Captive Heart Page 14

  Swallow leaned into my ear. “By the bye, Caylith, Magpie has asked me to invite you and Liam to visit her and Raven. Tonight, if you can come for supper. Lugh and I are also invited.”

  “Without the, um, rest of the family?” I asked, thinking of Mockingbird’s ever-watchful eye.

  “Yes.” She giggled. “Magpie will be our only supervisor. And soon it will be only Uncle Jay and Uncle Crowe. I am sure they will let us at least kiss.”

  Mockingbird had allowed Torin to woo Swallow—but he could touch her only in the presence of her family. It was her way of enforcing a kind of ironic celibacy, yet at the same time it was an acceptance of Torin’s intentions to marry her.

  We rejoined Liam and Mockingbird, now standing also with Brother Galen and Brother Jericho. The young Jericho, a serious scholar, was also a Latin instructor at the school with Luke and Brigid.

  I tugged at the sleeve of Jericho’s plain white léine, and he inclined his head to hear me. “Brother, what would you think about going with me on another…ah, trip?”

  “If you mean ‘adventure,’ young Caylith, I may have to be convinced my presence is necessary.” The last time Jericho went with me, it was to serve as confessor to Mother Sweeney. And his presence had been the key to unraveling the mystery of Owen Sweeney, for his mother would speak only to a priest. His reluctance to travel, I knew, was intimately connected to the raw spots his horse created on his nether regions.

  “I will come to you soon, O Brother. Please make plans to be away from your duties in about a month.” I could think of no better person than Jericho to serve as spiritual comforter to the captive women—unless it be Father Patrick himself.

  * * * *

  Claiming some long-ago kinship with the great feathered nation of birds, Jay’s family never ate fowl of any kind. In fact, it was rare to see any food except succulent vegetables—and perhaps a variety of nuts and fruit—on the table of any member of the extensive Feather clan. And so it was that night.

  Magpie’s husband Raven was a master gardener. All food eaten by the family had been planted and cultivated by him and others in a large garden plot that, with nary a twinge of guilt, I envied wholeheartedly. Heaped on the table before us was an abundance of dwarf beans, swan-neck squash, parsnips, and turnips, carrots, onions and peas. I eyed a bowl full of tender strawberries and another of roasted chestnuts.

  Magpie’s kitchen was really the kitchen of her mother GoldenFinch, for she and Raven lived in Jay and Finch’s part of the enclaves with their own set of bedchambers and other private rooms. Magpie had told me earlier that her mother and father had “retired” to another part of the expansive underground habitat, whether for their own aloneness or to give us three young couples a measure of privacy.

  Tonight’s supper talk was much lighter and more full of laughter than the one earlier with Moc and Sweeney. Whether it was the absence of Owen’s brooding, dark eyes or of Moc’s sharp, knowing way of seeing everything, we all felt a bit relieved as we lifted our wine cups that evening.

  “Sláinte!” Torin said, looking into Swallow’s brindled eyes. “A toast to love. To Brother Galen’s holy love, and to our own love as well.”

  They raised their cups to each other, and then to the company. And we all answered with our own metal cups raised to the glittering ceiling. “To love!”

  I reached out to Liam’s dear face and stroked his cheeks above the silken beard, my fingers lingering on the familiar smoothness of his skin. “Liam, what did you think of Galen’s words today?”

  Liam brought his hand up to mine and stroked it softly. As he spoke, I became aware that the others were silent, listening.

  “I think this word love is very big. All the love I feel for ye, Cat…all the love of Torin for Swallow, an’ Raven for Magpie…all rolled up together…not as big as love of the Lord. ’Tis a love of man an’ woman, mother an’ child, man an’ country—but more. Too much to hold inside one heart. ’Tis no wonder the heart of Jesus burst.”

  He looked around the table, seeing all of us silent and thoughtful, and he smiled. “Love is joy. So we laugh.” He raised his cup, and then he brought it to his mouth and swallowed it in one long draught.

  Magpie, bless her heart, stood and did the same. “To love!” she said grinning at Raven, and she drained her cup. We watched the sun-petal wine run down the sides of her mouth, and the way she drew her sleeve across it, and everyone burst out laughing. Then each of us, one by one, stood and drained our cup, toasting our beloved.

  I raised my cup to Liam. “A ghrá mo chroí.” My heart’s beloved. I sat down hard, and soon I noticed that the table had begun to move a bit. All the way through supper, I had to hold my hand at the edge to keep it from leaving altogether. By the time we all sat in the comfort room, the very benches were subtly changing position on the woven rugs.

  “SoothTeller.” The little wind-chime voice at my elbow filled my mind with birds and meadows.

  “Yes, Mag?”

  “I have made a small something for you to wear. On your upcoming trip.”

  “Um…what trip would that be, Magpie?” Only a few people knew about my secret plans to leave. In fact, even I did not know when I was going—or where I was bound.

  “You know,” she said with her impish grin, the freckles dancing in the dwarf dust that swirled around the room. “The journey to the island.”

  I looked at her closely, and her shimmering eyes seemed to hold a treasure of jade from far Cathay. “Thank you,” I said simply, not knowing what else to say. She brought out a bundle from behind her back and presented it to me.

  What I held up was so soft and beautiful that I felt my breath catch in my throat. It was a tunic—a hunting tunic, or riding tunic, perhaps even the kind of clothing one might wear on a trip to a mysterious island.

  The tunic was made of deerskin, I knew that from the familiar look of it. But it was not the doe brown of the deer I was used to seeing in Britannia. It was a rich rusty red, even deeper red than the skin of a red fox, with a spattering of red-gold freckles very like her own. The skirt was rather full, and the top was softly gathered to hold my growing breasts. Fit for warm weather, the tunic had no sleeves, but a kind of fringe or cascade of small strings of plaited leather hung from the shoulders.

  The other special feature of the new tunic was the feel of it. Instead of being rather stiff and slick, it had somehow been brushed and softened like a pair of dainty shoes. “Oh, Magpie, how did you make it so soft?”

  “Ah, ’tis a cobbler’s trick.” She smiled. “The softness makes it more fit for a lady, does it not? I can hardly wait to see how it looks on you.”

  I stood and put my arms around her slender shoulders, feeling that I was holding a child. “And I can hardly wait to wear it,” I told her.

  At that moment, I felt a special kind of love—an grá spoken of by Brother Galen—begin to invade my heart. “I wonder, my friend, whether the Lord created freckled angels.” We stood hugging each other in the dancing motes of rainbow light.

  Chapter 15:

  The Farewell

  Five days after the memorable church service and the supper at the enclaves, I rode NimbleFoot to the construction site of my future home. During the past three days, the skies had been fretful and rain filled. The sudden squalls coming off the Sea of Éire to the north were intermittent, but when they struck, the winds and heavy showers made it impossible even for the mighty Triús to practice.

  The weather seemed to mirror my own mood, for I was restless and fretful myself. Three or more days of rain could only delay Michael’s trip to Inishowen, for I knew he could not build a chariot or lay my floors in a downpour. I also knew that Owen and Moc could not travel along the muddy ox paths that the Éireannach people called “roads.”

  Normally, I would have walked to the new brugh worksite, but NimbleFoot had not been exercised in days. Inactivity had made him, too, restive and moody. But the morning had started with clear skies, and I hoped the fine weather h
ad returned. Everyone had assured me that June was not usually so stormy in this northern part of the island. Strangely enough, we lived where the weather was cooler in the summer and milder in the winter than in other, more southerly regions of Éire.

  I tethered my pony near the tall oat grass and stood watching Michael’s men work. I saw that a large kiln that had been brought—probably by bullock wagon—and that the fire was just beginning to put forth good-sized flames and much billowing smoke. I also noticed right away that each window hole of the round-house had been covered with what looked like tarred cloth, similar to the stiff, water-resistant cloth Michael had used as a special vehicle for Nuala Sweeney on our trip from Limavady some months ago.

  I followed a group of men who were carrying various-sized planks of oak into the house, and I stood well off to the side so as not to interfere with their work. Peering through the door, I was astonished to see that fully half the interior floor was covered with oak planks interlaced with fragrant cedar, and even at this early hour, four men were hammering brads and smoothing the wood as they worked.

  A group of other workers were rolling the tarred cloth from the bottom of the window openings with an ingenious set of ropes. As they pulled the cloth from the bottom, it furled, and they tied the roll to the top of the window frames to allow morning light to flood the room.

  “The glass making starts today.” At the sound of Michael’s voice I turned a bit guiltily, knowing that I was no doubt in the way.

  “Um, Michael, I am sorry—”

  “For what?” He was grinning, his blue eyes filled with a boundless humor. “Cay, ye have every right to be here. I blame ye not. In fact, I am eager for ye to see the chariot.”

  “The chariot?” I repeated dully. “Oh! It is completed?”

  Michael stood, his arms akimbo, regarding me with wonder. “Young Cay, no one has ever called Michael MacCool a slugabed. Come, follow me.”

  I followed him to the lean-to I had noticed last week. Now, most of the planks for the floors removed, it had become the factorage for the most wondrous contraption I had ever laid eyes on.

  Framed by strong oak, fashioned in the center with latticed wicker and strengthened in strategic places with forged steel, the chariot was about six feet wide, including the wheels, and it stood at least that high. From the center, like a tongue, there jutted a long, flexible pole attached to an axle. I knew the pole would be attached on each side to two horses, for it ended in a metal yoke.

  The wheels were six spoked, the rims covered in wrought iron for added strength. I saw that the hubs were also metal.

  I turned to Michael. “The wheels—so small—”

  “Aye lass, this is me own invention. The bigger the wheel, the weaker the wheel. An’ the bigger it is, the heavier it is. So these are only about a foot or so high, an’ spoked for added lightness. The metal hubs give it strength. What do ye think?”

  “Ah, is Owen supposed to sit with his—his legs down, or spread before him?”

  “Two people sit side by side, Cay, as if they sat on a bench. Ye see here? Their feet are protected by a board, an’ they can sit with support for their back. An when they are tired, the back can be laid flat. They can enter and leave by the rear also.”

  I saw that the carriage itself—the “basket” that held the passengers—was very lightweight, almost like the latticework of the clay-and-daub houses or the frames of Michael’s currachs. At the joints, the lattice was interlaced with strong steel rings. I ran my fingers along the latticework while Michael talked. “The best part of all is the way the platform hangs free of the wheels an’ the axle. If it hits a rut, the whole chariot does not jump an’ dislodge the riders. “

  Yes, that really was the best part. I could see, from the point of view of an ignorant observer, that this chariot would cause Owen no pain as it jumped and quivered along the rough countryside. In fact, he could ride like a very king. He could hold the reins, or Moc could be the driver.

  “Michael, it is—beautiful. I can think of no better word.”

  “Go raibh maith agat. It tested me brain, an’ the next one shall be better.”

  “How do you propose to remove it from this building, my friend?”

  “Why d’ye think a lean-to is called a lean-to? I simply knock down one flimsy wall when we are ready to hitch up the horses.”

  We left the ramshackle building, and he followed me to where NimbleFoot was tethered. “Then when do you plan to leave?” I asked as we walked.

  “Today an’ tomorrow I show me lads how to pour glass and put in a few windows—starting with your sky window. Sunday is for church. So we leave Monday morning. I have already sent word to Owen, and I spoke with me cousin Muiredach just yesterday.”

  “That is only two days from now, Michael. I never expected it would be so soon—”

  “The sooner gone, the sooner returned, a chara. An’ the sooner your own plans can start to unfold, yes?”

  “You mean, when Murdoch finds the island. If he finds the island.”

  “He will find it. He is a man with a purpose, undertaking a serious quest.”

  We stood next to my pony, and I put my hand on the pommel of the saddle. “I do not understand.”

  “Cay, ’tis none of me affair, the true reasons for his search. But I feel it is the most serious quest of his life.”

  I mounted NimbleFoot in a sudden leap, as though to turn away from what he was saying. “Before I forget, Brigid says to come to our teach Sunday at sundown. We will say our farewells then, after supper. Now I must return to me work.”

  With a sudden wrenching of the reins, I guided NimbleFoot to the familiar path that led to the church. After he found his sure way out of the muddy ravines, I gave him his head, and soon I felt the wind on my face as we galloped and jumped and flew along. I put one hand to my ruined hair and sighed inwardly. I would rather ride long and quickly than fret about having pretty hair.

  I tethered NimbleFoot at the familiar oak where visitors customarily tied their horses. As I walked to the church, I looked down at my tattered tunic and sighed again, annoyed at myself for coming into the Lord’s house in my oldest clothing. I found a bench in the rear of the building and sat with my head bowed, controlling my breath, ordering my thoughts.

  I thought about the lesson Jericho had spoken one Sabbath, admonishing us for our concern with what we wore to church. “Why worry you about clothing?” Jesus had asked the multitude.

  Behold the lilies of the field and the grass of the field. If God clothes them, will he not clothe you, too? Therefore worry not, saying, “What shall I wear?”

  “Father Patrick,” I said in a low tone. “Dia duit. I am come to you this morning, so soon. My child—our child—is fine. Thank you for speaking to the Lord. I am come to you to ask, why is my heart so heavy, and how can I heal it?”

  I sat with my hands folded in my lap and my eyes on the floor. Not once did my eyes seek the open windows, hoping for the sight of a bird or a cloud. I bit my lower lip, wondering how to tell Father Patrick what I thought was the problem.

  It started with my clothing. “I am on my way to see my husband,” I had told Murdoch. But that was a lie. I knew not then, or even now, why I had lied to him.

  His answer was a thorn in my heart. “Is that why you are dressed in such a beguiling way, Cate?”

  A fugitive tear streaked one cheek, and I wiped it away hurriedly, as though Patrick might see it. “I promise you, Father, I dressed not for Murdoch, nor even for Liam. It was partly for Bree, the one who gave me the frock. But I–I think it was for me. Because I loved the feel of the soft wool, the color of the deep sea. Have I disobeyed the words of the scriptures? Have I sinned, Father?”

  I did not know how to continue. I thought about the time a month ago, when I found myself separated from Liam’s protective hand, alone in the dark on board the Brigid. The press of passengers was suffocating, and I had sunk to the ship’s planks to seek refuge against the timbers of her side. And
then a voice at my ear, Murdoch’s low, almost-mocking tone. “Excuse my elbow in your side. I hope it is your side.”

  My answer had been equally mocking, as though inviting him to begin a game. “I hope it is your elbow.”

  That night, in total darkness, Murdoch and I somehow became friends. He told me the story of his childhood, and his later adolescence, and then his growing hatred for his own father. I had listened and consoled him, all the while allowing him to hold my hand. I felt as though he were speaking not to me but to his father when he said, “Father deserves to hear it at last. I need to tell him. I need to say it, Cate. I…love…you.”

  And later, when he stood waiting for me to turn around and look at him in the first light of morning, I was afraid to look, afraid of what I might see in his eyes. When I did look, I could hardly speak. “Please be my friend, Doch. Please make me laugh, not cry.”

  His words came back to me now. “I will not test the boundaries of friendship. You have my word.” But now I knew beyond a doubt that his words of love had been for me, and that he had ventured far beyond those boundaries. And I knew that I had lost a friend.

  “You see, Father, I tried to turn him from forbidden feelings. But it did not happen. And now I know not what to do. He will go on a booley on my behalf, and any gratitude I show him will be taken as words of love returned.” My head sank lower, and I let the tears flow freely.

  “And what are your own true feelings about him? Before ye speak, think about your words and speak the truth.” It was Father Patrick’s voice, and I almost jumped to my feet in excitement. But no. The church was silent and empty, except for the dust motes I could see falling, falling in the shafts of light.

  “I will tell you, Father,” I whispered. “Before he came back here, I thought of him as my friend. Someone I could laugh with, and talk with, all about the ironies of life, and share stories about our families. A man I would visit on the lovely bay with my child, hoping he would have a child of his own by then. But now, since his return, the thought of him fills me with sorrow.”