by Erin O'Quinn
I concentrated on her sleek, auburn hair, the way it touched her slender shoulders. “No, Mama. Only time can do that. But I could exact pain for pain, or at least end the pain they are still causing others.”
Her head down, Mama seemed to consider my words. Then she lifted her head and caught my restive eyes.
“Pain for pain. That is not a Christian concept, darling. Nor a civilized, Roman concept.”
“Perhaps the pain would not be physical, Mama. Perhaps they could be made to regret their savagery and—and think about retribution for their sins.”
“That thought gives me no pleasure. No, I see no reason to walk down old, pitted roads, darling. What is past is truly dead and gone.”
“Not dead, Mama! Can you not see how other women—even now, today, this very moment—are being brutalized by animals who call themselves men? And it is now forbidden. Slavery of innocents is a high crime, at least in this part of Éire. If only the victims would speak against their captors—”
“Then what, Caylith?” she asked again. “There would only be more blue-stained savages, more ready customers for their horrifying wares. The more something is forbidden, the more desirable it becomes. It will not end so easily, not in our lifetimes.”
I saw by the stubborn edge of her chin that she would not change her mind. I tried one last tactic.
“Mama, will you at least tell me of your voyage? Where you went, and what direction, where you were held?”
“It was ocean, and then rocks. That is all I remember.”
“What direction? Could you tell?”
“We sailed first into the sunset. When at last we saw land, we sailed with the sun at our left shoulders. The final day, we sailed again into the sunset.”
That meant she had sailed as we pilgrims had—west to the coast of Éire, then north along the coast. Then, farther than we had ventured, they sailed west again, probably in the huge northern Sea of Éire. Toward Inishowen, and perhaps beyond.
“Did you count the days on the boat?”
“I had little else to think of. It was four days, four nights. Thank God the boats were made only of light wood and skins, for our captors could do nothing but paddle and watch for deadly waves. I found myself hoping a great wave would pull us under and release us all.”
The image was horrific, but at least she was talking about it a little. “And did they speak to each other, Mama?”
“They shouted in a language I knew not. It may have been Gaelic, or a similar language. I am still unskilled in that tongue.”
“And they were…blue, Mother? How is that?”
“When first they arrived, breaching our villa walls, they were covered with blue marks—with pictures, or symbols. By the time we landed, the markings were almost gone.”
I rose from my bench and settled down at her knees, my léine flowing all around me and my sleeves touching the polished floor. “Tell me about the landing.”
Her voice was low. She looked not at me but the far wall. “It was…harsh. The waves, the rocks—the wind and roar of the sea. It was a wild place, Caylith. They somehow guided the boat into a kind of cove where the rocks did not rise like giant, broken knives…” She shut her eyes and I saw a small tremor start at her mouth and continue down her shoulders and into her hands.
“Was it a land, Mama? A green, pretty land—perhaps Éire or Alba?”
“It was an isle. Very small. Rocks and grass, wildflowers, more rocks. Thousands of birds. We were surrounded by the sea.”
“And did they have houses built there?”
“Yes. A score of clay houses. Like our own, but smaller. Nestled—hidden, huddled—among the rocks. We…the women were together, five of us in that hut. There were but two captive men, and we never saw them again after we arrived.”
“How many were your captors?”
“There were but six, and another six waiting for us.”
“Were there other…captives when you got there?”
“Yes, but we never saw them. At first I could hear—could hear screams—in the night. And then our own screams drowned out the other voices, like…like the drowning waves outside our door. Through the months, I know that women, mostly women, came and went. Were they dead? Or did new ones take the place of old? I never knew.”
There was a flood of tears waiting behind my eyes, and my throat was choking with bile. But I dared not show Mama my reaction for fear that she would not speak again.
“Just a few more questions—then I promise not to speak of it again.” I took both her small hands into my own. “Why did they make you leave?”
“One day we were bound together, waiting to be taken to their—to the place they held us down at night. Then a shout went up, and we could hear a stranger’s voice. It was a man who had come with a boat. A small skin boat, as before. After a while our captors herded all five of us out of the hut and down the beach. We were thrown, still in ropes, into the boat.”
She stopped talking. “Then what, Mama?” I urged.
“We did not sail to the shore, but we stayed close enough to the shore to keep it in sight. Away from the setting sun. It took hours, and the man struggled with a set of—paddles? Oars? But before dark we set foot on real land. And there stood another man with a bullock wagon, or ox cart. The man I saw at church. He was almost big as a bullock, I thought. Yet until I saw him again, I thought his size was my own fear made whole. We could see and hear coins, or metal pieces, changing hands. And then both men threw us—actually threw us—in the back of the cart, all full of hay and dung.”
“So that is how you arrived at Ballysweeney? In that same cart? With that same vile man?”
“No. After five days, we were put in a small boat again and then into another ox cart.”
“How long was that trip, Mama?”
She seemed exasperated with my questions. “Oh, child, what does it matter?”
“Because I would—” I almost told her that I would trace that path back. Back to its source. And that source would be where I would take my revenge.
“Because I–I know not, dearest Mother. Because I care.” I dropped my head into her lap, exactly the way I had done on that day almost ten years ago when she told me that Father was dead. And just as she had done then, she stroked my cranky, tumbling hair and consoled me.
“Shush, shush, darling. It is all over now. It is done. Let us live for today and for tomorrow.” I looked up into her steady, brown eyes, and I beheld a world of sorrow. No tears. But unfathomable sorrow. I remembered what Sweeney had called her, after his native Gaelige word—“the one called Brón.” The woman named Sorrow.
“Tell me how long,” I whispered stubbornly.
“Very well, Caylith. Our next boat ride was very short—perhaps half an hour or less, as though we were crossing a river. The first man—the churchman—rode away, as if he lived nearby. A different man took us in a different wagon. But not before making us sit in the water and wash off the dung. Thank God. And then we bumped and tumbled along for two days. South, I think, to judge by the sun. We could not see where we were going, but the land was flat, much smoother. Or perhaps there was a road to follow at last. And then we were ordered out of the cart. And there sat a man in a cripple cart. The man named Sweeney. And you know the rest.”
Yes, she had finally confessed to me alone what had happened in Sweeney’s brugh. And now that I knew part of her early captivity, I marveled all the more at the almost tender relationship that had developed between them in the three months he had “held” her.
“Thank you, Mama. I am glad to know the story at last. If you had spoken before, I think I could have given you a comfort tea.”
She smiled. “My comfort tea is you, Caylith. And Glaedwine, too. The ones I love, who love me. Please, please speak no more about the past. My comfort lies in the present and the future. My granddaughter Quillan.”
She rose, and her silken toga shimmered above me. “Do not see me out, darling. I need to walk by myself j
ust now.” She rested a hand on the top of my head, so lightly I hardly felt her touch. Then she walked as regally as any queen to the door, opened it, and left. I did not even hear it close behind her.
After she left, I could not tear her words out of my mind. “The place they held us down at night.” I let the tears flow then, and I was still crying when Liam found me sitting on the wooden floor, my pretty léine flowing around me in little green waves.
* * * *
That night in bed, a tall candle flickered and swayed in the restive air coming through the smoke hole in the ceiling. Liam sat up, his back against the wall, while he held me in his strong arms. My head was cradled on his shoulder, my thoughts far away.
“Can ye…finally talk, Cat? Do mháithir bhrón? Her sad story?”
“She…saw one of her captors in church, Liam. In our own church! That frightened her very much. She is still scared now—two days later.” And renegade tears began to form again behind my eyes.
“An’ b’fhéidir ye…scared, too, Cat?”
“Why, perhaps I am.” I had not thought about being frightened. But the raw edges of her story haunted me—rocks like broken knives…held down at night…thrown among the hay and dung…a monster hidden in our own church.
“Ye know nothing can harm ye here, a ghrá. Or your mother.”
“I know that, darling Liam. I want to trace her back, find where she was held. And punish those who hurt her.”
With one swing of his large hands and arms, Liam brought me up on his chest and looked into my eyes. He spoke urgently. “Ye must not think that way. ’Tis over now. Too late to go back. Our Lord said, be merciful.”
I was angry that he sounded just like Mama. “Be merciful—and let slave traders bruise and beat and rape their victims. Is that what you want me to do, Liam? Let them expand their vile trade, until it affects everyone in Éire—even people in our own church?”
I sat on his chest glaring down at him, thoroughly exasperated. “What if I could find out where they are, where they skulk about, stealing and defiling and selling human beings? Should I close my eyes and whisper a pious prayer?”
He looked troubled, running his finger down my cheek from where the tears began to where they dripped from my stubborn, stiff chin. “Hush, Cat. Blaze not at me. For I would burn up in your fire.”
I thought he meant to make me smile, but I had hardly begun. “I think the reason these—these savages are able to ply their trade is because no one wants to look at the truth. Even I. For months now, I have tried not even to think about what happened to my own mother. And all the while her scars burned at night, and her mind festered, and I would rather not know.”
I stood up, looking down at my husband lying between my wide-spaced legs. I knew my eyes were as wild as my hair, and I continued to rant.
“I want to track her path back until I know where it started. Never forget—these same beasts torched my home, sent me running into the night—sick, frightened, desperate, thinking my mother burned to ash. They have much to answer for. They killed Brindl’s husband-to-be and his parents, too. I cannot—I will not think about what they did to Mama, all bound in ropes. Liam, they need to be brought to justice.”
“Cat, listen to me. Will ye stop a moment?” He sat up fully and grasped my hands, a pleading gesture. I stopped.
“I said ’tis too late to go back. I mean, Cat, the past is past. We…capture these mad dogs, an’ sure we bring them back to answer for their sins. But never…bring back your old home. Or lost lives. Or…or old joys of your mother. Those never come back. Let not anger be your path. Please, be loving, Cat, an’ let our Lord take care of punishing. If he will.”
I let his words settle in. “You mean—we can go bring them back?”
“We can. If that be your will.”
“And we give them to the Lord.”
“Yes.”
“Should all criminals, all murderers, all who break the Lord’s commandments—should they all be given to the Lord for punishment?
“They should.”
“And then what? Will they be struck down by his mighty sword? Or brought to their knees to praise his name? Or be forgiven, only to sin again?”
“The Lord will decide.”
I knelt then, my legs straddling his hips. “Tá go maith. I agree. If we can bring them back, I will give them to you to deliver to their righteous judge.”
“Amen, Cat.”
“Then I will start tomorrow to trace these butchering savages to their safe island in the sea. And when I think I know where they are, we will leave together. Yes, Liam?”
“Yes, Caitlín.”
I leaned over further. My naked breasts, forgotten in the heat of my anger, swung like pendent fruit before his mouth. “Together, fear agus bean chéile?”
“Yes. Man and wife,” he repeated. His fingertips began to stroke my breasts, very softly.
“Then—then suck my nipples, Liam. Let me shout in joy and not in anger.”
Chapter 7:
Isle of Captives
Still in my tattered deerskin, I lay atop my favorite large rock in the Foyle, my flaxen fishing line jumping in the vortex of water below. This morning’s visit with Sweeney had been short, and that was good. I had not wanted to linger, especially since I felt we had said our fare thee wells two days ago.
Sweeney was alone when I arrived. Moc had gone with her brother Jay to see Nuala—Mother Sweeney—and I thought Swallow might be visiting Torin in the tunnels somewhere in the intricate underground network. He had greeted me civilly enough and then sat back on his favorite bench, his legs covered as always, waiting for me to blurt out my intention for disturbing his tranquility.
“To get straight to the point, Owen—”
“Please.” But he said it with a half smile, and his eyes betrayed an edge of humor.
“Mother was frightened in the churchyard on the Sabbath. One of the slave traders, one who bought her from the savages, was there. He had thrown her into a bullock wagon. He did not remember her, but she remembered his face…and his large size.”
Sweeney’s eyes changed from humor to a kind of bleak anger, like a man confronting a fate he could not control.
“I am sorry to bring up the past. Mother fought against telling me anything at all. But from her few words, I could piece together a story. And I would like to tell you that story so that you may perhaps help me.”
“Help you, Caylith? Not your mother?” He spoke softly, his eyes still suffused with a kind of pain that I had hoped would not still be there almost three years later.
“She will not hear of punishment. The retribution would be by the will of the Lord. Liam, too, will not tolerate the thought of civil punishment. He thinks the cowards need to be brought before the church authorities. I have agreed, against my will. He will help me—but only if I promise to deliver them to Father Patrick.”
Owen’s face had settled into the melancholy lines I thought had been banished, and his voice was low. “How then can I help, Caylith?”
As best I could, I recounted her story to me—how many days she sailed, what direction, how the little boat landed among rising crags on the small island. And then the journey back, ending at his own doorstep at Ballysweeney. I deliberately refrained from telling him any details of her captivity, whatever little bits I knew. He, too, had suffered enough pain.
“I am not skilled at such things, Owen. But my mind sang to me over and over as she spoke—Inishowen. They sailed west to Inishowen, and probably beyond.”
“I agree. There lies an island somewhere to the west of the bay. An island I know not. From what you say, it is no doubt some forty or fifty miles beyond any area I am familiar with. There must be a dozen such islands.”
“So far away?” I was disappointed. I thought—I had hoped—it would be so close that we would have no trouble locating it and settling matters with the savages.
“As the owl flies, young lady, it is not far at all. Let me give it some tho
ught. I will also think about who may help us. My own legs will not carry me there—though I wish I could confront those brutes myself. I think I would have a hard time letting them remain alive as far as Father Patrick’s monastery.”
Yes, I thought just then that Owen might exact his own kind of justice, even though he had recently been baptized by the good bishop himself.
“Am I right, Caylith, that these same savages torched your mother’s villa—your own home—and left the dead in their wake?”
“Yes.” My voice was barely above a whisper.
“I will do my part. Give me a few days to form plans.”
I rose then. “Thank you, Owen. I bid you farewell. Again.”
“And again I tell you, I will feel joy when you visit me on Trawbreaga Bay.” This time he reached out his hand, not waiting for me to extend my own. I squeezed it as hard as I could with my small hand, and then I left.
Now, leaning over the swirling waters of the Foyle, I thought about the pain I had left in Owen’s eyes. He was in love with Mockingbird, to be sure. But he had told me himself a few months ago how he felt about Mama, the woman named Sorrow.
We had been speaking in private, and Owen had spoken more openly than ever before or since. “…Your dear mother made me see that I could be a whole man. I love her for that, and now I can let her go. I no longer feel the desperate desire but only the admiration. I hope she will somehow know that.”
I, too, hoped that someday Mama would understand what a large part she had played in Owen’s newfound love of life. And I knew that regardless of what he had said, he would never really let her go. She was part of him now, forever.
In spite of the roar of the river, I fancied I heard a horse’s whinny, and I glanced casually toward the hay haggard. I almost dropped the fishing line when I beheld a rangy, tall, dark-haired man making his slow way over the tumbled rocks at the edge of the river. Murdoch! It was Owen’s son Murdoch.