The Crow of Connemara (27 page)

“You do that, dear,” she told him. “And listen to that heart of yours most of all. Of the whole family, you're the most like your Daiddeó. Maybe more than any of us thought. Take care,” she said, “and call me if you need to talk more. I'll be here.”

“I appreciate that. Bye, Aunt Patty.”

He pressed the End Call button. He dropped the phone to the bedspread, then took off his glasses, placed them alongside the phone, and rubbed his eyes. He put his hand in his pocket, pulling out his grandfather's stone. He rubbed the polished facets between his fingers as he sat there.

Lucas wouldn't answer Colin's repeated calls and messages. Mrs. Egan's attitude toward Colin had turned decidedly frosty; when she did deign to talk to him, it was with short, clipped sentences. The story of the storm and Darcy's picture standing in the middle of the table was now, with embellishments, a part of local lore. The tale of how Maeve had “threatened and nearly put a curse” on Mr. Mullins seemed to be all the gossip in town, and the fight at Regan's between the Oileánach and the townsfolk had taken on mythic proportions.

When Colin walked into town, he could feel the stares and hear the whispers. When he looked at them, they'd look quickly away; when he came close enough to possibly overhear, conversations would abruptly cease. He tried to tell himself that it was only paranoia, that they weren't paying any more attention to him than they would any stranger on the street, but he knew better.

To the people of Ballemór, Colin realized, his decision had already been made. He was now just another Oileánach, whether that was what he wished or not.

On Sunday, after dinner, he remained at the table after the other residents of the bed and breakfast had left. Mrs. Egan bustled in with her cart to take the dishes into the kitchen. She didn't look at him as he watched her. “Mrs. Egan, I'll be settling my bill tonight. I'm planning on leaving in the morning.”

“Oh, is that so?” He could see her struggling to keep a smile from her face. “So . . . tell me that it's not to that dark witch woman yer going.” She put his plate on the cart with a crash. “Yeh risk your very soul with that 'un,” she told him sternly, the wrinkles deepening in her face. Her forefinger wagged at his nose. “'Tis what Father Quinlan says, and he's a man of the cloth so he'd know.”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Egan, but I don't believe that.”

“That's the trouble with yeh, if yeh don't mind my sayin',” she told him. “Yeh
don't
believe in the proper things.” The finger looked in danger of wagging again, and her face had soured.

“Well, it doesn't matter. Actually, I'm thinking of heading farther up the coast—maybe toward Sligo.”

Her lips pursed hard at that, and she nodded once firmly. “That'd be good for yeh. I'll put together a nice breakfast for yeh tomorrow morning, and a sandwich to take for lunch. Yeh'll be taking the bus, then?”

“Don't know. I might check at Regan's to see if someone's heading up that way and wouldn't mind a rider.”

“Well, just yeh be careful. And if yeh come back this way, give me a few days' notice and I'll make sure yer room's still available.”

He ventured a smile. “Thanks, Mrs. Egan. I appreciate that. I'll certainly recommend your place to anyone coming to Ballemór.”

Her lips might have twitched. She took his plate and pushed the cart of dirty dishes into the kitchen. A few minutes later, with the sound of dishes rattling in the sink, Colin went upstairs to pack.

“Yeh still think he's worth yer time? Worth
our
time? Maeve, if yer wrong, yeh've doomed us.”

“Are yeh speaking for all yer kind, or just for yerself, Niall?”

Niall scowled, but he lowered his gaze. “For me, mostly,” he admitted.

They were standing on the battered quay jutting into Inishcorr's harbor. Maeve could feel the boards shifting under her feet as the waves lapped at the pilings. The
Grainne Ni Mhaille
was tied up at the end of the quay, bobbing gently in the swells; Keara and four others of the Inishcorr villagers were already on board, working on the lines and sail.

Niall had climbed up from the water as Maeve approached, discarding his seal's skin even as she saw him. His hair was plastered to his skull, dripping saltwater from the long ends, and his face still bore the fading bruises of the fight at Regan's. He was also entirely naked, seemingly unconcerned about the chill wind on his sea-soaked body. Maeve was certain that was deliberate; he could have chosen to stay in seal form, knowing that she was planning to take the hooker to the mainland.

“Then why are yeh still carrying on with me, Niall?” she asked. “Are yeh disputing that this is my decision to make? Are yeh questioning my authority on Inishcorr? Do yeh think yer better prepared than me to do what's necessary? Yeh think yeh have even a tithe the power that I have, that yeh can open the way to Talamh an Ghlas on yer own and without the bard and the cloch?”

“Yeh do'nah know if that man even
has
the cloch.”

“But I do,” Maeve insisted. “I know that. I held it once, and I've seen it with Colin; the same one. I saw it call down the mage-lights t'other night.”

Niall's head shook, scattering cold droplets: a rain of denial. “I'm not questioning yer authority, Maeve, only the choice yeh've made with the man.”

“Why?” She nearly spat out the question. “Yeh heard the Crone same as I did: Colin's caul-born, like his grandfather. He could hear and see us in our true forms, even if he di'nah understand what he saw. He fits our needs. He's the one was sent to us.”

“'Tis possible. I'm not sayin' the man's a total wanker, only 'tis also possible that there could be another just as well suited, or better—someone who means less to yeh. Maeve, everyone can see that yeh also
like
the man, and maybe more than like him, if yeh take me drift. That's what's got everything all bolloxed. I wonder if yer still goin' to be able to do what has to be done when the time comes—and I'm nah the only one wondering.” He nodded his head back toward the village. “Yer the Eldest. We follow yeh because of that. But are yeh lettin' yer feelings take yeh down the wrong path—one that has consequences for us all?”

In truth, she'd wondered that herself, more than once, but that was nothing she was willing to admit to him. She scowled, and drew herself up, allowing him to see a glimpse of her true face. He stepped back.

“Yeh needn't do that,” he said.

“I think yeh need the reminder,” she answered. “Yeh forget yourself, Niall. Yeh forget how we're connected, and who rules here.”

“I've forgotten none a' that, and 'tis only my concern for all of us that makes me speak out now. To me, 'tis loyalty to speak out when I see something that threatens us, and unfaithfulness to remain silent. If yeh feel different, then maybe
that's
a problem as well.”

Maeve sighed. She let the power flow unused from her, let her current face return. She reached out and touched his bare forearm. “Yer right in that, Niall. I want yer honesty. I
need
yer honesty. I'll never fault yeh for that, I promise. I'm sorry.” She took another breath and let her hand fall away. “But I've not changed my mind. 'Tis Colin we need. Nah other.”

Niall pressed his lips together. “Then I hope yer right, for all our sakes,” he said. He bowed to her then. Without another word, he plucked his abandoned skin from the deck, turned, and dove into the water.

A breath later, she saw the form of a bull seal making its way through the harbor waves toward the ocean. “Cast off,” she called to the others. “'Tis time to sail.”

His bill settled with Mrs. Egan, the morning sun warm on his head, a bulging pack and two guitar cases heavy on his back, Colin walked down the hill toward the town center. He took a few pictures of Ballemór with his phone as he walked, just so he'd have the view to look back on:
Panorama of Ballemór Square in Morning Sun.

At the bottom of the hill, he reached the intersection where Beach Road ran off to the right, while the Sky Road changed its name to the unimaginative “Main Street” and curved off left toward the square. He paused there, looking at the top of the monument in the square and the roofs of the buildings. A crow sat on the top of the street sign. As he glanced at the bird, it cawed harshly and flew off over his head, flying west along Beach Road.

Away from where he probably should go. Down beyond the square, the bus to Sligo was already idling.

He also noticed a garda cruiser idling across the street. As he looked at it, the passenger door opened and an older man with graying hair, wearing a suit that looked like it might have fit him several pounds ago, got out. The man gestured casually to Colin; with a sigh, Colin walked across the street to him. “Superintendent Cedric Dunn,” the man said as Colin approached, holding up a leather wallet with a badge and identification. He let Colin glance at it, then snapped it shut and put it in his suit pocket. “Yer Colin Doyle.” It was a statement rather than a question.

“Guilty,” Colin said. He cocked his head quizzically. “Though I don't know why you'd care, Superintendent.”

“American?”

“Guilty again.”

“Mind if I see yer passport and visa?”

Colin shrugged off his backpack and rummaged in one of the zippered pockets, pulling out his papers. He handed them to Dunn. “Have I done something?” he asked.

The man smiled; Colin actually liked the smile—the gesture seemed genuine as it pulled the wrinkles deeper around the man's eyes. “Not that I know of,” Dunn answered. He glanced at the passport, then at Colin, and handed the identification back to Colin. “Unless yeh'd like to confess to something, of course.” He laughed, then his face collapsed into serious lines. “Yer going out to the island, are yeh?”

Dunn didn't have to name the island; Colin knew which one he meant. “As a matter of fact, I'm not,” he told Dunn, which was the truth. After wrestling with everything in his head for the last few days and without the presence of Maeve to muddy the waters, he'd thought his mind was finally made up: it would be best and easiest for him to abandon the whole mess. Colin nodded his head in the direction of the bus. “I'm thinking of heading up to Sligo. I'm a musician, and there are places to play there. I might even head up toward Donegal before my visa expires.” Colin hesitated, then: “Are you saying I wouldn't be allowed to go to Inishcorr?”

Dunn shrugged, his suit coat pulling dangerously at its buttons with the movement. “'Tis a free country, and I ca'nah stop yeh if that's where yeh want to go. Though yer friends won't be there long. They've been told they must leave; 'tis my job to make sure a'that.”

“They've told me they won't be leaving voluntarily. I assume they've told you the same, Superintendent.”