‘Happy to make your acquaintance, I’m sure,’ said the young man, and I nodded.
‘Aidan’s got some news, Fainne.’ Roisin sounded unusually hesitant. I stared at her. I could think of no news that might possibly be any concern of mine. ‘Sounds as if Darragh’s finally made up his mind,’ she went on.
‘About what?’ I asked, accepting a cup of her steaming chamomile brew.
‘Diarmuid O’Flaherty, and his horses,’ said Aidan, who had settled on one of the benches with his arm around Roisin.
‘Didn’t he tell you?’ queried Roisin, as I made no response.
I shook my head.
‘Just that O’Flaherty’s been on at him, and on at Dad, these two years, to let Darragh stay up there at the farm and help train his horses. Ever since Darragh worked his magic on an animal none of O’Flaherty’s men could touch. That was a good while back. He’s got that way with them, Darragh, like nobody else. Some of the best stock comes out of O’Flaherty’s. It’d be a great chance for Darragh. But our kind doesn’t settle. He always said no. Rather be on the road or back in Kerry, horses or no horses.’
‘Looks like he’s settling now,’ observed Aidan. ‘Maybe there’s a lass in it. O’Flaherty’s daughters are a bonny enough pair.’
Roisin glared at him. As for me, I sat there with my cup in my hands and said not a word.
‘Bit of a surprise,’ said Roisin. ‘Dad’s pleased, and sad too. He knows it’s a great opportunity. But we’ll all miss Darragh.’
‘Not so hard maybe,’ said Aidan. ‘You’ll see him at fair time. That’s the pattern of it for us here in Ceann na Mara,’ he explained, looking at me. ‘Summers in the hill country, winters on the coast. O’Flaherty’s got big holdings. Wed into that family and you’d be falling on your feet, that’s certain.’
‘Who said anything about wedding?’ scoffed Roisin, digging him in the ribs.
‘Folk’ll be saying it.’
‘Folk can say what they want. That doesn’t make it true. I never thought Darragh would do it. Surprised us all.’ She glanced at me. ‘Thought you’d have been the first to know.’
After that things moved very quickly. O’Flaherty was to be off home the next day, and he was taking Darragh with him. Folk gathered in the evening around the fire, but the air was biting cold and nobody was in a festive mood. I said I was tired and stayed in the tent. People talked quietly and drank their ale. There were no tales, and not much laughter. Later someone asked Darragh to play his pipes; but it was Dan Walker who entertained them with a couple of tunes. I could not see, but I could tell from the sound of it. The playing was more expert than Darragh’s, but it had not the same heart.
Much later, when all were asleep and a gentle rain had begun to fall again, I heard him, a long way off, down on the shore in the dark. He was playing alone; playing some kind of farewell, to his folk and his family, to the sort of life that was in his blood and in his being. I’m a travelling man, remember? he’d said. Always on the move, that’s me. The lament rang forth over the empty strand and the dark surging waters, piercing the very depths of my spirit. This would have been easy once. I would simply have got up and walked down to the shore to sit by Darragh as he played. There would have been no need for words between us, for my presence would have been enough to tell him I was sorry I had hurt him. He would have understood that he was still my friend. Things were different now. I had changed them, and now my friend was leaving me for ever. It was better that way; better for me, far better for him. Why, then, did it hurt so much? I curled my hand around my grandmother’s amulet, feeling its warmth, feeling the reassurance it gave me that the path I had chosen was the right one, the only one. I rolled the blanket around myself, and curled up tight, and put my hands over my ears. But the voice of the pipes cried out in my heart, and would not be silenced.
A long time later I came to Sevenwaters. It was past Meán Fómhair and there was a misty stillness in the air. There had been many days on the road, too many to count. Our party had split in two, leaving one cart at a camp not far inland from the Cross with most of the folk. Without the old people and the children we moved more quickly, stopping only at night. Dan drove the cart, Peg sat by him, and Roisin kept me company. For all their kindness, my thoughts were on the task ahead of me; beyond that I could see nothing. I told myself sternly to forget Darragh. What was past was past. I tried very hard not to think about Father.
We camped a night or two at a place called Glencarnagh where there was a great house and many armed men in green tunics going about their business with grim purpose. Already, there, I saw more trees than ever before, all kinds, tall pines dark-caped in fine needles, and lesser forms, hazel and elder, already drifting into winter’s sleep. But that was nothing to the forest. As we moved along a track with great heaps of tumbled stones to left and right, you could see the edge of it in the distance where it crept across the landscape, shrouding the hills, smothering the valleys. Above it the mist clung, damp and thick.
‘That’s it, lass,’ announced Dan Walker. ‘The forest of Sevenwaters.’
‘Going right in, are we?’ enquired Peg. Her tone was less than enthusiastic.
‘The old auntie’d kill me,’ Dan said, ‘if I passed by these parts without a visit. Besides, I promised Ciarán I’d deliver the lass safe to her uncle’s door.’
‘If that’s the way of it, that’s the way of it,’ said Peg.
‘You’ll get a good meal there, if nothing else,’ Dan said, looking at her sideways. ‘Auntie’ll see to that.’
Going right in, as Peg had put it, proved more difficult than I could have imagined. We came across grazing fields and up a slope to a rocky outcrop. The forest was before us, encircled by hills, stretching out like a huge dark blanket. It was daunting; a place of mystery and shadows, another world, cloaked and secret. I could not comprehend how anyone could choose to live in such a place. Would it not suffocate the spirit, to be deprived of the wind and the waves and the open spaces? In my pocket the small owl stirred. And before us on the track, where there had been nobody at all, suddenly there was a troop of armed men dressed in the same dark colours as the stones and trees around us. Their leader stood out, for over his jerkin he wore a tunic of white, emblazoned with a blue symbol: two torcs interlinked.
‘Dan Walker, travelling man of Kerry,’ said Dan calmly, getting down off the cart without being asked. ‘You know me. My wife, my daughter. We’ve come from Glencarnagh. I’m hopeful of Lord Sean’s hospitality for a night or two.’
The men came around both sides of the cart, poking and prodding at the contents. They had swords and knives, and two of them were armed with bows. There was a grim efficiency about the whole exercise.
‘Tell your people to step down while we search,’ said the leader.
‘We’re travelling folk.’ Dan’s tone was mild. ‘There’s not a thing in here but pots and pans and a basket or two. And the girls are weary.’
‘Tell them to step down.’
We did as we were told. Standing by the track, we watched as a methodical search took place, through every single item on the cart. Even my little wooden chest was not spared. I did not like to see the men at arms taking out Riona and touching her silken skirts with their big hands. Eventually they were finished. The leader ran his eye over us. Roisin winked at him, but his face remained impassive. He looked at me and his expression sharpened.
‘Who’s this girl?’
He was scrutinising me closely, and I was scared. These were druid folk, weren’t they? Maybe he could look into my eyes and read my grandmother’s ill intent there. Maybe they would stop me before I had even started, and then my father would be punished. Quick as a flash I used the Glamour, subtly, to give my face a sweetness and my eyes a dewy innocence. I looked up at the man at arms through