Page 3 of Heart of the Wren
I sized him up. Broad shoulders, stocky frame, hands which had seen more than a few honest day’s work. “If it’s money you need, I’m always looking for farmhands. You said you’d driven tractors and a combine harvester so I assume you’ve done farm work before?”
“Plenty,” he said. “Are you sure I’m not putting you out?”
I owned a few acres in the hills of County Kerry. I employed a couple of workers who lived nearby but even at that time of year I needed all the help I could get. I preferred to have some idea who was working for me and I could have backed out of my offer but Dara’s smile and bright, green eyes made me stick with it. “It won’t be much, like. But I’ll make up for it with food and board. You’ll be wanting a room as well, won’t ye?”
“No, not at all.” He kept petting the dogs as he spoke. “Sure I can sleep in the van.”
“Will it not be too cold? It’s to snow again tonight.”
“I’ve slept in chillier places. Though I’d rather not sleep in a ditch again if I don’t have to.” He pulled a little at the rumpled, muddied shirt hewore. “It’s hard to keep tidy some days. I went for a walk yesterday evening and I didn’t have time to get back to the van before dark.” He shifted from foot to foot. “Mind you, if the cottage out the back isn’t being used…”
I shook my head. “It’s in no fit state. The roof leaks and I mostly use it for storage. Sure look, I have a room in the house I let out to seasonal farmhands if you change your mind.”
???
The Irish countryside in wintertime is stark and the ground lay hard as iron underfoot. We could easily believe we were alone up on the hill. Alone in the county, alone in the world. Clouds hung heavy as stone, too heavy by far to move. They dominated us, haughty, judging, imprisoning us as if we were ever likely to fly away. Even the songbirds refused to test their authority and struck out low, darting from bush to tree to bush.
In the afternoon, I showed Dara around the farm, making sure he knew where everything was for the following day’s work. He wouldn’t pass one of the many cats who called the farm home without stopping to pet and natter away at them. Even the most feral of them approached, keen for his attention. He spent the evening fiddling with his van’s engine but without much luck. Sunset came around 4 pm and brought with it a flurry of snow and icy winds but Dara insisted again he would be warm enough in his van.
From my living room window at the front of the house, I had a view of the bridges over the stream and the farmyard beyond. Dara’s brightly painted van stood out like a sore thumb from the grey surroundings. A faint light flickered in the windows. A candle, I assumed. I wasn’t sure how safelighting candles in a cramped van was but I was sure Dara had done it before.
Ice grew in the corners of the living room window and I retreated to the warmth of my fireplace. I held my hands out to the black cast iron hearth and the crackling flames within. I thought of Dara in his van, huddled under a blanket, with a single candle for warmth. I grabbed my torch and my heaviest coat.
My boots left deep prints in the fresh snow. As I approached the van, I became aware of a voice behind me. No, not behind me, to my side. Then my other side. I flicked my torch around, its garish yellow beam landing on a barrel here and a shed there. I realised then the voice was in fact coming from the van. Dara was singing, though I couldn’t quite make out the words. I knocked on the door with the brown bear on it. It slid open.
“Come on in!” Dara beamed at me. He was wearing a thick jumper under two open coats, as well as a woolly cap and gloves.
A lantern with a single fat candle lit the interior of the van. A crate of bottles and vials sat on the table, each one labelled in what I assumed must have been Dara’s handwriting. They contained a mishmash of herbs, leaves, flowers, and oils, all arranged in rows and held firmly in place with wooden dividers, like an elaborate spice rack.
“Get your gear and come on,” I said. “You can’t be sleeping out in this weather.”
???
The room at the top of the stairs had a double bed, a dressing table with an oval mirror, and a narrow wardrobe. It was as clean as could be expected. Iwasn’t running a hotel.
Dara sat on the bed. It squeaked. “This’ll do grand.” He eyed the Sacred Heart of Jesus picture hanging on the wall above him with a sort of wry amusement.
“It’ll be an early start in the morning. I don’t have a spare alarm clock for you. Do you want me to wake you?”
“Ah, no,” Dara said. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be up and raring to go. Oh, here, before I forget.” He rummaged in his backpack and pulled out a carved wooden box. From within, he drew a small black stone, shiny and smooth and carved with a symbol of curving lines. He handed it over to me.
I held it in my palm. “What’s this?”
“It’s a family tradition,” Dara said. “A way of saying thanks for the hospitality.”
“You don’t need to—”
Dara held up his hands. “It’s not optional, I’m afraid.” He chuckled, making his whole torso bob up and down. “It’s a talisman for good luck. I hope it comes in handy someday.”
Uncertain how I should respond, I slipped the stone into my trouser pocket. “Hopefully it won’t be too wet out tomorrow. The forecast isn’t looking good.”
Dara pulled back the net curtain and peered out of the window. “I think it’ll be dry enough.”
The bare floorboards creaked in places.
“There’s a bathroom at the end of the hall and clean towels in the press. Help yourself but don’t use up all the hot water. I’ll say goodnight, so.”
He leaned a hand on the windowsill and gave me a look as though he was peering right into my soul. “Goodnight, Lorcan Fitzgerald.”
