The Book of Dreams (30 page)

Dana took the chocolate bars out of her pocket and placed them on the table.

“There’s an Irish saying that you shouldn’t arrive at a house with one arm as long as the other. Can I offer these to go with the tea?”

The old woman slipped one into her pocket and placed the other on a plate, cutting it into small pieces.

“You’ve good manners,” she said, pleased. “In turn, I will help you. Why have you come here?”

“We’re looking for something,” Dana said. “The Book of Dreams.”

The old lady nodded. “Well, you had best ask the giant about that. Blessed with serendipity, Fingal is. Not too smart in the head department, but he’s good at finding things.”

Dana grew excited. “The song that brought us here was about a giant! Can we meet him?”

The old woman didn’t answer. Glancing out the window, she was suddenly distracted. Now she spoke quickly to them.

“Hear me now and do as I say. You be the first of my visitors this day, but not the last. Mind, there be enemies in every tale. If you are found here, all will be lost. Do you understand me?”

Even as she spoke, she hurried them over to the ladder and up into the loft.

Upstairs she pointed to a single bed with a straw mattress and patchwork quilt.

“This is the best place to hide,” she urged them.

Dana frowned and didn’t move.

The Cailleach snorted impatiently. “If you enter our world, you must bide by our rules. There is nowhere else you can go.”

With a shrug to Dana, Jean crawled under the bed. She followed after him, though she didn’t look happy about it. Nothing made sense.

The old woman trailed the quilt over the side of the bed till the two were covered. Then she went back downstairs to tidy her house.

Dana and Jean were snug enough in their hiding place. The floor of the loft was made of slender branches woven together like a mat. It was rough but pliant, and comfortable to lie on. Best of all, they could see through the weave into the room below.

“I think we are in a
conte merveilleux
,” Jean whispered to Dana.

“A wonder tale?” Dana thought about that a moment. “It does remind me of something.” An unpleasant idea struck her. “What if she’s a witch and wants to eat us?”

Jean squinted down at the cauldron over the fire.

“The pot fit only one, Gretel,” he said with a snicker.

She gave him a dig with her elbow.

“I’m serious,” she hissed. “Remember what she called herself? The Cailleach Dubh? At first I understood her name to be the ‘Dark Wise Woman.’”

“It sound nice.”

“Yes, but
Cailleach
can also mean ‘hag’ or ‘witch.’”

“Now you say! Okay, we don’t sleep. It is necessary we regard her.”

The first hour was easy. Despite their fatigue, they were too anxious to close their eyes. They kept a sharp watch on the old woman as she swept the floor and stocked the shelves. When she was finished her housework, she busied herself preparing food.

Dana grimaced as cod heads were lined up on the table, their empty eye sockets glaring. The old woman stuffed each head with a wet doughy mixture and put them in the cauldron. Dana felt better as more items went into the pot. There couldn’t be room for much else in there.

As time passed without incident or excitement, the two found it harder and harder to keep awake. Their eyelids grew heavier by the second; their limbs, sluggish. It became more and more difficult to fight off the sleep that their bodies craved. Whenever one fell into a doze, the other gave a quick nudge; but eventually and inevitably both nodded off together and there was no one to wake them.

They slept without dreaming, perhaps because they were in a dream already. Minutes turned to hours. Outside, the sun rose in the sky and burned away the mist that hung over Lake Bras d’Or. The surface of the water gleamed like glass.

A loud knock on the door woke them!

Before either could figure out how long they had slept, the shock of the new visitor drove all thought from their minds.

Into the house he strode, a fierce black-robed rider in high leather boots and with a goad in his hand. Through the half-door came the sounds of his horse snorting restlessly and pawing the ground. Dana nearly choked when the man passed underneath her. His shoulders were empty. He was
headless
. In fact, he carried his head under his arm like a hat! It had the color and texture of moldy cheese and glowed with the phosphorescence of decaying matter. Gruesome wet lips grinned from ear to ear, as the dark wicked eyes surveyed the room.

Dana covered her mouth to keep from crying out.

The Cailleach looked unruffled.

“Good day to you, Dullahan, will you have a drink?”

A hoarse voice issued from the bloated lips of the head.

“Gi’e us a beer.”

A glass of black porter was put on the counter.

Upstairs, the two watched with fascinated horror. How would he drink it?

As the glass was held to the head’s mouth, it guzzled thirstily.

“
Maudit, câlisse, tabernac
,” Jean muttered.

Dana bit her lip. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to scream or laugh.

Slam
went the glass on the counter.
Pop
went the head onto the horseman’s shoulders. He stretched his neck to work out a cramp, then threw a gold coin to the old woman, who caught it adroitly. Then, with a salute of farewell, the Dullahan marched out the door.

The Cailleach had no sooner bitten the coin and put it away in her pocket than another knock was heard. Several creatures came in, each more beautiful than the last: two men and a woman who held a child by the hand. All had scales instead of skin, an iridescent aquamarine, and their hair was like long green strands of seaweed. Their fingers and toes were webbed. Around their shoulders hung capes of sealskin.

Were they mermaids or merrows or selkies? Dana wondered.

She had hoped to discover the answer from their talk, but they didn’t stay long. In a smattering of French and Scots Gaelic, they bought a few bags of salt and left.

The third party of visitors created an uproar. Their arrival was heralded by a whirlwind of noise that battered the thatch of the roof and the walls of the cottage. Jumbled all together were many sounds: the flapping of wings of a flock of large birds, the rolling wheels of many carriages, loud laughter and singing, bells ringing, dogs barking. Then came a banging on the door, like the hammers of hell. Voices were raised and raucous, a drunken crowd shouting to be let in.

“’S FOSGAIL AN DORUS ’S LEIG A ’STIGH SINN!”

Not in the least bothered, the old woman remained at the counter. She stood on one leg, head cocked as she listened.

The noise receded from the door and moved around the cottage toward the back wall. Circling the house, it came again to the front and then the door opened with a blast of wind.

In trooped the oddest sight yet. They weren’t quite giants, but they were bigger than men. They had to stoop as they entered. They were broad, with great bellies hanging over their belts. Their hair and beards sprouted like birds’ nests. Half their number were black-skinned with raven locks. The other half were ruddy red with manes of ginger. All wore denim dungarees and buckskin jackets. Some had caps or tuques pulled over their ears. Their feet were shod with homemade larrigans, laced stovepipe leggings with moccasined soles. They were a handsome lot in a rough, wild way, but there was a definite air of danger about them.

Their leader wore a headdress over his face and shoulders. It was made of the great hollowed head and hide of a bull, with the horns intact. Commanding the center of the room, he chanted loudly.

Tháinig mis’ anseo air tús

A dh’úrachadh dhuibh na Calluinn

Chá ruiginn a leas siud innseadh

Bha í ann bhó linn mo sheanar.

Théid mí deiseil air an fhardaich

’S tearnaidh mí aig an dorus

Craicionn Calluinn ’na mo phócaid

’S maith an ceo a thig bho’n fhear ud:

Chan eil duine chuireas r’a shróin é

Nach bí é rí bheo dheth falláin.

(I came here first of all

To speak to you of the Calluinn

It’s for the best that this continues to be told

Even as it was from the time of my grandfather

I’ll go sunwise around the house

And I’ll arrive at the door

The Calluinn skin as my pouch

And good will be the smoke coming from it:

There’s no one who will hold it to his nose

That won’t have health all his life.)

• • •

When he finished speaking, the man lifted the bull hide from his head to reveal a face half-red, half-black. Marching over to the old woman, he offered her the skin. In an oddly formal manner, she inhaled its odor. Then he brought it to the others so they could sniff it one by one.

In the rafters, Jean and Dana caught a whiff of the raw brutish smell.

“
SLÁINTE!
” the man roared at the finish. “HEALTH AND LONG LIFE TO YE!”

“
SLÁINTE!
” the others roared back.

The ritual completed, the wild men sat down. Some took seats near the window to gaze out at the twilight. Others bellied up to the bar.

“Spruce beer!” the leader demanded. “And it’s the black spruce we want!”

The Cailleach put bottle after bottle onto the counter, all steaming with heat. A sweet, putrid scent filled the room.

“Good woman, ye kept them in horse shite!” cried one of the men.

For the next few minutes the only sounds were those of corks popping, throats gurgling, loud sighs, and grunts.

“Any grub?” someone asked.

The murmuring amongst them was friendlier now.

“Salt herring,
ceann groppi
, blue potatoes, oatcakes, and bannock,” the old woman announced.

There were cheers and shouts of “Good on ye, hen!”

From the cauldron on the fire, the Cailleach dished out a big mess of food for the men. It looked awful, especially the cod heads stuffed with liver; but the smell was hearty and, for the two upstairs, a welcome respite from the pong of bull hide and manure. As the men ate eagerly and noisily with drunken hunger, Jean and Dana conversed in low tones.

“They look like goblins,” Dana said. “
Fir Dhearga
and
Fir Dhubha
. The Red Men and the Black Men. But they’re very big. I didn’t think their kind were found in this part of the world!”

“
Les lutins
we call them,” said Jean. “This is not so good. They are
très dangereux
.”

While the men were busy eating, the old woman clomped up the ladder and into the loft. She carried two large yellow bags, which she set down near the bed.

“Climb inside,” she whispered urgently. “Be quick, be nimble. The night is falling. The moon is rising.”

Neither of them moved.

“Why do you want us to do this?” Dana demanded in a low voice. “What’s going on?”

“Do not seek to know too much about us,” came the stern reply. “This is the only way you will get what you want. You, especially, must take care,” she said to Dana. “Raising the giant is man-magic. It’s not safe for girls. Stay hidden till the giant rises, then remember this: you must call out to Fingal before the goblins do. Now, be of good courage and do what I say.”

Dana and Jean hesitated, still fearing a trap and wondering if they might yet wind up in the pot. The Cailleach was growing impatient.

“Get in or get lost!” she hissed.

Fighting down feelings of panic and claustrophobia, Dana crawled into one of the bags. The material was soft like suede or pigskin, and there were air holes. Reluctantly, Jean got into the other. Once the old woman had tied the ends shut, they were in total darkness.

With astonishing strength, the Cailleach heaved the bags over her shoulders and carried them downstairs.

“Ho byes, the Hag has bags for us!” the goblin chief shouted.

“Haggis and baggis!” cried another.

“They’re not for the likes of ye,” she said shortly. She put the bags on the floor. “They’re a meal for the giant. Little pigs for his breakfast.”

Dana and Jean gasped at her words. One of the men came near. They could hear him snuffling.

“Fee fie foe fum, I smell the blood of a tasty hu-mawn.”

A cacophony of howls and laughter followed.

Seized with the urge to get out of the bag, Dana started to kick wildly. She felt the Cailleach’s hand on her head. The touch was strangely soothing, both firm and kind.

“It’s no business of yours what’s in the bag,” the old woman told the goblins curtly. “Just mind you take it up the hill when you go.”

“And who says we’re going up the hill?” the chief demanded.

A tense silence fell over the room. They were seconds away from a hullabaloo. Suddenly the top half of the door burst open. The big ginger cat jumped up on the sill. In a high-pitched caterwaul it screeched into the room.

“Awake the Sleeper!”

Then the cat ran off.

The old woman looked triumphant.

“The
cat sith
has spoken.”

The men exchanged glances. A low grumbling rose amongst them. One spoke up gruffly. “The wind’s in the north.”

Another nodded. “There be new moon tonight.”

This elicited mutters of “aye” and “that’s true.”

The goblin chief slammed the counter. “We have no circle to dance in Her sight!”

The Cailleach distributed bottles of scotch and whiskey. Her tone grew warm and persuasive.

“So light a torch, bring the bottle, and build the fire bright.”

The chief glared at her, then looked out the window at the darkening night. The first stars had appeared. He gave a hard nod to the others.