Cat Adams - The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

Maggie puffed her hair off her forehead. «I suppose I’m more American than I thought.»

«Or you’re not thinking hard enough.» Conall kissed her softly. «Maybe I should tell you there are some hereabouts who believe only those closely involved with the wise woman’s magic can see the seventh sister’s return.»

«What are you saying?» Maggie’s heart skittered.

«Only that once the returning is seen, it can be said that the seventh sister’s mortal counterpart has also returned to her beloved homeland. And when she does, she always looks after the others. She tends the stones as if they were living flesh still.»

«Oh, God!» Maggie stared at him. «You can’t mean.»

«Who knows?» His eyes said he did. «But I’ll share something else with you. A few nights ago, a very strange old woman came into Flanagan’s. She had a touch of the fae about her and she was dressed oddly, even wearing»—

«Small black boots with red plaid laces!»

This time Conall looked surprised. But he caught himself and grinned as quickly. «So you’ve seen her?»

Maggie nodded. «Yes, several times. On my first trip here, then more recently outside a friend’s tea room in Pennsylvania. And today when she kept me from leaving after I saw you with that woman. She pushed me forwards into the sheep field. That’s why I stumbled.»

«Then I say a thousand blessings on her and may she rest well for another seven generations. Or»— he rocked back on his heels «—will you be keeping the poor woman busy by running home to your America?»

«Oh, no, I’m not going anywhere, Conall Flanagan.» Maggie hoped it was true. «At least not until I have to fly back to Philly in fourteen days,» she added, needing to hear him say the words.

«Fourteen days?» The glint in his eye told her he was playing along. «That’s the same amount of time we had years ago.» He stepped close, sweeping her into his arms. «I’m thinking that’s not nearly long enough for you to enjoy being in Ireland. Everyone knows»— he began walking towards the low, thick-walled farmhouse that had belonged to his family for centuries «—it takes longer than that to fully appreciate such a pleasure. A lifetime at my side, as my wife and the only woman I’ve ever loved.»

«Conall!» Maggie squirmed against his chest. «Put me down so I can kiss you!»

«But will you be saying yes?» He set her on her feet and stood back, his arms opened wide. «That’s what I’m waiting to hear.»

«Then yes!» Maggie threw herself at him, her heart almost bursting.

He crushed her to him, kissing her hard and fast. «Then let’s go home, Maggie Gleason. We have a lot of catching up to do.»

Maggie smiled. «Yes, we do.»

She was eager to get started. They’d waited longer than she’d known.

Sligo, Ireland — 1911

The black mare started up the hill too fast. Tom O’Byrne shifted on the wagon seat and tugged the reins to curb her quickened gait. He couldn’t blame her for hurrying. Grass and water awaited her. Her weary bones required rest, just as his troubled soul craved the peace of Tobernalt, as sacred a place in the year of Our Lord 1911 as it had been in Ireland’s pagan times.

Tom often stopped at the holy well when he returned to Sligo from the north. Each time he did, he met other visitors, but no carts or wagons occupied the clearing on this sunny afternoon. His favourite spot, the one near the entrance, was free. He guided the mare to the dappled shade of the old oak tree and set the brake.

His driving skills had impressed Davy Bookman, the Ballymote merchant who owned the wagon. Small but sturdy, the unadorned vehicle had a flat roof and panelled sides painted slate blue. An overhang above the driver’s seat protected Tom from the weather, and he’d given thanks more than once for the shelter. He travelled the roads for miles at a time delivering Bookman’s tea to shops all over Ireland.

«A good job for a trusty young buck of twenty-five,» the jovial merchant had said. «See a little of the world before the farm ties you down.»

Tom’s neat leap from the footboard set the bag of coins in his pocket jingling. He’d sold most of the tea this trip. He’d make a fine commission. His sister Kate would grumble and say it wasn’t enough to fatten her meagre dowry, but the gold would please his father, for all the good it would do him. The old man would always be tipping his hat to the Anglo-Irish landlord who owned his farm.

So would Tom. For now, he dismissed the gloomy prospect. His thoughts were on the holy well and the chunk of currant bread the innkeeper’s wife had given him that morning.

He patted the mare’s sleek nose. «Here we are, Mally m’love. Long past time for lunch, but live, horse, and you’ll get grass, eh?»

As if she’d understood the old proverb, the horse snorted and shook her head. Tom’s soft laughter rippled back at her. «You love this place as much as I do, don’t you, girl?»

And why wouldn’t she? The sparkling stream flowing down from the well splashed over the rocks on its way to Lough Gill. Fair-weather clouds cast fleeting shadows over the rustling greenery. Such a peaceful, sweet-smelling place, so different from the sorry farm Tom would inherit one day.

Leaving the contented mare to graze near the water, he followed the stream to its lofty source. By sunset he’d be back in Ballymote, sloshing in the muck of his father’s farm, tending the stinking cows and pigs until he stank himself.

Today was the first of August. The turf would need cutting, and his arms would ache for a week after cutting it. Then he’d be thatching the neighbours’ roofs. He’d learned the craft to bring in more gold for Kate’s dowry, and good riddance to her. His sister had a tongue that would cut a hedge. He pitied the man who’d become her husband.

Once Kate married — if anyone would have her — Tom’s father would be after him or Dan to bring in a wife to keep house. The O’Byrnes couldn’t afford to hire help. But who’d marry the heir of a no-account farm or his fanciful younger brother?

Tom didn’t care to ponder the relentless quandary now. He preferred to savour the fragrance of the verdant glade and the warbling of colourful birds flitting from tree to tree. Their constant song declared the woodland safe.

Sligo was a haunted place, and Tobernalt had more than its share of spirits. Tom sensed them all around him. He’d never seen one, despite his grandmother saying he could because he’d been born in the afternoon. On each of his previous stops to the well, he’d only met elderly visitors, mostly women, seeking to cure their ills.

«Maybe today, Gram,» he said, missing the kind-hearted woman who’d raised him.

Whomever he met today, he meant to look his best. He’d brushed his coat and trousers before leaving Bundoran that morning, but his hulking six-foot frame seemed to draw the mud from the road to his clothes like an angler’s lure drew salmon. A few good pats swept the worst of the splotches away.

After rinsing his hands in the stream, he adjusted his tie and straightened his cap. The mist from Lough Gill had dampened the tweed, but at least his head was dry. When his hair got wet, it curled to a wild black tangle.

He paused near the entrance to the well to touch a square pile of stones that predated Christian times. The locals had named it the Mass rock because it had served as an altar for the saying of secret Masses during penal times, when the English put a price on the heads of the priests. One legend said St Patrick himself had left the imprint of his hand upon the stones.

Tom moved on and gazed about the woods, hoping to catch his first glimpse of a fairy. A lady’s bicycle caught his eye instead. Its owner had leaned it against a hazel tree. The old girl would be up at the well, saying her prayers or drinking the water to relieve her aches and pains.

When the crumbling stone wall encircling the well came into view, he saw no one. He approached the sacred spot, circling clockwise as he should, offering a silent prayer of thanks that Tobernalt was his for a little while.

The water gushing from the well’s solid sheet of rock dallied briefly in a frothy pool before spilling into the stream. Above the site, a rainbow of torn rags dotted the leafy branches, each strip of cloth representing the supplication of a devout pilgrim.

Doffing his cap, Tom knelt and wet his fingers. The water’s icy cold refreshed him. He blessed himself — and then he froze.

Was that a face in the pool beneath him? Fatigue after the long drive from Donegal surely had him seeing things. He squeezed his eyes shut and looked again.

The face still bobbed in the water: a woman’s face, heart-shaped and pale in a frame of long wavy hair as dark as his own. Eyes blue and pleading transfixed him, compelled him to stroke her rippling cheek. When he touched the water, she faded away.

«Wait!» he tried to say, but a sudden languor had stiffened his tongue. The birdsong above him changed to the loveliest music he’d ever heard. Wave after wave of a haunting harp melody set his soul awhirl. Faster and faster went the tune. He dropped to the grass and fell asleep.

Lured from his rest by the pungent smell of burning turf, Tom sat up on a strange featherbed, blinking at his surroundings. He found himself in a rustic kitchen awash in the glow of a wide, sooty hearth.

A cauldron hung over squares of steaming sod whose sizzling red edges flared into flames now and then. A crook-backed woman emerged from the shadows and stirred the pot. Her black shawl covered her misshapen shoulders and white-haired head. She turned towards Tom, peering at him through falcon eyes that smouldered like coals in her skeletal face.