‘And their children,’ added Cowlick. ‘In the fairy ring over on the island. Honest, Jamesie will tell you.’
‘No doubt he will,’ said Martin. ‘All right, you’d better get dressed and tell me what you’ve been up to.’
The girls came down out of the caravan a few minutes later. Martin helped to get a fire going and as Tapser held a panful of sizzling rashers over it, he told Martin, ‘We really did see the poachers last night.’
‘On Illaun na Shee,’ Jamesie informed him.
‘And they chased us,’ said Róisín.
‘They had knives and everything,’ said Rachel. ‘I thought we were done for.’
‘We would have been too,’ declared Cowlick, ‘if we hadn’t thrown the nets over them.’
‘Hold it,’ said Martin. ‘Hold it just a minute. Are you serious? Are you saying you really did have a run-in with poachers last night?’
They nodded and he added, ‘All right, start from the beginning and tell me everything that happened.’
Between them they told him about the conversation they had overheard and their visit to the island.
When they had finished Martin asked, ‘And what possessed you to go to Illaun na Shee in the middle of the night?’
‘Well, first of all,’ replied Róisín, ‘we thought maybe the second part of the poem was the clue to where Pakie was being held. You know, the bit about fairies and witches.’
‘And he had already sent us a puzzle about fairies on the island,’ added Rachel.
‘Then the two men were talking about a prisoner and an island,’ said Cowlick.
‘And about the little people,’ said Jamesie. ‘And then we saw the fairy ring on Illaun na Shee.’
‘And who said it was a fairy ring?’ asked Martin sternly. Jamesie lowered his head and Martin added, ‘All right, no need to tell me. I can guess.’
‘You can say what you like,’ said Tapser, ‘but we were right. There were poachers on the island.’
‘All right,’ said Martin, nodding his head. ‘We’ll go over and have a look.’
They put out the fire with the water that was left in the kettle, and made their way down to the boathouse.
‘How did you know where to find us?’ asked Cowlick.
‘Oh, it wasn’t difficult,’ Martin told him, and with a glance at Jamesie added, ‘I guessed you wouldn’t be far away from Uncle Pakie’s place.’
Martin rowed across this time, and a short while later they were peering out of the bushes at the fairy thorn on Illaun na Shee. They could see the ring of trampled grass clearly, but of the children there was no sign. Or of the poachers. The beach below the slope was also deserted, but there were plenty of signs of recent occupation.
Outside a small cave they found the remains of a campfire. Martin felt it and said, ‘The ashes are still warm.’
‘And here’s a piece of net,’ said Tapser who had gone into the cave.
Martin examined it and muttered, ‘Monofilament.’
‘What?’ asked Cowlick.
‘Monofilament,’ Martin repeated. ‘All netting in fresh water is banned, but this is the worst kind.’
‘Why’s that?’ asked Rachel.
‘Because the salmon can’t see it in the water,’ Jamesie explained. ‘It’s deadly. It doesn’t give them a chance.’
‘Being nylon, the water doesn’t soak into it,’ said Martin. ‘So it’s also light and handy. Just the thing for poaching.’
‘There’s no doubt about it then,’ asked Róisín, ‘that the men who chased us were poachers?’
‘No doubt at all,’ said Martin. ‘And you’re lucky they didn’t catch you. They’re making a lot of money out of this game and they don’t like anybody interfering.’
‘I wonder if they were holding Uncle Pakie here?’ asked Jamesie.
‘I don’t see anything to suggest he was kept here,’ replied Martin, ‘but who’s to say? Come on, we’ll have a look around before we go.’
With Prince’s help they searched the rest of the island, but there was no further sign of the poachers or of their prisoner.
Back at the campsite beside Pakie’s place, they asked Martin what he thought of the meaning they had read into the poem.
Martin took it out of his breast pocket and read it over to himself. ‘You could be right.’
‘That’s not what you said when we asked you back at the house,’ Rachel reminded him.
‘Well,’ said Martin, ‘I didn’t want to say too much in front of my mother. She’s worried enough as it is.’
‘What do your superiors think about it?’ asked Róisín.
‘My superiors?’ laughed Martin. ‘Can you imagine me giving a poem to the Super and telling him I thought it was a secret message from my Uncle Pakie? A poem that was found in a dead salmon. Sure, I’d be laughed out of the force.’
‘But you do think that’s what it is – a message from Uncle Pakie?’ asked Jamesie.
‘Well I’m not sure,’ said Martin. ‘But I suppose it could be.’
‘Jamesie seems to think he was after a gang of poachers when he disappeared,’ said Tapser.
‘Look,’ said Martin, ‘this is something I haven’t discussed much at home because I don’t want my mother getting upset.’
‘I’d say she has a fair idea,’ said Jamesie.
‘Maybe so, but I think she’d just prefer not to talk about it, that’s all.’
‘We won’t talk about it,’ promised Róisín. ‘We won’t even tell her we’ve had a brush with the poachers.’
‘You can say that again,’ said Cowlick.
‘All right then,’ said Martin, ‘say nothing about last night, or what I’m going to tell you.’
‘You mean you’re not going to even mention it at home?’ asked Jamesie.
‘Didn’t I tell you they’ve enough to worry about. But you must promise to stay away from Illaun na Shee.’
They promised, and Martin went on, ‘Pakie was close to them all right. You see, he’s been working in cooperation with us for some time to try and catch this gang. They first came to our notice last winter, during the closed season. No fishing is allowed anywhere during the closed season so that the fish can spawn, but fresh salmon were still turning up in some of the big hotels and classy restaurants.’
‘And you think that was two of the poachers we saw at the travellers’ camp?’ asked Cowlick.
‘Probably, but I wouldn’t say they’re travellers. No, this gang have it well organised, and I’d say the two you saw were just using the camp as a handy meeting-place, you know, where they could do their business without attracting attention.’
‘You mean, like organising supplies and things,’ asked Tapser.
‘Something like that … A green van, you said. I don’t suppose you noticed the number by any chance?’
They shook their heads.
‘Or the make? Ah well, don’t worry, I know the type of van you’re talking about. I’ll get the lads in the patrol cars to check a few of them out.’
‘I didn’t think it would be worthwhile,’ said Róisín. ‘I mean, selling fish like that.’
‘Oh it’s worthwhile all right,’ Martin assured her. ‘It’s not like the old days when Pakie would gaff an odd salmon to feed the family. Wild Irish salmon are a great delicacy now, and there’s big money to be made from them. That’s why the poachers have organised themselves into gangs, and they won’t let anyone stand in their way either, as the fishery people will tell you. Several waterkeepers have been injured trying to stop them, and not only in this part of the country.’
‘But why is it so important to stop them?’ asked Cowlick.
‘Because the salmon must be given a chance to spawn,’ said Jamesie. ‘Otherwise they could be wiped out.’
‘You probably know about the salmon,’ continued Martin. ‘They’re hatched out in a gravelly part of a river.’
‘A redd,’ said Rachel. ‘Like it says in Pakie’s poem.’
Mar
tin nodded. ‘And when they’re old enough they go to sea. Then, when they’re bigger, they come back to the very same river to spawn. Already this year trawlermen using these monofilament nets – nets maybe up to a mile long – have been catching them on their way back along the coast, and that’s illegal too. That’s why the Naval Service has been clashing with them. You see, only a certain amount of salmon fishing is allowed at sea, and you must be licensed and use the right kind of nets. For, as Jamesie says, if enough salmon don’t get back up the rivers to spawn they could be wiped out.’
‘We reckon that’s what Pakie means,’ said Tapser, ‘when he says, Seek not the pike that struck him down, But the hand that seeks to take the crown.’
‘That it’s not the pike fish that are the problem,’ said Róisín, ‘but the poachers.’
‘That’s my reckoning too,’ Martin told them. ‘But I didn’t think you’d come across them on Illaun na Shee. We searched it and found nothing. We’ve checked out a good few of the islands.’
‘I thought you said there wasn’t much poaching up around this end of the lake,’ recalled Cowlick.
‘So I did,’ said Martin, ‘but they’re probably using the islands up here to hide out on and store their nets. If you go up to the hatchery in Cong you’ll see some of the nets that have already been seized this year. I reckon they move around from one island to another so as to be one step ahead of us. They probably came back to Illaun na Shee knowing we had already searched it.’
‘And what were their children doing?’
‘Well, they probably lie low during the day, so I’d say their children were out stretching their legs when you saw them dancing around the fairy thorn last night.’ Martin paused. ‘But what does the rest of the poem mean? That’s the problem. Where are we to look for them now? And where are they holding Pakie?’
‘We haven’t been able to figure out the rest of it either,’ said Cowlick.
‘But we’re working on it,’ added Rachel.
‘Well, don’t be going and getting yourselves into any more trouble,’ warned Martin. ‘If you get any more bright ideas, let me know before you do anything.’
‘That’s what we tried to do,’ Jamesie told him, ‘but that other guard only laughed at us.’
‘You can hardly blame him,’ said Martin, ‘when you come in talking about fairies and things. You have to be sensible.’ He threw a leg over his bicycle and got ready to go.
‘What are you going to do now?’ asked Jamesie.
‘Have a look around for those two buckos in the green van. And remember what I told you, keep away from Illaun na Shee or I’ll have to send you home. As I said, these people are dangerous, so leave them to us.’
When Martin had cycled off up the lane they lit the fire again and started to get their dinner ready. Nuadha was grazing contentedly nearby and Prince was hopping around trying in vain to catch a white butterfly.
‘Well, at least he’s not a clipe,’ said Rachel.
‘A what?’ asked Jamesie.
‘A clipe. You know, a clash-bag, a tell-tale.’
Jamesie smiled. He found some of their northern sayings very amusing.
‘The man with the rings,’ said Cowlick. ‘What fair could he have meant?’
Jamesie shrugged. ‘There’s a fair in Clonbur. But that isn’t until Friday.’
‘Still,’ said Tapser, ‘that could be the one.’
‘In the meantime,’ said Róisín, ‘unless we spot that van, we’ve got to figure out the rest of the poem. I think that’s where the real clue is, the clue maybe even to where Pakie’s being held prisoner.’
‘It seems to be trying to tell us where the story is,’ said Rachel. ‘You know, Beneath tall spires of gold the Story is told. But the only story I know that has a capital S is the Bible.’
‘That’s true,’ said Tapser. He thought for a moment, then exclaimed, ‘The Bible, spires – a church! Some place where there’s a church!’
‘What about that other island you told us about, Jamesie?’ asked Cowlick. ‘Remember, you said there was a church on it.’
‘Inchagoill?’ Jamesie shook his head. ‘Too many tourists go there. It must mean something else.’
The white butterfly landed on a tall plant growing on the edge of the clearing and began to explore one of its purple, bell-shaped flowers. Prince was dancing around with his head in the air looking for it, and Rachel rushed over and shooed it away before he could find it. When she returned she sat down and burst some of the bells against the palm of her hand.
‘You want to be careful,’ Róisín told her. ‘They’re poisonous.’
‘What are they?’ asked Cowlick.
‘Foxgloves,’ said Róisín.
‘That’s right,’ said Jamesie. ‘The bad fairies are supposed to have given them to the foxes to put on their paws so they wouldn’t be heard creeping up on things. Look, you can put them on your fingers.’ He reached for some and slipped them over his fingernails. ‘That’s why we call them pooka fingers. Pakie says it means fairy fingers or witches’ fingers.’
‘Fairies and witches,’ exclaimed Rachel suddenly.
‘Foxes in ditches,’ added Róisín.
‘That’s it!’ said Tapser, getting to his feet and going over to examine the plant.
The others joined him.
‘And you say it’s poisonous, Róisín?’ he asked.
Róisín nodded. ‘And maybe that’s something to do with the next line, Deadly the fingers …’
They studied the plant and wondered what Pakie meant by what he had said.
‘Read it again for us, Jamesie,’ said Cowlick.
Jamesie took out his piece of paper and read it aloud for the umpteenth time:
‘Fairies and witches, foxes in ditches,
Deadly the fingers that point to life’s riches.
Beneath tall spires of gold the Story is told,
Nymphs dance in the moonlight and secrets unfold …’
Tapser sat down again and leaned his chin on his hand. ‘What is Pakie trying to tell us?’
‘And what’s a nymph anyhow?’ asked Cowlick.
‘We sometimes fish with artificial flies which are called nymphs,’ said Jamesie. ‘So unless he’s talking about flies dancing on the water.’
‘Or he could mean the poachers’ children dancing in the moonlight, couldn’t he?’ said Rachel.
‘Double meaning again,’ remarked Tapser.
‘Let’s take it bit by bit,’ suggested Róisín. ‘The first lines don’t seem to be about fish, but about plants. Poisonous plants that point to something. I think we need to find out more about that.’
‘Good idea,’ agreed Tapser. ‘But who would tell us? Jamesie, what do you think? Do you know anybody who could tell us about foxgloves and things?’
‘There is one man who could tell us. But I don’t know if he’s at home. He’s probably out fishing.’
‘Anyone else?’ asked Róisín.
‘There’s a woman who lives along the lake a bit. She knows all about herbs. She could tell us.’
‘What’s her name?’ asked Rachel.
‘Biddy,’ Jamesie replied. ‘Biddy of the Lake.’
6. BENEATH TALL SPIRES OF GOLD
As Nuadha picked her way through the byroads of the Corrib countryside, Prince trotted along beside her. The two seemed to have become great friends.
After a while they came to a laneway lined with creamy meadowsweet and purple stalks of wild angelica. At the end of the lane was a clump of trees, and from there they could see a small farm stretching down to the lake. Not far from the water’s edge was a thatched cottage. There was a stack of turf at one end of the cottage, a small shed and hen-run at the other. Several geese were sifting through the mud in a nearby field, while down by the lake two rather shaggy-looking horses and three donkeys gazed idly at the water.
‘What’s Biddy like?’ asked Tapser.
‘Pretty scary,’ admitted Jamesie. ‘She lives on her own, exce
pt for her hens and her donkeys and horses. Nobody will go near the donkeys and horses you know.’
‘Why not?’ asked Cowlick.
Jamesie didn’t answer.
‘Come on, Jamesie,’ prompted Róisín. ‘Tell us why you’re scared to go near her donkeys and horses.’
‘Aye, Jamesie, tell us,’ urged Rachel.
They were all smiling now, for they knew well they were about to hear another of Jamesie’s fairytales.
‘Well, there are stories about them,’ said Jamesie.
‘Stories?’ asked Cowlick, trying to be serious.
‘Well, not about them exactly.’
‘What then?’ asked Róisín.
‘Well, there’s a story Uncle Pakie tells, about this man called Seoirse de Barra. He and his wife had two castles. His gave his name to Castlebar, and hers was at Annaghdown, just down the Corrib from here. Anyway, there was an enchanted lake called Lough Afoor, near her castle.’
‘Jamesie, you’re the limit,’ giggled Rachel. ‘First it was an enchanted island, now it’s an enchanted lake.’
‘You can laugh if you like,’ said Jamesie, ‘but it was said that every night water-horses came up out of the lake to graze.’
The others looked at the lake beyond Biddy’s house where the horses and donkeys were still gazing out across the water.
‘The trouble was,’ Jamesie continued, ‘they came out to graze in Seoirse’s cornfields. As you can imagine, they did a lot of damage. Each morning before the sun rose, they were gone, back into the lake, and there was nothing he could do to stop them. He got the men in the area to help him try and cut them off, but it was no use. Then a wise old man who lived in the district, a blind man, told him that if they could catch one of the horses, the others wouldn’t come back.’
Jamesie lowered his voice. ‘So one night, after they had their supper, they hid in the corn and waited. Sure enough, when all was quiet the water-horses came up out of the lake. They grazed all night on the corn, but it wasn’t until daylight came and they started to make their way back to the lake that Seoirse and his friends made their move. Jumping out of their hiding places, they surrounded one of them, a small filly, and caught her.’
The Legend of the Corrib King Page 5