering hooves faded away. The crystal bird resumed its song, and Tom knew the danger had passed. Stil , he ran down the road to the left of the tree as if the devil himself were chasing him.

At last he stopped at a stand of rocks. Gold glittered around a gap in the stones. This must be the Fairy King’s palace. Where did the fairies find so much gold? The coins in Tom’s pocket, a sum he’d thought a smal fortune that morning, seemed a beggar’s portion in contrast to the wealth he’d seen so far.

Suspecting he’d soon see more, he entered the cave. A raucous blend of music, laughter and merry female squeals wafted from its depths. Tom crept deeper into the cave and found a marble staircase. Down he went with the golden bean in his mouth.

Soon he came to a torch-lit room. He stepped inside, and the sounds of revelry faded. Three grey-haired women sat at golden spinning wheels spinning golden thread. From their plain attire and listless air, he judged them to be mortals.

He took the bean from his mouth. “God save al here.”

The women’s hands flew to their faces. The oldest of the three blessed herself. “Mother of God, who are you?”

“I’m Tom O’Byrne of Bal ymote. I’ve come to save a mortal woman cal ed Doreen.” An exchange of desolate looks preceded the women’s responses. “Ah, poor thing,” said the youngest.

“You must hurry,” said the woman neither young nor old.

The oldest spoke again: “I warned her not to taste the fairies’ food, but mortals must eat, and she won’t hold out long. After one bite, she’l be like us, a prisoner for the rest of her days.”

“There’s naught you can do for us,” said the youngest, “but you can save the healer, Tom O’Byrne.”

“I mean to try. Where is she?”

“In the banquet hal .” The woman neither young nor old turned and pointed behind her. A door appeared in the wal . “Go quickly, and take great care. The King of the Fairies wields powerful magic.”

Tom returned the golden bean to his mouth. As he stepped through the door, the noise of the party resumed. He fol owed the din to a glittering golden banquet hal . Torches blazed high on the wal s. Candles flickered in massive chandeliers. Two narrow bench tables ran the length of the long wide room. A third bench, undoubtedly the head table, ran perpendicular to the other two, forming a three-sided rectangle.

Cloth made of rose petals covered the tables, where men and women, handsome and human in appearance, sat swil ing down meat and drink from golden plates and goblets. Tom assumed that the few vacant seats belonged to the fairies dancing near the biggest hearth he’d ever seen.

He knew the King of the Fairies by his elaborate attire and privileged place at the head table.

Yel ow-haired and clean-shaven, the rogue had a muscle or two beneath his fancy dress. Tom had trounced bigger men, and he thought he’d like to tap his knuckles into Finvarra’s face. Yet magic was afoot here. Despite Sorcha’s bolstering supper, Tom realized he might never see home again if he chal enged the King. Rescuing Doreen must be the priority.

She sat unsmiling beside Finvarra. Her thick dark hair flowed past her shoulders. Her pal id face and haunted eyes melted Tom’s heart. He would save her from this place or die trying.

If he could touch her, he’d have a chance. No one saw him tiptoe towards the head table.

The King’s handsome face suddenly darkened. “Your healing arts have cured my foot, yet you persist in refusing my generous offer of thanks.”

Doreen raised her chin. Her blue eyes blackened with hatred. “When you first brought me here, you said it was your knee that needed curing. Make up your mind. If you real y want to thank me, let me go home.” Both pride and fear played in her pearly voice.

Finvarra pounded the table. Silence fel over the banquet hal . “You insult us by refusing our food, woman! We’l see how long you last on an empty bel y. Lock her away!” A liveried guard seized Doreen’s arm and yanked her from the table. She jerked herself free of him. He flinched at her ferocious glare, and Tom smiled. Standing tal , she turned her back on the scowling King. With the flustered guard at her heels, she stalked from the hal ignoring the muttering crowd that parted to let her pass.

Tom scurried to intercept her. Eyeing her up and down, he understood why Finvarra wanted the wel -formed beauty. He wouldn’t have her if Tom had his way.

She came right at him and might have walked through him if he hadn’t seized her hand. The screams and shouts that erupted around them told him she’d disappeared. They could see each other, but the golden bean kept them from the fairies’ sight.

Doreen’s black look changed to one of disbelief. She stuttered before she spoke. “You! You came for me!”

Afraid to reply lest he lose or swal ow the bean, he raised a finger to his lips and nodded towards the door. Doreen nodded back.

They bolted towards the exit. The crowd stampeded after them. Tom wondered how they knew where he and Doreen were until he realized the flames on the candles were flickering as they passed.

Plates and goblets flew at them. One struck Doreen’s arm. She stumbled out of Tom’s grasp and fel in an undignified heap.

“There she is!” the fairies screamed.

Tom plucked Doreen from the floor, and a new round of hostile shouts reassured him she’d vanished again. Dragging her with him, he shot from the hal , past the spinning women and up the marble stairs, up and up and out into the night.

If the moon and stars cast no light down here, it seemed the sun did. Or would, when it rose. The sweeping darkness had brightened, and though night would reign a while longer, the pebbled path stil glowed in the budding dawn.

Tom and Doreen ran to the silver oak tree. The crystal lark sang in its branches, and Tom knew they were safe, at least for the moment. Stil holding Doreen’s hand, he plucked the golden bean from his mouth and slipped it into his pocket. They sat on the ground to catch their breath.

What would he tel her? How would they get home? He must try to find Sorcha.

Doreen had no worries, it seemed. With a great fond smile, she twined her arms around his neck and kissed him.

Joy he’d never known fil ed his soul. He kissed her back, gently at first, then as firmly and deeply as she kissed him. He held her close to his heart so her breasts pressed against his chest. Lost in their kiss and the sweet perfume of her long dark hair, he reeled like a drunken goose. Faster and faster he whirled, until he was fal ing . . . fal ing . . .

Stiff and sore from the graceless position in which he’d fal en asleep, Tom struggled to his knees blinking at the wel and the woods around it. No one was near. The adventure had been a dream.

A pleasant dream, he thought as the fairy world dissolved from his mind like tendrils of smoke. He retrieved his cap and lurched to his feet.

“Are you al right?”

The woman’s question came from behind him. Cap in hand, he twisted about, expecting an aged arthritic. The lady who’d spoken stood in the gloom of the woods. A young mother then, come for a cure for her ailing child.

She stepped into a patch of sunlight and asked again: “Are you al right?” Tom’s mouth fel open. The heart-shaped face of the healer Doreen frowned at him from the top of the path. He gawked at her, unable to speak, powerless to offer even a nod.

Wariness sharpened her probing gaze. Tom, in turn, inspected her. She wore her dark hair fashionably twisted up beneath a brown brimmed hat. A lacy neck-to-chin col ar gave her a wel -

heeled look. Her hip-length coat, tailored to her slender waist, covered the top of a long black skirt loose enough to pedal her bicycle.

Yes, he thought. The bicycle. He must have had a glimpse of her, and she found her way into his dream.

She remained where she stood. Did his towering frame frighten her? He set his feet apart and affected a nonchalant air to appear less threatening. “God be with you, ma’am. I’m Tom O’Byrne of Bal ymote.”

His proper greeting seemed to ease her apprehension. She strol ed towards him. “God and Mary be with you, Tom O’Byrne. Dol y Keenan from Tubbercurry.” Dol y. Not Doreen.

Appearing more confident now, she came towards him, brushing bits of dry leaves and grass from her sleeves. The curve of her bosom enticed him. As she drew nearer, he noted the lacy silver work on the buttons of her smart tweed coat. A decent enough coat, he thought, though he’d seen finer garb on women in the cities. Stil , her attire outshone the frippery his sister wore.

Dol y Keenan stopped an arm’s length away. Butterscotch seemed to melt over Tom.

“Tubbercurry isn’t far from Bal ymote, but it’s a long way from here. Surely you didn’t come al that way on your bicycle?”

He couldn’t imagine Kate riding a bicycle half that distance. She wouldn’t even go into town without a wagon.

Kate left his thoughts altogether when Dol y Keenan raised her chin the way she had at King Finvarra’s table. “Indeed I did. It’s better than walking, though the ride up tired me out, and that’s the gospel truth. I’m after having a bit of a nap in the woods myself.” Maybe she’d ride home with him. It wouldn’t hurt to ask. “I’m on my way back down, ma’am.

You’re welcome to ride with me in my wagon.”

A smile that would shame the northern lights broke over her face. “Thank you, Tom. I wouldn’t mind a lift as far as the road to Tubber.”

Bursting with triumph, he stepped to her side. “Let’s get your bicycle, then.” When Dol y Keenan linked her arm through his, Tom set his cap on his head and rejoiced.

They stopped in Col ooney to rest the horse, and Tom bought two apples at a shop near the train station. He sat with Dol y on the wagon seat, devouring the apples and chatting about Sligo until they pitched the cores into a nearby barrel.

A handkerchief embroidered with blue and green leaves appeared in her hand. She dabbed at lips he longed to kiss and returned the cloth to her pocket. “Give me a minute, Tom. Since we’re at the station, I want to get a timetable.”

He feared he’d done something to offend her, that she’d decided to take the train home, but the line ran to Bal ymote from here, not to Tubbercurry. Mystified, he sighed. Whatever she’d gone to get, her going had left a hole in his heart.

Soon she returned with her prize: a square white page with rows of tiny print set beneath a troubling title. He wondered why she’d want the times of trains for Queenstown, though of course he didn’t ask. It wasn’t his business.

He’d been to Queenstown sel ing tea, but few souls ventured to the deep Cork port on Ireland’s southern shore unless they meant to emigrate. The thought of Dol y Keenan leaving saddened him.

Whether she emigrated or not, he doubted he’d ever see her again. The wagon ride was al they’d have. Familiar with disappointment as any Irishman, he helped her to the wagon seat, intent on enjoying every minute of her company.

A porridge of weather fol owed them from Col ooney. Showers came and went. Blue broke through the clouds in snatches. Gram used to cal it a rainbow sky.

“Be on the watch, Tomáseen,” she’d say. “Seeing a rainbow brings good luck.” Tom needed no rainbow today. Good luck was already his. Dol y Keenan rode beside him on the compact wagon seat. Their arms and thighs col ided as the springs bounced, and she didn’t shy away. Nor did she complain about the mist that dampened her cheeks and hair. They gossiped and bantered, talking of nonsense, of favourite foods and ancient legends. She laughed a lot, and so did he.

The mare clip-clopped over a twisting road rutted in some spots, soggy in others. Sheep dotted the knol s and bogs. Cows grazed in square green pastures divided by hawthorn hedges. Now and then an abandoned stone cottage, roofless and overgrown, provided a landmark that told Tom where he was.

The idea that Dol y had ridden this road by herself both impressed and worried him, yet she wouldn’t have been alone. Several cyclists passed them. They cal ed out pleasant greetings, as did many foot travel ers and the drivers of drays and donkey carts. Tom and Dol y waved cheerful y back.