The Crow of Connemara

by Stephen Leigh

  Now that the alcohol had worn off, here in the unrelenting light of a new day, all of it seemed distant and impossible.

  He put his right hand in his pocket, wincing a bit as his bruised knuckles slid along the denim, and took out Rory’s stone—his cloch, as he’d called it. He held it in his fingers, looking at it from all sides, staring into its emerald-hued depths as if it might hold the answers he sought.

  Yes, maybe Maeve could have set all of this up, performed some elaborate deception involving special effects, sleight of hand, smoke and mirrors, whatever—but why? Why go to all that trouble to convince him that what she was saying was true? He had nothing to offer the Oileánach; he wasn’t rich, and while his family wasn’t poor, they were solidly middle class and entirely lacking influence in Irish affairs. He couldn’t change anything for them. There wasn’t any reason for such a complex hoax.

  Why him? Why?

  “Have I given yeh too much to think about, darlin’?” The voice made him start, standing abruptly and turning. Maeve was there, dressed in a red robe over her nightgown, her hands on her hips as she smiled at him. Her gaze slid from him to the stone he held, in its cage of silver; Colin closed his fingers around it.

  “That’s the cloch Rory took with him.” Maeve nodded toward Colin’s fisted hand. “I remember it.”

  “You remember it? That’s not . . .” Colin began. He stopped.

  “Aye,” she said. “’Twas me, or rather, me in another body. I knew yeh had the cloch. I could feel it, all along, and ’twas the cloch that called down the lights t’other night. When Rory found it, I thought it was for me and I took it, but I was wrong. ’Tis the bard it gives its power to, and yeh are the bard.”

  Colin kept his hand fisted around the cloch. He could feel the wires of its cage pressing into his skin.

  “I woke and yeh were gone,” Maeve continued. “I figured yeh might come here; the place does pull at one.” She nodded to the mound and the hawthorn. “’Tis them under there does it. Their sleep is restless lately, just like yers and mine. They can feel the storm a’coming.” She came up to him, standing so close that he could see the flecks of color in her irises. “How’s the hand?”

  He glanced down at the swollen knuckles of his hand. He flexed the fingers, revealing the cloch in its silver prison, grimacing slightly as the scabs on the two middle fingers pulled. “At least it won’t hurt my guitar playing,” he said.

  Her lips pulled upward. She touched his cheek, then took a step back from him. “Yeh still don’t understand?”

  He shook his head mutely.

  “Give me yer hand,” she said. “The one with the cloch.” He held it out to her, and she clasped his hand between her own.

  She closed her eyes and gave a long, slow exhalation. As she drew in the next breath, he saw the emerald began to glow between their fingers. The glow intensified, streams of greenish-white light streaming westward over the waves below. The radiance coalesced a few strides out, over thin air, an aerial whirlpool that slowly thinned and spread out, and in the growing vacant center framed by the light from the stone, Colin saw it—not misty and translucent, as it had been in the pub the night before, but solid and genuine, another landscape over which they seemed to be suspended.

  He felt again that pull of the land, both familiar and strange to him: rolling hills like those he’d walked here in Ireland, alive with heather and gorse, the grass a lush, saturated green, the white dots of sheep punctuating the fields. There was a village, with turf smoke curling from the chimneys, so real he thought he could smell the burning peat, and among the cottages, people strolled a grassy lane. A dark forest lurked beyond the cleared fields, a forest like those that had once graced Ireland before they were all chopped down and destroyed; beyond the forest were taller, pine-clad mountains, old hills that reminded Colin of the Appalachians. It was either early dawn or evening there, and in the darkening sky, he could see the colorful sheets of an aurora like the one he’d seen above Inishcorr the last time he’d been here: low in the sky, and brighter and more saturated in color than the other aurora he’d seen.

  There was a gasp and a moan behind him, and even as he turned, he saw the radiance from his grandfather’s stone diminish and the phantom landscape disappeared into the brightening sky. “Maeve?” She was kneeling on the ground, hunched over, her arms wrapped around her waist as if she were sick. He crouched down in front of her, worried. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she breathed, the word a husk. She lifted her head, lines of weariness in the corners of her eyes and mouth. She still cradled herself, but whatever pain she felt seemed to be fading. “Yeh saw it?”

  He nodded. “I saw another place. Maybe another time. How did you do that?”

  “’Twas Talamh an Ghlas, the Green Land—’tis where I intend to take my people, since it’s clear we ca’nah stay here and survive much longer.”

  “Okay . . .” Colin said tentatively. “Then why...?”

  Maeve was shaking her head even as he spoke, sitting on the rock he’d sat on before. “I opened a wee window, that’s all. I could let us look in, but even that was exhausting. It hurts to handle the power in the cloch, yer stone—hurts more than I care to tell yeh. To actually open a door into that place, a portal . . .” Her sigh trembled. He watched her fingertips slide over the emerald in his hand, like a priest touching a sacred relic. “I ca’nah do that. Not alone.” She was staring at him, and he found himself backing away from her and closing his fist around the cloch again, shaking his head.

  “I can’t help you with that,” he heard himself saying.

  “Yeh can,” she answered. “Yeh just don’t realize it. Though doing so will hurt yeh far more than doing this much hurts me.”

  “Why?”

  She laughed, a brief amusement, and held out her right hand. “Yeh can help me stand up, first. Then yeh can help me walk back to our house, and yeh can help me eat some of Keara’s lovely scones and drink her tea until I recover my strength. Can yeh manage that?”

  He was still shaking his head, still trying to believe what she’d told him, but he took her hand and helped her to stand. She was weak; he had to support her. “Thank yeh, love,” she told him. She leaned her head on his shoulder, embracing him. “I do love yeh, Colin,” she whispered. “I want yeh to know that and believe it, because yeh’ll need the truth of it. I know all this confuses and worries yeh, but do yeh at least feel that much? Do yeh believe me?”

  Colin took a breath. He kissed the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her hair, and he could feel the certainty inside him, solid and unyielding. He knew what Mrs. Egan would say, that she’d ensorcelled him, worked a spell on him to make him feel that way, but he couldn’t deny the growing affection he had for her, despite the impossibilities she’d shown him. Part of him still denied what he’d seen here, still refused to believe the evidence of his senses. She can’t be what she says she is. She can’t be the Morrígan, she can’t be the Máire my grandfather met. The Irish gods are myth and legend and dust.

  Yet he couldn’t deny that he felt more drawn to this strange woman—no matter what she claimed to be—than any of the other women he’d been involved with. He tightened his hold on Maeve.

  “Yeah,” he told her. “I do. Come on, let’s go back to the house.”

  Still supporting her, his arm around her waist, he led the way down the path.

  25

  A Summoning

  MAEVE SAW KEARA walking up the lane toward her house; she walked slowly to the gate in the stone fence that bordered the narrow path and met her there. “M’Lady,” Keara said, holding out a basket to her; the scent of newly baked bread wafted from underneath the towel draped over it. “I didn’t expect you to be out.”

  Maeve inclined her head toward the house. “Colin’s sleeping,” she said. “I thought I’d take the air.” She lifted the towel and peered into the ba
sket at the brown-topped loaf. “Thanks. That smells delicious.”

  “I made an extra loaf; I thought you’d appreciate it.”

  “I do. ’Twill make a good lunch sandwich when Colin wakes up.”

  “How’s his hand? I saw Niall earlier, and he has a lovely fat lip and bruise.”

  “He’ll live to play again,” Maeve told her, smiling.

  “And did yeh tell Niall to make that fuss, an’ to take the punch? Because from where I sat, it seemed Niall went down on the quick side.”

  Maeve shrugged at that, trying half-successfully to keep a grin from her face. “He might have. ’Tis possible.”

  Keara laughed at that, then her face went serious again. “He’s genuine, that Colin. He’s definitely the one we need; not even Niall can deny it after last night. We all saw it; we all heard it.” Keara’s hand reached out to touch Maeve’s, holding the basket. “I worry about you, m’Lady. I worry about how this is going to affect you.”

  Maeve glanced down at their hands. The old Morrígan would have pulled her hand away, affronted by the familiarity of the gesture; she would have narrowed her eyes and scowled, and her next words would have been a harsh rebuke. The years, the centuries have softened yeh. They’ve worn yeh down and made yeh at least half-mortal yerself. Maeve forced herself to look at Keara, to hold the young woman’s gaze. “Are yeh asking me whether or not I can do what needs to be done, like Niall? Is that what yer saying?”

  But Keara was already shaking her head before Maeve finished. “No, m’Lady. It’s just . . . I know when I look at Colin that he’s caught up in yeh, that there’s no doubt about how he feels about yeh. Yeh’ve snared him well. But I’ve also looked at yeh, m’Lady, and if yeh’ll forgive me sayin’, I see some of Colin’s enchantment in yer own eyes when yeh look at him. I do’nah doubt that yeh’ll do as yeh must, but I wonder at the cost to yeh when it happens, and I do’nah want yeh hurt, either.”

  She knew what Keara wanted to hear her admit, but she refused to say the words. Instead, she answered the other, unasked question. “There’s no way around that pain,” Maeve answered. “Yeh know the cost as well as I do. We all know it. The path opens with blood and sacrifice, an’ no other way.”

  “He’ll be willing?”

  Maeve nodded. “He will, when the time comes. He will.”

  “’Tis a waste, though. That talent . . .” Keara’s fingers tightened around Maeve’s. She shook her head again and found Maeve’s eyes with her own. “If ’twas me Aiden the one, an’ t’were me who had to strike him, I do’nah think I could do it, even if Aiden were willing and even though ’twould save us all.”

  “’Tis not Aiden, so yeh needn’t worry,” Maeve answered. “Colin and me . . . ’tis not the same way.”

  “Yer certain?”

  “Aye,” Maeve answered, though she knew she answered too quickly and with too much heat. She took a step back from the gate and Keara’s hand slipped away from hers. She lifted the basket toward Keara. “T’anks, Keara. We’ll enjoy this.”

  Keara ducked her head at the obvious dismissal. “Yer welcome, m’Lady. I’m sorry if I—” she left the rest hanging in the air unsaid.

  “Yeh’ve no reason to apologize, Keara. Yer my cailleach and have yer own role to play. When the time comes, yeh know yeh’ll be as vital to this as any of the rest. More, I suspect.”

  Keara ducked her head again. “M’Lady,” she said, and turned. Maeve watched until she reached the turn in the lane and vanished. Then she hugged the basket to herself, closing her eyes.

  I feel every year in my bones. I feel like I could turn to dust any moment and blow away. It would be a relief.

  She took a breath, inhaling the scent of the grass, the salt air, and new-baked bread. She went back into the cottage.

  Colin was awake and in the kitchen, sitting with a cup of tea steaming between his hands, as she entered the cottage. She could see the bruise on his right hand, the one he’d used to strike Niall. Maeve wondered if Colin had overheard any of the conversation she’d just had with Keara, but the half-asleep look in the eyes behind his glasses indicated he hadn’t. “That smells good,” Colin said as she set the basket down on the table.

  “Keara baked some bread. Want some? I’m going to have a piece with a bit of butter; ’tis still hot from the oven.” Maeve lifted the golden loaf out of the basket and set it on a cutting board, taking a serrated knife from a drawer and opening the cold box to take out the butter.

  “I’m certainly not going to refuse,” he said. “I made you tea as well. It’s there on the table waiting for you.”

  “Thanks, love.” Maeve cut two thick slices of the bread, put them on small plates, and slid one over to him. She set the butter and a butter knife down in the center of the table. She took a sip from the mug of tea Colin had made for her, then sat down across from him, watching as he buttered his bread. He took a bite, and she smiled as she saw his pleased expression. “Good?”

  “Delicious,” he answered.

  She took her time buttering her own slice, wondering what she should say, wanting this comfortable moment to last and knowing that it couldn’t. “How’s yer hand?”

  He lifted it, opening and closing the fingers. “A little stiff, but it’ll be okay.” His lips curled upward in a quick smile, and she wondered if he was remembering the fight. “I heard you talking to Keara out here.”

  “Ah. And what is it yeh thought yeh heard?” She took a bite of the bread. It was delicious, the bread itself perfection, the butter golden and sweet. She watched him as she chewed. He seemed confused by the question, finally shrugging.

  “I don’t know . . .” His voice trailed off and he shrugged again. “I guess I’m still processing things. Maeve, what is it that you want of me? You keep hinting about what I’m supposed to do and what you’re supposed to do, and the things you’ve shown me here—” He stopped, taking a long breath and looking away from her, as if the answer to his question could be found through the window of the kitchen. “My God, I still have trouble believing that what I’ve seen was real.”

  “I know yeh do,” Maeve began, “and—” She stopped, her head coming up. She could feel the prickle of unease passing through her, a ghost’s presence sliding through her body.

  “What?” Colin said as she paused, and she didn’t know if he felt it himself or if he was only responding to her silence. She held up her hand to quiet him. It came a few breaths later: a bell ringing urgently from the direction of Inishcorr’s little harbor.

  “Something’s wrong,” she said. “Come on; we need to see.” Without waiting to see if he’d follow, Maeve pushed her chair back from the table and rose, hurrying from the cottage and into the open air. She pushed open the gate and turned right, heading toward the harbor.

  She heard the gunshot then, and began to run.

  Colin had caught up with her before she reached the harbor. The lane opened out onto the square before the harbor, and there Maeve saw the knot of Islanders shouting at the ranks of blue-suited policemen near the police boat pulled up to the quay. The smell of cordite still hung in the air, a film of blue smoke dissipating as they approached. Maeve felt a quick wave of relief, realizing that the shot had evidently been fired into the air: there was no one down, no one running from the confrontation, and through the press of people, Maeve could hear Superintendent Dunn bellowing and gesticulating angrily at a garda. “Yeh idjit! All a’yeh get yer fingers where they should be. The next man who fires a shot without provocation will be sacked, d’yeh hear?”

  Maeve pushed her way through the islanders. Niall was there in front, as she expected he would be. She could feel Colin following in her wake. “Superintendent,” Maeve said as she came to the front of the crowd. She did a quick count of the men with him: fifteen to twenty gardai, all of them looking uncomfortable, armed with automatic weapons and trussed with bulky bulletproof vests. E
ven Dunn wore one, making him look like an angry black bear. “If yeh’d given me notice of yer visit, I’d have arranged some refreshments for yeh and yer men. What’s the trouble here, and why is someone firing their weapon in the middle of an unarmed crowd?”

  Dunn glanced behind him at a shame-faced young garda, then turned back to Maeve. “Miss Gallagher, let’s not pretend yeh don’t know why I’m here. Yeh’ve been given enough warnings, and I’ve been as patient as I can be, but I have duties I must perform.” She saw his gaze slip past her and behind. “Mr. Doyle,” he said. “I see yer here as well.”

  “I am,” Colin said, and he took a step forward to stand alongside Maeve. “Is that a problem, Superintendent?” His arm went around her waist. She wondered whether that was a possessive gesture or a protective one, but she allowed it, remaining where she was. She heard a derisive sniff from Niall on her other side.

  “Yeh ignored the warning I gave yeh,” Dunn answered, “but yeh’ve done nothing illegal that I know of, other than displaying rather poor judgment.” He turned back to Maeve then. “’Tis time for yeh to leave Inishcorr,” he said bluntly. “All a’yeh. The NPWS is wanting to move forward with their plans.”

  “And yer the NPWS’ goons?” Niall burst out before Maeve could answer. “Yeh think yeh frighten us, with yer guns and black vests and shiny helmets? Yeh think yeh can take us all out before we smash yer faces in?”

  “Niall!” Maeve snapped, and Niall scowled but went silent. She turned to Dunn. “Are yeh so afraid that I’ll put a curse on each and every one of yeh for this that yeh needed to bring guns and armor? Are yeh waiting for the sí to come with their ghostly horses and spears? Do we scare yeh so much?”