The Law of Dreams (10 page)

“You mustn't thank us, Fergus, you're one of us
now.”

FERGUS SLEPT THE REST
of the day and through the night.

In the morning when he crawled out of his scalp and came to the fire, he found Luke alone, stirring the kettle.

“No meat today. Turnip tops and nettles, Fergus. Wish we had a bit of yellow meal, to thicken. But this will do. Help yourself.”

The stirabout tasted of grass.

“Will you come scouting today, Fergus?” Luke was holding out small hands to warm at the fire.

“If you like. Ourselves alone it must be,” Fergus warned. “Not Shamie nor the others.”

Perhaps they would find something. Perhaps a badger hole. If they met another dray, perhaps he'd hop aboard.

Luke tucked his hands into his armpits and smiled. “It does me good to look at you, Fergus.”

Yes, he understood — he felt more alive, looking at Luke.

Strange that a companion's bright face might keep you going.

“We'll go out for the day, the pair of us. Show you the country. You are the man for the country. I've been waiting on a fellow like you.”

* * *

SHAMIE AND
the others protested at being left behind. “The Bog Boys must stay all together! What if dragoons come a-hunting for us, Luke? What then?”

“Fergus and I can slip around the country quite easily, and get the lay of the land, and scout what there is. And we're more likely to meet dragoons out there on the roads than here in the bog.”

At the mention of dragoons on the road, Shamie's face went yellow and he went to lie down in his scalp.

The others stood disconsolate by the fire, waving sadly as Luke and Fergus set off across the bog plain.

Brown, astringent water squeezing from the turf stung his feet, and he hoped it was burning his sores clean. The workhouse jacket chafed his neck but cut the edge off the wind. They passed through the wrecked village again, Luke leading the way, then traversed one field after another, crossing empty roads, climbing stone walls.

“The little ones, all they think of is their mouths. Poor Shamie is no good. But you and me, Fergus, we'll organize beautifully.”

“I don't feel so.”

“You and me, together, we might have a bold notion, make a plan, and hold to it — don't you think so?”

“I don't know.”

“Shamie, he lives very small. Perhaps he was never much of a soldier. You're the one, Fergus — I seen it in you right away. Now things will go much better for the Bog Boys.”

THEY CAME
upon an old horse, lying on its side, in an enclosed field where all the grass had been cropped. The horse's hide barely covered its bones. The knobs of joints had broken through and insects were working in the wounds.

Kneeling, Fergus touched the old horse's neck. The eye swiveled at him wildly.

Black lips drawn over yellow teeth.

“Nothing here for us,” Luke said. “No meat left on him, poor old man.”

Going to the nearest section of wall, Fergus started working loose a stone while Luke stayed with the horse, stroking its neck and singing a song about warriors and cattle.

Dislodging one grainy boulder from the wall, Fergus lugged it over. Luke stood back, still singing, his voice thin and clear. Fergus raised the stone and looked at the horse's wild eye before dropping it on the skull, which broke with a noise like ice snapping.

Luke sang one more verse, then walked away and climbed over the wall. Fergus looked down at the smashed head. The teeth. There was no blood he could see. No eye.

“Come away, Fergus.”

The heavy soil in the next field clumped at their feet and accumulated; it was like wearing heavy, muddy boots. They began chasing each other, slipping and sliding in the mud, screaming with laughter.

A TURNIP
field was being gleaned by a crowd of women and children pecking at the soil. After filling their pockets with turnip tops, Fergus and Luke kept striking across the fields, avoiding the roads.

They were crossing a field of oat stubble when he looked up and suddenly recognized the shape of the mountain in the distance. The country untangled itself in one shake, and he identified a distant line of trees, the pattern of his father's stonework in the field wall, even an iron gate, painted bright red.

They were on Carmichael's farm.

Overcome, he squatted down. Was Luke a
siog
, one of the spirits? Was this walking in a dream?

“What is it, Fergus?”

He brushed Luke's hand away and forced himself to stand, turning his back to the mountain and facing the wind with his eyes shut, feeling it blast and chisel his face. He could feel fever coming on, a relapse. If he gave in it would kill him.

Perhaps it was fever that had brought him back to die in front of the farmer.

He opened his eyes and grabbed Luke's wrist. “Where are you taking me?” he demanded. “Where are we going?”

“First to the river,” Luke said, looking at him closely. “Are you sure you're all right?”

He hated thinking it was a spell that brought him back here.

* * *

THEY STOOD
by the little river. He wanted to dare his fever, shock it, do something violent to break the dream, if he was in dreaming.

“What I have to show you is on the other side. We can go along to the bridge, but someone might see us, don't you think? So I reckon we had better swim it. Are you game? Can you do it?”

Yes, he wished to blast himself alive, or drown. The river would be cold and he wasn't much of a swimmer, though he usually could keep his head up. Turning his back to Luke, he undressed quickly, dropping his clothes on the grass.

He turned around, and saw Luke standing in the white body of a girl.

“There it is, there it is,” Luke said softly.

Fergus was too tired to feel anything except bewilderment, as though an owl had spoken.

“Do you think you've seen a
siog?
Touch me if you don't believe your eyes.”

White breasts and red nipples, curved belly, dark patch of sexual hair.

Her little cut.

He didn't move. Reaching out, Luke took his hand and held it to her breast, watching him.

“I'm no
siog
, Fergus. I'm the real.”

Through the softness he could feel her heart beating.

“Are you torn down? Is it disgraceful to be following a girl?” She let go of his hand. “Shall you resign? Do you wish to go home now?”

He had no words.

“I've lived hard and wild as any, Fergus. I'm strong, and will be stronger.”

Yes. As a girl, she already seemed more formidable, possessing power he hadn't recognized before. “Do the others know?”

“They do. Only I suppose some have forgotten. The little ones, all they think of is their mouths. And poor Shamie is no good. But we'll organize beautifully, you and me — I know we will. You are a good, stiff one.”

“I don't feel so.”

“It scares me to look at you,” she said, “for I suppose I am as thin as you.”

“Am I so thin?”

“You are, very. I could count your bones. I used to be plump, a little. But those days are gone.”

Without another word, she waded in through the yellow rushes, gasping at the cold. Wading steadily deeper, she suddenly plunged, coming up a few seconds later, her dark hair slicked back like an otter, screaming and kicking. “Whoo, whoo! Fergus, it burns like Hell! It is very cold! Oh my dear!” She laughed and began splashing for the opposite bank.

He stepped in tentatively. The cold was numbing. The bottom was sloped and muddy and he wished he hadn't agreed to swim but couldn't let her go across alone, his pride wouldn't stand it. He tottered a few more steps and then, about to lose his balance, plunged headfirst into the shiny current. The shock was like a steel spade smacking his chest. It hurt to breathe; he felt his lungs withering with cold. She was already climbing up on the bank. He could see her white body against the grass. As the current tugged him downstream, he started thrashing. After swallowing mouthfuls of water, he felt his toes touching mud.

He waded out through more dead reeds, heart roaring, skin on fire. Luke was laughing, her skin covered in goose bumps. “I wish we had a fire, I would bake in the coals, and you would eat me.”

“I wouldn't want to eat you.”

She scraped her wet hair with her fingers, looking at him.

“Come,” she said suddenly. “It's in here — in the willows.”

He followed after her, pushing through a little thicket of willows and alders.

There was a little leather boat, overturned on a couple of stumps.

“I've been considering the use of the thing.”

Not much bigger than a kettle, the currach was made of a cowhide, stretched over a basket frame of hazel wands, the seams sewn and thickly tarred. A pair of leather paddles were tucked up inside.

Fergus was delighted by the discovery. “I think we must light the river.”

“How do you mean?”

“The best fishing is at night. I'll make a lister. You'll see. We'll need torches and a net. It would be fine to catch a salmon, wouldn't it, Luke?”

Reaching out, she touched his ear with cold fingertips. “There may be a keeper with a gun. But I figured you was a waterman.“

He didn't have much experience on the river. The little boat belonged to a poacher, perhaps one of his uncles — he had overheard talk of lighting the river. There was no paid keeper on this stretch. Carmichael and his sons did not pay much attention since the fish did not belong to them.

“We'll paddle back over to the other side and hide it there, then come back at night.”

There was just room for the two of them to squeeze into the little boat. They each took a paddle and worked quickly back across. Concealing the currach in the trees, they quickly dressed. He watched her pulling on her breeches, tying them with string.

Sunlight warmed the scented grass. He was hungry.

“I know Shamie is a coward,” Luke said, wrapping herself in her layers of gauzy old linen shirts, “which is why the Bog Boys have done so little, and lived so meager.”

He followed her out of the trees and across the pasture where Carmichael usually kept his bull in winter, but the bull was gone and the grass was thick, tufted in bunches.

He missed her body after she was dressed. Nakedness was powerful, like a separate thing between them — a spell; a mysterious bird.

Whatever it was, clothes hid it.

“It is time we acted,” Luke said.

“Fishing is good.”

“I mean other actions as well, Fergus. I mean war.”

Suddenly he felt sick and cold.

“You're not shy. I know you,” she said happily.

He knew what she was going to say next.

“There is a farmer. Rides a red mare. They say he is very rich.”

A STORM WAS BLOWING UP
black as they came along the road
to Carmichael's. It suddenly felt cold enough for a snow. He wanted to turn back
but something kept him on the road. A spell had carried him here, after all; why resist?
He walked in a daze, hardly hearing her.

“I have not raised it with Shamie, thinking we could not put it
over, but now, with you and me captains, we can. I know we can. A gentleman I used to
know in Limerick, a land agent, told me this here is the richest farm of the estate.
They keep a year of food in a storehouse.”

They were coming past the badger wood, crossing the bridge. He
didn't want to go any farther, but couldn't seem to stop himself, or change
anything. Something strong had carried him this far and he couldn't escape it
now.

“What is it, Fergus? Is something wrong? You look very
ill.”

“I know these people.”

She stopped, gripped his arm. “Do you know where they keep the
food?”

“A little stone house in the yard — he keeps tools there and
stores in a cellar underneath.”

People on the mountain claimed the little stone hovel had been a holy
church in the days when there had been saints in the country.

“Are there dogs?”

“There was but she hated them so he got rid of them.”

“Who hated them?”

“Phoebe. Carmichael's daughter.”

“Bless her. I hate dogs too. Here.” She took off the soldier
cap and placed it on Fergus's head. “Now you look like a ribbonman. What
stores does he keep?”

“Corn. Apples.”

“What else? Meat?”

“Meat if they have slaughtered.

Butter.”

“Butter!”

“He keeps it locked.”

“There's ways to kill locks.”

They came around the bend in the road, and there were the familiar iron
gate and the gaunt farmhouse, blinking at him across the yard.

Luke pointed to a thick little stone building with slits instead of
windows, standing between the house and stable. “Is that the stores?”

“It is.”

Luke scanned the yard. “It's perfect. If we come at night,
who'll stop us, if we are quiet enough? We can boost a little fellow inside,
through them skinny windows. Only we must wait the night without any moon, move quiet.
We're plenty of hands to carry off rations. A noggin of butter, that would be
famous.”

The kitchen door opened. Carmichael stepped out.

“God, don't let the fellow know you,” Luke said under
her breath.

“Nothing for you here!” the farmer shouted.

“Only looking for soup, mister!” cried Luke.

“We give charity at Scariff, not on the farm! The soup kitchen is at
the church. Keep on the road to Scariff and you'll be fed.”

“Thank you, sir!” Luke bowed.

“Off with you now,” Carmichael called.

“
WAS
that him? The fellow that ejected
you?”