In the Country of Shadows (Exit Unicorns Series Book 4)

by Cindy Brandner

  Sometime deep in the night, Casey thought he felt a hand touch him—a woman’s hand, soft and sweet upon his skin, easing the ache in his knee. He turned toward her and felt the softness of her against him and her hands cupping his skull to draw it down to her breast, dousing the last of the fire in his brain. He thought he heard her speak too, just soft nonsense words of love, though he couldn’t understand the individual sentences. Still, the meaning was clear to him and the comfort of that soothed him, pushing him down into the well of oblivion. His sleep was easy and deep. For tonight, with the phantom woman’s touch upon him, he did not sleep alone.

  Chapter Sixty-four

  Smoke From a Far Distant Fire

  September 1978

  NEAR THE END OF the summer, Casey came down out of his solitude with the plan of staying on the roads for a few weeks. He hadn’t ventured down out of his mountain fastness since his trip into the North. In truth, that journey had frightened him, as if he had come too close to something his memory was not ready to reveal.

  He walked through the last two weeks of August. McCool the cat came with him and either trotted at his side or curled up in his canvas bag and slept while they covered mile after mile. The weather was beautiful, the days golden and warm and the nights dry enough that he could sleep out in them with the stars for his roof. Around him the country unfurled as he walked, and with each mile he could feel the past rising in layers. History lived here in every atom of the land and every tree and rock and leaf were part of that heritage. It was the idea that his own father, grandfather, great grandfather, might have walked this way of a moonlit night with cares and fears and wants and yearning, and yet with the ground beneath their feet and their hearts aware of some great pulsation, of invisible roots that went down through the bottom of a man’s soul into this ground, this land, this country bounded by sea and hedge and cliff and bog.

  It was mid-September when he wandered back into Wicklow, his thoughts on his mountain hut and whether he would spend his winter there once again, or if he would need to find work of some sort and hunker out the season down here below with other people and noise and interference. The thought of company, even if it was merely that of shopkeepers and the odd farmer he did work for, had its appeals. A man’s thoughts tended to go into dark places when he was alone too long, particularly when he did not have the rosary beads of story and past with which to comfort himself.

  Casey came across the fair on a sunny Sunday afternoon. He had been ambling since the morning, his knee stiff and painful after a night spent in the hedgerows with just a sheet of canvas for shelter. The road he was on was one of those meandering cow paths that ran in a narrow ribbon through miles and miles of farms and fields. He’d walked a ways down it, unable to see anything beyond the high hedges that bordered the road along the sides, when suddenly the blackthorns opened up into a field golden and shorn from recent harvesting. The land was filled with people and horses, tractors and carts, laughter and music. He followed the sound of the music, as surely as a child would follow the Pied Piper.

  He hadn’t been to a fair in years. The thought made him laugh, for in truth he didn’t know if he had ever been to a fair in his life. It was only that it seemed familiar to him—the scent of the horses and the hay newly mown and bundled into haycocks and bread baking and colcannon cooking in cauldrons over big fires.

  He paid his fee and then ambled through the grounds. The people were country people—faces reddened by the elements and time, the women sensibly dressed, the men shy of eye and tongue, gathering in wee clumps as they spoke of horses and the weather, and horses and farm equipment and of course, horses again. Off to one end was a cluster of gaily colored caravans, for where there were horses there were bound to be Travellers.

  He paused near the paddock where the horses were held, drawn to watch them in their innate beauty, the sun shining on coats of copper and ebony and bay and roan.

  “If ye’re lookin’ for a good horse, I can set ye up.” There was a man leaning over the paddock rail beside him, his cap set at a jaunty angle, a spotted kerchief knotted around his throat. Casey merely nodded politely at the man and then watched the bartering, as men ran their hands down long legs and over rumps and commented on ‘the fine broad back of her’. The love of horses was near to sexual in nature, he thought, and the looks on the faces of the people there were those of love and obsession.

  A flash of obsidian caught his eye as a colt ran past and he leaned over the paddock rail to get a better look at him. He was a gorgeous wee thing—coal black with a white blaze on his forehead and a gait to him that said he had plenty of spirit. He felt that strange sense of dislocation that he sometimes did when it seemed like he was about to remember something, as if he heard music from a great distance, a tune that was familiar but he couldn’t grasp enough of the notes to follow the melody.

  “He’s a beauty, isn’t he? He was one of a pair. Identical twins. His brother went to a man up Armagh way. His brother fetched a very pretty penny, an’ this boy will too. I’ve also a couple of sound ponies, if ye want to come have a look.”

  The man must have thought he’d spied the lust of a horse lover when Casey’s eye had been drawn to the colt. But the colt was like most things for him—an echo of something else, another horse perhaps, in that other life in the country behind him.

  “I’m not in the market for a horse today,” he said politely. He wasn’t in the market for a horse ever, truth be told, but he thought the man might not be the one to understand just how intimidating he found the beasts, beautiful as they might be.

  He moved on then to the small race track that had been set up for the day. Again it was just part of the field, cordoned off with temporary fencing, with a marked line at one end and string at the other for the starting line. The horses danced behind this string, the two currently in the offing a big bay with a white mane and a chestnut beauty that shone red in the sun. He stopped to watch, for he appreciated the strength and speed of the animals from a relatively safe distance.

  It was almost time, for the horses were prancing with impatience, the big bay turning sideways and the chestnut coming up off its forelegs a time or two in its excitement to be off and away, streaking down the field.

  He didn’t know what made him look round just at that moment, but he felt like someone was tugging on his ear, trying to turn his head to the right. When he did, his heart rose up in his throat and his blood turned to ice water in his veins. A little girl, clad in a red dress that was just a tiny bit too long was stumbling out onto the field, the hem of her dress catching beneath her tiny sandaled feet. Her eyes were fixed on a flower that was growing, against all odds, in the midst of the field. He yelled, but the sound of it was lost in the blast of the starting pistol. He could feel the vibration of the horses’ hooves even as he leaped over the fence and started to run. The horses wouldn’t stop on time, they couldn’t, the little girl would be trampled to death before anyone could catch them.

  He didn’t think, he just ran, everything around him a blur, the world reduced to the little girl on the field and the horses bearing down on her, foam flying from their lips. He was afraid he wouldn’t reach her in time, for she was still wobbling toward the flower, entirely oblivious to death bearing down on her. He grabbed her and clutched her to his chest and then dove and rolled, arse-over-teakettle out of the way of the pounding hooves. He came up onto his knees, and felt the edge of a hoof glance against his back as the horses flew past. It winded him, and he saw stars for a minute, but he hung onto the little girl, who was too shocked to cry, her tiny face white as a snowdrop as she looked up at him with huge eyes.

  “Ye’re all right then, wee girl,” he said, trying not to breathe in until he knew whether he had broken ribs. People were flooding the field now, the horses finally stilled near to the finish line. A woman swooped down on him, her eyes wild and hair coming out of its pins. The little girl started to cry then, and he realized the woman must be her mother. He handed t
he child to the woman, who swept her into her arms, hugging her tightly.

  “Thank you so much,” she said, “thank you, thank you.”

  A couple of men helped him up off the ground. His adrenaline was starting to die back and his knee was already complaining loudly. He didn’t even want to think about his back, he wasn’t sure how much more abuse it could stand.

  One of the men said, “Come this way, there’s a first aid tent, ye’re goin’ to need someone to look at that back of yers an’ yer knee, too. Sling yer arm round my neck, ye’d best not put weight on yer leg until we know if it’s damaged.”

  Another man brought his bag and placed it inside the tent flap and he was greatly relieved when McCool popped his head out of the top and let out an irritable meow.

  There was a woman manning the first aid tent, which he hadn’t expected. He suddenly felt shy, as the two men deposited him on a chair. The woman shooed everyone else out, and had him move to sit on a camp bed. She had a very no-nonsense air about her, which made it a bit easier to relax, despite the pain.

  “They tell me ye took a horse hoof to the back, so we’ll need to get the shirt off of ye so I can have a look. I’m going to unbutton it and take it off ye, because I don’t want ye movin’ yer arms about too much until we know the damage that’s been done.”

  It felt oddly intimate, sitting here in the quiet tent, having a woman, no matter how no nonsense her demeanor was, take his shirt off him. He looked up into the corner, where the canvas was thin and the sunlight fell in bright lattices, in order to avoid her eyes.

  She folded his shirt and laid it to the side and then moved around to his back. The silence was absolute. He could feel the prickle of her gaze on his ruined skin. The first view of it was always shocking. He waited, focusing his attention on the noise outside—the whinny of a stallion, the clink of horseshoes ringing a post and the laughter of a woman near to the tent.

  “I’m a nurse,” she said quietly, “I see plenty of things that would give ye nightmares, a few scars on a man’s back aren’t goin’ to bother me.”

  She proceeded to check the area around the bruise, pressing here and there, he assumed, to see if anything was broken. He sucked in his breath and then let it out as she continued to prod the spot. Holding his breath wouldn’t help, it was going to hurt like—well like a horse had stepped on his kidneys, in short.

  “Ye’ve got a very big bruise, but I suspect it’s not the first time ye’ve been hit hard. As far as I can tell, ye’re good, ye’ll be sore as hell for the next week or so, but nothing’ is damaged permanently. Mind now, if ye start pissin’ blood, ye’ll need to see a doctor. I’ll need to have a look at that knee now, so off with yer trousers.”

  He stood with her help. There was clearly little dignity in being a hero. He fumbled undoing the pants, and then she eased them down over the knee and had him sit again, trousers puddled around his ankles. He was feeling increasingly ludicrous and hoped to God no one wandered in seeking medical attention in the next few minutes.

  “This is an old injury, is it?”

  “Aye, only I twisted it today. I don’t usually run on it like that.”

  She looked up from the knee, which was swollen and hot but, he thought, hadn’t sustained additional damage, beyond making him hobble for a few days. “No,” she said, “I don’t suppose ye do. I’m goin’ to wrap it for ye because ye’ll need the support. It probably wouldn’t hurt to find ye a cane either, just so ye can take the weight off it for a bit.”

  She wrapped the knee in a clean length of bandage, keeping a good tension to it, so that the strain on the joint was greatly relieved by the time she was finished. He stood the second she was done and pulled his pants back up, for there was the sound of voices approaching the tent.

  She went to the door, and came back a minute later. “Someone’s hurt their back, I’d best go to them an’ see what the damage is.”

  She turned back in the doorway of the tent, the autumn sun falling down around her like a shower of leaves.

  “Have ye a place to stay? I’m at Leeward Farm, an’ I’ve either a spare room or if ye prefer, a weather-tight byre with fresh hay in it. Ye’re welcome to either, should ye need somewhere to lay yer head.”

  “Thank ye, kindly,” he said. “I might have to take ye up on that, I don’t think my knee will take me far tonight.”

  “No, it won’t. Look, I’ll wait for ye by the entry gate. I’m done here at nine o’clock.”

  “All right then, I will,” he said.

  He put his shirt back on and fastened his pants and then made his way outside and found a table nearer to the activity where he might sit and pass a few hours. By the time he sat his leg was shaking, his knee on fire. He never went anywhere without his pain pills and he fumbled in his pocket hoping the two he had stowed there hadn’t tumbled out on the field. Thankfully they hadn’t. He put them in his mouth, and swallowed them dry. A woman came up with a pot of tea just then, and a plate of colcannon fresh off the fire, as well as sausages and brown bread, the latter so hot that the slices steamed even in the warm autumn air.

  “Here man, have a bite. I’m the wee girl’s nan, an’ we’re right thankful to ye. I don’t know how she got herself out on the field, but sure she’d be dead now if ye hadn’t seen her.”

  “Ye’re welcome, anyone would have done the same. I’m glad she’s goin’ to be fine.”

  She patted him on the shoulder. “No, not anyone, that took a rare courage, ye might have been killed yerself. Ye need anything else, I’m over at the food tent, don’t ye hesitate to ask.”

  He nodded and smiled, uncomfortable with the woman’s scrutiny. He tucked into the food, for he was hungry, and it wasn’t often he was privy to this much food all at once. By the time he was done the pain medication had taken hold and he felt slightly drowsy. The smell of the turf fire near the cooking tent, the freshly baked bread and the scent of the horses all combined in a heady brew that was as familiar to him as the palms of his hands.

  Later, he wasn’t sure if he had been awake or asleep or maybe in that strange place that existed between the two lands, where things could come up out of the murk of the subconscious and a man might never know if they were dream or memory.

  There was a woman kneeling at his feet, dark head bent over his knee as though she were inspecting it. Her hair was the color of a crow’s wing, a true black of the sort that was iridescent with shades of green and violet where the light touched it.

  She touched her lips to his knee, kissing it. Then her hands came up and she rested one over the knee, and her touch, warm and gentle, drew out the worst of the pain.

  “Lord, don’t stop, woman, that’s bliss that is.”

  He wanted to reach out and touch her, feel her skin against his own, smell her scent and look into her eyes and drown. But she didn’t look up, and he didn’t dare touch her for fear she would be gone like a bubble borne away by the wind. He could feel the need of her in his hands and the ache for her in his heart, sharp as a fishhook caught fast.

  She looked up without warning and he caught his breath, and then she opened her mouth to speak and someone cleared their throat, twice, politely.

  He opened his eyes, feeling a wave of irritation. He felt the woman had been on the cusp of speaking, and that her voice alone might summon forth more shards of his memory, so that the broken glass that was his mind might begin to resemble a vessel that could one day hold something and keep it.

  There was a man standing in front of him, wearing a peaked cap, his blue eyes set wide in a weather-beaten face. He smiled and a gold tooth winked out at Casey.

  “Can I have a word?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Casey said, sitting up and making an effort to clear his head. He rubbed his hand on his thigh, the buzz of the imaginary woman’s touch still there, like small zaps running through his skin.

  “Ye’ll pardon the bother, but me nan would like to see ye.”

  “Yer nan?” He squinted up at
the man, wondering why on earth someone’s grandmother had a hankering to meet him. Inside his head he was desperately trying to hang on to the image of the woman’s face.

  “Aye, she says she recognizes ye from another place, some other time. She’s old, but she knows every face she’s ever seen, an’ she got right agitated when she spotted ye, when ye saved that wee girl from bein’ trampled underfoot. She says come near evenfall, she’s busy right now, but she’ll be back at her wagon then.”

  Wagon, that meant she was one of the Travellers whose caravans he had seen when he’d come into the fair ground.

  “Ye’ll come then? We’re the Ward camp.”

  “Aye,” he said, “I’ll come.”

  He closed his eyes as the man walked away, trying to summon the woman back, to see those big green eyes and the furls of dark hair, to feel her touch him again. He curled his hands inward, toward that elusive feeling in his skin. He took in a sharp breath of frustration, for inside his head it was dark, and when he opened his eyes, his hands were empty.

  He went on the cusp of evening, as he had been instructed. The dusk gathered quickly this time of year, the air cooling along with it. It was a reminder that the season had turned, and the nights were about to get long and cold. He had been trembling since the man had come to him, wondering if this was where he found out who he was, who he had been in that other life that had taken place in the country of before.

  The man with the gold tooth came up to him and escorted him to where the woman sat. Then he gave him a nod, and melted away into the shadows of the night. The woman was small, and sat in a chair near to a fire, her lap neatly covered with a red crocheted blanket. Most of the encampment was ringed with the aluminum caravans that the Travellers preferred these days. But here and there was an old style vardo, and it was near one of these that the old woman had her fire.