The Crow of Connemara (42 page)

33

W
H
AT
THE
HELL
am I doing?

The phrase kept echoing through Colin's head as he walked behind Maeve toward Fionnbharr's mound. The world seemed to have acquired a distance from him. He walked, somehow, just outside reality. Everything around him was strangely sharp and distinct: the sound of his shoes on the gravel of the path, the chill of the Atlantic wind on his face, the masked, failing glow of the sun through the lingering fog at the horizon, the scratch of the wool in his sweater, the movement of clouds against the sky, the sweet scent of grass against the brine of the sea, the lingering taste of this morning's tea and scones on his tongue, the hypnotic swaying of Maeve's skirt as she walked . . .

Every sense was hyper-alert, and he found himself trying to commit each moment, each sensation, to memory as if they were currency with which to barter in the afterworld that was awaiting him. His hand was in his pocket, his fingers clutching his grandfather's stone as he pulled it out to place it around his neck again, and he could hear the whispering of voices within it, but they were faint and contradictory.

She's betraying yeh.

No, this is indeed the moment. Yer doing the right thing.

Yeh can't trust her.

Yeh must trust her.

The interior conversation was difficult to process. No, it was impossible. The words seemed to mean nothing, shattering against his skull. He felt light, almost airy. He wondered if this was a feeling he shared with everyone who faced this kind of crisis, who had chosen (or had chosen for them) a moment where decisions had to be made, where their life would be forever changed afterward.

The voices from the cloch continued to yammer at him, incessantly.

She hasn't told yeh everything or enough.

This might actually be the end for yeh.

What will Jennifer and Tom think? How will Mom react when she gets the news? What will Aunt Patty say?
And with that, another thought:
Will they ever really know?
Maeve hadn't told him what would happen with this spell; would the island itself go through the gateway into this other place? If he couldn't go with them, what would happen to him afterward?

Spells and magic and hidden worlds—how can you believe
anything
will happen at all? This could be a madwoman's delusion.
He shook his head, as if the thought could be discarded like a dog shedding water. He reminded himself of everything he'd seen here with Maeve: the selkies, the aos sí, Keara's fog, the underworld beneath the mound to which Maeve had taken them.

No, no, the magic was real. He'd seen it. It
had
to be real.

He had to believe it because otherwise his decision would have no meaning. Otherwise there would be no songs for him.

From the distance, in the direction of the harbor village, there came the bark of two quick but very distinct gunshots. They both paused at the sound, Maeve casting a quick glance over her shoulder. The look on her face was strange, an expression he'd never glimpsed on her before. There was almost an eagerness in the set of her mouth, in the widening of her eyes—as sharp and hard as crow's eyes—as if the disturbing sound was pleasant to her. Her body leaned toward the faint echo of the gunfire, as if she wanted to move toward the struggle rather than away from it.

The Morrígan . . .
the voices whispered as one.
The Morrígan . . .

Colin realized that was who he was seeing: not the Maeve he'd fallen in love with, but the old goddess that was also part of her. That aspect of her was drawn to battle and death, and she wanted to revel in the blood. Then the moment passed, and the Maeve he knew returned, her gaze softening and lines of worry creasing her face. “We have to hurry,” she said, though her words sounded like brittle ice to his ears. “They can't hold off the leamh forever, and the spell is long to cast.”

She turned back and her pace quickened. Colin remained where he was, glancing over his shoulder toward the harbor. There, he knew, was his rescue, if he wished it. All that was required was for him to run toward the naval personnel who were undoubtedly just now coming off their ships, and surrender himself to them. Why, Superintendent Dunn might be with them. The worst that would happen is that he'd be held for a time before being deported and sent back to the States, back to Chicago and his family; at best, he could plead that he'd come back to the island to recover his guitars, especially his precious Gibson, only to be inadvertently caught up in this turmoil. Eventually—if reluctantly—they'd let him go. He might even be able to travel elsewhere in Ireland, to find more songs and more old tunes, to continue his study.

In time, he might forget the Oileánach, Inishcorr, and Maeve.

In time.

The voices howled in protest.
Yeh ca'nah do that. Yeh gave yer word. The bard is a necessary part of the spell. Yer voice . . .
'twill
open the gate.

“Your grandfather never did go back. I think that always bothered him. At least you won't have that regret.”
The memory of his Aunt Patty's comments came to him as well. They seemed prophetic now.

“Colin?”

Maeve had stopped, looking back at him. He could tell from her face that she knew what he was thinking, could tell that if he ran, she wouldn't try to stop him, that she almost expected him to do exactly that.

So run! This is the moment when you can save yourself.

But he couldn't will his legs to move. Looking at Maeve, looking at the despair and desperation that wrapped around her as tightly as her red cloak, he found himself unable to act.

He glanced back one last time, then hurried toward her as she turned and continued along the path to the mound.

At the base of the mound, just inside the ring of stones, she set down the box on the grass. Colin, silent, stood alongside her. “Fionnbharr!” she called. “It's time to keep yer promise.”

Cold air, as if from a tomb, stirred the folds of her cloak and rushed over both of them. Fionnbharr appeared, standing at the top of the mound under the hawthorn tree, dressed in armor and helm with a sword at his side. A shadowy Lugh stood beside him, holding his spear. “I see yeh still have the fool,” he said.

“Shut it,” she snapped at him. “Get yer people and go hold back the leamh
.
Either that or be cursed as coward and traitors for the rest of what little life yeh'll have remaining.”

Fionnbharr sniffed audibly. “An' who will do the cursing if none of yeh are left, or if this gateway doesn't work?”

“It will work if yeh give me the time,” Maeve answered. “And yer chinwagging here won't do that. Do it or do'nah, but leave me to my task.”

Fionnbharr laughed, mockingly, and she thought for a moment that he might simply fall back into the mound, but instead he waved his hand in summons, and the cold host appeared, ghostly, behind him. Skeletal horses were brought to Fionnbharr and Lugh, and they mounted the spectral steeds. “Get to yer spell, Battlecrow, or be cursed yerself for failing us.”

With that, he beckoned again, kicked his mount with his boot heels, and the host of the aos sí flowed past them, frigid and riotous, their voices shouting in the rush of wind that followed. Maeve's cloak billowed out as they went, and she saw their hands grasping at Colin as they passed. She took his arm, afraid that one of them might snatch him away.

Then they were past, a glowing presence winding into the distance down the path and over the small ridge between the mound and the harbor. “Right, then,” she said to Colin. “We have to hurry . . .”

She began plucking items from the box. The knife she thrust quickly into the belt of her skirt, not daring to look at Colin as she did so, though she could feel him staring at her. She brought out the herbs and the spices.
“Turn widdershins and scatter them to the winds. Feed the sky . . .”
the voices in the cloch had told her decades ago. She obeyed, taking the powders and dried, crumbled leaves in her right hand and lifting up her hand as she turned counterclockwise. A harsh, cold Atlantic gale touched her as she did so, and she opened her hand. The air took the offering from her with the sound of laughter.

She stooped down to take up the parchment containing the incantation, which she had written down in the cavern of Rathcroghan while Rory slumbered near her. “It's time for your part, m'love,” she told Colin. “Put the cloch around yer neck and hold it.”

Looking apprehensive, Colin followed her instructions; as he lifted the jewel, the cold, billowing sky-flames appeared again above them, so like the aurora that sometimes appeared in Irish skies, only far more brilliant and imbued with a power that she could feel—a throbbing power swirled down around them and filled the stone as if it were a receptacle. She saw the curling filigrees of the scars appear on Colin's forearm where the sleeve of his sweater had fallen down. His face was lined with a grimace, and she knew he could feel the frigid energy within the stone, burning his hand all the way down to the shoulder.

“Begin . . .”
The voices of the cloch clamored, audible even to her, as if ghosts whispered around them.
“Now. Sing, Bard . . .”

“I don't know what to sing,” Colin said into the crackling whirl of the aurora. In the failing sunlight, in the shifting sky-glow of the cloch's spell, Colin was watching Maeve, and in his eyes she could see the echo of the stone's power and the elaborate tracery of it in his arm. Colin's face: trusting and resigned. There was pain in seeing that, as well, and that was troubling to her for more than one reason.

Listen. It will come to yeh,
the voices insisted.

Colin closed his eyes. Through the crackling of the energy that was filling the cloch, Maeve could hear the sounds of struggle from the direction of the harbor, and again the chatter of gunfire. Distantly, someone screamed.

Ráisit d'inis nárbo dermar . . . The island protected by a bridge of glass . . .

Then Colin began to sing, and his voice swept everything away: the electric snarl of the sky's power, the rushing of the wind, the sounds of the chaos near the harbor.

Ráisit d' inis nárbo dermar,

co n-dún daingen;

sonnach umai

fair co n-druini (clothach caingen).

Linn aíbinn ard immon sonnach

(sorchu scélaib),

ós moing mara;

drochat glana ara bélaib.

No cingtis súas ind ócbad dían

chennmas chalma;

tuititis sís

(ba búan a cís) dochum talman.

As Colin sang, Maeve saw the portal to Talamh an Ghlas open again, the land shimmering as if glimpsed through a foggy window. This time, however, the aurora light of the cloch wrapped emerald tendrils around the edges of the portal, gleaming and writhing, and as the song continued, the tendrils deepened in color and the fog began to vanish, until it seemed that the entrance to the Otherworld stood open and they could simply step through.