The fire blazed merrily on the hearth,
the reek of peat smoke stung her nostrils. In the embers a little black pot
bubbled and steamed, emitting the wholesome smell of oatmeal porridge; the
table was set with two wooden bowls and spoons. Caroline rose and went out into
the morning air. All was fresh and sweet after the night's rain; among scowling
clouds, patches of blue appeared. The friar was milking his goats, talking to
them as the milk flowed. Bainne and Aine he called them.
“God bless you this morning,” he said.
“I trust you had a restful night.”
“I had, father, a very restful night.”
“Well, we’ll be having breakfast in a
minute or two, and then you can start on your journey any time you like.”
He fed the goats some dry, sweet hay
and, as they munched, they watched him out of their strange, wise eyes.
“I have another pair of friends you
haven't seen yet,” he said and, raising his voice, he called out, “Duvan!” and “Gealan!”, and
immediately there was a thud of small hooves and the donkeys appeared from
behind the bushes, eager for their morning fodder. Duvan
was a small, pert, black donkey and Gealan was
silvery grey.
“I have them on loan from my good
friends,” he explained. “The grass grows rich and green on this island and I
can save enough hay to do them over the winter. They come in useful many's a time and I in a hurry, or too weary to walk.”
After they had breakfasted, the friar
left the hut again. Caroline seized the opportunity to change into her boyish
garb. She was not sure how the friar would take it but, when he saw her
standing in the doorway, he grinned broadly.
“Now isn't that the sensible rig for
travelling in the mountains,” he said. “You can ride astride; it'll be safer
than holding on side-saddle on the steep, stony track. Right well you look,
too, if I may say so.”
“You mean I'll not be walking?”
“You have no call to walk and two
fine, well-fed, well-rested donkeys here to give you a lift. I'll convoy you
through the pass. I'll be glad of an outing. I'd be uneasy and you travelling
that road by yourself and you not knowing the pitfalls.”
He wrapped up a slice of boiled bacon
and bread for the journey, and filled a jar apiece with fresh goats' milk. Then
they led the saddled donkeys down to the jetty where the big, flat-bottomed cot
was moored. They took an oar each and, in no time, were safely across, mounted
and on their way, Caroline on the silver-grey mare and the friar on the sturdy Duvan. The going was rough, but the donkeys were well
suited to the mountainy tracks. They jogged along at
a nice, even pace.
At the summit of the Pass of the Deer,
they stopped for a while, and partook of their refreshments. Having rested a
while, they began the descent into the Owvane valley.
Ballylickey lay some five miles ahead to the west
and, though the road was rough, it was easy to follow. They jogged along in the
gathering dusk, humming and whistling in turns to amuse themselves.
“I will convoy you to within sight of
the village,” the friar said. “You will find friends there. Just mention Hugh
Ro. A little way off this track there is a house where I can rest for the night.
They are old friends whom I have not seen for some time. I will start back
early tomorrow ..... very
early, for the goats will be missing me.”
“What about Gealan?
You'll take her, won't you?”
“There's no call. When you get into Ballylickey, enquire for the house of Liam O'Drisheen. Tell him I sent you. You'll not be without
supper and a place to sleep. And he'll see that Gealan
is returned to me. There's no hurry if he has need of her. The donkeys are what
you might call public transport. But the night's dropping down, now. Do not
delay. Bless you, my child, and may God speed your journey, and guide your
heart.”
The tears rained down Caroline's
cheeks as she spurred the donkey towards the little village. Would she ever
again see the kind old man who had given her so much comfort and help. He had been like some guardian angel on the way over
the pass with its sombre mountains lowering down, listening, watching, plotting against the foolhardy traveller. It had been easy
to believe the tale of robbers lurking to pounce. Even now, following the
gentle line of the river, the atmosphere was full of rustlings and mutterings.
She urged the tired donkey on. She felt herself to be a tiny, vulnerable figure
in a vast, gloomy landscape with only the stumbling hooves and the river's
sullen murmur for company. Then, a streak of pewter in the gathering darkness,
she caught a first glimpse of
The
At one lighted doorway she drew rein.
A man stood peering out, as though watching for something.
“God bless all here,” she greeted.
“You are welcome,” the man replied. “It
is late you are travelling abroad, young man. Come away in an' warm yourself by
the fire.”
“Thank you, but I am looking for the
house of Liam O'Drisheen.”
“'Tis here. I am Liam O'Drisheen.
Who sent you?”
“The friar of Gougane
Barra.”
“Then 'tis doubly welcome you are.
Come away in. I'll see to the donkey. The woman of the house is this minute gettin' the supper. We'd be honoured if you'd share the
bite with us.”
The room was warm and lively with
children. The woman of the house shooed them aside and made way for her in the
chimney corner.
“An' how is the good man himself?” she
asked. “It's long since we set eyes on him.”
Caroline told her how she had spent
the previous night. As they supped, she related as much of her own story as
seemed prudent. If the young man ..... if a young man it was ..... wanted
to go to Bantry, they would get him a lift there in
the morning; somebody would be going for sure. After supper there was a story
or two for the children. Liam O'Drisheen brought out
a tin whistle and played a tune and the children danced for the stranger. All
was going merry when the door-latch lifted.
“God bless all here,” said a familiar
voice and Hugh Ro O'Moran walked in, his cloak
glistening with the night's damp, his shaggy hair streaked about his face.
“Ah Hugh Ro, an' is it yourself?” they
greeted.
“I heard the music,” he said,” and I
thought it would be a good thing to be where the music was, so in I came. I see
you have got company. No, you needn't introduce us, Liam. 'Tis
the very person I was waiting for.”
O'Drisheen and his wife looked at each other in
bewilderment and Hugh Ro read the look.
“I did say a young lady, but in these
times things don't always turn out as expected. 'Tis as well to be a young man when you're travelling the
lonesome roads and night falling. Whatever you're asked, 'tis a young
man called Ciaran you're entertaining. You'll
remember that, Liam. Whatever else you think, keep it
under your caubeen.”
On the following morning, they set out
at a brisk pace, Hugh Ro singing and whistling the miles away. The road to Bantry ran along by the sea, sometimes by the very edge of
the bay. Though the day was sullen and cold, no rain fell and the salty air was
bracing. But the sky brooded, leaden grey with a purplish tinge and there was
an eerie quietness in the air as though land and sea held its breath, waiting
for something. The sea spread, blank and steely, to the western horizon, empty
of boats.
Hugh Ro began to hum the Shan Van Vocht and, at the sound, Caroline strained her gaze towards
the sea; but it was an empty waste. No ghostly sail .....
nothing but the falling snow and the eerie stillness.
“The French are on the sea, says the
Shan Van Vocht,” Hugh Ro sang softly.
“Do you believe they are?” Caroline
asked, interrupting him.
“I do. You must believe it too.”
“It's hard. There's no sign of a
welcome.”
“Maybe there is no welcome. Maybe it's
to the wrong port they're coming. In
Hugh Ro found them lodgings in a
cottage. He was well known in the neighbourhood, and always welcome, for he
brought the song and the story and the music for dancing. The people who gathered about the firesides, asked no questions
about his young companion, for he often picked up companions on his travels. By
daylight he and Caroline walked the headlands, scanning the sea for signs of
sail. The snow lingered on the mountains, the air was chill, the sea dark and
sombre, but calm.
There were a few who, to some extent,
shared Hugh Ro's secret, and with these he conversed in cryptic sentences. They
inspected their boats daily, looked west to the empty sea. In the midst of firelit jollity, they sat alert, waiting for some sign or
sound beyond the music. Less alert were the men of the small garrison of the
Though she was tired from walking the
goat-paths by day, Caroline slept uneasily at nights. She dreamt of ships,
full-rigged, speeding to the shore; but they never reached it. There was always
darkness and confusion in the end and she woke sweating and fearful. She would
see Fergal's face, white and smeared with blood sometimes. And she saw the face
of another man, seamed with a duelling scar, dark anger in his eyes. More than
once she woke, crying aloud, clutching the soft comfort of her sealskin cover.