by Erin O'Quinn
“It is beyond beautiful. What—what remains to be done here, my friend?” I asked, looking around the large space.
“The fire pit—Liam’s work. The stairs to your bedchamber. The smoothing and coloring of the interior walls, and then the outside walls. And that is all. Ye can begin to move your household goods in about a week.”
As I had last time I was here, I sat again on the stairs leading to our private chamber. “Michael, I have another, um, task for you, before you finish this part of the brugh.”
He stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at me. True to his warm nature, he did not betray in any way that he might be exasperated with my giving him another diversion. “Speak, old friend.”
I told him about the proposed deliverance of the captive women. We could only guess that there may be roughly a score of women, many of whom would be unable to walk or ride horseback. “I think we will need more ‘queen chairs,’ Michael. As many pliant beams as we can carry with us behind the saddles, and the tarred cloth besides.”
He grinned. “I thought ye were going to have me build a care center for the ladies,” he said.
“Oh, Michael, that is a fine idea!”
“Fine it may be. But it is two months getting accomplished. The task at hand, though—that may take us two days at the most. We already have a large store of tarred cloth, which we have been using on unshuttered windows. And we have a store of wood to use for the beams.”
I left Michael with a warm hug and profuse thanks for the beautiful work he had done on our brugh, and then I went home to change clothing. I wanted to talk with Jay and Magpie about starting the work on the Roman baths, and I decided to wear Magpie’s gift to show my appreciation for her exquisite handwork.
It lay folded in my large floor chest, and I drew it out, still marveling at the fine workmanship, the tiny stitches, the brushed look of the hide. I drew my léine off over my shoulders and head and then pulled the red-deer tunic over myself. I saw right away that Magpie had left ample room in the midsection for my growing abdomen, and the folds at the top easily held my burgeoning breasts. I smiled inwardly, realizing that Magpie, as usual, already knew of my secret pregnancy—possibly almost as long as I had known myself.
The tunic needed no belt, for it hid my growing belly in its soft folds. It was short enough that I needed to wear brístín, light underpants, a practice I usually did not indulge in. I wrinkled my nose and drew them up. They fit rather snugly, but my modesty was intact. Last, I put on the long leather leggings Magpie had made me as protection on my inner thighs when riding.
Later, sitting in the large comfort room of the Jay Feather clan, I felt myself flushing in pleasure as Magpie and her sister Skylark fussed over me. “Oh, Caylith, you are positively beautiful,” said Magpie.
Her sister, as outrageously attractive as all the Feather clanswomen, agreed with Magpie. “The red matches your hair,” she said, “and the dappled spots make it seem as though you are moving, even when sitting still.”
“Like your eyes,” I told her, gazing at their speckled gold in brown. “Thank you both for your kind words. Mag—tell me, since you knew ahead of time about my coming child, have you already seen when she was conceived, and what she will look like?”
I was teasing her, but I could see that she took my words to heart. “Of course, dear Cay. But I cannot speak of the first, for fear of embarrassing you. And I will not speak of the second, for fear of spoiling the surprise.”
“You scamp,” I said, and I got up and hugged her close. “Thank you for being so thoughtful.”
“And now you need to ask me about the real reason for your visit,” she said, wrinkling her little pug nose and grinning.
“Whatever do you mean?” I asked, knowing that of course she already knew.
Before she could answer, I smiled and told her. “Michael has made us a large room on the side of our new brugh. It has been designated as our Roman-style baths. I remember, quite a long time ago, your father agreed to use the talents of your family to make those baths for me.”
“I have already designed the mosaic,” Mag said, “all laid out in my mind. And I have been gathering stones to inset. Papa has already gathered a group of workers, waiting for word from you. As soon as they have completed the tunneling and the steam vents, I will set the tesserae in place.” At my bewildered look, she told me, “You know—the mosaic pieces.”
“Mag, is there anything you do not already know in advance?”
“The thoughts simply come to me. I do not force them, ever. So there is much I do not know.”
Skylark tossed her bright brindled ringlets. “Only because it is not important. She knows everything, as long as it is important to our family or our friends.”
I looked at my beautiful little friend, her wild, red hair splayed out from her head, her freckles seeming to dance on her smooth face.“Then you already know how much I love you and cherish our friendship.”
“Yes,” she said simply. “I know, and I feel the same. Now let us drink sun-petal tea and talk about your odd custom of bathing.”
Chapter 19:
A Scouting Report
Liam and I lay amid animal skins, waking slowly. His large, gruff hand, tender as silk, caressed my stomach. “Mmmn, Cat, little cat, how I love ye.”
He rolled close to me and put his mouth in my ear. “Roll over, let me kiss ye from behind.”
His words and the timbre of his voice started a fire deep inside my butt and all up inside me. I turned my mouth to his and began to suck on his lips, tasting a hint of the summer savory he liked to worry with his teeth as he worked at the trench. I pressed my aching breasts into his chest, more to protect and warm them than to feel pleasure from the contact. “Yes, yes,” I murmured into his mouth. “Póg mé, a chroí.” Oh, kiss my butt…
He put his hands on my hips and turned me over, stroking me from the nape of my neck all the way down, between my buttocks to the milky wetness of my groin. Soon his eager mouth took the place of his fingers, and I began to rise and fall softly, like a spring tide, lifting my buttocks and letting them fall again into the nest of soft animal pelts. My body, as much an instrument as his mouth organ, yielded and sang to his fluttering hands and searching tongue until I felt a pleasure welling up that I could not control.
In spite of my distended belly, I twisted and writhed on the bed, crying out his name while the spasms wracked my body. While I was still moving, he spread my legs wide with his hands. I felt his swollen groin push into me, then recede, then probe again. “A Cháit,” he moaned, and his voice, husky with pleasure, ignited a fire inside me again.
And so, like a great bear taking his mate, Liam climaxed with a shuddering thrust that left both of us hardly able to breathe. Then he lay, still inside me, holding my hips close to his own.
I lay very still, not wanting to let him slip out, enjoying the last small tremors of passion. At last I managed to speak in a normal tone of voice. “Liam, darling, this morning we are to hear Thom’s report.”
His voice behind me was still a bit raspy from spent emotion. “I remember.” One finger began to trace intricate designs on my back. “Not sure I want to hear.”
“But ’tis better to know, my love. The sooner we hear it, the sooner we leave. The more quickly there, the quicker back.”
With a great sigh, he pulled out and away from me. “Then I…carry ye to the river now.” He rolled out of bed and onto his feet. Standing by the bed, he reached down and gathered me into his arms as though I were light as any kitten and carried me down the shamrock path to the Foyle.
* * * *
We met, more than thirty of us, on the camán field outside Thom and Brindl’s house. I grinned inwardly, remembering that I had told Luke we would be a “small group” who gathered to hear the tale of the returning marine spies. We sat cross-legged in a circle, silent, everyone gazing at Thom and his companions squatting in the middle of the circle.
Thom, who made up for his s
hort stature by being muscular and lean as a wolf, seemed poised to escape, his dark eyes darting here and there among the crowd. Again, I was inwardly amused as I remembered the longest of Thom’s speeches being perhaps thirty words.
Black Knife, too, was a small man, though taller than Thom. Like my friend, his hair and eyes were dark, but his skin tone was brown as a chestnut, and he wore his long hair pulled back with a band around his forehead. The third marine, Silver Weaver, was as tall and fair as his comrades were short and dark. I vaguely remembered him from my brief training with the Harborton Marines. He had been an officer who spoke with a tone of command but who was diffident in his manner. Even now, he carried himself with a kind of quiet dignity and looked at the crowd without a trace of unease.
It was clear that everyone was present. The silence grew. At last Thom stood, and perhaps only Brindl and I knew the effort it took for the shy young man to confront a sea of intense faces.
“Um, thank you for coming. Each of us has a story to tell. I will speak of the trip itself. Black Knife will recount the details of the captors. And Silver Weaver has the hardest part—the tale of the captive women.”
Standing with his face upturned to the sky, Thom began tell us of the trek itself—how they crossed the Foyle at the Áth Doire, the Derry ford, and proceeded south, parallel to the River Foyle and the Lough Swilly.
“Before we arrived at the south end of the Swilly, we found that there were scores of fishermen who plied their trade in smallish currachs, large enough for perhaps two paddlers and four passengers. I mention this now because these fishermen may be the only way we can procure the vessels we will need to sail to the island. It would be easy enough to carry them, even over the roughest terrain we encountered. We bought one stout currach and the three of us had no trouble transporting it.”
As he spoke, Thom lowered his eyes gradually until they made contact with Brindl’s, first, and then mine. He seemed to find a measure of comfort in our eager faces, and he continued with a bit more sureness in his voice.
“From the southernmost end of the Swilly, we turned due north, keeping close to the lakeshore and away from the most hilly terrain. The farther north we traveled, it seemed the—ah, the craggier the land became. But not any more challenging than the terrain right here in Derry. We found mostly even land to travel over, many small lakes and gentle rivers. The country is desolate, but it has a—a tough beauty I have rarely seen. And the wind—the constant wind sweeps the clouds east always, and the weather was fair almost every day.”
By now, Thom had warmed to his subject enough that he actually began to look around at the faces of friends and acquaintances. “It is good that we sent an advance party, because at a certain point we needed to bear west, toward the mountains, while still keeping to the lowest land possible. We set our sights for the distinctive formation of the Muckish—the very high hill Murdoch told of, the one that resembles its name—the back of a pig.
“We worked our way to the shore of the Sea of Éire, and we received directions to the island from the handful of fishermen we encountered here and there. Thank you, Liam, for your teaching of Gaelige. I could understand the tongue enough to understand them. Not even one of them could believe that we intended to sail to Tory Island. But they told us clearly enough where to point our vessel.”
He paused then, seeking affirmation from Black Knife, who nodded almost imperceptibly. “In a word, the island sits about nine miles off the shore. The eddies and currents along the mainland are enough to cause the fishermen a few ruined currachs. But that is nothing compared to the perils of the island shores themselves.
“Let me say, first, that you marines gathered here will be able to navigate the waters and land the currachs, thanks to your skill and experience. But it is no wonder that these brutes have been able to live undisturbed on the island for so long. It took us about three hours to reach the island, and we decided to try to land on the side closest to the shore of Éire—the one place where even overconfident bullies would shun, for fear of discovery.
“The landing was a challenge. We were surrounded by great, ragged rocks of granite that heaved up from the floor of the sea, and dark cliffs rose high on almost every side. But we managed to find a small cove or lagoon, and we pulled the currach behind us over the slope and into a small gully. There we lashed it to the large rocks, safe even from the incessant wind, and we turned our boots to the interior.”
And here Thom stopped and looked at Black Knife. “Please continue, my friend.”
Black Knife rose from his squatting position and clapped Thom on the back. “Well told, Danger Walker,” he said, loudly enough that we all heard his words. And Thom’s face, for the first time, flushed the deep red I was accustomed to seeing whenever I encountered him. Obviously, Danger Walker was his code name, the name his own colleagues had given him, and it fit him like a second skin.
Now it was Black Knife’s turn to watch the clouds for a few minutes until he found his voice well enough to look at his audience. “Yes, well—ah, there we stood, exposed as statues in a forum full of pigeons. I use that analogy because at our approach, thousands of sea fowl rose and soared and spiraled above our heads. We dropped to the ground right away, afraid that the birds would give away our position to any sentry they might have posted—or indeed to any but the most arrogant criminal.
“Luckily, the men we sought must have long ago grown used to the sudden flight of birds, for although we crawled on the ground for several minutes, we saw and heard no sign of pursuers. The ground itself was rock and bunch grass, and small stands here and there of gorse bushes and other rugged-looking plants.”
He lowered his eyes then, and he found my own eyes. I remembered the first night we stood sentry, back when the pilgrims first landed in Éire, when Black Knife and I stood next to each other on our four-hour watch. He had expressed a keen interest in learning more about the healing properties of plants, and we had discussed the possibility of his becoming my acolyte. Now, it seemed he was embarrassed by his lack of knowledge. I smiled and nodded my head in encouragement, and he continued.
“Ah, heather and floss grass, meadow buttercup. At any rate, there was enough plant cover and rocks to allow us to make progress, without being seen, to the other side of the island, perhaps an hour or so of crawling. When we heard the roar of the surf below us, we ventured to the edge of the high ground and looked down. What we saw was a scene I shall not soon forget.”
He paused, like a seasoned storyteller, until he was sure we would hang on his every word. “Below us was a space perhaps forty feet wide, between high pinnacles of rock, and inside that space were huddled about twenty rude clay huts. I could see by the movement of wind on the roofs that the place was protected from the worst of the wind gusts. We could clearly see men moving around, as though going about their daily work, carrying various tools and perhaps buckets or some kind of containers.
“We signaled with hand gestures and began to descend the rock face, like ticks on a dog’s hind leg. We were fortunate that the sun was in their eyes, and that we wore clothing almost the color of the ground itself. We got close enough to the huts to be able to hear them shouting at each other. ‘Taking a piss.’ ‘Piss not on your own foot, ye blind butt hole.’ ‘Bugger off.’ I am sorry ladies, but I give you an idea of their fine manners.”
He looked at the women—seven of us, and all of us grinning at his impersonation of the dainty captors.
“There were twelve men,” Black Knife continued, “and not a one of them colored blue anywhere. Most were not small men—I guess the size of a Glaed Keeper—and all of them fair headed. They spoke a very crude Gaelic, like uneducated bumpkins. At a silent signal, we crawled to a place behind a large boulder and made plans. One of us—Thom was our best walker—Thom would climb back to the top and create a diversion, enough to send all of them looking for trouble. While they were gone, ’Weaver and I would run into the huts and try to count the women and leave without being see
n.
“When Danger Walker left, Silver Weaver and I walked like crabs to a spot where we could see and hear better. We could see that one hut, with smoke pouring from the roof hole, was clearly a cook house. We observed one man, the runt of the litter, carrying trenchers and cups from the cook house to the other huts. And we saw six hovels off to the side, as though to separate wretched from ugly. Surely those were the pigsties where they kept the women.
“My suspicions were verified when I saw the lickspittle walking toward the little hovels with a trencher in each hand, and several of the men shouted at him. ‘Keep it in yer pants, lad.’ ‘Leave some for us.’ Silver Weaver and I looked at each other with daggers in our eyes, and only our better sense kept us from springing upon them right then and there. Ah, well, I leave it to you now, ’Weaver, to tell the rest.”
Silver Weaver rose languidly and easily, like a column of smoke. “I like not my part in this three-part tale. But let me ask all of you not to blame the bearer for his bad news.” He looked around at the crowd of listeners, and his pale blue eyes seemed hard as the granite that Thom had spoken of earlier.
“We crouched quietly, waiting for the signal from Danger Walker. Suddenly, there it was—a fat column of very black smoke somewhere on the summit of the cliff. I could not take the time to wonder how our colleague had managed to start a fire in the high wind, on a ground almost devoid of dry brush. We watched the great blubbering louts scatter up the face of the rocks, and as soon as we thought we were safe from being seen we began to enter the hovels one by one.
“I cannot describe the horror of their condition, not just for your sake, but for my own as well. Each hut I ran into was the same as the last—dark, dank, smelling of human waste and gut-wrenching fear. Each face I saw was the same—blank, with eyes that looked inward instead of out, no longer capable of surprise or hope. Each woman’s hands were bound. Only the hands, as though the captors knew their prey could never escape with feet alone.”