The Hounds of the Morrigan (7 page)

More of it, thought Pidge. Here now, we have people who sing and put ideas into other people’s heads.

‘Is there anything special about iron?’ he asked, only half-wanting to know.

‘There’s a lot I could tell you about iron. What do you mean in particular?’

‘Well,’ Pidge hesitated, not wanting to look a fool.

‘What?’

‘Anything magical? Is there anything about magic?’

‘Oh, I think there’s a fair bit. It’s said for instance that witches can’t touch it, though I don’t know about that myself.’

Witches! I hadn’t thought of witches. I’d been thinking of something, well,
stronger,
Pidge realized. And if it’s witches, at least I have iron and it will secure me against them.

Now being prepared for almost anything, Pidge with Brigit said goodbye to Tom and thanked him once more. They set off along the boreen towards the lake.

The island was only a short row from the shore.

Brigit sat in the bow admiring her brooch as she listened to the oars dipping into the water and the drops falling back into the lake. They moved slowly over its surface. It was such a hot day and so still and quiet. They could hear every creak the leathers of the oars made as they rubbed against the rowlocks. They could hear every little squeak from the boards in the bottom of the boat. The boat seemed to have its own language and its own song. As he rowed, Pidge stared dreamily over the side of the boat, watching the swaying of the long weeds in the water and the darting minnows whose shadows followed them over the clearly-lit sandy bed that was the bottom of this shallow part of the lake. Some parts of the lake were said to be bottomless. They were places where the water was always dark green and glassy and impenetrable to vision, even on a bright day such as today, Pidge knew.

When they landed on the island, Pidge felt overwhelmed by the sudden loudness of the insects, as they busied and buzzed amongst the tall, flowering grasses and in the thickets of sloes, wild roses and woodbine. He flopped down in a grassy dip. Brigit said that she was going to pick some wild flowers.

When Pidge was alone, he took out that dreadful page, still wrapped in Patrick’s writing, from where he’d hidden it inside his shirt. He opened his little iron case. He was about to fold the pages once more to fit them inside it and secure the manuscript properly in iron.

It jerked out of his hand, slipping out from Patrick’s page, and pretended that it was being blown by the wind.

There was no wind.

Not a whisper.

He dived after it. In seconds he had it folded again within the covering page. Then it was inside the iron case and he snapped it shut.

And now I have you! he thought happily. You are really imprisoned in iron!

Brigit came back, her fists full of daisies and the brooch pinned through her hair as an ornament, right on the top of her head.

‘It’s far too hot,’ she complained and she threw herself down beside Pidge. She began to make daisy chains, selecting the ones with the strongest stems. Pidge lay on his back, thinking about witches and trying to remember everything he had ever heard about them. This wasn’t easy, for not only had he heard very little on the subject, but he couldn’t exactly remember what he had heard. Just broomsticks and black cats, really.

After a time, Brigit held up her daisy chains triumphantly and said:

‘Know what these are?’

‘What?’

‘Handcuffs! In case those pig-rustlers come back and try again.’

She put them on her wrist as bracelets. Already they looked wilted and lifeless.

Two swans sailed into view and steered in towards them. Brigit opened up a paper bag and broke up some bread to throw into the water for the swans to enjoy.

The heat made throwing an effort. The last piece she threw fell far short of the water. One of the swans glided into the shore and waddled onto the land towards the bread.

‘Do you think that swan could be a fairy?’ she asked.

‘I wouldn’t be a bit surprised!’ Pidge said sitting up; and that was exactly how he really felt.

Brigit threw another piece of bread. She deliberately aimed to bring the swan closer. It stood for a while and looked at her with its black button eyes.

She sang to it:

‘Come swan! Come swan! I’ll give you bread and butter!’ It turned and waddled back to the lake.

‘What about a hard-boiled egg?’ Brigit shouted. ‘Would you come for that?’

The swan settled back on the water like a cat on a cushion. The other swan came to meet it and they sailed in circles close to the shore. All the time they watched the children with their intent black eyes.

It was as if they had been on the island for hours and hours. Again Pidge had the feeling that time was not passing at its correct speed. Brigit was restless, and Pidge felt impatience rise inside him like a large bubble, threatening to burst if he didn’t do something soon.

‘Why don’t we go and explore the island?’ Brigit suggested.

‘We already know every stick and stone of it.’

‘Will we row to a different island?’

‘Too hot.’

‘I’m fed up sitting here. Do you think Daddy is home yet?’

‘No. It’s only about twelve o’clock.’

‘I’m going into the little wood. There might be something to see in there.’

‘What?’

‘Oh, an animal or butterfly or fairy—any old thing at all. It’s too hot to do anything, we might as well go home.’

Pidge raised his head.

‘Listen!’ he said.

It was the sound of a banjo.

Two figures appeared, walking towards them from behind a small hill. Two tatterdemalion figures dressed in what looked like the sweepings of a Jumble Sale. They were an old man and an old woman.

Tom’s tinkers,’ Brigit murmured.

The old man was wearing the remains of a battered old billy-cock hat and a ragged faded mackintosh; and he had tattered trousers fluttering around his thin ankles. He was wearing a pair of torn tennis shoes and no socks. In his buttonhole, he sported an enormous pink rose and his face was split into a smile of ecstatic happiness.

The old woman was wearing the motley found only on rubbish tips, topped by an outrageous hat which had every flower of the wild pinned all about it; all overpowered by masses of dandelions. It looked like a bowl of flowers on top of her head. She it was who played the banjo.

She had a red concertina tied on a long string and fastened to a big button on her coat and it dangled and swung round her knees in time to the rhythm of her swaggering, dancing walk. She was singing ‘The Lark In The Morning’ in a voice that sounded far too young for her age. The old man was dancing by now. He held out the hem tips of his mack in a dainty way and did a little spinning turn.

The song finished as they neared the children. The old man clapped his hands, laughed, flung his old billycock up into the air and caught it on the point of his walking-stick as it came back down. He twirled it round a few times and bowed to the children.

From amid the flowers at the crown of the old woman’s hat came the pure beauty of a blackbird’s song. A butterfly fluttered onto the old man’s nose from a dandelion fastened to the hat’s brim. The old man at once went cock-eyed as he tried to see it.

‘Oh, I wish it would come on me,’ said a hopeful Brigit before Pidge could stop her.

‘Go on the little girl,’ said the old man.

Oh botheration! Pidge thought uneasily. I wish I’d told Brigit all about it. She’s gone and made friends with them as if everything were just as usual because she doesn’t know any better. It’s my own fault—I should have told her!

The butterfly obeyed the old man and presently it was standing on the very tip of Brigit’s nose; opening and closing its magnificent wings to show its beauty to the world. She could feel its delicate little legs barely resting on her skin. She held her breath and was as still as she could be. But after a moment, it tickled and she just had to sneeze. The butterfly wafted back to its dandelion.

‘Do you know,’ said the old woman, ‘I could do with a bite to eat. I could do with a pancake or two. Let us sit down a minute, Patsy, while I just have a rootle in me bageen.’

‘Do, Boodie, do. A good rootle is what’s needed, for a small hunger wakes in me at the thought of hard-boiled eggs.’

‘I don’t know about hard-boiled eggs!’ said Boodie. ‘I wonder now, did I put any fairy cakes in?’ And she smiled.

‘I hope not indeed!’ said Patsy. ‘After eating Boodie’s fairy cakes your stomach would feel like a bag of rocks.’ He smiled at the children to show that his remark was addressed to them.

Boodie took a fit of laughter.

‘Will ye look at me shoes, Patsy! Curling up at the toes like two little rocking-boats! We’re all dressed up and nowhere to go!’

‘We look as if we’re dressed in potato peelings,’ agreed Patsy. ‘But, wise eyes will see beyond that and maybe even wish that they had shoes that were comical too.’

‘I wish I was the Queen of England, so I do,’ said Boodie. ‘Sitting down to High Tea in the palace. I’ll bet it’s so clean in there it’d make you want to spit on the floor.’

Brigit giggled.

She nudged Pidge. He was laughing too.

‘I’ll bet she’s even got someone to blow on her soup! I’ll bet she’s that rich; not like old Go-The-Roads such as ourselves!’ Boodie said, so cheerfully that it was plain she didn’t mind at all. It was all said with a twinkle and only for fun.

‘Who’s rich?’ yelled Patsy.

‘We are!’ Boodie shouted back.

That’s right. I’ve got my black hazel stick from Lugduff and you have your white hazel stick from Cregbawn; do we want more and we having the wealth of Wicklow?’

‘Well, a few pancakes wouldn’t be amiss,’ Boodie replied, ‘but you’re right as always, Patsy me ould Champion!’

Patsy took off his hat and stuck it up in the air on the tip of his black hazel stick.

‘It’s grazing time!’ he announced. ‘Lunch is about to be served!’ He looked across, grinned and winked at them and said:

‘Would you like to eat some food with us?’

‘Not if you’re eating grass,’ Brigit said. ‘I’ve never grazed and I don’t think I’d like it.’

‘See now, Patsy, you have made confusion in the small one’s head. Drollery nor waggishness is not what’s needed, but lashin’s and lavin’s of edibilities, I’m thinking,’ Boodie said.

‘Yes! We have full and plenty for all,’ Patsy replied. He held up a spotless white bundle. ‘There’s a few farls of oaten cake tied up in this handcloth so that they can’t escape, a hambone and a pot of jam.’

‘A hambone is sweet; but a pot of jam is the supreme comforter!’ Boodie declared.

‘We
have hard-boiled eggs,’ said Brigit, and she walked forward at once. Pidge held back. Suppose
they
were not what they seemed? Suppose they were the ones doing all the strange things?

Patsy appeared to be marvellously pleased about the hard-boiled eggs.

‘Now we have everything!’ he cried.

‘Yes, and twice-offered too,’ Boodie said with a secret smile at him.

Whatever does
that
mean? wondered Pidge.

Boodie took Brigit by the hand.

‘And what’s your name?’ she asked.

‘Brigit.’

‘The lovely name. Patsy, this child has the lovely name of Brigit.’

Patsy scattered his rose petals.

‘Ah, the lovely young Goddess—here’s to her honour. Did you know that there was the Goddess Brigit here in Ireland in the old days, young sir?’ he asked Pidge.

‘I’ve heard of
Saint
Brigit.’

‘Ah, I’m persuaded ‘tis likely the Goddess was before your time,’ said Patsy sadly.

‘Don’t be downhearted, Patsy. See what flowers the child wears on her wrists?’

‘Daisies!’ Patsy exclaimed, and his eyes seemed to light up. ‘Do you like daisies?’ he asked Brigit.

‘I do. I love them.’

‘That’s the word right enough!’ Patsy said, adding, ‘It’s a potent word and a mighty flower for all its littleness.’ He patted Brigit on the head as if he were her grandfather.

Pidge came over to stand beside him. He touched Patsy’s sleeve.

‘My name is Pidge—short for P.J. It’s quicker than saying P.J., you see.’

‘And what’s P J. short for?’ asked Boodie.

‘Patrick Joseph,’ said Pidge.

‘One of the new-fangled ones—but, good enough!’ Boodie observed. She was taking things from inside the bag and setting them beside her on the grass. ‘Look here! We have yellow meal bread!’ she continued.

‘That’s the ticket!’ Patsy said, rubbing his hands together and cheering up. ‘The yellow meal bread washed down with a good mugful of buttermilk.’

‘No buttermilk,’ Boodie said.

‘Well then, we’ll have spring-water.’

‘No spring-water. The can is empty.’

‘No spring-water?’ He sounded quite horrified.

‘Rest aisy,’ Boodie said. ‘There’s some on the island.’

‘There isn’t!’ Brigit said smartly. ‘We know every inch of this place and we never saw a spring, did we, Pidge?’

‘Not on this island anyway.’

‘Back a piece the way we came, I saw a waterspout sticking out over the path and it gushing out glittering water that fell to the ground like a shower of diamonds. Would you carry some here in this little milk can—to please Patsy?’

‘It’s me legs or I’d go meself,’ Patsy said. ‘The screws do be terrible by times. I’d
like
the adventure of going for water but for that. For you’d never know who you might meet or what mysteries would overtake a person going solitary for water. Such a gift it is—the whole world might die for lack of it, as I’ve said all through the years.’

‘I’ll get it, gladly,’ Pidge said.

He took the milk can and set off. As he turned in towards the centre of the island, he looked to see if the swans were still swimming in circles close to the far shore.

There was no sign of them anywhere.

H
E
ran and half-trotted along the path of short-grown grass. All of his boredom and sense of time dragging had vanished. Now he was curious to see the sudden waterspout, which he had never seen in the past although he had been coming to the lake islands for as long as he had memory.