The Summer King (15 page)

The vintage interior made her sigh with joy—silver-gray seats of soft leather, ivory-colored roof cloth, and a wooden dashboard with an antique radio. It had a standard stick shift but she didn’t mind, as she drove one at her family’s cottage. She pulled out the choke and started the engine. After a few tries, it caught at last and purred like a cat at the fireside. Easing the car out of the shed, Laurel let the engine run for a while.

“That’s it, old girl, I’ll be gentle.”

Turning on the radio, she tuned into
Raidió na Gaeltachta
, the Irish-language station. The strange words rang in the air, like colored marbles pinging off each other. They had a pleasant sound. She considered taking some lessons when she returned to Bray. Then a tremor ran through her. She caught her breath. It was the first time she had thought of doing anything new or rewarding since Honor’s death. A stab of guilt shot through her. Was she forgetting her twin? But no, this mission was for her … wasn’t it? Ian came striding out the cottage and jumped into the passenger seat. He carried a pile of maps and guidebooks.

“I think I’ve got what we need!” he said, then stopped when he heard the radio.
“An bhfuil Gaeilge agat?”
he asked, surprised.

“What?”

“Oh, I thought, since you’re listening …”

“You speak Irish?!”

“Yeah, I have a thing for it. I went to Coláiste Ráithín, the Irish-language secondary school in Bray.” He let out a short laugh. “Well, I went for the girls. It’s the only mixed school in town. But then I found I liked the language, and I was good at it. My best subject.”

“Besides girls?” she said wryly.

He shrugged. “Didn’t do too bad there either.”

He stared at her, a challenge.

She returned his gaze.

Both looked away.

“Right,” she said, “what did you find?”

He started flipping through the thickest guidebook.

“Something good. It’s in the chapter on prehistoric Achill. Listen.

It is old thou art, O Bird of Eacaill,
Tell me the cause of your wanderings,
I possess, without denial,
The gift of speaking in the bird language.”

“Our eagle?” she said, excited.

“There’s more.” He turned the pages. “A section in a fifteenth-century manuscript called
The Book of Fermoy.
It’s entitled ‘The Colloquy of Fintan and the Old Hawk of Eacaill.’ Eacaill is an ancient version of Achill,” he added.

“As if I couldn’t guess.”

“Jesus, you’re sensitive.”

“As opposed to you being insensitive?”

He made a noise. “Do you want to row, or do you want to hear what I found?”

It was like butting heads with a mirror. They glared at each other a moment, then nodded a truce.

“Here’s the colloquy,” he said, returning to the guidebook. “The word must mean ‘dialogue.’ There’s a kind of play for two voices. Someone called Fintan and then the bird.”

She watched him as he scanned the lines. He looked thoughtful and scholarly like a young poet or professor. Obviously he had “a thing” for books as well. She remembered the one on the floor by the sofa, and he had more in his knapsack. He was so different from the boys she knew. A lot more complicated.

“Here we go!” he said suddenly. “This is Fintan talking.
O Bird from Achill of the hunters. I have been seeking you for aeons
.”

“Sounds right,” she said, leaning over his shoulder. She read out the bird’s reply. “
I was never a night in the west of Achill that I could not get by my skill all I devour of fish, of game, of venison
.”

Ian unfolded a large map of the island, which showed the contours of the land.

“
The west of Achill,
” he repeated, poring over it. “Look at those cliffs, all facing west from Saddle Head to Carrickakin. And here we are, the highest peak in the ridge. Croaghaun.” He tapped the paper where it detailed the peak at 2,192 feet. Now he picked up the guidebook and riffled through it. “Dead on! In ancient days, Croaghaun was called Eagle Mountain.”

Laurel stared through the windshield. There it was, directly ahead of her on the far side of the island, the great ridge that Ian spoke of, rising to the dark summit of Croaghaun.

“If we were any closer, we’d be sitting on it,” she murmured.

“Wait a minute, slow down.” He perused the guidebook again. “Yeah, should’ve known. Things were too good.
The highest cliffs in Europe. A sheer drop to the sea.
It’s impossible.”

“Nothing’s impossible,” she said.

He looked up, startled.

“You can’t—”

She cut him off.

“I must.”

he argument was well under way as Laurel drove the Triumph Herald to the garage to put air in the tires and gas in the tank.

“Are you out of you mind?” he demanded. “If the nest is up there, you can bet it’s on the highest part of the cliffs. That’s a fall into the sea of over two thousand feet. You’re going to risk your life to find a mythical bird?

“It’s not mythical. You’ve seen it. And what else can I do? He’s the only lead I’ve got.”

“Why are you doing this anyway? How did you get mixed up in it? You’re not the sort—” Ian stopped suddenly. He studied her face as she drove. “Does this have something to do with your sister? You didn’t say—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said shortly. Her expression was pained. “I can’t.”

He frowned, but didn’t press her.

She appreciated his tact.

The silence between them grew friendly.

“It’ll be all right,” she assured him, after a while. “I’ve done some rock climbing and rappelling. I’ve got a head for heights.”

“It’s still crazy,” he objected, but in a milder tone. “Are you sure there isn’t another way? What about the cluricaun?”

“We’ve already agreed he’s not to be trusted. Besides, we don’t know for sure if I’ll have to go on the cliffs. Maybe once we get up there, the eagle’ll find
me
.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Ian muttered.

After the garage, they drove to Achill Sound to shop in the department store. Ian looked happier when she bought climbing boots, rope, a proper harness, and other expert equipment. He bought hiking boots for himself and a pair of binoculars. They stopped for tea in a coffee shop. She was still picking through her salad when he gave her money to pay the bill and told her he would meet her outside. By the time she went looking for him, she found him in a craft shop down the street.

Ian handed her a knitted sweater of a deep blue wool with pearly flecks.

“Do you like it?”

“Yeah, great colors.”

“Try it on.”

She pulled the sweater over her head, freeing her hair to spill onto her shoulders.

“Looks good,” he said, admiring her.

She got a little flustered, and was about to take it off.

“Keep it. It’s yours. Let’s go.”

She hesitated, remembering his reputation for stealing, and glanced uncertainly at the register.

He caught her look. His eyes narrowed.

“It’s paid for! I thought you’d wear it. Yanks are always whingeing about the cold.”

She flinched at the insult, but didn’t respond.

Neither spoke in the car on their way back to the cottage. He stared out the window, thin-lipped and sullen. She kept her eyes on the road.

As soon as they arrived at the house, Laurel escaped into the bedroom to change into a track suit more appropriate for climbing. She put the sweater Ian bought her into a drawer. Her hands were shaking. She was close to tears. She should never have let him stay. He upset her too easily.

She could hear him banging around in the kitchen. When she returned to the living room, he was closing his knapsack.

“Are you going?”

“Of course,” he said shortly, without looking at her. She was caught between relief and regret, and was even more confused when he sat down on the sofa to read his book. But when she started to make a sandwich to take on the hike, she discovered the misunderstanding.

“I’ve got enough for both of us,” he said, glancing up from his book.

“What? I thought—”

Then she registered that he was wearing his new hiking boots.

He frowned as he grasped her meaning.

“You think I’d let you go up there alone because I’m pissed off at you? You really don’t know me, do you?”

Before he could lose his temper again, she threw up her hands.

“I surrender! I’m sorry! Shoot me!”

She had said the right thing. Amusement flickered in his features.

“I really am sorry,” she said, in a quieter voice. “About the sweater, I mean.”

“Apology accepted. Are you ready to go?”

“Almost.” She regarded him curiously. “What are you reading?”

“Rilke. German poet. Do you know him?”

It was her turn to be amused.

“I’m not a big reader.” Her tone was wry. “You’re looking at the dumb twin.”

He raised an eyebrow at her remark, then turned a few pages and read out loud.

For beauty is nothing

but the beginning of terror, which we still are just able to endure,

and we are so awed because it serenely disdains
to annihilate us. Every angel is terrifying.

“That’s beautiful,” she said, amazed. “And it describes exactly how I felt among the fairies!”

“Maybe you’re not so dumb after all.”

She smiled and finished her packing. Along with the climbing equipment, she took rain gear, a water bottle, matches, a daisy chain, a small bag of salt, and a handful of white stones. Finding a tin of nails under the kitchen sink, she slipped one into her pocket and offered another to Ian.

“Charms against the Fir-Fia-Caw,” she explained. “We need to be prepared for an attack.”

“I’ve got my own charm,” he said, and showed her the switchblade he carried in his back pocket.

She didn’t ask questions, but felt comforted all the same.

It was late afternoon by the time they left the cottage to set out for Croaghaun.

“It would be faster if we took the bike,” he suggested.

“We’ve got too much stuff,” she disagreed, “and it might rain. Time’s not a problem. It’ll be light for hours yet.”

She saw his lips press together as he made a deliberate effort not to argue.

“You can drive if you want,” she offered.

Though he revved the Triumph’s engine, making her wince, and drove faster than she would have liked, she managed to keep her mouth shut. Like him, she didn’t want to fight anymore.

They drove to the village of Dooagh where a small road took them to the foot of the ridge that rose up to Croaghaun’s peak. Having studied the map, they had decided not to climb the steepest side but to follow the old sheep farmer’s trail up the eastern slope. It was a gentler incline that led directly to the cliffs. The precipice they sought ran for over two miles along the Atlantic. The eagle’s eyrie could be anywhere along it.

After leaving the car at the end of the road, they set off on the trail. The massive ridge rose up before them, treeless and cloaked with bog. Over to the left, a great coomb scooped out the mountainside, its bare rock shining white in the sunlight. On their right, the western face of Slievemore Mountain cast its shadow toward them.

They hadn’t walked far when they came to the ruins of a cluster of stone houses.

“It’s a booley village,” Ian told her. “The islanders used to take their animals into the hills for the summer. They’d camp out in these stone huts—men, women, and children. Everyone stayed up all night, sang, told stories, watched the stars. It must have been great
craic
.”

“How do you know this stuff?” she asked, admiringly.

“I’m a bloody genius.” When she threw him a look, he grinned. “I read it in the guidebook.”

“You shouldn’t read so much, you’ll get a brain tumor.”

The climb was more like a stroll at first. They were wandering through a vast empty landscape carpeted with heather. Behind them, Dooagh and Keel were like cubes of sugar sprinkled on the coastline. The strand of Trawmore curved like a lunula toward the Cliffs of Minaun.