‘It was ferocious,’ he replied.
‘F’rocious,’ she agreed. ‘I hate thumble.’
‘She means thunder,’ explained Donal.
Maura glared at her brother. ‘That’s what I said! What do you hate, Tomflynn?’
‘Cold feet, I suppose. And biting flies. What about you, Donal?’
‘I hate the Sasanach.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they hate us.’
Tom spent the day with Donal and his family. The two boys were sent to cut reeds for mending a section of damaged thatch on one of the cabins. Tom discovered that all reeds are not the same. Young green ones were useless for thatching, as were those that had died and gone brown and brittle. ‘Reeds have to be mature but have plenty of life left in them,’ Donal explained, ‘because they must last for a long time.’
When that task was completed Bríd brought out a large sack of dried furze. She showed Tom how to cut and fold the spiky plants into neat, flat parcels called faggots. ‘We use them for fuel in the bake-oven,’ she explained. ‘The outer edges blaze up quickly to warm the inside surface of the oven. The heart of the faggots burns with a deep, steady heat which is perfect for baking.’
‘My father claims furze is useless,’ Tom said.
‘Nothing fashioned by God’s hand is useless, Tomás. Furze also makes good fodder for horses. You chop up the green tops and pound them on a flat surface with a mallet. A horse fed with green furze will stay more fit than a horse given dry straw.’
While the bread was baking Seán showed Tom how to shape soft leather footgear from untanned deerskin. The old woman taught him the words of an ancient Gaelic lament. Donal’s mother let him scale fish for the cooking pot. He tore the flesh badly at first, but Bríd just said, ‘Try again.’
Everything he learned was a gift. Neither work nor play, but a treasure he could keep. It was great to feel useful for a change. He was having a wonderful time – except when he found himself imagining his father on a ship. And the pirates coming.
As the evening approached he knew he must go home. But first he asked Muiris, ‘What do pirates do to the people on ships they capture?’
‘They usually let them go after they surrender their valuables.’
‘Usually?’
‘Not always. Why do you ask?’
‘My father is sailing to Dublin. He left yesterday morning.’
The skin tightened around the man’s eyes. ‘I see. When will he return?’
‘He never tells us. He has business there, that’s all I know. But about the pirates … are there any pirates on the way to Dublin?’
The smile was in Muiris’s eyes again. The smile which did not reach his lips. ‘There are always pirates, on land and sea. Is your father armed?’
‘I don’t know. He took some baggage with him, there might be weapons inside.’
Muiris said, ‘If his ship is boarded by pirates he should be safe enough. Unless he resists.’
Tom’s mouth went dry. ‘He would never give up his valuables without a fight.’
‘Then pray God, Tomás, your father never meets any pirates.’
CHAPTER TEN
Rowing
After Tom left, Donal set to work weaving a willow basket. His father needed some new lobster pots, but the boy had not yet mastered the complicated design. Baskets were good practice.
Yet even weaving a basket presented a problem this evening. All of Donal’s fingers seemed to have turned into thumbs. His concentration was elsewhere.
His parents were talking about Tom Flynn.
No conversation in a cabin could be totally private. People who lived in cabins were expected to ignore anything not meant for them. Donal had grown up observing that ancient law. Tonight he broke it. He listened with all his might to the conversation between his parents.
His father was praising the other boy’s courage. As far as Donal could tell, Tom had done nothing brave. He had sat in a boat. He had helped load and unload cargo. Nothing special, nothing manly. Nothing Donal could not have done himself, if his father gave him the chance.
Muiris said, ‘The first time the lad was ever on open water, and he not seasick. He was born to it.’
I was born to it, Donal thought sourly. Tomás was born to the land.
He did not want to resent Tom; he liked Tom. They were good friends. But did his father have to praise the other boy so much? Muiris never praised his own son, at least not within Donal’s hearing.
Donal stared down at the basket he was weaving. He had soaked the strips of willow in salt water to soften them, and waited until they were just pliable enough to force into shape without losing their springiness. He had done it so often the task was second nature to him. He did not even have to think about it, his hands knew what to do by themselves. Everything in the cabin, and the cabin itself, had been made by his family.
Tom Flynn said there were China plates in his house. And silver spoons, and glass bottles. He did not have to hunt and fish to feed himself nor gather firewood to keep himself warm. He had different suits of clothes in different colours, and some stockings of silk and others of wool, and more than one pair of shoes. With silver buckles on them.
Setting the basket aside, Donal lifted one of his feet and turned it over in his hands. He examined the thickly calloused sole. The leather soles of Tom’s buckled shoes were thicker. No sharp bit of broken seashell could stab through them and leave a boy’s foot bleeding and sore.
Tom Flynn had a fireplace in his bed-chamber. A fireplace with a hearth he did not have to share with anyone. He could sit there and soak up all the warmth himself. And he had a large bowl he called a ‘chamber pot’ that he could make water in during the night so he did not have to go out into the weather.
Donal wondered if any of the Flynn women lay awake all night coughing.
He put his foot down again and picked up the basket. He could smell rain on the wind. Summer would be over soon.
* * *
‘Summer will be over soon,’ Caroline Flynn reminded her mother. ‘When is Father coming home?’
Catherine Flynn looked up from the sewing in her lap. ‘I shall not know until he sends me a letter.’
‘You should have had one by now,’ Virginia said testily. ‘Has Simon called to the village to see if the coach has come down from Dublin?’
‘He has called several times. There is never any post from your father.’
‘Perhaps he is sending it another way, then. An uncommon number of riders are passing by on the road. One of them may bring his letter.’
‘A number of riders, dear?’ Mrs Flynn tried to hide the sudden anxiety she felt. ‘Why have you been going out to the road?’
‘I like to watch people passing by. I try to guess where they are going and what will happen to them when they get there. Some of them will see towns and cities and go on ships and–’
‘Enough, enough!’ her mother exclaimed with a nervous laugh. ‘Come sit here by me, both of you. We can work on your sister’s trousseau together.’
Caroline looked at the pile of sewing with distaste. She loved to wear pretty clothes but did not like to make them. ‘Why bother now?’ she asked her mother. ‘Wait until Father returns from Dublin. No doubt he will bring bales of beautiful fabric for her frocks.’
Mrs Flynn shook her head. ‘I do not think so, not this time.’
‘Of course he will,’ Caroline contradicted. ‘Father has bags of money and he loves to spend it on us. I can hardly wait to see what he brings us this time.’ With her head full of silks and satins, William Flynn’s youngest daughter flitted from the room.
She moves as lightly as a sunbeam, her mother thought to herself. I used to move like that once.
* * *
The second time Tom joined the smugglers was very different from the first. It started out much the same, with the pinprick of light sending its welcome signal, and the eager run to the cliffs. Séamus was waiting as before. This time he was
not alone. He was in a large currach with two other men. One of these was Fergal. The other was a brawny fellow Tom had never met, but who had the familiar sea eagle features. He held aloft a small lantern that was burning pilchard oil. This was a by-product of pressing pilchards for salting, and though it burned well the oil gave off a dreadful smell. No pilchard oil was ever used at Roaringwater House.
‘So this is the lad,’ the man said to Séamus. His English, Tom noted, was quite good.
‘This is the lad,’ Séamus agreed.
The man lifted the lantern higher so he could study Tom’s face. ‘Are you old enough to do a man’s work?’
Tom said in his deepest voice – which was not as deep as he wanted – ‘I can do anything you ask of me.’
He expected laughter at this boast. The man merely said, ‘You will need that courage soon, and all the strength you have.’ He turned towards Séamus. ‘It is a worry to me that your brother agreed to this job tonight. There is a wee sliver of moon tonight. And I have seen the sun dogs.’
Séamus replied in Irish. The lantern-holder grunted in response.
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Tom.
‘The weather,’ Fergal said casually. Too casually. ‘Into the boat with you, Tomás. We have a fair bit of rowing to do before this night’s out.’
As he climbed into the boat Tom noticed there was an extra pair of oars. ‘Am I going to row?’ he asked eagerly.
‘You are more than ballast on this night,’ Séamus told him. ‘Take up those oars and sit in the front. Watch me now. Hold them just as I do. Look at me, Tomás. Hold your oars like this.’
The man with the lantern lifted it high until Tom was settled, then extinguished the light.
They shoved off.
The oar handles had been worn smooth by many hands over the years. They felt just the way Tom had imagined they would. He listened intently as Séamus gave him instructions. ‘The two oars must work as one, Tomás. Never let one go off by itself. The oars and your arms and your shoulders, all one.’ At first the boy did not dig into the water enough. Then he went too deep. The other men tempered their own efforts until he had the feel of it. Biting his lip with concentration, soon Tom Flynn began to row in earnest. Began to become part of the rhythm.
Within moments they left the shore behind. Tom felt the bay heave under him like a living creature. He was not the least bit frightened now. I belong here, he thought, remembering that Donal had spoken those same words in the cave.
At first rowing was easy enough, even fun. Soon the effort became uncomfortable. Tom had never appreciated the difficulties of rowing before. The others made it look easy. His arms and shoulders flamed with pain. He gritted his teeth and ignored the discomfort. But he could not ignore the mighty force which was the bay. As if it had a will of its own, the water seemed determined to tear the oars from his hands.
He refused to give in. Head down, eyes clenched shut in agony, the boy continued to row.
Thud, swish, thud, swish, and the hiss of the waves. Time itself stopped. There was only darkness and pain and effort. It would last forever. This was Hell and he was in it.
‘What o’clock is it?’ the desperate boy asked.
No one answered. He tried again.
Séamus said, ‘Look up.’
Puzzled but obedient, Tom opened his eyes. The stars had come out. So many stars! More stars than grains of sand on the beach; they jostled one another aside in the effort to share their glittering glory with Roaringwater Bay.
‘The stars tell us all we need to know about where and when,’ said Fergal.
‘But … how?’
The man with the lantern laughed. ‘Learn, boy,’ he said. ‘Observe and learn.’
Thud, swish, thud, swish. The ache in Tom’s muscles grew steadily worse. Then, ‘Mind yourself, Tomás!’ Séamus barked. ‘There are submerged rocks here.’
‘I don’t see any.’
‘You will see them right enough if we tear the boat open on one,’ Séamus replied sternly. ‘Row slowly now, keep the rhythm but feel down as you go, down with the oars until …’
‘Here,’ said one of the other men.
‘Raise your oars, Tomás. Quickly.’
Tom did as he was told. The man who had reported the submerged rock prodded the water with an oar, then pushed hard against something. The boat glided away from the unseen but deadly obstacle.
‘How did you know a rock was there if you couldn’t see it?’ Tom wondered.
Fergal said, ‘You cannot see your elbow, so how do you know it is there?’
The boy had no answer. Instead he devoted himself to his rowing.
Thud, swish, thud, swish.
And eventually it was a little easier.
Tom still had only a hazy notion of the geography of the bay, but he knew they were well beyond the river mouth when Séamus gave the order to rest their oars. The boy breathed a silent prayer of thanks. His muscles were trembling with fatigue and his back felt broken.
The crescent moon shed no light. The blaze of stars alone was enough to reveal a tiny island just ahead; it was little more than a tree-covered rock rising above the surface of the bay. Tom heard the familiar music of the oars as another currach detached itself from the shadows and came towards them.
Séamus called out, ‘Are you ready?’
‘We are ready,’ Muiris called back to him.
In the second currach were Muiris and four other men, including Seán. The two boats lightly bumped each other. ‘Take my place,’ Muiris said to Séamus.
‘I still think we should have brought a timber boat tonight,’ Séamus replied. ‘The sea is rough and we may have a heavy cargo.’
‘The decision was mine to make,’ Muiris reminded him.
Tom noticed that he spoke with calm authority. The voice of command.
Séamus quickly changed places with him.
‘We need boats agile enough to move fast and keep us out of trouble,’ Muiris explained as he settled himself beside Tom. ‘Is your father still away?’
‘He is still away.’
‘Are you feeling strong this night, Tomás?’
‘I am feeling strong,’ Tom insisted. Knowing it was not true.
Muiris laughed. ‘Glad I am to hear it, but save a bit for the work ahead. Give me the oars and rest yourself.’ Muiris took Tom’s place and said something in Irish to the other men.
The currach leaped forward like an eager horse at the touch of the spur.
Tom tilted his head back so he could gaze up at the stars. He had never seen anything so beautiful. An immense glittering tapestry stretching from here to forever. Was there a boat that could sail to forever?
‘Ahead of us is Dún na Séad,’ Muiris remarked after a time.
‘The Fort of the Jewels,’ Tom responded. ‘The English call it Cape Clear island.’
‘Well done, lad.’
‘Are we going ashore there?’
‘Not tonight. We will row past the southwest point of the island, where a rocky headland juts out into the sea. Atop this promontory is a half-destroyed castle. We are not going to land there, not this time, but watch for the place as we pass by. It is quite famous. Perhaps you have heard of it?’
Tom searched his memory. ‘Never in my life,’ he said.
‘Are you certain?’
‘I am certain.’
‘That is a pity – though perhaps not a surprise,’ Muiris said mysteriously. ‘We have some time before we put you to work again, Tomás. Would you like to hear the story of Sir Fineen Ó Driscoll and the Castle of Gold?’
‘Yes please!’ said the boy.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Castle of Gold
‘Clann Ó Driscoll takes its name from a king called Eidersceoil,’ Muiris began. He fitted his words into the rhythm of the rowing, so they became one with the boat. And the night, and the sea. ‘Eidersceoil ruled a vast portion of Munster in the tenth century. He was a direct descendant of Lugaidh Laid
he, founder of the Corca Laoidhe, for whom Cork is named.’
Tom wondered how these people who were long dead could have anything to do with him.
‘The Castle of Gold, Dún an Óir, was built early in the thirteenth century,’ Muiris continued. ‘It stood a full three storeys high. From its heights one could see a great stretch of the coast, or look across five miles of Roaringwater Bay to Mount Gabriel and beyond.
‘In the sixteenth century the castle was a favourite stronghold of the Ó Driscolls. Theirs was an ancient and honourable name, and the clan was prosperous. Their territory stretched from Kinsale to Kenmare. In 1573 the clan elected a new chieftain, Fineen Ó Driscoll. In accordance with Gaelic law, he took an oath to protect the territory belonging to his clan.
‘Fineen’s ancestors had been kings on this island since before the before, all through the Viking years and after the victory of Brian Boru. Then came an invasion the Irish could not repel. Led by a man called Strongbow, the invaders were of Norman blood and Catholic faith. In the name of an English king they occupied a number of Irish territories. Because they shared our faith, many of them adopted our language and customs. In time we learned to accommodate one another. We call them the Old English now, though in truth they have become almost as Irish as ourselves.
‘As the years passed, a king of England turned his back on Rome and took up a new religion. When his daughter Elizabeth became queen she sent fresh armies to try to conquer Ireland. Soon the Sasanach were swarming over this country like a plague of rats. Seizing, looting, killing. Slaughtering women and children, turning rich land into scorched earth. They had an enormous appetite for destruction. We learned to hate these New English with all our hearts and we fought them with all our strength. We still fight them, Tomás. We will always fight them,’ Muiris added in a low, sinister voice.
His tone sent a chill up Tom’s spine. Suddenly the boy was interested.
Cave of Secrets Page 7