Page 132 of A Winding Wave of Magic
I opened my mouth to reply but was quickly cut off by Jonathan.
“It’s hers,” he confirmed, causing Jock to examine me more closely as we strapped the board to the top of the car.
“There’s been a surfer or two out here in the spring,” Jock replied. “Though they’re usually men and not such a wee thing as yourself.”
I stifled a laugh. At five foot nine, I could hardly be called small. Years of surfing and swimming had given me strong shoulders and arms, though they were nothing compared to Jock’s bullish deltoids.
“Just be careful of the merrows,” he continued with a sly grin, his joke clear. “They’ll drag you down to be their wives, and you’ll never be heard from again, will she, Jon?”
Goddess, would I never be free of that threat, even from plain folk?
“Never again,” Jonathan echoed solemnly as he slid into the front passenger seat, eyes darkened noticeably.
The wagon crept over the crooked, patched concrete that only just seemed to cover the few two-way roads running across the tiny island. Jock spent most of the trip pointing out notable sights and delivering odd bits of trivia.
“First on your right’ll beCnoc Raithni; that’s Hill of the Ferns.” He pointed to a small hill surrounded by limestone fencing. A large stone stood up from its center, gloom emanating from it.
“A gravesite,” Jonathan added.
“You’ve got it. From when theFir Bolgroamed the island. Pushed out by theTuatha Dé Danann, they were given the islands until they disappeared. Big dark giants, and some say the hill is still haunted by their ghosts, looking for the remains of their bodies, buried in the urns.”
“Where did they go? The urns, I mean,” I asked. I’d studied these myths extensively in school, of course, but I hadn’t had the chance to learn local permutations.
“Oh, the urns were taken away to Dublin,” Jock said bitterly. “To the bleedin’ museum.”
I blinked. “They were real?”
Jonathan turned with a knowing expression. I didn’t have to touch him to know what he was thinking:Did you expect anything different?
“A museum across the water’s no place for sacred remains,” Jock went on. “Better off they stayed as they were, let the poor souls rest in peace.”
I mumbled in agreement, entranced as the hill receded behind us. I hadn’t been aware that urn-burial practices existed so far outside of mainland Europe. An urnfield in the same place where Gran—the keeper of a suspectedpithos—was born was quite a coincidence.
“Did you know about this?” I asked Jonathan.
He nodded, then shook his head gently, as if to let me know that he had already investigated the possibility that Gran’s Secret was guarded by the thousands of visitors each day at the National Gallery.Of course,I thought. It couldn’t possibly be as easy as that. But still, urn burials usually weren’t isolated, and where there was one, there might be many more.
“That there’sCaislean Ui Bhrain—Castle O’Brien, it is,” Jock interrupted my thoughts. “Built by the descendants of Brian Bóramha, one of the High Kings of Ireland. Used it to guard the O’Brien lands against pirates.”
The solid square of crumbling stone bricks wasn’t a huge castle by any means. I had seen much grander examples in my previous travels in Europe—great medieval fortresses with winding towers and decorative turrets that lorded over the French vineyards and Bavarian countryside. But on this rolling, wind-torn island, which, according to Jock, didn’t quite rise to sixty meters over sea level, the craggy remains seemed indomitable. Beyond the limestone fences, boxy white houses scattered around the ruins, as if the old castle was still the lord to which the tiny hamlets tithed.
Jonathan showed little interest. Clearly, he had been to the island many times.
His hand slipped around his seat, palm open. An invitation. I took it, and another wave of guilt and remorse vibrated through. Lightly, I smacked his wrist.
Stop the shame game, I thought to him.We were drinking. It’s over now.
Jock continued to jabber merrily with news of the island, though neither Jonathan nor I were paying attention.
I suppose.
So why do you still feel so bad?
While Jonathan thought, I watched the tiny village fade away as we drove toward the southwestern edge of the island. Although the Connolly house was only a short distance from the airstrip, the poor shape of the roads made it impossible to travel more than a few kilometers per hour.
This was where Gran had grown up. This oddly empty, green island. No wonder she was so taciturn—she had learned to enjoy solitude from birth.
I don’t want you to think I’m toying with you, I suppose.
