The Crow of Connemara (34 page)

26

I
N HIS DREAMS, he thought himself back home in Chicago, staring at the image of the dead crow on Jen's table, or lying in his bed in Jen's apartment, reading his grandfather's journal. The images of a dead black bird and of Maeve/Máire dominated his sleep, and he worried about the meaning of them. He needed desperately to see Maeve again, to know that she was all right. The absence of her was like a bloody and terrible wound in his chest that refused to heal.

He'd thought—naively, he realized—that Superintendent Dunn would release him as soon as the launch landed back at Ballemór in the same way that he'd taken off the handcuffs as soon as the boat cleared Inishcorr's harbor, that he'd brush off Colin with another warning and that would be the end of it. He'd imaged that Maeve would come after him with the
Grainne Ni Mhaille
as well, that she'd embrace him and kiss him, then the two of them would return to the island despite Dunn's protestations.

But the fantasies had dissolved quickly. He'd been taken to the gardai station in the town, and incarcerated in the small gaol there for three days, while official-looking people in suits and somber, unsmiling faces had come and visited him, asking him questions that he mostly couldn't answer, and vaguely threatening to revoke his visa and send him home if he didn't cooperate. They asked about what defenses the Oileánach had erected on the island, what kind of armaments and weaponry they had, and they looked at him unbelievingly when he told them that as far as he knew, they had no weapons at all unless they wanted to count pocket knives.

On the third day, Superintendent Dunn had Colin brought to his office. The officer escorting him knocked on Dunn's door, opened it at the Superintendent's “Enter,” gestured to Colin to go in, then closed the door behind him.

Colin could see his passport sitting on Dunn's keyboard, off to the side of the desk. He sat in the chair on the other side of the desk. “Tea?” asked Dunn. “I just made a pot.”

Colin shrugged. Dunn swiveled in his chair to the credenza behind him, and poured out two mugs of tea. He put one in front of himself and slid the other across the desk toward Colin. “Sugar?”

Colin shook his head. “Me neither,” Dunn said. “I prefer it black.” He took a long sip before setting the mug down. “I suppose yer wondering what we're intending to do with yeh.”

“It's crossed my mind a few times.”

“I've talked to the authorities, and told them that I think yeh were just an innocent caught up in something yeh didn't fully understand. I told them that I thought yeh were no threat to anyone, just a musician wanting to learn some of the old tunes.”

Colin nodded. “That's true enough, especially the last. I mean, I understand that the Oileánach took a deserted island that the NPWS wants to turn into a park, but . . .” Colin shrugged. “When I came here, I didn't intend to get involved in anything political.”

Dunn plucked Colin's passport from the keyboard. As he watched, the Superintendent tapped the edge of the booklet softly against the top of his desk. “Yet that's what yeh did.”

“I can't help that I like Maeve. And I won't apologize for it either.”

Dunn nodded slowly. “I like the woman as well, Mr. Doyle—if not in the same way. I admire her passion, but I also have the law to uphold and the Oileánach have broken several. Yeh ca'nah go back there, Mr. Doyle.”

“My guitars are still there, and so are my clothes.”

“Those are just things, an' they can all be replaced.”

Colin gave a short laugh. “You're evidently not a musician, Superintendent. The Gibson I had out there alone is worth a few thousand dollars. It's from the 1960s, and I've had it for a decade now. It's not just a ‘thing' to me.”

“That's unfortunate, then. Yeh still ca'nah go back there.”

“If I do, would I be arrested? Would I be breaking a law?”

“Yeh'd be knowingly trespassing. That would be enough to have your visa revoked.”

“Even if all I'm doing is recovering my property?”

Dunn sighed. “Mr. Doyle, at any moment, the government is likely to take any decisions completely out of me hands. They do'nah want a foreign national there when they come—an' they
will
come, sooner than later now. If yeh were to be there when they do, 'twould be them making the decisions, not me. Yeh do'nah want to go back out there, possessions or nah. Am I making meself clear?”

“Abundantly.”

Dunn nodded again. He laid the passport down on the desk and slid it toward Colin, then opened his desk drawer. From it, he brought a large plastic ziplock bag, containing the rest of what had been confiscated from Colin when he'd been held: his belt, his wallet, tissues, a few guitar picks, a pen . . . and his grandfather's stone, the cloch. He could feel Dunn watching him as he took the stone from the bag and cradled it for a moment in his hand. Holding it, he thought he heard the whisper of Maeve's voice:
I love yeh, Colin. I need yeh. Come back. Come back.

“Pretty stone. What is it?”

Colin opened his fingers slightly; the voice faded. “I don't know. It was my grandfather's, who brought it over to America from here. My aunt gave it to me just before I came here.”

Dunn's chin lifted and fell again. “There's a lot of Ireland yeh haven't yet seen.”

“Is that a suggestion?”

Dunn almost seemed to smile. “'Tis,” he answered. “But I understand that Mrs. Egan has a room for you tonight, at least.”

Ten minutes later and finally freed, Colin trudged up the road toward the main streets of Ballemór and the hill toward Mrs. Egan's. He could feel the stares of some of the town's residents on him; when he waved to those he recognized, they smiled hesitantly and waved back, then turned quickly away. No one seemed to want to stop and talk to him—which told him more than any words could have.

The Irish
love
to talk.

Late that afternoon, Colin walked back down from Mrs. Egan's to the town center. For the first time, he noticed the presence of many strangers in the town. There were faces he didn't recognize, too well-dressed and too oblivious to the streets and shops around them to be tourists. Also walking in the main part of town were several sailors in uniform, both men and women. Colin turned away from the square, walking toward Beach Road with the mist fogging his glasses.

Despite Superintendent Dunn's caution, he still wanted to go back out to Inishcorr, if only—he told himself—to get his guitars.

About a kilometer down Beach Road, he came to the small marina where the
Grainne Ni Mhaille
usually tied up when Maeve and her people came to Ballemór, which was also where most of the Galway hookers and other small craft in the area docked. He paused at the end of the main jetty, cleaning his glasses on his sweater as he looked at the pebbled beach and scanning the piers and jetties for the
Grainne Ni Mhaille
, as if nothing had changed and Maeve would be there, waiting for him. The bright red sails of a few other Galway hookers caught his attention, but none of them had the lines of the Oileánach's boat.

He walked up the steps and out along the dock toward the small office building. Behind the counter there, in front of a wall displaying a large chart of nautical knots and a display of embroidered tea towels of Irish linen with nautical themes, a bored-looking young woman was texting on her phone. She glanced up from the phone as Colin entered; then, with an audible sigh and a distinct frown of irritation, set the phone down. “'Morning to yeh,” she said. “Fine weather we're having today.” Her gaze traveled over him; he could see her sizing him up. She nodded. “Looking for a ride around the Head? How many would it be? 'Tis a couple tourist charter boats in dock yeh can hire . . .”

She stopped as Colin shook his head. “I need to get out to Inishcorr,” he told her, and was rewarded with a laugh.

“Tiz me berries,” she said, and at the confused look on Colin's face, shook her head. “Yer joking around with me, right?” She laughed again. “Goin' to Inishcorr, are yeh? Hope yeh can swim, then.”

“No, I'm serious. I'll pay whatever I need to pay, but I need to get out there.”

The mocking, abbreviated laugh was repeated. She glanced down at her phone on the counter. “Mister, have yeh not been listenin' to the news? The Naval Service is stopping any ships from gettin' to the island, but that's nah the worst of it.”

Colin heard the tone in her voice, and his eyes narrowed. “I've . . . been away for a few days,” he told her. “What do you mean?”

“Yeh really don't know? It's all bolloxed up out there. There's been a fog around Inishcorr for the last three days. Yeh can't even see the bloody island well enough to get close. The fog just sits there: all day, all night, thick as an old London Particular with no wind blowing it away. It's feckin' weird and unnatural, if yeh don't mind my sayin' so. People are saying 'tis the devil's work.” She shrugged and picked up her phone. “So yer outta luck, Mister. No one here's gonna take yeh out that way.”

“I can pay well,” Colin countered. “Whatever it takes.”
Or my credit card can do that . . .

“Yeh can offer to pay whatever yeh want. Still won't happen.” She looked at him, raising her eyebrows, and returned her attention to the phone's screen, obviously dismissing him.

“You're certain there's no one? No one at all?”

“That's the craic.” She raised her eyebrows to him again. “Sorry, mate.”

Colin lifted his hands in defeat. “Well, thanks anyway. Look, if you hear of someone, I'm staying up at Mrs. Egan's for the next few days. You could send word there.”

“Sure, and I'll do just that,” she told him without looking at him, her attention back on her phone. Colin knew that she'd forget him and his request before he made it back to the Beach Road. He left her and walked out onto the pier again. He glanced west, toward where the inlet widened as it met the open Atlantic. He could see a few of the islands beyond that hugging the coast, gray and faint in the mist, but Inishcorr couldn't be seen from here.

He made his way back down to the Beach Road.