Rainbow's End (5 page)

Grainne hurried along, with the flood on her left, and saw frightening things. The bodies of hens came first, draggled and drowned, lying in pathetic little bundles on the streaming limestone slabs. Then came a cow, floating on its back and wedged against a stand of reeds, its poor legs sticking straight up into the air, its stomach bloated. Sheep, too, had been drowned or simply killed by the force of the wind, she could not tell which, but she recognised two of their own ewes and gulped back tears. It was gradually being borne in upon her that they were ruined entirely. The pigs and cattle could not have lived once the flood came, even if they had survived the hurricane. The hens had been unable to fly because their wings had been clipped so they, too, had died. The tumbril would have been carried out to sea or far inland, if it wasn’t already in bits, and the stable and all its contents were gone, she had seen that as soon as she left the bramble patch earlier that morning.

But she must get help to search for the others! And unless she was in truth the only survivor, she would do so whatever the cost. If I have to go down on me bended knees, Grainne told herself grimly, I’ll get the McBrides to help me search, so I will!

And presently, she had an extraordinary bit of luck. A piece of stone wall stuck out into the flood with a bent willow tree growing against it and where the two met, wedged between them, was a currach.

‘Now what the divil are you doin’ here?’ Grainne asked it, climbing on to the wall and edging out along its length until she reached the willow. ‘Dear God in heaven, ’tis our currach! How has it come here, by all that’s wonderful?’

Last night, to her knowledge, it had been pulled well up on the beach below the cliff. It had been filled with rocks, because that was how they always left it, so that wind and water should not have moved it. Of course it was light, having little more weight than a large basket, but . . . could the wind have blown it up the cliff and inland?

She leaned down from the wall and caught hold of the small craft. It bobbed on the water, as though waiting patiently for her to release it from the willow’s clutches. The oars were gone, but Grainne broke off a willow branch, climbed into the currach, took off her boots and pushed it out on to the flood. It would be a faster method of travel for a while, until the stream wound its way further from the McBride farm, where she would pull it well up and leave it to give her another ride going home.

But as soon as she was aboard, Grainne realised that this was not going to work. If she had been going home, the current would have aided her, but it had no intention of letting her punt herself along against the force of it. So she steered her craft near the bank, grounded it and climbed reluctantly out, boots in hand, holding the currach firmly by its bows as though it had been a recalcitrant dog, and towed it the rest of the way ashore, pulling it well up on the grass. But going home, she thought hopefully, ought to be quite possible, provided the stream remained swollen.

After that, she had to search the surroundings for big stones, for she had no intention of letting the currach float back off to sea again. Once it was well anchored she sat down, replaced her boots and set off.

There was something in the shallow water ahead of her. Something which stirred and bobbed on the current, but which was almost aground. She went towards it.

It was a child.

She knew it must be her sister, knew she was dead, but she still had to turn Sorcha’s small body over and bring it ashore, lay it tenderly down on the grass so that she might try, all the while knowing it was useless, to get the water from the child’s lungs, to bring life back.

She knelt on the wet grass for what seemed like hours, but was probably no more than twenty minutes, then she crossed her sister’s arms across her breast and began to walk towards the McBrides’ farmhouse once more. She could do nothing for the child, she would deal with her later: right now she must fetch help for her father. But she wept as she walked, tears for the waste of the little life that had been Sorcha’s. She had seen other little ones die, of childish ailments, from accidents, but this was different. Sorcha had been well, happy, only hours before. Now she was dead. Grainne hardly dared ask herself what had happened to Fidelma, Maura and Roisin and the boys. They had gone to bring Darky in, but the donkey was nowhere to be seen, neither alive nor dead; was it possible that they had seen the storm coming and taken shelter elsewhere?

Grainne hurried on. She told herself firmly that Fidelma was almost a grown woman and extremely sensible; she would have found shelter for herself and her little sisters. How Fidelma had come to be parted from Sorcha she dared not think and remembering remembering that she herself had only managed to get her injured father into a brambly hollow made it clear that Fidelma might easily have lost her hold on Sorcha for long enough for the child to be quite literally blown away from her. Dear God, let the others be all right, she prayed. Let the boys have gone to a neighbour, let Fidelma, Maura and Roisin be safe! I can’t bear the thought of me brothers and sisters all goin’ the way of poor little Sorcha.

The sky overhead was grey still, but at least it was lighter. The wind blew a gale, though nothing like the hurricane of the previous night. Grainne was cold; her shawl had gone and she had left the blanket with her father. It would have been sensible, she told herself now, to have searched around a bit, tried to find something else to throw across her shoulders, but hurrying warmed her and the thought of getting help in the search for her brothers and sisters spurred her on.

It was a good walk to the McBride place, though, and not easy going. There were trees down, haystacks strewn across the melting snow, dead stock everywhere. The countryside had been devastated by the hurricane and the backing up of the sea had finished off the job. As she walked, Grainne noticed dead fish on the margins of the flood-water; they had no more been able to resist the tempest than people or animals. The McBrides kept a big flock of sheep, or rather they had kept a big flock of sheep; now, large numbers of drowned sheep lay about her on the soggy land and as she walked Grainne realised that the wild creatures had suffered as badly as the domesticated. Rabbits, stoats, hedgehogs . . . she saw the little bodies in amongst the fallen trees, under uprooted bushes and of course on the water, which still rolled sluggishly to her left. She had left the Burren behind her now and presently came to a wood behind which, William had told her, the McBride farmhouse was snugged down. But of that beautiful wood he spoke of there were now almost no trees left standing. And here, to her distress, the ground was littered not only with the debris from the fallen trees, but with hundreds of dead birds. Crows, blackbirds, tits, robins, sparrows lay where the wind had cast them, torn from the sky at the height of the storm, so pathetic that Grainne felt tears come to her eyes once more. Poor little birds . . . poor little Sorcha, barely ten years old . . . ah, dear God, what will become of me if . . .

She did not finish the sentence, even in her mind. To be alone was too awful to contemplate, but of course she need not contemplate it; Dadda is sickly perhaps, but he’s waiting for me at home, she told herself comfortingly. He’ll be well, if I can get help to repair the house so that I can nurse him properly.

So full had Grainne’s mind been as she walked that she had scarcely taken notice of the changes, for this was no longer the Burren, but a gentler, milder land. There were softly sloping hills, woods, rolling meadows, cultivated fields. Though now of course the trees were almost all broken down and the fields, like their own, had mostly lost the dry-stone walls. But it’s rich land, Grainne thought, marvelling at it. No wonder Dadda thought William would not want to change it for our life on the Burren.

Grainne topped a gentle rise and the house stood before her. Roofless. The thatch had been stripped, as had their own, and then the great wind had got to work on the rafters, crushing them like straws in the hand. The McBrides had a proper garden, William had told her, but where was it now? Crushed, mangled, the poplars which had fenced it to the west broken off less than a foot from the ground, the orchard of which he had spoken not only fruitless but treeless too. Not a plum, apple or pear tree was standing. And the window-glass, which she and Fidelma had envied so much when William had described his home, had been blown out, leaving the house with a blank, blind look, because the windows were larger than the Feeneys’ windows.

The outhouses still stood, however, and from here she was fairly sure that fire had not devastated the farmhouse. A door swung, but otherwise, if you discounted the missing thatch, it looked relatively undamaged.

Having checked as much as she could, Grainne set off down the slope of the hill. The path was so thick with fallen debris that her footsteps scrunched as she walked; a fat lot of good it was, trying to go quietly, she told herself, so you might as well put your chin in the air and stride out. They’ll help, they have to! They wouldn’t dare not, for surely God would punish anyone who did not help a neighbour after a disaster so all-embracing?

She reached the swinging door and banged on it. Hard, then harder. No one came. She pushed the door and called out, then walked into the room. It was empty of people, but they had not been long gone. Firelight illumined it, there were used dishes piled up by a low stone sink and someone had cast down some knitting in a chair by the fireside.

‘Hallo?’ Grainne called timidly. ‘Is anyone to home?’

She waited. And heard faint but approaching, shuffling footsteps.

An hour later, Grainne reached the currach and climbed aboard. She should be back at the farmhouse, or what was left of it, in another hour, her mission at least partially accomplished. Mrs McBride had been kind enough, once she had got over the shock of learning she had a Feeney standing in her kitchen. She was older than Grainne had imagined her to be, tall and grey-haired, with a soft, foolish face and an irritating little laugh. She had a habit of blinking very rapidly when she was thinking and she was nervous, stammering as she talked, but she did not seem ill-disposed towards her visitor.

‘Me son W-William’s gone in to Ennis wit’ his f-father,’ she had said, once Grainne had introduced herself. ‘Me other boy, Talbot, is out searchin’ for beasts. There’s none here to help wit’ your s-search, Miss Feeney. Me daughter’s in the dairy . . . we’ve found a couple of cows, she’s m-milkin’ em.’

‘Why have they gone to Ennis?’ Grainne had asked boldly.

‘William’s hurt. He went out earlier, then turned back when the hurricane c-came upon him. He reached the wood’ – she sniffed and patted her eyes with a spotted handkerchief – ‘and a tree came crashin’ down. It banged him on the side of the h-head, broke his shoulder, pinned him there on the ground for hours. We found him at first light, no breath of life, no m-movement, nothing. But his father and brother c-carried him home and he c-came round . . . he’s gone to get his hurts seen to by the doctor.’

‘Oh, poor William,’ Grainne had said. ‘I’m glad he’s not too much hurt – and when they come back, may I ask you to beg William to come and visit us? The hurricane has all but destroyed us entirely.’

Mrs McBride smiled for the first time. Was it triumph? Or was she as foolish as she seemed? Grainne could not tell on such short acquaintance.

‘Oh, he won’t b-be able to leave his own h-home for a long while yet. He’ll be busy here, findin’ our beasts, makin’ good the d-damage, for you aren’t the o-only ones to have s-suffered. I fear W-William won’t be walkin’ your way for w-weeks.’

‘Then I must find help elsewhere,’ Grainne said and turned towards the door, but just as she was about to open it her hostess called her back.

‘It’s cold; you’ve not even a shawl,’ she said. ‘I can spare a jug of m-milk . . . a loaf . . .’

She piled food into a rush basket, but hurriedly, as though she was afraid of being caught, then flung a shawl around Grainne’s shoulders. It was made of thick, soft wool and was much finer than Grainne’s old one had been.

‘Thank you, Mrs McBride,’ Grainne said, bewildered by the older woman’s behaviour. ‘If William should ask, tell him we’re in need, would you?’

‘He’s not well,’ Mrs McBride said as though in answer. ‘Poor William, he won’t be walking your way for a while yet.’

Shrugging to herself, Grainne had set off after another word of thanks and farewell, and now the currach was homeward bound, drifting with the stream. The little craft bounced along, needing only a touch now and then with the willow-branch to guide it, and all too soon Grainne and her basket of food were back at their own farmhouse, or what was left of it.

And there she found Fidelma, with Roisin at her side, kneeling by her father and hugging him, whilst tears ran down her face.

‘We went into the cavern,’ Fidelma said when Grainne told her how she had searched for them. ‘Sure an’ didn’t you say to do so, Grainne? But it was frightenin’ outside, so it was, wit’ howlings and t’umps and bangs. And then Sorcha wailed so . . . she wanted to creep right to the back of the cavern, where we wouldn’t be able to hear the noise so well, or feel the wetness, for we were soon soaked,’ she added.

‘Did she run outside?’ Grainne said gently, when Fidelma stopped speaking and closed her eyes for a moment. ‘I know she’s dead, alanna, for I found her body not half a mile from here, in the water, floatin’.’

‘Ah, sweet Jesus, I knew it!’ Fidelma cried, rocking back and forth with grief, whilst Roisin wailed in unison. ‘Oh, me poor darlin’, me poor Sorcha!’

‘Don’t carry on, Fid,’ Grainne said rather sharply. ‘What happened, if she didn’t run outside?’

‘She went deeper,’ Fidelma said simply. ‘And she didn’t come back. We had no light, it was dark as pitch in there, so after a little time, Maura went to look for her. And when they hadn’t come back by first light, Roisin and I went down to the passage, callin’, weepin’, beggin’ them to answer us.’