The Crow of Connemara (16 page)

Later in the day, Colin descended from the Head and walked back into Ballemór and down to the main part of the town. Entering Regan's, he slid into an empty booth and ordered a pint and a basket of fish and chips. As he waited for the meal, he took out his phone. It was 1:30 in the afternoon here; early morning back in Chicago. He touched the link for his sister Jennifer. He heard the click of the connection, a long hiss of static, and finally a ring. A second ring. A third.

“Hey, Colin,” a sleepy voice answered finally. “At least you've learned to call later in the day on a weekend.”

He laughed at that. “Long night last night?”

“I'm still not discussing my sex life with you, little brother.” He heard a masculine chuckle in the background, the sound of Jen covering the mouthpiece, though not quite successfully. “Quit that,” he heard Jen say, her voice muffled. “Save it for later.”

“Later, eh?”

“You just be quiet. I can't wait until I can harass you the same way.”

“Not much chance of that at the moment, I'm afraid, although . . .” He stopped, and he could almost hear her eyebrows climbing.

“Although...?”

“Don't worry about it. It's nothing. Not for the moment, anyway. Thanks.” That last was to the waitress who slid the plate of fish and chips in front of him. On the other side of the phone, he heard sheets rustling, and Jen padding into the kitchen. He heard the beep of the coffeemaker. “So how's Mom? How's Tommy doing with the election? Has he come out publicly yet?”

“Tommy made the announcement last week, and promptly dropped ten points in the latest poll, so his lead has pretty much vanished. Carl says it's temporary, and the polls will rebound over the next few weeks. I think Tommy's just glad it's done and over and he doesn't have to be concerned about it anymore. Mom is Mom, and doing okay, though I know she still misses Dad terribly, like we all do. You'd know that too if you'd call her.”

The accusation was broad in Jen's voice. “I will, I promise. Soon.”

“Right,” Jen answered. He heard coffee being poured and a cautious, loud sip. “And you'll be swimming home, too. Speaking of which,
are
you coming home anytime soon?”

“ 'Fraid not. I just got to Ballemór on the west coast and hooked up with one of the bands here. Lots to learn. Figure I'll be here for a while yet. I'm making enough money to get by.”

“And your ‘although' girl is there, too? There
is
an although girl, I take it?”

He laughed. “Yeah, she's here, but she's still very ‘although,' I'm afraid—we haven't gotten past small talk yet, and there seems to be some local social issue I'd have to deal with, too. So how're things with you, Jen? You still liking the academic life?”

He heard the toaster ding on her side, and imagined her taking out a bagel and smearing cream cheese on it. “Getting tenure's a bitch right now, I can tell you that. But you know I have the grant to go to China early next year on a research trip . . .”

He listened to her tell him about the trip as he ate his fish and chips; listening to her enthusiasm and drive reminded him how much he missed his sister and being able to talk face-to-face with her—and, he had to admit grudgingly, he missed the rest of his family as well. Yes, he knew that if he were home, there'd be the inevitable arguments with his mother, a firestorm that would die quickly enough yet leave behind the taste of ash, but . . .

“. . . but listen, this is costing you a fortune I know you don't have,” Jen was saying on the other end. “We should Skype next time, if you can get a decent Internet connection. It was good to hear from you, Colin.”

“Even on Saturday morning?”

She laughed. “Yeah, even then. Listen, stay in touch. And you really should call Mom, too. She'd like that. Tommy, too. And Aunt Patty.”

“Yeah, I will. Take care, Jen. Love ya.”

“Love you, too, Colin. Bye.”

He heard the click and he brought the phone down from his ear. He took off his glasses and rubbed his temples. His favorites screen was still up, and there in the middle was his mother's number. His forefinger hovered over it for a few seconds.

Instead, he clicked off the phone and put it back in his jacket pocket.

“L
ET ME KNOW if you come across that O'Neill book, then, will you? I've been looking for an original copy of one of the early editions for a long time, and it'd be terrific if you can dredge one up for me. You have my cell number, or you can just ring up Mrs. Egan on the Sky Road if you come across it and leave a message.”

The proprietor of Mullins' Used Books—Colin had no idea if the elderly man to whom he was talking was actually Mr. Mullins or not—waved to Colin in acknowledgment from behind the dusty stacks of books on the front counter and pushed his glasses back up his long nose, a gesture that Colin knew all too well. The bell above the door chimed as Colin stepped out onto the street.

He was in the warren of twisting, narrow streets lined with little shops that bloomed just off the south end of the town's main square. Lucas, after their last gig, had directed him toward Mullins' shop. “I've picked up some old sheet music from him, and if yer looking for something particular, they have lots of contacts,” Lucas had said. Frances O'Neill's
Music of Ireland
was a collection of old Irish airs and ballads, the volume itself dating from 1903. Colin hadn't expected to actually find it, especially since it had been originally published in America, but if Mullins could do the legwork and scour the rest of County Galway for him, well, it might be worth the effort.

It was one of those gorgeous days that only the west coast of Ireland could provide: a sky of deep sapphire at the zenith, adorned with white strands of clouds drifting above in the hint of a breeze, the temperature a balmy 60 degrees Fahrenheit. Colin unzipped his jacket and stuffed his woolen cap in his pocket. The locals seemed to regard this as a too-early harbinger of summer—most of them were walking around in shirtsleeves and complaining about the oppressive heat. Colin trudged up the hill of the main square, heading vaguely toward Mrs. Egan's but thinking that he might try tramping out along the Head, given the day.

He saw Maeve coming out from the grocers on the corner, pulling a two-wheeled cart laden with cardboard boxes and paper sacks. She still had on her red cloak despite the heat of the day, though her dark hair was pulled back and tied in a rough pony. “Maeve!” he called, but she'd already stopped, as if she felt his presence behind her. She turned.

“Colin,” she said. He couldn't quite decide if she was smiling or not. She was squinting into the sunlight, with a hand shading her eyes.

“Missed you at Regan's over the weekend,” he said. “Thought maybe I could buy you that pint. You got time now? I know it's early, but . . .”

She rolled the cart back and forth. “Not at the moment,” she said. “I'd like to get this back to the boat, actually.”

“Where are you moored? Out along Beach Road?” She nodded. “Mind if I stroll along with you? Thought I'd take a walk out that way anyway, since it's such a nice day.”

Her shrug was hardly inviting, and Colin hesitated, wondering if maybe the attraction he'd thought he'd felt between them had faded for her. “Yer certain yeh want to?” she asked.

“Why wouldn't I...?” he began, but realized what she meant before he'd finished the question. No one was precisely staring at the two of them, but the locals were definitely glancing their way, and most of the faces carried sour expressions. An older woman emerged from the grocers where Maeve had just been and—head down—nearly ran into Maeve's cart. She glared at Maeve, who made a gesture with her free hand: first and last fingers out along with the thumb, twisting the hand so it pointed to the ground. The woman literally hissed in response, but her eyes widened and she backed away hurriedly, retreating down the sidewalk in the other direction.

“Did you just give her some kind of hex sign?” Colin asked, almost laughing at the reaction of the woman.

“Nah, but she thinks I did and that's what matters,” Maeve answered. “So, yeh still sure yeh want to be seen in public with the witch woman?” she repeated.

“I told you the other day that I make up my own mind about people,” he told her.

Her chin lifted and fell in a single, slow nod. “Do yeh really now?” The corners of her mouth twitched as if she wanted to smile, and her eyes glistened in the sunlight. She grabbed the handle of the wire cart and started walking up the street, the wheels of the carts rattling behind her. He fell in alongside. “Is that the way it is with all Yanks?”

“No,” he answered. “We generally aren't any better at it than the Irish and are maybe actually worse, from what I've seen. I've been particularly bad at it for most of my life, but I finally realized that I had to stand up for what I wanted, no matter the cost.”
And I just wish I'd been able to talk to Dad and get his blessing, no matter how grudging it might have been.
That didn't seem to be something that he should tell Maeve, though. “Call it a family trait,” he finished.

She nodded at that. “I'll accept that.”

“But I'm curious to know
why
you're getting those looks,” Colin continued.

From the side, he could see the muscles of her jaws tighten as she spoke. “Let's just walk,” she said, “since yer willing.” She said nothing for a time as they strolled slowly up toward the end of the square, then across the street toward the opening of Beach Road, which curved away from the town toward the sea inlet a quarter mile away. Finally, away from the crowds of the town, Maeve sighed.

“We came here five years ago now,” she began. “And if yeh've been told that we ‘stole' the island, well, to some extent 'tis true. We're not the original people of Inishcorr. We don't own the land, not in any proper or legal way. There was an old village out there once, maybe a dozen houses, but the place was abandoned almost a century ago, when many people were leaving Ireland. The island had nothing but roofless, tumbled shells; now it has real houses with good thatch on 'em. The townies and the government can say whatever they like about us not ‘owning' the island, but it's ours. We
made
it ours, and ours 'twill stay.”

Her vehemence surprised him; Colin shrugged as he pushed back his glasses. “No worries. That makes sense to me. I understand what you're saying,” Colin told her. The sidewalk ended as the road curved hard toward the inlet, and Colin helped her place the cart on the edge of the asphalt roadway. He took the handle from her silently; she glanced at him strangely but made no comment. They could hear waves lapping at rocks and smell the salt wind, but the inlet itself was hidden by trees and the last few houses of the town. “But I don't see how that explains all the antipathy I've heard. Why should anyone in Ballemór even
care
that you're out on the island if it was so long abandoned? You'd think they'd be pleased, since your people are coming into town for supplies and the like.” He gestured at the groceries.

“If that were it, maybe yeh'd be right,” Maeve answered. “It started when Father Quinlan from St. Joseph's came out to the island, not long after we came. He wanted to see about our attending Mass in the town, or maybe him celebrating Mass out on the island. We told him that we didn't have any interest in him or his church's rituals, or any other church's, for that matter. We believe in the old ways and the old gods of the isle.” The road curved left one last time around the last of the houses, and they were walking along the edge of the inlet itself, with only rocks and boulders between them and the water. The wind off the Atlantic, funneled between the hills on either side, discovered them as they made the slight turn, and Colin felt as if the temperature had dropped ten degrees. He zipped up his jacket. “Our attitude didn't sit too well with the priest,” Maeve continued. “And—I have to admit—we Oileánach can be rather suspicious of strangers and aren't easy to know.” She laughed, suddenly. “Yeh met Niall, after all.”

Colin snorted. “Yeah. I met Niall.”

“Then yeh know how we can be. The townies don't like us Oileánach because they think we're aloof, strange, and too fond of the old pagan ways—and they're right. We remind them of a time when everyone believed in witches and the fae, when they saw the supernatural everywhere just below the surface of the world around them. Now if anything strange happens around here, we get the blame: when someone's flowerbox withers, when a farmer's cow stops giving milk, when a house burns down, when a babe dies. Trivial or tragic, it's somehow our fault. We scare 'em, when we're the ones who should really be the most frightened.”

“I did see you hex that woman back in town.” Colin chuckled as he spoke, to let Maeve know that he wasn't serious, but her mouth pressed together in a grimace.

“And when she twists her ankle tomorrow coming down her back stairs, she'll be thinking she knows why.”

“‘When' she twists her ankle? So you know she's actually going to do that?” Maeve just glanced at him with a serious look; Colin shrugged. “That was a joke,” he said. “We Yanks like to make jokes sometimes.”

Maeve didn't answer, and they continued walking. He could see a small, one-masted ship just up the road, red sails lashed closed and a mooring line stretched out to a stone pillar. Between the ship and them, Colin saw a pair of gray-black humps on flat rocks a few yards out from the shore. “That your boat?” he asked, and Maeve nodded. “And look,” he said to Maeve, pointing at the rocks they were approaching. The seals' heads lifted and turned in their direction as he spoke, as if they were aware of their presence. One of them let out a coughing grunt. “Seals. I haven't seen too many of them this far in.”

“Neh, yeh don't,” Maeve said. As they came abreast of the animals, Colin let the wire cart sit upright on the roadway as Maeve walked down toward the water. Colin started to follow her—as he did, he saw both of the seals start to turn as if they were about to leave the rocks for the safety of the deeper water. Maeve held up her hand toward Colin. “Not yet,” she said. “Yeh just stay there.” She crossed the last of the boulders and stepped onto the narrow, pebbly fringe of a beach. The seals had stopped, watching her. Maeve crouched at the water's edge, one hand dangling in the gray-green wavelets, not seeming to care that the hems of her red cloak and her skirt were in the water. The seals looked at her, then the larger of the two—the bull, Colin assumed—wriggled and slid into the water, swimming toward Maeve. He came out of the water directly in front of her, his snout lifting up her hand. She stroked his wet fur: to Colin's eyes, there was a deep blue hue lurking in the dark fur. The bull crooned, a basso greeting.

Colin laughed. “I've
never
seen anything like that,” he called out to her. “What have you been doing, Maeve—feeding them?” Colin slid his legs over the boulders lining the road's edge. At the crunch of his boots on the pebbles, the seal still out on the rocks grunted and rolled backward, splashing into the inlet's water on the far side away from the shore. The bull—if it
was
a bull—glared once at Colin, gave a nostril-flaring huff that sounded strangely like human exasperation, and left Maeve, waddling quickly back into the water. Before Colin could reach Maeve, he was already swimming away. Their heads made twin V-wakes in the water, arrowing toward the open sea.

Maeve was shaking her head. “What about ‘stay there' did yeh fail to understand?” She seemed more amused than irritated, though, heaving a dramatic sigh and rising up. The bottoms of her cloak and skirt dripped water on the stones. One eyebrow lifted as she looked at him.

“I'm sorry,” Colin said. “That one came right up to you, so I thought maybe they were tame.”

She lifted her cloak and shook it so that droplets scattered, and that also brought the scent of her hair to Colin again. He inhaled it deeply. “Nothing that lives and breathes is ever tame,” she said. “That's just a myth. Even the most obedient dog might turn and bite its owner one day. At least with a wild animal there's no pretense, no veneer: they do what instinct tells them to do. We all have that wildness within us—humans no less than animals. It's just that we like to pretend that the animal part has been burned out or contained in us.” She leaned close to him. Her fingertip touched him at the hollow of his neck and slid downward a few inches before leaving him. “Which is why people are the most dangerous creatures of all,” she finished. In her eyes, he could see the warped reflection of his silhouette against in the sky. Her breath was warm against his skin.

“So I shouldn't trust you?”

“Nah,” she said. “Yeh really shouldn't, Colin Doyle.” What happened then startled him. She rose up on her toes and kissed him: a fleeting touch of soft and gentle lips. He felt her heat all along the front of his body, and it felt strangely familiar to him, and with that sensation, he realized where he'd heard that voice before—that her voice was like that in the dreams he'd had back in Chicago, when his father had died. Strange; he'd nearly forgotten those, but now the memories flooded back, washing over him and then receding again, impossible to grasp even as he tried to hold onto them.

Then she stepped back and the moment was over. She turned, her cloak swirling like blood in water, and she crossed the fringe of beach and stepped over the boulders and back onto the roadway. She took the handle of the cart as Colin stood there, still tasting her on his lips. He didn't seem capable of moving, didn't want to move. “I need to go now, Colin,” she told him. “Thanks for the walk, but yeh still owe me that drink.”

“Let me help you get the groceries on the boat,” Colin called out.

She shook her head. “I'm fine. Niall's there waiting for me.”

“Ah, Niall,” Colin said. He said the name as if it were a curse. “When will I see you again?”