Bird of Passage by Catherine Czerkawska

now?’
    ‘I don’t know. They’re mostly sent to work on farms.’
    Kirsty couldn’t imagine that Francis would be much use anywhere, never mind on a farm. He had no practical skills whatsoever.
    ‘Do you miss him?’
    ‘Like a nail in my boot.’
    ‘Don’t be mean. He was no farmer, that’s for sure. But he could sing like an angel.’
    ‘He could do that alright.’
    Having made sure that his boat was safely tied up, Alasdair came over, sat beside them, and took his pipe out of his pocket. He mostly smoked matches, but he liked the feel of the old briar in his mouth.
    ‘Tell us a story!’ It was what Kirsty had always said to her grandfather when she was a little girl, sitting on the rag rug at his feet, picking at the bright flaps of cloth, counting the colours.
    ‘What story do you want?’ asked Alasdair.
    Kirsty looked beyond him, towards the hill which rose above Dunshee, with its vague suggestion of ramparts and earthworks.
    ‘Tell us about Dermot and Grania. ‘
    Finn stirred. ‘Grania? That’s an Irish story.’
    ‘No it’s not.’
    ‘’Tis. An Irish name and an Irish story.’
    ‘How do you know?’ she asked him.
    He hesitated. ‘I heard it told once when I was at the tatties. Not this year but our first time here. One of the older men, he told about this man called Dermot, and this woman called Grania, and she was engaged to this other man, but she fell for Dermot instead and she ran away with him. He had this little mark on his face, a love spot the man called it. Anyway, she got a sight of it, and she was mad for him, and they ran off together.’
    Kirsty looked over at her grandfather, who was smiling quietly to himself.
    ‘Is he right, grandad? Is it an Irish tale?’
    ‘That’s about the long and short of it.’
    ‘But what about Hill Top Town? You told me they lived up there.
    ‘Not in the story I heard,’ said Finn.
    ‘Who asked you?’ said Kirsty, turning on him, irritably.
    ‘Shush,’ said her grandad. ‘Leave the lad alone.’
    ‘Well… Anyone would think…’
    ‘What?’
    ‘That he knew more about storytelling than you do.’
    ‘But he’s allowed to tell his own story, Kirsty. Everyone has his own tale to tell.’
    ‘He doesn’t have very much to say for himself at all, this summer!’
‘Can I not answer for myself?’ asked Finn.
    ‘Apparently not,’ said Alasdair, with a chuckle. ‘You should know by now. You have to get in quick or Kirsty will always answer for you.’
    Kirsty started to giggle, stole another sidelong look at Finn and saw that his lips were twitching. It was the first time he had smiled in weeks.
    ‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘Tell me about Dermot and Grania.’
    Alasdair made himself comfortable, puffed briefly at his pipe, and began his tale.
    ‘Well, you had it right. There was this girl called Grania, and she was in love with Dermot, so she was, madly in love with him, because it was an enchanted love, and there was nothing that could break the spell, no matter what. Dermot was a great hero. It was said that he was never weary, that his step was as light at the end of the longest battle as it was at the beginning of the day.  But he had this wee spot on his face, it’s true, and once any woman saw it she was enchanted by him. So Grania caught a sight of his beauty spot and there was nothing for her but that they must run away together.
    Now he was an honourable man, and besides, he had been a good friend to Finn, and this Finn was the man that Grania was supposed to marry.’
    ‘Finn!’ Kirsty dug her companion in the ribs. ‘That’s you!’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘So who was Finn then?’
    ‘Oh, he was a great hero, Kirsty. A great hero. There was not his like in the whole of Ireland.’
    ‘Ireland?’
    ‘Yes. Finn’s right. This is an Irish tale, but it is a Scottish tale as well. I’ve told you before, a’graidh , we are the same people. Anyway, to get back to Dermot, although he went away with her right enough, they lived