Cave of Secrets

by Morgan Llywelyn

  In my family. She had never mentioned her family before. As far as Tom knew, her life had begun with her marriage to William Flynn.

  Why was I not curious? he asked himself. But now that he was curious she would not talk about it. When he asked, ‘What were you mother and father like?’ she said only, ‘I hardly remember them any more.’

  October became November and Mrs Flynn was up and about again. Still thin and pale, but stronger. She even joined Tom at the door to wave goodbye to his tutor when Mr Beasley left until the following spring.

  A few days later, the long-awaited letter arrived. It was very brief.

  My dearest Kate,

  At last there is good news to report. Here in Dublin I have found unexpected allies, and now see a way to resolve our troubles. I regret that I must remain in the capital for a while longer. You may think I am taking a risk, staying away from Roaringwater at this time, but you must trust me. Be assured that everything will come right in the end. …

  Catherine Flynn read the letter twice. Then she folded the small sheet of paper and sat staring into the fire. When Tom entered the room she did not look up.

  ‘Your father is not coming home,’ she said over her shoulder.

  Tom’s immediate, frightened thought was of pirates. ‘Was he kidnapped?’

  His mother turned to stare at him. ‘Of course not. Why ever did you say that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I mean …’ He scuffed the floor with his toe, feeling like a child again.

  ‘Please do not worry, Tom,’ she said, trying to sound as if there were nothing to worry about. ‘William has sent good news. The Lord Deputy is in England with King Charles. In the new year Thomas Wentworth will receive an earldom. Then he plans to return to Ireland and raise an army to fight for the king in Scotland.’

  ‘What has any of that to do with Father?’

  ‘Your father is staying in Dublin until the Lord Deputy arrives. Thanks to friends in high places, William expects to be offered a commission in the new army. An officer’s commission is highly prized; it comes with a number of privileges. William’s appointment will give us security at last.’

  Tom was puzzled. He had always taken his security for granted. ‘What about this house, Mother, and our land? Are they not all the security we need?’

  ‘Wait until your father comes home, Tom. He can explain much better than I can.’

  Once again, Tom thought, I’m being treated like a child. But I’m not a child. There are places where I’m treated like a man.

  After her husband’s letter arrived Mrs Flynn’s appetite improved. She spent less time in her bedchamber and more with her family. She and her daughters played card games or did their sewing together. Sometimes Elizabeth and Caroline sang English ballads in clear, sweet voices.

  Tom rarely joined them. He took to wandering about the house, looking out of the windows.

  ‘That boy is like a bird in a cage,’ Elizabeth remarked. ‘Whatever is wrong with him?’

  ‘He misses his father,’ her mother replied.

  ‘He’s growing up,’ said Virginia.

  Winter brought short dark days and long cold nights. A fire was lit in every fireplace, yet still Tom felt cold. Something was wrong. He knew it the way Bríd and Seán always knew when a storm was coming. It must involve his father. A terrible fate might have befallen him.

  Tom began having nightmares that he could not quite remember afterwards. But he knew they were awful.

  The entire household became involved in ‘bringing in’ the Christmas. Once again the servants scrubbed and polished the house from top to bottom. Virginia drew up a shopping list which included twenty pounds of beeswax, pure white and faintly smelling of honey. The wax was slowly melted in an iron cauldron. Tom measured and cut the lengths of wick while Elizabeth and the housekeeper dipped the candles.

  A special large candle was lit on the first day of Advent.

  The arrival of the Holy Season was marked by frost-coloured sky and frost-spangled earth. At night, if there were no clouds, a million stars glittered, hard and bright, like gifts of diamonds from the Magi. The wind from the bay smelt of ice. Two pigs were butchered, one for the family and one for the servants’ table, and their blood was drained and set aside. Tom contributed more spices from his carefully hidden store, and Cook filled the house with the smell of boiling puddings.

  The servants were sent to collect cartloads of holly and ivy. They left at dawn and returned at dusk, since neither plant grew near the bay. On the following day Catherine Flynn and her children were busy tying ribbon into bows and arranging wreaths and swags.

  That night they lit candles in all the windows.

  Mrs Flynn wanted to buy special treats for the Christmas table as well as the traditional New Year’s presents for the family. Usually her husband took care of such things, but his prolonged absence left the task to her.

  She asked Tom to accompany her to the village market at Skibbereen. It was the first time she had asked him to be her escort. He was proud of the honour, but concerned for his mother. ‘Are you sure you feel strong enough?’ he asked.

  ‘I do feel strong enough, but it might be best if you drive the dogcart. Do you think you can handle the pony, Tom?’

  He started to tell her he could handle the oars of a currach on the open sea, then thought better of it.

  The grey pony had taken members of the Flynn household to market for fifteen years. She knew the way better than any human. As soon as her passengers were settled in the wicker cart, she started off on her own at a steady trot. Tom flicked the whip above her haunches once or twice anyway. Her only response was to lay back her ears.

  ‘Do not torment the animal,’ said his mother.

  As they neared the village, the road on either side blossomed with stalls selling everything from local produce to imported luxuries. Stallholders called out to Mrs Flynn as she passed by. Tom said, ‘They seem to know you, Mother.’

  She arranged the hood of her cloak to hide more of her face. ‘They do not know me,’ she said.

  Soon the road was crowded with people who went from stall to stall, examining the goods on offer. Shoppers loudly haggled with merchants. Small children ran madly about, shrieking at the top of their lungs. Cattle and sheep and poultry were all available for sale; the air was thick with the smell of them. Dogs barked, geese honked, an ass brayed – and the grey pony came to a halt.

  ‘I shall wait with the cart,’ said Mrs Flynn, pulling her hood even farther over her face. She gave Tom a shopping basket, a list and a small purse of coins.

  Feeling wonderfully important, he tied the reins and stepped from the cart. As he crossed the road a boy on a shaggy plough horse galloped past. The animal’s huge hooves threw up a spray of cold mud. Tom tried to wipe a gobbet of mud from his cheek, but only succeeded in smearing it.

  He went from stall to stall looking for the things his mother wanted. It took a while to find them all. Wide red ribbon for tying up wreaths. Metal polish. A bottle of camphor to keep moths out of woollens, a packet of needles, a set of pudding bowls, a new shopping basket. Tom knew how to weave a basket. But he could not tell his mother without explaining where he had learned.

  The last items on the list were the special treats the girls loved at Christmas. Several stalls offered them, but they were shockingly expensive and no one was buying. The small purse was nearly empty anyway. Tom headed back to the dogcart to ask his mother for more money.

  The grey pony was standing where he left her, but the cart was empty.

  Tom felt a flash of panic. If something happened to his mother while she was in his care, his father really would kill him!

  Then he saw her coming towards him, her arms loaded with parcels. Relief washed over him. ‘You gave me a fright, Mother. You should have warned me you would not stay with the cart.’

  ‘I was buying presents for us to exchange at the New Year. Something for each of you and your father too, even though he won’t be with us
. Did you get everything on my list?’

  ‘All except the sweetmeats. Raisins and figs and sugared almonds are very dear and I ran out of money. The woman at the stall said they cost twice as much this year as last, because they are imported. If you want I shall go back for them.’

  Catherine Flynn shook her head. ‘Perhaps we had best make do with what we have, Tom.’

  She was quiet on the drive back to Roaringwater House, wondering why her husband had not sent additional money for the holidays. Wondering if everything really was all right. Wondering.

  At the house, Caroline thrust out her lower lip. When she was sulky her beauty vanished. ‘It just won’t be Christmas without sugared almonds.’

  ‘Christmas is not about treats, Caroline. It is about the birth of hope, which we need more,’ said her mother.

  ‘I hoped to have sugared almonds!’

  On the day of Christ’s birth a priest came to Roaringwater House to say Mass in the private chapel. Elizabeth and Caroline had decorated the little chapel with holly, while Virginia had contributed a watercolour painting of the Virgin and Child.

  It seemed strange to Tom that his father was not with them. As he knelt to pray, Tom wondered how, and where, Muiris and his family celebrated Christmas. Suddenly he could see their faces as clearly as if they stood before him. And longed with all his heart to be with them. When he awoke on St Stephen’s Day he could not wait any longer.

  * * *

  Mud and ice had made the ground dangerously slippery. Because it was the middle of winter Tom was not barefoot. He soon realised his mistake, and stopped to take off his shoes and stockings. He did not slip and slide as much when his toes could grip the earth, but soon his feet were so cold they felt numb. He had to put his shoes back on. If he were at home he could warm his feet on the fender.

  His damp stockings began to chafe his muddy feet and make them sore. He could feel the blisters rising but he kept going. Why was the journey taking so long? Where were the familiar landmarks? Was it possible he had made a wrong turn?

  Surely not. He knew the way, of course he did. Scramble up one more steep hill, wade through a sea of dead bracken, and …

  And there was the little river below him.

  Below him? He should not have been overlooking the stream. He should have been walking along its bank. He started down.

  The voice of the wind, always present in the bay, changed abruptly. A hiss of sleet warned Tom only moments before the storm hit.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A Terrible Accident

  Maura laughed.

  She and her brother were sitting on three-legged stools beside the hearth. Firelight painted the walls of the cabin with a rosy glow. Donal was pulling faces to distract Maura from any possible rumble of thunder. The children were alone in the cabin while their parents paid a call upstream.

  ‘Now I’m a brown hare,’ said Donal. He lifted his upper lip. ‘See what big teeth I have? See my long funny ears?’ He waggled his fingers beside his head.

  ‘Show me a deer, Don-don. A big red deer with lots of branches.’

  ‘You mean antlers?’

  The little girl held up one hand. ‘Ssshhh.’

  ‘I thought you wanted–’

  ‘SSSHHH! I hear something.’

  ‘Only the wind, and it won’t hurt you,’ Donal said.

  She shook her head. ‘Not the wind. Listen!’

  To humour her, he cupped his hands behind his ears. And listened.

  The wailing cry could have been anything. A sea bird flying over the marsh. Or even the bark of a seal.

  The sound stopped, replaced by the cheerful crackle of the fire. Donal drew a breath to speak but Maura shook her head at him. ‘Wait,’ she said.

  The cry came again.

  ‘That’s Tomflynn!’ Maura exclaimed.

  ‘It can’t be.’

  But she was already on her feet and running to the door.

  They found him at the edge of the narrow valley, lying on his back, eyes closed, arms flung out, sleet beating against his face. His right leg was bent at an unnatural angle.

  Maura flung herself onto the ground beside him. ‘Tomflynn, wake up!’

  He opened his eyes and looked at her. ‘I’m not asleep.’ He sounded hoarse.

  ‘We heard you calling for help,’ Donal said. ‘Did you fall down the hill?’ He glanced up the steep slope. ‘It’s covered with ice, that.’

  ‘I must have done, I don’t remember. Everything went white. Or black. I don’t remember,’ he repeated.

  Donal extended his hand. ‘Here, let me help you.’

  Tom tried to rise, then fell back with a gasp of pain. Maura scowled. ‘Don’t hurt him, can’t you see he’s busted?’

  ‘I can see that. Run and get Seán and Séamus. Tell them what’s after happening.’

  ‘Run yourself,’ the little girl retorted. ‘Your legs are longer.’ Lifting her skirt, she pulled down her flannel petticoat. She folded it to put beneath Tom’s head. ‘Run!’ she shouted at her brother.

  He ran.

  As soon as Donal was out of earshot Maura told Tom, ‘It was me heard you, Tomflynn.’

  ‘I was afraid no one would.’

  ‘I know your voice. I know the wind’s voice. It was me heard you.’

  Waves of agony swept along Tom’s body like the waves of the sea. He tried to hold them back but they were stronger than he was. He clutched the little girl’s hand. He knew he was squeezing too hard but he could not help it.

  She bit her lip and let him squeeze.

  Tom lost all sense of time. After a year at least, Seán and Séamus arrived with a litter made of blankets and two oars. The men laid the litter on the earth beside Tom and asked if he could roll onto it.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ The boy’s forehead was drenched with icy sweat.

  Donal crouched down so Tom could see his face. ‘Yes, you can,’ he said.

  Donal sounded so much like Muiris that Tom believed him. One agonised effort and he was on the litter. The pain made him sick to his stomach.

  The two men lifted the litter as carefully as possible. Before they had gone far one of the blankets slipped, and the whole thing had to be re-tied. They set off again. Donal walked on one side and Maura on the other. The last thing Tom was aware of was an open doorway. And the cheerful crackle of a fire.

  ‘Wait for Bríd and Muiris,’ Séamus told Seán. ‘You do not know how to mend broken bones.’

  His brother was offended. ‘I am not trying to mend his bones. The lad is shivering and I was about to wrap a blanket around him. Would you have him freeze?’

  ‘I would not be pushing and pulling at that leg, amadán! Leave him as he is and build up the fire instead.’

  Tom was somewhere soft and grey, with occasional stars. He heard their voices as a distant buzz. In order to understand what they were saying he would have to move towards the pain. Or he could go in the other direction. Into a roaring darkness. Where there was no pain.

  Probably no pain.

  He decided to stay where he was for a while. Floating in the midst of nothing. On a great sea of nothingness …

  Roaringwater Bay sprang into his mind. The full glorious sweep of the bay glittering in the sunlight. Like an anchor, the image of the bay held him in place and kept him from drifting away.

  * * *

  After a brief but spirited argument about who was to go, Séamus left Seán to mind the children. The last thing he said as he went out the door was, ‘Don’t be touching him now, any of you.’ He set off at a run.

  Donal bent over Tom, who was lying on the floor in front of the fire. ‘Séamus will bring my parents. They’ll know what to do. Mother’s a healer.’

  ‘Your father’s the king,’ Tom mumbled.

  ‘That’s right! Can you hear me?’

  Tom did not answer.

  Donal felt guilty for being jealous of his friend. He wanted to do something – anything – to help Tom, if only to give him a
drink of water. But he did not dare disobey his uncle.

  Maura only obeyed orders she liked. She began to dance around the bed, singing fanciful spells and waving her hands above Tom. Once or twice she almost brushed him with her fingertips.

  Seán reproved her. ‘Do not be hurting him now.’

  ‘I’m helping him. I’m a healer too.’ As if to stake her claim, she put one hand on his forearm.

  ‘No doctor!’ Tom cried out. He sounded terrified.

  By the time Séamus arrived with Bríd and Muiris, Tom was asleep. The pain was making him restless. Bríd examined him as gently as she could without waking him. ‘His leg is broken,’ she reported. ‘Not a bad break, the bone has not come through the skin. He should be with his own family, though. His poor mother will be worried to distraction.’

  Donal asked, ‘What can she do that you can’t?’

  ‘She will send for a doctor,’ said Muiris.

  ‘No doctor!’ Maura cried. ‘Tomflynn said no doctor. He’s afeared of doctor, whatever that is.’

  Tom swam up from his troubled sleep. ‘Doctors make it worse,’ he said.

  Muiris crouched down beside the bed. ‘You are injured, Tomás. If Donal or Maura were injured–’

  ‘My mother mended my arm when I broke it,’ Donal interrupted. ‘She pulled it hard – that hurt something terrible but I didn’t cry – then she spread a paste on it and wrapped it in red flannel.’ He thrust the arm close to Tom’s face. ‘Look, you can’t even see where the break was.’

  Muiris pushed Donal aside. ‘The night has come and there is a storm, Tomás. I fear it would not be safe to carry you home now, either on a litter or in a currach.’

  Carry me home. Muiris and Séamus, probably. My mother will see them. There will be questions. She will tell Father. ‘I don’t want to go, Muiris. Can’t I stay here? I won’t be any trouble.’

  Muiris cocked an eyebrow at his wife. ‘Tomás says he will not be any trouble.’

  ‘In what lifetime will that be?’ she asked with a wry smile. ‘You should not have let him come here the first time.’